Zeitbites Monday: Gainful Un-enjoyment. Link me up.

My world is somewhat not in the greatest shape right at the moment, but, I know that there are much bigger problems in the world than my inability to find gainful employment, a literary agent, or, actually, a place and way to live. SO… if you know of someone looking for a caretaker, or a long-term house/pet sit, or a walker who can toss of the witty bon mots with the best of them — let me know. I’d prefer leaving the U.S. at this point.

Enough intro whining! I Tweeted this today– the joy of this child, already loving Sondheim — I defy you not to smile or weep or both from this — LOVE THIS KID!

SOOOOOO, moving on — if you people would JUST Continue reading

My Year in Reading, Sort of: 2014 Highlights

reading falneur

(HOLY HOLY HOLY — UPON PUSHING THE “PUBLISH” BUTTON, I WAS INFORMED THIS IS MY 700TH POST ON THIS BLOG?!?! SOMETHING ABOUT THAT STRIKES ME AS … STRUCK. LOL)

Reading is my passion.

I’ve found great comfort and solace in reading. Reading took me to worlds I longed to visit but could not otherwise reach. Reading educated me. Reading saved me by making me aware of  possibilities and lives and loves I could never have imagined on my own. Reading gave me New York, the Algonquin Round Table, the Bridesheads, Jane and Paul Bowles, Helene Hanff, gay men, Fran Lebowitz, Andy Warhol and Studio 54, the Beats, the Bloomsbury Group, the Violet Quill bunch, and, holy of holy, as is Stephen Sondheim to my musical theatre jones, so is Joan Didion to my reading addiction. I actually think that without Joan Didion — and all the others — I would have killed myself long ago. Truly, I think it is reading that has kept me alive.

I’m not sure how much a favor to me that has been but that is another blog.

BooksReading has been my escape. Reading has been my constant lover and friend, my companion through my entire life. My memory may be going but I can still tell you where I was, approximately how old I was, and what was going on in my life when first I read HARRIET, THE SPY and JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH and DIARY OF A MAD HOUSEWIFE and Proust — okay, I’ve never actually finished Proust — but I can tell you all the times I bought new translations, new versions, why I did so, and what they looked like. I have in storage not one, but TWO CARTONS of versions of Proust and books about Proust. And I can tell you that I first read Joan Didion in Saturday Evening Post magazines I stacked and date ordered in one of the rooms in the abandoned wing of Libertytown, that room with the blackboard still on the wall left over from when the house had been an academy for wayward boys, that room I — the most wayward and lonely of boys — had 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.

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.

 

 

 

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And here is what she won for …

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

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

Tovey, Russell Mar 2014 asstovey, russell tweet

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

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

LOOK:

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

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

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

Styles, Harry

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

Tovey, Russell Mar 2014 2

Tovey, Russell Jan 2014

Tovey, Groff Looking 5

Tovey, Groff Looking 4

Tovey, Groff Looking 3

Tovey, Groff Looking 2

Tovey, Groff Looking 1

Looking 5

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

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

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

My HUSBAND, Russell Tovey

My HUSBAND, Russell Tovey

 

 

My suggestions for what constitutes a #GoodFriday …

Good Friday? I’ll be the judge of that.

Now, one would assume that a faith that calls the day on which the character who sings the eleven o’clock number is costumed in a crown of thorns, beaten, scourged and stabbed before being nailed to a cross to bleed out a “good day” would LOGICALLY appear to be a faith custom made for a fellow boasting my temperament and inclinations, but one would be wrong. Still, not a total loss this weekend — “Orphan Black” season 2 [CLICK HERE]is happening. 

As an infant, I was bound in a white sacramental sheath and sacrificed into the papist cult. Like many of the lambs sold into the faith before (and after) me I was early on handed over to the en-habited crones whose role it was to indoctrinate the children in the doctrines of the faith, persuading by book, crook, and wickedly-aimed eraser and ruler left hook, the catechismic dogma and creeds of the roman catholic sect.

These women were virtuoso viragoes. Before I was seven they had me convinced that my “highest second-grade IQ in the state of Maryland” was a “message from god, he has a very special plan for you and you mustn’t disappoint him or your family, meaning all of us in your community of faith” and, apparently, I was destined to become the first American pope. The following year the termagants instructed that I should be sent away — tuition free — to a Jesuit boarding school that I might fulfill my holy destiny, but, unlike Rosemary, my Mother was not about to hand her baby over, and her terror of letting me go saved me from being sent away and losing my man-on-man virginity before puberty hit.

In effect, for all practical intents and purposes, I as good as left the church a few years later when I read Portnoy’s Complaint. While I knew I could never be jewish, I recognized the guilt and the familial periphrastic malevolence of the hero’s life, and Roth — unlike the adherents to the holy sees holy shit — taught me something practical: how to masturbate. Now there was a sacrament I could wrap myself — or, at least, my hand — around, though it would be many years before I fucked a piece of liver — but that’s another story and this is Friday, no meat.

