Friday Night … no comment

prince harry bulgeWell, very little comment. I like younger men. I like an English accent. I should very much like to make a match that would make me worthy of a visit to Her Grace, The Duchess Goldblatt. So, perfect sense. And, honestly, I’m due a big break. This one to the left (well, his right) seems to be quite big enough.

prince-harry-nude-naked-article-tmz-top-4I’ve had a thing for him since the pool table weekend.

I like a fellow who is not afraid to play along with the commoners. And, honestly, you’d look long and hard (or, with my luck, soft) before finding anyone any more common than am I.

So, Harry … I have nothing to do on this Friday night – in case, you know, you need someone to tuck prince-harry-nude-naked-article-tmz-bottom-8you. In. Or, someone into whom to tuck. You. Tuck me, please? I mean, it looks as if you’ve at least a general notion of how to do some tucking. You did go to English boarding school, right? Those delicious sorts of goings on are still going on, right?

I said no comment, didn’t I? Well, under 250 words IS no comment for me, darlings. And so I shall leave you with one of my favorite fakes of all time.

Ta, darlings.

PRINCE HARRY & WILL FAKE BRITISH COSMO

 

 

 

 

 

 

And, happy weekending.

Dowager Weekend

 

 

 

Zeitbites: The Lost Weekend (this is what happens)

Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend

Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend

It’s the Monday morning after my most recent Lost Weekend. Not Ray Milland-y, alcoholic haze lost, but, rather, an existential sort of wandering (and, thus, wondering) around: gym, coffee shops, bookstores, retail outlets, parks, here and there in order to afford some privacy and space to the people with whom I live, who put up with me. And, since most of my friends are fictional, virtual, long-distance, or busy, most of my pursuits are solitary. In the process, I become many different people: these are their stories.

Djokovic 1

Novak Djokovic – not bad for a man his age.

 

WIMBELDON & NOVAK DJOKOVIC’S ASS Serena won Wimbeldon again. I love Serena. I love watching her play. I love that she won. But holy crap, have we not evolved beyond the coded (and blatant) misogyny, sexism, and ageism that suffused the coverage of her win? The New York Times in particular should be ashamed. But, I’m a bright side kind of guy – thus, in an effort to spread the gender-bias-objectification-judge-y shit around, here’s some Novak Dojokovic objectification. He won Wimbeldon too. I was surprised the ass on a man Novak Djokovic’s age was so firm and juicy. Good thing too, because his shorts were tight. No doubt he wanted to show off his rumored-to-be very large package. He’s still hot for someone his age, and, wow, he can still play. Sadly, he hasn’t the Nordic-blonde-Aryan beauty of Lleyton Hewitt, or who knows how much money he’d be making from endorsement deals. (What? He’s worth in excess of 90 million already? That’s my boy! And Djoko – is that dick pic floating around the web really yours? If so, nice one.)

UNEMPLOYED & BROKE & NORMA DESMOND I AM NOT . . .

It’s July and I’m home … this is not good. Not good because the prevailing cultural norm suggests one ought to vacation during the summer months. Well, not only am I not vacating, none of my usual clients are vacating either. So, I am stuck in the batcave during the sunny (although, not so much with the sun this year) summer months generating zero income. But . . . (Another aside: I would be happy to discuss house sitting or pet sitting for you – all you people out there, my people, out there, in the dark.) It’s a life theme, that; Generating Zero Income. So, going with it, here I am, blogging for free. Why the hell not? I hereby promise to Zeitbite you more, darlings, meaning; I shall spread my particular brand – Sure, I have a brand, why the fuck not? – of Love and Light more often. Which means regular doses of dash & aside & idiosyncratically punctuated blathering; sometimes happy & funny & snarky, other times insightful & deep & contemplative, and other times dark & sad & suicidal. (See how I use ampersands/& when grouping adjectives but write out “and” when moving to a new-ish topic? That’s me – idiosyncratic. AND WITHOUT AN EDITOR BECAUSE I WOULD SURELY DRIVE ONE – or, a few – TO DRINK.)

JUSTIN BIEBER’S ASS (is this ass thing a theme?)

Bieber's ass - Summer 2015

Bieber’s ass – Summer 2015

Other things happened this weekend. Justin Bieber deleted his ass pic. He has feels. Listen:

“I deleted the photo of my butt on Instagram not because I thought it was bad but someone close to me’s daughter follows me and she was embarrassed that she saw my butt and I totally wasn’t thinking in that aspect. I felt awful that she felt bad. To anyone I may have offended I’m so sorry. It was completely pure hearted as a joke but didn’t take in account there are littles following me!”

Oh Justin, I know what it’s like to have Littles following you. In fact, just last night JustinBiebersLyrics followed me on Twitter. I blocked it, like all the other bots. Anyway, your Bieber-ass is pretty enough – but you’re no Djokovic. (Notice how easy it is to type the words “Justin Bieber” and “ass” close together? Poor Little Biebs – although – Biebs – is that dick pic floating around the web really yours? If so, nice one.

SPEAKING OF ASSES 3 (or, make that 15 now I think). . . . . .  insert here the name of any of the GOP Presidential candidates. I refuse to type them.

SPEAKING OF ASSES literary . . . . . . I am a book blogger – sort of – so I ought probably to write about the big release tomorrow but my feelings about it are all tied up in having spent a lot of time in my life with people in their eighties – especially those in assisted care, and having a lot of manuscripts and writing of my own packed and boxed away, and how I might be persuaded – should I live into my eighties (and please I do NOT want to) and have need of a trusted someone to manage my affairs, how I might be persuaded by that someone – no matter how good their intentions might be – to reveal/publish/share things I NOW, sound of mind and body (well, sort of, shut up) would choose NOT to share. The whole thing makes me feel dirty and I’m not going to read it. (Confession – I didn’t care much for TKAM anyway.)

