T minus ten and counting . . . to the ball drop on Times Square and the symbolic official beginning of the New Year, at least for those of us in the Eastern Time Zone in the U.S., who pay even scant attention to what goes on in New York that doesn't involve someone running for president.
For the rest of you (us? me?), there's always the giant wrench that is dropped from the top of the fire station tower in Mechanicsburg, Pa., or the giant sardine that is dropped from a tall structure in an obscure village in Maine, one my Mom, Vivien Leigh, heard about earlier today. I don't know if there's anything in particular that is dropped from a high place in Pittsburgh on New Year's Eve. The price of domestic steel circa 1983 perhaps?
Lest the North Carolinians among us forget, there is also the giant acorn that hurtles toward earth from the top of some nondescript office tower in downtown Raleigh. Really, Raleigh, an acorn, of all things. I know you pride yourself on being the City of the Oaks and all, but kicking a giant representation of the byproduct of oak tree fertilization over the ledge of the [insert corporate banking entity here] tower while thousands of (sadly) sober North Carolinians scream themselves silly (no doubt to ward off the 20F weather and wind chill that was in abundance the last time I was among the throng) just isn't my idea of fitting tribute to the old and a warm embrace of the new. But I'm like that.
So what is my idea of a good way to spend New Year's Eve? Right now, writing one more blog entry before the year ends. As a couple of you told me, I owed you one, being that I had only written one other entry for the month.
I owe you more than one, actually, as I had a number of events and thoughts, both happy/sad and bitter/sweet, to relate this month. You may read about some of them yet. I think I also owe the Spice Girls at least one full blog posting, rather than merely some vague allusions in my previous entry. In addition, my take on Rudolph the Pink-Nosed, Tinsel-Donning, Personal Friend of Dorothy should see the light of day at some point, even if I retroactively date the post to December 25th, a belated Christmas present for you all. (You're so welcome! And it's just the right size!)
Thus, this blog entry = payback for all of you who think that I've abandoned Blogtucky to play online Scrabulous via Facebook. I have a little but not completely. So fear not--it's just that during the frenzied holiday season, it's easier for me to come up with single words like "qat," "taiga," "guano," and "orzo" over the course of several days than it is for me to pull together 500+ of them at one time, strung together with ornament hooks and popcorn garland into a reasonably coherent and desperately funny 'tis the season presentation. And perhaps after two years of blogging and more than 100 entries, I may just pull off that feat one of these days. Just don't expect it this go 'round.
Surely I have more going on than liveblogging the New Year, though, right? Well, maybe, maybe not. I have an invitation from my friend Fouchat to join him for a holiday outing or inning, depending on our mood, and there are always a few public celebrations I could glom onto, if need be. However, given previous New Year's (ref. giant wrench, giant acorn above), little sounds more appealing to me this year than staying home, fixing a nice dinner, and watching back-to-back episodes of season 1 of Kids in the Hall and SCTV Network 90, both of which I purchased this afternoon at a still have-a-happy-holidays-or-else-dammit! Monroeville Mall.
After a few turns around the living room with the Chicken Lady, Edith Prickley, and Lola Heatherton, I'd like to continue the good start to the year, perhaps with a little midnight yoga and meditation, which should go well as long as my neighbors bypass their usual clogging practice or riverdancing or high-impact aerobics with weights or whatever it is they do upstairs by night. Then I would sleep peacefully while a goodly portion of the rest of North America tries to get in one more sexually transmitted disease or naked, drunken photo shoot for their MySpace page before the year is over. Yes, I am middle-aged; hear me go gently into that good night.
Despite the cynicism and sarcasm (they are as natural to me as air and water, as Earth, Wind, & Fire, as Donny & Marie), I have had good New Year's Eves before. I remember one particularly lovely one spent with my parents and sister at the beach in North Carolina, watching fireworks explode over the Atlantic. I remember another spent with friends at Candlelight Coffee House in San Antonio, listening to a strong band, noshing on excellent food, laughing it up with (and, it must be said, at) friends, then toasting with champagne (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) at midnight.
But this New Year's Eve will be different, and I'm fine with that. For you see, if there has been one overriding theme for the year, it has been exhaustion. Exhaustion from work and from life, from death and grief and moves and fresh starts and trips and packing and unpacking and happiness and regrets and dreams of the future. I'm tired, folks, and I'm ready for some downtime, however minuscule between Christmas last week and the trek back to work this coming Wednesday.
Exhaustion has been part of the year's mood, but so has another feeling: Thankfulness. I haven't ever really said this, and now is as good a time as any, especially if I want to start off the New Year on the right karmic foot (no doubt bent behind my head in yet another failed yogic moment): Thank you for reading. Thank you for being my friends and my family, the two major groups in my life for whom I write and upon whom I rely, perhaps more than you'll ever know, which is unfortunate, because you really are very important to me. If I had another idea on how to spend New Year's Eve, it would be this: thanking each and everyone of you for your friendship, kindness, and love this past year with a hug and a wish that we all might move forward together in the next and the new.
So no big finish, funny or otherwise. That's it. A quiet New Year's Eve and a tender word.
Blogtucky will return in 2008, the gods willing, and I hope you'll be there right along with me.
Happy new year.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
"Hermey doesn't like to make toys" is just code
Editor's note: As promised long ago, a totally inappropriate piece of holiday tale. You've been warned.
* * *
You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen. But do you recall the most fabulous reindeer of all?
While visiting my Mom, Vivien Leigh, and my Sis, the Number 1 Beatles Fan of All Time, in Kansas over Thanksgiving, the conversation took an interesting turn. We had blown a little too hastily through our standard entertainment choices--the DVD sets of That Girl! my sister owns and the several weeks' worth of Dark Shadows episodes on loan from Netflix. Thus, we were in desperate need of something, anything, to enjoy while we convalesced from the overindulgence in turkey and trimmings.
Not one to click too much from channel to channel, I used Sunflower Cable's on-screen guide to review the holiday weekend's TV offerings. "Hey, there's a Meerkat Manor marathon on the Discovery Channel. Have you seen this? You guys might like it," I suggested. "Although bad stuff does happen to the animals, and I know how you feel about that." The latter comment was directed toward my sister, who has the world's biggest heart when it comes to mammals, especially of the hirsute, cold nose, and lick-themselves-silly variety.
"No," Vivien said, "Your sister doesn't like that one."
"Oh," I said and chalked it up to the occasional animal death.
Beatles, who does a lot of theorizing in her career as an academic, explained: "It's because the show is so sexist," she said.
"Sexist?" I ventured timidly.
"Tell him your interpretation," my Mom encouraged her.
"Well," she began, "All the female animals, whenever they are out in the open, are 'vulnerable' and can't make it on their own without a man [male animal, that is] being present. The women 'abandon' their children, then are 'punished' for their foolishness by being killed by a predator. Who says that's what's going on? Maybe the females just want to be on their own away from the kids. Maybe it has nothing to do at all with that very sexist interpretation," she said.
"Hmmm," I said, genuinely intrigued. "Sounds like something you could get an article out of."
The conversation turned to other theories, notbably queer theory and the concept of the "gay vague," as my sister put it.
"The gay what?" I said.
"The gay vague--the concept that there is a gay subtext, an indication of gayness in the text, the scene, but it is not explicit. For example, two men are seen together in a scene, and there is an intimate interaction between the two of them--maybe one lights a cigarette for another--something symbolic, but it's not explicit, it's left open-ended so that you don't know for sure whether they are gay or not. Yet it appeals to a variety of audiences, both gay and straight."
"Oh, you mean, like, in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," I ventured.
"What?" my Sis asked, now herself genuinely intrigued.
I took a deep breath and began extolling a theory I'd had in my head for a number of years.
"Well, Rudolph is an outsider. He is rejected by his family and friends, not allowed to join in with the others because he's different. His father in particular rejects him for his difference--his very obvious difference--and Rudolph runs away to the Island of Misfit Toys, which if that isn't a stand-in for San Francisco or Fire Island or Mykonos, I don't know what is. Along the way he picks up two other misfits--a blond twink with ambitions (that would be Hermey or Herman or, better still, "Her-Man") and a 'bear,' in the gay sense, in the form of Yukon Cornelius."
I continued . . .
"Finally, Rudolph heads home because his family needs his help. Thus, he becomes socially acceptable and part of the community once they discover the benefits of his uniqueness, his 'flaming' red nose and its ability to light the way for Santa and keep Christmas on track for everyone. Despite being an 'outsider' and, thus, to some, an enemy of the family and tradition, Rudolph ends up supporting both structures. The classic 'gay helper' role, I think you would call it. Just like those queens on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
"I mean," I stuttered, feeling that maybe I'd gone a bit OTT with this analysis, "it's not necessarily a gay story, but you could interpret it that way.
"Oh, and Clarice is just a beard," I added.
"Exactly!" she said. "That's the gay vague!"
And to all a good night.
* * *
You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen. But do you recall the most fabulous reindeer of all?
While visiting my Mom, Vivien Leigh, and my Sis, the Number 1 Beatles Fan of All Time, in Kansas over Thanksgiving, the conversation took an interesting turn. We had blown a little too hastily through our standard entertainment choices--the DVD sets of That Girl! my sister owns and the several weeks' worth of Dark Shadows episodes on loan from Netflix. Thus, we were in desperate need of something, anything, to enjoy while we convalesced from the overindulgence in turkey and trimmings.
Not one to click too much from channel to channel, I used Sunflower Cable's on-screen guide to review the holiday weekend's TV offerings. "Hey, there's a Meerkat Manor marathon on the Discovery Channel. Have you seen this? You guys might like it," I suggested. "Although bad stuff does happen to the animals, and I know how you feel about that." The latter comment was directed toward my sister, who has the world's biggest heart when it comes to mammals, especially of the hirsute, cold nose, and lick-themselves-silly variety.
"No," Vivien said, "Your sister doesn't like that one."
"Oh," I said and chalked it up to the occasional animal death.
Beatles, who does a lot of theorizing in her career as an academic, explained: "It's because the show is so sexist," she said.
"Sexist?" I ventured timidly.
"Tell him your interpretation," my Mom encouraged her.
"Well," she began, "All the female animals, whenever they are out in the open, are 'vulnerable' and can't make it on their own without a man [male animal, that is] being present. The women 'abandon' their children, then are 'punished' for their foolishness by being killed by a predator. Who says that's what's going on? Maybe the females just want to be on their own away from the kids. Maybe it has nothing to do at all with that very sexist interpretation," she said.
"Hmmm," I said, genuinely intrigued. "Sounds like something you could get an article out of."
The conversation turned to other theories, notbably queer theory and the concept of the "gay vague," as my sister put it.
"The gay what?" I said.
"The gay vague--the concept that there is a gay subtext, an indication of gayness in the text, the scene, but it is not explicit. For example, two men are seen together in a scene, and there is an intimate interaction between the two of them--maybe one lights a cigarette for another--something symbolic, but it's not explicit, it's left open-ended so that you don't know for sure whether they are gay or not. Yet it appeals to a variety of audiences, both gay and straight."
