US Response To Chechen Gay Torture: Nothing

I saw this today:

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/apr/13/they-called-us-animals-chechens-prison-beatings-electric-shocks-anti-gay-purge

My response to the website that posted it:

I’ve known about this for a couple of weeks, no thanks to US news.  They’ve been avoiding it like crazy.  However, news of the increasing horror and brutality has been reported on a US LGBTI blog called joemygod.

One of my more disgusting reactions has been “Don’t even try to send any of these men to the US.”  In the first place, with all of the stupid ideology in place, they probably wouldn’t make it through customs. Our “president” has made it all right to go back to hating gays…not that it ever went away completely, but it died down after the marriage equality ruling. And we are overly suspicious of foreigners.

We have a gigantic statue on an island just outside New York.  It’s this big woman in a robe, points of freedom jutting out from her head.  In one hand she’s holding a tablet inscribed with the date of our Declaration of Independence; in the other she holds a torch, lighting the way to a new, better land.  As one person described it, “The torch represents enlightenment and the plaque represents knowledge,” both of which seem to be in short supply in the US these days.

The Statue of Liberty was seen as a welcoming, “you’re safe now” symbol to immigrants and, equally important, to refugees fleeing terror in their own countries.  Inscribed at the base: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse from your teeming shores.  Send these, the hopeless, tempest-tossed to me.  I raise my lamp beside the golden door.”  How quaint.  Before “President” #45 was sworn in on January 20, 2017, one could actually believe that.

I cannot begin to tell you how much I hate saying that I would discourage any of the LGBTI Chechens to seek asylum in the US…not because I’m anti-refugee or anti-gay (I’m gay), but because they would face humiliation trying to enter the country and then would be denied admission...and if any of them did manage to get in, they would face endless discrimination.

I am horrified by how low the US has sunk in only 3 months.  Both the Chechen terror and the US lack of response are very distressing to me.  

The country is not what it was.

Such A Week...

...and it's only Wednesday.

I have had my first porn story published by a new friend and fellow Blogger blogger;
I have had my first porn story re-printed on a private, very specific site;
I have had my first experience with cyber sex as a result of my first porn story.

I'm sorry.  I find this remarkable.

My last blog expressed a fascination with nut tapping, nut shots, ball busting, that sort of thing.  It wasn't that I objected, but I was concerned about what middle school and younger guys were doing to themselves (by having it done to them, not necessarily knowing their nuts were about to punched) and others (by landing one to others, usually without warning).

I'm pleased to say I remain concerned and I've pretty much got over it.  I said at the time that it really didn't bother me when it came to adults or college-age guys or even high school young guys because there's an unspoken informed consent given, apparently, by virtue of being male and alive.  Pain management and tolerance is part of growing up; getting whacked in the balls and not barfing your brains out is what separates the guys who can take it and those who are unprepared.

After I wrote that, I googled more about ballbusting on porn sites.  I included wrestling in the search, low blows, ball crushing, bdsm, that sort of thing.  It dawned on me (after 70 years) that it's OK.  Both guys know what's going on and then they go to it.  Really.  Why not?  Balls aren't just for making babies and neither are dicks.

When I need to work something through, I often write about it.  I'd been toying with an idea of a young guy who was picked on and bullied throughout his school life...until he saw nut punch videos on YouTube.  After a few uses of his new knowledge, the bullying stopped.  The writing blossomed from there.  One of the google searches took me to a site about late-teen and 20-something guys.  I read a couple of the stories.  By the time I'd read "The Ballbusting Olympics," I was pretty sure I'd found a site to my liking.  Plus, it was writing...imagination required.

Once I'd got over myself, I did more looking around and discovered a private site for men who get off on busting balls (buster), having them busted (bustee), or both (mutual).  If you are gay, you know what it's like when you discover that you are not the only gay person in the world, that there are others of all ages and sizes and temperament and interests.  Through this portal (and I don't feel at liberty to name it), I discovered what I already knew, that there really are men who get off on ballbusting.  It's not a 100% gay thing, but the site itself is more gay than straight, a minority within a minority.  I am grateful I was accepted.

