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Marriage equality and one bright moment in 2004

The Supreme Court decided in June, 2015 that the fundamental right to marry is guaranteed to same-sex couples. The decision was Obergefell v Hodges, and the was one of the most definitive for civil rights in the last century.

A few short years later, this decision, like that for Roe v. Wade, which guaranteed rights to healthcare, is under threat with a Supreme Court more interested in forcing a narrow, restrictive ideology than the law. In response Congress just passed the Respect for Marriage Act. Though the protections aren’t as comprehensive as the Obergefell decision, at a minimum this Act ensures that same-sex marriages would be recognized by both federal and state government, though it could not force states to issue marriage certificates to same-sex couples.

Perhaps at a minimum, it will provide a warning to the Supreme Court that no, they won’t be allowed to turn back the clock, and they’ll leave Obergefell alone.

Serendipitously, this week while I was recovering old weblog posts from the Wayback Machine, I recovered one titled “No other word works but great.” I wrote it February 18, 2004 and it was about that brief and shining time when Gavin Newsome and the city of San Francisco, in an act of civil defiance, issued marriage certificates for same-sex couples.

As I wrote at the time:

This news coming out of San Francisco, is the first news I’ve heard in a month, over a month, of the triumph of the human spirit, the fire of those who will not accept the dictates of a hypocritical society, and the goodness of people reaching out to other people.

Enjoy this flashback, and think on how far we’ve come, and what we can’t lose.

Update:

The follow up longer essay I promised, also recovered from the Wayback Machine: For those who inhabit the empty spaces of the coloring book.

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sans comment

My butterfly, all in black, with the words: Stop SOPA

O’Reilly Media’s Stop SOPA page, describing what this is all about.

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Just close the browser

 

Years ago, when I lived in San Francisco, I was sitting in my favorite chair one day, listening to music and typing into my laptop when the door to my apartment opened. A man enters, sees me and stops, half in, half out. He stares at me, I stare at him, waiting for him to say something along the lines of “Oh, excuse me! Wrong door!”

When he continues to stare and look around the apartment in confusion, I ask, “Can I help you?”, being sure to put a little ‘you’ve walked into my home, bud, and what if I had been nude’ tone into my voice.

He starts laughing and says, “I’ve come to the wrong floor! I live on the second floor and must have got off on the wrong floor. I live in 222!”

Sounds reasonable. Easy mistake. Just shut the door on your way out.

“I was so surprised. I couldn’t figure out who you were.”

Well, cool. Please leave now.

“How funny! You must have really been surprised, too.”

WHAT THE HELL DO I NEED TO DO TO GET YOU TO GO!

I got up and walked towards the door and the guy still isn’t leaving. Friendly, not harmful at all — just chattering away. Being a polite soul, I respond to his chatter. Yes, funny coincidence. Yes, I do sometimes forget to lock my door when I bring groceries in. And, yes, weather has been nice…now move your butt outside my door!

After I herded him out, and just as I’m closing the door he calls back, “Well, nice meeting you!”

I locked the door and started to walk away. Stopped. Turned back and threw the dead bolt.

We are a society that is, above all, polite. We have raised courtesy to an art form, honing it into fine-edged usefulnes. Our words become knives as we fight a duel called “conversation” — victor and victim equally bloodied. We circle and stab, and then commiserate with the pain, apologize for the sting.

We pommel each other with argument and viewpoint, all the while debating the finer points of etiquette. We hammer at each other with opinion; we blast most eloquently, and always with the highest regard, the deepest sincerity.

We hold mirrors up to show others their flaws, only to find that the silver has flaked off, the glass is transparent.

You know what I like about being online? If you read something you don’t like, or something that irritates you, or a piece of self-righteous garbage, you can close the browser and it’s gone. You don’t have to be polite. You don’t have to read, react, respond.

Just close the browser.

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EOL Monetized

I wrote about planning for death, including how to handle our online lives last August in a writing titled, Planning your own EOL. Evidently, others had the same idea, and now businesses with names like Deathswitch and Slightly Morbid are springing up, providing services such as that one last email to be sent.

The Death of gamers leave their lives in limbo

With all of the foo-flah about Twitter this weekend, perhaps I should start a company called LastTweet. It could feature its own cute graphic—a gracefully dead bird, or perhaps an artistic rendition of roadkill. What would the hash mark be for messages from the company? Something like #RIP? #deadmantweeting?

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Kindle customers discussions demoted

One interesting change at the Kindle site at Amazon based on the new reader is that the Kindle customer discussion forum, which originally was a top submenu item, has now been demoted to the vague bottom reaches of the web page.

Where the discussion forums originally focused on the wonder of the Kindle, recent discussions have been more critical of the device, the book prices, and Amazon’s lack of support for book formats like ePub. Pesky Kindle owners tend to speak their mind.

Amazon has just discovered what many other companies are discovering: integrating social networking is like failed love, amazingly wonderful at first, but eventually evolving into an urge to gnaw your own arm off in order to escape.

PS: Kindle owners, there’s always the KindleBoards.