"Oh, you mean, like, in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," I ventured.
"What?" my Sis asked, now herself genuinely intrigued.
I took a deep breath and began extolling a theory I'd had in my head for a number of years.
"Well, Rudolph is an outsider. He is rejected by his family and friends, not allowed to join in with the others because he's different. His father in particular rejects him for his difference--his very obvious difference--and Rudolph runs away to the Island of Misfit Toys, which if that isn't a stand-in for San Francisco or Fire Island or Mykonos, I don't know what is. Along the way he picks up two other misfits--a blond twink with ambitions (that would be Hermey or Herman or, better still, "Her-Man") and a 'bear,' in the gay sense, in the form of Yukon Cornelius."
I continued . . .
"Finally, Rudolph heads home because his family needs his help. Thus, he becomes socially acceptable and part of the community once they discover the benefits of his uniqueness, his 'flaming' red nose and its ability to light the way for Santa and keep Christmas on track for everyone. Despite being an 'outsider' and, thus, to some, an enemy of the family and tradition, Rudolph ends up supporting both structures. The classic 'gay helper' role, I think you would call it. Just like those queens on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
"I mean," I stuttered, feeling that maybe I'd gone a bit OTT with this analysis, "it's not necessarily a gay story, but you could interpret it that way.
"Oh, and Clarice is just a beard," I added.
"Exactly!" she said. "That's the gay vague!"
And to all a good night.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Shhhh . . . don't tell anyone
Editor's note: Sometimes you just gotta get the garbage out of your brainage system with a throwaway post. Too many trips to the mall. Too many reruns of Miracle on 34th Street. Too much holiday *hiccup* cheer. So here I go tossing some lean scraps of humor upon the town dump of Blogopolis. Please do forgive.
* * *
I need to write something, don't I? So how'd it be if I wrote about Victoria's Secret?
Not a natural fit for me, you say? I have to agree: Satin short-shorts tend to chafe me, and I have a sporadic fear of heights, so the angel wings are definitely out. And, oh yeah, almost forgot, the sight of scantily clad women with larger breasts than brains makes me frown, then yawn, then suddenly crave a snack of overripened cantaloupe. Do go figure.
Nonetheless, my sleepiness and oral fixations aside, ads for Victoria's Secret are ubiquitous this holiday season, 'cause don't you know, nothing celebrates the birth of the Christ like too-thin, top-heavy models strapped into shiny shiny, skimpy skimpy undergarments probably crafted in a South Asian sweatshop by women burkha-ed from head to toe. Victoria's Secret simply can't and shouldn't be ignored. And my goodness! The Spice Girls new greatest hits album is currently available only from Victoria's Secret outlets in the U.S. until January. And, hey, you know me, Old Spice can't live without his Holiday Spice. Zigazig ha.
So, like many a lame stand-up comic before me, I present you with what I think Victoria's secret actually is. Inquiring minds and all that.
* * *
I need to write something, don't I? So how'd it be if I wrote about Victoria's Secret?
Not a natural fit for me, you say? I have to agree: Satin short-shorts tend to chafe me, and I have a sporadic fear of heights, so the angel wings are definitely out. And, oh yeah, almost forgot, the sight of scantily clad women with larger breasts than brains makes me frown, then yawn, then suddenly crave a snack of overripened cantaloupe. Do go figure.
Nonetheless, my sleepiness and oral fixations aside, ads for Victoria's Secret are ubiquitous this holiday season, 'cause don't you know, nothing celebrates the birth of the Christ like too-thin, top-heavy models strapped into shiny shiny, skimpy skimpy undergarments probably crafted in a South Asian sweatshop by women burkha-ed from head to toe. Victoria's Secret simply can't and shouldn't be ignored. And my goodness! The Spice Girls new greatest hits album is currently available only from Victoria's Secret outlets in the U.S. until January. And, hey, you know me, Old Spice can't live without his Holiday Spice. Zigazig ha.
So, like many a lame stand-up comic before me, I present you with what I think Victoria's secret actually is. Inquiring minds and all that.
- She doesn't understand the phrase "sanitized for your protection."
- She thinks Britney needs a hug. Just not from her.
- She really liked that season on Dallas when SueEllen formed her own lingerie company, hired J.R.'s mistress Mandy Winger as the lead model, then after she'd pulled the rug out from under Mandy, screamed at her, "I'm cutting you off, you viper!" That was hot--and, come to think of it, exactly how her own business got started.
- She has a hard time reconciling her Ph.D. in gender studies from Wellesley where she completed her dissertation on lesbian iconography in the womyn's music movement with her corporate imperative to get bored, horny men to shower their wives and/or girlfriends with size zero silk panties, thongs, and underwire bras. But goodness knows she's trying.
- She can see Posh, Sexy/Ginger, and Baby as Victoria's Secret Spice models, but Scary tends to favor too much leopard print (no, really) for the corporate board's tastes, and Sporty, well, Sporty needs to stay away from the tattoo parlors. Not a good look when paired with hot pink, fur-trimmed teddies.
- Who knew? While she likes to think of herself as a free spirit and had one or two "experiences" while attending one of the Seven Sisters back in the day, she finds all that girl-on-girl action in her ads to be a little icky.
- She is, like, so over Heidi Klum's 15 minutes of fame already. What, is there no work on German TV anymore? Maybe as hostess of a new season of Bowling for Euros with Celebrities? I hear ex-Chancellor of Germany Gerhard Schröder is really good at nailing the 7-10 split.
- Even she thinks that David's a little thick in the noggin and has a too-high voice to be taken seriously, but staying married to him keeps her in Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks (applies to Victoria Beckham only).
- If it was up to her, she'd wear nothing but granny-styled flannel nighties and bunny slippers from October until April.
- Really, a new mixer, a bread machine, or a Roomba would be fine for Christmas, thanks all the same. Don't go to too much trouble, though.
Thanks, ladies and germs. My name is Schecky Licious, and--to your neverending regret--I'll be here all week.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Chicks, man
Editor's note: Oh, I only pray that you can actually see this news brief for yourself. I need proof, I tell ya, because it's just such an odd little item, it would be easy to understand if you thought I were making it up.
But I'm not. Fact is, I'm not that clever; I just dabble at it often enough that I come off as more than a rank amateur.
* * *
Dateline Pittsburgh, Pa.: Locally based retailer Dick's Sporting Goods has made a new foray into the California market with the acquisition of a West Coast-based sporting goods retailer. Please read for yourself this blurb that appeared today on the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette's website:
Business news briefs
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
From staff and wire reports
Dick's expanding in California
Dick's Sporting Goods Inc. said yesterday it had agreed to acquire Chick's Sporting Goods, a privately held company, for about $40 million in cash. Dick's also will assume about $31 million in Chick's debt. Chick's operates 15 specialty sporting goods stores in Southern California and had sales of more than $120 million for the fiscal year ended June 30. Two additional store leases have been signed and those stores will open as Dick's stores in 2008 and 2009. Dick's said it expected the deal to be "marginally" helpful to earnings in fiscal 2008.
There is just so much wrong--and so much so right--with this news brief.
Firstly, of course, the headline. Perhaps it's a bit of a reach on my part, or maybe I'm officially a total perv, but is anyone else struck, mmm, curious by that headline--"Dick's expanding in California"? It seems like a subliminal attempt to make an otherwise unsexy news item appear a bit more hubba-hubba.
Still, I guess the writer could've gone for broke with something more suggestive. Such as . . .
But is this really that unsexy of a blurb? After all, if you read deeper, you will see that this little news gem offers up a treasure trove of potentially blue diamond-value headlines.
Because the second thing you need to pay attention to is which chain Dick californicated with: a retail operation called Chick's.
Thus, we have the potentiality of an eye-popping, attention-grabbing headline like so:
And now we all understand fully why my career as a cub reporter fresh out of college was kept to a mercifully brief six months.
You're welcome, Mr. Pulitzer.
But I'm not. Fact is, I'm not that clever; I just dabble at it often enough that I come off as more than a rank amateur.
* * *
Dateline Pittsburgh, Pa.: Locally based retailer Dick's Sporting Goods has made a new foray into the California market with the acquisition of a West Coast-based sporting goods retailer. Please read for yourself this blurb that appeared today on the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette's website:
Business news briefs
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
From staff and wire reports
Dick's expanding in California
Dick's Sporting Goods Inc. said yesterday it had agreed to acquire Chick's Sporting Goods, a privately held company, for about $40 million in cash. Dick's also will assume about $31 million in Chick's debt. Chick's operates 15 specialty sporting goods stores in Southern California and had sales of more than $120 million for the fiscal year ended June 30. Two additional store leases have been signed and those stores will open as Dick's stores in 2008 and 2009. Dick's said it expected the deal to be "marginally" helpful to earnings in fiscal 2008.
There is just so much wrong--and so much so right--with this news brief.
Firstly, of course, the headline. Perhaps it's a bit of a reach on my part, or maybe I'm officially a total perv, but is anyone else struck, mmm, curious by that headline--"Dick's expanding in California"? It seems like a subliminal attempt to make an otherwise unsexy news item appear a bit more hubba-hubba.
Still, I guess the writer could've gone for broke with something more suggestive. Such as . . .
"Dick's bones up on California market"Or even the simpler,
"Dick's erects new business out West"Which has the charm of being both beautiful and true.
But is this really that unsexy of a blurb? After all, if you read deeper, you will see that this little news gem offers up a treasure trove of potentially blue diamond-value headlines.
Because the second thing you need to pay attention to is which chain Dick californicated with: a retail operation called Chick's.
Thus, we have the potentiality of an eye-popping, attention-grabbing headline like so:
"Chick's with Dick's"Too true, it's the perfect sales pitch to the trannie jogger among us, but otherwise, perhaps not quite the niche marketing catchphrase ol' Dick was hankering for.
And now we all understand fully why my career as a cub reporter fresh out of college was kept to a mercifully brief six months.
You're welcome, Mr. Pulitzer.
Monday, November 26, 2007
But(t) officer . . .
Don't tease me, bro, especially with this sort of "Things that Make You Go Hmmmm" piece of tale--
Quebec police look into rookie butt-slapping ritual: Police union concerned investigation over "childish" tradition will tarnish force
Last Updated: Friday, November 23, 2007 4:20 PM ET
CBC News
I mean, honestly, imagine for a moment that you are a police officer, a male member of one of the toughest and most virile of professions a man could choose. You come home late one evening from work, exhausted, a little tipsy, your hands chapped and callused. The missus clucks sympathetically, puts her arm around you and draws you into an embrace. "How was your day, dear?" she asks comfortingly.
And the best you can say by way of explanation is . . .
