How’s It Going to End?

  • I’VE BEEN BUSY (sort of)

Sorry about the lack of new entries. I don’t want to jinx it by speaking too much of it – I am having some success with my writing efforts. Not, mind you, at achieving publication, but, rather, at the actual act of composing. I’m not sure I even care much anymore if anyone ever reads any of it. I used to think I knew who were the regular readers of this blog, but, conversations of late – real and virtual – have made me realize that I was once again wrong.

I am wrong so often, it doesn’t even surprise me anymore. And I am also – final-ish-straw time – no longer phased, hurt, even bump-in-the-road-shocked when people I thought were listening to me turn out not to have ever much heard anything I actually said.

People are busy. And I guess I’ve never been much fun. It’s a Tom Waits sort of morning.


In other news, the child on whom I happily showered massive love through his formative years, he who has always been so kind, so there (here) and never once sold me up the river; he has scored ridiculously well on the LSAT. I am wonderfully happy for him and hope when he goes to law school he has Annalise Keating for a professor. And a lover who is not a murder suspect. Or crazy. His luck with women has been rather . . . well, he is a magnet for crazy. Thus, our long-standing devotion to one another. Speaking of, ever since our night of too-much-wine more than a week ago . . .

  • I’VE BEEN SICK (sort of)

Yes, though I’ll spare you the details, I have been experiencing some sort of intestinal disorder for eleven days now. Its initial strike the day after Mr. Soon-To-Be-Lawyer and I over-imbibed is what prompted my decision to – again – quit drinking. So, I have. But, alas, the dysentery-like-mystery-illness has yet to subside.

Good news, I’ve lost six pounds. And while I frequently feel slightly nauseated and have a minor-league headache, I do not have any fever and mostly, have an appetite – although any sort of food ingestion quickly involves a visit to a restroom, INSTANT availability of which is non-negotiable, LOL.

My approach to all things medical: Wait. It will go away. So, I’m hoping.

  • AND AMERICAN HORROR STORY … my weekly Jessica fix …

And while hoping, I am doing my writing and watching my programs. Last night’s AMERICAN HORROR STORY: FREAK SHOW – as always, loved. I am devoted. It’s fashionable for the hip and the reviewers and the arty types to do all sorts of cavilling and complaining and carping about Mr. Ryan Murphy on blogs and Twitter and such. Fuck ’em. Jealous of his empire. Jealous that he’s living his dream. Why don’t they all shut the hell up and expend their energy on making their own art rather than denigrating his? People are such assholes.

Segue there. Last night’s episode featured a near-naked Thor as trick for Dennis O’Hare’s character. I’ve never been a fan of superhero genre types, so, Thor was pretty and all (and count on Ryan to give us hot-man-ass — BUT WHEN DO WE SEE EVAN NAKED THIS YEAR? HMMM?) but I have had a thing for Denis O’Hare since I saw him on Broadway in Take Me Out, where he was virtually the only cast member who didn’t get naked. If he’s typecast in AHS, I seem to have missed something special.

AHS Freak O'Hare & Thor

And, in addition, we got another Jessica cabaret number:

And Frances Conroy -which is enough in itself – and Patti LaBelle doing a turn as Woody Woodpecker. Yes. That. And Finn Wittrock.

AHS Freak Finn

He may well be my new imaginary lover. I didn’t like the way Evan Peters looked at Emma Roberts last night. If he can’t understand that she is no good for him, well, I won’t wait forever. Except, maybe I will — I mean, look:

ahs evan crazyEvan Peters Coven 4Evan Peters Coven 3Evan Peters Coven 2

I forgive you, Evan. Until I see Wittrock’s ass. And I trust Ryan Murphy. I think we have the same taste in men. Which never ends well … or, never has so far. But . . .


I have no idea. And, you know what, this illness – which is sort of dehydrating and a bit tiring – is nicely metaphorical for my recent feelings about life; Doesn’t much matter what I put into it, same ridiculous, endless shit is the result.

Things to do. Must run.


ZeitBites Friday: Can’t Write Now, I’m Writing!

I’d love to write more but I’m trying to write more. Point being, my usual blogging rumination, meditation, consideration, speculation, contemplation, theorization, and excogitation – all done in the service of my pathological procrastination – must be put on hold today that I can complete what I have come to call my two Halloween projects, neither of which is, I can assure you, a costume. So, links and tiny, little thinks today.


Ebola Nurse MovedYesterday, my favorite bank teller said in response to my, “How are you?”, the following; “Well, could be worse. At least I don’t have Ebola yet.” I suggested Ebola was nowhere near us, and her chances of getting Ebola were quite slim, and it seemed silly to worry about that with so much else going on in the world and, too, since we lived in Frederick, Maryland, home to Fort Detrick, rumored birthplace of the AIDS virus and storage location of all sorts of things so powerfully toxic and germ-warfare-deadly as to make Ebola seem like a head cold. I was feeling all clever about that when last night on the fictional  Scandal it was revealed that the President’s son had been murdered with a strain of deadly virus stolen from Fort Detrick, right here in Frederick, Maryland. I felt a little less clever when during the fictional How To Get Away With Murder, a Breaking News run appeared across the bottom of the screen announcing that Nurse Pham, Ebola patient from Dallas, had just landed at the Municipal Airport in Frederick, Maryland – less than five miles from my house and across the street (and a rather large-ish field or two) from my Mother’s Senior Living Complex – for ambulance transfer to N.I.H. in Bethesda. And after I’d promised my favorite bank teller everything would be fine. I still believe that. I am flabbergasted by the combined over-reaction and under-reaction to this. We couldn’t be bothered to do virtually anything about it before it happened here, and now, BAM, mass panic and ridiculous amounts of finger-pointing and “WHAT ABOUT ME?”-ism.

