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.)


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.

What’s My Name? (Sebastian Speaks)

Leelah Alcorn

Leelah. She walked in front of a truck because she didn’t feel like there was any other option for her, no possibility of ever being seen or anyone KNOWING HER NAME.

Hello, Sebastian speaking, Sebastian Smythe.

I know it’s been yonks since I’ve been round, but I’ve finally wrested control from that fecking  waffling wanker of a yakker, Charlie, and can speak again. When the silly bastard stopped smoking, stopped drinking, and kept up that gym routine and healthy eating, all that positivity tied me up — not, alas, literally — making my appearances brief. Any adjustments and corrections I’d manage to this dreary life he’s trying to make us lead were shame-facedly expurgated by Mr. No Smoking No Alcohol No Tricking Stiff Upper Lip Smith — well, horses for courses, as they say, but I’m sick of the upper lip being the only thing that gets stiff in this body; spread the joy, you tosser, before the old prat’s todger withers away to dust, right?

Finally, the shite that has rained down recently — an accumulation of Continue reading

Part 3: Existential Cozies, Comforts, and Joys

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


andrea and charlie

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

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

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

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

COMFORTS, JOYS … quickies

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

Tom Ford $800 Penis Necklace

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

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

russell tovey nude looking

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

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

Tovey, Russell Dec 2014

Tovey by Turner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and Light kids.




Part 2: Existential Cozies, Comforts, and Joys

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

ahs freak dandy christmas

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

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

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

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

COLBY KELLER (again…get used to it)

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

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

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


From Mr. Keller’s Instagram

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

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


Thank you, Colby.

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

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

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

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


Click on book to order from City Lights

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


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

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

AND BEN … oh Ben … again …

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



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Love and Light, kids. Love and Light.




Now and Then: All Reminiscence, All the Time


Sissie and Charlie, on a long ago Sunday.

I’m spending much of this weekend trying to make life lovely for family members, including a few days worth of preparation for a Sunday dinner celebrating birthdays. I excel at throwing Sunday family dinners. And the doing of them takes me back to my Aunt, Sissie, who did Sunday dinners for the family – birthdays and holidays and, well, I’m old enough that it was expected on Sundays all the branches would gather at my Grandfather’s home each weekend out of respect — and Sissie orchestrated these. Cooked, cleaned, etcetera. Sissie didn’t even like to cook — I do. And even though I do, cooking for groups, making things delicious, fresh, special — very time consuming. So, this weekend, I am thinking of (and cooking with – in my soul) Sissie. A lot.

But, I think of her a lot ALL THE TIME — in fact — remembering things and triggers — well —

When I started this post — YESTERDAY — I wanted to do a few short links and be on my way. I had a lot I wanted to accomplish. So, I meant to write a short introductory paragraph about how much time I am spending remembering things, and how everything in the NOW seems to trigger me into some THEN. But, well … brevity is not my strong point. So, after 400 words of blather; I exited to start my projects.

Wow! Short version.

  • Cleaned my 13 year old great nephew’s room and rearranged furniture to make room for bookshelf and trunk from another room. Please be advised, the conflagration of fading boyhood stacks of toys, pubescent boy stink, and a walk-in closet with room for MONTHS full of discarded bedclothes and un-worn/worn/un-folded/oh-my-god-what-is-that? articles of clothing and towels and socks and — well, I should have worn a mask.
  • Re-arranged sister’s room to make it more like a retreat and less like a stuffed-sausage of a space.
  • Shopped for ramekins and extension cords and power strips and swivel-chair and groceries for various projects of weekend.
  • Had lunch with sister.
  • Came home and spent four hours to make two kinds of lasagna totally from scratch and an apple crisp for Sunday dinner.


    These are my lasagnas. One is a roasted vegetable lasagna, full of squash, spinach, red peppers, mushrooms, onions, garlic. The other is a meat lasagna, beef and sausage. Both have six kinds of cheese and homemade sauce – using roasted tomatoes I did first – and I am hoping they are both delicious.

During all of that I managed to do some friend-texting and some Tweeting. I haven’t actually seen a friend in ages. My friends have busy lives and I’ve been staying in. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my sister (and my Mom) and my writing and my books. I haven’t even been making it to the gym as much. Today I am making roasted beets for the Sunday salad and prepping the Molten Chocolate Lava Cake in Ramekin recipe so it’s ready to be baked tomorrow.

And having lunch with a dear one, to meet his new inamorata.

So … I’m going to try, AGAIN, to keep the REST of this as short as possible … Oh, Charles.

