Marriage Equality – Much I Do About Nothing

Marriage equality for same sex couples is a hot topic in the States and many other parts of Christendom right now. As the pendulum of liberal public opinion swings towards reform, the religious reactionaries advance ever more bizarre notions for opposing the right of consenting adults to choose whom they wish to marry. It’s in the Land of the Free where the debate (if debate is the word) is at its most venal. An unholy axis is scaring the horses and the old folk with talk of a disintegrating society and the fall of America. The do as I say and not as I do Catholic Church is wielding its considerable power and marshalling its congregation; right-wing American politicians seeking the highest office in the land talk of paganism and a vomiting God; and crazy pastors across the Bible belt warn of Old Testament fire and brimstone and the End of Days. These strange bedfellows all agree that it’s the thin end of the satanic wedge. What next? Pet-wedding perverts? Marriage is between one man and one woman, they say, sanctified by God for the purposes of procreation. How do they know? Because it says so in the Bible, stupid. Actually, the Bible says a lot about marriage – about forced wedlock, polygamy and concubines. It supports all of them. Bible-bashers have selective memories.

Rather than take a trip on the merry-go-round of fables and myths, it might be more illuminating to take a look at history and absorb some hard facts. Until relatively recently, marriage was primarily a property contract. In most societies, girls were the chattels of their fathers; wedlock simply transferred ownership from father to husband. There’s a clue in the word ‘lock’. Often, the contract was transacted within the extended family in order to consolidate assets or preserve clan cohesion. It was generally best to keep it within the family. At the top of the social heap, marriage was a political device to forge alliances, strengthen authority and maintain dynastic power. The rich would oil the marital wheels with generous dowries and the poor might secure a slave bride through war. Women were booty. Like goats. The consent of the unfortunate (and often underage) girl was not required. The wife could get a raw deal; the goats might be treated better. If a woman failed in her primary role to provide male progeny, she could be replaced, supplemented or worse. None of this sounds particularly honourable or pious to me. Nor has this depressing state of marital affairs been consigned to the history books. It’s alive and thriving in many primitive corners of the modern world.

The spawning argument hardly holds water either. It’s an obvious biological fact that marriage is not required to have children. People don’t suddenly become fertile because they’ve been blessed by the shaman. Breeding is like falling off a log and we’ve been at it like proverbial rabbits since our distant ancestors crawled out of the primordial soup at the dawn of time. When Fred Flintstone first clubbed Wilma over the head and dragged her by the hair into his cave to make Pebbles, he didn’t need a holier-than-thou clergyman to stick his oar in.

Just recently, on my side of the pond, a top dog collar in the Church of England jumped on the wedding bandwagon. The Archbishop of York claims that the democratically elected Parliament of Britain has no right to change the definition of marriage. I think His Grace will find that the British Parliament has the right to do as it pleases. England got rid of meddling priests when they pissed off Henry the Eighth. Hell hath no fury like a tyrant scorned. Despite what the Archbishop may think, the meaning and interpretation of abstract concepts often evolve over time through intellectual inquisition and discourse. There was a time when the Church taught us with absolute God-given certainty that the Earth was flat and sat at the centre of the Universe. Woe betide anyone who disagreed. Stoke the bonfire and burn the heretics, they used to say. Fortunately, we now know differently. We discover and we evolve. Our religious establishments would do better to concentrate their energies on addressing the problem of empty pews and unheard sermons. Ironically, the Church of England would find it far more difficult to operate without the growing number of gay vicars in its ranks.

For an unreconstructed liberal and an unabashed secularist like me, this is a fundamental equalities issue. It’s also a love thing; and love, above all other things, is at the core of the Christian message, is it not? As far as I’m aware, no religious organisation will be forced to conduct religious ceremonies for same sex couples if they object. So, let’s just calm down and grow up.

Read all about Jack and Liam‘s life in a Muslim country

M’Lady and the Crazy Marionettes

Next whistle stop on my virtual book tour (are you still on the train?) is Liz Cameron’s blog, Slowly-by-Slowly. Liz writes with depth and poetry about her cross-cultural life as an American married to a Turk through the eyes of a troupe of Ottoman era Karagöz shadow puppets. She’s not insane. It’s a metaphor, silly. Of greatest interest to me, though, is that Liz lives in Provincetown, a pretty little New England seaside resort which is a summer mecca for gay visitors – a kind of American Brighton. Yes, I am that shallow. My invite to ogle the shocking males must be lost in the post. The shocking mail in Turkey is to blame, no doubt.

Hop over to Slowly-by-Slowly to catch the book review and to hang out with M’Lady and the crazy marionettes.

