IMPACT TIMES magazine

STRAIGHT PEOPLE, BEWARE: STOP GAY MARRIAGE, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! ¾Aurelio O'Brien

Gay marriages became legal in the State of New York on July 24, 2011. Advocates of gay marriage claimed it would have no effect on anyone but gay couples, but the impact from this decision has already begun. Gay marriage does affect straight marriage and here’s how: It starts quietly enough, like the lesbian couple we know who shot the works on a traditional wedding: white satin bridal gowns, full church ceremony, multiple gift registries, sit-down dinner, formal reception. It was tame, but I wasn't sure my suit would still fit and I hadn't shopped for a wedding gift in over 30 years; do you know how hard it is to find a "Hers & Hers" bath towel set? Since then we've received a dozen gay wedding invitations. I'm having flashbacks to my early twenties, when all my straight friends got married (for their first time) and my limited savings were sucked dry by having to purchase wedding gifts, rent tuxedos, chip in for bachelor parties, and the like. It was a financial tsunami. Gays may claim this is good for the economy, but it’s not so good for my own savings account. Thank heavens at least one male couple we know just got gay married at home in matching Hawaiian shirts, and a third couple, who have been together for 28 years, nixed gifts and asked all the guests bring their favorite kind of cake to their reception instead, for a cake smorgasbord extravaganza.

OSGOOD REPORTING¾Miriam Ferguson

Sometimes, when life is hitting you with information or tags, it wounds you until you surrender. Mavis Osgood is my name and moaning, protesting and swinging my waist length braids are my claim to fame. In 2001 conditions were given a name, and placed in a space called final. Mama was peculiar that year. Be cool. Stay in school is what they used to say on the After School Specials and gullible me followed their slogan. No boyfriends, no proms, no sex, no friends just school. Staying in school was not the problem. It was leaving school that made my demon rear its head. School was my only connection to the outside world. I have a knack for explaining things….in detail. That’s why my schoolmates nicknamed me the Osgood Report. Graduating from college presented real challenges. Conditions worsened. The Osgood Report couldn’t find a job in the world of publishing or any other literary venue. So my gainful employment comes by way of public relations for Mickey D’s or any other fast food palace. My office is a four foot by six foot patch of cubical prison. I’m surrounded by other displeased life forms. Together our miraculous minds produce astonishing ads for mass murderers, advertisement for a whole generation of unhealthy people. It pitiful; you’d think the CEOs of our heart attack nation would realize they are killing off their own customers. But sister needs a paycheck. Did you ever hear of “Where’s the Pickle”, that’s mine.

WHY ATLANTA?¾Elisa Bowman

A serendipitous chain of events brought me to Atlanta in 2003, having visited the city once before as a tourist. I returned with the screenplay for Gone With The Wind, which I purchased from The Margaret Mitchell House. Once home, I promptly asked Evelyn Keyes, my neighbor, to autograph it since she was the actress who played Scarlett’s sister in the film. It was a great chance to hear some of the stories from the highest point of the veteran’s career and recollections of the fabulous Fox Theatre in 1939. I also came away with meaningful memories taken from the Martin Luther King Memorial museum and well-worn steps to the Auburn Avenue home where the legend was born. The warmth of a summer night resonated somewhere within me. Yet at the time, I had no idea I would soon return to this Southern capital to live. Why Atlanta was the most common question I was asked when I first relocated here. My replies were of a personal nature: career opportunities, affordable real estate, the prospect of four relatively mild seasons, and year-round access to outdoor activities. Locals warned me about the traffic—yet having moved from Los Angeles—I wondered if everyone were on vacation. Certainly there was nothing close to what one finds leaving Manhattan on a Friday afternoon. With Atlanta’s meandering surface streets, I was able to drive strategically and mostly avoid traffic altogether. The public transportation is also a helpful perk; especially when going to the airport as the baggage check-in is just off the MARTA exit. Why Atlanta is no longer a question simply hurled at a California transplant. Many in the entertainment industry are observing the staggering growth of the business and wondering why.

OIL PROPAGANDA ¾J. Conrad Guest

Recently a friend of mine forwarded to me an email outlining why it’s a good idea to drill for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR). It had been forwarded to him by someone who’d had it forwarded to him, and was originally sent by someone whose daughter and son-in-law make their home in Anchorage. The son-in-law is a foreman in an oil field in the ANWR. According to the mother-in-law, her son-in-law must fly his own plane to get to his job where “he spends months at a time in the most God forsaken place this side of Siberia.” She never says whether she (or he) has ever been to Siberia. For the uninitiated, and I must confess I was one of those until I read this email, the ANWR is located in northeastern Alaska, on the Prudhoe Bay. The writer of the email claimed that the ANWR is equivalent in size to a postage stamp in the Mojave Desert. I’m not sure why the reference to a postage stamp was made unless it was an effort set my mind at ease—that’s it okay to drill in a wildlife refuge be­cause of its relative size. I imagine the settlers took that same view of the buffalo in the 1800s: “It’s okay to slaughter them—one herd covers three whole states.” Today they’re a protected species. Accompanying this prelude was a series of photographs depicting magnificent mountain ranges, lush valleys overgrown with wildflowers, clear rivers—quite a contrast to the steel and concrete of Manhattan which, I surmise, is not forsaken by God.

REFLECTIONS OF LIFE¾ Craig Elliott

The kayak slid through the pristine waters. The sun was setting, with a splendid array of colors waiting to settle in once the golden hue was fully saturated. Shadows moved slowly into place, cast from treetops that hosted osprey nests to low flying sea birds skimming the water’s edge. Grassy islands, rising from oyster bed sandbars just under the water, spread their intricate reflections across the surface. Steps seemed to form off the islands through their shadows, created by the angle of the sun. Landyn turned the paddle with the ease of a seasoned outdoorsman. His weathered face and graying hair soaked up the golden rays that signaled the onset of twilight, and he was consigned to its imminent arrival. His life had been rich for a number of years. Living on the coast and enjoying its splendid majesty had been his purpose and it was fulfilled, through hard work and planning, day in and day out. He did not prepare for the end, and had no intentions of doing so. The kayak continued its glide through the amber-coated reflections of everything outlining the bay.