The Quin Sisters and the Lesbian Culture

I have long been a fan of the Canadian twin sister musical duo Tegan & Sara. In fact, our history is more long and convoluted, more passionate and committed than that of most relationships I've had. It makes it so that writing a blog post about them is an overwhelming task, to say the least.

But I'm going to attempt it, mainly because I want to address a problem I have. A problem with the lesbians, actually. A problem with the lesbians stealing Tegan & Sara all for themselves.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe I should give you a little background history about my relationship with the Quin sisters. I was first introduced to the girls my sophomore year of high school. Fifteen years old. It was love, instantly. At the time, the name "Sarah" was a sort of inside joke among my close friends (we thought dumb things were funny then; we still kind of do), and so when my best friend stumbled across a youtube movie about a lesbian named Sara, he sent me a link:

The song, called "Creeping Out Sara" by NOFX, details, through the use of lewd lyrics and the employment of several derogatory lesbian stereotypes, lead singer Fat Mike's (fictionalized?) encounter backstage at a German music festival with Sara Quin. The situation proves an embarassing one for Fat Mike who (in my opinion) crudely attempts to hit on Sara before realizing just who he is speaking to and her lesbian identity.

While I could go on about the inanity of that particular satirical song, I won't (afterellen.com covered it pretty well for me, I think*), I can't hate entirely on what NOFX did, simply because, were it not for their idiocy, I may never have heard of Tegan & Sara myself. I find that an unlikely assertion, because I've been around the music world enough to feel like it's safe to say I would've found out about T&S eventually some other way. But I do think it's interesting to note that this right here is a real-life example of the mantra "any publicity is good publicity". Watching that stupid movie my sophomore year of high school ushered me into the world of Tegan & Sara, a world that would welcome me with open, alluring arms and never let me go. Seriously, T&S is like a drug to me, and no matter where I've been in my life, I haven't been able to get away from my intense love for these gay Candian girls.

But now I finally get to my point. Yes, we're talking about The L-Word (no, not love, and not the TV show either,) but the actual word. Lesbians. The lesbians have taken Tegan & Sara for themselves. And it's a problem.

This blog post is not and I repeat not meant to assert any sort of opinions or judgments on lesbians one way or the other. Gay culture is a hugely loaded topic and not one that I want to tackle at this time, for various personal reasons. The point at hand is the stigmas associated with listening to (and loving) T&S.

Now I'm someone who listens to a lot of different music, and a good deal of it is music more commonly associated with gay culture. What can I say? Lesbians have some good taste in music. So does it make me a lady-lover, because I love to listen to lady-lovers?

Absolutely not. But that doesn't mean it hasn't been challenging. Listening to Tegan & Sara, admitting they're my favorite band, has been something that has changed in meaning for me over the years. I have a problem with two of the reactions I've seen.

If you're a heterosexual and you love Tegan & Sara, the assumption is you must be closeted.

If you're a lesbian and you love Tegan & Sara, the assumption is that you're just fullfilling the lesbian stereotype and why don't you go find a new band, get a little bit original for a change, and not be just exactly like every other lesbian this side of the Atlantic.

Either way, you can't win.

It's frustrating to me, because Tegan & Sara's sexuality influences so much of their fan base. It either draws people in or pushes people away, and if you listen to them, that sends out a pretty definitive message about your sexuality in our culture's eyes.

What I want to know is why can't I just listen to Tegan & Sara because they make lovely music, because their lyrics speak to me in a profound way, and because I just like them? Why does it have to say something about me? Why does it have to mean that I'm either keeping a secret or subscribing to a cliche? Why can't it just be about what it is: music.

This may always be a losing battle. Tegan & Sara are pretty open about their sexuality and politically, they're very involved. I don't reprimand them for this; on the contrary, I appreciate their honesty. But it has made it so that they've developed a sort of cult-lesbian following, an ever-growing group of frighteningly obsessive she-stalkers. And it's a little unfortunate, that one can't listen to Tegan & Sara anymore (I've found) without incurring a million different judgments from different people, no matter whether you're gay or not.

I think it needs to be said that some of us just like T&S. We just think they're great, plain and simple, all sexual preferences aside. We may even just blow out the remaining $62 of our old bank account on a pre-order of their new tour DVD and included signed posters. Cause we may just really appreciate some good tunes and talented artists.

