My Year in Reading, Sort of: 2014 Highlights

reading falneur


Reading is my passion.

I’ve found great comfort and solace in reading. Reading took me to worlds I longed to visit but could not otherwise reach. Reading educated me. Reading saved me by making me aware of  possibilities and lives and loves I could never have imagined on my own. Reading gave me New York, the Algonquin Round Table, the Bridesheads, Jane and Paul Bowles, Helene Hanff, gay men, Fran Lebowitz, Andy Warhol and Studio 54, the Beats, the Bloomsbury Group, the Violet Quill bunch, and, holy of holy, as is Stephen Sondheim to my musical theatre jones, so is Joan Didion to my reading addiction. I actually think that without Joan Didion — and all the others — I would have killed myself long ago. Truly, I think it is reading that has kept me alive.

I’m not sure how much a favor to me that has been but that is another blog.

BooksReading has been my escape. Reading has been my constant lover and friend, my companion through my entire life. My memory may be going but I can still tell you where I was, approximately how old I was, and what was going on in my life when first I read HARRIET, THE SPY and JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH and DIARY OF A MAD HOUSEWIFE and Proust — okay, I’ve never actually finished Proust — but I can tell you all the times I bought new translations, new versions, why I did so, and what they looked like. I have in storage not one, but TWO CARTONS of versions of Proust and books about Proust. And I can tell you that I first read Joan Didion in Saturday Evening Post magazines I stacked and date ordered in one of the rooms in the abandoned wing of Libertytown, that room with the blackboard still on the wall left over from when the house had been an academy for wayward boys, that room I — the most wayward and lonely of boys — had Continue reading

J.C.’s birthday and Satan’s Dog

It’s Christmas Eve. I’m taking a break from taking a break because, well, I don’t need a reason.

The dog from hell arrived yesterday. Rudy. I kept him once before. I was younger then. By a year, anyway. And in the interim he’s been diagnosed as diabetic. No surprise, his was a life of table-food and treats. When it was determined he’d be visiting with me a few days at Aftermath I thought, “Well, he’s being treated now, and I’m calmer now, and we’ll start anew.”

Oh what fools we mortals be.

When he arrived on Christmas Eve Eve, his lovely parents entered with a box of his stuff, a box that was promptly dropped onto the tiles of the hallway. His parents are less bendable than am I, so I hastened to the ground to gather the things spreading and rolling from the box and felt a stabbing pain in my finger. There it was, the business end of one of Rudy’s needles stuck into the middle finger of my right hand. I kid you not. A used needle. His Dad had brought the medical-waste-disposal container for used needles, half full of used needles, its lid not quite on. If I die of doggie hepatitis or insulin poisoning, you will know why. Rudy did it.

I won’t bore you with details of the day. It included Rudy spending most of the day whining off and on that high pitched dog wheeze-whine of despair, every so often resorting to a louder puling of dissatisfaction. (He’s doing it again, now, so charming, even as I type.) No amount of petting, water, treat, walks (he has to be on a leash or he’ll run, well, walk fast, which, in fact, I’m not sure I’d mind, but, his parents are sweet — obviously, else he’d be long dead by now) or — yes — Benadryl, could ever really calm him. At 7p.m. I had to give him his insulin shot– which I have never done — and I did, without incident although so detailed had been his Dad’s warnings about air-bubbles in the syringe I was in full-on panic, expecting him to convulse and explode.

Anyway, feeling a trifle complacent and “this won’t be too awful” about it all, I readied to take him out again — and the required leashing and getting Judah (the Good Glinda, who lives here, to Rudy’s Wicked Evil Visitor status) along for the walk and — well, I open the door and a bird flew in the house. Yes. Okay, so, Rudy wants walkies. I leave the door open, hoping bird will exit. No. Long story, Rudy doesn’t go. I spend an hour trying to catch the bird. Finally Continue reading

Just, no more . . .

Today was really a horrible day. In addition to completely collapsing when visiting Sissie’s stone — I had all sorts of rejection which, really, couldn’t it have happened another day?