"Well, we broke in some new recruits. Honey, you can't fathom how many men I laid down on top of today. Had to wrestle each and everyone of 'em to the ground, straddle 'em, pin them to the floor, all the while the other guys stood around watching and yelling out catcalls and bets. I felt like I was in the middle of a cockfight. And then when that was over, we lined up all the newbies, made 'em drop trou', bend over, and then each took turns slapping them firmly but lovingly on their bare, young, nubile asses. 'Thank you, sir, may I have another?!' Ha! I tell ya, it was brutal! But I'll be back in the thick of it again tomorrow. 'Cause that's just the kind of dedicated cop I am. Always up for cracking a case, even when the crack belongs to one of my fellow officers."
At this point, I think your wife might suggest that your career has finally hit bottom. (Bare bottom or rock bottom, you decide.) I also think she might recommend you get yourself down to the local queer bar for some advice and comfort, while she sits down to watch a very special episode of Oprah entitled "The Thin Blue Vertical Line: The Lowdown on Police Officers on the Downlow."
Starring you, of course.
* * *
For posterior's sake, the full story is archived here.
Quebec police look into rookie butt-slapping ritual: Police union concerned investigation over "childish" tradition will tarnish force
Last Updated: Friday, November 23, 2007 4:20 PM ET
CBC News
A "juvenile" but time-honoured Quebec police rookie initiation rite that starts with booze and ends with a firm slap on the derrière is the focus of a criminal investigation following hazing complaints.
Montreal police have been asked to investigate allegations of wrongdoing in an initiation tradition practised within the Quebec city force for more than half a century.
The ritual starts with rounds of beer, then moves to a "weigh-in" involving older officers holding new recruits down on their backs, while others bet on their weight. The game ends with a slap on the behind.
"It's childish, it's juvenile, but it's a tradition," explained Sébastien Talbot, a spokesman for the Quebec City police brotherhood. "It's always strange when you, out of context, have to explain an initiation to somebody."
I'll say. But even in context the story is still mighty strange.I mean, honestly, imagine for a moment that you are a police officer, a male member of one of the toughest and most virile of professions a man could choose. You come home late one evening from work, exhausted, a little tipsy, your hands chapped and callused. The missus clucks sympathetically, puts her arm around you and draws you into an embrace. "How was your day, dear?" she asks comfortingly.
And the best you can say by way of explanation is . . .
"Well, we broke in some new recruits. Honey, you can't fathom how many men I laid down on top of today. Had to wrestle each and everyone of 'em to the ground, straddle 'em, pin them to the floor, all the while the other guys stood around watching and yelling out catcalls and bets. I felt like I was in the middle of a cockfight. And then when that was over, we lined up all the newbies, made 'em drop trou', bend over, and then each took turns slapping them firmly but lovingly on their bare, young, nubile asses. 'Thank you, sir, may I have another?!' Ha! I tell ya, it was brutal! But I'll be back in the thick of it again tomorrow. 'Cause that's just the kind of dedicated cop I am. Always up for cracking a case, even when the crack belongs to one of my fellow officers."
At this point, I think your wife might suggest that your career has finally hit bottom. (Bare bottom or rock bottom, you decide.) I also think she might recommend you get yourself down to the local queer bar for some advice and comfort, while she sits down to watch a very special episode of Oprah entitled "The Thin Blue Vertical Line: The Lowdown on Police Officers on the Downlow."
Starring you, of course.
* * *
For posterior's sake, the full story is archived here.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Coffee, tea, or a millenary event so devastating in its impact that no lifeforms and no Starbucks remain
I should have known I was in for a significant head cold this week. That funny feeling I got mid-day on Monday was my first clue--that weird somethin'-somethin' in my head and my sinuses that tells me things are not quite right, that something in my system is amiss and awry.
So I acted accordingly, heading to the local Giant Eagle after work. (Such a charming, comforting name for a supermarket. Whenever I think about paying a visit to Pittsburgh's sole major grocery store chain, I am haunted by the image of a enormous bird pursuing me as I make my way across the parking lot with my purchases, swooping down and picking off bags of groceries from my cart, just because he can, bad-ass eagle that he is.) There I stocked up on life's cold and flu necessities--soup, soda crackers, and juice, along with matzo meal, chicken stock, risotto, fresh-cut pineapple, and the latest issues of Star, The Weekly World News, and The National Inquirer. I believe it's important to keep up one's mental strength, as well as physical strength, during a time of illness and convalescence.
But the one thing I forgot--OK, two things--are so essential to my survival that I feel as if I waterboarded myself into submission to the more powerful cold germs.
I didn't buy any coffee. And I didn't buy any creamer.
For some, forgetting coffee and creamer would be "inconvenience items," also-rans on the shopping list, an oh-I'll-get-it-next-time-I'm-at-the-store lapses. Take or leave. Give or take. Shrug shrug. La di dah.
But for others, such as myself, forgetting to buy coffee and creamer at the supermarket is akin to a jetsetting junkie leaving behind his moneyclip full of cash on a buying spree in the poppy markets of Afghanistan. It's like an alcoholic boarding a 14-hour trans-oceanic flight and only bothering to order Tab and Fresca when the beverage service comes around--and not even sneaking into the galley to drain all the miniature bottles of gin and vodka somewhere over Guam. It's like Larry Craig going to a men's room without a shopping bag.
In other words, it's a world gone totally, utterly cattywampus. Admittedly, the people who promulgated the treaties we now know as the Geneva Conventions might not call it torture (and most assuredly the White House wouldn't), but I suspect the folks behind the Gevalia Conventions would feel very differently.
I don't consider myself to be a person with an addictive personality. Obsessive, oh yes. Haven't I testified enough to that fact in these bits and bytes? But addictive, no, not really. Coffee, along with buying music online by obscure acts in countries other than the U.S., and playing The Sims (and now The Sims 2) until all hours of the night would be as Betty Ford as it gets for me. Nonetheless, the whimsy of this list aside, my forgetting to buy coffee should not be taken lightly. Coffee is serious business. It's a part of my morning routine, as innate as the first whiz of the day, brushing my teeth and dribbling toothpaste down the front of my shirt, and my being late for work. Coffee first thing in the morning is perhaps me at my Italian-roasted, espresso-ground, French-pressed essence.
The funny thing is, though, I did remember to buy coffee for my colleagues at work. Two bags of ground Peet's, French roast and Major Dickason's blend, which should get the three of us through the next week or so. (We've all got that coffee monkey on our backs where I now work.) Even stranger is the fact that I didn't really want to drink any coffee this week. It didn't taste right, and it smelled worse. All I craved this week was--e-freakin'-gad!--hot tea, and not even my usual favored, flavored rooibus or the hard-bitten, macho-man-of-the-Pampas maté, just a plain, simple, and throat-soothing lemon and ginger.
*Shiver*
What is to become of me now? Instead of my usual over-caffeinated, devil-may-care, brightly-colored-clothing, and laughing-too-loud-in-public personality, will I now be reduced to trolling the streets of Pittsburgh in Blackspot shoes and earth-toned hemp clothing, quietly asking for a soothing cup of green tea, no sugar, please? Will I drench myself in essential oils, don a puka-shell necklace, and be seen teaching a bandana-wearing golden retriever named Freedom how to play Ultimate Frisbee? Will I now always insist on unbleached and earth-friendly, fair-trade and gluten-free, organic and biodegradable, no matter what I'm ordering or purchasing? ("Do you have any options other than window or aisle seating? Maybe something in the lactose-, growth-hormone-, and cruelty-free section of the plane?")
I'm so afraid . . . so very, very afraid . . . .
Not to mention a little groggy, not the least bit jittery, and only slightly less angst-ridden than normal.
So I acted accordingly, heading to the local Giant Eagle after work. (Such a charming, comforting name for a supermarket. Whenever I think about paying a visit to Pittsburgh's sole major grocery store chain, I am haunted by the image of a enormous bird pursuing me as I make my way across the parking lot with my purchases, swooping down and picking off bags of groceries from my cart, just because he can, bad-ass eagle that he is.) There I stocked up on life's cold and flu necessities--soup, soda crackers, and juice, along with matzo meal, chicken stock, risotto, fresh-cut pineapple, and the latest issues of Star, The Weekly World News, and The National Inquirer. I believe it's important to keep up one's mental strength, as well as physical strength, during a time of illness and convalescence.
But the one thing I forgot--OK, two things--are so essential to my survival that I feel as if I waterboarded myself into submission to the more powerful cold germs.
I didn't buy any coffee. And I didn't buy any creamer.
For some, forgetting coffee and creamer would be "inconvenience items," also-rans on the shopping list, an oh-I'll-get-it-next-time-I'm-at-the-store lapses. Take or leave. Give or take. Shrug shrug. La di dah.
But for others, such as myself, forgetting to buy coffee and creamer at the supermarket is akin to a jetsetting junkie leaving behind his moneyclip full of cash on a buying spree in the poppy markets of Afghanistan. It's like an alcoholic boarding a 14-hour trans-oceanic flight and only bothering to order Tab and Fresca when the beverage service comes around--and not even sneaking into the galley to drain all the miniature bottles of gin and vodka somewhere over Guam. It's like Larry Craig going to a men's room without a shopping bag.
In other words, it's a world gone totally, utterly cattywampus. Admittedly, the people who promulgated the treaties we now know as the Geneva Conventions might not call it torture (and most assuredly the White House wouldn't), but I suspect the folks behind the Gevalia Conventions would feel very differently.
I don't consider myself to be a person with an addictive personality. Obsessive, oh yes. Haven't I testified enough to that fact in these bits and bytes? But addictive, no, not really. Coffee, along with buying music online by obscure acts in countries other than the U.S., and playing The Sims (and now The Sims 2) until all hours of the night would be as Betty Ford as it gets for me. Nonetheless, the whimsy of this list aside, my forgetting to buy coffee should not be taken lightly. Coffee is serious business. It's a part of my morning routine, as innate as the first whiz of the day, brushing my teeth and dribbling toothpaste down the front of my shirt, and my being late for work. Coffee first thing in the morning is perhaps me at my Italian-roasted, espresso-ground, French-pressed essence.
The funny thing is, though, I did remember to buy coffee for my colleagues at work. Two bags of ground Peet's, French roast and Major Dickason's blend, which should get the three of us through the next week or so. (We've all got that coffee monkey on our backs where I now work.) Even stranger is the fact that I didn't really want to drink any coffee this week. It didn't taste right, and it smelled worse. All I craved this week was--e-freakin'-gad!--hot tea, and not even my usual favored, flavored rooibus or the hard-bitten, macho-man-of-the-Pampas maté, just a plain, simple, and throat-soothing lemon and ginger.