Can't we just leave it at that?

*http://www.afterellen.com/blog/stubbs/pop-punk-band-nofx-writes-a-song-about-creeping-out-tegan-and-sara

**On a side note, if you've never listened to Tegan & Sara before, look them up. They're one of those bands that's so very diverse, it's hard not to find something you can like about them. Or many things you can fall in love with about them.

My Sex-Drive's Impending Doom

Talking with my roommate about the fact that I'm going to lose all my sex-drive pretty soon. I'm not joking people, (and yes, I know, this is a little bit personal to be posting online, but I'm DRUGGED UP I DON'T CARE), my sex-drive's days are numbered. See, I got these new pills today...a lot of new pills, for lots of fun, different things. One of the pills, according to the doctor, is going to wipe out my sex-drive like a freight train over a pancake. Gone. Just done. Wonderful. I will be eighteen-years-old and have absolutely no desire in me for sex whatsoever.

I think it's a little unfortunate, seeing as how my sex-drive influences somewhere around 82% of my behavior. My sex-drive is the only reason I have the will to get out of bed in the morning and go through the exhausting process of showering and attempting to look half-way-maybe-in-an-alternate-universe-some-semblance-of-the-word-appealing.

I haven't started the drugs yet though, so there's still time. Only like twenty-four hours left where I'm going to have any libido at all! What to do, what to do...

Probably gonna go finish my homework and call it a night.

Autumn Playlist

Autumn will soon be coming to a close, and, in the spirit of continuity, I thought I'd post an Autumn playlist.

Enjoy.

My Autumn Playlist:

1. Shame: PJ Harvey
2. Embrace: Chase & Status ft. White Lies

3. The Rockefeller Skank: Fatboy Slim

4. Summersun: Miami Horror

5. Another Case: Uh Huh Her

6. Godless Brother In Love: Iron & Wine

7. White Blank Page: Mumford & Sons

8. Body 21: Morningwood

9. Kiss Cam: Arkells

10. Where Eagles Have Been: Wolfmother

11. You Know You're Right: Nirvana

12. Day Old Hate: City & Colour

13. Barbra Streisand: Duck Sauce

14. Feel Good Inc.: Gorillaz

15. Fool: Cat Power

16. Back Stabbin' Betty: Cage the Elephant

17. Hurt: Johnny Cash

18. Fly Away: Lenny Kravitz

19. Adelaide: Old 97's

20. Body Work: Tegan & Sara (not the collaboration with Morgan Page, look up on Youtube their own version they did live over the summer)

21. Cupid's Trick: Elliott Smith

22. Broken Jaw: Foster the People

23. Space + Time: The Pierces

24. Heart of Stone: The Raveonettes

25. Forever: MEME

26. Destroy Me: Lilofee

27. Is This It: The Strokes

28. MMMNN: Grandadbob

29. Mongrel Heart: Broken Bells

30. Next Girl: The Black Keys

31. Only Girl: Ricky Eat Acid

32. Glad Man Singing: Iron & Wine

33. Heart's A Mess: Gotye

34. Judas: Cage the Elephant

35. A Million Miles An Hour: Eastern Conference Champions

36. The Only One: The Black Keys

37. Don't Stop (Color on the Walls): Foster the People

38. Sleep the Winter: eagleowl

39. His Love: Tegan Quin

40. Love Me Tender: Norah Jones

(This is just what I have been listening to this Autumn, or listening to the most rather. This is not my comprehensive, pervasive, all-time epic Autumn Playlist. Maybe someday I'll post that one. Probably not though.)

*Recent Honorable Mention: Cheers (Drink to That): Rihanna

Swearing and Christianity

I have always been under the impression that Christians aren't allowed to swear. It's just not something we do. It is universally understood among us that there are naughty words that we absolutely cannot say. How scandalous would it be if the pastor's wife walked up to a member of the congregation one day and said "What an ass that man is." Or "This damn heat is killing me."

I can answer that for you: It'd be pretty scandalous.

In fact, I'm not even sure if the pastor's wife is allowed to say the word "sucks" or "screwed". I know growing up I wasn't even supposed to say "shut up".

In high school, of course, I was exposed to a variety of bad language. From the graphic to the crude to the racially insensitive to the very, very explicit, I've heard it all. And to be honest, I've probably used most of it too.