Sissie stone

I thought for a minute things were going my way — at the gym, after two and a half hours on cardio and machines, in shower, I got a horrible pain in the left chest area, moving down the arm — now, my left shoulder has long been a problem, and of late, it really hurts quite a bit — but this was a hold-on-to-the-wall sudden pain. I thought, “Wow, there IS some sort of afterlife and Sissie DID hear me today when I begged for her to pull strings and call me to her NOW. I’m having a heart attack.”

Alas. Guess it was just the two and a half hours. It stopped. Not until I had quickly exited the shower and dressed though. I didn’t want to die naked. My life has already been one humiliation after another, I hardly wanted to be found dead — naked — and alone.

Speaking of, the two guys at the gym who have sort of, regularly hit on me — both chose today — when I am so desperate and alone I might have caught the hit — to cut me dead.

Things just get better and better.

And then, AMERICAN HORROR STORY: FREAK SHOW chose tonight to get all sad. I was sobbing. Which was NOT what I needed tonight. I am already sobbing.

Have to pull it together. Tomorrow is the third Mother day of the week. I love her dearly but I am exhausted. Exhausted. Tuesday, pouring rain, I got soaking wet keeping her under the umbrella and holding her up. As I am dropping her off she says, “I hope it stops raining by Wednesday night.” I, foolishly, asked why. “Well, I wouldn’t want your brother to have to worry about rain like this. I’ll just tell him we don’t have to go if it’s still raining.”

Right. Because we wouldn’t want him to get wet, would we?

Honestly kids, I am just about done. My heart attack cannot come soon enough. I cannot take many more (any more?) days (years) when I need to be held up and — well, no one does it. I really could have used quite a lot of lifting today –  and, well, I just can’t lift myself. Anymore. And I’m starting to be unable to lift those who need me to lift them — no matter how many hours I go to the gym.


Happy Birthday

Sissie 3Happy Birthday to the greatest “Ole Made Ant” who ever lived. I’m not sure why or where that spelling or name came from — it had nothing to do with me — and, in later years, when I said I found it reductive and insulting, Sissie told me that she had decided long, long ago that when someone said something that hurt her feelings, or seemed stupid or uninformed, it was HER JOB to see past the words to the Love behind them — no matter how far she had to dig to find it.

That’s where I learned to keep looking through the haystack of ignorance and hate for the needle of Love and Light. But, Sissie, man this haystack is HUGE!!

I’ve been talking to Sissie a lot lately. I can’t seem to get the novel I wrote in her memory and because she always insisted I was a writer — loved by anyone. Well, not true. It’s been loved, just not by anyone who wants to rep it. It does well with professors of literature, LOL, but, not the point at the moment. Being unable to get that story out seems more and more my story.

sissieSissie would have wanted a very different life for me. She, in fact, told me that she wanted a different life for me. She made me promise I’d spend birthdays at the Algonquin, not wait until it was too late, like she had. I did. She made me promise that I would not spend my life bending myself out of shape to hold other people up. I didn’t know what she meant until it was too late.

I wish that I had asked Sissie how she managed to be “alone” for eight decades. She, like me, was deeply loved — by me, anyway, and some others — and she, like me, filled in for others in places where cushioning was required, and took care of, and made cakes, and cleaned up, and did some saving — but, there was never that kind of love. And she took on the “ole made ant” label herself, like I have taken “crazy uncle potty-mouth in the basement” for myself.

But, in her head (and with me) she was Edna St. Vincent Millay, much-loved and a sophisticate, a Bohemian, a woman who ought to have lived at the Algonquin. I wish I had asked how it felt to reach forties, fifties, sixties and be plagued by doubt (like mine) and fear/wonder/realize, “Oh, well damn, I wasn’t. I’m not.”

I hope — holy mother of all that is holy — I HOPE I managed to let her know I always did (and still do) believe she was my own Algonquin miracle, better than Millay, and that the world she gave me — let’s call it Libertytown — when it was the two of us together in our society of the heart/mind — was just as round a table as the Algonquin, and it has always been that world that kept me going when I wanted to stop — the belief in me, in possibility, her gift to me. But she’s gone, and most of it is gone, and man, the table at which I am now seated in my head/heart is not only not round, not only am I not Algonquin material, I am just a sad, old, failed, rotten, wasted my life thing, ready to go.

sissie 2I’ll go see her today. In Libertytown. And ask her — though I no longer believe anyone can hear me — to please help me deal with how alone I am, have always been, how sad I am, and why it is I have made such horrid mistakes in loving and trusting and believing in people I invited to my Round Table, and how it is some of them could have been so incredibly cruel to me.