I'd also fairly much finished my story...it was about 85 pages in length, god knows how many words, but it also got me off while writing it.  I wrote to the man whose blog it is and asked if maybe he could critique like maybe the first chapter or two.  We connected immediately.  He found a new (well, you know) writer and I found an outlet.  I had to make some cuts and changes, which is one of the neat things about having an editor:  you've been very close to what you've written, whereas your editor is reading it for the first time and sees the holes and the problems and the good stuff.

Although ballbusting has been a fantasy all my life, I never have been able to pursue it as a reality.  Now that I'm...um...of a certain age, I don't see myself launching a new period of sexual adventures.  For me.  What you do is your business.  But suddenly I am in touch with a man who is interested in my writing, my ideas, and even though I don't have any experience with what I'm writing about, I've kind of figured it out and, hell, it's fiction.  And thanks to the other site, I'm also connecting with other men, most of whom don't mind if I ask what I think are fairly stupid questions.  I feel welcomed.

We did some collaborating and it made its debut Monday, February 20, 2017.  I share it with you and caution you that this is not for those who are offended by gay sex and sexual exploration.  We started with a cast description.  Again, unapologetic male nudity and sexual aggression may happen.  You've been warned.

http://ballbustingboys.blogspot.com/2017/02/my-life-as-nut-cracker-cast-of.html

and then Part One

http://ballbustingboys.blogspot.com/2017/02/my-life-as-nutcracker-part-1-i-learn-to.html

It was difficult to wait until Monday morning to see it.  Jack had many books of poetry printed and he described waiting for publication day like being pregnant because each book was his child. I had a wall featuring framed rejection letters for my novels and music. It was very much like a kid waiting for her/his birthday to see what s/he gets for presents. Yet I hadn't anticipated the rush of seeing it...there...for all the world to read.

Later Monday night, one of the site admins at the private site re-published it, cast of characters and Part One.  At first I was incredibly excited, but then I started worrying about Alex.  We had the agreement that he would be posting it.  Turns out, he was delighted.  More exposure for me, more exposure for ballbustingboys.blogspot.com, and he's a member of the private site, too, so no problem.  He still gets to publish first and the private site may or may not continue.

It's been well-received.  There have been comments on both sites and I couldn't be happier.  I've made some friends at the members-only site and this morning someone wanted to chat.  Cool.  I had some writing to do, but it wasn't pressing.  He wanted me to bust his balls in a cyber kind of way.  Well, I panicked.  His profile said that he liked to be busted and listed a couple of things he liked.  I discovered his profile while we were getting serious.  He knew that I had no actual experience with any of this, but he ignored that and kept on.  OK.  I had written some pretty explicit ball bustings in that first part and I guess he thought that was good enough.

Big difference:  When I'm writing, I write a couple of drafts before I'm done.  I have time to sit around and think, "Ooh...this would be painful" and put it into the computer.  When I come back to it, I may have a better idea and re-write.  Suddenly I was with somebody with real experience who wanted me to bust his balls in real time.  No edits.  No re-writes.  Get this guy off.  Now.  I've seen videos and have read a lot, so I started out kind of slowly and got rougher depending on what he had to say...and I have to admire him for doing what I was telling him to do and also keep up the dialogue.  I was a wreck at first, but he seemed happy.  When I got rougher, my hands started shaking.  I felt like he was depending on me.  And it worked.  I don't intend to open a sideline business, but, looking back on it, it was a fascinating experience.  Instant moment to moment creative writing.  I couldn't help but take some pride in that, too.

I am finishing a story for the private website.  The characters are older, not "boys," and I'm curious to see where this may lead.  I have a small backlog of ballbusting stories that I've already raided for ideas and may spruce them up for the guys.  I also want to get inspired to write more for my publisher.  As I said, now that I've got over myself and have accepted a major part of me, I want to get on with it.

Published, re-published, and getting a guy off all in the first three days of my new "career." I could get used to this really easily.

Assorted Balls And Nuts

Sensitive People Who Don't Like Reading About Men's Genitalia Probably Shouldn't Read On

I am not advocating nor endorsing...I just find it oddly fascinating.