I don’t know what it is; a dangerous side-effect of writing and the observation required, or if this happens to everyone at a certain age, but staying in the moment, simply living in the present, becomes increasingly difficult for me. Everything echoes. Everything — each word, behaviors I see, colors, sounds, tastes, yes, Everything — is not just itself, but this portal into the past, a confluence and conflation of memories and emotional recall, as if, even in the NOW, I am seeing my life from somewhere else, somewhere in an ethereal eternity, far away, and I am framing each moment of NOW, every thought, everything that happens, in the context of the final version of this book that is my life.

I have always been on the receiving end of sentences (judgments, actually) along the lines of;

  • Stop being so dramatic; and
  • You think too much; and
  • You make everything so complicated; and
  • I don’t want to be like you, I just want to do what I want to do and not think about it; and
  • You want too much, I’m not like you; and
  • Can’t you just let things go without having to decide what everything means? and;
  • I don’t love you that way (enough, at all, etc).

But, that’s not how my mind has ever worked. I have always, always believed that every second, every tiny atom of energy and being is somehow connected, somehow means something, has a purpose. Now, I guess that is what makes this late in life atheism and nihilism, born of having seen such inconceivable cruelties and incomprehensible behaviors, witnessed such pointless, needless despair, lived in a world full of selfish, hateful, nasty people, and been personally eviscerated by those to whom I devoted my soul, my reason, my heart, sacrificed my own well-being only to be abused and used and abandoned and lied about and — well, I am not sure now whether I believe everything is connected, has any point, matters a whit.

But, holy mother of all that is holy, everything I see, read, hear, feel, is — of late — so reverberant of the past. And, often, its destruction. Examples:

Edison 1

Photo from Scouting New York, click on it to go to site

Edison 2

Photo from Scouting New York, click on it to go to site for more about Cafe Edison

The Cafe Edison, west 47th Street in Manhattan’s theater district, is closing. Read the New York Times article by Glenn Collins; [click here]. Discovering this unpretentious diner-esque spot was one of the lucky accidents of my life. During my New York trips I ate there frequently. In fact, I ate there with the relatives for whom I am making Sunday dinner on a very wonderful trip to New York — memories of which, now, make me both happy and make me cry for reasons too complicated to – SEE – THIS PAST THING — UGH — anyway, Cafe Edison, visiting it, along with the lobby of the Algonquin and St Patrick’s Cathedral, was part of my New York ritual, my own sort of stations of the cross. Now, with Cafe Edison closing and the Algonquin Lobby disrespectfully stripped of its history and aura by the Marriott Corporation and tourists now speaking full-voiced and allowed to snap photos in St. Patrick’s, the continuing assault on what I loved about the past, the shape of what was magic in my life, continues.

Molly arrest

Watch out for bad Molly

I also read an article about this kid who got some bad Molly (look it up in UrbanDictionary if you don’t know what it is) stole an ambulance and ended up jacking off in a police station. Now, no one I know ever stole an ambulance or pleasured themselves while handcuffed in a police station — well, wait, that second part isn’t true, but, though there were handcuffs involved, there was no arrest (recorded) and it wasn’t in the public part of the police station. Anyway, the point of this is, when I saw the article, I was taken back to the first time I heard of Molly, who explained it to me, and what he told me he’d done while he was rolling. And I was … well, never mind what I was and what I felt and why he told me and all of that. But, bad behavior and compromised judgement while on substances — this is one of the reasons I stopped drinking. And I do not miss it at all. Poor dumb kid. Here’s a link to the story [click HERE].

Keller Colby GIF

Colby Keller dancing

Speaking of masturbating, my favorite porn star is spreading his erudition via a new art project. I’m a huge Colby Keller fan, and the article about “America’s Most Intellectual Porn Star” [CLICK HERE] made me love him some more — when he said how infrequently he manages to hook-up, when he said men often don’t achieve erection with him, well, all except for that part where they think they want to and actually approach him — that sounds like me. Keller, ColbyExcept, of course, my rejections are all happening in my head. I’ve jumped right to the break-up or turn-down, I don’t bother with actual interaction any more. I just live in my head and write about it. Real people are far too inconvenient. All my lovers are now fictional — which, when you get right down to it, has always been the case. But, I am a fan of Colby and I would love to meet him – with or without erections — and I’m fairly sure it would be without, LOL. I mean, look at him. Then, at me. But, we’re both smart and have given away a lot of our shit in pursuit of a more unencumbered existence. Unfortunately, he’s getting to fuck his way across the country and sustain himself by making porn with other stunningly attractive fellows. I’m making lasagna and house-sitting. All good.Keller, ColbyKeller, Colby 2









All good, right, yes? Colby went to art school in Baltimore. Colby ate at Woodbury Kitchen in Baltimore — one of my favorite restaurants, EVER, and Colby is sane about sex. That is so refreshing in this world in which we live where most people so decidedly are NOT sane about sex. Or, much else.