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Istanbul Stranger

I was really pleased when Istanbul Stranger asked me to guest on her blog as part of my virtual book tour. She’s deliciously witty, calls a spade a spade and her sharp observations about her life in Old Constantinople are a joy to read. She’s American but I think her writing style has a distinctive ironic British twist. Maybe she was a Brit in a former life. I’m there to plug my book but, as this isn’t Oprah’s Book Club, I thought I’d regale you with tales of my first visit to the good old US of A.

Ladies and Gents I give you Yankee Tales.

The Ab Fab Impossibly Glamorous

The Ab Fab Impossibly Glamorous

impossibly glamorousI’d like to introduce American Expat returnee, Charles Ayres. Charles is funny and talented, and quite famous in his own lunchtime. He’s written for Harper’s Bazaar and Metropolis, handled the international PR for Tokyo FM’s annual Earth Day concert and popped up the big and small screen, most notably on the Japanese TV show “It’s OK to Laugh” (Waratte ii Tomo) and film “The Billion Yen Jackpot!” (Juoku-en Kasegu!)

Charles lived in the Land of the Rising Sun for 12 years and left after the 2011 earthquake. After experiencing the Big One, he moved to San Francisco to wait for the next Big One. He’s released his autobiography, Impossibly Glamorous, “The rudest book you’ll ever love,” detailing his life growing up as a raver in the American Midwest and taking over New York and Japan.

Charles has been a great supporter of Perking the Pansies, virtually from the beginning, and jumped in to help with promoting the book. He was one of the first to review Perking the Pansies

Check out Impossibly Glamorous on…

amazon.co.uk

amazon.com

Perking Across the Pond

I first stumbled across Jared a while ago. I can’t remember how. It was one of those chance meetings. I was immediately drawn to his writing – witty, eloquent, reflective, sometimes broody, sometimes ironic, always interesting, always honest. Two recurrent themes seem to re-surface – his relationship and love for his children and his relationship and love for his late father. These touching refrains are both intertwined and separate at the same time. It’s a fascinating and compelling paradox. You won’t be surprised to hear, therefore, that I’m delighted to be featured as a guest blogger on lick the fridge.

Hop over to Jared’s blog for Perking Across the Pond.

Will the Real Jack Scott Please Stand Up?

Google sits astride the internet like a leviathan. Forget Yahoo or Bing or a host of smaller search engines, only Google counts. Their search algorithms can make or break an online presence. If you don’t show up in the first few pages of Google, you may as well not be on the internet at all. It’s all about search engine optimisation (SEO) and ways to make it better. There’s an entire industry dedicated to improving it (or trying to cheat the clever geeks at Google). How’s a humble little jobbing blogger in a faraway country most people couldn’t place on a map ever going to make his mark? Well, Perking the Pansies does well. Google favours fresh, frequently renewed content and my content is frequently renewed, if not fresh. Sorted.

1923 -2008

Little Jack Scott, though, struggles. The name is a curse. It’s eclipsed by other more illustrious Jacks plastered all over the web. Who are these pretenders to my rightful throne? Well, there’s Jack Scott, (AKA Giovanni Dominico Scafone Jr) the Canadian singer ‘undeniably the greatest Canadian rock and roll singer of all time,’ apparently. I’d never heard of him. Sorry. Then there’s the late Jack Scott, buck-teethed weather man who died in 2008. He was everyone’s favourite weather guru and brought magnetic weather symbols to live broadcasts on the BBC. Unfortunately, they often slipped down the board or dropped off altogether. My final Jack is the now infamous Mayor of the little town of Cordova in Alabama which was flattened by killer tornadoes earlier this year. Mayor Scott refused to allow trailers into the town to house the newly homeless because he didn’t want to encourage trailer trash. Sounds like a fine and upstanding pillar of the community.

So, what’s a diminutive, washed-up ex pretty boy with his best years behind him to do? Change his name to Dick Stillhard (no wait, that’s already taken).

Thanks to Spainstruck for the inspiration for this one.

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Two Nations Divided by a Common Language

Photo: Carryn M. Golden

I recently received the first edits back for the book. I downloaded the file with nervous anticipation, expecting it to be mauled with angry red lines and a must do better report at the end. I was pleasantly surprised to find the text relatively intact. My editor is a talented young man from across the pond called Kilian Kröll. Kilian’s day job is treading the boards as an eminent life coach. He’s also a superb writer and is moonlighting as editor at the request of my publisher, Jo Parfitt. Jo gave him the specific remit to check the text for British idioms and cultural references that might fly over the heads of our Yankee cousins. Kilian is well-qualified for the job and is doing sterling work – meticulous and professional. His interventions have been smart, literate and illuminating. Striking the right balance between keeping the essentially British feel of Perking the Pansies and appealing to the greatest possible audience is going to be tough. Cor blimey, mate.