*Shiver*
What is to become of me now? Instead of my usual over-caffeinated, devil-may-care, brightly-colored-clothing, and laughing-too-loud-in-public personality, will I now be reduced to trolling the streets of Pittsburgh in Blackspot shoes and earth-toned hemp clothing, quietly asking for a soothing cup of green tea, no sugar, please? Will I drench myself in essential oils, don a puka-shell necklace, and be seen teaching a bandana-wearing golden retriever named Freedom how to play Ultimate Frisbee? Will I now always insist on unbleached and earth-friendly, fair-trade and gluten-free, organic and biodegradable, no matter what I'm ordering or purchasing? ("Do you have any options other than window or aisle seating? Maybe something in the lactose-, growth-hormone-, and cruelty-free section of the plane?")
I'm so afraid . . . so very, very afraid . . . .
Not to mention a little groggy, not the least bit jittery, and only slightly less angst-ridden than normal.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Quite rightly
It was bound to happen, and it finally did this week: My whirlwind, madcap existence on the highways and biways of Pennsylvania (Harrisburg, Bedford Springs, Harrisburg, State College, Harrisburg . . .) caught up with me and waylaid me with a "champeen" head cold.I'll spare you the gories, which really weren't all that gory, but I do love to whine when I'm feeling low. Instead I'll share with you these "mellow yellow" photos I took from my living room while convalescing on my sofa, sniffling (and possibly sniveling) into Kleenexes, slurping chicken matzo ball soup (from an old Southern recipe, I can assure you), and counting the number of residents of Llanview who have suddenly ended up in Paris, Texas, for the reading of Asa Buchanan's will. (I'm channeling the universe of One Life to Live, just so you know. And, for the record, we're up to 18 residents so far--19 if you count Jessica's "alter" Tess and 21 if you count Viki's.)
No, mellow yellow isn't the color of the contents of my sinus passages, thankfully, nor my complexion from having become all jaundicy orange by chewing too many vitamin C tablets during my recent infirmity. Instead, the phrase captures my little corner of Pittsburgh right now, which seems to be experiencing a very late fall this year, with the leaves on my neighborhood's trees hanging onto their branches and their peak color. Even while the season's first flakes of snow fall around us.
I'd like to say I have enjoyed the fall, but I've barely been in town the last month or so, and I'm off again on Sunday, this time to Kansas for a Thanksgiving with family. But I didn't want to let the season slip by completely without capturing a little of the color on camera. Because the first steady rain or windy day will blow it all away in a snap. And then those of us in Cold Country will be left with nothing more than gritting through chattering teeth serious death threats in the direction of Punxsutawney Phil. He better not dare see his shadow on Groundhog Day, we'll mutter. No freakin' way he better promise us an additional six weeks of winter, we'll curse. 'Cause seasonal affective disorder payback is a mutha, Phil.
And, really, the season is just too splendid to mess it up by having groundhog blood on one's hands.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Paper or plastic?
I was innocently minding my own business, simply catching up on older mail in my Bloglines RSS feeder, when I discovered this item available via MSNBC, dated October 9, 2007:
Nevertheless, it's not much a mystery to me. I'm sure a quick cross-reference with the Congressional Record or the daily newspapers would reveal that the President himself had indeed been at a barbecue/pool party that weekend at that very apartment complex. One of his now-divorced frat buddies--now living single in an apartment complex (a Whispering Pines, a Mistyfield Ponds, a Heatherview Mews, if you will) near the airport, because don't you know, he's in sales and has to travel a lot--had the Prez and some of their good ol' boys over for a few beers. They fired up the smoker, got comfortable with a few cold ones, let their cares slip away while they watched the game (the Cowboys of course!), and next thing you know, His Serene Cokeheadedness has stuck his brain in a bag for safe-keeping. Wouldn't want to get it dirty or scuffed up. Most definitely wouldn't want to wrinkle it.
Not in a grocery bag, I suspect. Not even in a brown paper lunch bag. No, more likely in one of those tiny, plastic snack bags ("fun size" perhaps) you mistakenly buy at the Giant Eagle, thinking its a full-sized sandwich bag.
And then he went and got distracted, thinking up new nicknames for his buds (Brownie is now Katrina, Rummy is now Resigned, and Dick . . . well, he's still a Dick) and forgot all about it. Kinda like his whereabouts and daily routine during his alleged service in the Alabama Air National Guard in the middle of that other regional conflict.
Of course, I could prove this conjecture, or at the very least, make it sound more plausible, at least as plausible as any argument against Western Civilization as made by Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh (who kinda look like they could be our Ill Douché's frat brothers, come to think of it), but I'm just too lazy. Too lazy to search the Congressional Record and too lazy to come up with something other than a cheap laugh at Our Fearless Leader's expense.
But, hey, if'n you're too chintzy to pay for healthcare for non-insured, sick children (why not just kick some puppies instead? or send some orphans to the alms house?), then all ya deserve is a cheap laugh, bubba.
Brain found in bag near Va. apartments
Unclear if it's human or animal, police say; awaiting word from examinerThat's quite a find! I'm still not sure how it turned out, but whether animal or human, a brain in a bag is not your usual home-from-a-day-of-shopping-at-the-mall kind of treasure.
Nevertheless, it's not much a mystery to me. I'm sure a quick cross-reference with the Congressional Record or the daily newspapers would reveal that the President himself had indeed been at a barbecue/pool party that weekend at that very apartment complex. One of his now-divorced frat buddies--now living single in an apartment complex (a Whispering Pines, a Mistyfield Ponds, a Heatherview Mews, if you will) near the airport, because don't you know, he's in sales and has to travel a lot--had the Prez and some of their good ol' boys over for a few beers. They fired up the smoker, got comfortable with a few cold ones, let their cares slip away while they watched the game (the Cowboys of course!), and next thing you know, His Serene Cokeheadedness has stuck his brain in a bag for safe-keeping. Wouldn't want to get it dirty or scuffed up. Most definitely wouldn't want to wrinkle it.
Not in a grocery bag, I suspect. Not even in a brown paper lunch bag. No, more likely in one of those tiny, plastic snack bags ("fun size" perhaps) you mistakenly buy at the Giant Eagle, thinking its a full-sized sandwich bag.
And then he went and got distracted, thinking up new nicknames for his buds (Brownie is now Katrina, Rummy is now Resigned, and Dick . . . well, he's still a Dick) and forgot all about it. Kinda like his whereabouts and daily routine during his alleged service in the Alabama Air National Guard in the middle of that other regional conflict.
Of course, I could prove this conjecture, or at the very least, make it sound more plausible, at least as plausible as any argument against Western Civilization as made by Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh (who kinda look like they could be our Ill Douché's frat brothers, come to think of it), but I'm just too lazy. Too lazy to search the Congressional Record and too lazy to come up with something other than a cheap laugh at Our Fearless Leader's expense.
But, hey, if'n you're too chintzy to pay for healthcare for non-insured, sick children (why not just kick some puppies instead? or send some orphans to the alms house?), then all ya deserve is a cheap laugh, bubba.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Slowly I turn . . . another year older
Obviously, there was a great gap (and, no doubt, gasp, as we all need to come up for air sometime) between my last post in September and my first post in October--the reason being that I turned another year older (rising to 46 on the Hot 100, still with a bullet, which is probably heading straight for my cranium) in the interim and decided to celebrate by making a marathon motor tour of Central New York and the Niagara region of Ontario.I have a few stories to tell from the adventure and hopefully I'll get to those before I've forgotten all about them (age can do that to you) or have moved on to some other blogworthy (one can but dream) observations about life, love, and a certain senator's 
testicles.
testicles. But today I'm pressed for time at the mo', traveling a fair amount for work until mid-November. So instead I'll give you the short version (for me) and share a few photos from my travels.
I had a wonderful time visiting my friend, the Itinerant Professor of Chinese in New York State, and also enjoyed a splendid retreat on my own in Niagara Falls and Niagara-on-the-Lake.
While in New York, I did some hiking with the Itinerant Professor, traveling to Chittenango Falls, Green Lakes State Park, and another nature preserve near Earlville and Hamilton, New York. I also dined out a lot, went to the movies, made some new acquaintances, and did the antiques roadshow circuit of Central New York.
In the Niagara region, I made myself quite at home at the Brock Plaza Hotel, the same hotel in which Marilyn Monroe stayed while filming the appropriately titled Niagara in the early 1950s. It was as camp a decision as I've ever made (other than my antiquing adventures mentioned above). I just had to do it--it seemed like a charming and slightly fabulous way to spend one's birthday. Heck, I even splurged and spent the extra $30 a night (woo hoo!) for the fallsview room, instead of the one with the vista of the late '70s modern parking deck. Despite my fear of heights, I even opened all the windows of my 11th floor room and let the roar of the American and Canadian falls lull me to sleep.
On my last day, before heading home, I spent the afternoon in the sublime Niagara-on-the-Lake, situated just so with a perfect view of Lake Ontario. I could have done more there--such as get my Anglophilia groove on while enjoying afternoon tea at the Prince of Wales Hotel--but it was hot and humid that day. Just call me Lily White of the Valley--I must be the only person who goes to Canada and gets a sunburn.
So I headed home to Pittsburgh, vowing to return another time for a longer visit. All in all, it was a splendid way to spend a birthday.
Perhaps it all sounds very lowkey and a "small" way to celebrate one of life's milestones. I mean, $30 extra for a fallsview room? Maybe I need to learn to expand my definition of splurging.
Perhaps it all sounds very lowkey and a "small" way to celebrate one of life's milestones. I mean, $30 extra for a fallsview room? Maybe I need to learn to expand my definition of splurging.
Nevertheless, it was exactly what I needed, precisely what I had been craving. Some time away, some time with friends, and some time alone, in a lovely and tranquil setting.
Oh, it's come to this, has it? First, gardening and origami, now beauty and peace over excitement and frenzied adventure?
Yes, thankfully so, it has.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
A cock-and-balls story
Whodaho? Idaho. No, no. Larrycraigdaho.
I know, I know, I know. I've become something of an alternative, public-access, cable channel devoted solely to the surreptitious movements and incendiary TV appearances of America's Poster Boy for Repressed Sexuality, U.S. Senator Larry Craig, R-Idaho.
Call me tacky, call me obsessed, call me easily amused--but watching Larry Craig on TV is a bit like watching Dancing with the Stars. You know you should be spending your time in more productive ways--but it's just so darned entertaining! What will the dance consist of this night--a tango? a foxtrot? a hustle? What will La Larry dance to? "I'm in the Mood for Love"? "It's Raining Men"? The world's smallest violin playing "Nobody Knows the Troubles I Seen"? More importantly, will his leg (third or otherwise) fly off in the middle of a particularly exuberant herky-jerk?
Ah, think big, dear ones! Tonight it will be a choice of all three plus a wildcard--meet number four, a new dance partner!
This week, in an interview with NBC's Matt Lauer, Mrs. Larry Craig, aka Suzanne "Bearded Lady" Thompson, appeared side-by-side with His Lechness to refute the incessant accusations that hubby is a dyed-in-the-pink-wool homo.
Matt did a good job with the interview, but as is to be expected, Larry stonewalled (no pun intended) rather well. Then again, he's had several weeks and a few court appearances behind him, so surely he's practiced and perfected his denial and outrage by now.