But, wait, this was about memories and such and well, is it a function of aging, these reveries? Aging? Uhm,  Bonnie Raitt turns 65 and Joni Mitchell turns 71 this weekend. Dear mothers of all that is holy. How is this possible? My love from long ago, Amy, gave me Joni Mitchell one night on her couch, in her rented Braddock Heights apartment, when we were doing our version of Molly-ing. Oh man, I miss Amy. I miss spending nights holding someone with no agenda but being incredibly happy with each other, that kind of love, and the music being the blanket. Both Bonnie and Joni recorded Joni’s That Song About the Midway. It always makes me cry. It has a resonance for me now it didn’t have then, but, wow . . . “over time I’ve lost my fire … always playing one more hand for one more dime … slowing down I’m getting tired, slowing down … and I envy you the valley that you’ve found… cause I’m midway down the midway … slowing down. Down.”


Hey, Colby, you want to listen to some music — talk about the first times you heard Joni and Bonnie and with whom and what it meant to you — compare their versions of Midway, talk about our own midways, and not have an erection with me? Happy weekend, Love and Light, friends.

Keller, Colby 3Keller, Colby cover

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.



Bargain-basement-*Balzac-blogging. SHUT-UP AND LINK!

balzac1I’m feeling testy. And I’m writing fiction, which, for me, is a journey of tangents and digressions and discursive asides and interpolations in concert with crazy-making reconsideration, re-ordering, removals and re-insertions. The rhythm, the cadence of the sentences, the shape, the syntax, the actual out-loud-silent sound of the words.

For example, I could not use in fiction the opening; “I’m feeling testy.” Not unless the speaker was someone I wanted the reader to imagine groping testicles. Because, despite the presence of the letters spelling “testy” – as in cranky and irascible and generally annoyed with the human race in whole and in all and each and every of its parts (which is the case with me, today, RIGHT DAMN NOW) – the homophonic “testes” – as in balls and gonads and reproductive organs – would play in the minds of many readers; perhaps not at the level of consciousness, but, nonetheless, THERE. And, depending on the reader, and the gender of the narrator speaking “I’m feeling testy” there would then come into play all sorts of feelings – conscious and un – about sexuality and groping and . . .  so, I could NOT start a fiction with that line unless I had a very specific character situation and impression I wished to convey. After which writing, I would worry I had been, perhaps, too subliminal about it.

Which would make me feel nuts.

You see?

coffee writeAnd because I nearly lost my shit last night (now THAT phrasing produces all variety of unpleasant visual, yes?) while trying to settle on an opening sentence/paragraph for the project I am now torturing out of myself, running from my home like a mad-person to escape my mind, my milieu of literary-purgatorial-stasis – my pen had been scribbling / crossing out / scribbling / crossing out for hours to no avail – and ending up at a nearby coffee shop, where watching the comings and goings of pretty, young, tightly-fleshed, loosely-wrapped young people from the nearby college finally gave me the “a-ha” I needed to (almost) settle on that opening, I promised myself I would limit my bargain-basement-*Balzac-ian-blogging today and KEEP WORKING.

So, less than 500 words. And lots of links. (Send coffee shop gift cards please, at the rate I’m going, I’ll need to be sitting at a Starbucks for another – oh, say – thousand years to get this short story finished. And, too, now that I know it is populated in the evenings by tightly-fleshed, loosely-wrapped college men – well, we see where this might be going.) Happy Friday.

  • coffee guycoffee guy 2coffee guy 3LINK: Great review by Peter Straub in the Washington Post of new novel, The Boy Who Drew Monsters. He compares it to Wuthering Heights and uses the phrase “all-around swellness”. Who, I ask you, could resist? CLICK HERE
  • LINK: On The Town has been revived. The son of one of its original creators talks about it in Vanity Fair. Loved, loved, loved! CLICK HERE
  • LINK: Alan Cumming, currently starring on Broadway in revival of Cabaret, has written a memoir. He talks about it, CLICK HERE.
  • LINK: Elmer Gantry, in musical version, is opening at the reliably-brilliant Signature Theatre near D.C. and they’ve posted a clip of one of Sharon Falconer’s songs. Hell, why link, I’ll insert.

  • LINK: Finally, we need to talk about dying and aging and why our fear of both is causing us to both prolong life and yet, somehow, devalue the lives and worth of those who live longer, removing dignity and choice. This from Mother Jones about Atul Gawande’s book, Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End. CLICK HERE

*Balzac? Really? Because, in my still-unsold-un-agented-and being cut again novel – there is an episode not unlike one from my misspent twenties in which I said one night, under another mirror ball, “All I want is a guy who doesn’t giggle when I mention Balzac.” So, again with the confusions about testicles and such. Argh.

