Friday, December 28, 2007
I'm Tired of Bad News
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Beefcake Award

We want to congratulate our houseboy Hubert Rodrigo for receiving the 2007 Stitch and Bitch award from the Bay Area chapter of Creepy Old Queens Seeking Unique Crafts. Hubert Rodrigo was recognized for his lovely crochet work. He's seen here with Lester "Grabby" St. Jerome, president of COQSUK.
If anyone has seen Hubert Rodrigo since Lester gave him a ride home from the awards banquet, please let us know. We're concerned.
Happy Fabiola Day

Today, December 27 is the feast day of Saint Fabiola. She was one hot saint, from what our friends writing in the Penguin Dictionary of Saints have to say about her. A rich bitch and party girl from a prominent family in fourth century Roma, she dumped her first husband cause he was a jerk and then snagged herself a new man. Then, as now, the Christians did not approve. Fab (as I like to think of her) was herself christian and so eventually she felt the need to make up with the old poopers. She "performed severe public penance" and then took off for Jerusalem to join St. Jerome who was revising the New Testament there. I'm convinced it was some kind of rehab. If you just substitute "Paris Hilton" for "Fabiola" in our story so far, I'm sure you'll see my point.
Anyway, Jerome, who sounds like a real piece of work, was not embracing of dear little Fabby. He wrote about her "...her idea of the solitude of the stable of Bethlehem was that it should not be cut off from the crowded inn." Well, duh. Is this my kind of gal or what? I'm telling you, Jerome must be patron saint of combovers and pissy closet cases. Fabiola went on to be venerated for opening a series of hospices for pilgrims. Probably with a dynamite little cabaret in each one.
December 27 is also the anniversary of the date when we got our house, the Villa Fabiola. It was big, shabby and ugly, but we were convinced all it needed was some homo magic to fabulify it. Luckily, we were right.
Monday, December 24, 2007
All About Christmas Eve
Christmas cookies from the fabulous Dennis, the Pride of East Lansing. I happen to know Martha Stewart has forbidden the mention of his name in connection with cookies, so jealous is she of his genius. I wish I could share them with you except a) I'm not sure how to do that online and b) I already ate them all. Nothing speaks to the German elements of my bloodline like ginger flavored sweeties.
A fabulous pillow from our terribly stylish friend Anne. The christmas pillow. It's a huge picture of the back of a dahlia rendered in psychedelic hot pink and acid green. I love it.
A very successful trip to the spa for shiatsu massage and delicious sliced apples in the steam room. Not to mention the most gorgeous hunky man undressed next to me on the way in. It's takes so little to bring out the childlike wonder of the season in me.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Dance of the Houseboys

The houseboys wanted to surprise us with a performance of their interpretive danse "Homage d'Equinox" to celebrate R Man's splendid and rapid recovery from heart surgery a mere five weeks ago. I considered pointing out that we are nowhere near the equinox, but they had already made their dainty costumes and I hate to see the look on their little faces when I disappoint them like that, so I just bit my lip and applauded ever so enthusiastically.
I'm sure you recognize Claudio Eugene, Hippolyte Auguste, and Seamus Tallulah, but you might not know our newest, Stubby.
Mary, Christmas
This year, I was actually willing to give him a pass on the mass o' presents rule, cause, you know, heart surgery a month ago and all that, what the hell? I can be a sport. God love him, he came through anyway, and now there's big boxes and little boxes all waiting for me, me, me. He is so sweet.
We're also both fond of Christmas trees, I regard them as the biggest cut flower arrangement you're ever going to have, but this year fighting our way to Home Depot and wrestling one home and then dolling it all up just seemed too much. Instead, we got a wreath at a florist down in the Castro and hung it up in the living room. It smells like Christmas and that's what counts.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
petula clark - hits medley
So I've mentioned my fondness for Pet before, but this video, I think from 1996, seems particularly sweet to me. No work and she still looks pretty much like she did when LBJ was in the White House and, when it comes to Downtown, the girl can still deliver. For those of us of a certain haggard age, I say right on.
Smoke Gets in Our Eyes