Let me say THIS; Every minute, EVERY MINUTE, four children die of hunger. We have the resources and the ability to SOLVE world hunger, and we don’t. We buy new I-Phones and try to stop people from marrying and PANIC and ACCUSE about, “OOOH, what if Ebola happens to us?” Come on people, aren’t we better than this? But, I guess not, just a brief look at and listen to yesterday’s idiots on the congressional panel questioning the response to Ebola prove how selfish, stupid, and self-involved we all are. Sucks to be us.

Now, if I HAD to panic and be all quarantined and such, could it possibly be with two male strippers – slash – models – slash – authors? From the New York Daily News, HERE. LOL.


Last night’s How To Get Away With Murder did it again. WOW. Gay sex scenes on this show are just wonderfully hot. Really. There was some Twitter-patter-mini-uproar about the villain of the piece being gay and his self-defenestration, but, you know what? Internalized homophobia is a thing, and having villains of all stripes is what happens in the real world. This show manages to represent a slice of real world BETTER THAN most other shows and I was not at all offended. I was, however, uhm … watch:

The Pax character later said – prior, of course, to tossing himself out the window: “He did this thing to my ass that made my eyes water.” I am telling you, this is QUALITY TELEVISION. This actor, Niko Pepaj, obviously going places.

Pepaj Niko

  • LOSING, LOSS, meditations on letting go . . .

My blog entry yesterday: Fallterations: Edit, Expand. Lose, Learn. [CLICK HERE] , was my first in nearly a week. Long week. Hard week. I was sick for a few days and I quit drinking. And the Baltimore Orioles were swept to defeat in the American League Championship [CLICK HERE], thus dashing my Mom’s hopes that after a three-decades-plus wait, she would see her beloved Orioles win another World Series. Looks like she’ll have to live at least another year.


Dear Ryan Murphy, I love you. This season is killing it. Literally and figuratively. LOVE. Sarah Paulson. Amazing. So many lines this week were amazing. WATCH IT.

And Finn Wittrock as Dandy along with Frances Conroy as his Mother. Holy sideshow. Amazing.


I leave for a house/pet gig tomorrow for a few days. Lap top. Writing. Reading. I have way too many books in my stack of musts, and more were added yesterday. Three from my friends at The Curious Iguana [CLICK HERE], and one through the mail, discarded from a library.

October books

Add them to the list. Argh. Guess, like my Mom, I’ll have to live another year too. So, I’ll start with this weekend … and my books … alas, I will be reading alone.

reading oct 17 7 Reading Oct 17 2 reading oct 17 6 Reading Oct 17 3 Reading Oct 17 4 reading oct 17 8

Later, friends.



I object(ify) … a new kind of Flipper

Well, American Horror Story has returned with Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuck’s Season 4 iteration: Freak Show. The ninety minute premiere – which I have already watched twice – did not disappoint. Ryan Murphy is my spiritual Doppelganger, as I have stated before [CLICK HERE for past AHS/RYAN MURPHY blog: American Horror Story: Coven -The End] and another freaky (excuse me) mind-fuck-link-connection happened last night with his conjoined twins/Tod Browning’s Freaks obsession. And, holy shit, when Jessica Lange floated onto the stage looking like a crack-addled Marlene Deitrich and started singing Is There Life on Mars, I lost it. Look:

I spent YEARS of my youth wailing along to Barbra Streisand albums (and they were albums – and eight-tracks – that’s how far removed is my youth) and her over-thinking of Bowie’s Life on Mars was one of my hyperbolic, bedroom-mirror, over-acting top ten hits. Oh Ryan, did you break into my storage unit and steal all of the journals and poetry-collections I wrote during my teens and twenties?

And now? You checking out my fantasies? Because, wow, Evan Peters getting even hotter this year, and playing Lobster Boy: a man with flippers for hands. Flippers he uses as faux-penis to get off bored housewives at  – uhm – Flipper-ware parties? I am – again – obsessed.

Evan Peters

And because there can never be enough of him:

Evan Peters Coven 4Evan Peters Coven

I’d re-cap last night’s episode, but, why? Enough other people do and I could give a shit about the details of the plot. Don’t worry about the plot, people. Immerse yourselves in the experience.