ZeitBriefs: Other People’s Work and Dick Pics

Sharing some links and things that made me think. And some thinks I thought without linking. Or sharing.


how to get awayI’ve been Twitter watching Scandal since Shonda Rhimes first gifted it to us. I used to do so, eager to hear Donna Brazile’s Tweets, but I’ve become annoyed with Ms. Brazile and her continued support of the demon-cabal of the NFL (you’d think her ruination of Al Gore’s presidential campaign would have been enough to disappoint me, but, no). So, I’ve blocked her. Like she cares. But, I digress – surprise, surprise – and now Ms. Rhimes has given me a new reason to waste another hour a week not reading or writing (about which I wrote yesterday- HERE) with How to Get Away With Murder from Shonda-land. Apparently I am not alone. Great ratings. Unfortunately, the jack-fuck NFL did better. What is wrong with people?



Speaking of what is wrong with people – me, in particular (too long a list there), here’s a funny, not funny: before I made a life-change to being an under-employed house/pet sitter – slash – crazy uncle-in-the-attic (basement) – slash – not-quite-published novelist – slash – lost his paying gig columnist so now a blogger, I was an under-employed – slash – over-worked indentured servant of an acting teacher -slash – journey-actor – slash -producer/director. Wow – that was a long, rough road to the non-point of my point, that being this: my syntax, sentence structure, punctuation and addiction to (some editors have substituted unreasonably stubborn insistence on for addiction to) neologism when my newly-coined word seems pithier and more apt than any existing construct is wedded to what I have come to believe is a genetic inability to distinguish between the uses of “that” and “which” – which (or that?) is linked to my inability to control what has politely been called my “Baroque” style of parenthetical, digressive, aside-ridden, awash in barely-connected run-on rants and ravings of compounded complexities of cacophonous babbling rendering the determination of whether or not a clause is restrictive or non nearly impossible. But the thing was (is) every time I have to use THAT or WHICH, I struggle and go to one or another grammar site – most often, Grammar Girl. I also have trouble with PEOPLE’S vs PEOPLES’. I also prefer British quotation rules – and – well, my writing is as quirky and difficult to follow, I suppose, as my soul. I would like to think BOTH are – for a few people at least – worth the trouble.  No one said I was easy. To read, anyway.


Naked Old Man 2

My latest dick-pic. Can’t understand why I’m not getting more hook-ups?

And speaking of “easy” and why that word and “slut” and all the others ought to be put to rest – Noah Michelson, Executive Editor at Huffington Post has written a really great column about naked pics and the distortion of the issue. I agree. I have long, long said that the lack of embrace and celebration of the joys of free expression of our sexual natures is a tool the patriarchal-fascist-power-structure-elite use to control us – ESPECIALLY to control women and those of other than a hetero-normative bent. IN FACT – I blame that repression and its disastrous results for the most decimating, destructive heartbreak-relationship-disasters of my life, the effects of which still haunt me, have, in many ways, ruined me and made me distrustful and hermit-like. So, TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR JUNK AND SEND IT EVERYWHERE. Yep, that’s what I’m saying.



ZankieIn a continuation of the above topic- wherein fear and lack-of-embrace of sexual feelings and love create problematic stories – especially in my life – well, my obsession with Zach on Big Brother 16 – or, more specifically, with the bromance-showmance-whatever-mance between straight Zach and gay Frankie – was ridiculous. Because, truth, it has happened to me repeatedly – twice with horrifyingly heartbreaking consequences wherein the “straight” guy told me he loved me more than he had ever loved anyone else but then, because of the onus of what our union meant, he could not handle it and turned from me – turned on me – turned into – well, enough. So, I know Frankie is a fame-junkie and I suspect Zach, too, is a bit of a fame-addict, but Zach’s monologues in the confessional room seemed so sincere, so heartfelt, I can’t believe he doesn’t have conflicted-love feelings for Frankie. But, then again, I’ve REPEATEDLY thought fellows had the same sort of feelings for me, only to find out I was being used or made a fool of or becoming a lie they would later tell. Fuck life.



tennessee williamsI am reading John Lahr’s biography of Tennessee Williams, titled, Mad Pilgrimage of the Flesh. It is stunning, simply stunning. I have long admired Mr. Lahr’s work. His biography of Joe Orton was incisive and illuminating, and now, he is the perfect choice for Mr. Williams. The way in which he manages to transition between Mr. Williams’ own words and authorial narrative, the fascinating investigation and explanation of how Mr. Williams’ personal life was mirrored in and informed his work, all of it coming together to make the reader feel present as the life occurred; quite brilliant. I love it.

