A Wastrel’s Wednesday: Saunas, Survivors, Empires, and Horror Stories

Gentle Readers; I am trying to blog daily. After all, I manage to gym almost every day, I maintain a healthy diet, I have sort-of programmed myself out of reflexive snark and judgment, surely I can return to daily writing? Alas, since gymming, dieting, reading, and non-reflexive, carefully considered snarking do not generate income enough that I might acquire the swarthy, toned, sneering twenty-something young man whose job it would be to keep me in line – or, writing lines – I shall have to discipline myself. So, here I am, going. And hoping, with daily entries (let’s be honest, I’ll likely stop tomorrow) I might keep things under 1000 words. (HA!)

Parker, Dorothy

Mrs. Parker

When it comes to culture, well, with apologies to Mrs. Parker; You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think. I spend a lot of my time in ways a lot of you might consider wasting it. (In fact, I considered the syntax of the preceding sentence for ten minutes; the composition, the rhythm of the repeated “a lot of” and the echo of “way” in “wasting”.) My ambition, it turns out, has always been to achieve wastrel status, a goal of those with (credit to Mrs. Parker again) “congenital lowness of brow.”

Goal: met.

And with further apologies to Mrs. Parker, I say;

Observation

If I didn’t care for fun and such / I’d probably amount to much./ But I shall stay the way I am,/ Because I do not give a damn. (First printed in New York World, 16 August 1925)

When it comes to damns, I give quite a few, but not many for things about which those who dismiss me as wastrel think I ought. I weary of closets, the toeing of lines, subterfuge of any variety, and cultural conformity. So, while I have long cultivated the Continue reading

Horror Stories … existential variety …

gif jessica langeI’m not quite as caught in the undertow as I was  in yesterday’s post “Homes, Housepets, Husbands, and Heartaches Not My Own; A How Not To Manual” [click it] but, warning, still not as perky as I might be. Trying. Really, I am.

First world existential issues: my internet connection here where I am house/pet sitting is iffy and odd and disconnects me frequently. Being frequently disconnected feels oddly, terrifyingly symbolic. I’ve been disconnecting myself – as it were – anyway, and other than yesterday’s blog, pretty much hiding out in my own weirdness. Too, one of the doggies here has wakened today – and did I mention they make me get up at 4:30-5:00 a.m. here? – with stomach issues. Gwennie didn’t eat her breakfast, has chewed a lot of grass, shat on the rug, and has stomach-growling going on the volume of which challenges mine from a few weeks ago. I sympathize, Gwennie. She is on my lap, passing gas and gastro-gurgling as I type.

Life is hard right now. There is a lot of Continue reading

…here we are…flashes

Thursday, January 22, 2015 — turned my phone back on last night, first time since Sunday, I hadn’t missed any messages or texts. Got back on Twitter today, hadn’t missed any messages. Seems my disappearing is going to be even easier than I’d thought, LOL. Cue the rolling in of the green mist. Here were some notes I took during my absence — and a few added today.

Sunday, January 18, 2015 — I’ve turned off my phone. I’m rationing my on-line time. I’m not Tweeting or, even, opening Twitter. I need to re-program my brain so that I can, once again, focus hours-long on reading and writing. I’ve allowed myself to be short-circuited. Or, rather, as another step in my long and steady parade of self-destruction, I have short-circuited myself. So, in much the way I stopped with the damaging-self-negating relationships, stopped with the smoking, stopped with the drinking; I am stopping (for a while) with the techno-distractions.

However, I still get these URGES (compulsions) to drop a headline, elevator-pitch about things going on in my life. So, in lieu of Continue reading

Zeitbites Sunday: I’m Feeling Sed

So, these things have distracted me briefly from this seemingly intractable heaviness of mood:

Schiele, Egon 3

Egon Schiele

  • Egon Schiele at the Neue Galerie. [CLICK HERE] Why don’t I live in New York?
  • I HATE the new stats page that WordPress has forced on me. But, I’m a free user (which seems only fitting, as I am a free writer) and so, there’s that. And, too, WordPress jumped to my defense [CLICK HERE FOR DETAILS] when Ben Affleck’s people at FOX came after me for posting a screencap of his genitalia. Well, part of it anyway. So, six (or eight) of one and … you know the rest.
  • Other than my home page, the following post from another Sunday — this one in August of 2013 called “Sexting (re-visited)” about Russell Tovey and wanking [CLICK HERE] — was my highest clicked post this week. On reviewing my “searched for” terms, turns out, oh dear, the way most people find me has to do with typing in a celebrity name and the words naked or nude or dick. It is somewhat ironic (tragic?) that it is my writing which is sought out when people are in pursuit of dick, when in real life … well, never the case, really. Then again, I’m not sought out in real life for my writing either. Then again, in real life — I’m not sought out, thus … my Saturday night follows.
  • Last night in my usual “sought out by so many people, so little time” life, I was again absent Saturday night invitations. So, I started watching Empire, [CLICK HERE] about which I’d read various things, good and bad, but someone compared it to Dynasty in its campy, soapy hey-day, and that was all this ghost needed. Holy shit. LOVED IT. And while, once upon a time, I dreamed of having Alexis Carrington’s nerve and cash, now I want to be Taraji P. Henson —

— well, as her Cookie character — the THINGS SHE SAYS! She speaks to power. Speaking of such speaking (and how little it accomplishes) . . .