And because I’m objectifying today, uhm, Russell Tovey filming season 2 of Looking. Looking, indeed:

Tovey, bridge

And, because as with Evan, there can never be enough Russell, here:


Hot guys. Out of my league. Sorry A.B.C., but it’s true and I’m not going to lie about it just to convince you I’ve gotten self-esteem – there’s self-esteem and there’s being delusional. Speaking of which, tonight is Shonda Rhimes night and on Scandal, uhm, Cyrus was approached last week by a sex-worker who he delusionally, at first, thought might be interested in him. Look at this guy:

cyrus sex worker

PLEASE. Cyrus – no matter how fucked up and grieving he may be – Cyrus is a political operative. When someone that much better looking than he is, so far out of his league, comes at him – he would DEFINITELY know it was some sort of set-up. Please. Fading old men are NOT approached by hot, hard-bodied, younger – did I say HOT – guys unless those guys have an agenda. And believe me, I know from agendas. I have been agenda-ed until I couldn’t take a breath without the pain of a broken heart-spirit-ego, so, yeah. Stop it Cyrus. And Shonda. (Interesting yet somehow tragic note on my life: above pictured Scandal younger-guy-sex-worker is one of the OLD men on MTV’s Teen Wolf, which I regularly watch to lust after the YOUNG men. Oh, Charles.)

Speaking of old and young and such, have to run. It’s “cart-around-my-amazing-Mom” day. Did I mention that working title for my short-story is Tricks My Mother Gave Me or Tricks My Mother Taught Me? Not going into details, just want everyone (that means YOU A.B.C.) to know I am, in fact, editing and writing – and, obviously, BLOGGING.

And, BAM, less than 600 words.

#GoneGirl … false advertising

gone-girl-poster1Spoilers? Look, sometimes they are a public service. Like this one: Ben Affleck and Neil Patrick Harris do both show penis but the shots are so fast, you can barely appreciate the girth and length and width of their talents. I will be purchasing the DVD. Can you say: Stop. Action.

(LATE NOTE: And, if you need ANY MORE proof that we are immersed in a misogynist male-centric culture – all this discussion – AND I INCLUDE MYSELF IN THIS WHICH IS WHY I HAVE ADDED THIS NOTE ONCE I REALIZED WHAT A BIG DEAL I MADE OF THE PENI AND THOUGHT NOTHING OF THE WOMEN BEING ASKED TO DISROBE – about Affleck and Harris penis – and no discussion of the frequently exposed breasts of Rosamund Pike and Emily Ratajkowski. Female nudity is expected. Male nudity is a topic of discussion. It’s STILL okay to measure women by their breasts and still NOT okay to measure men by their penises. Or, make their penises the measure of the men. Well, except at my gym, in the showers and sauna, and . . . never mind. Where was I?)

I read the book and I marvelled at Gillian Flynn’s technical acumen. The structure and the plotting and the handling of the surprises and twists were all quite breath-taking. But, I hated the ending.

Now, I’ve seen the movie. I thought the script was well-done, the casting was phenomenal — and as my friend said, “I never thought I’d ever say this but Tyler Perry was good.” Yup. Same for Mr. Affleck – although I think he should have cried in the final scene with the sister character. I thought Kim Dickens was especially amazing as Detective Rhonda Boney. Still, I hated the ending.

I did, however, love the long exposure of Neil Patrick Harris’ ass. Would I recommend the film? Well, not if you’re going for Affleck and Harris penis (not that I know ANYONE who did go for that reason) but if you read the book and loved it, this is a very faithful, well done adaptation.

alamosI had a glass (maybe two) of wine before I saw the film – and let me say this about that. I had those glasses along with dinner at Macaroni Grill. Not a huge fan of chain restaurants but local Macaroni Grill shares a parking lot with the cinema complex. Too, the LAST time I was dragged there by another loved one for whom Macaroni Grill mac and cheese is crack, it was literally “a kick in the head”; I shared a booth-back with an out-of-control, nine or ten-year-old, barefoot brat who jiggled, jumped, and jolted so much that I spilled my wine. The ultimate affront was when the beast put his BARE FEET on the seat back and kicked me in the head. After my death-ray glare did nothing but get a sort of raised hand, “what can you do” smile from the demon’s grandfather (I think – I suppose it could have been his father, the age of whose rotted, fetid seed would explain the child’s bestial nature). When I very politely mentioned m the ongoing disruption of my dinner to the manager wandering around in his un-tucked, wrinkled shirt, I was told, “Oh, sorry, wish I could do something.” Unlike him, I DID do something. I wrote to corporate. They sent me a $20 gift card. Uhm, here’s the thing. My dinner that night was considerably more than $20. And last night, well, I had a glass of Alamos Malbec – an acceptable red that can be found for somewhere in the range of $9 to $12 depending on the liquor store and whether or not one buys twelve bottles at a time (don’t ask) – so imagine my chagrin to find A GLASS priced at $8.50 and a bottle at $36. WHAT THE FUCK? The bottle of wine at dinner was TWICE AS MUCH as the gift card they sent me for the ruination of my LAST over-priced dinner there.

Worse, the hostess did not get my jokes (and I’m funny, ask my dear-one, A.B.C.) and the waiter kept trying to be amusing but he was not.

No worries. On a sort-of-related note – this is my second under-1000-word – slash – trying to be perky/funny blog entry. Might I mention that the FIRST got about HALF as many hits as do my lugubrious, depressed entries. Hmm, maybe happy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Whatever. Nothing can bring me down at the moment because in LESS than 24 hours I will be watching Ryan Murphy’s masterpiece starring the incomparable Jessica Lange; AMERICAN HORROR STORY: FREAK SHOW. I am ridiculously excited. Read about it by CLICKING HERE.