The federal government spent years and a peepot full of money throwing up (in every sense of the term) an office building for 1,700 federal workers, including R Man, but not me in a dicey part of downtown. It's very green including natural ventilation that replaces air conditioning on most floors and elevators that stop only on every third floor, making employees use stairs to reach floors in-between. R Man initially hated it, but seems more resigned to it. Today may have changed that.
This was only his second day back in the office and he was looking forward to it; he is plenty sick of being stuck here at home, enough so that returning to work was appealing. Imagine. We drove in instead of taking BART and would have parked in a garage next door to his office, but there was a fire on Mission across the street from the building and the road was closed. We parked somewhere else and both of us headed off to work.
After I had been at my desk for only about a half hour, a woman I work with came by to mention she had gotten an email announcing they were evacuating the federal building because smoke from the fire was pouring in through the fabulously natural ventilation system. I called R Man who was just then reading an email from his boss telling everyone to hit the road. So we're back home hanging around. R Man is not happy.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Bridge Games
The Golden Gate Bridge, heading north into the wilds of Marin county, is the most famous of the local spans, but the Bay Bridge, which carries you over to Oakland and points east, is actually the most heavily traveled. It’s also the more horrifying trip, but since it winds up in Oakland, I suppose that’s appropriate.
What’s so scary? The approach, sweetie, the approach. The two freeways here both come wandering into town and then have to make a sharp right to line up with the bridge. One freeway gives up and dies out there, but the other turns into how you get on the bridge. Since that’s also the point where it passes through downtown, it pretty much doubles in the amount of traffic it carries in the space of few blocks with entrances pouring cars in from both sides of the road. Some of the merges are only a couple of car lengths long, oops, here I come, look out.
The bridge is two decks, one headed east, one west, so the eastbound roadbed has to swerve over to go beneath the other one. Just as it snakes sharply left, right, left the road plunges between columns supporting the upper deck and the last two entrances, one on the left and one on the right, dump in. It’s like a luge course for cars.
Of course, there are big 35 MPH signs posted, but, get real, this is a freeway in California, everybody regards those as decorative. Local drivers know to just grip the wheel tightly, close our eyes and hit the gas.
I think the whole thing is a traffic control project. Before every trip that involves the Bay Bridge, I’m sure everyone thinks “Do I really need to go to Oakland? How bad do I need to be in Berkeley? Surely I can just walk there from BART, wherever it is.” And then coming home, you get to go through the whole thing in reverse and pay a toll to do so.
I’m going to get a bike.
Friday, December 14, 2007
GLORIA JONES- TAINTED LOVE (1964)
I'd always heard Soft Cell's version was a cover of Gloria Jones' big number, but I'd never heard the original until now. I'm a big fan of wall o' sound girl groups so I'm wild for this.
Happy Holidaze
Why do these events even exist? The same people I see every day of the year and don't talk to suddenly take offense that I don't want to go out to lunch with them. I refrain myself from pointing out I don't want to ride in their elevator, let alone party down with them. The whole unspoken allure of these things is the chance to sneak out of work early with management’s semi-blessing. Why not just cut out the overpriced luncheon and turn everybody loose with directions to the nearest liquor store and be done with it?
But no, we have to rev up the holiday fucking spirit. So starting in August, there’s the committee meetings and votes on where to go and picking a theme and then the haranguing starts. “Aren’t you coming? You have to come. Why aren’t you coming?” Because small talk with you is painful. Because I would rather ride around town on the subway for an hour than stand around a no host bar with you. Because I’ve known you for fifteen years and I’m still not convinced that you’re a real woman and not a bad drag queen.
The party this year was once again at the fabulous Presidio Golf Club, which sounds swank, but, unfortunately, houses the locker room for the golf course as well so the first impression that hits you as you walk into the gala festivities is a big whiff of stinky old men. I live and work in San Francisco, a destination famous for its good food and I get to go to a Christmas party where the overpriced chicken smells like dirty socks.
Imagine my delight then when I discovered I had, genuinely and accidentally, double booked myself for that afternoon and promised to lunch with one of the volunteers who teaches classes here for me. What could I do? It would be so rude to bail on her. So sorry, can’t make the party, so sorry, work commitments, you know how it is, so sorry, you guys have a good time without me, so sorry. It was a lovely lunch, I had quiche, plenty of my colleagues were bitter that I got out of it and suddenly I couldn’t be in a more festive mood.
I love christmas
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Dark Side of Arcanta
Over the last few weeks, my stumbles into unconsciousness have involved lying in the dark listening to Arcanta, Book of Mirrors, the fabulous CD from Thom Ayers, Little Miss Fabulon himself. http://www.myspace.com/arcantamusic The whole experience reminds vividly of being a sullen teen ager, in my bed late a night with Dark Side of the Moon on the turntable waiting for my life to start. I'm so glad it finally did.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Beach Blanket Madness
Friday, December 7, 2007
Divine (Pink Flamingos)
We're sending this out, with love, to our dear SuperagentFred to remind him that he is sitting in the center of the universe, Baltimore.
Juggling with Knives
So anyway, we were considering knives, beautiful German knives, for John to get his boyfriend for Christmas. The choice had come down to an 8 inch chef knife and an almost identical one with a hollow blade, a Santoku. The salesgirl swore it was the best for slicing. I'm very skeptical of specialized equipment, it seems like a solid chef's knife, a serrated one, and a smaller paring blade is plenty, and falling for a knife that specializes in slicing (as opposed to focusing its talents on interpretive danse, I suppose) is just another step along a path that leads to drawers full of dubious purchases. But John was very taken with both (I think he mostly liked saying the word Santoku, with increasing gusto) so he sprang for them. I supported him despite my doubts because what else can you do when you're out shopping but spend money?
John was also interested in another Japanese knife, one with a ceramic blade. The salesgirl was willing to go along with this, not just because it's her job, but because John's charm involves everyone around him in his world, and his world right then included ceramic blades, dammit. She pulled one down and let me tell ya, it was just weird. Knives are simply not supposed to have white blades. The clerk held up a piece of paper for John to slash through, which I thought was very brave of her, but probably only showed how little she sensed John's lack of self control.
He was on his way to a cutlery threeway when the salesgirl casually mentioned that the knife breaks if you drop it. We were both taken aback by the idea of an expensive knife that could take off the tip of your finger, but couldn't stand up to the rough and tumble of kitchen work. We passed.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Soldier Boy, Oh, My Little Soldier Boy
They have shields and lances and plumes in their tiny little helmets. One of them had lost his plume in a tragic accident. I replaced it with a feather fallen out of a pillow which I snagged before our cat could get around to eating it. We're very concerned the other knights make fun of this one, calling him "Princess Mattress Feather." You know how cruel lead soldiers can be, the bitches.
And now I can't figure out how to load pictures from our new apple so I can't show you the darling photos of them. Soon, I promise.
You Want Fries with That?