That said, so much of Mr. Williams’ life and words echo (or, presage) so much of my own broken hearted journey through life that I have had to – repeatedly – put the book down and process. My copy is pocked with margin notes and sticky-pad-arrows so that it looks less read than studied. Listen to these few:

There are only two times in this world when I am happy and selfless and pure. One is when I jack off on paper and the other when I empty all the fretfulness of desire on a young male body.

I’d like to live a simple life — with epic fornications.

…to know me is not to love me….I am a problem to anybody who cares anything about me –Most of all to myself who am, of course, my only ardent lover (though a spiteful and cruel one!)

We share a soul angst. Would that I could manage – had managed – to produce a truth of my own anywhere close to those Mr. Williams made of his journey. Alas, I did not. Nor did I achieve his “epic fornications” – oh well. Read the book friends. While you’re sitting alone – like me.


  • AHHH … THE WEEK-END … and, the week, it ends …

And speaking of alone – like me – last night – but first, later today I will be departing Aftermath. Back to my basement for a few weeks. Yesterday I didn’t leave the estate at all. I stayed in all day. Reading. Writing. Frolicking (and subsequently, napping) with Judah. Dangerous. I cannot remain in the house for more than one day without social interaction because it is far too easy for me to NEVER leave the house. I have to force myself out, daily, or all too quickly I hide in my crazy-uncle-world and do not emerge.

charlie sweeney

Me. Sweeney. Goal weight.

But I gave myself yesterday. Last night I was alerted that Sweeney Todd was being presented as part of Live from Lincoln Center on PBS. Now, here’s the thing. (Another of my things – not to be confused with THAT thing of dick-pic fame). When I was quite young I saw the original production on Broadway starring Angela Lansbury as Mrs. Lovett. I then saw it with Dorothy Loudon. I then saw it, years later, with Christine Baranski. I then saw it at Signature Theatre in Virginia with a brilliant, luminous, glorious Donna Migliaccio (why she is NOT a HUGE Broadway star I cannot understand, her Lovett and Mama Rose and EVERYTHING I have ever seen her do – GENIUS – most recently as the Mother in Sunday in the Park With George at Signature – she slayed me, absolutely destroyed me – so, so, SO ridiculously good), and then I saw the Patti LuPone with tuba version of Lovett on Broadway. AND, I played Sweeney in my heyday. It was my absolute favorite role ever. I knew the score was actually out of my comfort zone – I did not have as much low end as a brilliant Sweeney requires – but I LOVED doing it. I worked with my favorite and most demanding director, Josh, and the cast was top-effing-notch, including my Mrs Lovett, my dear, dear Kayte. Now, granted, I lost my mind playing the role. My feeling was that his years in the prison colony would have been marked by increasing insanity and anger and starvation; so he should be, in essence, a shadow, a ghost, a poisonous cloud of hate and fear and need for revenge. So, I dieted to get the look I wanted. I dieted to obsessive degrees. I lived on ExLax and one 6 ounce can of tuna every other day. And celery. I could have as much celery as I wanted. I lost twenty-five pounds and most of my mind. And I loved it.

All of which leads up to, I was not a huge fan of last night’s broadcast. I’d have rather they re-ran the one from a few years ago with Ms. LuPone. I didn’t see the point of last night’s. There was nothing revelatory about it. There was nothing, in fact, even very good about it. Everyone seemed miscast – either acting wise or vocally – except for Audra McDonald, who has already done the Beggar Woman with Patti, so, uhm, anyway.

I longed, after, to see my version again. I know there exists a recording – I had it once – but, alas, the last two times I have “moved” have been rather hasty departures, rather emotionally draining and terrifying departures, both of which prompted me to toss or lose things. I don’t know where my Sweeney went.

Anyway … where was I? Oh, right …

That was my Friday night. Watching a bad and disappointing Sweeney. Trust me, bad and disappointing men have often been my Friday night fate – which is why I tend to stay in, hermit-like, alone and reading about Tennessee Williams rather than going out and risking another Zankie-esque-debacle in my life.

So, there, this was meant to be a short little post of quick links of the work of others … turned into another therapy session about – well, forget about what – let’s settle on this: I just cannot shut-up. Maybe THAT’s why my Zach departed. LOL. Fuck it. Gotta run. Doing a final laundry and vacuuming here at Aftermath.






Don’t Call Me Lunatic. Fag. Slut. Old. Depressed. Or … ANYTHING. Wait.