Still, there were some surprises (and by surprises I mean out-and-out howlers) in the interview. Such as when Laddie Larry played the victim card, told how awful it was to be ridiculed and derided before the nation at large, wished ill, wanted gone, etc., etc., all for political gain.
Yes, yes, I quite agree. As a gay man during the era of politicians making careers and scapegoats out of us queers, I know just how you feel, Larry. It sucks (if you'll pardon the expression) to be judged on behavior deemed by some to be unseemly and immoral--although science strongly indicates its nature, not nurture, at work here. To have your private sexual life held up for ridicule and misrepresented in the media. To be paraded before an unkind populace and made to explain yourself repeatedly. It's so unfair to be treated such, rather than being credited for your record of good works and exemplary behavior.
Oh yes, my heart goes out to you. My pure, unironical heart.
But by far the best moment in the interview had to be when the Missus denied claims by someone (unnamed, probably reported on by that little-newspaper-that-could back in Idaho) that they had seen and could describe the Craig Family Jewels. *Shudder.*
And that's a shudder felt so deeply as to be mistaken for amoebic dysentery, because not only did Mrs. Craig bring this tale to our attention (an area of knowledge I had been quite comfortable living without, thanks all the same), she also added in a significant, I'm-fresh-from-coaching-by-her-husband's-chief-of-staff tone, that she should know what her husband's bits and pieces look like, having examined them and all, and they didn't look at all as they had been described.
Please. Let's all take a moment to let this sink in. Then let's all pull out our imaginary icepicks and stab ourselves in our mind's eye until the image fades from view. There. Better now.
I actually blushed at this detail. Not because I'm a prude and shocked by the reference to the pater genitalias. (I've seen a few in my time, but thankfully none of which belonged to ol' Larry.) No, it's more that I was embarrassed for the both of them, especially Mrs. Craig. That she would go on national television to defend her husband from (repeated and loudly repeated at that) charges of sexual misconduct with other men in public places by discussing this cock-and-balls story . . . well, I just feel ashamed for the both of them. Clearly they'll do anything to stay right where they are, no matter how humiliating and tawdry.
I mean, honestly, just how big a pair of whores are the both of them that they're willing to do not a tell-all but a tell-a-lurid-some to the world at large about the Senatorial Box? All this for what exactly? To be the Power Couple of Idaho in the post-Demi and Bruce era? For the chance to discuss, ferchrissakes, policy all day in a room full of aging, gray-suited men? (Whatever floats your dinghy, Larry.) For the opportunity to have an impact not on war and peace, healthcare, education, and social welfare, but on more pressing matters--like ads by Moveon.org, gay marriage, and Terry Schiavo? To continue to inhabit the power-mad but ultimately unsexy world of Official Washington, a construct so goyische that you'd swear the Capitol was made out of Wonder Bread and Miracle Whip?
It hardly seems worth it. But then owning a McMansion in the Virginia suburbs, having an entourage of sycophantic Young Republicans to guide you through every political landmine (although apparently not through the Minneapolis Airport), and getting to vote against other people's happiness is just too perverted a fantasy even for a known homosexual like me.
I'm not being fair here. I do a disservice--to whores. 'Cause whores at least have an honorable way of life. They avail themselves and their privates to others, make others happy by doing so, and don't deny it all when the going gets rough. They even do it for free! All very unlike a certain Congressman and his wife.
However, despite my rantings, the interview was successful in that it finally obliterated from my thinking that Loose Lips Larry is gay. I truly believe he's not. Labeling someone gay (in a post-Stonewall, pre-South Park way) implies that they have an affiliation with and understanding of homosexuality as not merely a sexual proclivity but a social and cultural alignment. In other words, there's more to homosexuality than just sex--but "homoculturality" won't make it past your spellchecker. And calling it "homosocialism" is just asking for trouble from the punditards on Fox News and CNN.
Oh, I'm still not convinced that Larry Craig hasn't at some point engaged in some form of same-sex sexual activity, whether in an airport restroom of his choosing or in some pup-tent-on-the-range, Brokeback Mountain fantasy style, acted out possibly with Dick Cheney. Or Karl Rove.
Possibly. Probably. Who knows? But even all that doesn't mean you're gay, as "expert" authorities like Dr. Drew--who, best as I can figure, represents some sort of Malibu Buddhist pinnacle of better sexual enlightenment through tanning and Botox--keep reminding us on the Larry King Show. That just means you're a man who has sex with men.
In other words, as they say in the vernacular of the sexual underworld, you're nothing more than a cocksucker.
And, Larry, I suspect you're the biggest one of 'em all.
I know, I know, I know. I've become something of an alternative, public-access, cable channel devoted solely to the surreptitious movements and incendiary TV appearances of America's Poster Boy for Repressed Sexuality, U.S. Senator Larry Craig, R-Idaho.
Call me tacky, call me obsessed, call me easily amused--but watching Larry Craig on TV is a bit like watching Dancing with the Stars. You know you should be spending your time in more productive ways--but it's just so darned entertaining! What will the dance consist of this night--a tango? a foxtrot? a hustle? What will La Larry dance to? "I'm in the Mood for Love"? "It's Raining Men"? The world's smallest violin playing "Nobody Knows the Troubles I Seen"? More importantly, will his leg (third or otherwise) fly off in the middle of a particularly exuberant herky-jerk?
Ah, think big, dear ones! Tonight it will be a choice of all three plus a wildcard--meet number four, a new dance partner!
This week, in an interview with NBC's Matt Lauer, Mrs. Larry Craig, aka Suzanne "Bearded Lady" Thompson, appeared side-by-side with His Lechness to refute the incessant accusations that hubby is a dyed-in-the-pink-wool homo.
Matt did a good job with the interview, but as is to be expected, Larry stonewalled (no pun intended) rather well. Then again, he's had several weeks and a few court appearances behind him, so surely he's practiced and perfected his denial and outrage by now.
Still, there were some surprises (and by surprises I mean out-and-out howlers) in the interview. Such as when Laddie Larry played the victim card, told how awful it was to be ridiculed and derided before the nation at large, wished ill, wanted gone, etc., etc., all for political gain.
Yes, yes, I quite agree. As a gay man during the era of politicians making careers and scapegoats out of us queers, I know just how you feel, Larry. It sucks (if you'll pardon the expression) to be judged on behavior deemed by some to be unseemly and immoral--although science strongly indicates its nature, not nurture, at work here. To have your private sexual life held up for ridicule and misrepresented in the media. To be paraded before an unkind populace and made to explain yourself repeatedly. It's so unfair to be treated such, rather than being credited for your record of good works and exemplary behavior.
Oh yes, my heart goes out to you. My pure, unironical heart.
But by far the best moment in the interview had to be when the Missus denied claims by someone (unnamed, probably reported on by that little-newspaper-that-could back in Idaho) that they had seen and could describe the Craig Family Jewels. *Shudder.*
And that's a shudder felt so deeply as to be mistaken for amoebic dysentery, because not only did Mrs. Craig bring this tale to our attention (an area of knowledge I had been quite comfortable living without, thanks all the same), she also added in a significant, I'm-fresh-from-coaching-by-her-husband's-chief-of-staff tone, that she should know what her husband's bits and pieces look like, having examined them and all, and they didn't look at all as they had been described.
Please. Let's all take a moment to let this sink in. Then let's all pull out our imaginary icepicks and stab ourselves in our mind's eye until the image fades from view. There. Better now.
I actually blushed at this detail. Not because I'm a prude and shocked by the reference to the pater genitalias. (I've seen a few in my time, but thankfully none of which belonged to ol' Larry.) No, it's more that I was embarrassed for the both of them, especially Mrs. Craig. That she would go on national television to defend her husband from (repeated and loudly repeated at that) charges of sexual misconduct with other men in public places by discussing this cock-and-balls story . . . well, I just feel ashamed for the both of them. Clearly they'll do anything to stay right where they are, no matter how humiliating and tawdry.
I mean, honestly, just how big a pair of whores are the both of them that they're willing to do not a tell-all but a tell-a-lurid-some to the world at large about the Senatorial Box? All this for what exactly? To be the Power Couple of Idaho in the post-Demi and Bruce era? For the chance to discuss, ferchrissakes, policy all day in a room full of aging, gray-suited men? (Whatever floats your dinghy, Larry.) For the opportunity to have an impact not on war and peace, healthcare, education, and social welfare, but on more pressing matters--like ads by Moveon.org, gay marriage, and Terry Schiavo? To continue to inhabit the power-mad but ultimately unsexy world of Official Washington, a construct so goyische that you'd swear the Capitol was made out of Wonder Bread and Miracle Whip?
It hardly seems worth it. But then owning a McMansion in the Virginia suburbs, having an entourage of sycophantic Young Republicans to guide you through every political landmine (although apparently not through the Minneapolis Airport), and getting to vote against other people's happiness is just too perverted a fantasy even for a known homosexual like me.
I'm not being fair here. I do a disservice--to whores. 'Cause whores at least have an honorable way of life. They avail themselves and their privates to others, make others happy by doing so, and don't deny it all when the going gets rough. They even do it for free! All very unlike a certain Congressman and his wife.
However, despite my rantings, the interview was successful in that it finally obliterated from my thinking that Loose Lips Larry is gay. I truly believe he's not. Labeling someone gay (in a post-Stonewall, pre-South Park way) implies that they have an affiliation with and understanding of homosexuality as not merely a sexual proclivity but a social and cultural alignment. In other words, there's more to homosexuality than just sex--but "homoculturality" won't make it past your spellchecker. And calling it "homosocialism" is just asking for trouble from the punditards on Fox News and CNN.
Oh, I'm still not convinced that Larry Craig hasn't at some point engaged in some form of same-sex sexual activity, whether in an airport restroom of his choosing or in some pup-tent-on-the-range, Brokeback Mountain fantasy style, acted out possibly with Dick Cheney. Or Karl Rove.
Possibly. Probably. Who knows? But even all that doesn't mean you're gay, as "expert" authorities like Dr. Drew--who, best as I can figure, represents some sort of Malibu Buddhist pinnacle of better sexual enlightenment through tanning and Botox--keep reminding us on the Larry King Show. That just means you're a man who has sex with men.
In other words, as they say in the vernacular of the sexual underworld, you're nothing more than a cocksucker.
And, Larry, I suspect you're the biggest one of 'em all.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Flushed away
Larry Craig keeps me up at night. Figuratively speaking.
It's true. I woke up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning after a tiring week of travel with the burning, yearning desire to write more about Our Lady of the Latrines, Larry Craig.
Whose story, I might add, changed once again this past week--"My confession stands, but I'm staying put in Congress!"
Hurray for democracy.