SPEAKING OF ASSES . . . mine . . .

July 2015

July 2015

Yesterday at the gym a fellow who is in no way someone with any interest in any sort of shenanigans with me said, “You are really looking good.” That was nice. I have worked hard to lose nearly thirty pounds in a healthy way – a pound or two a week for months, exercise daily, good food. It was nice for someone with whom I have no relationship other than sharing a gym to tell me my consistent efforts were noticeable even to strangers. Thank you, Universe, for that Love & Light. (No ass pics nor dick pics of me floating around anywhere – that crazy I am not.) The pic was one I posted on Twitter. You should follow me there. I’m kind of funny (sometimes) and sad (other times) and I’ve been singing little snippets of songs for my darling, Her Grace, the Duchess Goldblatt (you should follow her, too, because she is the Queen of All Things.) In the past 24 hours I’ve talked about the gym, teens eating all my frozen diet treats, Chet Baker and how I love singing “My Funny Valentine”, my late night trolling of the Algonquin Hotel website, the thickness of mattresses on fold-out-couch-beds, Djokovic’s ass, Troubles by J.G.Farrell, new shoes I want, being judge-y about other people’s depressions, and more. I’m a renaissance man, a flaneur of the interwebs. FOLLOW+ME+DAMMIT+ (and re-tweet me and publish me and stuff – you don’t want to be an ASS entry, do you? Wait . . .  ass entry . . .  never mind. Love and Light, dear ones.

ZeitBites: The Personal is …

P.S. Before I even start – I DESPISE April 1. In a world gone as mad as this one, who the holy hell knows when outlandish claims and ridiculous stories and the profession of idiotic beliefs and commission of acts of hate are supposed to be a joke or put-on or joke? So, I do NOT do April Fool shit. There are too many fools on every day of every month – I only wish we COULD reduce it to one day.

The personal is … I wish I knew. Is it political? Is it didactic and dull? Is it pornographic TMI? Is it pointless to go on?

I want to be KNOWN as a writer. I want to be Joan Didion Edmund White  Charlie Smith. Yes. But, who is Charlie Smith?

libertytown coverUnable to get anyone to pay any attention to my novel – okay – maybe it does stink – I’ve been struggling with the contour and tone of this blog for more than a year. I needed an outlet once I’d lost my paid gig as weekly Ranter and Raver and theatre reviewer at the late, lamented Want to Dish, and HereWeAreGoing was meant to be that. It has morphed repeatedly. What began as hubristic on-line diary with appeal only to the approximately five people who gave a fuck that I’d lost my regular gig and killed my Facebook account, grew into a more gay-centric-pseudo-activist-political mish-mash combination musical theatre-esque fansite, from which it segued into long-form, long-term suicide note, the natural next step of which became a semi-nude celebrity worship/half-naked model-type with the occasional dick-pic adventures in the life of an aging, lugubrious gay man with sharp tongue site, and now, finally — or, rather, currently — it has become a literary leaning, book reviewing, author and agent stalking site – which still sometimes has pictures of half-naked men and bits and pieces of all the sorts of things my blog and I have been up until now.

It is, HereWeAreGoing, finally, the record and memory and shades and shadows (and pseudo-long-form suicide note) of my own personal Zeitgeist.

Thus, the Zeitbites entries. I see so much other really interesting stuff each morning as I troll sites,  Zeitbites I think ought to be shared with a wider audience, with those people whose sensibilities intersect with mine. I assume that if you are reading my blog, there is some connection to something about me, some identification of mutual or like interests. My hits and visits continue to rise, so, I must be appealing to someone — well, in my virtual life anyway — but enough about me, here’s MORE about me, in that, it’s the shit that appealed to me today . . .

Good, right? But if I could GET A LITERARY AGENT (Alice Tasman – HERE is her Twitter, she tweets about a lot of cool, add to your TBR pile books] or anyone at JVNLA LITERARY AGENCY [Click Here for rejection letters] – are you reading this? Of course not, why would they?) they would — no doubt — tell me that leading with my own 300 word precis into an essay on the same topic is NO WAY TO GET HITS. I was, when still Dishing,  REPEATEDLY told about myself by a former New York Times editor that ANYTHING LONGER THAN 300 WORDS WAS JUST MASTURBATION. Hmph. Apparently I have a rather prodigious gift for lit-jacking-off. Again, I say, HMPH. But, to prove that I CAN INDEED TAKE ADVICE – here is something short and sweet and freaking hilarious.

He’s a funny kid. A seventeen year old funny kid. A seventeen year old funny kid who knows what sells.

  • Speaking of which, here is a link to Andy Towel’s Towelroad item today about now 43 year old author,  Marcus Ewert, [CLICK HERE] who, at 17, stalked and bedded Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs. I wish that I – at 17 – had had balls (and looks) enough to have taken off in pursuit of my gay-lit-icons. I can’t really remember what I was doing at 17 in any detail – although I have joEwert Ginsbergurnals and folders and boxes full of shit I wrote then somewhere in storage. Pretty sure that at 17 I had run away to California and was being rejected by flannel-shirted men in San Francisco and fucking “straight” marines I’d found eating alone in restaurants over Thanksgiving – a bad habit, that. Not eating alone, I actually miss that, but, rather, the whole “straight” marine thing. Ah well . . . seems I should have been like Marcus and been stalking Edmund White and such.