And not just any Friday, but Good Friday. What the fuck is so good about it?

Turns out the “good” is likely a derivation of the archaic root of the word meaning “holy” — still, faith built around a celebration of the day when some masochist volunteers to suffer and die so — supposedly — you don’t have to? Except, uhm, YOU DO. I mean, if that Jesus fellow had hit that high note in Gethsemane (and believe me, I did when I played the role) and bit it afterward and the result was that we then had only to chew on him on Sundays to avoid feeling pain and sorrow and — you know — LIFE, then, okay, sign me up.

SUPERSTAR

Yeah, that’s me on the cross — I have a hard time getting off. It took two apostles.

But that’s not the deal with this churchy shit. This churchy shit is all about white men wielding power over everyone else, the bastardization (and I meant to use that word) of actual tenets of truth and light and love into controlling fictions meant to keep the peasants in servitude and fear.

Fuck that shit. Power ballads or not, I refuse to be intimidated by your dogma. Although, I think catma would be a better word – I like dogs.

So, yeah. N0. Good Friday as far as I am concerned would need to include some meat (no liver, please) and all of the people who have ever annoyed me being thorn-crowned and nailed to little-crosses of their own — I have a list should anyone be interested.

Thought not. So, guess I’ll read and wait for Good Saturday – which really is tomorrow, because Orphan Black returns at last with the brilliant and Emmy-robbed Tatiana Maslany. Not to mention Jordan Gavaris, who would be my boyfriend were I not already in a committed imaginary relationship with Russell Tovey. I have it on good authority that Jordan’s ass [CLICK HERE FOR ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY ARTICLE] is featured in the Season 2 opener.

Gavaris, Jordan 1 Gavaris, Jordan 2 Gavaris, Jordan 3

Now THAT is a Good Day.

But, no worries, Russell, I still love you MOST.

Tovey, Russell Mar 2014 ass

Tovey, Russell Mar 2014 2

Looking 6 KISS

Tovey, Groff Looking 3

Tovey, Groff Looking 1

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

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

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

I OBJECT(ify)! 2014-3-17

It’s Monday. It’s snowing. Again. So, in keeping with lots of other bloggers I follow, I think I will start posting photos of men I desire. Here he is: Monday Man.

March 17 2014

I already feel guilty. I have – once again – compromised myself and distracted ME with pretty pictures of pretty men, turning them into objects and fodder for sexual (and emotional) fantasy. I think about – and worry about – this a lot; this conundrum. I want people to love me despite the fact I am nowhere near any physical ideal – you know, love me for my spirit and brain and such? Right.

We are who we are. I am attracted to certain things, and, for whatever reason, what gets me going sexually is the male body. Is THAT about objectification? Or, does the objection to objectification begin JUST when one starts preferring a PARTICULAR type of male body? I mean – was I somehow indoctrinated – and if so, how and when? I’m supposed to feel BADLY because I WANT people to keep making TUMBLRs and

Marc Jacobs

and Marc Jacobs ads and

Andrew Christian

Andrew Christian 2 Andrew Christian

Andrew Christian commercials with hot, mostly naked (or, all naked) guys? Hmph.

And in that vein; tonight, Dancing With The Stars returns. Derek is back.

Hough, Derek Sailor

I haven’t forgiven him for buying a house with Mark, though it’s none of my business since I had already dumped him when I got back together with Russell from whom I’d drifted apart once he returned to the UK after The History Boys closed on Broadway.

tovey, russell tweetTovey, Russell Jan 2014

But he’s back, albeit kissing (and OTHER things) Groff in Looking. 

Looking 2Looking 3Looking 4Looking 5Looking 6 KISS

Tovey, Groff Looking 5Tovey, Groff Looking 4Tovey, Groff Looking 3Tovey, Groff Looking 2Tovey, Groff Looking 1

So, don’t give up hope Derek. If Russell keeps up these shenanigans, maybe you and I have a chance after all. Not until you move Mark out of that house though! And QUIT flying to Russia. Have you NO IDEA how dangerous that is for gay people? Sheesh.

And then, after Dancing … another episode of MTV’s TeenWolf. This season’s “Evil Stiles” focus proves once again that gay men drive this culture. We were ALL blogging and shipping Dylan O’Brien last season – not to say – OBSESSSSSSING – and then, BOOM, he’s made into the lead of the show. AND HE’S NOT EVEN GAY A WOLF!

Sterek 9Sterek 10Sterek 9Sterek 7

Stiles 1stiles 2stiles 3

tw gif scott4tw gif scott3tw gif scott2tw gif scott1

And, uhm, the twins?