Why yes, I am from Dixie. Since I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Texas, many people would contest that point under the foolish belief that the swamps of my childhood are not a part of the South. Let us examine these salient facts:
My aunt, blessed with the romantic and lovely name Marguerite, was always addressed as “Sister” by everyone in my family.
The high school I went to? Robert E. Lee. The band in which I played such a miserable tuba entered every home football game to the toe-tapping tunes of a minstrel show, playing “Come Down to the Levee,” “Waitin’ on the Robert E. Lee” and “Are You from Dixie?” I only missed by a few years the horrifying fate of performing in uniforms modeled on those worn by soldiers in the Confederate army.
I regard fried foods with a side of gravy as an essential food group.
And that’s really the point here, not my exasperated, conflicted emotions about life in the South, but about trying to overcome a lifetime of heart clogging menus to help R Man and me start eating in a more healthy way. I have always cooked the same way my sainted mother did, convinced that there is no food product some mayonnaise cannot help. So now when we have baked salmon on a bed of lentils, I still look around for the tarter sauce.
Still, I’m getting better. Since R Man’s operation, we have been terribly virtuous about cutting back on the fat, with nonfat sour cream and fat free butter substitute and no deviled eggs and braised ribs for Sunday dinner, no way. You know what? It’s not bad, it’s just different. And soon my little arteries are going to be singing. I just know it.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Apple Schmapple
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Computer-less
He's doing very well, thanks to everyone's notes of concern and well wishing. We went for a walk in the Castro yesterday, it's amazing how quickly he's recuperating.
Friday, November 16, 2007
My Boyfriend's Back...
I'm going to bed, I'm wore out.
Who is that Glamorous Creature?

Thanks to our spies in New Orleans who FINALLY got around to sending us pictures (below) of that annual bacchanal, Southern Decadence. SD is a sizable drunken drag parade through the French Quarter which my friends and I graced several times with our presence during the wacky years when I lived there. Said friends have gone on without me, as these shots prove all too vividly. Magda, my dearest sister, sent these and she's the one in the red curly do (been working that rat-tee wig for years, girl) and our other dear, dear is in the oversized sunglasses. While both share a place in my heart for out mis-spent youth together, I have to say how astonished I am to see how much they look like my white trash aunts from 40 years ago. Of course, Magda is the one who had his very stong resemblance to the late Brooke Astor pointed out to him this year, so maybe I'm underrating him.
Beefcake Bake Sale