Happy Birthday, Sissie. I wish you were still here — even though you were ready to go — because that’s how selfish I am. Happy Birthday, Sissie. I wish I believed in some afterlife where we would be together again. Happy Birthday, Sissie. I wish you could teach me how not to be lonely — or, I wish — if this is how you felt — I had done a better job, more, to make you feel you were not so alone.

Love. Light. Missing. Wish I was with you. Truly. Really. Right now.


Monday Blah-Blah-Blah-Blues – Monkeys on my back

Your sad, pathetic bloggist doesn’t have time for another installment of Cozies, Comforts & Joys today – but you can catch up if you missed them by clicking here for Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3. In the meantime, a fast confession before dashing off to drive Misses Daffodil and Honeysuckle.

Monkey on my back (2)


I’ve a busy day of ferrying folk to physicians. I’ve a busy week. You ask, “What?” Well, dears, just because I don’t conform to the standard-issue-model of the shoulds/oughts/musts of the American way of life doesn’t mean I don’t suffer from pressure.

The thing: on Saturday begins seventeen days of house/pet sitting engagements. Clothes packing, no problem. I wear what amount to three outfits: Gym, Lounge, Out and About. All involve black t-shirts, black boxer-briefs, black socks, black sweatshirts/hoodies/sweaters, and jeans/sweatpants. Easy. I’ve multiples of each and there are laundry facilities at each house.

drinking boys

What if I ADDED a monkey — maybe started up with the wine again? Or the beer? Or the inappropriate boys whose names I don’t ever know?

BUT WHAT ABOUT BOOKS? My “To Be Read” stash is a mini-bookstore. There are more than 200 books in the stacks. Yes, it’s a back-monkey, that: my inability to STOP BUYING BOOKS. And I’ve already started packing them into my “travel bag” — a very strong cloth sack with a platform bottom, a large bag into which I can fit up to fifteen books. But, thing is, I need MORE than that for a seventeen day stay. NOT because I will read a book a day, but, because I do NOT know what sort of mood I’ll be in from one to the next day — especially during holiday season — and so I need books for every emotional contingency, from light mystery cozies with comfortably familiar characters to riveting, educational non-fiction, to thoughtful essays, to humor, to biographies, to literary fiction, to old familiars, to . . . you see the trouble?

readin dec

Stack of books Monkey. All alone Monkey. So many monkeys. So little time. Well, actually . . . way fucking too much time.

Am I insane? Yes. Because, see, thing is, I’ll only be twenty minutes from my home base. And my home base is close to the gym, where I’ll be going mostly every day. So, you see, I could just stop by and GET more books or exchange or whatever. BUT I AM STRESSING LIKE HELL OVER THIS.

Lonely 3

Lonely. Monkey. Lonely.

And, another monkey, see, I read Dick Cheney’s quotes. Why? I don’t understand it. Makes me so sad. And, kids, I’m feeling sad right now anyway. Quick story: I was jaywalking the other day (on the way to The Curious Iguana, LOL, my home-base-bookstore) and was almost run down. Run down not just by a stranger, but by someone who – had they run me down, well, it would have been very metaphorical — since they already did run me over once.


Like Isherwood’s “A SINGLE MAN” — monkey on my back, my own hopelessness and lack of belief in the possibility of that sort of “love” —

I’ve been shaky ever since. And haven’t told anyone. And am not going to. And I’m sure it was my fault (LOL, always) and … monkey on my back; I’m feeling really alone and sad about my bad choices in trusting people, sad about the limits of people’s feels for me, sad that most of my connections are so artificial and surface, sad that no one — ever — looked at me or felt about me or played with me the way Megan Hilty and Brian Gallagher feel and look and play with each other.

I’m a fail. And I’m feeling really, really alone and lonely — which I’ve felt, pretty much, for the past thirty years — and always thought, “This is my fault.” Yeah. Damn monkeys.

