ZeitBites: Eggs and Andys and Hollys and Dickory Docks

Monday Morning, December 7, 2015

sunset blvd gifI woke up this morning wishing one of you out there in the dark was here in the dark so I could just spit this all out really quickly and be done with it rather than having to blog it — and since MOST of my followers (for some reason) and hits come from European countries, I like to delude myself that my lack of having someone with whom to share my life (and my rantings and ravings) is to do with me having been born in the wrong country (or, in the wrong era, but that’s another blog — which I’m pretty sure I’ve already written somewhere but I’m old and wake up all night and I can’t remember these things, dammit) and so, it is a comfort, thinking of all of you over there who’d love me as I am, honor me and all that and Listen To Me. But until that time I get a passport renewed and money enough to sail (I’d sail, you know, rather than fly. Just seems more 1930s and, like I said, I was born in the wrong era — I did say that, didn’t I?) I’ll just have to blog all these fleeting, random thoughts I have.

(I know, you’re saying, “Have to? Maybe just shut-up, Charlie? Ever thought of that?” Yes. I have. But, I can’t really. You readers — European and non — and even those just clicking in because I have old tags saying DEREK HOUGH NAKED — are the closest I have to lovers, real companion type lovers, so, pretend you like this or remain silent — or, if you want to be truly like my past lovers, abandon me saying you never much enjoyed me in the first place and were just killing time until the kind of blog you wanted really came along.)

— but since you’re not here, here goes. Why did I get up at 5:55 a.m.?

  1. I have been tossing and semi-weird-waking since I lights-outed at 1:00 a.m.-ish with the half-fever worry that I needed to get the eggs out of the refrigerator and bring them to room temperature for today’s continuation of Christmas cookie baking. So—-
  2. — Christmas makes me think of Andy Williams because my Momma loved Andy Williams and it was really Christmas when she got out the Andy Christmas albums. And-My Momma worked in an egg factory which brings me back to the eggs at room temperature worry, plus —
  3. —I have been doing this odd thing where I wake at 2:22, 3:33, 4:44, 5:55 – and despite my lack of faith or belief in anything, this frequent waking I do and the feverish-fugue into which it puts me, triggers childhood fears and despite knowing it is completely impossible, I worry that if I go back to sleep, the next time I wake I will see 6:66 on the clock and the Baby Jesus will never be born because I have sinned. Thus —
  4. — I get out of bed to shake it off (and get the eggs out) and I weigh myself and I look awful and I think, “This is all your fault, Andy Williams, because you are Christmas and all that cookie baking and tasting yesterday is to blame for this weight this morning and FUCK YOU, ANDY!” Which —
  5. dallesandro and woodlawn

    Joe Dallesandro & Holly Woodlawn

    — Reminds me that Andy Warhol Superstar, Holly Woodlawn [click here], died yesterday. And I think, “Holly” – deck the halls with boughs of and all that. Weird. I miss Andy and his Superstars and the thrill of discovering them and all those connections and when I was away at theatre camp and introduced to Lou Reed’s music and — shit, Holly inspired Walk On the Wild Side and Joe Dallesandro — who I follow on Twitter — announced her death there yesterday and posted all those pics of his younger self. I miss my younger self. Joe was my first trade-crush, I think. He was so beautiful naked. dallesandro joe dallesandro warhol Why am I alone? Cause of porny crushes on beautiful naked guys for whom I will never be their type? Like —

  6. colby christmas

    Colby Keller coming down the chimney, down

    — Colby Keller. Oh, he did all those Christmas shots last year. Shit, I need to wake up and get busy on these cookies. Christmas. Andy. Williams. Warhol. Holly. Dallesandro. Colby. Get the eggs out. Jesus I look awful naked — JESUS? Did I actually worry this morning in some haze of old-man-back-pain-too-many-hours-on-my-feet-Christmas-cookie baking-frenzy-brainfade that Baby Jesus wouldn’t be born because my clock might say 6:66 if I committed the sin of going back to sleep. And, see —