Charlie & Max Carver

Charlie & Max Carver

So, yes. I OBJECT(ify) – often and well. And if I didn’t have social media on which to do it, I would have been collecting old snapshots like these . . .

Mar 17 1 Mar 17 2 Mar 17 3 Mar 17 4 Mar 17 5 Mar 17 6

Happy Monday.

Oscar Weekend w/ Sebastian and Charlie: A Hate Story (Part 2)

Your intrepid – or, insipid and insane – blogger has stopped drinking again. Well, in any event, he hasn’t had a drink since Friday night’s debauch with DB which he described in the previous entry. Sadly, it is not the only withdraw he has had to withstand this weekend, and, apparently, these multiple shocks to his system have resulted in the manifestation of multiple psychopathies including writing about himself in the third person and the re-emergence of his multiple, the English and erudite and snarkily cruel, Sebastian (CLICK HERE to read about Sebastian’s first appearance). (He’s a Brit, so he puts the periods outside the parentheses).

Well, I watched the Oscars last night.I’m house-sitting at a place with HBO, so, it was a struggle to decide because there was my boyfriend, Russell Tovey, on HBO in Looking. And, his play just closed in England and he’d Tweeted out another shot of himself in his underwear and  . . . well, LOOK:

Tovey, Russell Pass Instagram

I mean, you can see why I was torn? But, I watched the Oscars.

I had to; there was going to be a 75th Anniversary Tribute to Judy Garland’s The Wizard of Oz at which Joey Luft was going to join his sisters, Lorna Luft and Liza Minnelli, and, I mean, who in the world wouldn’t want to see that? See it, I did. I thought Pink singing Over The Rainbow was – well, the thing is, I thought it was incredibly sincere and deeply felt, but, you just don’t breathe between syllables of words and in the middle of phrases that are all one thought. You just don’t. That said, I was weeping – not just a little – but, rather, out of control heaving. And then came a text from DB. One word: “Crying?”

ENOUGH. This is Sebastian. DB is hardly psychic. It was the sob heard round the world as every aging bender, poofter and queen dissolved predictably when the original over-the-rainbow role-model of psychotic vulnerability and drug addiction was feted by the homo-mafia run film industry by trotting out her trio of troubled progeny, clearly so manic and maladjusted they weren’t even allowed ON THE STAGE, but, instead, safely displayed – out of microphone range – in all their derangement in the audience. When they were asked to stand up, the camera quickly cut away before the worldwide audience bore witness to the blue-haired (and not in the dignified way) one – dressed in a sheath dyed to match the streak in her hair, an outfit seemingly designed by the raised-from-the-dead Halston, meant to double as a body-bag when she dropped dead from cocaine overdose at the after-party.

Stop it. This is why I don’t like to let him out. English people can be so cruel. I promised myself as I watched and after that I would NOT be mean and snarky and vitriolic. And then, John Travolta came on and introduced Idina Menzel. Or, as he called her, Adele Dazim. WTF?

It was too much for me, even when I was sober. Or, especially when I was sober? I IMMEDIATELY Tweeted: “Maybe #JohnTravolta isn’t gay if he can’t even say #IdinaMenzel”

I thought it was pretty funny. It was RT-ed by a few people. Until it was stolen by a New York actor type without attribution and suddenly RT-ed by all sorts of out-of-my-league-ish people. Which pissed me off and made me sad. But, it didn’t make me drink. And, I also didn’t feel too badly about having said it as Twitter exploded with New York-y type musical theatre diva-folk going wild about the Travoltalk pronunciation. Betty Buckley, Laura Benanti, Audra McDonald, etc. So. There. I forgive myself.

OH FUCK FORGIVENESS. Sebastian here again. Stop with the git-fairy, aspirational toff shite. He’s a total mess since Saturday. He knew that the going was coming. Enlistments only last so long. Then people move on. It came. The ending. It wasn’t as if there was any commitment other than temporary comfort. So, now he’s left with a picture, finally, and a name he has promised never to say out loud – at least they finally shared the truth – and one more sad story only he and one other person knows, along with a collection of texts and emails, the syntax and spelling and grammar of which alone should make him weep. And this all comes of having spent too much of his youth wanting to be like Judy and too much of his adulthood following the likes of Adele Dazim. No more ballads, Charles. Get a grip. Or, start drinking again. Or, for fuck’s sake, throw out the Starbucks cup he drank from Saturday that you’re saving and go out and FIND someone like Russell Tovey – you know, WHO IS NOT ASKING TO BE SAVED AND IS ACTUALLY ABLE TO LOVE OUT LOUD?

Who’s Been Sleeping In My Bed? (And trolling my email?) #RussellTovey

Today’s entry is really little more than another attempt to get a literary agent and Russell Tovey – not necessarily in that order and not that either seems – at this point – particularly likely – BUT SOON IT WILL BE MY BIRTHDAY, so, a man’s gotta dream.