Damn ache left by having once believed. Damn.

Fly, damn you, FLY!

Library Man 2feb 3 2014 5

Paul Cadmus

Paul Cadmus

streetcar 3charlie upside downOZ - I'll get you my pretty GIFahs death 1angel smoking


Part 3: Existential Cozies, Comforts, and Joys

Well my little hall-deckers, if Christmas it must be, then the Yuletide ought always to be like last night! Maybe there is, after all, something to this keeping an account of my cozies, comforts, and joys. So, Part 3.


andrea and charlie

Me and my Andrea between shows. Big drinkers; me with a coffee, Andrea with a Coke. Yep. Whoo-freaking-hoo!

Big fan. First saw Ms. Hilty as Galinda in Wicked. Next saw Ms. Hilty as Doralee in 9 to 5: The Musical. Next, became rabid fan of Smash, founding member of Team Ivy. Then, my dear Andrea birthday-surprised me earlier this year with tickets to see Ms. Hilty in concert at the Kennedy Center Terrace Theatre. And then AGAIN, a few weeks ago, Andrea surprised me with tickets to see Ms. Hilty’s Christmas Concert at the Kennedy Center for last night’s 7:30 show. It was only yesterday afternoon that Andrea told me she had gotten tickets NOT ONLY to the 7:30, but, also, the 9:30. And so, the two of us, front row, aisle, house right — for the first show, somehow, despite it being sold out, we were the only people in the front row, and for the second show, the only OTHER person in the front row was a yawning, unkempt looking fellow in aisle seat, house left. I don’t know HOW Andrea gets these amazing seats, but, uhm, she always does.

About Ms. Hilty. Wow, the last time I saw her, my birthday concert (yes, MY BIRTHDAY concert), she was quite preggers. She delivered the girl-child, Viola, three months ago, and is back, better than ever. She can belt with the best of them but she is also able to quietly croon you to tears. She invests each song with its beginning, middle, end, telling the story with an expressiveness of voice and emotional depth I think is rarely equalled among current singers and Broadway performers. She really is a treasure. Listen to this — which she did last night in an arrangement of mostly guitar (as played by her husband, Brian Gallagher, more below).

And, MOST OF ALL, the relationship between Megan and her husband, Brian Gallagher, who plays guitar and sings with her during these concert appearances, is so freaking beautiful. I want to be one of them. The love they share just radiates from the stage, envelops you in its warmth and fairy-tale goodness. Ms. Hilty sang the song A Place Called Home from the Broadway musical version of A Christmas Carol, and she started weeping just introducing it and speaking of having found “the love of her life” and having a child. Not only was she crying, but as she sang it, so did Mr. Gallagher weep. Both shows. It wasn’t performance, it was life, and love, and so much Light on stage. Great show. If you’ve a chance to share some time with these people, you really ought to. And for me, being there last night (BOTH SHOWS!) with them and Andrea, so much comfort and joy.

COMFORTS, JOYS … quickies

  • And gas is really cheap right now, which is great, as I will soon be returning to Aftermath — where I love to be, which bucolic setting is twenty minutes from the gym. So, cheap gas is good.
  • And, thanks to a niece, found Starbucks Christmas Blend Keurig Cups for 8-something a box. This is a VERY good thing. I know it’s ridiculous, but I don’t think I could function without a Keurig.
  • And I have discovered (thank you TwitterLiterati) the Agatha Raisin mysteries by M.C. Beaton. Delightful fun. Happiness.
ford penis necklace

Tom Ford $800 Penis Necklace

  • And Tom Ford is selling what appears to be a gold phallic symbol. [See New York magazine article here.]  How cool is an $800 dick necklace? I’ll tell you how cool — Bill Donohue of the Catholic League [click here for the fucking moron] is upset about it. And, an idiot. I mean, who even THOUGHT this was supposed to look like a cross? I mean, now, every time I see a nicely arranged set of male genitalia, I’m going to connect it even more vigorously to my memories of my catholic youth — those years when my knees were hardened and trained to the tasks and sacraments for which the catholic church so lovingly prepared me. Thank you to the catholics for making me so good at so many things involving being on my knees … speaking of which ….
  • And, at the gym yesterday, a really good-looking guy came on to me in the showers. I have no idea why someone as good-looking as he was would come on to someone like me, I didn’t see any mistletoe hanging on the shower head — but — without going into details — this was not another one of my hallucinations. He actually, really and truly, did come on to me. I did not reciprocate nor respond except to politely indicate the gym-showers were not a location where I intended to frolic. Truth, I am still snotty and unwell — this cold thing — and it would have been not just dangerously undignified (and, possibly, illegal?) to fool around there but, too, I’d have been spreading cold germs. But, you know, HOPE —