From what I've heard and seen through the decades, men are fond of their cocks and balls, sometimes proud and happy to share and other times rather protective.  Painful experience from accidents have demonstrated that when our nuts meet a hard, solid object, we understand pain.  Many of us, if not most of us, try to avoid that pain really hard.

When I was a kid, I'd watch wrestling on TV.  Every once in a great while, some nearly naked guy would get a boot or fist to his nuts.  Yes, of course, it was dirty wrestling, but it was also somehow exciting.  The barber shop in my small town had all kinds of soft-core girlie magazines, sports magazines, and The Police Gazette...I was never really sure what that was, but the men enjoyed it.  But I found my thrills in wrestling magazines and, even better, the thicker digests.  Grown nearly naked men, many who were furry-chested and either in pain or dishing it out, were right there in black-and-white.  I had to be careful...kids in their middle and upper single digits in age can get hard-ons at the least provocation.  When I noticed that a wrestling magazine (or better yet, a digest) was lying around for the last couple of visits, I'd ask the barber if I could have it.  He seemed amused and would always let me.  I may or may not have been able to cum, but they made for inspired fantasy.

My man wasn't able to have sex for the last several years because of his back and the medications he took for that and for his mental anxieties.  Let us say I discovered the joys of internet porn a while ago.  One time I googled vintage porn.  My first roommate had all kinds of explicit gay magazines usually with people our age or a little older. He kept his stash around for the young guys who came home with him...to get them primed, I guess. He let me enjoy his stash, too, and I tried to find the pictures of my earlier "sex friends." No luck with that.  Then I googled gay wrestling.  I discovered I had to narrow it down. Ultimately I found naked men who wrestled, sometimes completely naked, and they'd get some nut shots in from time to time.  cbt...cock-ball-torture became even more explicit, although the two were rarely on the same video.

Back when I was in the psych ward, there was a really compact, good-looking young guy who loved to fight...legally through Mixed Martial Arts and fight clubs and such for not those not so legal moments (there's a general story about him elsewhere here, "The Chair Is Not The Answer").  I was startled a bit, and I recovered by saying he didn't look like he got hit in the face.  He contradicted me by saying he'd been smashed, even KO'd, from punches to his face or head.  He was in for anger issues.  We walked the halls a lot and it really felt like the two of us were friends.  A couple of times he sought me out to talk.  I'm a good listener.  One time I asked him if he ever got kicked in the balls.  "Oh, yeah," he said and started to laugh.  OK, I thought, let's pursue this.  And then he said, "I like to make it part of my training sometimes.  The pain is amazing.  I got a friend who knows how to kick me in the nuts really hard.  After a couple of kicks, I have to stop and then deal with the pain."  I confessed to my wrestling fetish.  He laughed again and told me he understood.

My partner died last summer.  I'm starting to feel horny again, and so I've returned to naked gay men cbt, no-holds-barred, low blows, nut kicking wrestling.  After watching some of that, something came up recommending me to Nut Shots on YouTube.  YouTube? Srsly?  So I went there and was astonished.  Guys in their 20s to mid-30s are punching each other in the balls and having a great time doing it.  Not quite the fantasy...no one's naked.  Still, there's one guy who has by design been kicked in the nuts, or had them otherwise tortured, more than 5,000 times.  He's straight, married, and has a daughter. He can also be gorgeous.  He has friends who do a lot of Jackass stunts on each other. "On" rather than "to" because there are times when it really feels like it's their way of having sex.

Then I noticed "young dudes" nut shots.  OK.  A little young, maybe, but they probably know the score about ball injuries and are willing to take and/or give.  (I was told it's more blessed to give than to receive.  I think I'd pretty good at the giving; to be on the receiving end of a fist, heel, or foot, not so much.)  Then I saw that there are those who like to do it to themselves.  Jumping down from a platform or porch roof and landing straddling a sort of protected fence, throwing a heavy object onto a shovel and getting banged by the handle, running up to a light pole and jumping up and spreading his legs just before impact.  There are a couple of country boys who have devised some interesting, rural variations on nut self-torture.