Anyway, if you’re interested in tasting Columba’s nuts, please see him at the rear entrance to the houseboys’ dorm. I’m sure he’ll have plenty for you.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Sickroom News, Thursday
I went online this morning to try and find some information about what to do for recuperation after bypass surgery. While there is tons of info about the surgery itself and the immediate stay in the hospital following it, there's a real lack about what to do with the old dear once he gets home. I wound up reading the plot summary in Wikipedia about the Simpsons episode where Homer has a heart attack and Lisa coaches his doctor through the bypass surgery. Amusing, but not terribly helpful. Still, R Man is walking up and down the halls there like crazy mad and seems perfectly capable of coming home and lying around. Our fingers are crossed.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Sick Room News
R Man remains in high spirits, even though I suspect his chest hurts considerably. I think he's just so glad to have the operation behind him, that he's looking ahead to the recovery, which they all tell us is long and arduous, with equanimity and to the promise of possibly coming home as early as Saturday with anticipation. I'm only now starting to look around and admit how frightened and unsettled I've been since this started on Friday afternoon. It's only six days, but it all seems so long ago.
I need to make special mention of our saintly friend Tim who has stuck with us through this entire time with love and good humor, hanging out in the hospital with us and keeping our spirits up even while he had challenges of his own to meet. Friends like him are a rare treasure and we love him.
I also wanted to thank everyone who took the time to write in with your support and affection. When R Man's condition erupted on Friday afternoon, I wasn't sure I would include it here in the blog, it seemed sort of inappropriate with the houseboys and in-depth discussions of 1980s sex clubs. I'm glad I did; coming home from the hospital and seeing what everyone had to say in the comments has been a rare bright spot in a stretch of dim days. So big wet ones to new friends like Elizabeth and gonzo and kirin; to old pals and troublemakers like Wesley, Jason, TOA, sickoricko, ayem8y, danny, tigeryogi and especially thombeau and our dear oldest friend Ronda. Not that she's old... oh, never mind.
Big thanks to you all; it's been more important than you know. It amazes me to have friends I've never met who helped so much through a tough time. Luv ya, mean it.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Beefcake Polish

Monday, November 12, 2007
This is What I Get for Comparing Doctors to Plumbers
I didn't mention the Valium, because, you know, what the hell? I threw on a sweater (black cashmere, even in an emergency, you need to look nice.) and hit the road. Thank god I had a mis-spent youth that involved plenty of driving under the influence so I was able to wheel on over to Pacific Heights in record time without struggling. I even found a legal parking spot.
Once I was there, I was so glad I went. The poor thing is all tore up, battered, with wires and tubes and things sprouting from him like a Borg with a hardon. The Intensive Care Unit is just like on TV and his nurse Diane defines sweetness. Speaking of being sweet, R Man said he just wanted me there so he could tell me he loved me. I was stunned. Sometimes, often, he is so much more than I deserve.
Bizarrely, he felt chatty, wanted to tell me all about the operation, the cute anesthesiologist, what an angel Diane had been, wanted to hear all about how I had spent the afternoon, lalalalala. He finally admitted his chest hurt a lot, which Diane said was probably the tubes pressing in, so she shot him up with something big and pretty soon he started to drift back off. He sent me on home and said he'd see me in the morning. The whole thing was very domestic, except for the monitors beeping and the big old tube sticking up out of his neck.
I have to say how relieved it made me to see him, even in such an extreme situation. I really feel much more confident that things are going to be ok.
And especial big thanks to everyone who responded so promptly to these earlier posts. Your support and good wishes have come to be very important to me. They help a lot.
Heart Surgeons, Plumbers: What's the Diff?

the pipettes - pull shapes
In an attempt to prove I actually listen to music performed in the current century, I present the Pipettes. I am so be-grooved.
Of course, their sound purposely imitates the girl groups who were fading from sight during the Nixon presidency and the video is a an homage to Russ Meyer from the same vintage, but I love it. It has what sounds like a Hammond Organ line in it. What's not to love?
Sunday, November 11, 2007
For SickoRocko