Truth is – and we all already know I’m so shallow I only went to GONE GIRL because I heard I would see Affleck and Harris’ dicks – my PRIMARY reason for watching AHS is Evan Peters. He is my Number One Imaginary Lover. And that is NO SMALL FEAT.

ahs evan crazyEvan Peters CovenEvan Peters Coven 2Evan Peters Coven 3 Evan Peters Coven 4ahs tate gif

Later pals.

Return Slowly to the Seated Position … SPIN CLASS HELL … and CANTOR LOSES …


Those of you with only even the most exiguous knowledge of my life history be warned; Sit Down Before Reading This. You’re in for a shock. I’d join you but I can’t bend my legs because last night I took my first spin class.

What fresh hell is this?

What fresh hell is this?

Again, those of you who know me — even a LITTLE — understand why and with what fervency I avoid any situation in which a room is full of people moving in time to musical accompaniment while following in fearful, sheepish  obeisance the shouted orders commands dictates ultimatums threats belittlements imprecations encouragements of an instructor. So, when dear S (who has gotten me into SO MANY fine messes of late) suggested I take this class with her, WHY DID I SAY YES?

I. Never. Learn.

This biking thing is getting out of hand. Speaking of which and on a brighter note, this morning when I woke, absent was the head to toe aching and stiffness I had expected from last night’s biking exertions. My ONLY pain is what feels like a strain in my left wrist, some burning, stinging, stabbing sensation when I move it. Oh, and the fact that somehow I gained ANOTHER FREAKING FOURTEEN OUNCES – how in the world do I weigh MORE at then end of this week than I did at the beginning? I HAVEN’T HAD ONE GLASS OF WINE AND I HAVE BEEN WORKING OUT LIKE A MADMAN!

On a more positive note, however, I did a really GREEN thing on my way to my torturous workout yesterday and bought two re-useable, BPA-free water bottles in my effort to stop consuming throwaway items that max out the landfills, waste money, and stink of ugly disregard for the planet. Baby step, I know, and please, before you think I am crowing about such a tiny effort (and forgetting to check my privilege that I even have all these options and am blessed with safe, potable water unlike approximately 800 million people on this planet — GET INVOLVED AND HELP WITH WATER.ORG – CLICK HERE) I confess my hypocrisy: I BOUGHT THE BOTTLES AT WAL-MART. No excuse, I know, but yesterday was a “My Momma” day, and she wanted to go and while away an hour perusing clothing made by indentured child-slaves in deadly-circumstances in Bangladesh. So, I bought a water bottle. Well, two.

Shun me. Go ahead. You’d HARDLY be the first — even this week. While I’ve somehow managed to gain almost two pounds, I have lost three Twitter followers since Monday.


From website THE MODERATE VOICE and its guest cartoonist, Mike Peters. CLICK ON PIC TO VISIT.

From website THE MODERATE VOICE and its guest cartoonist, Mike Peters. CLICK ON PIC TO VISIT.

Speaking of losing followers … my long-standing opinion that the elitists who run the Republican Party — by which I mean Messrs Cheney and Limbaugh and such — are a pack of rabidly-money-hungry-misogynistic-soul-less hypocrites who use social issues about which they care ALMOST NOT AT ALL to bait less calculating, semi-to-full-on racist, totally fearful, usually white and usually middle class to poor people into voting AGAINST their own economic (and ultimately, human) interests — is apparently being recognized by those very people those Elitist Republican Operatives have long been cultivating as drones. The drones have now begun to protest, and the result is the Tea Party Nut-Jobs these elitists created with their hate speech and coded-manipulations are now turning on their creators. It is both satisfying and terrifying; satisfying to see folks like Cantor and Cheney and Rove panicking, and terrifying that the nut-job-tea-party-hate-mongers are managing to win primaries. However, I have some little hope left in humankind and can’t help but feel that eventually and ultimately people who wish to abrogate the rights of others and force their backward and bigoted religious and cultural dictates on others will fail.


For a far better exegesis of this situation, see Paul Krugman in the New York Times, CLICK HERE.


People, please stop using the word “acquire” when you mean “achieve” — I’ve been reading Trainer Bios on-line and although I cannot afford any of them, I disqualify those who say, “I aim to help people acquire their goals.” Ugh. Just because they acquire goals doesn’t mean they achieve them. I wonder if I could charge $80 an hour to coach people to speak with more clarity and eloquence?


Unless I include at least one pic a day of a man at least half-naked, my hits go down — that sentence should be funnier but I am not in the mood to work an erection joke in — or work an erection — or a joke — which in my case, all too often — NEVER MIND! STOP RIGHT THERE!  Just look at the pics. I’m a curator of webfinds. This is my exhibit.