SPEAKING OF HOT MEN … Russell Tovey is cheating on me …

russell tovey nude looking

Russell Tovey on top of the home-wrecker and fantasy-killer, Jonathan Groff

Andrea broke it to me last night that she’d seen a preview for Season 2 of HBO’s Looking and it seems as if Russell Tovey — who I claimed as my own YEARS ago when he was in The History Boys on Broadway — is continuing — in the plotline — to have sex with Jonathan Groff’s character. I am not happy about this. And, clearly, the universe and all the demons of hell sent after me because of my lapsed catholicism and ever-increasing atheism (wait, that doesn’t make sense, well, so what) have conspired to torture me because this morning, Russell is everywhere. He posted this one of himself:

Tovey, Russell Dec 2014

Tovey by Turner

CLICK HERE FOR the website Cocktails and Cocktalk, and a whole series of new hot Tovey photos.

And, as if that wasn’t enough to get me all … well, whatever it is a man my age (who, I hasten to add, was COME ON TO in the showers yesterday — WHILE NAKED) gets, then, I was assaulted by this photo to the left in my Twitter TL. An entire new set of Tovey photos. Dear god (in whom I do not believe) STOP!

SPEAKING OF GOD … final comfort and joy of the day …

Andrea. My dear, dear Andrea, she who allows me stays at Aftermath with her dear, dear Judah, yes, Andrea is a Pastor. Pastor Andrea. A person of the cloth.

I know, right? I can hear many of you exclaiming — as did my family and some other friends when I spoke of Andrea and they inquired as to details — “How is a Pastor friends with you?”

Well, here’s how. In a life you meet/have a very few people — if you are lucky, and I am INCREDIBLY lucky in this way — who “get” you. These people see you, who you are, at the soul, at the source, at the center of your Love and Light. They don’t judge you, they don’t try to change you, they don’t forgive or accept, they don’t have to — they KNOW you. They never see anything but the Love and the Light. If I believed in God — and when I did believe in God — it was that sort of seeing I thought defined God. My complicated cosmology didn’t have room for sin or hell or right or wrong — but, rather, had space only for the aim of seeing only the Love and Light at the source, at the core. Not saying there aren’t people who behave in heinous ways, saying, instead, the job of a God — the job, I think, of everyone, all life — is to believe PAST all of the heinous, to believe that — ultimately — the Love and the Light, no matter how distorted they may become, are all that are. All That Is, the truth of the Love and the Light. Everything else is illusion, temporary, words, labels, not important.

How does Andrea stay my friend? Because for Andrea, that is all there is. Andrea is what anyone who wants to do God’s work should be, a person who works always to live in and see in others that core of Love and Light, and believes in it — no matter how those others parse it or fuck it up or hurt themselves and others or fail at life — Andrea sees and encourages and cultivates and BELIEVES in the Love and the Light.

That’s faith. Faith. That’s God. And I am incredibly blessed and comforted and cozied and joyed and un-deserving of having found this late in life (although I hasten to add I was come on to when naked in the shower yesterday by a very attractive much younger man — ARE YOU LISTENING RUSSELL TOVEY?) a friend, a dear one, a treasure, like Andrea. Andrea, a Pastor who doesn’t measure me by whether or not I profess to believe in God; Andrea, who doesn’t measure me at all except by the glow of my Love and Light, and finds me to be friend-worthy. I love her. So much.

Here’s wishing all of you have an Andrea and such blessings as do I to count, and, my dears, at least one who sees your Love and Light like Andrea sees mine.

Love and Light kids.