A comment from No Rella regarding my last blog entry pointed up to me something I had missed and left unaddressed in my previous opining--that is, that La Larry intended not only to use a public restroom for the purpose of making a date for sex but that he also probably intended to seal the deal in the very same place. Through the playful interaction of hands under the stall wall, the coy, flirtatious use of a shopping bag to hide at least one pair of shoes, and the discreet charm of an impersonal, silent, sticky-floored encounter--a Last Tango in Plumbing Fixtures, if you will--ah well, who says romance is dead?
Seriously, I don't think it fully occurred to me that Dumb and Detective, or anyone in a similar predicament, all dewy-eyed and star-crossed over the stained tile and hand-dryers at Minneapolis International, would go all flagrante delicto in the fragrant, delicate ambiance of the men's room in which they just met. I guess I just figured they'd find a comfortable, private corner in, I dunno, Terminal A, Gate 46, to profess their undying (until 5 minutes later) lust.
Naive of me, truly, but then while I've been aware of such things happening (no, really), it's always been difficult for me to imagine their full realization. OK, well, I can imagine; I just can't see myself ever doing.
I'm awkward at best in public, just walking and talking. The thought of getting down to serious sexual hijinx in just about any public setting has always struck me as impractical (where would we put our clothes?), impersonal (how are we going to talk about what's going to happen/what has just happened?), and potentially hugely embarrassing. I could just see, in the throes of passion, the stall door flying open or the whole cubicle falling apart, the walls peeling away one by one, leaving me more humiliated than simply by the fact of just having experienced the world's most intimate act amidst the revolting charm of a public toilet.
Needless to say, I don't get laid nearly enough. I think about the details way too much, and, really, folks who are doing the nasty in the men's room probably aren't looking for the kind of guy who prefers long walks on the beach, cuddling in front of a fire with someone special, and good conversation. Silence, discretion, and a lack of personal interaction (other than with a spare appendage/orifice) are required here, not my kind of bon mots, thoughts on the definition and use of torture in war, and even details on one's turn-ons and turn-offs. (I'm assuming in this situation that for the eager actors pretty much everything would be a turn-on. Even oxygen.) Plus, in general, I find that most men aren't attracted to the kind of guy who, when describing life's more romantic (if bourgeois and pedestrian) moments, make them sound like the storyboard for a commercial for a feminine hygiene product.
Just an observation.
So, like, it never really sunk in that Larry would be doing the deed with the Hot Cop from the Village People in situ. And just for the record, I'm not down with that particular aspect of the situation. Like I said, men's rooms are pretty vulgar all on their own; I want to go in, do my business, wash my hands clean of the situation, and move on. I don't particularly want to have to mill about in a crowded anteroom while Larry and his latest Mary pretend to spend a penny while exacting a pounding of the flesh on my time, on my dime. It's the kind of selfish, public behavior that drives me crazy--"Oh, my needs are so special that I'm going to take up space for my carnal knowledge while you dance around outside, hopping from leg to leg, waiting to do what this place was intended for. Is that OK with you?"
No, it's not OK with me, not that you were really asking my permission, nor would you necessarily be able to, your mouth full and all.
I am reasonably content to lead a fairly compartmentalized life, generally using facilities in their intended manner, no questions asked. I use the left lane on the Pennsylvania Turnpike as a passing lane, not a travel lane (unless traffic is horrendous, and so it often is). I refrain from using tables as footstools, even in public waiting areas. I quietly accept that plastic bags from the drycleaners are safety hazards, not toys.
So those more free than me, those who throw the rules and regs of comportment to the winds, the rest of us be damned, tend to bring out the uniformed-police-officer-with-a-trigger-taser-finger in me. Have you ever seen the John Waters' movie Serial Mom, in which Kathleen Turner's character starts killing people for offending social custom--swiping parking spaces, not separating their recycling, wearing white after Labor Day? I can so empathize.
So, based on this and other absolutely flawless lines of reasoning, I don't empathize or sympathize much with Lewd Larry. Nevertheless, I can't help but think maybe ol' Larry got a bum deal--just not the kind he wanted.
What did Larry Craig intend to do? OK, dumb question. Despite his incessant denials, I think we all know what he intended to do, if given a half a chance and a willing, blond, chiseled jaw participant. But he didn't actually do it, and, thus, reluctantly, in his defense, I have to say I don't think he should have been charged with anything. Intent to molest another shoe? Possession of small pieces of toilet paper with intent to distribute between private stalls? I'm no legal scholar, as I've noted before and as my attempts at a living will and copyright interpretation no doubt would prove, so maybe intent is all you need to arrest and get a confession to "disorderly conduct." However, it would seem to me that you'd have to have some very specific action going on, a little South-of-the-Bible Belt exposure in view, before you could bring in the police, handcuffs, and interrogation room. Unless you're into that sort of thing.
Imagine my shame and consternation, however, in trying to defend Larry Craig's actions, intended or otherwise. I'm not all pro-let's-have-sex-wherever-we-like-'cause-we're- feeling-horny. But I'm not all pro-let's-support-another-asshole-conservative-who-has- consistently-voted-against-anything-gay-affirmative-while-still-enjoying-certain-fruits- of-his-labor-available-only-to-willing-participants either. In situations like these, what's a right-on kind of homosexual supposed to do?
* * *
To say I find myself at odds with most of the big gay world--as well as the world at large--is something of a duh statement. (Read the blog. All is revealed.)
During the midst of all this homo hullabaloo, a friend sent me some photos from San Francisco's notorious Folsom Street Fair, held annually in the old meat-packing section (heavy irony) of the Anything Goes Capital of America. For the unitiated among us--and, please, I beg of you, don't ever go to the Folsom Street Fair and say, "I'm ready for my initiation!" because I'm pretty sure you won't like the results (or so I'm assuming)--the fair is sort of an arts-and-crafts approach to kink. Or, if you prefer, a better description of the fair might be to say that it is the kink-and-arts approach to leathercraft.
The Folsom Street Fair is not for the faint-hearted or even the not-so-easily shocked. As an article in Wikipedia describes it, the Folsom Street Fair is
So, heck, it's fun for the whole family! Especially if your family is into flogging, branding, bondage, and other things you don't really want to know too much about (again, or so I'm assuming).
Again, what's a right-on kind of homosexual to do? On the one hand, these folks on display and, well, splayed, at the Folsom Street Fair are consenting adults. Who am I to play Nanny 911, Big Moral Government Edition, and say, no, you can't do that in public?
On the other hand, jeez, you're doing this in public! And the whole world is watching!
I'll leave the defense or critique of such behaviors to those who have more of a vested interest. I will say that while some aspects of the activities on view might be described as playful, fun, and even sexy (two men dressed in leather, kissing each other, maybe be shocking in some circles, but in and of itself, it's hardly inflammatory), others look like some sort of odd psychotherapeutic passion play, a way to work out childhood traumas over and over and over again, for all to see. Snaps for your bravery, I guess, but I really wish you'd just talk it over with a counselor. In private.
Still, this view of San Francisco is something of a raw-like-sushi bento box of a Marilyn Manson concert, an Xtreme! Sports event/Ironman competition, Disneyland for naturists, a DIY home improvement show aimed at people with a fondess for excessive use of duck tape, and a steamy, night-time lockdown at Louisiana's famed Angola Prison--all balled up into one and left whimpering in the corner. There's more to the city and its culture, including its gay culture, than just the most kink-fueled and attention-grabbing, but direct your vision to certain corridors and corners in the City by the Bay, especially on a gorgeous, sunny weekend in October, and you're liable to see more of the wild side than you would, say, in Peoria. Or Pittsburgh, for that matter.
So, whatever. To each his own. There are more important issues to wrestle with, more significant topics for me to spank, more demanding points for me to parade around on a leash attached to a dog collar.
Nevertheless, a little discussion and analysis of the behaviors in evidence might be required--particularly with regards to the "in evidence" portion of the conundrum. For you see, the photos sent to me were credited to the American Family Association, the Donald Wildmon-operated shriek-tank that has created a successful cottage industry out of sending snail- and e-mail screaming bloody apocalypse about the conservative Huey, Dewey, and Louie anti-Christs of our time--indecency, obscenity, and homosexuality.
Well, no cultural critic ever went hungry, no minister de-flocked, by parading examples of tawdry public behavior and tasteless media representation before a repressed yet eager audience/congregation. Need convincing? Have you ever heard of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ?
Still, while I'm not feeling particularly protective of fundamentalists wittle feewings, I can't say that I'm all gung-ho for the right of my fellow Friends of Dorothy to make rubber-clad, bullwhip-inserted-where?!?! spectacles of themselves on the streets of Any City, USA. I want to be all libertarian laissez-faire on yo' (properly protected) ass, but it's a neverending and not particularly satisfying challenge for me to justify your right to do whatever you want in public, when it is used as a way to keep me and my more mundane fellow travellers from getting basic legal protection in housing and employment, not to mention respectful treatment by public officials and private citizens.
So what's my point exactly? I guess it's that public actions have pubic consequences. Have yourself wrapped in leather mummy drag and strung up like a rotisserie chicken in the streets of San Francisco and someone might take it the wrong way and use it against you and your kind on a fundamentalist website. Try to secure a blowjob in an airport toilet, and you're liable to have your constituents read about the details on The Smoking Gun website, as well as on the front page of The Washington Post. And no one is really going to be all that up for defending your right to do so, especially if your behavior is going to make them blush with embarrassment and shock--or, worse, miss their connecting flight.
So maybe don't do that. Or, if you must do, think about who might be watching, paying attention, or able to hear/read about it. Or barring that, close the blinds, shut the door, and get the hell out of my way. I've got a plane to catch.
It's true. I woke up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning after a tiring week of travel with the burning, yearning desire to write more about Our Lady of the Latrines, Larry Craig.
Whose story, I might add, changed once again this past week--"My confession stands, but I'm staying put in Congress!"
Hurray for democracy.
A comment from No Rella regarding my last blog entry pointed up to me something I had missed and left unaddressed in my previous opining--that is, that La Larry intended not only to use a public restroom for the purpose of making a date for sex but that he also probably intended to seal the deal in the very same place. Through the playful interaction of hands under the stall wall, the coy, flirtatious use of a shopping bag to hide at least one pair of shoes, and the discreet charm of an impersonal, silent, sticky-floored encounter--a Last Tango in Plumbing Fixtures, if you will--ah well, who says romance is dead?
Seriously, I don't think it fully occurred to me that Dumb and Detective, or anyone in a similar predicament, all dewy-eyed and star-crossed over the stained tile and hand-dryers at Minneapolis International, would go all flagrante delicto in the fragrant, delicate ambiance of the men's room in which they just met. I guess I just figured they'd find a comfortable, private corner in, I dunno, Terminal A, Gate 46, to profess their undying (until 5 minutes later) lust.
Naive of me, truly, but then while I've been aware of such things happening (no, really), it's always been difficult for me to imagine their full realization. OK, well, I can imagine; I just can't see myself ever doing.
