Dolly was far too kind to tell you this while she was alive, so I will: you and she had little in common. Oh sure, from a distance, it might seem that way, but get a little closer and dig a little deeper and the differences could not be greater…
Dolly loved people, all people.
Unlike you, she loved without qualifiers, catches, caveats, or conditions. Her love did not come with strings or theological hoops or political litmus tests. In Dolly’s no one had to stand outside or prove their worth or earn her decency.
Dolly loved America, real America.
She wasn’t about that flag-waving, Don’t Tread On Me, America First, Christian Nationalism, Send Them Back nonsense you continually peddle as patriotism. Her America was diverse, open-armed, inclusive, and kind; a place where everyone deserved to feel at home.
Dolly was a Christian, a Jesus Christian.
Her deep and abiding faith did not need to be loudly broadcast or worn as a costume. It did not seek to bend anyone to its will. It was not something she wielded like a hammer in forced compliance. Her faith simply and clearly showed up, in an unrestrained love for neighbor that reflected the open-handed, open-hearted compassion of Christ that you mock as toxic.
Dolly believed in family, every family.
A faithful, passionate supporter of the LGBTQ community, Dolly’s advocacy of family was not confined to some rigid, White Evangelical monument to straightness and whiteness. She understood something in the core of her being you never will: that love cannot be limited and will not be hemmed in.
Dolly Parton was not MAGA in any way; she was its beautiful counterpoint.
She was a vaccine-supporting, nature-preserving, book-loving, trans-defending gay icon, and nearly everything she stood for flies fully in the face of the cruel, sneering, exclusionary narcissism of your vile, bloviating, spray-tanned messiah and his hateful movement, which you so joyfully partner in.
Dolly Parton showed respect to every single human being who ever had the good fortune of being in her orbit, whether at arm’s length or from thousands of miles away.
She left everyone feeling seen and heard and loved and respected, regardless of orientation, pigmentation, or nation of origin.
She never saw anyone as an enemy to be defeated, never attempted to gatekeep blessings or opportunity, never demanded that someone earn her decency, and never dehumanized a soul.
Yes, you should aspire to emulate her and endeavor to replicate the generosity and unconditional love she so easily moved through this life with.
And you’re welcome to show her respect and gratitude; in fact, you should.
But please, don’t try to claim her as yours today, MAGA.
Sade has been such an integral part of the soundtrack of my life since she first burst on the scene in 1984. One of my fondest memories of listening to her music was one afternoon when I was underground, waiting on MUNI at the Van Ness Station and I was plugged in and walk-dancing along the edge of the platform while listening to Stronger Than Pride. I knew I looked ridiculous, like a scene from an as-yet unreleased iPod advert with the black figure dancing with the white headphones, but I didn’t care. I was in my happy place.
yesterday afternoon, the White House press pool was summoned to the Oval Bordello for a hastily-organized, unscheduled dog-and-pony show.
when they arrived, there was Preznit Fuckwit, seated behind his Big Boy Resolute Desk, surrounded by his emotional support flunkies and visual aids.
the gathered reporters were all ‘what the fuck?’ — but as word-adjacent noises began to seep from Dear Leader’s rancid anus-mouth, they realized they were about to have their time wasted on the pettiest bullshit imaginable.
“okay, uh, the purpose of this, more than anything else, is we’re gonna be— changing the name of Lake Ontario— effective immediately, to Lake America. that’s gonna take place right now, as I sign the— order.”
oh, for fuck’s sweet sake. seriously? this is what this spite-obsessed imbecile remains laser-focused on, as the world all around us turns to shit?
he’s going to make good on his infantile threat to ‘rename’ a lake — all because Ontario Premier Doug Ford had wounded his precious fee-fees by suggesting Donny might ought to kiss his ass.
as the price of goods and services continues to soar, as the unwinnable clusterfuck in Iran goes on, as sailors starve and armed federal thugs invade our cities, as climate change caused a glacier to fucking collapse, killing hundreds in Nepal, this shithead is wasting everyone’s time on settling scores.
he’s such a child. ‘I’m going to call you Premier Poopyhead, and then you’ll be sorry!’
ace job, Donny. you sure stuck it to Canada. I’ll bet Doug Ford is sorry he ever tried to mess with the Supreme Re-namer of Water.
here we go again, and it’s all so predictably stupid. Donny does something pants-shittingly imbecilic, and the press falls all the fuck over itself in a mad dash to normalize it.
