The Doctor of Christmas Past

I spent Christmas day quietly absorbed in a marathon of Doctor Who on the BBC America. It is a method of celebration I can recommend highly. Over the years, I had seen the occasional Doctor Who, but never got sucked into full Whovian fan life until I ran across the reboot of the series with the Ninth Doctor. It's apparently a common phenomenon for people to like their first Doctor Who best. Certainly, that's the case with me, my heart nerdly belongs to Christopher Eccleston, who played number 9.

Christmas Day's orgy of the Doctor, however, was number 11, Matt Smith, the man who raises the question "How can such a homely git have such fabulous hair?"

It was a lovely Christmas.

Isn't Christmas Over Yet?

I have not been happy the last couple of days. Yes, it's true. Turns out Christmas is a dreary time for the recently bereaved. I miss R Man, I miss him a lot. Just earlier this month I was struck by how much better I had been feeling and then Xmas, everywhere. Even porn sites are getting in the spirit.

Rats.

But you know, I am not by nature a droopy, morose Goth-y sixteen year old and so I resist. Avoiding sad songs is crucial; anything written in a minor key is deadly. You know what helps? Punk and Rockabilly, my old faves.

and Grace Jones in a Box

So I got my christmas card from dear friend Pee Wee. We were introduced at the Dinah Shore lesbian golf tourney mixer years ago. "Pee Wee, Peenee. Peenee, Peewee.

Anyway, it just served to remind me it's time for that annual highlight of Christas chestnuts, The Playhouse Christmas Special. You should at least watch the Marine Corps gogo Boy theme song. Go here

No, that's not the Kidney Stone I Passed

Part of the incessant barrage of commercials over this merry season is the particularly shrill shilling of "Chocolate diamonds." Isn't that precious? Taking rocks that were considered worthless (Wikpedia assures us brown diamonds have typically been employed only in industrial uses, like grinding equipment. Much like these fucking commercials) and then increasing their market value by connecting them with something actually desirable, like chocolate.

Honey, let me tell you, were I to be a Lady presented with a poop colored gemstone as a Crixmus present by some schmuck, I would replace said diamond in the setting with his left testicle, make a pate out of his right one and force him to eat it. Saint Zsa Zsa of Gabor, if you can't afford a decent diamond, spring for some overly fabulous rhinestone. Or a nice hazlenut praline truffle.

Or better still:

Season's Bleatings

In my earlier post "Season's Greetings" I also meant to mention that on Friday when I was wandering around the Castro, a car passed me a couple of times with the driver yelling out of his open window "Occupy Mindless Consumerism." Doesn't that seem to be a sort of mixed metaphor? The entire Occupy movement appeals to me and reminds me strongly of my hippie youth, but even so, you need to be conscious of whether your slogans make any sense.

Plus, a nice Friday afternoon on Castro and 18th Street is not exactly ground zero for the One Percent's heedless consumption of unnecessary purchases, even if it is a week before Christmas. Most of the other people occupying the sidewalk with me seemed to be, just like me, out running errands at Walgreen's and the grocery and the hardware store. You want to make a statement about Mindless Consumerism? Union Square, a bastion of Tiffany's and Sak's and Prada and Burberry's, seems like a more likely target. Maybe the traffic down there was too fierce.

Which also brings up the point, cruising around in your car, protesting? Really? Isn't one of the complimentary concerns of the Occupy movement a sensitivity to environmental degradation?

Here's what I would prefer to occupy.

Season's Greetings

Our dearly beloved Diane von Austinburg sent me the most luscious cashmere sweater. Soft coziness and lots of it, yummy. I was thrown off for a while when I opened the box because she signed the card "DvonA," and since the card was printed all in capitals it looked like this:

DVONA

I assumed I had acquired a new tranny stalker boyfriend with good tastes in sweaters, which was sort of unsettling, except for the part about cashmere gifts. So I was relieved when my word puzzle skills kicked in and I was able to figure out who it actually was from.

Also, my new favorite drag name? DVONA. It's now replaced my former fave, Tann Ng Bedd, a good thing cause that one was just too hard.

DvonA

A divine

Infomaniac: Too Much Time and not Enough Midol

Fine, fine. I skip patrolling the interwebs one goddam day and that Canuck hag Infomaniac sneaks this in behind my back:

If You're Going to San Francisco

That tremor on the street that you're feeling may not be an earthquake.

[via]

Looks like Mr. Peenee's eaten one too many shortbread cookies during the festive season.

As I warned her just the other day, bitch continues to Ask For It.

