(Today’s entry in which I travel from my retreat from electronic connection of all kinds to the gay-loving Pope to the TEEN WOLF array of peni to Scott Baio’s speedo on old BATTLE OF THE NETWORK STARS and the LARGEST bottle of Patron I’ve ever seen – amen – )
I am WAYYYYYYYY out there (here) and I mean that in the actual physical – not emotional and psychological senses – in the bucolic backwoods of Boonsboro.
In my long march toward becoming an actual, honest-to-goodness, full-on hermit. I suppose, during this retreat, I will have to be my own Mao Zedong (were it later in the day and I feeling more blasphemous, I might make a joke about that name) and inspire the troops (meaning: all my multiple personalities) to follow me by exhibiting my leadership qualities.
Right. Oh wait, I do have followers – Judah and Sophie –
although they’ve as little say in the matter as did those peasants trying to resist the Red Army – although, were I an army, I like to think I’d be blue rather than red – but, what the hell am I talking about? This is what comes of pastoral solitude, I suppose – pastoral in the idyllic, countryfied, Arcadian sense – not in the clergy, pontifical sense. ALTHOUGH, this home is the abode of an actual, honest-to-goodness (and she is extremely honest and good) woman of the cloth, so . . . hmm.
Speaking of pontifical, how about that Pope? Whilst all progress is to be applauded, I am somewhat dumbstruck and flabbergasted by the victorious “I told you so” tones of some of those of Catholic-stripe who cite this ONE PHRASE as somehow ameliorating the centuries of criminally vicious attack on women and gays and every other minority. I mean, I am sure this new Pope means well, but this is the leader of a church which aided and abetted the Nazis in their effort to exterminate non-Aryans and too, the same church that hid generations of sexually abusing priests, and the same church that not MONTHS ago was contributing money to anti-gay-marriage groups and preaching about same from pulpits all over the world. Forgive me if I am not yet proclaiming it is time for a ticker-tape parade welcoming the new Pope to Studio 54 to take shots off the hard-abbed bellies of the bartenders. (I know, I’m dating myself, deal with it.)
Speaking of dating myself: last night was Monday night which means new episode of TEEN WOLF. I am a fan. I’m not obsessed in the way I am with AMERICAN HORROR STORY (all seasons – and P.S. – they must be filming by now so why have we not heard about the scenery-chewing battles between Lange, LuPone, Bates et al? HMMM?
Is Perez Hilton asleep at the wheel – guess that new baby is keeping him busy.) but I am fairly adamant about not missing the first run of each episode Monday nights at 10pm. And I prefer to watch them alone. If anyone ever asked who – at the moment and in the land of celebrity – personifies the typical sort of ridiculous hopeless longing affection I have – then, Dylan O’Brien who plays Stiles Stalinski (or something like that) on TEEN WOLF would be it. Him. That sort of lovable loser-nerd who in REAL LIFE is neither nerd nor loser – but, too, thin, unassuming, sort of afraid until he’s crazy-not, and always yearning for someone he is unlikely to get as well – of course – that someone is never going to be me, which is, I suppose – and always has been – part of the appeal – but STOP – this isn’t about my poor choice in people – this is about TEEN WOLF and watching it alone – and besides Dylan/Stiles, this season there has been added Charlie and Max Carver. This set of twins play – well – never mind what they play – suffice it to say that at some point in the story the two hot teenboy brothers morph into ONE hot teenwolf beast. Last night’s episode was made all the more enticing by the introduction of the concept that the twinboys feel physically the extremes the other is feeling – and since one is gay and one is straight – I am now fascinated by what happens as they are sexing up – and too, another social media pervert yesterday Tweeted the TEEN WOLF creator a question about what happens when the two morph into one – does this result in a huge phallus and if so, which sexuality is in charge of it? Wow. I thought I was bad with the things I used to post and say and Tweet and Facebook.
Speaking of which – bad and used to – my dear pastoral friend who left me here in her pastoral setting also left me some pretty heavy-duty supplies; WITNESS:
I mean . . . I open the refrigerator to see two six-packs of Raging Bitch (my favorite beer, each of which is akin to two or three normal beers) and in the freezer, not only is there a normally sized bottle of Patron (which, even at that size is too expensive for me to EVER purchase) but a HUGE GIANT ENORMO-SIZE bottle – so large it brings to mind what the Carver-twins phallus must become when they merge. I was stunned. I could not possibly handle it all (the Patron, not the merged Carvers – them, I would find a way to handle – and let’s consider Dylan the regular sized bottle and – STOP) – in fact, the LAST time I drank Patron, I behaved very badly and chased away one of the few friends I had left.
So, I have given it up. Or, I had until last night when i saw these bottles and started thinking about taking it up again. I didn’t. But, I did turn off all my devices JUST IN CASE I did. And that, see, is so sort of amazing. Being out here in the middle of nowhere, being disconnected from Facebook, being mostly off social media – so cool. And NOW, I’ve started turning off my smart-phone for a few hours a day. I know, right? Who knew a person could live being so “out-of-touch”?
Funny, yesterday I FINALLY checked a few e-mail accounts I haven’t looked at in days (some for weeks, actually) and found work I was supposed to have done AND a lovely sort of note from a friend, written a few days after I’d gone off FB, telling me they were keeping up with me through this blog and letting me know that some on FB had been offended – thinking I’d blocked them when I de-activated – which is JUST THE SORT OF INFO/REASON I left FB. Funny, that. Thing is, except once upon a time in the instance of one violently homophobic prick who was campaigning on Facebook to try to get everyone to attend Chick-Fil-A on “we hate gays and love chicken” day, I have NEVER de-friended anyone.
Whatever. Proves my point. Social media is a love and time-suck. Distracting and divisive and causer of delusions. I don’t know now that I will ever go back. Being away leaves me time to do things like notice that the CNN crawl mis-spelled Lincoln as “Lincon”. And too, I had always wondered what “hitting bottom” would mean in my case; I may have discovered it last night when I found myself watching ESPN’s re-running of what it called a “classic” – a BATTLE OF THE NETWORK STARS from sometime in the 1980’s – hosted by Howard Cosell, Debby Boone, and Scott Baio.
I had forgotten how shows like this – with all the celebs running around in their SPEEDOS and such were the internet porn before there was internet porn – this was as close as we got. Baio was one of the top hotties then, although in last night’s episode, we were treated instead to Mark Harmon, Billy Moses, Richard Dean Anderson and a surprisingly hot (and remarkably well hung – who knew or remembered this) Michael J. Fox in their Speedos. And a lot of women too, but, you know, it was me watching. In any event, I turned it off once I realized I was watching – I mean – WHAT? Bad enough I would be watching TEEN WOLF at 10 – that said enough about my level of entertainment taste – to watch a re-run of BATTLE OF . . . please.
And I hadn’t even opened the Patron. Which, by the way, I never did. I picked up a book. God knows I’m reading enough at the moment: Christopher Isherwood’s diaries from 1970-1983, “SAVAGES” by Don Winslow, “SHE LEFT ME THE GUN” by Emma Brockes, and “AS GOD COMMANDS” by Niccolo Ammaniti (translated by Jonathan Hunt) – so, I can feel all proud of myself out here in the middle of nowhere with my phone turned off and my social media limited to nearly nothing and bad t.v. rationed and the tequila corked and me, blogging and reading away.
And every so often, thinking about O’Brien and those Carver twins – and Scott Baio. Oh dear.