The Vaults

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This weekend I submitted my usual rambling diatribe to Creative Loafing and waited to hear back from the editors about what a mess it was. Instead of questions and corrections to the text, I got a note requesting a different picture than the one I’d submitted, showing a poignant moment at Frolicon – a man in a g-string, bent over a wooden and leather contraption, being spanked by a woman on stage. I picked this particular photo because it didn’t show the participants’ faces or any obscene body parts, yet illustrated the moment perfectly and provided a rare bit of beefcake in my usually female-focused photography. But one editor was “uncomfortable” with this photo.
I explained my reasoning, pointing out that it was no worse than the stuff that runs every week in the ads of this very same paper. She was nervous about it “from an editorial standpoint.” It took me a while to realize she and others at the Loaf think of the ads as separate from the editorial content. For some reason, it’s ok to take money from the advertisers who post half-naked people in their ads, and use this money to pay the writers and staff members – who then can’t put half-naked people in their articles?
I don’t think of the paper as segregated – ads separate from articles. Sure, I do my best to tune out ads in every medium I absorb, but when I pick up the paper I know what’s inside. I think of the Loafing as an old friend, one I’ve known well since I moved back to Atlanta in 1989. I accept this friend, warts and all. We may occasionally disagree, but I love her despite her slutty ways. Heck, let’s be honest, I love her because of her slutty ways.
So I don’t understand why something on page X is acceptable, but something similar on page Y is verboten.
But hey, I can even love a hypocrite, as long as they love me back.

Speaking of sluts, the Frolicon review is up:

Speaking of sluts, degenerates DC & BC just had a baby boy. No, I don’t remember those details the women always fawn over. Something like 8 pounds some ounces, 20”, and it does have a name.
I said it when I was 9 and my first cousin was born, and I’ll say it again.
”Yep, that’s a baby.”

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