  7. —  that whole sin thing, which in my egg-factory, Andy Williams Christmas, hallucinatory youth
    dallesandro rolling-stones-sti_3287029k

    Dallesandro’s dick on Rolling Stones album cover

    thing was conflated with wanting to hickory dickory with Joe Dallesandro who I discovered because the theatre camp bad influences (perfect influences) introduced me to Lou Reed and we talked out loud about wanting to fuck Mick Jagger and it was only years later I learned that the dick on the front of Sticky Fingers belonged to Joe Dallesandro and — art and porn — like Colby Keller Does America [CLICK HERE] is doing now and —

  8. — here I am, blogging.

 

But, those lyrics:

It’s the holiday season
With the whoop-de-do and dickory dock
And don’t forget to hang up your sock
‘Cause just exactly at 12 o’clock
He’ll be coming down the chimney
Coming down the chimney
Coming down the chimney, down!

Tell me this: What the hell does dickory dock mean?! I mean, you are aware of what dick-docking is, correct? Were the Christmas tunes of Andy Williams that my mom played — over and over and over — sending me subliminal messages?

(According to the ever-reliable Yahoo Answers, “hickory, dickory, dock” means eight, nine, ten. From a British nursery rhyme. SEE, EUROPE AGAIN. Come on, Neville, FIND ME! Anyway, who knew? [CLICK HERE FOR YAHOO ANSWERS DICKORY DOCK INFO- NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH DICK-DOCKING INFO- LINKS FOR WHICH I  TRUST YOU CAN FIND ON YOUR OWN SHOULD YOU BE INTERESTED.])

And while I’m Zeit-bite blabbing: Is it just me, or have large eggs gotten smaller?

cookie dayLike I said, I spent yesterday making Christmas cookies. This effort required a $200 trip to the grocery store Saturday night, an $80 trip Sunday morning, and another $50 trip Sunday afternoon. So far. Now, after the baking of three kinds and the concoction and refrigeration of dough for a fourth —

(The New York Times Cookbook best chocolate chip cookie recipe EVER, which people ask me for all the time — not the recipe, the cookies, because most people are too lazy to do the weighing and waiting required — plus, I use a secret combination of six kinds of chocolate for the chips, chunks, pieces — so, there’s that) 

— with eight more varieties to go, I’ve already run out of storage containers and need a few more ingredients, one of which is butter — HOW DID I NOT GET ENOUGH BUTTER?

But, I swear, eggs have gotten smaller. Or, is this a trick of age? When I was a child — from age six to, I think, twelve — my mom worked in an egg factory. It was a simpler, kinder time, and Mommy would sometimes take various of us to work with her, and we would be allowed to do some of the jobs there. I did candling, which was the job my mom and her friend Helen alternated, a job no one wanted as it required hours of  standing in a cold, dark booth watching eggs roll by on an lit-from-below conveyor belt and plucking off those eggs with bloody or fetal yolks, tossing them into a waste-bucket which smelled. I also used what I called “the sucker”, a vacuum type affair egg candlingwhich picked up lots of eggs at once and fed them onto the belt that led to the candling booth. And, too, I packaged, which meant I stood at one of the chutes down which the eggs were rolled after the post-candling machine sorted them into sizes. I usually manned the extra-large or the small chutes. The large chute required a very skilled and speedy packager because the majority of eggs fell into that classification and handling the volume at that station — getting the eggs into cartons, getting the cartons into cases, moving the cases to yet another conveyor belt — turned me into Lucy and Ethel in the candy factory. It occurs to me now that the working conditions in that egg factory would not pass OSHA standards for adults today, let alone children, but I loved being there and feeling needed, important, useful.

And, I swear, those large eggs were bigger than the large eggs now. I tried (not very hard) to find information on-line about when standardized egg sizes changed in this country, if they changed, but all I managed to determine was this: What is considered large in the U.S. would be medium in Europe.