But, I didn’t. In fact, much of my life was spent surrounded by very few members of my own “gay” cohort and far too many seventeen-year-olds — who most certainly did NOT stalk me — and far too many “personal essay” types, if by personal essay one means people whose self-interest and selfishness and myopic sense of right/wrong/compromise had all to do with the world revolving entirely around their needs and wants to which all others must bow … yeah. That.

But, as my blog has morphed, grown, changed, segued, so has my life. For example, my birthday month has begun – it is now April 1, and last night I went with some dear ones to dinner at one of my favorite boites in downtown Frederick (people use the acronym DTF – but for reasons I should think perfectly obvious, I just can’t), Olives [click HERE to visit] which is usually deserted on a Monday night but was SLAMMED last evening because Roseanne Cash   [click HERE for her website] was in concert at the Weinberg Center down the street. Luckily, thanks to the MANY hours and MANY Mondays my DB and I have spent falling off renting space on barstools at Olives,  I and my friends got pretty fast service – and it didn’t hurt that my favorite bartender was working AND my favorite “I am stalking you” twenty-something waiter took care of our table. I would like – someday – to type another sentence about something that sweet, young, barely-bearded one took care of for me – but, I wouldn’t, because my specialty is discretion.

  • What? Right, after dinner we went to the Roseanne Cash concert. Have to say, loved it. Her rendition of Ode to Billie Joe is just EVERYTHING one wants it to be.

I want – so much – before I die (personal essay time again) to do ONE MORE cabaret, and I am including Ode in the set list. In any event, great night. And she did an encore of 500 Miles which – for some reason – moved me to tears.

I was moved to tears again after I got home. Minding my own business, catching up on episodes of Bates Motel, about which I am unsure how I feel, and I am assaulted by an ad for an upcoming program at the Weinberg Center, from whence I have just come. No details and no worries, but the ad pushed memory buttons – some of which were unpleasant – which is what upset me. Let me clarify without clarifying – it wasn’t so much the content or the acts behind the content, but, rather, that I thought I had cleaned all that up and it makes me feel “less than” to realize I still have some residual infection. So, I cried.

But, EVERYTHING moves me to tears. I, who don’t even like basketball, somehow got caught up in the NCAA Sweet Sixteen thing (and wouldn’t this have a much sweeter, cooler flow if that was SWEET SEVENTEEN and I could tie it all together? But, alas – as usual – sports are NOT my friends.) and on Sunday, when the Kentucky team won with that final shot by one of the Anderson (I think) twins and the camera caught his Mother in the stands . . . yep, I wept. I’m not a “straight” marine. I’m a weeping fool. No bro, all homo, here.

Like I said, ALL HOMO BRO. Or, at my age, really more ALL BROMO, HO.

In any event, this post is WAAAAAY-OVER 300 words — in fact, it is OVER 300 WORDS TIMES 4 — which I guess means I have a chronic multiple masturbation problem? Or, at my age – a gift? No. Not really, maybe when I was a seventeen year old and lacking the sense to actually search out Ginsberg and Burroughs and do something about it. Damn that was a long time ago.

Like the beginning of this entry . . . so I guess I ought sign off and do some living so I have something new about which to write. Later. Much love,

Charlie

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing but NET (basketball, neutrality, and nutcases)

NET THING ONE: That gay basketball stuff

Yes, Jason Collins was signed by and played for the Brooklyn Nets making him the first active, openly gay player in pro sports. Woo-hoos in order indeed.

Still, not to be paranoid, but I’ve been around long enough to know how these sorts of things go and I worry that if openly gay men start getting signed by pro athletic teams, we’ll be forced to start allowing openly straight men in musical theatre.

And, frankly, I don’t want gay men to start influencing sports too much, because, you know, we’ll make it all interesting and exciting and next thing you know:

basketball naked 2 Basketball naked Blurred

– I’ll be forced to watch.

NET THING 2: That neutrality/Comcast and Verizon are about to ruin our lives some more thing

Once upon a time … not that long ago, a person couldn’t access endless, uninterrupted hours of bootleg television, movies, theatre, and most-important, blowjobs and bukkake on one’s laptop and cellphone. The on-line experience was about waiting (and waiting and waiting and…) for sites and images to load. And videos? Forget it. A person had to have a “convenient-to-you-but-unlikely-to-be-accessed-by-others” spot in which to store the porn to which one turned for companionship and fun.

Then dial-up died and we said good-bye to that ubiquitous sound of AOL connecting (well, and AOL, mostly, although I am still Luddite enough to have kept that email address) and we went to broadband heaven. It was never going to last.

Welcome to hell.

It was January when a federal court struck down net neutrality, which, long/short, means that companies willing (and able) to pay broadband providers blackmail ransom fees to receive preferential treatment will see their content being streamed quickly and instantly, while those unwilling (or unable) to do so – you know, little bloggers using free sites – like me – and random porn-channelers – will find their content not loading, or, loading at such an antiquated, dial-up like pace as to lose every click and view it might get because no-one used to insta-loads (ha-ha-ha, I said “loads” in a porn story) will be willing to wait for content.

Like I said, hell. And don’t you know, I got rid of all my hard(so to speak)copy porn.

And speaking of broadband and net-neutrality hell issues; I have become crazy-man (shut up) about pop-up ads and force-you-to watch 15 to 30 second vids before being taken to the content you want. I have stopped visiting Salon at all because of this. I have backed off YouTube because of it. And this morning, reading about NetFlix agreeing to pay Comcast (the devils taking us back to hell – along with Verizon, mark my words) to give them preferential streaming – I was assaulted on Gawker/Gizmodo by an ad.

