And we may all live to regret this moment.

Back when I was a little baby feminist I read this virulent diatribe by Valerie Solanas called The S.C.U.M. Manifesto. Stands for "the Society for Cutting Up Men." It's about anger and mayhem and revolutionary vision. It's also reactionary and disturbing and funny in a Pulp Fiction way. Salanas was as pissed as any of the lesbian separatist types, but was not at all on the same page. One of my professors was a lesbian separatist who would balk every time I'd bring up Solanas as a heroine; but she never argued her points; due, perhaps to the political correctness that dare not speak its name.

Okay, so here's the disclaimer. I don't advocate cutting up men, or any other violence. I'm turning Quaker. Next week. I swear. The meeting's 10:30 Sunday morning.

What I do advocate is reading things that are really dangerous and challenging to the psyche, to the gorge and to the heart, which Solanas is. She just happens to be furious in all the wrong ways for all the right reasons.

So I've been reading Solanas again. It's still as funny as ever. Her central thesis? We should all be working to eliminate men. Even men, as part of the auxiliary. Hell, I've done my part and lived to tell about it.

You read Solanas and the most impressive part is that you really can't tell whether she believes what she's saying, or if she's writing the most sickeningly accurate parody of this whole violent, stupid system under which we live. A dozen years, maybe, I've been reading her and I still can't tell. That must mean she’s a genius.

She was pals with one of my patron saints, Candy Darling, who seems to be the only transsexual woman to have been involved with the "drag queens" who hung with the Warhol Factory. Solanas wound up shooting Andy Warhol -- the event which titles her biopic with Lili "Everydyke" Taylor, I Shot Andy Warhol. This event, understandably, turned a lot of people against her -- the wrong people. Lou Reed, for chrissakes, aka Mr. Laurie Anderson. You don't want him on your bad side. Her film should maybe have been called I Shot Myself in the Feet, Which Were In My Mouth.

This is a good read right now because I'm so angry lately, and not just because I'm PMSing Lizzie Borden style. See, I'm pretty goddamn fond of my civil liberties, speaking as a poor transsexual queer woman who likes to take plane trips, but prefers to be more selective about who fists me at the airport. I'm starting a support group for people like me, the PTQ Aero-Spelunkers, and our tax-exempt paperwork is coming any day now. I want us to be able to meet with our heads held high, part of what makes this a great nation: technology, luxury transit and assplay. I don't want to have to shred our weekly sign-in sheets.

Don't even get me started on this War business. I get hung up on that "Don't Kill" principle a lot, even when "we" "win." Call me crazy; I can take it. You gotta be crazy to be a transsexual -- just ask the DSM-IV.

I get in these moods, and I really want to start going on about why it's fucking frightening that my fellow citizens will say things "You should not criticize the President during wartime" -- as if there is any more appropriate time to critique the performance of a leader, being that so many lives are at stake, but Unfrozen Caveman Ashcroft's sleestak may cart me off any old minute now, just for having written this sentence, and so maybe I should just bury my nose in my knitting and whip up a noose.

Then yesterday I read an essay by one Michael Alvear in the Dallas Voice, a gay paper, complaining about how the powerful transsexual lobby has managed to "legislate pronoun usage" in San Francisco via anti-discrimination statutes. In his column Alvear starts by wanting to remain confused about an ambiguous gender (and he's ignorant enough to pick Patrick Califia as his example); and then expresses his desire to continue to determine, in his language, what is a tree and what is a bush. After marvelling at Alvear's metaphoric dexterity and his phenomenal short-sightedness, we start to realize that it really is possible for a circuit boy to wind up on a rocking chair at the general store yearning for simpler days. Search www.dallasvoice.com for Alvear and see for yourself.

So what, right? Some gay people say dumb things all the time. But I think it’s time to make an example out of this particular column by saying that we no longer have time to get snarky entre nous. I'm gonna get his back when the fascists come for the faggots as best I can, because I'm just as much a faggot as he is, and you are, because your mind has been poisoned from reading this column. Conveniently, most of us already have plenty of pink triangles laying around. We can bring our own.

Opinions like this of Alvear's are preciously outmoded, and we simply need to treat them as such. Last week I watched Rent for the first time and was amazed to find how nostalgic it was. Already. It made living in the Gay 90's look like a whole lot of fun, like reading a really good issue of Out in 1993. No wonder all my bi-curious friends find the play so moving. Kinda makes you wonder about the Pulitzer committee.

What I find most frustrating is that I’m in such a shrewish, misanthropic mood and because it’s Spring and and taxes are due and my cat’s sick and I’m having the hormones fluctuations of a Prom Queen, and I’m really aching to get laid without all the conversation and impromptu tranny workshops, which is making me wonder if deep down I really am a gay non-op FTM trapped in the body of a pre-op MTF.

Jesus, I need a cigarette.

Rahne Alexander was never scared of the sleestak monsters in Land of the Lost, and she's not scared of them now.