June 13, 2014 2 June 13, 2014 3 June 13, 2014 4 june 13, 2014 5 june 13, 2014 6 june 13, 2014 7 june 13, 2014 8 June 13, 2014

AND FINALLY … of course … MORE ABOUT ME … (well, and a REALLY good friend) …

scarlet letterAnd so I must to the gym … endurance today, an hour on the elliptical and then some ab and shoulder and chest work … I will be giving my quads a rest. Then, off to a quiet location to read my friend, Mary McCarthy’s, soon to be released novel, THE SCARLET LETTER SOCIETY,  — of which I’ve an advance copy. YAY, MARY! And YAY ME feeling all uber-important to get an early copy!!!

More on this soon — but, until then, check her out here at Polis Books website [CLICK HERE!] SO EXCITED FOR HER!



I OBJECT(ify) … thow-back (or is that, throw-up?) Thursday …

Here’s my recommendation, just look at this picture and skip the rest of the blog. I am looking at this picture and skipping the reJune 12, 2014 Censoredst of my feelings and life. This picture is EVERYTHING. First of all, he is gorgeous. His body is nearly-perfect. And, he has a tattoo. Then, there are books everywhere, nice, old, leather-bound, obviously used books which he — clearly — has put down, just briefly, to pose for this photo. And, and, he is wearing a top hat and tuxedo jacket. He has obviously returned from a formal event — and event he left early — because he’d rather be home reading, with me, nearly naked — as in, he is nearly naked — not me. And, and, and, the walls are painted brick — which I love — and and and and — the lighting: NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT TO ME THAN GOOD LIGHTING! I have a relatively small bed/living room area I call mine in which I have seven lamps I use in varying combinations depending on my mood and activity. There you go. I’ve objectified another human being. Now, be gone … you don’t want to read the rest of this post.


Don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . Last week my nephew forwarded me old photos of old — well, young — me. Photos found while going through mCharlie and Leoy sister’s stuff. Throwback Thursday? Not so much, Throw-up Thursday, more like.

That’s me, the one with the scarf. And that look on my face … pretty much sums up my current mood, although, all these decades later, I have learned to — mostly, except while blogging — hide it.

After yesterday’s early blog, I lost my battle with the dysthymic down I’ve been fighting. This is extremely worrisome since, in the past, one of the most effective methods of prevention and cure has been exercise. I have never exercised as much as I am now, and thus, when I felt the warning signs of this coming on, I felt reasonably comfortable I was moving quickly enough that the beast would not be able to sink its vicious, poison-tipped claws into me.

Apparently I was wrong. Again. I understand that people who don’t suffer from this existential dread, physically present, life-consciousness level of depression often think it’s a character flaw, a bad attitude, a peccadillo of the self-indulgent: I wish. Each time this happens I have not only to live through it — which is a minute to minute challenge — and try to keep it under wraps and transparent to people with whom I interact — which is an energy-suck beyond description — but, also, to feel guilty about feeling this way, and, as I emerge, mourn the newest little piece of me that has died, the further declension of self I have suffered; because each episode makes me smaller and more resigned and a little less willing to try again. Each time there is denial, bargaining, anger, depressive guilt, and, finally, what passes for acceptance, as in, “Okay, here is how I will go on.”

All of which resulted in me NOT going to the gym yesterday. I tried the bookstore, which usually makes everything better, but not yesterday. So, then I ended up at Sports Authority in search of padded-butt biking shorts — now there’s a sentence I never thought I would be typing — which I really cannot afford but got anyway. I did not get the recommended compression socks at $50 a pair nor the biking gloves at $30 a pair. I mean, what the actual freak, biking is a more expensive hobby than reading — and it isn’t making me any smarter — just exhausted and sore.

I texted my friend, S, about how physically beaten up I was feeling and she said she was taking a body-rest day. I was so relieved. That meant I could too. Until later, S informed me she was — against her will — going on a six mile training ride. Some who know me would say it was my competitive nature which forced me to then pull on my only just purchased padded-butt biking pants and hasten to a six and a half mile ride; but some who know me would be wrong. What prompted the ride was guilt. If S is training and can do it, with all she has going on, then for me to sit out a day would just be slothful and self-indulgent and all the things I am already afraid I am.

Dammit. After that, my knees were throbbing. Oh goody, new pain. Here’s the thing — or, rather, here are the multiple things:

  • In the past, on the rare occasion when I consider being a “biker” — it always involved me dressed in a fashionable combination of tastefully distressed denim and black leather on the back of a Harley, hanging on with great affection and occasional groping to the driver of the big, hulking Hollywood-slash-romance novel-slash-gay fantasy version of a biker. And, in addition;
  • In the past, when I worried about my knees giving out, I never imagined it would be the result of my probably futile and fruitless and athletic pursuit while wearing what amounts to an athletic supporter, but rather, would be the result of my probably futile and fruitful pursuit of an athlete not wearing his athletic supporter. Oh, life.

All of which leads me to today, a morning when I wakened at six freaking a.m., feeling not great in the first place, only to weigh myself to find I had gained eight ounces. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?

bookstore argentinaI don’t know. I can’t cope. And it’s a MommaDay, meaning I will be driving the woman who gave me birth to a hair appointment, having lunch, and then taking her for blood tests — which is usually an excruciating experience of badly managed medical office/waiting room nightmare lasting at least an hour. So, here’s another objectification found on BuzzFeed, CLICK IT — 17 Bookstores That Will Literally Change Your Life — now, perhaps, had I the funds, travelling to all of these would perk me up.