Calling Dante.

I mean, I knew it was too good to be true, but, really? With the amount of money we are monthly paying to access content – as in our phone and wi-fi and cable providers (oh wait, would that be Comcast and Verizon again?) raising rates at levels outpacing healthcare costs, how is it that the service is continuing to become less and less consumer friendly? Oh, right, CAPITALISM.

Like any drug, at first they make it cheap and easy to get and use, then, once you are hooked, they screw the shit out of you.

NET THING 3: I may be a little bit crazy but . . .

… I got nothing on Alec Baldwin. And his screedy-ranting in New York Magazine is just exactly the sort of proof of internalized, acculturate homophobia I have been talking about in this blog SINCE I STARTED WRITING. Alec, trying to prove he’s not homophobic, lashes out and attacks the homos with all sorts of coded talk about mafia and cabals and implications of hidden agendas. You see? He pretended – claimed – convinced himself how NOT-homophobic he was FOR AGES, the whole, “I have gay friends” etc thing, but when life’s going got tough for him and he needed to step up and own those friendships and examine his own behavior and make hard choices – BAM – throw the fags and dykes under the bus.

LISTEN – I have had this VERY EXPERIENCE in my own life with people Baldwin-esque, who claimed to love me, claimed to adore me, claimed to be friend, claimed to be open-minded and horrified by homophobia, who, all along, thought their so-called homo-positivity was  a badge they’d won, something for which they deserved a prize and praise – BUT WHEN THE GOING GOT TOUGH, and they needed to examine their behavior and make some inconvenient choices in support of me – under the bus went this fag, code talk, “oh he’s crazy” etc innuendo, on and on.

If your pet homos are that disposable to you (including the ones in your family) then – guess what – you’re NOT so homo-positive.

Yeah. Well, maybe – like I said – I am a little crazy – but if anyone needs to be caught in a net, it’s the hypocrites and haters who pose as human-positive and then revert to the easy patois of hate and cliché when it’s convenient for them; let’s gather THEM up (and they know who they are – and when they read or hear stuff like this they get all – you know – accusatory and pissed off and say “He’s crazy” or “He’s impossible” or start with the stories about – you know – pick a coded innuendo, any coded innuendo -) and send them to HELL – as in – that circle create by Comcast and Verizon where their music videos, television shows, bootleg movies, music videos, and porn NEVER EVER LOAD.

Bwah-ha-ha! I’ll contact Elton John, Rachel Maddow, Anderson Cooper, Neil Patrick Harris, Ellen Degeneres, and the other members of the HomoMafia Board of Directors to get this taken care of.

THE SKY IS FALLING! Get me a little chicken, please.

THE SNOWY DEATH APPROACHES

The East Coast/Mid-Atlantic region in which I live is all abuzz – or, more accurately, apanic (if that wasn’t a word before, it is now, I am nothing if not lexicologically ambitious) over the approaching weather system which newscasters are calling – repeatedly – catastrophic. Really? The predictors of doom and ratings-whores are also bandying about the words “unprecedented” and “deadly” and various and sundry other adjectival combinations meant to terrify and scarify us into tuning into them for endless details about this winter storm, which, if one actually believed what they said, might well be a harbinger of the new ice age.

Bring it on, I start a new house-sitting gig later this morning and I have ten books to read before I become a fossil in some new glacier. I’ll die happy, if frozen.

Speaking of which, personally, I think this whole ice-agey-storm thing is all another Disney ad-campaign-trick to bump-up the grosses for Frozen even more. You can’t tell me Disney doesn’t control the weather. Well, you can tell me, but I won’t believe you.

BIG BROTHER WALT

HOLY SHIT – after I typed the previous sentence, my computer went mad and I could NOT get to ANY websites anywhere. Yikes, worse than controlling the weather – Disney controls the interwebs. Oh well, at least my dronedom to the Walt-ists in their world domination will be accompanied by soaring ballads, and, honestly, what else have I ever wanted?

ASSHOLE OF THE SOCHI DAY

athlete_christian_niccumSpeaking of drones – as in a parasitic, mindless drudge without capacity for human consideration – while I have been actively NOT watching the Olympics because of what I consider to be the contribution of the IOC and its sponsors to enculturated homophobia, I cannot AVOID all news of it; alas, mostly the bullshit, bad kind. And the latest dick – though I hesitate to use as descriptor a word representative of an object of which I am so fond – is luger, Christian Niccum, who has gotten his genital and ass-hugging Spandex all in a twist because of an ad by the Canadian Institute of Diversity and Inclusion meant as a commentary on the vileness of the Russian go-ahead-and-kill-the-gays law that DARED to depict luging as gay. Niccum finds it “sad” that they are using his sport to “promote diversity” and a “lifestyle.” Hey fuckhead, this isn’t a “lifestyle” I’m having – it’s a LIFE, and I’m not a “diversity” unless you live in a world of the presumptive superiority of heterosexism, you jerk. And if you find it OFFENSIVE and SAD to see something important to you PRESUMED or IMPLIED to be other than YOUR sexuality, take a moment to imagine what it is like for any of we “DIVERSITY” types – i.e. non-white, non-heterosexual, non-males on the planet – to have spent decades seeing everything PRESUMED to be about WHITE HETEROSEXUAL MEN LIKE YOU.