They now have games.  One is Knife, Paper, Scissors, Nuts, in which two guys play that hand game and the loser is punched or kicked in his balls.  Some videos show the participants blindfolded so they don't know who won until one of them is in pain, which is an interesting variation.  Does it hurt less when you see it coming?  The one rule is that if you wind up on the floor, you're out.  There's Nut Ball, with two guys sitting opposite each other and either rolling or tossing an object, usually a ball but also oranges, Rubik's cube with additional corners, basketballs, bowling balls, whatever is handy, aimed for the family jewels.  Another is Rashambo,  This is Knife, Paper, &c. without the hand game a sort of cut-to-the-chase with just the kick or fist to the nuts.  Sometimes the game is over when one guy falls, other times they just go at it, whether he touches the floor or not, until one of them can't get up...period.

Usually, everyone is laughing.  They are also drunk or stoned or both.  I expect it's all a show of what a man you are.  Most of them play with their cock kept up by the elastic waistband, some of them are physically impressive (the games tend to be played bare-chested and in boxer shorts), some of them are pain-impressive, and after the guy falls, he's laughing, stunned, or pissed off, and definitely in pain.

It's one thing for adults or college-age boys or drunks (or drunken college boys) or even high school guys to do this, but I'm seeing kids now, and I find that kind of scary. Obviously, they've seen this on YouTube or somewhere else or have been talked into it by one's friends or a "more mature" middle schooler.  I'm not sure about the middle school guys, but the young kids still in elementary school, some of them in their middle or upper single digits.  Oh...wait...that's when I was jerking off to pictures of nearly-naked men just after a low blow or in pain or inflicting it.

Things have changed.  Things have not.

Pity Party

Probably the first of many.

The beard disappeared yesterday.  Except for the mustache.  The mustache stays.  Always.  The beard, not so much.

I got tired of the Santa Claus jokes.  Facing the season is hard enough.  It's the first holiday season I've had without Jack for 37 years.  I'm not looking forward to it. Neither of us particularly liked Christmas...more to be tolerated than anything.  In more recent years, both of us were in bed before 00:00 New Years.  Hallowe'en was Jack's favorite; Groundhog Day was mine.  I don't know that there are any special days to be observed now.  I certainly don't feel like there are.

"Hey, Santa!"  "What're giving me this year?"  (That was always from an adult.)  "Hey, Santa!  Ho-ho-ho!"  I don't really feel like putting up with their ho-hos.  Not that I don't know the similarities between this Claus person and me.  I worked checkout at Kmart for about 6 months, months that started out with holiday shopping.  I have to admit it was fun when kids would look up and stare.  Jingle bell hat?  Check.  Old guy with beard?  Check.  Shakes (when he laughs) like a bowl full of jelly?  Check.  I loved the stares, but if a kid asked if I were, then no, I wasn't Santa, I was one of his big elves. The kids, for the most part, bought it and the parents thought it was funny.  And it was. I have a friend who is maybe around 5' tall and has had a beard forever, so it's long, white, and perfect.  He tells me he gets "the look" from kids even in summer.  I'm having trouble being jolly this year.    

I'm not doing as well as I thought.  I've withdrawn from everything.  I still take walks. Patches, our cat, is one of my few focuses of attention, and she gets a lot.  I fill time with putting music into Finale, the computer program.  I pretend it's important.  I pretend I still matter.  I spend very little time on Facebook, as opposed to being there about an hour daily.  My friends are now the people who inhabit JMG.com.  It's difficult to stay away from JMG.  They really are my friends.  No doubt I could get in touch with people who have been my friends and casually ask if maybe we could out.  There is one woman who does that.  Does anyone else come forward?  Not anymore.  Perhaps they have assumed that I don't want to see them.  Perhaps they've assumed that I'm OK. Perhaps they feel that if I needed something, I'd ask.  That is not part of the Walker Syndrome, back into which I've landed.  I need someone to take the initiative.  It's not that I'm frail; I just wish someone would call and ask me to be part of their life for a lunch or a movie.  But what good does sealing myself off do?  Makes for a great pity party.

