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Southern Voice/April 11, 1991
VIEWPOINTS
FROM THE EDITOR
Following Good Advice
Six or spvcn years ago I penned an
editorial which suggested, in terms
somewhat illusory, that a certain gay
activist had outlived his usefulness and
should be smart enough to recognize that
fact. And, coincidentally, gracious
enough to remove himself from his posi
tion of importance in the community.
It's time for me to take my own
advice. This issue is my final one as edi
tor of Southern Voice.
Call the cause whatever floats your
linguistic boat—burn-out, exhaustion, or
consummate confusion—the time has
come for me to take a break. The telltale
signs are all too obvious: its rare that I
laugh more than twice in any 24 hour
period; my cat pays more attention to my
housemate than she does to me; my
friends bemoan the fact that all 1 ever
talk about is queer politics. My ranting
has gotten so bad that they are threaten
ing to have me committed to the recov
ery program at the Larry Kramer
Pavilion for the Hopelessly Politically
Correct.
If, alas, I am to seek a cure, I would
rather that it be at the Emma Goldman
Center. Ms. Goldman, you will remem
ber, was the early 20th century activist
who risked great censure from her peers
when she spoke out for the human rights
of gay people. More importandy, it was
she who gave us what ought be
activism’s primary rallying cry, "If I can't
dance I don't want to be a part of your
revolution." •
A few weeks ago I attended a work
shop where two gay men remarked that,
what with AIDS and the church and
society's homophobia, they really hated
being gay. My jaw went slack, my cortex
did whirligigs. Maynard Jackson,
Cracker Barrel, Dick Williams, Nancy
Schaefer, Ralph of Ben Hill, Eldrin Bell
and all the other heterosexist crap that
regularly rains down on our parade
notwithstanding, being gay is more fun
than I ever imagined could possibly be
(il)legal. How could anyone not adore
being queer?
Three days later—feeling insulted by
Cracker Barrel, made fun of by Williams
and spurned by Hizzoner Jackson—I
knew exactly how those two men felt.
When I stop laughing at these loony-
tunes types and start seeing them as any
thing but the (albeit dangerous) jokes
that they are I'm in the deepest of my
shit. That's not where I want to be as a
person. And its not where the editor of
this newspaper needs to be.
When I accepted this job I knew there
was a risk that I would take the whole
thing too seriously and burn (flame
would probably be more accurate) out.
Being die editor of a paper staffed pri
marily by volunteers is a job for some
one with bushels of patience and signifi
cant management skills—not attributes
generally found in those, who like
myself, were raised in homes where the
fruits of my parents loins were regularly
macerated in equal parts of alcohol and
abuse. But then acknowledging and
respecting our own limits doesn't gener
ally come as part of that package either,
does it?
All this does little to miugate my
sadness at my inability to continue in
this job. The parts of it that do not punch
my buttons, drive me into fits of pseudo
self-importance, have been an honor and
an education. Southern Voice is, I
believe, a better paper than it was when I
assumed its editorship. I am proud of the
part that I have played in that improve
ment.
And I am a better person for having
had this job. I have met and worked with
a number of dedicated and fascinating
human beings—most of them queer,
some not—in the process. It has been an
experience that has, in some cases, shat
tered my beliefs and, in others, affirmed
them. One for which I am grateful and
far wiser.
Gary Kaupman
Beginning with our next issue, Christina
Cash will assume editorial responsibili
ties and Leigh VanderEls will become
the paper's general manager. We'll miss
you Gary. Thanks for everything.
'The Doors"
Revisited
Dear Everyone:
Countering Terry Francis' misguided
commentary (Vol. 4, No. 3), "another
flashing chance at bliss" awaits you in
Oliver Stone's film "The Doors." Stone
tosses us a hyper-authendc acid rapture
showing the rise and fall of the Doors'
lead singer, Jim Morrison. Demi-god
causing divine panic in leather pants or
sadistic clown tormenting those closest
to him, Morrison embodied the quest for
vision, with its attendant excess, that
many of us began in the sixties. Stone
shows Morrison fully, from jackass to
charismatic idol.
"There is only the known and the
unknown," Blake (1757-1827) wrote, "in
Miscellany
A New Genre
Inserted in most copies of this issue
of Southern Voice is a new "life/style"
magazine for gay men, Genre. We hope
that you'll enjoy it, but, in the event that
it's not your cup of tea, may we ask that
you pass it along to a friend who might ?
Missing—Our regular Outlines column
is missing from this issue of the paper. It
will return in issue 5.
Corrections—Patrick Garvey's story
“Atlanta Gay Basher Sentenced to 21
Years" in issue 3 contained two errors,
both of which occurred in editing. It was
Thomas Germain, not Michael Shannon,
that tracked down the missing sword in
the APD property room. And Shannon's
original bond was S5000, not $10,000 as
stated in the article.
A Request—Calendar items are due in
the S.V. office by noon on the Monday
of the week prior to the Thursday publi
cation date of each issue. Remember,
please that we are bi-weekly. Items
which arrive later than this can some
times be added, but the process is not
easy. If you have questions, please call
the editorial office at 876-0789.
between are the Doors." He also wrote
that "The road to excess leads to the
palace of wisdom." He lived to be sev
enty years old. Much too young, Jimi
Hendrix kissed the sky one time too
many; Janis Joplin couldn't take good
care of Janis, death talked her down; and
Jim Morrison didn't even make it to age
thirty. He lived what the visionary and
poet Blake survived to tell us, "You
never know what is enough unless you
know what is more than enough."
It is the inventiveness and authentici
ty of Stone's film that makes sense of
Morrison's life, of the frenzied excess of
the sixties that some called freedom.
Jim's was a black (and blue) magic of a
man unable to heal himself. Jim couldn't
control Jim. He incited his tribe, and let
loose some kind of healing rapture.
The rapture breaks through the music,
which is what Stone admirably showcas
es in his film, together with the fearful
symmetry of Morrison’s life and his
eventual lust for death. The man too
tripped out on acid to carry home a bag
of groceries—a fine scene in the
movie—co-created music that still
delights. In retrospect, I think so: writ
ing this, Easter Sunday morning, again
and again and again I'm listening to
"Waiting for the sun, waiting for the sun,
waiting for the sun..." Such shining cru-
cifiction.
How authentic are the concert scenes?
While at Movies Worth Seeing to pro
mote lesbian film-maker Barbara
Hammer, I noticed that the VCR was
showing scenes from Oliver Stone's film.
But that couldn't be because the film was
just released.
"Barbara Hammer! Is She coming to
Atlanta?" the guy behind the counter
gushed.
"What?" I said; "Who?" (Bad dyke,
Deborah! Bad!) "Are those out-takes
from the movie?" Watching him sway
in this Doors’ video, in the darkness that
surrounded him, I was still compelled by
the man who had a thousand girls, a
thousand thrills, and blew it all, but left
us the music.
Stone leaves us, finally, a film that
makes coherent and compelling sense of
Morrison's life. It is a long movie, often
painful. Like the Doors' best work., the
film, too, shows dried blood around the
edges. It's "rich w/warm green danger."
Hesitate no longer: the crystal ship
is being filled: a thousand thrills: a mil
lion ways to spill your mind. It's been
well worth the wait and now that spring
has come—enter and behold "The
Doors."
Deborah Monroy