Saturday, November 10, 2007
General Hospital
Today is also R Man's birthday. O boy, let's party in the hospital. All of the nurses are terribly sweet including the one who made a special trip to get him a piece of cake since he din't get a real birthday cake. My only cavil is that my past experience in hospitals as always included buckets of eyte candy guys, but this time, we seem to be running sort of short. Maybe the cute boy shift is on when I'm not there. Still, I'm most satisified with the very kind nurses.
Monday they split R Man's chest open and start redeocating his heart. I'll be glad when this is all over.
Brenda Dickson 'Welcome To My Home' Parody - PART 2
I thought the original Brenda Dickson videos were pretty funny, but I realize now they were simply fodder for this parody which makes me laugh until my face hurt.
I swiped this from the darling Wesley Darling's blog
Friday, November 9, 2007
Dazed and Confused
After a late lunch this afternoon (at Chow, of course. I recommend the pear cobbler) we went to shop for tile for our bathroom renovation and then on to R Man's appointment with the cardiologist for an examination. I'd have to say that was the point where the day tipped over into the bizarre because that was the point where the good doctor announced R Man had to go immediately into the hospital for angiogram. An angiogram is where they stick a tube up through the artery in your groin into your heart in order to shoot radioactive dye into you to see if your arteries are blocked. I was well and truly flipped out when they wouldn't let us just walk across the street to the hospital, but made us wait for a wheelchair to transport R Man over there.
It turns out that a regular part of these angiograms includes an angioplasty where they do actual repair work. Once they have a look-see at how badly the pipes are plugged up they can sort of Roter Rooter out the cholesterol crud that's blocking the way and then you go home the next day and subscribe to AARP. Except for R Man who has such severe blockage of two arteries and a major branch that he has to have coronary bypass surgery tomorrow. Maybe Sunday, they're not sure.
My approach to bad news is to just ignore it, to stick my fingers in me ears and sing "Lalalalala, don't hear no lesbian subplot" until it's over. Having disaster strike like a brick falling on one's head is better suited to that system than a growing problem one should be planning for. Still, even for me, this is all pretty breathtaking while I think R Man is sort of numbed. Three hours after standing around admiring expensive Italian glass mosaic tiles, they're prepping R Man for surgery and and hour later the cardiologist starts off his little talk to me with the phrase "The good news is...." There is no sentence in the world that starts off with those four words that is ever going to go in a direction you want it to.
Everyone at the hospital seems somber, but not worried (except me and R Man) so maybe coronary bypass surgery is not such a big deal, but that seems sort of unlikely.
Anyway, so, once upon a time, R Man and I had our first night of wild weasel sex under his roommate's fur bedspread (I believe the fur was shaved rat, but it was very romantic, never the less) and 26 years later, tonight, I was cutting up shrimp with artichoke hearts from his hospital tray to feed him his dinner. That was sort of romantic, too, and R man said it was very tasty, but you know, it's just not the same.
Life's funny that way.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Jackie Moore - This Time Baby (1979)
A dear friend just sent a collection of disco greats from back in the day, including this, which has never strayed far from the top of my personal list.
I love the deep funky bass line and Jackie Moore's voice! Velvety and clear at the same time, an all-time great.
I have to go dance now.
Beefcake Surplus
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Prom Time

Toilet Talk

While looking to see how much the wonderful world of Google would lead to this (answer: plenty) I stumbled across a public service website that I have to salute. MizPee. Here’s the mission statement from the site “MizPee finds the closest, cleanest toilets in your area. You can add and review toilets, get some cool deals in your area and challenge your knowledge of toilet trivia.” Toilet Trivia! Cool deals (on potties?)! A groovy little illustration of a girl crapping in her pants! Speaking as someone who recently had to negotiate with the Lady at the head of the line at Peet’s bathroom to go first, I say this is a work of genius and long overdue. MizPee, you go girl.
That's Succor, not Sucker
Monday, November 5, 2007
Beefcake Freshen Up
Ann Miller: Man Is A Brother To a Mule
Pauline Kael once dismissed ANn Miller's dancing as "tick tock tapping." but I adore her. She exudes such a cheerful, wholesome, wholehearted sluttishness.
Tooth Time

And, of course, with my mouth half-paralyzed, my entire office now wants to drop by and chat. “What’s going on with the start-up kit edit?” they ask. “Mmmbf arrmmn ooosslllh,” I reply. The odd thing is no one seems to notice. Hmmm.
My dentist is a very sweet man, with charming big brown eyes. I try to co

