Matthew Gallaway

PSA: Stop Using Gay Sex Metaphors as Insults and/or To Describe Things You Don't Like

1. It was shockingly cold, given that we were firmly ensconced in the global-warming era, when each day brought more dire news about the melting polar ice caps and the death of coral reefs around the world, including the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. 2. The sky and the snow were both blue, but the sky was bluer than the snow. As much as I hated to admit it -- because I was freezing and angry -- the sky was perfectly blue. In a month, I thought, I would be taking pictures of yellow forsythias cascading down the cliffs, and this cold would be forgotten. In two months, I would be dreaming of the snow, such is the nature of human existence. 3. The heather were ambivalent about the cold and snow, however. "The cold weather and snow can take turns sucking my dick." -- the heather. 4. It was dispiriting to hear the heather use such words. Lately I had been annoyed by the ongoing and needless use of homophobic metaphors in "must-watch" television, including shows regularly "recapped" by the NYT. I understand the desire to use these metaphors, considering they reflect the "real world," but television dramas are inherently fictional, and can thus represent an idealized world that in no way reduces the "dramatic impact" of the show. For example, to pass the time between episodes of shows I care about -- like "Bates Motel" <3 -- I have recently been playing phone chess and half-watching a bad show on Showtime called "Billions" or "Billionaires" or something like that, which features a bunch of obnoxious hedge-fund bros (notably the British guy with the red hair from "Homeland" before it became unwatchable) and some federal prosecutors walking around telling each other to "shove it up your ass" or "suck my dick" and so forth, which I have no doubt is how language actually unfolds in these hyper-masculine circles. (Based on my experience watering plants in Manhattan offices where these guys -- and I use that term literally -- tend to work.) At the same time, however, the hedge-fund dude's favorite new analyst is a transgender person whom he respectfully refers to as "they" and several of the lead attorneys on both sides are persons of color, which I would say (with approval) is an idealized representation of the world that bears little resemblance to the actual one in which we live (unfortunately). Anyway, if you're a television writer (or any kind of writer, or just a person who writes or speaks) and you care about the impact of your words on your gay children (and don't want them to kill themselves at the age of 14), please refrain from using expressions like "he bent me over and fucked me in the ass" unless you are describing an actual sexual act in which you (the speaker) engaged in anal intercourse. The website "Gawker" (RIP) used to have a policy against using homophobic metaphors, but sadly they no longer exist to enrage/enlighten the cretins of our society. Still, the death of Gawker doesn't mean the death of the policy. There are so many alternatives; here are a few: "he slaughtered me"; "he beat the living hell out of me"; "he made me eat a Big Mac," and so on and so forth. Be creative, make the world a better place. You can do it. 5. Meanwhile, back in our garden, it seemed miraculous that the hellebore flowers, despite being continually "fucked up the ass" by a foot of snow for over a week, had managed to survive and were now emerging intact after their deep freeze. 6. In other news, Donald Trump and Paul Ryan and Co. were "severely pummeled into irrelevant shards of oblivion" by many different factions, all of whom were armed with "arguments about why the proposed legislation was insufficient." (Some of these arguments were admittedly cruel and farcical.) 7. Remember, gay sex is a beautiful thing. It's 2017. Don't sully it (and yourself) by using it to describe things that are painful and you don't like.