From this — it being Monday morning weigh-in, me being me, and without benefit of gastrointestinal parasite to help me maintain my recent hard-won slimness, and seeing my naked self in the mirror as I stepped on the scale this a.m. — I thought, “Well, I may be large in the U.S., but in Europe, I’m medium!” So, there. BUT THEN, me being me, I thought, “Well shit, I’m no Dallesandro in more ways than one, so if Large in the U.S. is only Medium in Europe, then my Average in Europe is probably small. DAMMMMMIT! I’ll never get a lover there either.”

And we’re back to where I started. All babble. No one to listen. Eggs. Cookies. Christmas. Andy. Warhol. Woodlawn. Dallesandro. Dick. None. I’m fat.

So, I’ll leave you with Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side, with images of Holly and Joe and Edie, too.

And if you, like me, prefer something a little less safe for work and more Joe — well, it’s the holiday season — so, hang the holly or Joe is hung or something someone more clever than am I would say. This is Lou Reed again, Make Up — which is really just an excuse for naked Joe Dallesandro.

Later. I have cookies to make and more loneliness to explore. Cuz, you know, this isn’t Europe and I am large and not large and I sleep alone and it is up to me to make sure we all avoid the 666 which will keep the Baby Jesus from being born. I mean, I guess I really do miss feeling useful, needed, important, like I did as a child, carefully handling those eggs, watching them roll by, looking for the flaws, looking for the bloody yolks, watching how few were extra large or extra small, so many larges. Ha, large. What does that even mean? Jesus. I mean — Baby Jesus? Shit. I wish Colby Keller was coming my way. So to speak. I think – maybe – I need a nap.

(Yes, I know, you are saying: CHARLIE, REALLY, SHUT UP!)

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].

COLBY

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.

CLICK HERE FOR COLBY KELLER DOES MARYLAND ON XTUBE

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]

endofsanfran

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.

MEGAN HILTY

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.

NOTE: JAN 12, 2015 — FOX HAS NOTHING BETTER TO DO THAN COME AFTER HARMLESS, LOW-HIT BLOGGER LIKE ME AND DETERMINE MY USE OF IMAGES FROM FILM NOT FAIR USE — AND DESPITE WORDPRESS FIRST PARAGRAPH, THEY DID IN FACT DISABLE THE IMAGES. READ:

Hello, 

We have received a DMCA notice (https://www.eff.org/issues/bloggers/legal/liability/IP#dmca) 
for material published on your WordPress.com site. 

Normally this would mean that we'd have to disable access to the material. 
However, because we believe that this instance falls under fair use protections, 
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Section 107 of US copyright law identifies various purposes for which the 
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While we believe that your use of the material is protected (we have fought for 
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please keep in mind that the complainant may choose to continue to pursue this 
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delete the content from your site yourself.

The notice we received follows.


— BEGIN NOTICE —
To whom it may concern:

We are writing to you on behalf of Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation and 
its related entities (collectively "Fox") which own intellectual property rights 
in the motion picture film Gone Girl Image 81313611/CA2014005206. It has come to 
our attention that one or more images purportedly from Gone Girl Image 
81313611/CA2014005206 were posted on your website at the URL(s) listed below 
without authorization of Fox. This conduct infringes Fox's intellectual property 
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We must demand that you remove the images from your website immediately. 

I have a good faith belief that the use of the material at the URL(s) listed 
above is not authorized by Fox, its agent, or the law and I declare under 
penalty of perjury that I am authorized to act on behalf of Fox and the 
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Please confirm via e-mail that you will comply with our request.


/Kasimira C. Verdi/

Kasimira C. Verdi
Director – Intellectual Property
Fox Group Legal
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Century City, CA 90067
310-369-3110
foxip@fox.com

 

 

Love and Light, kids. Love and Light.