Part 2: Existential Cozies, Comforts, and Joys

It’s STILL the holiday season. I’m gonna be merry or die trying goddammit. So, first of all, my daily dose of HAPPY FUCKING HOLIDAY visuals. Here’s a Christmas tree.

ahs freak dandy christmas

Oh, and Finn Wittrock’s ass from American Horror Story.  You’re welcome.

I was shared a lot yesterday. Oh, how I wish that were true in an entirely different way. However, clicks and re-posts don’t lie. You loved yesterday’s blog [click HERE for Existential Cozies etc Part 1] and I can only conclude that your concern for me, your love for me, your wish for all good things for me drove the shares: You people LOVE it when I’m happy.

On the other hand, it may have been the pictures of half-naked men. Or, fully naked men. Never underestimate the power of Ben Affleck’s penis. Or, Colby Keller’s anything and everything.

So, being an enabler from way back, and desperate for any sort of popularity — no matter how shallow and temporary — now, I give you: More things that make me happy.

COLBY KELLER (again…get used to it)

Layout 1He’s on the cover of Next Magazine [click HERE] from which I lifted these shots. I don’t know when it happened, and certainly my friends would be amazed — had I any to whom I regularly spoke — that my obsession with etiolated, heroin-junkie looking, bean-stalk, malnourished youths has evolved into unrequited longings for flannel wearing, bearded, stocky, crush-you-without-thinking-about-it bears.

Keller, Colby NEXT MAG 1 Keller, Colby NEXT MAG 2I’m not the only one who loves Colby. There is also an article about him in The Huffington Post: Porn Star and Artist Colby Keller Opens Up About ‘Colby Does America’ [click here to read & view slideshow].

Mr. Keller also has an Instagram account. I don’t do Instagram. I can barely keep up with Twitter and this blog, so, I don’t do anything else. But, here is a link to COLBY KELLER INSTAGRAM: COLBYDOESAMERICA [click here].


From Mr. Keller’s Instagram

Of course I am attracted to his body, and his open enjoyment of sex — but I’m also fascinated by his world-view, his communism, his commitment to breaking boundaries and exploring edges. Clearly he finds the reactions of the world to him — to everything — to be largely hypocritical, un-examined, full of inconsistencies and cruelties, twisted moralities and arbitrary judgments, dangerous games with plastic rules and deadly consequences manipulated by power-hungry, corrupt, unprincipled liars and murderers and opportunists. AS DO I.  I don’t consider what Mr Keller does debauched or pornographic; I think what Dick Cheney and George Bush and congress and CitiBank and Amazon do qualifies as licentious and degenerate. If there is such a thing as sin, it’s the politicians and the capitalists and the power-brokers who are going to hell. Not people who enjoy sex.

Look, if you’re not a prude, if you think you can take it, here’s an XTUBE link to Colby doing Maryland. Probably would be considered “porn” by a lot of people. I don’t think sex should be called porn. I think it should be called sex. But, so you know, he’s naked and he jacks off and all that — BUT LISTEN TO THE WORDS. It’s kind of genius. AND I CANNOT BELIEVE HE WAS IN MARYLAND AND I DIDN’T GET TO BE THERE.


Thank you, Colby.

AND SPEAKING OF HYPOCRISY…Nasty Pig (& I don’t mean Dick Cheney. This time.)

Time-Warner Cable pulled this ad for Nasty Pig Underwear. [read story here in Towelroad]  Why? I have to watch and listen to constant bullshit about erectile dysfunction, incontinence, vaginal dryness, depression, undergarments for the oversized, discount furniture all of which reclines including coffee tables,  etcetera (can you tell I watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy every night?) but and ad promoting healthy sexuality is too much for the world? Really? I DON’T GET IT!

Were I the kind of fellow who listened to advice and somehow got my own domain and built a monetized website, I’d want NASTY PIG [click HERE for their website – and buy me some underwear – in a totally socialist way, thanks as a sponsor. Instead, I’ll just free-post them. I’m sort of a communist, I guess, or socialist, or, well, pandering to Colby?