The Snow Is a Good Reminder that Even the Worst Weather Might Eventually End

Florida seemed a long way off, in both time and distance, as I ran north through the storm on Tuesday, trying to keep my balance on the icy path. I had been planning to run on the treadmill, but the gym was closed. A day earlier, I went to the park, which was still covered in snow from an earlier storm. Had it really been seventy degrees in February? After these first three weeks of March, I was worried about April, which like our leading political party is notorious for its cruelty. Could things get worse? History provided an easy answer: yes, they could.   But at least the heather didn't seem to mind, and neither did the spring crocus. "Enjoy the present," said the wind, who had never seemed more earnest (or annoying).  After the storm on Tuesday, everyone kept saying that the forecast was sooooo wrong because they had been expecting a lot more snow. As I walked up and down and around the mountains of snow on Wednesday, I couldn't imagine it. According to FOX NEWS, which I happened to see for five seconds at the gym, the city had hired temp workers to shovel for $15/hour. In response, FOX NEWS said, the Republicans had promptly proposed legislation dictating that children of the poor would henceforth be sent to compounds where they would be sustained on rice and unclean water until they would be "enlisted" to shovel, saving the government scarce funds that could be diverted to new warplanes, which were necessary to fight the "enemy," as though it was someone other than ourselves.    It's strange to run through a literal snowstorm when the country has been brought to its knees by a political blizzard that shows no sign of relenting.  In the onslaught, there doesn't seem to be a metaphorical/political equivalent to the Little Red Lighthouse. Even the smallest gestures of resistance -- raising your face into the sleet for a second or two to get your bearings -- feel painful and futile. I couldn't even bear the thought of Twitter.   I wondered if "it" would ever end. Fortunately, there is some evidence that it would; and when it does, the landscape will, for a little while, be barren and sad, but at the same time beautiful and serene. We will remember what it was like to breathe. We will "live in the present" without being instructed to do so. We will stretch our hamstrings and run for miles at "race pace" without a twinge of pain.
We will stand on the melting ice and look at the sky -- knowing what has lived there -- with hope and fear.

The Walking Dead Is Now Horrible But Florida Is Still a Perfect Zombie Landscape

On my flight out of New York City, I was excited to pass directly over Washington Heights. If I wasn't on this plane, I thought, I would probably be running on the path along the river, which I could see hundreds of feet below me. I felt tiny and omnipotent, the way I imagine might happen in the minutes after death, when you take flight for a state that's not Florida. I was looking forward to my annual trip now that winter had finally arrived in New York City. The shortness of the season in the global warming era (roughly March 1 to March 15) somehow makes it seem even more unbearable. My flight to West Palm was mostly unremarkable except for the food consumed by the young person in the seat next to me. This food included: 1) a takeout container of ten or twelve gyoza dumplings; 2) a packet of smoked salmon opened and extracted with fingers and eaten with four slices of bread; 3) a second packet of smoked salmon eaten with four more slices of bread; and 4) a x-l container of sushi, and 5) another x-l container of sushi. (The flight was only ~2.5 hours.) I should say that I've enjoyed all of these foods at different points in my life but I wouldn't recommend bringing any of them on a crowded plane. I was so traumatized by the parade of fish that I barely noticed when the jerk in front of me reclined all the way back. As it usually does on flights these days (assuming you're in economy), society seemed to be on the brink of collapse. I soon recovered, however, and except for a newly developed lifelong aversion to smoked salmon, I made it to West Palm unscathed. The weather in Florida was blessedly warm. Retirement in the "sunshine state" seemed increasingly palatable. The orange juice was so fresh and delicious. It was very windy.  I made it to the beach, where I quietly proclaimed my status as an ironic supporter of non-war movements. Retreating to the cover of my beach towel, it seemed incomprehensible that we had arrived at this juncture. (Leaving "we" completely open to interpretation.) The next morning, accompanied by my mother, brother, and niece, I hiked into the jungle, which was filled with butterflies. I took a picture so I would remember the name of the most common variety, which can be found in the lower-left corner. Spring had officially arrived in Florida. I saw this sign and wished that it had been installed on my flight with some minor edits. "NO EATING OF FISH PERMITTED AND ESPECIALLY NOT SMOKED SALMON IF YOU PLAN TO EAT TWO PACKS OF IT WITH YOUR FINGERS AND WIPE OFF THE OIL ON THE BACK OF THE SEAT IN FRONT OF YOU :(" A purple flower seemed oblivious to the political realities. Some of the trees had yet to leaf out, which gave them a haunted quality. As I did every year walking through the forest in Florida, I imagined a post-apocalyptic life spent running from zombies. The simplicity of such a life continued to hold much allure. Still, it would be difficult to get anywhere through the mangrove trees.  The Walking Dead, I remembered, had rather quickly gone from being the best show on television to the worst. Lately I had been ff-ing (x3) through most of it.But things weren't so bad. At least I could still pretend to be living in a dense, inhospitable landscape filled with Republicans trying to pass anti-gay "religious freedom" bills flesh-eating zombies. Soon Florida would be gone, awash in the rising ocean, but that was still a few years away; for now, I was determined to enjoy the magical light, which makes anything seem possible.