Or, maybe not. June 12, 2014 2 June 12, 2014 3 June 12, 2014 4 June 12, 2014 5 June 12, 2014 6 June 12, 2014 7 March 17 2014

June 12, 2014 8


I OBJECT(ify) … #2ndSundayInJune … part two

UPDATE 6PM – CBS has pulled the Audra acceptance speech from YouTube so it’s blank. REALLY? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? Like people WANTING TO WATCH A CLIP FROM THE TONYS IS A BAD THING? Every day I am more and more convinced that PRACTICALLY everyone in the entire world is an ASSHOLE — and DEFINITELY every corporation — now that the Republican Supreme Court said they were “people” — definitely ASSHOLES.

Your intrepid cultural critic had been confused about how The Bridges of Madison County had NOT gotten a Best Musical Tony nod, nor a number on broadcast, and why Zachary Quinto was not nominated for The Glass Menagerie; and then, it was announced that Clint Eastwood — a Romney supporter and Republican — was going to present on the Tony Awards, and it all became horrifyingly clear, and terrifying — I was ablaze and achill (yes, dichotomy that) with terror — and, sadly, I was right to be afraid … very afraid. I’m sharing it and trying not to go TOO Theatre-Queen-Bitchy — but, uhm…DID YOU WATCH?

Well that was … confusing. And wonderful. And … CONFUSING. And, of course, FABULOUS. And … confusing.

I speak, of course, of the Tony Awards. At the risk of having my #TheatreGeekSuperbowl credentials withdrawn, I must confess that I have never been in the Hugh Jackman worshipper camp, and, worse, I have never gotten what it was that people so loved about Les Miserables. And Hugh in the film … well, okay, look, I don’t want to be too theatre-bitchy-queeny here. I will leave that to others, lord knows last night’s broadcast has supplied months’ worth of material — albeit a cheap sort of polyester blend that sucks up body odor and stains easily. What a dump.

However; there were highlights. Audra McDonald winning her record breaking sixth, and being the first to win in in all four acting categories, and her beautiful reaction, not to mention the beautiful reactions of her husband, daughter, and mother. Gorgeous. Touching. Lovely. Watch it:

And here is what she won for …

Harris NPH Tony 2014Kind of fabulous. Speaking of fabulous, very sweet, touching, fated and fair that Mr. Neil Patrick Harris won for his turn as Hedwig. I loved the pre-show pics his camp Tweeted of he and David Burtka getting ready for the broadcast. Besides being wonderfully talented and courageous and funny, Mr. Harris seems to genuinely, passionately love his family, his work, and the life he has made. Good for him. Good for us. Now, your kids will not be the ONLY one happy when you leave behind the eight-shows-a-week grind and return as host of the Tony Awards. You were SORELY missed.

But I promised I wouldn’t, so, I won’t. Another FABULOUS moment I enjoyed, Mr. Quinto and Mr. Bomer appearing together on stage. It was like the ideal gay couple, two uber-beauties of great talent. If they are the product of Carnegie-Mellon, I — for the first time in my life — am considBomer Quinto screenshotering a visit to Pittsburgh. WOW. And, here’s the thing, a dear friend of mine met Mr. Quinto in NYC when she went to see The Glass Menagerie (he was robbed, by the way, not being nominated) and had a bowl of soup with him, pre-matinee. Now, follow me, Mr. Quinto used to date Jonathan Groff, with whom, we can presume, he spent time naked. Mr. Groff, later, filmed the HBO series, Looking, in which he spent time naked with my future husband, Russell Tovey. THUS, my dear A having soup with Mr. Q, puts me at 3 degrees of separation from my future husband, Russell Tovey! HOW FREAKING EXCITING IS THAT?

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And, speaking of amazing: Mr. Jason Robert Brown wins the Tony Awards for Best Score and Best Orchestrations for his musical, The Bridges of Madison County. A musical by one of the greatest living writers of musical theatre, a musical with the best score and orchestrations is SOMEHOW not nominated for best musical, both awards are presented during commercial breaks, and instead of a song from that show we get one from Sting’s yet to be presented musical and one from yet-to-be-produced Finding Neverland, and some WHAT-THE-FUCK rap version of The Music Man? ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?  Some team of producers, somewhere, is smoking crack, or, in the interest of equal opportunity, they hired straight men to write the broadcast?

AND WHILE ALL THAT WAS AWFUL ENOUGH … (warning- BITCHY THEATRE QUEEN ALERT) … how in the hell did the transcendent goddess, Kelli O’Hara, once again get denied the Tony Award she so richly deserves? I am gob-smacked. Flabbergasted. Appalled. Horrified. Disgusted. Furious. All I can think, again, is that old, heterosexual white men who vote Republican were mistakenly given the vote (which explains Clint Eastwood being on the Tony Awards — CLINT FUCKING EASTWOOD? REALLY?) and so knew who Carole King was because they spent their youths trying to get laid by playing Tapestry  for co-eds.