Fuck you, Christian Niccum. I am SO SICK of people like you with this thoughtless drivel of hatred and bigotry and the way you feel free to SPEW it at every goddam turn. I hope you do feel threatened. I hope you do feel shaken. I hope you do feel offended and put off by NOT being represented and included for one stinking ad – because then, maybe, if you have enough non-drone brain-cells left, you’ll consider for one moment what it is like to be DIVERSE and OTHER in the closed-off, vanilla, Disney-fied white-male world in which you apparently wish to continue living. Poor you, somebody said your sport might be a little gay. Get a life, Christian. (Wow, how many times have I wanted to type and say that before? And now, thanks to Mr. Niccum, I can.)

ON A LIGHTER NOTE … THE VAGINA DIAGRAMS and NEIL DIAMOND . . .

I live in a multi-generational situation, which is usually pretty great. It is nice to share time and perspective with people in their 80’s, 60’s, 40’s, teens, and pre-teens. I am known (and relied upon) for my ability to shovel – not just snow, but bullshit – and the making of elaborate birthday and holiday meals. Yes, I can cook too. (SHOWTUNE ALERT!)

And, too, the number of times a day I have to pee! (SHOWTUNE ALERT)

And, well, the way I lie about my age. Or, perhaps, a better choice of words would be “to deny” about my age. Yes. That’s nicer, isn’t it?

In any event, my nephew (really, my great nephew, and I mean that in all senses of the word) C, this week began the health unit at his middle school. So, yesterday, I’m standing in the kitchen and he comes up to me with a diagram on which he has filled in the various parts of the female reproductive system. He says to me, “This is a vagina, Charlie. I guess a guy like you has never seen one, so, here you go.”

LOL. I pretty much died.

This morning I was up before he left for school, which is unusual, and went into the kitchen to get my Keurig fix. I am also well known for NOT wanting to talk before having had at least two cups of coffee, and if I am FORCED to do so, well, the affectionate sobriquet C came up with for me – Uncle Potty Mouth – is usually MORE than accurate.

C is eleven. And he likes to goad me into swearing. And he did again this morning. At which point he said, “There he is,” and broke into Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline, only he changed the words to, “My sweet Uncle Potty-Mouth; good words never come out of his mouth.” He is a freaking comedian. I can’t stop laughing.

But, honestly, Neil Diamond? I mean, how the freak does he know Neil Diamond? AND MIGHT I ADD – he knows NOT ONE showtune and has NEVER BEEN TO A MUSICAL! I suck as an uncle, but, he has told me in no uncertain terms he WILL NOT go to a musical. This, despite me having gone to any number of his hockey games.

Oh well, he’s not unaffected by the culture. He also disdains my love of ice skating. No doubt, he too, is afraid he’ll grow up with the untenable urge to – PLEASE SAY IT ISN’T SO –  luge – and we all know what that means, don’t we Christian Niccum?

I WANT SOME CHICKEN

Later kids, gotta go get ready for the coming ice storm – I have my books lined up, now need to buy a flashlight and get my hands on some chicken. NO, not the kind of chicken meaning Twink-boys age 18 to 22 – not today. Although, I do have a story about this town being over run by Twinkie Hookers – who knew? I guess unemployment really IS a problem. Where was I? Oh, right, no, by chicken, I mean the fried kind. Like I said, I’m off to a house and pet sitting gig so it will just be me and the dogs (and a cat – but, you know, who counts a cat) and so if I’m going to freeze to death, well, I might as well hog it up, right? Because, it doesn’t look as if I will again be squeezing my sorry ass into spandex so I can get lain on that sled with my doubles partner and hurtle to a little death brought on by the big . . . never mind. Christian, if we live, call me?

SOCHI FOREVER! (And Charlie is kidnapped and beaten to death by a CraigsList Luge Trick. The end.)

Zeitbite Friday (or is that FriGAY?) RUSSIAN BROADWAY!

BEFORE THE ACTUAL POSTI am FINALLY going to get my first tattoo. (MY LOVE OF TATTOOED MEN IS WELL DOCUMENTED – CHECK THIS POST – ONE OF MY MOST POPULAR, CLICK HERE: SEARCHING FOR MEANING  IN TATTOOED LOVERS)My really good dear friend, C, texted me yesterday and said, “COME ON -Let’s do this when I’m home – get your designer together and we’ll go.” SO – uhm – I need help with my design. I have a word I want wrapped around my arm, but I want the letters all entwined in a viney, veiny, flowery(?) design so it doesn’t just look like a word – SHOULD I DRAW THIS MYSELF OR GO CONSULT? HELP? (Here was a tattoo I THOUGHT I wanted once in post: Okay … My Tattoo … sort of – CLICK)

Okay – Frigay. I mean – well –

This is what we do – “we” being those subversive “OTHERS” that places like Russia and the Republican party are so eager to disallow and demonize – WE LAUGH. Happy Friday.

JEREMY FREAKING JORDAN

JEREMY FREAKING JORDAN

First, Broadway stars respond – well, sort of – to Russia’s ban on gay positivity in musicals. Wow – I am not as big a theatre queen as I thought because I KNOW I missed some people but these I got before the credits rolled; but MARY TESTA!, Victoria Clark, Andrew Rannells, Michael Urie, Danny Burstein, Andrew Lippa, Jackie Hoffman, Barbara Walsh, Michael Ceveris, Joanna Gleason, Roger Rees, Harvey Fierstein, Stephen Schwartz, Harriet Harris,  Stephanie Block, Laura Benanti, Rebecca Luker, Laura Osnes,

If you don’t have the patience for all 11 minutes (and you should, it’s divine) then you MUST go to 6:55 and watch Block and Benanti for 1969’s Russian Space Lesbians Duet and too, to 7:45 for Russian Broadway Beltresses, and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD AND THE BLESSED TRINITY OF MARY MARTIN ETHEL MERMAN BARBARA COOK GO TO 9:10 FOR JONATHAN GROFF AND THE SECOND COMING, THE SAVIOUR HIMSELF, JEREMY JORDAN!