It's fair to say that my level of profanity usually fluctuates with my spirituality on any given day. If I'm feeling really close to God, going to church a lot, praying, being all convicted, then I'm going to be trying to keep my language pretty clean. If I'm in a slump and I've decided I just can't even try anymore, those days of deep discouragement...you're apt to hear an f-bomb or two escape my lips.

The odd thing is though, that sometimes, even when I'm feeling really close to God, even when I've been reading my Bible and really consciously trying to live the right way, swear words still abound in my life. Now I'm a writer so obviously I have a pretty varied vocabulary (or at least, I ought to). There are so many words in this world I could use, and no one is more aware of that fact than me. So why do I resort to vulgarity?

Because sometimes, it's just necessary.

I have experienced great inner turmoil regarding this subject for years, and it's something I'm still debating now. Should we, as Christians, use swear words? I just don't know. See, I've met Christians, great Christian people, and even moreso since coming to college, who use some pretty colorful language. Maybe not even colorful. Maybe they don't run around saying "fuck this shit" all the time, but their language isn't necessarily all sweet and mild-mannered either. They'll say ass or damnit or what a bitch! Often the people I respect the most, both as humans and as God-fearing Christians, use some questionable language. And it's confusing. What's the deal?

Here's the conclusion I've reached right now. I'm eighteen years old, living in America. I grew up in Massachusetts; I now live in New York. I went to a public school all my life and I'm a writer. Though I attend a Christian college, I'm very much in the secular world.

I hear swear words. I listen to music with swear words (and for this, I don't feel that guilty. Perhaps I should, perhaps the Lord will convict me. But for now, I don't really have an issue with it, unless it crosses a line), I watch movies with swear words. I have friends at home who swear and as a writer, my characters often need to swear, because they're real people and that's how real people talk. Some of the people I think are funny, some of the people I talk to and respect, they swear. I read a lot of literature, not even for pleasure, just as a part of my major, that uses swear words.

I know a lot of Christians, some that are very very close to me, that won't let a word even mildly profane cross their lips. And I guess that's their personal feeling about it. But my feeling is, I live in the world. I may be attempting, as the Bible says, to live in it and not be of it, but the fact remains that I am in it. Very much so. And it's real and it's here. And I don't want to be one of those prissy little holier-than-thou types who frowns down at those who use language that's a bit more, spicy, shall we say.* I think there's a line, of course. I don't think Christians need to go out and string a bunch of bad words together and scream them at the world. I don't think that's how Christ should be represented and I don't think that's mature, or necessary. But a little mild language once in a while, in the appropriate setting? I think there are worse things to worry about, greater issues that we need to battle, bigger fights we need to fight. I think that sometimes, bad language is just honest. Just as graphic, sometimes vulgar, not-nice descriptions are honest. That's real life people. It's not all sunshine and rainbows. Yes I'm a Christian, I go to church and Sunday School when I'm home and chapel three times a week. I went to youth group all through my adolescence, I do VBS every year, nursery one Sunday a month and I volunteered for Awana my whole senior year.** And I love it all, just like I love God. But I also know what a penis is and I'm not afraid to say that word. So that's how I feel about it.

Also. Sex.

*Wow I sound really judgmental. I know it's just furthering the cycle when people judge the judgers. But I don't feel like censoring myself right now.

**I mention those things, not because they make me a Christian. Obviously they don't. But they do make me a "church" person I guess, and those "church" people are the ones (and here you'll have to allow me to generalize) that are most easily scandelized by inappropriate language.

Things To Do Instead of Write a Story About a Gay Boy Named Alan

These are all the things that I have been filling my night with, rather than writing a story about a gay boy named Alan (which is the homework I actually need to complete for my fiction class).

1. dye hair with red kool-aid

2. look up organic soap online

3. take a typing test, to yet again discover that I type averagely somewhere between 87 and 93 wpm (my version of a pick-me-up)

4. think about how much I like doing laundry

5. change clothes

6. wonder if I should've closed the blinds before I changed clothes

7. look up tlc's "don't go chasing waterfalls" on youtube and sing along

8. eat a handful of flavor-blasted goldfish and then vow that will be the last handful

9. go on facebook

10. go on twitter

11. go on whydoihaveablog.net, which is probably one of the funniest blogs I have ever read in my life (which is saying something, because I've read a lot of blogs), probably because it is so frighteningly relatable...