And another voice saying “LOOK LISTEN” …  Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore [click here]


Click on book to order from City Lights

Last night I finally finished reading Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore’s The End of Francisco. I say “finally” not because it wasn’t immensely readable, but, rather, because I loved it so much, was so moved by it, I kept putting it down. In ways too personal to describe at the moment, we shared experiences — not together, not in the same room, but, somehow, in the same heart and soul space. This is a memoir of a “radical queer troublemaker” — but, Mattilda made no trouble, Mattilda told the truth and had trouble then thrust upon her like shade, like hell, like what happens to people who speak from the center of the Love and Light in which they live honestly in a world where such things are frowned upon. Mattilda had courage in ways I never dreamed — or, if I did dream, I was too chickenshit to explore. I love him. I loved the book. And when it ended last night, I wept, because I felt as if Mattilda and I were finished, our conversation. I want more. You should buy this book. Read it.


Tonight, 7:30, Kennedy Center. Megan Hilty. I’m there. Early Christmas gift from my dear, A, who is going along. Megan. Hilty. This:

Tonight, she’ll be singing Christmas tunes. If only Colby Keller sang … Christmas … oh, wait … look what I found.

AND BEN … oh Ben … again …

It always comes back to Ben, doesn’t it? Just in case he’s the only reason you’re here … here. So, if you’ve been wishing for Ben’s dick for a long time — well, that can wear a person out. It’s good of Ben to share. Good Ben. Good bye. Happy holidays.



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Love and Light, kids. Love and Light.




Existential Cozies, Comforts, and Joys

capote warhol

Truman Capote hugs Santa Warhol

‘Tis the season.  For the past week I’ve been in semi-seclusion here at Sepia Fallows, wallowing in ague-fuguery. My restricted life has consisted of nose-blowing, croupe-like-hacking, head and joint achery, sleep-deprivation resulting in head-lolling-exhaustion naps, intermittent cold-sweating, off-and-on feverish semi-hallucinations, and that consciousness of, “I really need to take a drink of that water,” coupled with a staggering lack of energy or will to actually do so, the “Yes, I will in a second” syndrome: I meant to take a drink of water, really I did, somewhere around Tuesday. Here it is, Friday. I’m parched.

Yet, silver lining: I may be down, but I haven’t been out, because, through it all, I could read. Granted, Kathryn Davis’s hallucinatory, acid-trip of a novel, Duplex, was not, perhaps, the best choice given my delusory state, but, there it is. Was. Whatever. Is, was, will be, the point is that in Duplex — unlike this post, the sentences sure were pretty.

For me, long, uninterrupted (if one doesn’t count the hacking cough and nose blowing breaks) stretches of reading are like being cozied beneath a warm blankie, tucked in by a loving someone who has just rubbed Vicks on one’s chest. Books — as ’twas ever thus — get me through. Comfort and joy, so to speak (type). And, hey … I’m a giver so …

… since it seems a lot of folks are feeling a bit under-weathered, and, too, since it’s prime suicide season — holidays and what-not — I’m guessing you might need some jollying along to get you through the remaining weeks of hall decking and such.

Here you go. Wrap yourself in these thoughts and observations. You’re welcome.

hemingwriteI am obsessed with (as in, a stalker of) authors, publishers, literary agents, editors, and other TwitterLiterati. Of late, many of them have been blogging, writing, talking about the Hemingwrite. [CLICK HERE FOR HEMINGWRITE] What it amounts to is an old-school word-processor/typewriter. It’s not even MANUFACTURED yet, and everyone wants one. It’s a KICKSTARTER dream, people, and everyone wants one. LOL. So do I. Oh wait, I had one. It was a Smith-Corona electric typewriter about twenty years ago. Life. Next up, a throwback washing machine: here you go, kids!


Crazy world. And I’m not going to get into all the things in this crazy world that are INFURIATING me; like torture reports, Duggars donating and campaigning in Fayetteville to deny rights to LGBTQ folk, the Rolling Stone debacle and its resultant rape-victim-blaming-demonization, the lack of diversity in the publishing world and year-end “best of” books lists, Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, Eric Garner, Ferguson, racism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, ageism — well, NOT GOING TO GET INTO ALL THAT – and point out the ignorance and idiocy.


Instead, look at this ignorance and idiocy. “Comfyballs” underwear is denied a trademark. What the actual ball-busting fuck? Click HERE for Huffington Post article: ‘Comfyballs’ Underwear Denied Trademark Because ‘Balls’. LOL.