Me. Seven p.m. last evening: Unable to draw a deep breath.

In my panic and solitude, I reached out to a few people, all of whom were having their own issues. So, I un-reached and tried to distract myself in the Twitterverse where National Geographic writ digital-small pictures clued me in that it was the occasion of the Harvest/Supermoon. That explained it.

Years ago during my long-haired, wandering, table-waiting, drug-taking phase (well, the first) a friend who had re-named herself for the Angel Gabriel and collected the lost and the lonely and the looking, diagnosed me as a Lunatic. She meant it in the Latin sense, as a compliment, that I was sensitive to the phases of the moon and like a werewolf, when the celestial orb was full-on-reflecting the light of the hidden night sun, it was my nature to become a wild thing, not of the furred and clawed and bestial variety, but rather, someone whose emotions must bubble and burst passionately, raging through the thin layer of socialization and culturally-approved, controlled behavior I’d managed to cultivate exposing an impetuosity, an unrestrained urgency of need and lust and anger and desire, all demanding to be expressed, released, for, if not, the force of them would devour me from within.

Yes. Often. And not just during certain phases of the moon. I am impassioned. Perhaps perfervid. Maybe, sometimes, melodramatic. Too fiery and fiercely engaged for my own good. But, yesterday? Look at the world.

The debacle of the NFL’s ridiculously inadequate, near-non-response to Ray Rice’s assault until a video of the actual punch emerges. The NCAA reinstating Penn State’s post-season privileges and scholarships while the child-rape victims of Sandusky/Paterno/the entire athletic department of Penn State continue to suffer. Mike Brown was murdered in Ferguson a month ago and still no justice. War and killing and hatred exploding all over the globe. It’s a wonder anyone can breathe. Lunatic or not.

But some have suggested I am crazy. Some have suggested I take medication to dull my reactions to the world around me. I am not a lunatic. I am a Lunatic. And that’s mine to use, not yours to label and cage and dismiss me. I am not that simple to define.

Which brings me to the Washington Post’s article about Grindr and its locator glitch and its corporate disdain – or, as the WaPo called it; “lack of empathy” for its users. [Read the article here.] Listen, I’ve no doubt that Grindr – gay owned or not – is like nearly every other corporation in the world and completely unconcerned with actual human beings: We are nothing more than clicks and bytes in financial metrics, expendable and disposable except to the degree we improve the profit margin.

That said, Grindr’s dismissal of concern for its users is as NOTHING compared to its users lack of compassion for, communion with, and recognition of the humanity of one another.

Ridiculous as it sounds, I got on Grindr as research for a mystery-cozy novel I was trying to write during that period when I was sure I could do something other than literary fiction and snarky blogging. I was appalled. I remain appalled. The prevalence of discriminatory and hateful “isms” proudly pronounced by the app users is extremely confusing to me.

  • “whites only – not racist just a preference”
  • “no creepy old guys”
  • “masculine only”

And that’s just the beginning. Here’s the thing; I have a type too. I’m not going to go into it because even the most casual reader of this blog would know by now that my disastrously bad taste in romantic partners – well, in MOST cases – in people in general – has resulted in what some have termed my “depression” (more about that later) but, I like to think of myself as the sort of person who is attracted to the SOUL of another, the shine of their Light, the depth of their Love, and that I don’t discriminate.

But, I do. I mean, let’s start with the fact that no matter how beautiful a soul, bright a light, and deep a love, I am not physically attracted to women. So, does that make me heterophobic? Also, as a general rule, I prefer younger men. Does that make me ageist? I am also, usually, attracted to men who are not terribly bright. Does that make me – Calvin Klein? Don’t know, but, it definitely ends up making me sad most often – neither here nor there – but, you know what I am saying. Don’t you?

Because I am confused. I was talking to another fellow who, unlike me, was very experienced with Grindr (and not a few other hook-up methods) and I remarked about how rude, cruel, judgmental and harsh were many of the users and he said, “That’s Frederick fags for you, and most of them are just that. Fags.”

Now, mind you, this was not a fellow anyone would mistake for John Wayne. Rather, this was a John of another stripe, as in, perhaps, Elton? To hear him label with such vehemence and vitriol a subset to which he – in the eyes of many (including, I suspect, himself) – no doubt did and had long belonged, was horrifying to me. I told him so. Nicely. “I don’t use that word, it’s way too loaded with self-hate and heteronormative judgment.”

He hasn’t spoken to me since. My truth was not his. Or, was not the one at which he wanted to look. He had previously judged me because I was too terrified to hook-up through Grindr and other on-line methods. He thought that was self-hate and fear. Maybe it was. By the same token, my social-sexual life he deemed inadequate to the point of asceticism would be – and has been – labelled by others I know as wanton and profligate, making me a Slut.I try not to think about that. Dichotomy. Truth. Someone’s truth. The truth of my various, multiple realities and communities.