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

Last night, long around half past just enough wine and debauchery to make me feel like the heavily foreshadowed late mid-section of a minor Paul Bowles story, I sent out a text and an email to a few of my closest and dearest friends, the purpose of which action was to suggest we make a MegaBus day trip to see Jason Robert Brown’s new Broadway musical, The Bridges of Madison County (CLICK HERE FOR LINK), and Terrence McNally’s new Broadway play, Mothers and Sons (CLICK HERE FOR LINK), starring Tyne Daly and Bobby Steggert, the latter of whom happens to be from Frederick and for who’s closing night of the musical, Big Fish, one of these Tweeted/emailed closest and dearest and I sat in the front row, weeping, and before and after the show and during intermission had Tweeted our love and support at Mr. Steggert and Big Fish, relentlessly, to which Big Fish responded, although Mr. Steggert ignored us, despite which fact I STILL want to see this new show and I want to see it with my friends and I want to do it during my birthday month.

However, that almost 200 word sentence is NOT the point of this entry. The point is, this morning, having avoided the tragic-end of a Paul Bowles short story (well, today anyway) and continuing along the arc of inevitable declension into spiritual and emotional desuetude as required in a Jane Bowles story, thus living to sort-of see, half-numbed, another day, I began my morning web troll only to be confronted assaulted accosted greeted abused met by ads EVERYWHERE for the shows I’d mentioned in my Tweet and email.

My HUSBAND, Russell Tovey

My HUSBAND, Russell Tovey

So creepy. But you know me, Mr. Positive. If every email and Tweet I write and every website I visit is going to be mined for my personal information so that I might be better marketed to, well then, I shall have to make CERTAIN that I supply information that will ultimately result in me being confronted assaulted accosted greeted abused met by ads and content in which I am really interested. So . . . here goes . . .

  • Oh, look friends; a literary agent ANSWERED MY QUERY AND ACTUALLY WANTS TO READ MY ENTIRE NOVEL.
  • Oh, look friends; I have managed to get enough jobs that I STILL HAVE TIME TO WRITE (and debauch) and yet ALSO HAVE ENOUGH STEADY INCOME TO AFFORD MY OWN LITTLE HOME SOMEWHERE!
  • Oh, look friends; I’M GETTING FREE ADVANCED READING COPIES of GOOD BOOKS and PRESS TICKETS to BROADWAY SHOWS and SAMPLE CASES OF NICE RED WINE because my blog – HEREWEAREGOING – has SO MANY FOLLOWERS and HITS!

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

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

  • Oh, look friends; really hot twenty-something guys are throwing their naked selves at me as if I were gay-famous like EDMUND WHITE or TENNESSEE WILLIAMS or MICHAEL CUNNINGHAM (an advance copy of his new novel, The Snow Queen, would be GREAT! Or, you know, even, if I too could get cozied up to JAMES FRANCO like he did – yeah, James Franco being my sexy graduate student straight-boy fuck-buddy would be REALLY GREAT! Me getting to see James Franco naked because he so admired my writing PUBLISHED after I got that LITERARY AGENT and SO MANY BLOG FOLLOWERS and everyone wanted my spin on the CULTURAL ZEITGEIST, right? Which got me James Franco’s dick? RIGHT? Okay – Evan Peters, then?) or PAUL and JANE BOWLES.
  • Oh, look friends; this time when I go to see Mothers and Sons, Bobby Steggert Tweeted me back, or, you know, acknowledged I was alive.

    My long-distance lover-husband-boyfriend who hasn't met me yet, Russell Tovey, keepng me happy with Twit-Pics

    My long-distance lover-husband-boyfriend who hasn’t met me yet, Russell Tovey, keepng me happy with Twit-Pics

  • Oh, look friends; ATTRACTIVE BIG PENISES. AND MID-PRICED BOTTLES OF RED WINE! (I had to. A man has to debauch. SPEAKING OF WHICH – James Franco and Evan Peters would be great – REALLY – but, on further contemplation, if I’m going to be presented offers for things and people about which I write – I have this to say: RUSSELL TOVEY. RUSSELL TOVEY. RUSSELL TOVEY NAKED. RUSSELL TOVEY HAVING SEX WITH ME. RUSSELL TOVEY IN LOVE WITH ME. RUSSELL TOVEY STALKING ME. RUSSELL TOVEY INFINITY. RUSSELL TOVEY AND CHARLIE SMITH DATING AND HAVING THREE-WAYS WITH DOMINIC COOPER. )

Okay, do something with those, you web-trolling-personal-communication-data-mining-bots. CAN’T WAIT TO SEE THE ADS!

Happy weekend.