‘of course a president would rename a body of water out of spite. why wouldn’t he? it’s the most perfectly reasonable thing in the world.’
we need to step back — because first of all, Donny’s executive order ass-clownery didn’t actually change the name of shit.
can I just remind everyone of something that the worthless scribs seem to have forgotten?
Executive orders are issued from the executive branch of the government, specifically the U.S. President. An executive order is not a law in the sense that it does not go through the legislative process. It is not binding on everyone, only on employees of the executive branch.
got that? none of Donny’s moronic EOs are actually laws, and no one has to abide by them except the poor unfortunate schnooks who work in the executive branch.
Donny hasn’t actually stuck it to anyone. no one outside of the MAGAverse and the media gives a shit about his nonsensical royal decrees. the entire world is laughing at the embarrassing antics of America’s Boy King as he quite publicly pisses his pants — and the stupid fuck thinks he’s winning.
Canadian PM Mark Carney, can you step in here for a quick minute and explain to my nice readers how Lake Ontario got its name?
The name Lake Ontario comes from the Wendat word Ontari’io, which, appropriately, means “the lake is beautiful, the lake is big”. The name is more than 400 years old, predating both the Confederation of Canada and the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America. We know that America is changing. Their trading relationships, their foreign policies, their national monuments, their hydronyms. Canadians also know that naming reality means calling it Lake Ontario – then, now and always.
Donny doesn’t know any of that shit. nor does he care. all he knows is that the dude who runs Ontario was very very mean to him, and so now all patriotic Americans are forever forbidden from saying its name.
it’s all so eternally moronic.
it’s stunning how quickly the entire Donnysphere has risen up as one to demonize the nation of Canada. tell me it’s not a cult.
last week, nobody gave a shit about Canada. they were simply America’s hat, quietly doing whatever the hell is it they do up there, above the 49th Parallel. this week, they’re the Evil Red Menace to our north.
“all of this is a warning what will happen to our country sixty-nine days from now, if radicalized Democrats get their way, and win the midterms. Canada’s become so woke, so far left, so anti-Trump, so radical socialist left, they have become crazy climate alarmists, and they’re wrapped up in this idiotic land acknowledgement whatever scheme of theirs, gender theory, that they seem to view communism, and, yeah, the communist Chinese as a better partner than the US.”
that’s right, Mr and Mrs America — while you were innocently asleep in your beds, the entire nation of Canada turned communist.
I knew it. I knew these fucking lumberjacks were commies the first time I laid eyes on them.
if an unpopular president choosing to gin up a pointless war with Canada in order to distract everyone from his own failures sounds familiar, that’s because it is. it’s the plot of the 1995 comedy Canadian Bacon.
The plot of the 1995 satirical comedy film Canadian Bacon centers on an American President with a low approval rating who decides to start a cold war against Canada to boost his popularity.
for decades, Canadian Bacon was notable only for being John Candy’s final role prior to his untimely death.
now, it’s a guidebook for an administration that’s already been using 1984 and The Handmaid’s Tale as instruction manuals.
“you talked yesterday in your interviews about how you’re confident that a deal can be reached, but today you were talking about the problems that people like Howard Nutlick— Howard Lutnick and other members of the administration present.”
tee fucking hee. you just know that everyone calls this him ‘Nutlick’ in private. it was only a matter of time before someone slipped up in public.
sorry Howie. ‘Nutlick’ is canon now.
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.
Not only do I buy phyiscal media, I go the extra step and buy directly from the artist whenever I can, in this case, directly from Loscil via Bandcamp.
I am reminded of the old Benny Hill sketch with the leather pants and the leather sofa. I can’t find it anywhere, so I’m starting to believe I hallucinated the whole thing.
But the thing is, from past experience I can tell you once it gets hotter than 117 there’s not that much difference. It’s all the same from that point out.
…still the best rendition of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Evita score. Back in the late 90s my housemate Michael picked up Madonna’s interpretation and after one listen, shaking my head through the entire performance, I dragged him down to a music store at Stonestown Galleria and picked up Boris Midney’s version. “This is how Evita is done,” I told him.
Yes, even at my age, I’m still very much a disco dolly.