The truth about those communities -to one degree or another I am judged as having failed, as being not quite enough or too much, in all of them. Truth?

Well, see there? It seem I have lots of inconvenient and unattractive truths at which I would rather not gaze this late in life.

But, damn it all, like my emotions on the occasion of the full moon, these un-examined truths are now roiling and rising to my wrinkled “creepy old guy” not terribly “masculine only” surface and demanding I confront them or drown in my own lunacy – small “l” this time.

And here’s where I am with that, or, rather, this. Today. I am unable to determine when an attraction driven by pheromones – the Greek derivation of which is “impetus” – crosses the line into bigotry or discrimination. Is this a cultural determination? A function of evolution? Will we, one day, evolve to the point where there is only union/attraction between souls? No physical element?

Wait – that’s the Twitterverse. There I am already in love with and involved with many people I will never meet in person. The messy questions of whether or not we would enjoy one another in flagrante delicto is beside the point. There, I am not what I am (or have been called) here – Lunatic. Fag. Slut. Old Depressed. Repressed. Cruel. Crazy. Liar. Sucker. It goes on. And it includes the people who will read this and attribute it to what they call my depression – which I call a reasonable reaction to a fucked up world. But, like I said, the names keep coming. They do go on.

And on. But don’t. Don’t call me anything. Or, as is so often the case in my dating and authorial life, just don’t call me.

Damn that Harvest/SuperMoon. I shall be ever so happy when tonight has come. And gone.

Happy Tuesday, Lovies.







ZeitBites Monday: Weekend Bacchanal: I can BARELY walk . . .

NOTE: 2:30pm – The Baltimore NFL franchise seems to have terminated Ray Rice’s contract. I am concerned this was not done WHEN he first assaulted someone into unconsciousness – but then, that’s the football culture, right? Now that more video has come out actually showing him punching the woman who was then his fiancee, the team has acted. Wow. What a world.

{I DID proofread this piece, but am SURE when I review it again hours from now I will find things requiring correction, change, rearrangement of syntax, etcetera – HOWEVER, I am not going to dwell because – take a gander at the right side of page – unless I am writing about big peni, sexting, or homoerotic celebrity fantasy – I BARELY GET ANY HITS ANYWAY. Thus – no need to edit. I mean, I really OUGHT to be inserting a dick-pic (not mine, mind you) that I – like the NFL – could, morals and conscience free – get filthy rich and taste and dignity and RIGHT AND WRONG be damned. Not that there is ANYTHING wrong with a dick-pic – feel free to send one my way Russell Tovey or Dominic Cooper, if you’re reading. Carry on. I’ve got to try to hoist myself from this desk-chair. Weekend ruined my back. Maybe it’s that four extra pounds. Or four bottles of wine.}

I woke up this morning just barely able to walk. And I weigh four pounds more than I did on Friday morning. My weekend was – by my standards – a Bacchanalian epic.

But, the world is a mess and as I said on my Twitter this morning: There are so many things about which I feel compelled to loudly protest, all I want to do is crawl into a fetal position and weep. Silently.

I have no trouble weeping. I do have trouble being silent. And achieving the fetal position.

Not going to lie. On the other hand, not going to tell the truth. On yet another hand – yes, I have more than two, have you an issue with that? – everything I am about to say is both lie and truth. Liminality.

Will Chancellor's Twit-Pic

Will Chancellor’s Twit-Pic

Excuse me with the Liminality kick. Part of my weekend of debauchery was book-diving unto drowning and one of those was Will Chancellor’s [follow him HERE on Twitter] “A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall” [click HERE for that] in which liminality plays an important part. Love the book. Will be appreciating it in a full Book-Blog in a few days. Love Mr. Chancellor’s Twit-pic. Wishing I would be appreciating him in a full Bacchanalia in a few days, but, alas, we know each other only virtually.

Where was I before I fell into Mr. Chancellor? Oh, right, weekend revels. Unable to walk. Here’s the thing, sort of, I started house/pet sitting on Friday afternoon after my gym-visit for the day. I had started getting ready on Tuesday – by which I mean I had visited my favorite independent bookstore, THE CURIOUS IGUANA (who celebrated their one year birthday this weekend! HUZZAH! CLICK HERE!) and picked up a few MORE books. And I did that on Thursday too, LOL. But, I’d neglected to lay in other house-sitting supplies so, on Saturday, I went shopping – groceries and liquor and such. This took up SO MUCH OF MY PLANNED READING TIME, I had to skip the gym.