I am a rock.  I am an island.  I so identified with those lines from the Simon and Garfunkel song Back Then.  It was what I wanted to be, what I felt I needed to be.  The last part of the song either did not apply to me or wasn't anything new, depending on the day.  I was gay in a world of straights.  I was the fag, ripe to picked on.  And that meant I had to steel myself to know and accept and live with the fact that no one would ever be my friend or, heaven forbid, my special friend.  I was drunk and/or stoned all four years of college.  I can now see that it was self-medication.  However, it was also 1964 to 1968.  To the medical and psychological and psychiatric worlds, I was sick. I. Was. Sick.  I had given up on religion by that point.  It wasn't yet the age of the Jerry Falwells, but I heard I was an abomination.  The way I felt about religion and the religious, I knew I'd ultimately be isolated all my life, no matter how straight I played it. So be it.

Things changed considerably, of course.  There were other gay people not only in the world but nearby.  I was not alone.  And then Jack and I met, and I discovered that two gay men could love each other, could spend their lives together, share, watch out for, defend, and do anything for. 'Til death do us part.  He died.  We're apart.

So, time for you, my guests, to leave.  Pity parties are like that.  

I Don't Have Your Rights

It happened again on election day.

My town has a relatively new business operating on Main Street near where the polling station is.  It looked like a place that provides services to old people, and since that's where I am, I stopped in on the way home to find out more.  It reminded me of what used to be called The Traveling Nurse Association...someone stops by to make sure you're OK, that you're taking your meds, and generally provide help.  Payment is involved, but why not?

As the co-owner and I talked, the topic of non-discrimination came up.  I think it started with a discussion of how do you choose what retirement facility you want to spend your remaining days in.  I told her that I'm gay, so obviously anyplace with a religious denomination's name would be ruled out; I wouldn't get in anyway, probably.  She looked like I made a joke and she didn't get the punchline.  I have a concern about the staff at such places, whether "religious" or not...there are reports of anti-LGBT harassment, so is staff training changing to include us?  She admitted not being an expert on "homes," but she assumed as much.  If any of her employees received complaints of such treatment, they would be immediately dismissed.

"And what would you say in court?" I asked.  She looked at me rather blankly, as in "she's fired, she's gone, case closed."  "Court?" she asked.  And I explained to her that she could not be dismissed on the grounds of harassing an LGBT resident because we have no such protections.  "No, that's not true," she responded.

I explained to her that Pennsylvania, the state in which we live, is one of about 30 "marry on Saturday, get fired Monday" states.  Blank stare.  "That means that non-discrimination laws don't apply to me."  She still looked like I was an old fart making this stuff up.  "It means Jack and I could have been married on a Saturday and I could have been fired Monday for putting our wedding picture on my desk at work."  No response.  "Yes, we can get married, we can be legally married in any state, and I can be fired legally...just because I'm gay...in 30 states.  I would have no grounds on which to object because there's no law against it.  So aside from maybe elder abuse, you would not have a case against your former employee."  She told me that the contracts the employees sign contain the standard non-discrimination clause.  I replied that it means nothing to LGBTs, we are not a protected class.  One's "sincerely held religious beliefs" supersedes "all people are created equal."

What it boiled down to was that she could not believe that in 21st century USA people are still being legally discriminated against.  Not just in the USA, but right here in Pennsylvania.  She excused herself for a moment and went back to a file and pulled out what turned out to be Pennsylvania's non-discrimination law.  "You're right.  There's nothing there."  She looked at me appalled.  She had no idea.  She just assumed....

And that's a major problem.  We can get married, but then the legal refusals come in.  No flowers because of the florist's "firmly held religious beliefs," thrown out of the marriage suite because the hotel doesn't serve LGBTs, thrown out of the apartment because the landlord didn't realize we were fags, and fired because I went to Human Resources to change my marital status and the company's CEO has expressed that homosexuality was an abomination...says so in the Bible...and is grounds for dismissal.  People don't understand that manners, treating everyone fairly in the marketplace, basic humanity has to be written into law.  This is a nation of laws, and if it isn't written down, nobody has to do it.  We're accused of seeking "special rights"; what we seek are the same rights assured to women, fundamentalists, people of color, original nationality, and, in Pennsylvania, people with a high school equivalency certificate.