I hate Jonathan Groff. The fact that he got to be sung a love song by Jeremy Jordan; that he got to rub Jeremy Jordan’s chest and hold Jeremy Jordan’s hand; that he got to rest his head in the PROMISED LAND OF JEREMY JORDAN’S LAP – I mean, WTF? He already had Zachary Quinto. THAT WASN’T ENOUGH?

Okay, then I found this GAY SHAMING STORY (and link to Instagram here site) on BOY CULTURE, which I daily check, a site curated by author Matthew Rettenmund.

gay shaming

Even funnier are Matthews ideas for other gay-shaming signs, in particular, “I don’t know how many inches long my dick is” – although, more appropriate would be, “I don’t CARE how many inches long your dick is” – OR – “The only stat I want to know is your IQ” – but, I digress –

And when Ellen DeGeneres met Elias … oh my goodness, SO AMAZING! Watch this … I laughed, I cried, this makes me so happy. Please let him stay this happy his entire life and not let the world and art and adulthood get to him … I used to be THAT KID. Look at me now.

And, oh, Davey Wavey and his WICKYDKEWL YouTube Channel (CLICK HERE) posted “Ask Your Doctor About ‘Gay Away'” –

I love Davey. One, he never wears a shirt – which is something to which I aspire in my next life – well, actually, I’d settle for just being confident enough in my body to take my shirt off in the light, any light. Two, he did another vid about not being an AGEIST dick-twink-ass-gay – go Davey!

Speaking of body image and taking my shirt off . . . Funny story. Well, maybe not. But, when I got up this morning – way too early – I am having nightmares again – anyway – I did what I always do, threw my legs over the side of the bed and moved to nearby couch where I put my clothes (I sleep naked – FYI TMI) and groped for socks, sweats, etc and dressed. THEN, I turned on a light. And started laughing. EVEN WHEN I AM BY MYSELF, I dress in the dark.

And, now, the obligatory sexy men I can tag as “big dick” so I get a million hits. Yeah. That. Here’s the ARTY one:

Art January 24 2014

From ART FOR MEN, click on pic to go to site

And along with the tattoo theme . . . Dec 31 2013 december 31 2013 jan 24 2 jan 24 3 jan 24 4 jan 24 5 jan 24 6 jan 24 7 jan 24 8 jan 24 9 jan 24 oct 31 2013 2 oct 31 2013 3 oct 31 2013 tattoo oct 2013

Sascha Kooienga

Ryan McGinely's BRADLEY

Ryan McGinely’s BRADLEY

Ryan McGinley's KENSIE

Ryan McGinley’s KENSIE

Ryan McGinley's SHANE

Ryan McGinley’s SHANE

Ryan McGinley's TOM

Ryan McGinley’s TOM

Library Art 2

Happy Frigay, my friends.

Random Thoughts Thursdays … YES! A hook-up musical. Bring on the NOISE; Bring on the JUNK!

So, there’s a musical about Grindr? I found this while cruising Queerty (CLICK HERE) this morning. And, yes, that’s Anthony Rapp from Rent.

Fascinating. I’ve never been on Grindr – hard to believe, I know as I am all sex-hook-up-positive and such, but, I am not now and never have been the kind of attractive that works on a see-my-pic/want-my-dick kind of site. In addition to which, a large portion of the gay community cohort – which ought really to know better – is horrifyingly ageist. The whole Tom Daley dating Dustin Lance Black thing really spotlit that. I found this opinion piece in the Washington Blade (CLICK HERE) about it:

My Partner is 34 Years My Senior – So What? (Click here to read).

we've all got our junk ... hope someone at the gym today has theirs out ...

we’ve all got our junk … hope someone at the gym today has theirs out …

Look, in the musicals quotation vein: We’ve all got our junk. And by JUNK, I mean not JUST our genitals – but all the garbage we attach to using them.

There are different kinds of “the click” and it has been my experience that the very narrow definitions and parameters of what constitute “acceptable and approved relationships” are – quite often – inadequate to actual life. As a patriarchal culture that has historically required a large population of underlings to serve the few “masters”  – the approved model is a masculine dominated partnership in which sex is used as a bargaining chip, a source of power and control. In actual fact, many primary relationships – by which I mean intense connections of like spirits – are not sexual; and by the same token, many sexual exchanges are not primary relationships, or, are not designed to be more important than the sort of casual friendships of surface connect. Sex has become ridiculously fraught with cultural-religious-socio-economic-faux-morality baggage and – all too often – it becomes our JUNK (so to speak) when it should be just fucking fun. Or, fun fucking. Whatever, like I said – like Spring Awakening said:

I’ve worked really hard to live and see outside the patriarchal-heterosexist-capitalist parameters constructed to define and confine us. It is – not gonna lie – very lonely out here. And dangerous; you can think you’ve “connected” with a like-spirit – on some or another level – and, sometimes, you do – BUT, all too often, after the fact, that other person will find it far easier to fall back into the culturally-approved limitations; few people have the courage to live outside the boundaries and the box – and BEWARE, if you take somewhere there (here) – when they revert to cultural-trope-type, they will ALMOST ALWAYS find it necessary – no matter how much they loved you or said they loved you – to DEMONIZE you. And “demonizing” you is pretty easy when you live on the outside as an “other” and refuse to toe the patriarchal line.

