A Requiem For Pacifism

It's sort of quaint to be called a faggot from the window of a speeding pickup truck. It says, "Hello, welcome to North Adams, Mass., incest capital of the northeast," where I spent the last three weeks. It's quaint not just because that last happened to me in third grade. And not because I now - as then - like girls. But that sort of thing happens less and less in the big city and really, for me, captures a certain Rockwellian rusticity which has been pushed out of my urban neighborhood by mega-million selling homophobic utterances by DMX, Eminem and the like.

Sure, when that grit in the truck yelled, I wanted to beat his ass sideways. Of course. Even those who may not be able to raise the same technical objections to the term don't like to be called faggot in that tone of voice. Naturally, said grit was too chicken to stop. Modern faggots are not the 98 lb. weaklings of yore. Or, I dunno, maybe it was my hat. Either way, after I yelled and flicked him off like the enlightened guy I am, the fantasy that sprang to mind involved smashing his windshield, pulling him through it, and breaking his teeth out.

With a lisp.

Hi, my name is Bob and I write sensitive songs.

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