Radical Schlock

What do I want out of queer media now and in the future? I want to see the queer version of Freaky Friday, except instead of switching bodies with your human spawn and finding trouble and comprehension, you, dear queer, do it with your cat or dog. I have often turned my head to see my dog chilling on his bed as I rush out the door to the place I go to so I can pay my student loan indentured servitude every month. My dog’s insouciance often grieves me, but mostly I sublimate a deep cutting resentment into just fantasies. At least I am assured I’ll never end up in an ICE detention center because of my stupid dog inhabiting my body, making my queerdo brown ass more suspicious than usual with the concomitant butt-sniffing and territorial pissings. In the filmic worlds I imagine a hairy faggot licking his balls for hours while an anxiety-riddled cat tries to defend his dissertation or gets himself fired from the soul-gutting nonprofit industrial complex for organizing his colleagues against the truly insulting hierarchical careerist’s lack of imagination. But the cat will blow his final paycheck at the glory hole because he’s at the bookstore and it’s Saturday night.

In short, I long for queer radical schlock. Of color. Maybe a more pronounced sense of humor that cuts deep. More laughter, less finger-wagging. A labor that reads you with throwaway materials rife with indelible images. Maybe nobody eating dogshit per se. But close.