  • Oscar nominations. Old. White. Men. In. Power. Sick of it. Also sick of living in a world where conversations still include identifiers of gender and race and sexuality and age and religion and nationality and on and on and on and on … because I really, really, REALLY thought when I was younger — had HOPE when I was younger — that the quality and make-up of one’s soul would eventually be the only thing thing we saw about others. I hate to say this, but, despite some improvements, I don’t know that it is getting better — divisiveness seems to be selling. Big. Politics (Cruz and Rubio’s Republicans, Isis, Putin’s Russia). Religion(homophobia, misogyny, Duke University kicking out the Muslims) . TV (Fox News, Duck Dynasty, Duggars) – I don’t need to give anyone reading this any more examples — hate sells. Divisions and encouraging people to think what is rightfully “theirs” is being taken by those “others” is STILL a thing. Still makes bombs. Still breeds hate. Sadness. Solitude. Isolation. Speaking of which . . .

I don’t know that I have ever been quite this lonely and sad. But, with things like the NCAA approving child-rape by re-instating co-abuser Paterno’s wins and Penn State’s eligibility, who wouldn’t be sad? In the same vein, with the St. Paul/Minneapolis Roman Catholic archdiocese claiming bankruptcy to escape its duty to those children and families of children its priests raped, who wouldn’t be sad? With the church in Rome backing such a move — despite the Roman Catholic church being one of the wealthiest organizations in the world — who wouldn’t be sad? With that majority of old white men on the Supreme Court being given the power to decide whether people of the same gender can wed, who wouldn’t be sad? WHY IS IT A QUESTION AT ALL? Why, in fact, does the state have ANY interest in marriage? I find the concept of marriage idiotic, but that the state should have any hand in sanctioning and rewarding it, even more so. I took my Mom to her hair appointment Thursday and had to listen to two people at salon trashing Jane Fonda as “un-American” (because, apparently, speaking your mind is un-American unless you agree with these women) and “all these men getting married in magazines and on TV is making me sick” — aside from that syntax, the sentiment is just — well, WHO WOULDN’T BE SAD? I was turned down this week — not by literary agents (for a change of pace) — and not even for JOBS, BUT FOR INTERVIEWS FOR JOBS collecting grocery carts in parking lots and sitting with the elderly.

WHO WOULDN’T BE SAD?

And, sitting in my bed, reading, as I so often do and am, enjoying a particularly beautifully composed section of Celeste Ng’s brilliant Everything I Never Told You [read here where I wrote about it]  it came to me with terrible force that in all my centuries of living, no man has ever told me he loved me and wanted to spend his life with me.

And, memory flood. Bad dreams. Slaps of visions of past slights and contemptuous affronts and dismissals, one after another, came at me, beating me into the ground, burying me alive — alas, ALIVE.

That time I said, “When you turn on me, and you will, I want you to remember that I am still going to love this person you are now, this true you, always.”

And how, I never said that to me.

Those times I cooked and cleaned and cared for and supported and believed in and saw and stood with and beside and behind and walked ahead to take the hits and fought the fights for and carried and counseled and was there, showed up, and how, now, I would, so much, like it if I was enough — or, even, just didn’t ever again have to hear about how I am not enough, how I am wrong — and how nice it would be to be in a situation where I didn’t have constantly to worry about living on a grate, where someone fixed my dinner and made my bed and cleaned up after me and did for me what I did for them, and loved me, really loved me not because of what I could do for him, for them.

Yes, I am having a lot of bad dreams. And memories. And I am sad. And I am lonely. And I feel unseen. Or, incorrectly seen. Or, just, NOT. I feel NOT. And I want a room, a bedroom, with windows, and to be able to spend my days in rooms with sunlight and silence. I am sick of having to sit in the dark. I am weary of all the noise. The endless noise that has followed me my entire life and follows me still. Always other people’s noise. And in the face of all that noise, someone always telling me to be quiet — I was just told to be quiet again yesterday. And I am — how many times can you say this you whiner — EXHAUSTED.

And, to sum it up, wasted some time at Boscov’s this week — because my Mom wanted to use her gift cards, and throughout the store, this sign:

Clearence

. . . so, yeah, I am totally fucking sed.

 

 

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.

MEGAN HILTY

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.

 

 

 

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.

  • MY BABY IS ALL GROWN UP AND GOING TO LAW SCHOOL (and a genius)

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 . . .

HOW’S IT GOING TO END . . .

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.

  • MY CONTRIBUTION TO EBOLA PANIC . . .

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.

  • HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER …

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.

  • AMERICAN HORROR STORY: FREAK SHOW

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.

  • OFF AGAIN …

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:

Tovey, CALVINS

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.

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.

  • SHONDA ALL THE TIME!

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?

LINK: DEADLINE HOLLYWOOD: SHONDA RHIMES RULES THURSDAYS

  • THAT WHICH I CANNOT GET RIGHT (WRITE) – OH PEOPLE(s?)

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.

LINK: GRAMMAR GIRL: WHICH VS THAT

  • MY DICK PIC, YOUR DICK PIC, EVERYBODY’S DICK PIC
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.

LINK: NOAH MICHELSON/HUFFINGTON POST: YES, I HAVE A DICK PIC

  • I HATE TO GO HERE, BUT. . . ZANKIE

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.

LINK: QUEERTY: ZANKIE: FRANKIE ADMITS HIS LOVE FOR ZACH

  • AND WHILE WE’RE ON THE TOPIC OF DICKS AND BAD ROMANCE AND HOOK-UPS AND BAROQUE WRITING STYLE … TENNESSEE WILLIAMS

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.

LINK: TENNESSEE WILLIAMS: MAD PILGRIMAGE OF THE FLESH by JOHN LAHR

  • 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.