12. in a fit of productivity, ex out of EVERY website open on my browser and go back to typing asdfghjkl over and over again on a blank document

13. turn on my iTunes

14. browse the iTunes library of every other Houghton student who has their homeshare turned on, especially the libraries named "An Organist Does Listen to Some Normal Music", "KFURMZ", and "Charlie Sheen"

15. Charlie Sheen's library was a let down

16. but he had a whole bunch of 3OH!3 on there so...

17. listen to the entire 3OH!3 Want album, and realize I still know all the lyrics to every song

18. finish the album and feel really guilty because I just wasted like an hour of writing time jamming out to, of all bands, 3OH!3...

19. wonder who i even am anymore

20. contemplate existence

21. go back onto facebook

22. still no notifications, nobody loves me

23. try to estimate the number of people i can pretty safely bet on attending my funeral if i died

24. ex out of facebook, listen to Any Color Black

25. spray my imitation Toms with that Pumpkin Linen Spray I got from my friend Hannah who has 6 sisters

26. wonder what it would've been like to have 6 sisters...

27. eat another handful of goldfish. THIS IS THE LAST HANDFUL TONIGHT SERIOUSLY.

28. realize it's really super cold in my room and crawl under the covers

29. go back on Twitter to post about how good I am at wasting time

30. decide making a whole blog post out of it would be much cuter

31. make a blog post

32. post it

33. tweet about it

34. make a facebook status about the tweet

35. email everyone in the UNIVERSE about the facebook status

36. text my whole address book to check their emails

37. is there any other way I can communicate with half the planet in about .5 seconds?

38. bite my nails

39. i should probably start writing that newspaper article i have due tuesday

40. i should probably start writing that TEN PAGE STORY i have due for my fiction class tomorrow, which is a really important assignment, not only because it's a major grade for the class, but because it incidentally also happens to be the thing i kind of want to do with my life

41. listen to anya marina's version of t.i.'s "whatever you like", #gawshiloveagoodremake

42. ok, ok, im gonna write now

43. write the story about a gay boy named alan, hand it in, its brilliant, get it published, pulitzer prize, lots of money, drop out of college, rich life in vienna

44. why vienna, we'll never know, it just sounded really good...

(the blogger has left to now commence working on #43, be back never)

Why Ayn Rand Was A Hipster

I am a music snob. Which is the nice way of saying I judge people (sometimes, I'm trying to get better) based on the music they listen to. It's also a nice way of saying that I have really high standards for the music I listen to. And nothing gets under my skin so much as when I discover some underground hidden gem of a band and then suddenly, a few weeks later, every little radio-feeder and her brother is jamming out to it in their car saying OMG OMG I love this song, it's just like sooo good.

That pisses me off.

That, to me, is like if you went down into a mine and you spent hours of your time just chipping away at the stone with your little pick. And you kept coming up with rock after rock after dusty, dirty rock. But then finally. Finally, you found a diamond. And you were so excited, you raced all the way back up into the daylight with your treasure, barely able to contain yourself, only to walk into the local jewlery store, the sweat and dirt of your labors still streaking your face, and find that they're just giving away diamonds. Just like yours. To every single person who walks in the door. Not cool.

Apparently, this makes me a hipster.

Which is cool. I mean, I honestly didn't even really fully understand what a hipster was until I came to college and all of a sudden all these people were telling me that that's what I was, just another hipster. Here I was my whole life thinking I was all original and individualistic, only to discover that there's actually a cliche for people who hate cliches. And that's all I am.

Awesome.

But in all seriousness, despite the fact that there seem to be many negative associations with hipsterism, I truly don't mind being categorized that way. Because it's kinda true. I kind of agree with a lot of what these hipster people seem to subscribe to. And they have cool style. And they listen to awesome music. They are fellow music snobs.

The funny thing is is that I didn't become hipster just to be hipster. I didn't even know what that was. I used to be the only other person I knew who thought this way, who went on these insane, annoying rants about creativity and individuality. So that's really just how I think, I'm not trying to subscribe to some trend or culture. Although it is kind of cool to finally feel like maybe there is a place I belong, even if it's a place that's really weird and the rest of the world seems to hate on.
Not that I'm labelling myself guys. Hipsters don't do that...