Sunday, November 4, 2007
Fugly Furniture

Urine Chat

Part of the wonder of the internet is that there is no subject so obscure that you can’t track it down. A quick googe this morning on “asparagus pee” turned up the fascinating revelation that while everyone suffers from this noxious condition (once again showing all sons of men are brothers) not everybody can smell it. One assumes only the more delicate and sensitive among us are fated to suffer so. Like me.
I just love the idea of some researcher somewhere holding up a test tube of asparagus pee, doubtlessly collected under rigorously controlled conditions, to some subject and asking “Does this stink? On a scale of 1 to 10 how much would you say it stinks?”
Why on earth would stinky pee turn into dinner party conversation? Because I’m the host and I’ll talk about anything. If it crosses my mind, it crosses my lips. Fortunately, our guests tend to be good sports and go along with it, although god knows what they have to say about the whole experience on their way home later. But someone has to make the conversation move along or else we dissolve into the cost of real estate and grousing about Bush, both of which are requirements in San Francisco entertaining.
I inherited my sainted mother’s ability to chatter aimlessly; I open my mouth and hear her echo coming out. The foundation of a thousand thousand bridge parties, it may not be profound, but it certainly is handy. Small talk is social lubrication. Plus, an important part of my job is going to business functions and standing around making chat with complete strangers. Whenever I’ve gotten through another one of these nattering marathons, I bless my mother. Although, I’m pretty sure she was too much of a Lady to discuss asparagus pee. Maybe.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Concrete beefcake
Love Kills - Mercury Metropolis
Of course, I love Freddie Mercury. Just his moustache alone would make me his slave.
I also am wild for the film Metropolis, both for the overall look of it and the way the actors flail around the screen.
Combining the two was brilliant, and this video is able to edit the whole movie down to a brisk 4 minutes. My favorite part is Maria's hoochy koochy dance. I often recreate it when I'm all alone.
Carrie - The Musical

I remember 1988 as a time everybody was still doing lots of drugs, but I can’t believe anyone was ever loaded enough to think this was a good idea. In fact, the show only lasted five performances and according to Wikipedia “It inspired the title of Ken Mandelbaum's 1991 book Not Since Carrie: Forty Years of Broadway Musical Flops.” That’s a kind of deathless fame, but probably not what the producers were looking for.
So I’m off on two searches: one, any book with that title is one I need and two, I’m hoping youtube can come up with some pirated video of the show. If it does, you can rest assured I’ll share it here.
Also, super agent fred later referred to vichyssoise as a "mashed potato milkshake" which has nothing to do with Carrie, but I thought it was funny and I'm always willing to swipe anything amusing for this blog.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Did Ya Miss Me?
I went up there and back on the train, which was the only consolation. I love train travel, the rhythm of gliding along the tracks and the sound of the horn wailing at crossings. This particular trip goes through the delta of the Sacramento River, green and marshy off into the distance, very much like the swampy terrain where I grew up. It’s pretty, as long as you don’t have to go wading off through the muck.
Anyway, I’m very glad to be back. The beauty of living in San Francisco is what a joy returning here always is, no matter where the trip took you.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Via con Whatshisname

In the meantime, I’ve put together a photo page of my favorite porn stars at here. Your assignment: compare and contrast.
See ya Friday.
The Lady In Red
As a very small child, I remember being fascinated by this cartoon on the Saturday morning Bugs Bunny show. I’m sure it was hacked into bits to fit into that format since the original is more than seven minutes long so a big thank you to YouTube for allowing me to appreciate its cleverness. What’s not to love? Glam cockroach nightclub and flaming parrots, that’s still my idea of a good time.
Friday, October 26, 2007
OLPS

I Know a Place Petula Clark
“I Know a Place” is a song that always demands doing the pony in a pair of white go-go boots, and yet, Petula Clark always, always remained firmly earthbound in sensible flats. Amazing. The youth among us may ask themselves “Who is this bitch? Where are her go-go boots?”
In her time, Ms Clark managed to be one big star by being a bridge between post-war big bands and rock and roll. The beat is the greatest there. O yeah. Get down, bad bitch Petula, get down.
Plus Ed Sullivan recommends safe driving. Well, OK.
Beefcake Zzzzzzzzzzs

Thursday, October 25, 2007
Panty Parade


Crazy Guy, Aisle 9
Plus, they were out of lentils. How can a grocery store be out of lentils?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
NOLA News

