The triumphant return of the hand clap and cow bell

Is it just me or does every single mix CD released in the past few months feature ultra-percussive hand claps and rhythmically intricate cow bells? When I was in college I wrote a screenplay about the lives of studio hand-clappers and where they are today. Maybe with the copious tracks featuring those sounds, I'll have to rework that old screenplay and add the cow bell.

Anyway, that's just what I was thinking about this morning as I listened to Carl Craig's new Fabric CD. Its quite good.

Here's what else I've been thinking about--and I don't want to sound preachy or anything. I just really feel that, in addition to the fluff, this site (and others) really have the ability to disseminate the stories and experiences of our little marginalized community.
Yesterday, I read Travis' dad's reaction to a letter in which Travis came out. I also listened to Adam's audio blog in which he spoke about how lucky he is that his parents are supportive of him and how he is sympathetic to those whose parents are not. So this is sort of what it got me thinking about:
I was adopted when I was three days old. My entire childhood, I was told how lucky I was because I was wanted. My mom and dad loved me more than anyone else and loved me unconditionally. When I came out to them, which was a strange and years long process--my mother learning some five years before my father--I learned that their love for me was selfish and conditional.
My father told me that he didn't understand my "choice" but that he accepted it. I had to try to take all meaning out of those words just so I could continue to have a relationship with my parents.
They had children not so they could raise good people, but so they could have people to fill the roles of sons. I was very resentful of my parents. I resented their values. I resented their ignorance. In fact, I still do. (It angers me that they have my nieces pray for George Bush.)
What really sucks about that, is coming out was coupled with adolescence. So, naturally, there is a tendency to view my actions as those of rebellion. Yet, when I continue to claim my resentment at nearly 30, there is a dismissive and patronizing tone from my parents.
They still love me. To them it is very clear. To me, love has become not something which is powerful and that engenders wisdom and compassion, rather it has become something that has to be tolerated and not understood.
So I choose to love my way, in the hopes that one day, they regain compassion and with it, wisdom.