WHATEVER. By that point, my promise not to drink more than one glass of wine was — understandably — broken. I mean, alcohol was the only logical relief for such an egregious oversight and dis of all that is Broadway. SO, yes, hooray for Audra and NPH and the awards given to Mr. Jason Robert Brown, but big-loud-picketing boos for the lack of respect given to Bridges and BIG FISH – I mean, NOT ONE NOMINATION?

So, well, joy and sadness, great excitement and great disappointment — kind of like dating, and life, right? All I know is, if last night didn’t get me to start smoking again, nothing will. I OBJECT!

Speaking of which, this is supposed to be an I OBJECT(IFY) post and so must include an almost naked man … luckily Harry Styles was Tweeted almost nude by a cousin … I don’t know about you, but I never hung out without pants around my cousins … maybe I needed better cousins? LOL.

Styles, Harry

I know, I should stick to objectifying Russell, after all, we are engaged to be married — when I’m finally committed … to an asylum somewhere.

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Tovey, Groff Looking 1

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My lover, Russell Tovey, after one more satisfying and exhausting session of passionate sex

My lover, Russell Tovey, after one more satisfying and exhausting session of passionate sex

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

My HUSBAND, Russell Tovey

My HUSBAND, Russell Tovey



I OBJECT(ify)! . . . Maks and Val . . . and Alan

I confess to an unhealthy obsession with Dancing With The Stars. In past seasons this could be almost wholly attributed to my even more unhealthy obsession with Derek Hough as documented in past entries in this blog. This season, however, it was the new and improved Maks Chmerkovskiy, or, rather, the newly revealed and emotionally vulnerable Maks Chmerkovskiy, made into a teary, sweet, little-boy teddy bear by his partner, Olympic Champion, Meryl Davis, over whom I obsessed and for whom I obsessively voted.

And about whom I fantasized. I’ve always had a thing for Slavic men. And Maks and his brother, Val, well, I know I ought to be deeper than this but …


I think in this case a little objectification is not so wrong. The GIF came from here, at Entertainment Weekly.I would like to heartily thank them for starting my weekend off with a bang bang while, sadly, providing the answer to Mr. Sondheim’s question:

Does anyone still wear a hat?

Well, unfortunately, yes.

I suppose there are those of you who would say Maks (and Val) were too young for me. Okay. And I suppose there are those of you who would say I am too musical theatre-y for them. Well, okay, so, then, here, Alan Cumming last night getting ready backstage Broadway for Cabaret.

Cumming, Alan Cabaret

Wilkommen, indeed. And we’re within five years of one another. Alas, he already has a husband. Oh well, I’ve given up on men anyway. Which is sort of like saying, I’ve given up on ascending to the throne. I was never in the line of succession anyway.

P.S. AND ANOTHER PLEADING . . . Have you visited my PLEDGE PAGE (CLICK HERE!) for the 2014 RIDE TO CONQUER CANCER? I’m biking 150 miles in two days (I hope) in order to raise funds for a very good cause. Read all about it HERE. Thanks! AND SPECIAL THANKS to Amy Benton (of AMY BENTON PR – click HERE) and Tom Chase for their donation, and The Curious Iguana (click HERE) for theirs — I have the best friends, and some of them own P.R. Firms and Bookstores!



The Arts, capital A, are dead.

The weekend started badly late last night when I got on Twitter and saw the news that Jason Robert Brown’s The Bridges of Madison County was closing on Broadway May 18. I find this incredibly disturbing for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that after the success of its live broadcast of The Sound of Music, NBC has announced another “live musical broadcast”, this time, another Mary Martin vehicle, Peter Pan. Not to be outdone, and not to risk being anywhere near as tasteful, FOX has announced plans for a live production of Grease. Now, far be it from me to cavil and complain about this trend — at least musicals are being done and anything that brought singing Audra McDonald and Laura Benanti to television, good thing — but why can’t one of the twelve kabillio-jillion networks produce versions of NEW MUSICALS? Maybe, just maybe, if the networks were made to take seriously their charge to use the airwaves for some service, some good, rather than everything in the entire fucking world being about how one can monetize and maximize profits, we’d live in a world where things that can’t be reduced to a slogan on a T-shirt that can catch the eye on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter, would thrive. Or, at least, exist. That the two most considered, constructed, beautifully scored, sung and performed musicals of the year, Andrew Lippa’s Big Fish and Jason Robert Brown’s The Bridges of Madison County , closed after such short runs is a tragic and sorry commentary — NOT on the state of musical theatre, but, rather, on the lack of educated audience enough existing to support such non-blockbuster, insightful, moving works of Art. Yes, ART. LISTEN:

Stories told with such glorious music, must MUST exist. I can’t imagine a world in which all we have to pass on to the next generation are songs like those from Grease and Disney musicals — NOT that those don’t have a place, they DO, but they CANNOT be the only place. CALLING MR WILLIAMS!

