The end

Well, that’s it. The paperwork is in. And within three to five business days, or however long it takes one government employee to key in the information, that once lofty idea of being the editor of a lesbian magazine will be nothing but a dream.

Artists formerly known as Bound Magazine.
Artists formerly known as Bound Magazine.

Just before it goes away forever, I want to take one last moment to remember the wonderful moments of this endeavor, while overlooking the frustrating, stressful and toxic times that made me want to chew the side of my face.

Like those late nights, working with the girls, on the issue that was going live the following morning. Only the night would turn into early morning and was riddled with passive aggressive snarks and of promises to never procrastinate again.

Or like the lesbian dictionary I created with more than 100 entries of really clever lesbian puns. Only to find out that no one thought it was that funny.

Or like going to tons of events and always being on the list, even though there was never a list. But still, it was the illusion of being on the list that counted. Oh and going around and snapping 3,000 pictures of the lovely women at the party, but later noticing that we took 3,000 photos of the same four lesbians.

Or like that day we interviewed Melissa Etheridge, but we couldn’t get a proper cell phone signal.

Or being at the helm on June 26th when the Supreme Court struck down the Defense of Marriage Act and Proposition 8. It was a spectacular day to be gay and an even more spectacular day to be super gay, like the editor-at-large of a lesbian e-zine.

On that fateful evening at the Miami Lakes Ale House when I agreed to take a risk and create this thing with two women I hardly knew, there was no way to predict how it would all go. And it went pretty well for a while – a year-and-a-half to be exact. But the time has come to let the dream go.

For the good laughs, for the 8-hour meetings, and even for the ridiculous non-fights about things that weren’t important, I am grateful.

Bon voyage BOUND.

Come to my voicemail

In the latest episode of the drama of running a lesbian ezine (if you’re not caught up, read this first), we discover, first-hand, the power of Melissa Etheridge.

Legend has it that Melissa Etheridge possesses the most irresistible vagina in the world. It was handed down to her by the Fanny God Mothers: Marlena Dietrich, Frida Khalo, and Eleanor Roosevelt. Ever since, she’s been breaking hearts and overflowing the delicate cycles of the world’s washing machines with innumerable dirty panties.

For this reason, the lesbian nest was in a stir when the news came through that the Goddess had agreed to let us interview her.

As a good editor, I made the difficult decision to remove myself from doing the interview. I was taught that editors are nothing more than nurturing mothers that encourage their children to be the best, even though they are shitty writers. So, for the sake of the group, I waited on the sidelines to watch the lesbians knock themselves out, ready to pick up the winner, wipe her bloody nose, and shove questions and talking points in her face.

To their defense, it wasn’t the blood sport I expected. There was only one injury, and it was more of an ego bruise, which will heal in 5 to 7 days.

After running resist-the-vagina drills and phone interview dress-rehearsals (hat included), I felt confident that at least 7 out of the 15 minutes would be heaven-like.

The day of the interview, I waited to hear from the writer like a patient father-to-be in a 1970’s hospital waiting room. And, when the call finally came, I picked it up at the first buzz.

“Hello?” I whispered. The conversation that followed lasted a little less than 7 minutes. Other than “Hello,” and “Bye,” I said one other phrase, over and over, which was, “I don’t believe you.”

Apparently, Melissa called. Twice. We know this because she left two voicemails. Two. In both messages she wondered why we weren’t picking up her call.

“Hello, this is Melissa Etheridge,” in all her raspy-voice-glory. “I guess we should reschedule.”

Later we come to find that all calls made to Sprint carriers were going straight to voicemail.

So, in a matter of 15 minutes, the power of Melissa Etheridge: (1.) turned Sprint in the “not Now Network,”  (2.) led a music writer to physically run-around a parking lot to check the reception on her phone; (3.) allowed me to remain calm, as I was convinced me that this was all a really bad practical joke; (4.) activated the lesbian emergency phone tree to find a landline; (5.) propelled a flurry of apology emails to publicists, assistant publicists, and executive assistants, and (6.) caused one of the co-owners of BOUND to have symptoms of a heart attack.

That’s the power of the most irresistible vag in the world.

Check on 10.11.12 to figure out if we landed the interview, or if that writer is still out in the parking lot trying to get a signal.