Religious beliefs are good in the religious community, but we are not all religious, and we are certainly not all of the same sects and cults.  We have the freedom of religion and also have the freedom from religion.  We should not be punished by being what a religion deems as not to their liking.  A nation of laws goes by the laws in the books, not in one's religious instruction manual.  It should be illegal to discriminate against any citizen because of one's "firmly held religious beliefs."

We parted amicably.  She thanked me for telling her about the possibilities of discrimination.  I was glad to do it.  I asked for her business card because, well, you never know.

A Dead Cat, A Hysterical Spouse, And Opening Night

This morning a friend informed me of the death of his cat...an older cat, a furry friend, and most certainly a part of his family.  Words of comfort, of solace, are scarce at the receiving of such news.

When I hear about the death of a cat who was part of a family, particularly a gay person's family, I automatically go back to the death of Suzie.  The Harrisburg Gay Men's Chorus was about to perform a concert.  I, as director, did a fair amount of pacing...not nervous so much as just going over the music and having little conversations with each of the guys.  Perhaps 15 minutes before the vocal warm-ups, the man who was then the Unitarian minister at the church where I was choir director came in, looking around for me. He asked if we could talk privately.

We went out to the hallway between the green room and the theater's lobby.  He told me that our cat, Suzie, died.  Jack was inconsolable but was at a friend's house.  He told me that Jack found her body and freaked out.  I was stunned.  She wasn't even sick, as far as I could tell that morning, and now not only was she dead but Jack was freaking out.  He was, however, in good hands.  Having completed his task, the minister left.  No hugs, no touching, he just did his job and left.

Numb, I stood in the hall as people walked by toward the lobby.  I returned to the green room.  One of the guys asked if I were all right.  I told him and them the situation.  They all understood.  The theater's stage manager asked if I wanted to hold curtain.  No.  I did ask the accompanist, however, to do the vocal warm-ups while I tried to get myself together. There was no place to go, no time to mourn.  People sat out there and wanted to hear the chorus.  The show must go on.  That was bred into my being.  Not only go on, but should also start at the stated time.

I told the guys that I would do my best to direct them, that I would try not to just wave my arms around.  I asked them that Jack and the dead cat were my problem, not their's, and to try not to look at me with sympathetic eyes.  We lined up and walked onstage.  Not just the show, but life must go on.

I cannot begin to describe how schizophrenic I was for the next two and a half hours.  I tried (and mostly succeeded) to put my life, my sorrow, my devastation, my concern for Jack out of my mind and concentrate on the music.  Although I usually had the music memorized, I also always had it in front of me.  I realized near the end of the first half that I was practically reading the music and, worse, that I was avoiding eye contact with the singers.

During intermission, I apologized for not looking at them, not enjoying hearing them sing, and to be rather closed up in my little world.  I asked that maybe we not talk about the situation until after the concert.  I told the accompanist where I was going...to a quiet spot backstage...and asked him to give me 5 minutes' notice.  I convinced myself that there would be ample time to mourn; this was not the time.

We went out for part two.  I had determined to watch the guys sing.  I directed, smiled when they got through difficult passages, kept the tears back during sad songs, and did not have to pretend to be overjoyed with their performance and the audience's supportive and heartfelt reactions.  The accompanist insisted I take a solo bow and the guys applauded.  I usually don't like that, but I knew this was not pro forma, that they were applauding me for getting through a near-impossible evening.

After the concert was a social.  The president of the chorus told me that I could leave if I wanted to.  I wanted to.  I went to our friend's house and sat with Jack.  He had pretty much recovered, so we drove home.  He started crying hysterically again, but at least this time I was there with him, to love him, to mourn our loss together.