Speaking of balls. Ben Affleck’s penis. [CLICK HERE]

Affleck penis

Which is all well and good, but, finally this week on American Horror Story: Freak Show, we were treated to Evan Peters’ ass. It took long enough. And, try though I might, I have been unable to find any GIFS or even screen-caps of it. WOW. I mean, in seasons past, as soon as Evan’s ass hit the screen it was Tumblr-d and Tweeted everywhere. I, myself, have frequently featured it on this blog, especially the Coven season. Remember?

Evan Peters Coven 3

Of course you do. But this season it seems Finn Wittrock as Dandy Mott is the ass-man of Mr. Ryan Murphy’s choice. And, well, it is a nice ass … and everything else.

ahs dandy buttahs freak dandy dec 2014 2

I’m not the only one noticing the butt-work on AHS. CLICK HERE FOR MTV STORY ‘7 TIMES AMERICAN HORROR STORY HAD THE BEST BUTTS ON TELEVISION’. Visuals included.

Lest you think ALL I care about is balls, Ben Affleck’s penis, and Finn Wittrock’s ass, I hasten to get all intellectual again. Well, my version anyway. Many of my TwitterLiterati — the ones I follow who, in many cases, indulge me by following back — have been linking to this piece in The Awl titled ‘The Untold Story of the Doodler Murders’ [click here]. It’s written by Elon Green — who is followed by (and follows in return) quite a few of the same people I follow and they keep linking this. So, despite the fact that Mr. Green — like Darin Strauss, Bill Walsh, Roxane Gay, and Daniel Mendelsohn — does NOT follow me (and really, why should anyone? Well, I’ll tell you why, if I’m good enough for The Duchess Goldblatt to follow, then … enough said) I still think this is worth a read. Well done. And fascinating.

joe and andyBut, wait, this was supposed to be about what gives me comfort and joy, and giving you that same cozy feeling. Ok. Well, hmm … if Santa Warhol wanted to visit me and couldn’t manage to get Joe Dallesandro down my chimney — I don’t actually have a chimney, damn the luck — then, what would make me feel good?

Simple things. My simple Christmas wish(es):

Starbucks. Can’t help it. I dream of winning one of those 10 Lifetime Supplies they keep talking about on television. And the Christmas Blend Keurig K-Cups. Oh my. Simple pleasures.

And Books. Can’t go wrong with visiting THE CURIOUS IGUANA [click here], my favorite bookstore, ever. And, too, confessions, for old books, I do the one cent shopping thing on Amazon and visit church book sales and used bookstores — like the one the Girl Scouts run where every hardback is $1 and paperback fifty cents.

And YouTube. I watch all sorts of clips for all sorts of hours when I am too tired to read. Or, in need of some Judy Garland or vintage Broadway or Julia Murney or … well, you get it.

Santa Colby Keller

Colby Santa Keller

And Colby Keller. I can’t stop myself. I guess it is — with me — again — about the balls and the penis and the ass — and when it comes to those things, porn performer, Colby, is great. But even better, he’s literate and funny and original and an artist. Check out his BIG SHOE DIARIES blog. CLICK HERE.

And quiet. And solitude. And sun. A window of my own. Yes, what I really like in life is peace and quiet. I like alone time. I like silence. No traffic noise. No TV noise. Just, quiet. I am afforded some quiet in my Crazy Potty Mouth Uncle Basement room here at Sepia Fallows, but, sadly, it’s dark down here. One little window on the other side of the basement, not near my room. I lack light. I dream of one day living somewhere with light. With a window I can open. A balcony onto which I can step. And quiet. Real, true, quiet. Actually, I will be spending much of the holiday season at Aftermath, out in the country, lots of quiet and lots of light. Me. Judah. And more time to read and fantasize about Colby and Dallesandro and ruminate on the cozies of life.

Happy Holidays, dears. Love and Light and Hemingwrites and Affleck Penis and Wittrock and Peters ass and being tucked under blankies by loved ones brandishing Vicks-Vapo-Rub to you all. I have a feeling I may be backing off posting for a bit … holidays, not my best time. Much love ….