 

 

 

Existential Cozies, Comforts, and Joys

capote warhol

Truman Capote hugs Santa Warhol

‘Tis the season.  For the past week I’ve been in semi-seclusion here at Sepia Fallows, wallowing in ague-fuguery. My restricted life has consisted of nose-blowing, croupe-like-hacking, head and joint achery, sleep-deprivation resulting in head-lolling-exhaustion naps, intermittent cold-sweating, off-and-on feverish semi-hallucinations, and that consciousness of, “I really need to take a drink of that water,” coupled with a staggering lack of energy or will to actually do so, the “Yes, I will in a second” syndrome: I meant to take a drink of water, really I did, somewhere around Tuesday. Here it is, Friday. I’m parched.

Yet, silver lining: I may be down, but I haven’t been out, because, through it all, I could read. Granted, Kathryn Davis’s hallucinatory, acid-trip of a novel, Duplex, was not, perhaps, the best choice given my delusory state, but, there it is. Was. Whatever. Is, was, will be, the point is that in Duplex — unlike this post, the sentences sure were pretty.

For me, long, uninterrupted (if one doesn’t count the hacking cough and nose blowing breaks) stretches of reading are like being cozied beneath a warm blankie, tucked in by a loving someone who has just rubbed Vicks on one’s chest. Books — as ’twas ever thus — get me through. Comfort and joy, so to speak (type). And, hey … I’m a giver so …

… since it seems a lot of folks are feeling a bit under-weathered, and, too, since it’s prime suicide season — holidays and what-not — I’m guessing you might need some jollying along to get you through the remaining weeks of hall decking and such.

Here you go. Wrap yourself in these thoughts and observations. You’re welcome.

hemingwriteI am obsessed with (as in, a stalker of) authors, publishers, literary agents, editors, and other TwitterLiterati. Of late, many of them have been blogging, writing, talking about the Hemingwrite. [CLICK HERE FOR HEMINGWRITE] What it amounts to is an old-school word-processor/typewriter. It’s not even MANUFACTURED yet, and everyone wants one. It’s a KICKSTARTER dream, people, and everyone wants one. LOL. So do I. Oh wait, I had one. It was a Smith-Corona electric typewriter about twenty years ago. Life. Next up, a throwback washing machine: here you go, kids!

washboard

Crazy world. And I’m not going to get into all the things in this crazy world that are INFURIATING me; like torture reports, Duggars donating and campaigning in Fayetteville to deny rights to LGBTQ folk, the Rolling Stone debacle and its resultant rape-victim-blaming-demonization, the lack of diversity in the publishing world and year-end “best of” books lists, Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, Eric Garner, Ferguson, racism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, ageism — well, NOT GOING TO GET INTO ALL THAT – and point out the ignorance and idiocy.

COMFYVBALLS-570

Instead, look at this ignorance and idiocy. “Comfyballs” underwear is denied a trademark. What the actual ball-busting fuck? Click HERE for Huffington Post article: ‘Comfyballs’ Underwear Denied Trademark Because ‘Balls’. LOL.

Speaking of balls. Ben Affleck’s penis. [CLICK HERE]

Affleck penis

Which is all well and good, but, finally this week on American Horror Story: Freak Show, we were treated to Evan Peters’ ass. It took long enough. And, try though I might, I have been unable to find any GIFS or even screen-caps of it. WOW. I mean, in seasons past, as soon as Evan’s ass hit the screen it was Tumblr-d and Tweeted everywhere. I, myself, have frequently featured it on this blog, especially the Coven season. Remember?

Evan Peters Coven 3

Of course you do. But this season it seems Finn Wittrock as Dandy Mott is the ass-man of Mr. Ryan Murphy’s choice. And, well, it is a nice ass … and everything else.

ahs dandy buttahs freak dandy dec 2014 2

I’m not the only one noticing the butt-work on AHS. CLICK HERE FOR MTV STORY ‘7 TIMES AMERICAN HORROR STORY HAD THE BEST BUTTS ON TELEVISION’. Visuals included.

