As I’ve said, my darling nephew C warns anyone that I – who he has affectionately named Uncle Pottymouth – am not to be spoken to prior to my ingesting AT LEAST two cups of coffee, which happens while I do my web-trolling in the early a.m., an activity I have of late combined with note-taking and journal/blogging. Watch the fuck out, World.
ASSHOLE BIGOT WATCH
Since Michael Sam came out, all the usual suspects slithered and oozed into the media glare to slime up the zeitgeist with their supercilious, homophobic vituperation and vilification, some of which has been reported for the ignorance, bigotry and hate-speech it was, and some of which – to the shame of so-called legitimate news sources – has been reported as if the things said were worthy of oxygen as opposing views. I get the theory behind openly airing hate speech, exposing it to the light so it can wither away and die and so I was going to quote and link the Missouri sophomore football player who Tweeted idiotic hate, but, you know what? I’m not going to. Instead, this, which I Tweeted yesterday:
Sad that anyone had to say it. And that all these decades after having been called pussy and pudding and faggot and homo and on and on and on . . . I am STILL living in a world where people use those as slurs with impunity. And, excuse me, but just what the fuck is a Mizzou?
THE ONION COVERS THE OLYMPICS
I’m not watching, but, if the coverage was all like this, I might have to defy my boycott.
EVAN PETERS. That is all . . .
Click here to read the interview Vulture did with one of my boyfriends, Evan Peters, in which he discusses how he almost killed his fiance while filming the strangling scene during this season of American Horror Story: Coven. All I can say is, my doppelgänger Ryan Murphy knows what he is doing, and dear, dear Evan; you should listen to your Uncle
Charlie Ryan. TAKE THE HINT. Then, let me comfort you – there’s more than one way to choke a person, you know, and I am more than willing to try them all.
AND ABOUT THAT V-DAY THING . . .
First of all, romantic love is a specious and soul-sucking concept born of patriarchal indoctrination designed to control behavior by convincing certain cohorts that the pleasing and seduction of certain other cohorts into protecting and worshipping one as delicate (i.e. weak) and in need of flowers and candy is something to be desired. Fuck that. And, not to be curmudgeonly and bitter, but this is not a real holiday. It was invented by a greeting card company. Its roots are the Pagan celebration of Lupercalia, a bacchanal during which naked revelers names were picked from a jar for random coupling and they then fucked all through the festival whilst beating one another with the pelts of recently slaughtered animals. Now, there is a holiday I could kneel down for. Or, get behind. Or, under.
Anyway . . . here’s the bed in which I will be spending V-Day. Alone.
And I am okay with that. And, too, this morning I received a communication from an author I admire who thanked me for engaging with the language of his writing in such a smart way. THAT made me happier than any box of candy or bunch of flowers could ever do.
SPEAKING OF AUTHORS AND BOOKS (and fucking) . . . MR. EDMUND WHITE
And, fittingly, today’s reading is Edmund White’s Inside A Pearl: My Years In Paris, the latest volume of his memoirs. Mr. White has long been a gay icon, and long been my model for unabashedly and unashamedly jubilating in frequent and frivolous sexual adventure. Alas, unlike Mr. White I have yet to become a published author who might use my erudition and hardcover history to seduce pretty young things, nor, unlike Mr. White again, do I have the sort of disposable income which would afford me the opportunity to purchase said sorts of affections and affectations. Although, ironically, this being V-Day and what with my reading of Mr. White’s latest, I was contacted early this a.m. not only by the famous author, but also by one of the rentboys I have come to know of late while doing research for one of the many books I will – again, alas, unlike Mr. White – never see published.
He told me that Valentine’s Day was always really slow. I guess people don’t want to be paying for the sex they’ve confused with love on a day purported to celebrate romance. In any event, he asked if I wanted to get together because he was feeling lonely since right now he didn’t have a girlfriend.
I’ve had worse invitations.(In fact, I’ve had THAT SAME invitation a surprising number of times during my life. Look in the dictionary for “back-up plan” and there is my photo. Hmph.) However, I regretfully declined.
He’s pretty – quite – and lovely – quite – but so fundamentally lonely for himself because of his confusion – from which, whether he knows it or not, he wants me to save him – that he will continue to come to me until I convince him he is worth loving (whatever that is) and manage to build his self-esteem to a reasonable level, at which point, he will abandon me for someone with whom he actually wants to be, and then, in all likelihood, in order to dismiss what he felt for me and forget that he ever felt “less-than” about himself, he will vilify me in his memory and stories as some sort of predatory vampire who was trying to suck the life and youth from him. Look, I have been in this story before. I would like – just once – to disconnect before the unhappily-ever-after, shot-through-the-roof-of-the-mouth (that is both literal and figurative, sadly – very, very sadly) ending in which I have too long specialized.
And as far as being a vampire goes, I wish, but the one who is sucked dry and drained of life-force and soul in these situations has ALWAYS been me.
Yeah. V-day. If it happened to be VAMPIRE’S instead of Valentine’s Day, maybe THAT I would consider.
Hell, yesterday I paid a bunch of kids $30 bucks to dig me out of these buried sidewalks and driveways here, would $60 to one of the rentboys I know to dig me out of abject horniness be such a bad deal? It’s far less than dinner, flowers, and a box of candy would cost. Hell, it’s less than a massage and it is all happy ending.