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Under the Tuscan Sun

Under the Tuscan Sun

With Liam back in Blighty, I’m making do. Our Turkish neighbour, Bubbly Beril, knocked on the door and shoved a DVD in my hands.

Under the Tuscan Sun

Based loosely on a true story, Under the Tuscan Sun is the tale of an American woman whose marriage collapses around her. She emerges from deep despair and paralysing sense of failure by making a new life in Tuscany, all by chance. It’s a sentimental, sugar coated yarn of love lost and a life regained. Boo to the nasty man who dumped her and hurrah for the cast of colourful characters who pick her up, dust her down and help her start all over again. I cried like a child.

Of course, life isn’t really like a movie. Not everyone’s that nice. The female flotsam washing up on our shores seeking comfort in the arms of a Turk are mostly onto a hiding to nothing. It can work but the odds are stacked against it. For me, the most significant part of the film was that the Yankee expat first arrived in Italy on a Tuscan gay tour.  Beril had picked up the subplot. She was saying, ‘I know and I don’t mind.’

Turks and Tampons

My third Guest blogger is Alexandra from Death by Dolmuş. Alexandra is a Yankee lass who teaches in Istanbul. She writes about the quirky side of life in the ancient city and has a mild obsession with public transport. Alexandra also publishes an amazing photoblog. If you don’t like discussions about women’s itty bitty parts, don’t read the following (oh, go on).

Alexandra

There are strange things that occur in Turkey. I am pretty on top of most of it, but from time to time things do catch me off guard. I’m unfazed when a man brings a 12 foot (4 meter) ladder into an over-packed dolmuş (roughly 5 meters long itself.) I’m unfazed when my bank calls to ask permission of my employer when I wish to close my account (obviously a mere mortal like me can’t be trusted with such a serious decision.)

I was caught off guard when my colleague, a punk, riot-grrrl feminist with red hair (not Irish red, but like, the color red) and combat boots, moans to me, doubled over in pain, ‘Gahh, I wish I hadn’t left the window open last night.’ It had been a sweltering 80 degrees (25 C) and I couldn’t understand what that had to do with her abdominal pain. ‘The wind, the night air, you know, it gives me cramps.’ Efendim?

Now, I’m fairly certain that cramps are caused by your uterine walls contracting to expel the lining. But, you know, who can say for certain…

I was constantly appalled by the lack of knowledge these university educated women displayed about their own bodies and the science contained in them. I know Freud thought that hysteria (that vague, female-ish complaint) was caused by a ‘disturbance’ to the uterus, but I’m pretty sure somewhere in my 6th grade sex-ed class, I remember learning something different…

As I was moving out, I had an enormous amount of tampons that my roommate and I had hoarded like we were preparing for the apocalypse. God knows when we would be able to find tampons again, so every time we ventured out of the Islamic Republic of Turkey, we bought up the store like they were going out of style.

Not having space in my luggage for 47 boxes of Tampax Pearls, and with the confidence that I could pick some up any time nature called at my nearest pharmacy (that’s a chemist’s for you Brits), when back in the US, I decided to give them away. Because honestly, who doesn’t like free tampons? Apparently, Turkish women.

So that’s how I found myself, on my last day of work, sitting in a locked office with my colleague, demonstrating how to use a tampon. I unwrapped it, showed how the applicator worked, as she dissected the tampon I had handed her, checking that the string was in fact well secured at the center. I extolled the tampon’s virtues: you can go swimming! (Her face lit up, what do you mean? She asked in disbelief.) You can wear white pants with no fear! Thinking back to all those tampon commercials of my youth, you can go shopping with your fresh-faced friends and laugh to your heart’s desire while spinning around in circles to demonstrate your new-found freedom!

Happy Birthday America

I’d like to extend a huge thank you to an individual from Burlingame, California who has single-handedly doubled the hits to Perking the Pansies for the 4th July, American Independence Day.  I really hope you like what you read and will come back again. Burlingame, the City of Trees, is a small community close to San Francisco. It looks like a charming place to live. Perhaps Liam and I will get to visit one day.

On this side of the pond it was Independence Day long before our Yankee cousins awoke from their slumber and began their tea party. It made me wonder how the course of modern history might have been different if mad King George III and his hapless ministers had agreed to the reasonable demands of the thirteen colonies to be represented in the British Parliament.

Happy Birthday America. No hard feelings.

PS: It would be thoughtless of me not to mention the dedicated Pansy Fan from San José, Costa Rica who has visited hundreds of times over the months. I don’t know who you are but I’m indebted to you. ‘I thank you’ as the glorious Julian Clary would say.