Lest you think ALL I care about is balls, Ben Affleck’s penis, and Finn Wittrock’s ass, I hasten to get all intellectual again. Well, my version anyway. Many of my TwitterLiterati — the ones I follow who, in many cases, indulge me by following back — have been linking to this piece in The Awl titled ‘The Untold Story of the Doodler Murders’ [click here]. It’s written by Elon Green — who is followed by (and follows in return) quite a few of the same people I follow and they keep linking this. So, despite the fact that Mr. Green — like Darin Strauss, Bill Walsh, Roxane Gay, and Daniel Mendelsohn — does NOT follow me (and really, why should anyone? Well, I’ll tell you why, if I’m good enough for The Duchess Goldblatt to follow, then … enough said) I still think this is worth a read. Well done. And fascinating.

joe and andyBut, wait, this was supposed to be about what gives me comfort and joy, and giving you that same cozy feeling. Ok. Well, hmm … if Santa Warhol wanted to visit me and couldn’t manage to get Joe Dallesandro down my chimney — I don’t actually have a chimney, damn the luck — then, what would make me feel good?

Simple things. My simple Christmas wish(es):

Starbucks. Can’t help it. I dream of winning one of those 10 Lifetime Supplies they keep talking about on television. And the Christmas Blend Keurig K-Cups. Oh my. Simple pleasures.

And Books. Can’t go wrong with visiting THE CURIOUS IGUANA [click here], my favorite bookstore, ever. And, too, confessions, for old books, I do the one cent shopping thing on Amazon and visit church book sales and used bookstores — like the one the Girl Scouts run where every hardback is $1 and paperback fifty cents.

And YouTube. I watch all sorts of clips for all sorts of hours when I am too tired to read. Or, in need of some Judy Garland or vintage Broadway or Julia Murney or … well, you get it.

Santa Colby Keller

Colby Santa Keller

And Colby Keller. I can’t stop myself. I guess it is — with me — again — about the balls and the penis and the ass — and when it comes to those things, porn performer, Colby, is great. But even better, he’s literate and funny and original and an artist. Check out his BIG SHOE DIARIES blog. CLICK HERE.

And quiet. And solitude. And sun. A window of my own. Yes, what I really like in life is peace and quiet. I like alone time. I like silence. No traffic noise. No TV noise. Just, quiet. I am afforded some quiet in my Crazy Potty Mouth Uncle Basement room here at Sepia Fallows, but, sadly, it’s dark down here. One little window on the other side of the basement, not near my room. I lack light. I dream of one day living somewhere with light. With a window I can open. A balcony onto which I can step. And quiet. Real, true, quiet. Actually, I will be spending much of the holiday season at Aftermath, out in the country, lots of quiet and lots of light. Me. Judah. And more time to read and fantasize about Colby and Dallesandro and ruminate on the cozies of life.

Happy Holidays, dears. Love and Light and Hemingwrites and Affleck Penis and Wittrock and Peters ass and being tucked under blankies by loved ones brandishing Vicks-Vapo-Rub to you all. I have a feeling I may be backing off posting for a bit … holidays, not my best time. Much love ….

MERRY, MERRY

 

 

 

Saturday Night

Colby Keller never called. Oh well. I got to see my Cody. And, Her Grace checked on me. Those things are beautiful. I am grateful for the ways I am loved. But, oh dear, I’m exhausted, my Lights and Loves. I am truly, truly exhausted.

charlie up a tree_edited-1 (2)

June 12, 2014 7

Charlie attitude

Cody and Charlie theatre

Cody and Charlie at Bridges

charlie at 3

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Garbo I Want To Be Alone

Sissie 3

once was my heart

feb 3 2014 5

alone2

DC Jan 2014 3 NY Times Press Seat at White House

shot to the head

C PURPLE4

C PURPLE3

C PURPLE2

allen

Mommy & Charlie 1 001

April 2013 5

I need to laugh more often. I believe that lack of laughter is why I am so tired. Saturday night.

 

 

 

Now and Then: All Reminiscence, All the Time

sissie

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.

    Lasagna

    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.”

Yep.

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