At times, I envy people who have dogs and cats around because they like having dogs and cats around.  I envy the detachment, I suppose.  I've never been able to be like that; most of the time I don't want to be.  Dogs and cats and I get along very well.  Pets are our furry friends and are members of our families.  But I think there are those of us for whom our pets become as loved and as important in our lives as children.  That was certainly the case with Suzie.  And it's the same now with Patches.

Most of the guys in the chorus understood that, probably felt the same way.  One of them was a veterinarian who later gave me a little memorial plaque.  We had another concert the next night.  The men were concerned about Jack, concerned about me, and we had a wonderful evening.  Not that I wasn't in mourning, but I was able to concentrate on the music, enjoy the singing, and help create an experience for the audience.

But consider:  It's the first night, opening night, for a concert series.  As director, you are in charge.  You are sure it will go well and all your thoughts are aimed at what happens starting at 8 o'clock.  Then in pops someone who says, essentially, "You're cat's dead and your husband is in hysterics.  Gotta go."  And you're supposed to carry on.  Not the easiest thing to do.

Where Have All The Protest Songs Gone?

Me:

It mystifies me (sort of) that protest music doesn’t exist here. Yes, it was different Back Then. Labels didn't charge artists for use of their facilities. Radio stations were privately owned and could do a lot of independent programming. They may not have been the greatest examples of American music, but we learned the songs, we sang them during protests and in coffee houses and "our" bars. Hell, one of the protest songwriters got a Nobel Prize for Literature this year...50 years late, but at least he was recognized. I don't get it.

I don't blame young people, really. I just don't understand why, if the anger is there, if the dissatisfaction is there, why isn't the music there? Or do I just not hear it?

AaronD12:

You're absolutely right, and I didn't even think about it. There were all kinds of protest songs in the '60s and '70s... then nothing. Sure, there were some deep tracks on some LPs (like Prince's "Ronnie Talk to Russia"), but they never got any airplay. Why is that?

Me:

The airplay is easy...St. Ronnie opened the can of worms that is currently known as broadcasting. There is hardly a radio or TV station that isn't part of a conglomerate. I cannot think of an independent radio or TV station that's on-air today. Even most of the Jeebus stations are owned by Jeebus companies. He did away with the Fairness Doctrine, so broadcasters no longer had to present both sides (or, god forbid, ALL sides) of an issue. Jeebus stations could have been challenged by different sects. No more. Talk radio exists because they don't have to be responsible to the public, to air all viewpoints. Big companies tend not to like to ruffle feathers, so no protest.

But Joan Baez didn't live in a vacuum. She, Dylan, Nina Simone, Phil Ochs, and other protest singers made an impact underground. We knew where to look in record stores. Major labels discovered there was more than pop, jazz, country, and Jeebus. Independent stations built formats around folk music. Their signals made it out to the country, where those of us who were ripe for rebellion could hear, too. Singers at coffee houses sang about civil rights and the war. Sometimes the protest music got out of the shadows. Just as white singers tamed black rock and roll, nice guys (Peter, Paul, and Mary, for example) took the edge off protest...didn't necessary change the lyric, but didn't sound as angry or threatening. And the likes of Simon and Garfunkel could be heard on pop radio. Good, responsible people didn't listen to FM radio except for elevator music, so programmers got smart and decided they could continue to make money off their AM stations while programming for "the kids" on FM.

The Civil Rights Act and the end of the Vietnam War greatly reduced the need for pop protest music. Radio got a little less nasty, but they were still responsible for political content. Then St. Ronnie came along, waved his magic wand, and suddenly it was OK to own more than 7 stations nationwide, and he knew that broadcasters would be socially responsible and continue to present both sides of an issue, so he did away with ruling and conglomerate broadcasters showed how socially responsible they could be.

To me, the radical, racist anti-Constitutional America ammosexuals are deeply, fundamentally worthy of protest and protest songs. We are worthy of having protest songs sung to us, to have protest theater onstage and on the streets. Young people hate old people, which is fine by me...I did the same when I was young (when the hell are you guys gonna die off?). Can't that passion become music?  Can't the Bernie folks continue his ideas onstage? Music delivers opinion its own special way, and I don't understand why protest music, street theater, independent papers, the college campus circuit, or even pirate radio stations don't exist.