Computer. On.

I have to take my computer in to be upgraded and unclogged and have its proctological exam and be dusted and I'm not really sure what all.  Super Agent Fred has generously agreed to lend me his spare one (he has a spare computer.  Hmm.)  Is that going to work?  Is life ever that simple?   Probably not, so I probably won't be online for a while.  If my posts seems sort of stale, if my scintillating comments don't appear on your blogs and if the stock prices of porn companies slump, you'll know why.

Blood Sport

Can there be any doubt that it is, indeed, a wonderful time to be alive?  HBO's series True Blood returns June 10.  I am a huge-ish fan, even though I am well aware of the show's flaws, especially the luridly bad Southern accents plopping out of the cast's mouths.  But you know what makes up for all that?

Alexander Skarsgård's creamy, creamy creaminess

and Joe Manganiello's man titties.

Now word reaches us that Christopher Meloni, who apparently exists mainly to make me tingly all up in my bits, will be joining the cast.  I suppose the quota of hot guy pussy was just not up to Executive Producer Alan Bell's exacting standards.  To which I can only say, god love you, Alan Bell.

Fags, Their Hags and Other Joys of Nature

Do you believe in time warps?  Rips in the fabric of the universe that allow one to see or even visit the past?  I think I blundered into one at lunch today.  Of course, considering I don't get up until after 1:00 most afternoons, "lunch" is a slippery concept, usually occurring around 2:00 or 3:00, but since the menu today was pancakes and sausage, breakfast might seem accurate.   Nouns are just so darn confusing.

As I was snarfling down my short stack, BAM, time warp.  At first I thought it was only the vaguely generic disco bleating overhead, then possibly the gaggle of poofters loudly discussing The White Party (surely that doesn't still exist, does it?)  But then I realized the table one over from me so forcibly reminded me of a post I put up three years ago  HERE .

Like this sort of, but, you know, with more clothes.

 Today, as then, I was witness to a tragedy in the making.  Let's see, plump, loudly chipper young woman?  CHECK.  Her much more attractive male companion?  CHECK.  Her frequent pats and strokes as part of her bubbling conversation which he didn't quite recoil from, not quite?  CHECK.

Of course, young people now are so flexible about their sexuality, not like my hidebound old contemporaries, and freer to make a spectrum of intimacy choices and blahablahablah, but at lunch today, just as on the subway then, I thought to myself "Honey, no guy who wants to give you advice about your shoes is ever going to be Your Man."

In news closer to home I also took a walk up the canyon I live in.  It's pretty.

And I took pictures of my garden for MJ over at  Infomaniac, who is demanding them from all her readers.

A focus this time of the year is the big ass echium, the pointy purple flowers that look they were designed by Dr. Seuss.

Even up close they look like they began as props for Star Trek.

Campanula are pretty and they're the result of a bunch I just dug up in a friend's yard and plopped down in a bare spot.

Wall o' Jasmine, directly beneath my bedroom window.  Heavenly on a still evening after a warm day.

Watsonia, related to gladiola and which thrive here. I always mean to put in a bunch more, but always forget until way too late in the year, like now.

Then I took a nap cause really, how much do expect from an old man, regardless how sprightly and youthful looking he is.

The Bane of Our Time

Justin Bieber hair.

It must be stopped.

Darkness

When mrpeenee was just a mere scamp, trapped in the white trash swamps of the Gulf Coast, my how I adored Dark Shadows.  I would scurry home from school every day to be completely absorbed by it.  I was oblivious to its cheesy production values and clumsy acting gaffes (although I do remember the actors staring blankly at each other when one of them would blow his/her lines, which happened so often I think I assumed it was intentional.)  The glacial plot was fine with me, I was 12 years old and had plenty of time to kill.  I even convinced myself I had a crush on Barnabas Collins (Jonathan Frid.)  I think I must have been suffering some kind of vampire related temporary insanity.

Imagine my thrill when I heard Johnny Depp and Tim Burton (a collaboration I think is always inspired) had taken on the project of reviving the old hag.  Super Agent Fred shares my delight and, in fact, is streaming the original as preparation and has taken to orating the overly florid opening ("My name is VictOHHHRia Wintahrs...."  We're planning an a afternoon at the movies, but that might include She Male Sperm Whores 2.  You never know.

The Many Faces of Diva

Here we have Miss Ross in a 3:50 retrospective of her entire career of fabulosity, albeit with those bothersome Supremes edited out.  From a very authentic looking Hullabaloo vintage show (with the world's coolest boots showing off a snappy mashed potatoes/pony choreography thang,) through the Mahogany era fashion shoot (replete with Avedon-ish hair styling,) a disco whirl of red sequins (if you look carefully, you can see the pole she was presumably lashed to to insure she didn't fall into the fireworks,) and finally an MTV homage with white mink, yet more sequins (natch) and safety gays bursting out of the smoke machine.  One can assume without even looking for them that torn jeans are in there somewhere.

The wigs alone create a sort of hairpiece timeline.  I have to say, though, the Vidal Sassoon bob and leather miniskirt, while rather flattering, are almost an insult to those of us cherishing memories of the glam contrast between her bouffant and her rhinestone crusted sheaths.

I think it a song of great charm, vaguely Motown-ish, very much playing to her vocal strengths and conscious of her weaknesses.  Does the background vocals sound familiar?  They should, they are our old friends the Bee-Gees, who also wrote this gem.  Someday, this will be required viewing in seminars on 20th Century History.

Gaultier on File

Darlings, being, as I am, of the Glamorous Life I felt I had to go take in the exhibit at the dreadful de Young Museum here titled The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gaultier: From the Sidewalk to the Catwalk.  I hoped to be interested, but not much more since the de Young has mounted shows that would have embarrassed the AV club at a small high school.  In fact, it was astonishing and thrilling.  There were several mannequins with their faces projected onto them that were eerily lifelike, including the one who seemed to actually be making eye contact with you.

And the dresses!  Girleene!  What fabulous creations, with astonishing details like lace made from sharkskin and a metal bustiere or a leopard skin created from thousands of tiny, tiny beads.  Gorgeously  beautiful, feminine, gauzy gowns with slyly witty references about fetish wear tucked in.  Mermaid dresses.  Lace bell bottoms for particular men.  A lovely linen man's suit printed on the back with a life size photo of naked male muscles and appliqued with the butt of a pair of cutoff levis and a red hanky in the pocket.  We called it the Mullet Suit, business in the front and party in the back.

My only cavil was that it would have been even more wonderful to actually see some of the more trailing, swishy gowns paraded down the catwalk by a woman with hips narrower than her cheekbones, the way the were meant to be.  You could tell what gorgeous motion they were built to display.

And, of course, Madonna.