Tag Time
Anyway, the tag, with it's fascinating insights into little me:
1. Taken a picture completely naked? of course. How else do you make friends on Craigslist?
2. Made out with a friend on your MySpace/Facebook page? the fact that the original writer assumes everyone has a MySpace page is telling. I do not have one.
3. Danced in front of your mirror naked? yes, and then looked around for a mirror with better lighting
4. Told a lie? No. Absolutely not. Never. Not once.
5. Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back? only a few hundred times.
6. Been arrested? yes, and it was a sordid affair, fortunately dismissed and expunged.
7. Made out with someone of the same sex? gimme back my tongue.
8. Seen someone die? My little brother and R Man’s mother. You know, this is really not a great
question to include in something like this.
9. Slept in until 5pm? Of course. I used to work evenings
10. Had sex at work? If you had seen the people I’ve worked with, you’d understand why this makes me shudder while I say, firmly, NO
11. Fallen asleep at work/school? I’m pretty sure not.
12. Held a snake? a trouser snake
13. Ran a red light? am I driving?
14. Been suspended from school? the University of Texas, for being such a wastrel.
15. Totaled your car in an accident? close, but no.
16. Pole danced? close, but no.
17. Smoked? ick. no
18. Been fired from a job? o yeah. I had several disposable jobs.
19. Sang karaoke? the world should thank me that I haven’t
20. Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? who hasn’t?
21. Laughed until a drink came out your nose? If I did, I was too drunk to remember it now.
22. Caught a snowflake on your tongue? get real. I grew up on the Gulf Coast and never even saw snow until I was an adult.
23. Kissed in the rain? was this written by some sad fifteen year old fat girl?
24. Sang in the shower? My favorite big number is “I Can See Clearly Now”
25. Given your private parts a nickname? Yes. I call it “dick”
26. Ever gone out without underwear? For years.
27. Sat on a roof top? My favorite place when I was a morose teenager.
28. Played chicken? no
29. Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? No, I was always the pusher.
30. Broken a bone? My little toe. I fell down some stairs at a the tubs in Seattle, naked, in front of a room full of queers I was hoping to hump.
31. Mooned/flashed someone? Certainly not
32. Shaved your head? no
33. Slept naked? Every night since I was about fourteen.
34. Played a prank on someone? sure.
35. Had a gym membership? I’m really getting bored with this.
36. Felt like killing someone? whoever wrote these stupid questions.
37. Made your girlfriend/boyfriend cry? You obviously don’t know my boyfriend.
38. Cried over someone you were in love with? I don’t cry
39. Had sex more than 10 times in one day? A few times. It was called “Mardi Gras”.
40. Had Mexican jumping beans for pets? The signpost for Stupid was about ten questions back. We are now entering Idiocy.
41. Been in a band? The Robert E. Lee High School band. I played tuba, badly.
42. Subscribed to Maxim? as notorious J*O*E said “who wrote this shit?”
43. Taken more than 10 shots of alcohol? Yes. When I drank, I was a serious drinker.
44. Shot a gun? no
45. Had sex today? no, sorry.
46. Played strip poker? no
47. Tripped on mushrooms? yes
48. Donated Blood? yes, it’s how I made money in college.
49. Video taped yourself having sex? no, I was too busy FUCKING.
50. Eaten alligator meat? probably. In gumbo. It’s the kind of thing that turns up in New Orleans at things like Jazz Fest a lot.
51. Ever jump out of an airplane? nope
52. Have you been to more than 10 countries? only five.
53. Ever wanted to have sex with a platonic friend? Maybe you don’t understand the definition of “platonic.”
Notorious J*O*E’s additional questions:
Have you ever shaved yourself bare? I never needed to, I’m naturally smooth, like a real lady.

Have you ever dressed in drag? Photo attached. I am one ugly tranny.
If you could be one celebrity for a week, who would it be? Daniel Craig. I’d love to see what it’s like to be so pretty.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Come By Sunday
I KNOW IT'S STUPID. Suck it. I adore PrincessPoodlePoo. I want to marry her. It's her commitment to her art I most admire.
Beefcake: Isn't It Just One Thing After Another?

