I posted this a couple years ago, and I feel like its message resonates more than ever today.
Source (fair warning: it’s from that other site)
Bonus: a quick history lesson!
Author / Lexine
Signs Of The Times
I’m four days late in this (blame my day job) but better late than never in posting my favorite images from last Saturday’s No Kings protests!Ā (Which I couldn’t attend because day job.)
*All posts from Bluesky*
Anyone who’s been following these protests should know that the ones on Ocean Beach in SF DELIVER!
I had to add this because, well…oh, and this too š¤”
Yay my hometown
Dolls protesting counts!
Not a sign but an amazing concept (and well-timed shot š)
And…
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Strike A Pose For June
Madonna, photographed by Herb Ritts for Interview magazine, June 1990
Once upon a time, magazine covers featured celebrities with some actual talent and substance, and everyone and their grandparents knew who they were. Some celebs got bold in their portraits, and no one took more brazen pics than Madonna herself. This could very well be my favorite mag cover of hers. It just POPS. You don’t get more in-your-face than grabbing your crotch. That a female celeb did *that* made it more ballsy; I bet the incels and prudes in 1990 sent hate mail to Interview then. I can’t imagine what the reaction would be if, say, Taylor Swift or Sabrina Carpenter struck the same pose on a mag cover these days. Although it would be pretty cool if either of them did that.
These Cool Poems (Pride 2025 edition)
Because these poems pack more color and spirit than the, ahem, “Pride” collection of some retailers this year.Ā š³ļøāš
“A History Of Sexual Preference” by Robin Becker
We are walking our very public attraction
through eighteenth-century Philadelphia.
I am simultaneously butch girlfriend
and suburban child on a school trip,
Independence Hall, 1775, home
to the Second Continental Congress.
Although she is wearing her leather jacket,
although we have made love for the first time
in a hotel room on Rittenhouse Square,
I am preparing my teenage escape from Philadelphia,
from Elfrethās Alley, the oldest continuously occupied
residential street in the nation,
from Carpentersā Hall, from Congress Hall,
from Graff House where the young Thomas
Jefferson lived, summer of 1776. In my starched shirt
and waistcoat, in my leggings and buckled shoes,
in postmodern drag, as a young eighteenth-century statesman,
I am seventeen and tired of fighting for freedom
and the rights of men. I am already dreaming of Bostonā
city of women, demonstrations, and revolution
on a grand and personal scale.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Then the maĆ®tre dā
is pulling out our chairs for brunch, we have the
surprised look of people who have been kissing
and now find themselves dressed and dining
in a Locust Street townhouse turned cafƩ,
who do not know one another very well, who continue
with optimism to pursue relationship.Ā Eternity
may simply be our mortal default mechanism
set onĀ hopeĀ despite all evidence. In this mood,
I roll up my shirtsleeves and she touches my elbow.
I refuse the seedy view from the hotel window.
I picture instead their silver inkstands,
the hoopskirt factory on Arch Street,
the Wireworks, their eighteenth-century herb gardens,
their nineteenth-century row houses restored
with period door knockers.
Step outside.
We have been deeded the largest landscaped space
within a city anywhere in the world. In Fairmount Park,
on horseback, among the ancient ginkgoes, oaks, persimmons,
and magnolias, we are seventeen and imperishable, cutting classes
May of our senior year. And I am happy as the young
Tom Jefferson, unbuttoning my collar, imagining his power,
considering my healthy body, how I might use it in the service
of the country of my pleasure.
******************
“American Wedding” by Essex Hemphill
In america,
I place my ring
on your cock
where it belongs.
No horsemen
bearing terror,
no soldiers of doom
will swoop in
and sweep us apart.
Theyāre too busy
looting the land
to watch us.
They donāt know
we need each other
critically.
They expect us to call in sick,
watch television all night,
die by our own hands.
They donāt know
we are becoming powerful.
Every time we kiss
we confirm the new world coming.
What the rose whispers
before blooming
I vow to you.
I give you my heart,
a safe house.
I give you promises other than
milk, honey, liberty.
I assume you will always
be a free man with a dream.
In america,
place your ring
on my cock
where it belongs.
Long may we live
to free this dream.
**************
For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our childrenās mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
Ā
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our motherās milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
Ā
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
Ā
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.
****************
Now Playing (5.28.25)
I’m in need of some cheering up yet again, and the music of today’s birthday icon Kylie Minogue always does it for me!Ā
The visuals in each of these videos…STUN all the way. āØāØāØ
Why Me Worry?
I once heard that aging would bless one with the gift of not giving a fuck as much, and I looked forward to enjoying that gift when I entered my fourth century decade on this planet in late October last year. Then came the elections a week later and I guess that gift doesn’t work on everyone because hoo boy did I give a lot of fucks about things that day.