This is getting RIDICULOUSLY heavy, when I meant to be funny and light and flit around today. I should probably head for the gym (LOL – after all that talk of being “other” – I, Hypocrite, cannot accept the body and age I have/am, and FIGHT IT OFF with hours working out – pretty much to no avail) and see if there’s anything fun going on in the showers or sauna (and again – doubt I’ll be lusting after anyone “outside” the parameters of conventionally defined good looks).

Speaking of gyms and half-naked men and idealized versions of junk exciters – did you not get that from the above? LOL – Russell Tovey, my idealized fantasy boyfriend (one of them) or junk-up – posted a GIF of himself that I sort of loved –

Tovey, Russell Jan 2014

I want him. Badly. I am not alone – although I STILL think I called him first in this country – it was YEARS ago when he was in The History Boys on Broadway. I called him and Dominic Cooper. So there. Last week (?) Towelroad did a whole pictorial on Russell in his new London play, Pass.

Tovey, Russell PASSFYI- I’ve never been to London, so if anyone wants to send me over there so I can write a more in-depth, up close and personal piece about Russell’s pieces – I’d be happy to do it. Or them. Or him. I think I have a passport. Click here for the link to the whole pictorial.

And, before I sign off, on a more erudite note, I am currently reading Body Counts: A Memoir of Politics, Sex, Aids, and Survival by Sean Strub as published by Scribner. Body Counts

Quite moving, and terrifying. Having lived through and come out during the 70’s/80’s in some of the same milieu, it is both melancholic and infuriating – once more. Everyone should read it in light of the recent attempts to roll back rights and what is going on in Sochi and – more importantly, everyone YOUNG should read it – to get some understanding of what it was like to live “out” in those decades – and have to fight almost every day for the right to even be who you were, speak your truth, hell, hang a photo of your significant other in your office.

And, too, how excited am I that Armistead Maupin has delivered another chapter in the Tales of the City saga? It’s called The Days of Anna Madrigal , and I cannot wait to get my hands on it.  Lambda Literary has an interview with the literary icon HERE – click to read. HARPER.0121.B1.THEDAYSOFANNAMADRIGAL

And, equally exciting for me, Michael Cunningham – another of my literary icons – is releasing his next book, The Snow Queen (Click here for details and his website), in May. I devour each of Cunningham, Michael The Snowqueenhis releases and then return to them, again and again, as I work on my own projects, to study and admire. His work is eminently readable but also – for a writer – taking it apart, looking at his technical acumen and learning from him – such a gift.

Zeit-bites for a Snow Day … Charlie gives you things about which to think …

Seven to ten inches expected. Oh, how I love those words. (Stop it.Kerry Washington Drinking)

I’m a huge fan of snow. The kind of snow that stops people, that blankets the world in silence, that requires staying home and staying in and not being given a choice. It doesn’t take much for me to determine that the snow falling is JUST THAT SERIOUS. So, today’s seven to ten on top of the weekend’s eight, yes, I am staying in and baking cookies and roasting a chicken and maybe – JUST MAYBE – a little wine later? … but first …

Did anyone watch the second night of “Bonnie & Clyde”? I mean, I expressed my abashed and appalled distaste for Part 1’s misogynistic leanings last night (CLICK HERE), but then I watched Part 2 last night and – somehow – it got even more ridiculously sexist. Honestly – DID NO ONE  EVER QUESTION THIS APPROACH? I suppose it is something of a spoiler but NO ONE SHOULD WASTE FOUR HOURS OF THEIR LIVES WATCHING THIS ANTI-WOMAN INDOCTRINATION PIECE OF SHIT – so, here goes. We all know they die in – as they say – a hail of gun fire – but in THIS VERSION, Clyde, heartbroken and destroyed by Bonnie’s bloodthirsty, fame-hungry nature, DELIBERATELY delivers himself and Bonnie to the set-up assassination scene. He KNOWS they are being set-up and he GOES THERE because Bonnie is so eager to continue “crime-ing” (what the fuck is crime-ing, by the way?) and gaining fame that he realizes they must die so she won’t continue forcing him to kill people. SHE HAS SHOT A FATHER OF TWO THROUGH THE FACE ON CHRISTMAS NIGHT FOR NO REASON AT ALL – which, you see, horrifies all the rest of the outlaws with whom she runs – including Clyde – and then, his brother, Buck, dies because Bonnie is SO INTENT on stalling at a shoot-out scene long enough to get her little hope-chest-box thing full of newpaper clippings and mementoes and then extols to Clyde the virtues of Buck having died famous instead of living sixty years without any sort of notoriety. Clyde decides right then: “I knew then,” he says in idiotic voice-over, “what I had to do.”

RIDICULOUS. Okay, I feel better. No. I don’t. We MUST begin finding remedy for this sexist/rape culture in which we live. Look at this article from Salon about how some are STILL trying to defend male supremacy cultural sexual harassment – it is fucking outrageous. “SEXUALLY HARASSING WOMEN IS A FUN ACTIVITY JUST LIKE SKIING” (CLICK HERE)

I’m a fun person – really I am. Evidence, the way and degree to which I love this NAKED CONDOM commercial. “Hey, the toothpaste is on sale!” “COME AGAIN!” Watch:

And, I LOVE sex and think EVERYONE should have it all the time – in fact, I am one with John Waters who combines a love of books and sex and believes that the giving of books as gifts should be rewarded with sex. Listen:

“I always give books. And I always ask for books. I think you should reward people sexually for getting you books. Don’t send a thank-you note, repay them with sexual activity. If the book is rare or by your favorite author or one you didn’t know about, reward them with the most perverted sex act you can think of. Otherwise, you can just make out.“(READ THE WHOLE NEW YORK TIMES PIECE BY CLICKING HERE)

If I had gotten “reward sex” for all the books I have given, my genitals would long ago have fallen off from over-use. Alas, I never though of such a thing.