Monday, October 22, 2007
A Rough Number

Here’s the stats to consider: I was a virgin, untouched (except some guy who groped me in a store when I was in high school, but really, that simply cannot count) until I was 21. Almost immediately, I leaped into the sexpot lifestyle of the pre-AIDS homo, one which I’ve clung to with only minor modifications through these thirty years. Bathhouses, bars, sex clubs, and various unsavory venues in Austin, Seattle, New Orleans, New York, L.A. (hey Mauricio!) Chicago, Palm Springs (Cathedral City, actually,) Paris, Rome and, of course, here in our own little cow-town. Over these three decades, I’ve managed to hit one of them on average per week, at the very least. Some of my favorites were the backroom of the Sunday beer busts at Jewels (where I found R Man and true love,) half price Tuesday nights at the New Orleans baths (I’m cheap in every sense of the word. I know. Shut up.) and Blow Buddies here every single weekend for years.
In each of these and all the others as well, I was plenty open to quantity over quality. I figure I connected with a rough average of 6.5 players per match. And this average is very rough. If I was in the back room and somebody just sort of licked it for a few strokes before one or the other of us moved on, does that count? I guess so, although I used to discount it entirely as just sort of an amuse bouche rather than even a true snack. And glory holes. Anyplace with those gifts of the gods were good for better than a dozen “hi-hellos” at a visit, but again they just seem so unimportant. I know some poor closety senator might not get anything better, but it’s hard for me to include them in the grand total. Still, in the interest of scientific rigor, I’m willing to do so. Plus, each Mardi Gras alone is capable of skewing this score pretty substantially upwards. So let’s call it 7.33 per week for 31 years.
Amazingly, I am more embarrassed to admit that I had to go to a calculator to figure this out than I am to admit I’ve been intime with 11,815.96 of my dearest friends. Is that right? I really am terrible at math.
So, am I bragging? Oh, probably, a little. I think whenever anyone speaks about sex they’re either bragging or complaining, but I also think I’m no where near extraordinary in this, for a gay man of my age, anyway. Some straight guy who got married to the first girl he kissed might come up short of that, but face it, most disco queens getting mail from AARP will look at that number and say “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
And so what’s yours? You know you’ve been calculating blowjobs and one night stands and sweaty little moments of magic while you were reading this. What did you come up with? Feel free to round either up or down, whichever makes it easier for you to sleep at night.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Patti LaBelle, Cyndi Lauper and Jessica Simpson
Sometimes I post videos because I'm so impressed by them, sometimes because they make me nostalgic and sometimes,like this, becasue they are so astonishingly bad.
How did these three wind up on the same stage simultaneously? Did they bump into each other in an airport bar somewhere and agree to this thinking it would be amusing while in a tequila induced euphoria?
Patti Labelle is in great form here, but Cyndi, while an old favorite of mine, seems to be sort of stunned. Maybe the tequila wore off.
I knew, vaguely who Jessica Simpson was, but I think this is the first time I've ever heard her voice. You know, it's not bad. But she is no Labelle.
"what the fuck" may be overused, but it's justified here.
Damn Yankees - Whatever Lola Wants (Lola Gets)
My favorite big number, starring humpy, humpy, gay, gay Tab Hunter and the deevine Gwen Verdon. Amazing for a 1958 film this mambo is actually Gwen stripping, including rubbing on Tab like a cat in heat and crawling on the floor to take off her pants. They got away with it by making it comedy. See? It's not smut, it's funny. I love the part where she shoves his head into her naughty bits.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Tub Time, Part Two
The tubs in Seattle have always rated as some of the dullest I’ve ever graced. The most interesting time in any of them may have been when I broke my toe falling down the stairs at the old Pine Street Baths. It may have been interesting, but it wasn’t what I was looking for at the tubs. The Club Baths had a huge hot tub inside the steam room, which was very deluxe, but they stopped using it as a tub years ago and now it’s just a big waste of space, plus the steam room is too big to be effectively heated. The place that’s the Zodiac was downright scary in the late 70’s. It had been some flop house SRO and the possibility of hooking up with a serial killer always seemed sort of high there.
But what about the mens, the sex, the old in-and-out, the oinky boinky? Feh. The pickings have always been very slim and what few buckos there might be (these places are big and most evenings resemble a ghost town) were not very high quality. They certainly wouldn’t stack up against the charming Steamworks in Chicago or even the skanky Hollywood Spa.
Ken also mentions his desire for a glamorous bathhouse. I applaud the idea. I’ve heard the Steamworks in Toronto fits that bill. I’ll report back as soon as we visit there.
Come Home Little Beefcake

Brainstorm - Lovin' Is Really My Game 1977 DISCO
Thirty years ago, this was setting the dance floors on fire and it still can. I recommend doing up a whole bunch of coke first and then snorting as many poppers as your nose will hold before cranking this bad boy up cause that's what it requires.
There's a long instrumental break in the middle, thoughtfully included to allow dancers to retire to the men's room to snort up more enthusiasm before they return to the floor. Plus the rythym section includes castanets and how many songs can say that?
Tub Time

Friday, October 19, 2007
Houseboy Woes
Abercrombie & Bitch

The Last Lamas

Thursday, October 18, 2007
Supersize This, Baby

I’m fascinated by the giant extended families plodding through the aisles there blocking my way. How are you going to get all those frozen chicken wings and twelve kids into one minivan? Maybe they secretly plan on leaving granny in the parking lot and hoping she doesn’t find her way back this time.
Also, we always get to play a lively round of Spot the Mos. It’s terribly amusing scoping out the other queer couples engaged in such domestic bliss. Who needs to get married? We have a joint Costco membership.
Mmmm. I’m already dreaming of a five-pound tub of salted cashews.
In Which We Rock Out
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