Six months after that election, I think I’ve been giving a fuck about things more than ever. Particularly my safety, well-being, and future here. Will I still have any rights as a single bisexual woman of color by the end of this year? Is the modern-day Gestapo gonna hunt down “illegal” immigrants in my blue city? Will social security and Medicare still exist when I need it 25-ish years from now? Will California still stay blue? Will my immigrant/LGBTQ+/POC friends also be safe? Is my measles vaccine from childhood still good? And then there are usual worries (money, bills, making sure I have a working car, my stupid eczema, etc.) piled onto that. So much for that gift.
It’s wild; just a year ago I felt relatively safe here in the States. I even had hopes that all who hated TFG (and it seemed like a majority of people) would vote against him and not look back. Now here I am watching politicians who are supposed to protect us voting in inept clowns who will ruin us and what’s left of our freedoms in this forsaken country. When I’m doing more research lately on where/how I can immigrate (my day job happens to be in demand in at least two countries I wouldn’t mind moving to) over writing my latest work-in-progress, that means shit is getting serious.
I seek out escapism from the madness, like watching movies on TCM and hitting up beaches and cat lounges. But I also see others casually shopping from Target and Amazon and posting on those other social media sites as if there’s no madness at all. I should have found some escapism from that annual event of gauche known as the Met Gala earlier this month, but not only was I not feeling it this year, it looked a lot more tone deaf than ever. It’s a shame because I saw some of my faves attend it. (Some people on Bluesky defended the Gala saying it’s all to raise money for the costume institute of the museum. OK. PBS still needs funding and I’m not seeing any big-name celebs wearing high-end couture to support that program.) I’m still fighting for good causes…but after seeing this, I now question: who am I protesting with? Is it with someone who did their best to save democracy last year by voting for Harris, or someone who willingly fucked around and just found out that their Medicare is being gutted and are now pissed?
When Roe v Wade was overturned three years ago, I (who had already chosen to be childfree) chose to get back at the conservative asshats of the Supreme Court by opting for sterilization. If they were going to take my reproductive rights away, I might as well exercise mines while I still have them. The current regime wants to go after birth control and turn women into baby-makers and nothing more; meanwhile, my choice to get that bisalp continues to age well. But now I stare down a far greater threat to my well-being and future in this country. I may not have the gift of not giving a fuck as much as I age. But if being aware of things is a gift, then I got it, and it’s a pretty nice gift. It’s far better than being ignorant.
When Vogue Was Vogue
Nicole Kidman by Irving Penn on US Vogue, May 2004
Y’all. I was there when this cover dropped, and the jaws of many fashion hounds dropped when we saw this cover. It was simple, all the way down to the singular cover blurb, yet elegant AF. This is not your Zoomer’s Vogue, but what Vogue used to be when they were the fashion bible. An actual fashion icon in Nicole (who had gotten another cover just eight months before this cover), giving fashion. No absurd photoshop, no hints of anything tabloid-y, and no need to look for the Playboy rabbit head on the cover because this was a true fashion magazine cover, dahling. And that’s on period.
Now Playing (4.30.25)
What else would I play on International Jazz Day?Ā
Listen to the lyrics of this song. More relevant than ever. (The song also reminds me of the movie Casino, oddly enough.)Ā
TIL that the Herbie Hancock Institute of Jazz (which he is a part of, naturally) is the lead partner for IJD.Ā
There are a few versions of the last song, with its only constant being Gillespie playing on every version. I’ve always preferred this collab with Miles, and the beat also got sampled in this early 90s rap song, which I first heard before “Tunisia”.
It is not IJD without some actual international flair via bossa nova jazz! While I also enjoy the vocalized version, the instrumental version above will always be next-level aural paradise.Ā
Scenes From Kylie’s Tension Tour!
Yesterday, I got to break some tension in San Francisco by attending the Tension Tour featuring pop icon Kylie Minogue!Ā While I got to see her for the first time a year ago, it’s not every year she tours the States.Ā Let’s get to it with the pics!
(Note: there are no pics of her opening act Rita Ora, but only because I was in a long-ass line for Kylie merch while she was performing. Sorry!)Ā
Going Green
Some sugar-free sweets I made in honor of the last 420 Easter I’ll see in my life, unless if I live to 120.
I made these Easter-themed chocolates with just a few ingredients: Lily’s chocolate chips, coconut oil, and green food coloring. (And I used my own Easter-themed silicone mold that I got at Home Goods to get into that Easter spirit!) Save for the food coloring, this is also the base for making keto nut clusters (one of my favorite desserts), and you can add some nuts to your sweets, if you like. You can also add your own sweeteners or extracts to the melted mix. (With today also being 420, if you want to make your own edibles, simply add as much THC or CBD tincture you want to the mix. I am not responsible for getting you stoned, in this case.)
As it has been in my experience with sweets with coconut oil, it’s best to consume them while chilled. They do get melty.
Lex Writes On 