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And as if that weren’t enough to ruin my weekend, an article by Will Self in The Guardian called The Novel is Dead (this time it’s for real) [CLICK HERE TO READ] is all over the place, being Tweeted and copied and posted and generally showing up everywhere to beat me about the head and heart with its pronouncement of the death of literary fiction and Art — YES DAMMIT, CAPITAL A — in general. Oh lord. Listen to Mr. Self:

The literary novel as an art work and a narrative art form central to our culture is indeed dying before our eyes. Let me refine my terms: I do not mean narrative prose fiction tout court is dying – the kidult boywizardsroman and the soft sadomasochistic porn fantasy are clearly in rude good health. And nor do I mean that serious novels will either cease to be written or read. But what is already no longer the case is the situation that obtained when I was a young man. In the early 1980s, and I would argue throughout the second half of the last century, the literary novel was perceived to be the prince of art forms, the cultural capstone and the apogee of creative endeavour. The capability words have when arranged sequentially to both mimic the free flow of human thought and investigate the physical expressions and interactions of thinking subjects; the way they may be shaped into a believable simulacrum of either the commonsensical world, or any number of invented ones; and the capability of the extended prose form itself, which, unlike any other art form, is able to enact self-analysis, to describe other aesthetic modes and even mimic them. All this led to a general acknowledgment: the novel was the true Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk.

Now, first of all, you don’t get writing like that every day — AND THAT’S MY FUCKING POINT! I sent it to a few people — his link — and one replied that his sentences were too complex to really read right now. OH HOLY MOTHER OF GUTENBERG. That reply told me all I needed to know about the death of intellect. I mean, honestly?

I, myself, pander to the lowest common denominator by peppering my posts with “fucks” and including naked men. I NEVER get more hits than when I am tagged “big dick” — and not in the way it has been used throughout my life to refer to me, which, I assure you, has NOTHING to do with the size of my genitalia, but, rather, the length of my curmudgeonly attitude. I know those hits mean NOTHING, that those who hit on me because of my “big dick” are not reading me, don’t get me, know nothing about me, but STILL — I, too, have fallen for the zeitgeistian measure of what makes me matter.

I MUST BE A BIG BLOGGER. I was assured it was my SOLE path to being published. But, I write literary fiction. So, even if I managed to get published – WHO THE FUCK WOULD READ MY BIG DICKED PROSE? (Search that, baby.)

But, when it reigns — and by “IT” I mean cultural illiteracy, it pours. New York Magazine posted an item about the rumored (and, it seems, still to happen) Amtrak residencies for writers [CLICK HERE TO READ] with this sentence near its opening:

The Amtrak Writers’ Residency was a comic marketing proposition from the start — one ancillary, antiquated business (rail service) teaming up with another (books) full of people so needful of acknowledgment and peace of mind that they’d consider a week in a four-by-seven sleeper room a “residency.”

A sentence managing to announce the desperate state of literature as Art form while also heralding the death of train travel. Oh please. Please. KILL ME. Or, don’t, because apparently now after killing someone, you sue their family for relief from the pain and suffering killing them caused YOU! Yes, a woman is suing the family of a boy she fatally struck with her SUV while speeding. No shit. Read it here at VICE.COM

Talk about your big dick. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

I canNOT. Just CAN NOT. And this whole “the owner of the Clippers is a racist” — uhm, yeah. Well, how is this a surprise? And the fact that a sports team is worth a billion dollars, and that college sports tournaments sell more tickets at higher prices than a Broadway musical, that JUST IN THE PAST FEW MONTHS a high school athlete can call someone a “faggot” and harass and abuse and NOT get called on it so he WON’T LOSE HIS SCHOLARSHIP — I mean, the world is a mess. THE WORLD IS A MESS AND I CAN JUST BARELY LEAVE MY ROOM.

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In fact, I am going away. I am house/pet sitting beginning tomorrow (after seeing Megan Hilty tonight, yes, that’s right — CAPITAL A, ART!) and I will not be back until Tuesday and I am taking with me only my books. I may not even shower. Definitely not shaving. Just holing up, cuddling with dogs, turning off the BIG DICK-ed whole entire FUCKING world. (Hit that) And here are the pics for those of you who only came here for … you know …

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I OBJECT(ify): I need a drink

Really long day. I intend to write all about it. But, not now. Too exhausted. I am on my first fifteen minute break since early morning and must soon return to the grill to prepare dinner, so, of course, the only thing to do is slam down an espresso and log on to see what all the more famous, more clever, more connected, more attractive, and heaven knows, far more literate people I stalk follow are up to.

I follow quite a few incredibly dignified and well-bred folk (Duchess Goldblatt, for example – click HERE for her Twitter – although you’ll need to work, in a WELL BRED way, to get her to Twitter) and I also follow quite a few people whose links, clicked, are likely to lead me to naked men making me wish to do some well-breeding, so to speak. Brian Moylan [CLICK HERE FOR HIS TWITTER], for instance, who today caught my attention thusly:

Here are 25 pictures of really hot guys drinking beer. You’re welcome. (via )

… the clicking of which then resulted in my further investigation — or, as a dear friend of mine said recently when questioned about her ogling of a Zachary Quinto shirtless photo; “I do this for informational purposes only.”  Yes, I needed some information about Elvis Di Fazio’s work [click HERE] and so went to his site for a stroll through “Naked Sausage Sizzle” [click HERE]



Now, I have to go finish dinner for all the people here, all of whom think I am always alone in my rooms reading fine literature/ They would, no doubt,  be appalled that I’ve been ogling naked men and sausages. But there has been some very fine literature indeed made of sausages and men.

So there.