So anyway, I got to thinking about all this again yesterday, actually all due to the song "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. That has been one of my favorite songs for probably about a year now. I found out about Edward Sharpe from my friend and the first song I looked up was 40 Day Dream. And now I love them. Desert Song blows my mind every time I hear it. And Home is just lovely. It's just a lovely, happy song.

But it's also a song that, suddenly, mainstream culture seems to be aware of. People whose taste in music I don't respect, people who don't get a lot of exposure to different bands and who certainly don't go out and search for music themselves: these people know about Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

And I hate to admit it but it makes me crazy. I have a totally irrational reaction to that fact. I freak out. Like these people don't deserve to listen to Edward Sharpe, because they only know one song. and their medium of discovery was the radio.

So, let's evaluate. I found out about them through a friend's recommendation and then looked them up on Youtube. I don't have their whole album, and I have about three songs on my iPod. Does this mean I am more worthy of listening to and enjoying them?

No. When I think about it honestly, I don't think it does. In fact, I think all it makes me, is a hypocrite. There are plenty of bands I only own one song from; there are bands I own a handful of songs by but still claim them as a favorite on my facebook page. Is that any more authentic than the radio-feeders (my self-coined term) who just happened to catch a song on a popular radio station?

What is this selfish tendency inside myself to want to hide away my favorite things in life? This even extends beyond music. It still gets me worked up that it's "cool" to like The Office. If Parks and Recreation becomes trendy, I'm probably going to have a breakdown. Just today a friend and I were talking about Jane Austen and how the fact that I love her makes me just another cliche, girly, hormonal, chocolate-consuming English major. It makes me so mad, when other people love the things I love. When I discover something beautiful, real art, I want to keep it for myself and I don't want anyone else to be let in on the secret.

Remind you of someone? I know. When we read The Fountainhead in high school, it might not be a surprise that the character who resonated with me most was Dominique Francon.
And so it makes me wonder: Could Ayn Rand have been a hipster?

I'm not trying to make a literary analysis piece out of this. I don't intend to give you quotes from Rand's novels or support from her personal diaries to try and prove Ayn's identity as the original hipster. (Her clothes might pose a problem with the validity of that thesis...) I just think it's funny, when you think about it, to realize that this idea of superiority in orginality and creativity and all that snobbishness that accompanies that...it's nothing new.

Roark and Dominique did it first. And they probably did it better.

Enamored of the Cage

I would like to know why I am so enamored of my cage?

I knew it was there, for years I knew. I saw it every morning when I woke up, I played and pranced in it all day long till I fell asleep, cradled by its metal walls. It was always such a pretty cage and I felt quite at home. I knew that I was locked up, but I didn't even try to escape. I didn't want to get out.

Oh the walls were guilded, gold and sparkly, so appealing to me. I knew they were just cheap metal, only a shadow of the authentic thing. But the flashy, fake stuff- I wanted it. I admired it. I felt pretty in my enclosure. It was comfortable in there, and it got so that I thought I'd stay there forever. I knew others might consider me foolish. I knew they might tell me that I was locked up, that I needed to break free. But really, I thought, they were the ones imprisoned and not me. They couldn't see that it was I who had achieved a new level of freedom. I had emancipated myself, I had reached a higher place of thinking and it felt so good. It felt so right. My cage was glorious, oh how I loved my cage.

But I soon found that it was lacking in there. I soon discovered that I was locked up. I truly was a prisoner, and I didn't even know how to get out anymore. I didn't want to get out; that was the most twisted part. I was isolating myself from all those who loved me. Most of all, I was isolating myself from my Jesus. He watched me in the cage, fluttering about, basking in all my affected glory, and He wept. He wept for His little bird that did not want the freedom He had sacrificed so much to give. He had opened the door and I had looked the other way.

Now that I know that I am bound, I have decided that I want to get out. But it hasn't been easy. I am timid, I am weak. My wings are broken, my beak not strong. I hop tentatively out into the air, and it smells so good; the breeze ruffles my wings and I want to let myself be carried away. But before long, I run back. I run back to my cage. I turn around and throw myself back in and shut the door behind me.

I am enamored of my cage.

I see it, I know it exists and I can escape. But I want the cage. I liked it there.

Oh God I will never get out on my own. I need You to carry me and smash the cage with Your fist. Forgive this little bird and heal her once again. Don't let her go.

Don't let me go.