Tucci, Stanley I was gay once. for a whileSpeaking of genitals and falling off; my imaginary boyfriend (well, one of many) STANLEY TUCCI is starring in a new film written and directed by Neil LaBute who can be counted on to think of things emotional and cultural in ways the rest of us have probably not. His work often offends, shocks, and shakes up – and always makes me think and reconsider things I have thunk before. So, I am eager to see “Some Velvet Morning” and not just because I am hoping for a glimpse of Tucci naked. Although, I am. Click here for an article and trailer on BUZZFEED.

See, I’m not prudish. And LaBute OFTEN has been accused of misogyny, and I wonder what this film might say about that? It clearly deals with sex and love and where in our culture such things fit and their definitions. I am working on a number of projects trying to deal with those things and the nauseating, poisonous damage LABEL-ing does to all of us every day and the ways in which it limits our thinking.

Reborn by Amy Judd - Oil on Canvas

Reborn by Amy Judd – Oil on Canvas

Speaking of thinking and labels: I’ve been playing with the notion of masks and costumes we wear to FIT the labels with which we are monikered, and the ways in which we strip away parts of ourselves (or hide) to please others or fit in – and I found this painting by Amy Judd which seems to speak to that and women’s sexuality all at once  – Look how beautiful! CLICK HERE FOR HER WEBSITE!

Okay, well, I’ve eaten some cold pizza (left over from last night’s “well it’s going to snow and calories don’t count on snowdays” dinner) and now it is time to make cookies – chocolate chip and also white-chocolate-macadamia and maybe, if I have the energy – snickerdoodles. Then, time to roast the chicken all wrapped in bacon and saute the Brussels sprouts (with bacon, LOL) and … if we do have the winter they are predicting I will end up weighing twenty pounds more than I do now (which is already twenty pounds more than I should dammit – but wait – that’s one of those labels, right?)

Love and Light, friends. Be Better.

… i will never forget it …

The older I get, the more I appreciate the good old days, particularly Bette and her Sophie Tucker jokes. Watch this.

I saw Ms. Midler live twice. Best concerts EVER. She never let down. Not for one moment. I laughed. I cried. I marvelled. She was a great influence on me.

And more:

Neither of these has my favorite of her Sophie jokes in which her boyfriend Ernie is proud to tell Sophie on the occasion of his 80th birthday that he is marrying a twenty year old girl. Upon receipt of such braggadocio, Sophie replies; “Well Ernie, on the occasion of my 80th birthday I shall marry a 20-year-old man, and let me tell you something, Ernie: 20 goes into 80 aHELLUVA lot more than 80 goes into 20.”

May I just say that my recent experience – though I am not yet 80 – proves this joke to be EVEN funnier than I thought it was at 20 and 30. Now, I am rolling on the floor – laughing – and doing the math. Just how many times does 25 go into 43? (Yes, dammit, FORTY-fucking-THREE) and what is left when you subtract 35 from 43? I was never very good with numbers, I confess.

… that’s what keeps ’em coming back for more …. I’m here all week …

 

oh FIDDLE DEE DEE!!!…my head might just EXPLODE…

Today I celebrate my 18th. I think I might just EXPLODE from the pressure.

Oh fiddle-dee-dee, I am losing my head!

Oh fiddle-dee-dee, I am losing my head!

I stopped smoking at midnight, Sunday, June 9, making this the 18th full day I will live without a cigarette. It will also mark the 18th full day I will live without having had a decent night of sleep. It will also mark the 18th day in which I have been unable to write a “real” blog entry. “REAL” meaning – to me – an entry constructed after the models of Montaigne, Dorothy Parker, Joan Didion, Fran Lebowitz, David Rakoff, Christopher Hitchens. Now PLEASE – I KNOW I have NEVER come close to achieving the glory of even the least of their work; but they are my models, that to which I aspire.

Unfortunately, without nicotine, I seem even less able to approach their level than I was before. Sometimes completing one coherent on-topic paragraph is all I can manage in a day’s work. To actually compose an entire piece, with a beginning, middle, end, and sub-textual heft, levels of meaning, and rhythms and flowing syntax: FORGET IT.

Add to this, the SCOTUS decision of yesterday to gut the Voting Rights Act, and the possibility that they might, today, set LGBT rights back AGAIN, not to mention the goings on in Texas where my new idol, Senator Wendy Davis tried to stand up to the bullies in that state with a filibuster the bullies then tried to bully down – well, my head just might explode!

Which leads me to the Video of the Day. There is something profoundly disturbing about this video. But also irresistible. Profoundly disturbing and irresistible PRETTY MUCH sums up the history of EVERYTHING in life to which I have been attracted, including cigarettes and men out of my league. So, enjoy – I mean, who hasn’t – at some point – wanted to watch Maria vonTrapp, Scarlett O’Hara, Eliza Doolittle, Ilsa Lund, and Dorothy Gale EXPLODE?!

If SCOTUS doesn’t do the right thing today, the next head you see exploding will be MINE. Or, maybe I’ll just have a cigarette. After all, I’m eighteen today.