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.
I 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]
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?
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.
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.
But, 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.
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 ….