I'm awkward at best in public, just walking and talking. The thought of getting down to serious sexual hijinx in just about any public setting has always struck me as impractical (where would we put our clothes?), impersonal (how are we going to talk about what's going to happen/what has just happened?), and potentially hugely embarrassing. I could just see, in the throes of passion, the stall door flying open or the whole cubicle falling apart, the walls peeling away one by one, leaving me more humiliated than simply by the fact of just having experienced the world's most intimate act amidst the revolting charm of a public toilet.
Needless to say, I don't get laid nearly enough. I think about the details way too much, and, really, folks who are doing the nasty in the men's room probably aren't looking for the kind of guy who prefers long walks on the beach, cuddling in front of a fire with someone special, and good conversation. Silence, discretion, and a lack of personal interaction (other than with a spare appendage/orifice) are required here, not my kind of bon mots, thoughts on the definition and use of torture in war, and even details on one's turn-ons and turn-offs. (I'm assuming in this situation that for the eager actors pretty much everything would be a turn-on. Even oxygen.) Plus, in general, I find that most men aren't attracted to the kind of guy who, when describing life's more romantic (if bourgeois and pedestrian) moments, make them sound like the storyboard for a commercial for a feminine hygiene product.
Just an observation.
So, like, it never really sunk in that Larry would be doing the deed with the Hot Cop from the Village People in situ. And just for the record, I'm not down with that particular aspect of the situation. Like I said, men's rooms are pretty vulgar all on their own; I want to go in, do my business, wash my hands clean of the situation, and move on. I don't particularly want to have to mill about in a crowded anteroom while Larry and his latest Mary pretend to spend a penny while exacting a pounding of the flesh on my time, on my dime. It's the kind of selfish, public behavior that drives me crazy--"Oh, my needs are so special that I'm going to take up space for my carnal knowledge while you dance around outside, hopping from leg to leg, waiting to do what this place was intended for. Is that OK with you?"
No, it's not OK with me, not that you were really asking my permission, nor would you necessarily be able to, your mouth full and all.
I am reasonably content to lead a fairly compartmentalized life, generally using facilities in their intended manner, no questions asked. I use the left lane on the Pennsylvania Turnpike as a passing lane, not a travel lane (unless traffic is horrendous, and so it often is). I refrain from using tables as footstools, even in public waiting areas. I quietly accept that plastic bags from the drycleaners are safety hazards, not toys.
So those more free than me, those who throw the rules and regs of comportment to the winds, the rest of us be damned, tend to bring out the uniformed-police-officer-with-a-trigger-taser-finger in me. Have you ever seen the John Waters' movie Serial Mom, in which Kathleen Turner's character starts killing people for offending social custom--swiping parking spaces, not separating their recycling, wearing white after Labor Day? I can so empathize.
So, based on this and other absolutely flawless lines of reasoning, I don't empathize or sympathize much with Lewd Larry. Nevertheless, I can't help but think maybe ol' Larry got a bum deal--just not the kind he wanted.
What did Larry Craig intend to do? OK, dumb question. Despite his incessant denials, I think we all know what he intended to do, if given a half a chance and a willing, blond, chiseled jaw participant. But he didn't actually do it, and, thus, reluctantly, in his defense, I have to say I don't think he should have been charged with anything. Intent to molest another shoe? Possession of small pieces of toilet paper with intent to distribute between private stalls? I'm no legal scholar, as I've noted before and as my attempts at a living will and copyright interpretation no doubt would prove, so maybe intent is all you need to arrest and get a confession to "disorderly conduct." However, it would seem to me that you'd have to have some very specific action going on, a little South-of-the-Bible Belt exposure in view, before you could bring in the police, handcuffs, and interrogation room. Unless you're into that sort of thing.
Imagine my shame and consternation, however, in trying to defend Larry Craig's actions, intended or otherwise. I'm not all pro-let's-have-sex-wherever-we-like-'cause-we're- feeling-horny. But I'm not all pro-let's-support-another-asshole-conservative-who-has- consistently-voted-against-anything-gay-affirmative-while-still-enjoying-certain-fruits- of-his-labor-available-only-to-willing-participants either. In situations like these, what's a right-on kind of homosexual supposed to do?
* * *
To say I find myself at odds with most of the big gay world--as well as the world at large--is something of a duh statement. (Read the blog. All is revealed.)
During the midst of all this homo hullabaloo, a friend sent me some photos from San Francisco's notorious Folsom Street Fair, held annually in the old meat-packing section (heavy irony) of the Anything Goes Capital of America. For the unitiated among us--and, please, I beg of you, don't ever go to the Folsom Street Fair and say, "I'm ready for my initiation!" because I'm pretty sure you won't like the results (or so I'm assuming)--the fair is sort of an arts-and-crafts approach to kink. Or, if you prefer, a better description of the fair might be to say that it is the kink-and-arts approach to leathercraft.
The Folsom Street Fair is not for the faint-hearted or even the not-so-easily shocked. As an article in Wikipedia describes it, the Folsom Street Fair is
. . . [O]ne of the few occasions when sadomasochistic activities are encouraged and performed in public . . . [the fair] attracts a considerable number of sightseers and those who enjoy the attention of onlookers as well as the hundreds of photographers and videographers. Although the costumes and activities can be eye-opening and transgressive, the event tends to be very peaceful and non-threatening.
So, heck, it's fun for the whole family! Especially if your family is into flogging, branding, bondage, and other things you don't really want to know too much about (again, or so I'm assuming).
Again, what's a right-on kind of homosexual to do? On the one hand, these folks on display and, well, splayed, at the Folsom Street Fair are consenting adults. Who am I to play Nanny 911, Big Moral Government Edition, and say, no, you can't do that in public?
On the other hand, jeez, you're doing this in public! And the whole world is watching!
I'll leave the defense or critique of such behaviors to those who have more of a vested interest. I will say that while some aspects of the activities on view might be described as playful, fun, and even sexy (two men dressed in leather, kissing each other, maybe be shocking in some circles, but in and of itself, it's hardly inflammatory), others look like some sort of odd psychotherapeutic passion play, a way to work out childhood traumas over and over and over again, for all to see. Snaps for your bravery, I guess, but I really wish you'd just talk it over with a counselor. In private.
Still, this view of San Francisco is something of a raw-like-sushi bento box of a Marilyn Manson concert, an Xtreme! Sports event/Ironman competition, Disneyland for naturists, a DIY home improvement show aimed at people with a fondess for excessive use of duck tape, and a steamy, night-time lockdown at Louisiana's famed Angola Prison--all balled up into one and left whimpering in the corner. There's more to the city and its culture, including its gay culture, than just the most kink-fueled and attention-grabbing, but direct your vision to certain corridors and corners in the City by the Bay, especially on a gorgeous, sunny weekend in October, and you're liable to see more of the wild side than you would, say, in Peoria. Or Pittsburgh, for that matter.
So, whatever. To each his own. There are more important issues to wrestle with, more significant topics for me to spank, more demanding points for me to parade around on a leash attached to a dog collar.
Nevertheless, a little discussion and analysis of the behaviors in evidence might be required--particularly with regards to the "in evidence" portion of the conundrum. For you see, the photos sent to me were credited to the American Family Association, the Donald Wildmon-operated shriek-tank that has created a successful cottage industry out of sending snail- and e-mail screaming bloody apocalypse about the conservative Huey, Dewey, and Louie anti-Christs of our time--indecency, obscenity, and homosexuality.
Well, no cultural critic ever went hungry, no minister de-flocked, by parading examples of tawdry public behavior and tasteless media representation before a repressed yet eager audience/congregation. Need convincing? Have you ever heard of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ?
Still, while I'm not feeling particularly protective of fundamentalists wittle feewings, I can't say that I'm all gung-ho for the right of my fellow Friends of Dorothy to make rubber-clad, bullwhip-inserted-where?!?! spectacles of themselves on the streets of Any City, USA. I want to be all libertarian laissez-faire on yo' (properly protected) ass, but it's a neverending and not particularly satisfying challenge for me to justify your right to do whatever you want in public, when it is used as a way to keep me and my more mundane fellow travellers from getting basic legal protection in housing and employment, not to mention respectful treatment by public officials and private citizens.
So what's my point exactly? I guess it's that public actions have pubic consequences. Have yourself wrapped in leather mummy drag and strung up like a rotisserie chicken in the streets of San Francisco and someone might take it the wrong way and use it against you and your kind on a fundamentalist website. Try to secure a blowjob in an airport toilet, and you're liable to have your constituents read about the details on The Smoking Gun website, as well as on the front page of The Washington Post. And no one is really going to be all that up for defending your right to do so, especially if your behavior is going to make them blush with embarrassment and shock--or, worse, miss their connecting flight.
So maybe don't do that. Or, if you must do, think about who might be watching, paying attention, or able to hear/read about it. Or barring that, close the blinds, shut the door, and get the hell out of my way. I've got a plane to catch.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Hello Larry!
"What's this then? Another pig-ugly MP making a fool of himself with some scrawny old hooker, I see."
The character of Mum from Absolutely Fabulous, "Hospital" episode (1994), remarking on a photo in a London tabloid of aging party girl Patsy Stone being caught by the Fleet Street press in a compromising position with a member of Parliament
No, actually, it's just the case of a U.S. senator making an ugly hooker of himself with a pig.
Why I've chosen to wait until now to write about the mishaps . . . er . . . missteps . . . no, wait . . . ah, yes . . . mis-taps of U.S. Senator Larry Craig and the tempest in a tearoom at the Minneapolis Airport may be something of a mystery to us all, most of all yours truly. This is the sort of sordid thing I love to write about--dirty sex! public humiliation!--because, as they say, those who can't do (or seem to be lacking the opportunity of late), put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, and comment away.
I started this post in late August and only now, a month later, am managing to finish and publish. We could chalk up my distraction to starting a new job and a new life and perhaps still dealing with the residuals from an old job and life. We could also claim that I was showing admirable restraint by refraining from writing about the misadventures of Latrine Larry out of some sort of respect for his tender feelings. But, really, we know me better than that, don't we? I'm determined to show him as much consideration as he showed the rest of America in voting for all those anti-everything measures in Congress over the the last two-and-half decades of public service.
What I think it comes down to, though, is that La Larry's story kept changing (and changing and changing and changing) so much so that I was having trouble keeping up. I'd write something, and then the facts would change ("I'm not gay!" "I'm resigning!"), and then I would stop to laugh for a few days. Then I'd go back to the blog and the "facts" would have changed again ("I'm not guilty!" "I'm not going anywhere!"), and I'd begin the laugh track again. So perhaps you can better understand what I've been up against. Really, it's all Larry's fault.
Honestly, though, despite (or because) of the fact that the Lady Craig doth protest too much, it's difficult for me not to think of Larry being a member of the Royal Order of Flaming Homos, precisely for this reason: The guy's got more twists and turns than a 20-year-old twink on the dancefloor. "Look at me!" "Wait! Don't look at me! I'm not ready! OK, now look at me! No, wait!" If that doesn't scream "I'm not gay--I'm fabulous!" I don't know what does.