What I did NOT skip was the wine. And the pizza (one piece dammit) and the habanero/salted dark chocolate caramels. Did I forget to mention I’d stopped at the candy store near the bookstore? When I woke on Sunday, I was a sweaty, dizzy mess of a wine-word-chocolate soaked man who weighed three pounds more than he had the day before.

House Sitting Kit

House Sitting Kit

So, yesterday, it was a struggle to leave my New York Times – it was FALL ARTS PREVIEW DAY! – and force myself to the gym. I did it. Along the way I took my Mom some pastries she can rarely find and loves a lot. I’d write about what a good son that makes me but when I informed her via phone I had found these sought after treats she said, “Oh Charlie, you didn’t BUY them did you?” Uhm, no? I was just calling you to torture and tease you with the fact I saw the raspberry tarts for which you long and which we spend hours searching?

Where was I, again? Oh, right. Weekend orgy of indulgence. SO . . . I go to gym after dropping off pastries with my ingrate Mom (which is NO LESS than I deserve considering my teen years) and I elliptical and recumbent bike myself into a frenzy. I feel all fresh and new. Well, in any event, I feel like I can head back to house/pet sitting and eat another piece of pizza, more bon-bons, and suck down the wine. So, I do, not all at once and slowly, while reading, Tweeting, and watching the amazing Serena Williams win her 18th Grand Slam Title. GREATEST EVER!


But, along the way, I am INCREASINGLY infuriated by so many channels and so many people on Twitter’s attentions being consumed by football. Look, I tried to like it. Really I did. I had a favorite team and everything. But people, there is JUST NO GETTING AROUND the facts. The NFL and football in general encourage a homophobic, misogynist, violent, attack culture in which violence against women (and others) and proof of the prevalence of brain damage to its players is largely ignored, swept under rugs (and into elevators) and the money-making machine grinds on, eating up humans and dignity. Disgusting. The story on last night’s 60 Minutes about quarterback camps for little kids – pushed me over the edge. And then, more tape of Ray Rice of the Baltimore franchise assaulting his wife? Not only is his two game suspension a joke, he should be in prison. And the refusal of the Washington franchise to change its racist name? And the NFL not stepping in to do anything about that? AND TOO, every time I write about ANY of this on my Twitter feed, the evil trolls come out and attack me in the most vile, violent, homophobic, misspelled, ignorant way. Tragic. And further proof that football inculcates a culture of hate and violence and must be stopped. Here, however, Steve Almond has written a book; “Against Football: One Fan’s Reluctant Manifesto” [click HERE] that says all this much better than I can. CLICK HERE for a link to his Esquire Magazine blog about his feelings and the book.


We are coming up on the time when the F.C.C. is going to make a decision on Net Neutrality. I hate to be all hopeless, but I sincerely doubt freedom will prevail when competing against Verizon and Comcast. Just like the big bucks of the NFL allow it to commit crimes against individuals and culture, so too will those who have wrestled and wrangled the NET into monetized-cash-cow for themselves manage to screw us all into an even more stratified world. BUT, I beg you – go and have your say to the F.C.C. TODAY – please? FIND LINK TO FCC COMMENT FORM HERE!

Here’s what I said:

I am a writer, a freelancer, and my work and research are both conducted via the net. I (and others)already pay a fortune – more than in most industrialized nations – for access to what ought to be free. But, that’s another story. What is NOT another story is that we already live in a class-tiered society and to allow corporate behemoths to further stratify the culture, define our ability to communicate by our ability to comport ourselves to money-hungry-morals-free corporate inspired definition of “deserving” is EXACTLY what the F.C.C. ought to be about preventing. You’ve already blown it with cable, already spent too much time censoring rather than encouraging; please don’t blow this opportunity to encourage freedom and equality. Protect an open internet. Do NOT allow corporations to wrest further control of our freedom and force us to pay for it, thus allowing the rich to – once again – be a little more “free” than the rest of us. Thank you.

I thought that was pithy and to the point – and so brief. For me, anyway.

Speaking of which, this has gotten too long. I wish I had a wonderful story for you about how I have managed to throw out my back, but I don’t. It must have happened while I was uncorking another bottle or shoving another bon-bon down my throat. In any event, I am going to force myself to the gym today and force myself to finish (or really work at) a few writing projects – including yet ANOTHER version of a query letter.

Jeesh … you know, it occurs to me, I am just AWFUL at selling myself – never gotten real bites from a query, was a complete failure on Grindr – and, to re-paraphrase my own clever self – I am pretty certain that the antichrist is working on his comeback act either on Grindr or in the publishing industry.

Watch your step, Lovies.