Overall, though, I do have some mixed feelings about the two-for-tea imbroglio. I mean, on the one foot . . . uh, hand . . . I'm embarrassed for Larry Craig, and I'm ashamed for men everywhere. I've never understood the aphrodisiacal qualities of men's rooms or just about any quicker picker-up place deemed suitable for a snappy toss or a furtive ejaculation. I mean, there's a time and a place for everything, but if you must engage in public trading, at least choose a locker room, a sauna, a shower, or a steamroom--they are infinitely sexier and nominally cleaner. Warm water, steam, heat, guys in towels, and a vague whiff of birch and/or Pine-Sol in the air--what's to disagree with? Other than some old-fangled morality and a few sensitive natures that I can't be bothered with, I mean.
But a men's room? A men's room is often just stinky and disgusting--and that's the maven of all things aesthetically appealing in me talking, not the dour mistress of morality mouthing off. I've commented on this before--men's rooms are often smelly and dirty, and there is this propensity by some men to pee all over the seats and floors of most stalls and urinals, a behavior that completely baffles me (no, why don't you clean it up?) and makes me reach the conclusion that, with aim this poor, it's amazing the human race has survived at all.
With this in mind, I can better understand Mary Larry's "wide stance." I wouldn't allow my trousers to drop on a urine-soaked tile floor either. However, I also believe I wouldn't feel the need to share a little "shoe sympathy" with the guy in the next stall just to get through the horror.
On the other foot/hand, though, to each his/her/its own. I'm perplexed that it's still against the law to solicit sex in a men's room or anywhere for that matter, that it somehow offends someone's morals somewhere. Puh-leez. Corporate greed, stupid people on reality TV, and suburban lawncare offend my morals. I don't see them going away anytime soon.
Seriously, how does the situation differ from soliciting a one-night-stand in any public place? If you were to enforce the law across the board, singles' bars and Jimmy Buffett concerts would be forced into immediate shutdown mode.
All in all, it seems like a rather victimless "crime," this lavatory lothario business. Thus, it's a challenge for me not to think of what happened to Poor Larry as entrapment--although, as it's been pointed out by greater legal minds than mine, entrapment happens because of intent to perform the act in the first place.
Still, just imagine going to happy hour hoping for a little horizontal hubba hubba. You meet someone nice and seemingly responsive--they're toe-to-toe with you in that grand game of footsie--and you ask them to come back to your place. Then, all of a sudden, they whip out a badge and indicate that you should follow them to nearest police station. It all seems a bit unfair and quite unsatisfying, unless you're one of those wishin', hopin', and prayin' for a little sex-in-prison action.
Plus it all seems a bit ridiculous that some drinks, a little conversation, and poor lighting in a nightclub should somehow legitimize a pick-up that could just as easily happen in broad daylight, in silence, while completely sober. After all, isn't this supposed to be a Web 2.0 world? Aren't you supposed to be able to get everything you want, when you want it, how you want it, and where you want it? No lines, no waiting, no face-to-face, 24/7, with whipped cream, bran muffins, and warm leatherette? Why, then, viewed in this light, Larry Craig is something of a sexual visionary, a veritable Twitter of the tawdry, a Flickr of f#?!king around. Go ahead. You know you want to. Reach out and touch MySpace.
Nevertheless, none of this commentary should be taken as my giving Senator Craig or anyone else a free pass to do in public whatever he or she so chooses. I'm all into live and let live, play and let play, horndog and let horndog, but I for one would just as soon not be distracted by dubious offers and questionable advertisements while I'm trying to do my business in a restroom. On the rare occasions when I happen to have an oxygen mask and an industrial-sized container of Janitor in a Drum in my back pocket and dare enter a men's room, I really want to focus on the task at hand--as Lawrence Welk would say, ah 1 an' ah 2--rather than someone putting a hand to my tackle.
No, ol' Not-Gay-Larry's gonna have to pay his 10 cents to use the bathroom like everyone else. And I won't be making change for him, should the exchange of money be misinterpreted by the police.
After all, that sort of behavior may be OK on the floor of the U.S. Senate, but it's obviously not OK in a public toilet.
* * *
While we're down in the toilets, I should also state that I don't get why they put a web address and a telephone number on those rubber splashguards they place in the wells of urinals. Really, do I want to find out more about a product I've just pissed on? Am I supposed to make a note of this? With what exactly? You see what trouble you can get into for dropping some paper on the floor in a men's room.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Mine's thirty-three
A slightly chilly, blustery, rather boring day in the Middle-Sized City. Not much going on, not much planned for the weekend either. Don't want to be at work today. Don't want to be anywhere really, except maybe in front of the TV in sweats with a jar of Nutella hazelnut spread and a spoon. I leave the rest to your imagination and better judgment.
Suddenly, my cellphone vibrates. I've missed a call. An invitation for an event this evening. From the boyfriend (aka, the Artist) of a friend (aka, Fouchat). The phone message listens like so:
Goodness, there's nothing better on a mentally dreary day than getting a message from the Anti-Linear-Thinker League. It made me laugh. Out loud. Several times throughout the day. Almost as much as the time when I played Scrabble with the Artist and Fouchat, and the Artist developed new rules for the game--"You have to spell a word, then use it in a sentence about George Bush," plus you could spell the word upside down, backwards, forwards, diagonally, wherever you could find the space. And, thankfully, you could use expletives and primal screams. It rocked my little binary world to its very foundation.
We scored the game by voting on a scale of 1 to 10 how good the sentence was. Somehow we all ended up with practically the same score, which make say a lot about how bad artists are a math or how good they are at social cohesion.
So today, whenever I thought about something negative--my weight, the impending winter, my car, my travel schedule for October and November, the geopolitical situation, my over-reliance on The Gap to meet my sartorial needs, nothing in the cupboard for dinner tonight but feeling too lazy and cheap to order take-out--I remembered "my number's 7!" and it made me guffaw. In the office. In the restroom. In the line at Subway waiting for a sandwich. In the street on my way home. And while typing this post.
Oh please, oh please, oh please, let this boyfriend of a friend run for office. I don't know if a healthcare bill would pass any sooner, but at least I'd feel constantly entertained and not perpetually aggrieved.
Plus we'd all win at Scrabble.
Suddenly, my cellphone vibrates. I've missed a call. An invitation for an event this evening. From the boyfriend (aka, the Artist) of a friend (aka, Fouchat). The phone message listens like so:
"Hey, we're going toSeven. Or, rather, 7. That's the number. The entire number.Ball tonight and have an extra ticket. We wanted to know if you'd like to join us. at 8, but maybe we could meet for dinner before.
"OK, take care. Oh! Wait! Why don't you give us a call and let us know if you want to join us. My number's 7!"
Goodness, there's nothing better on a mentally dreary day than getting a message from the Anti-Linear-Thinker League. It made me laugh. Out loud. Several times throughout the day. Almost as much as the time when I played Scrabble with the Artist and Fouchat, and the Artist developed new rules for the game--"You have to spell a word, then use it in a sentence about George Bush," plus you could spell the word upside down, backwards, forwards, diagonally, wherever you could find the space. And, thankfully, you could use expletives and primal screams. It rocked my little binary world to its very foundation.
We scored the game by voting on a scale of 1 to 10 how good the sentence was. Somehow we all ended up with practically the same score, which make say a lot about how bad artists are a math or how good they are at social cohesion.
So today, whenever I thought about something negative--my weight, the impending winter, my car, my travel schedule for October and November, the geopolitical situation, my over-reliance on The Gap to meet my sartorial needs, nothing in the cupboard for dinner tonight but feeling too lazy and cheap to order take-out--I remembered "my number's 7!" and it made me guffaw. In the office. In the restroom. In the line at Subway waiting for a sandwich. In the street on my way home. And while typing this post.
Oh please, oh please, oh please, let this boyfriend of a friend run for office. I don't know if a healthcare bill would pass any sooner, but at least I'd feel constantly entertained and not perpetually aggrieved.
Plus we'd all win at Scrabble.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Dannielynn has two Daddies
Another day, another celebrity news bulletin, AKA, the news that nobody really needs to know.
As reported today by the Associated Press (slightly edited for space, but not necessarily content):
* * *
Stern Says Book's Gay Sex Claim `Absurd'
You can read the full story on the AP website, if you so desire.
But before you go, let me get this straight, America, if you'll pardon the expression--
Former celebrity blow-up doll Anna Nicole Smith and celebrity photographer/hair highlights model Larry Birkhead somehow have produced from their comingled seed and egg a veritable baby genius who will be able to access, digest, and react to an archive of tabloid journalism by the tender age of 3?
And further--
Somehow the rumor of her Daddy having a sexual and/or romantic encounter with her almost-Daddy will be more psychologically damaging than, oh say, having your mother pass away when you are only a babe, or, I dunno, having Anna Nicole Smith for a mother in the first place and, oh, gosh, call me crazy, not knowing who your Daddy actually was for the first few months of your life because there were so many freakin' candidates for the role?
First, Heather had two mommies. And now this.
Man, this homosex is powerful shizzle! It can bring the psyches of toddlers, the U.S. government, and the American institutions of marriage and family to their collective knees!
. . . If you'll pardon the expression, Senator Larry Craig.
As reported today by the Associated Press (slightly edited for space, but not necessarily content):
* * *
Stern Says Book's Gay Sex Claim `Absurd'
By Associated Press
LOS ANGELES - Howard K. Stern says claims in a new book [editor's note: Rita Cosby's tell-all, Blonde Ambition: The Untold Story Behind Anna Nicole Smith's Death] that he and Anna Nicole Smith's [other] ex-boyfriend Larry Birkhead had a videotaped sexual encounter before her death are absurd and could psychologically damage Smith's infant daughter.
"It's ridiculous. I mean it's absolutely absurd," Stern told ETonline.com.
"Dannielynn is gonna read this garbage and it's almost like she's gonna have to get counseling from the age of 3," Stern said.
* * *You can read the full story on the AP website, if you so desire.
But before you go, let me get this straight, America, if you'll pardon the expression--
Former celebrity blow-up doll Anna Nicole Smith and celebrity photographer/hair highlights model Larry Birkhead somehow have produced from their comingled seed and egg a veritable baby genius who will be able to access, digest, and react to an archive of tabloid journalism by the tender age of 3?
And further--
Somehow the rumor of her Daddy having a sexual and/or romantic encounter with her almost-Daddy will be more psychologically damaging than, oh say, having your mother pass away when you are only a babe, or, I dunno, having Anna Nicole Smith for a mother in the first place and, oh, gosh, call me crazy, not knowing who your Daddy actually was for the first few months of your life because there were so many freakin' candidates for the role?
First, Heather had two mommies. And now this.
Man, this homosex is powerful shizzle! It can bring the psyches of toddlers, the U.S. government, and the American institutions of marriage and family to their collective knees!
. . . If you'll pardon the expression, Senator Larry Craig.
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