The 60's were Stranger than You Can Imagine

Darlings, there are some things that can only be experienced, never described. Just skip to the 3:30 mark and you'll see.

Rock. On. Girl.

Perhaps I am Uncle Sam's Bitch?

I got a check this morning from the United States Treasury for $244.35. I was not expecting a check from the United States Treasury for $244.35. There was no explanation with it, I have filed nothing lately, and have no reason why our government would be coughing up such an odd-ish amount.

Do you think it is a Xmas present? If so, I would like to say "thank you" in a very polite tone of voice.

As a former federal employee, though, I am well acquainted with how da gubment works and am pretty sure this is not them randomly getting into the festive spirit. If they are pushing money into my hands, there is a reason for it and I am on the trail of said reason. To that end I have emailed the office that issued it (Kansas City, speaking of random, since there is a Treasury office right across the bay over in Oakland. Whatever) a message couched in the most respectful terms possible. Again, as a former fed I know getting pissy this early in the game is counter-productive and jokes are absolutely disastrous. Also, this just in, using the word "fuck" in any correspondence with any agency: not a good idea.

So anyway, on the off-chance this is a legitimate payout to me and not some screw up that is going give me a headache for the next six months as I try to straighten it out, I am taking suggestions on how to spend this windfall. Ideas?

Sweet Home

I had so much fun spending my birthday back in New Orleans last year, I decided to do it again. The house R Man and I lived in on Chartres Street in the French Quarter has a sweet little hotel right across the street (people in the rooms in the front of which had a great view into our living rooms and, believe me, they made the most of it, gawking like we were dioramas.) I wanted to stay in that hotel this time, but I couldn't remember the name of it. Digging around on Google for it turned up news that units in our old building are for sale as heavily renovated (the term "tarted up" comes to mind) condos.

Staring at these photos vividly reminded me of a long gone afternoon R Man and I lounged in bed in his apartment off the courtyard. We had spent a vigorous time indulging in various forms of physical affection that are probably still illegal in several states and then lay catching our breath, with the french doors open to the patio while the rain hammered down during one of those fierce Gulf Coast storms. The rain had turned the air chilly, the room was all white and cool with crisp white sheets and R Man, who was very hairy, was a cozy redoubt against it all. Sweet, sweet, sweet.

Scene of the crime, downstairs. Although the doors used to be french ones that you could open even when they were "locked" by leaning against them. A cat could break in.

R man's first apartment in the building was in the slave quarter. That was the term everyone used because these free standing small buildings in the rear of the houses were where the slaves lived. Now I understand the preferred term is "servants' quarters" as if changing the vernacular could gloss over the horrible existence of slavery. Whatever.

Later he moved into a bigger apartment in the big house up front and I moved into the one across the hall from him. We had the whole top floor to ourselves and shared the big balcony on the street, but still had the option (occasionally illusional) of privacy. It was sort of like warming up to living together. Again, sweet.

So now I see these photos of what the new owners have done to the old place, spiffing it up to the nth degree and swearing in the realtor's description "everything is new..." cause who would want all that old stuff around anyway?

Isn't that lovely? The stairs have been added and the upstairs window used to be a much prettier large fan light. It was my bathroom and the people in the hotel around the corner had view into my sitting on the toilet. Fabulous.

My balcony onto Chartres Street. We could stand out there and hear the tourguides wandering along below making up amazing lies about where we lived.

I lived upstairs on the left, R man on the right. Absolute sweet.

I don't begrudge them any of it, I had my turn there and loved the old place even if it was shabby. We were so lucky to make it in at the very tail end of the raffish, bohemian life that used to be possible in the French Quarter. Now it's some of the most desirable real estate in the country, then it was a small step up from a bad neighborhood and I could live there on minimum wage. When I had a job, that is. I just hope who ever winds up there enjoys it as much as I did during that rainstorm all those years ago.

Big Box

I've mentioned before that any shopping not conducted at the grocery or Walgreen's does not thrill me, and those expeditions are rarely the high point of the day, even if they do result in cookies and Vicodin. So I buy all my clothes online and a new batch just showed up. I'm holding off on opening them until Christmas. Isn't that precious? I expect to be somewhat surprised with the contents since I have already forgotten what I bought. R Man, god love him, was never good at guessing what presents to get me and would simply demand a detailed list from me in November. And by detailed I mean not just "cashmere sweater, 1," but explicitly running down what color, size, and where he could get it.

Saki thinks the shipping is simply a superior way of getting wrapping paper and boxes for him to play in. He's a playah.

Ever? What not Ever?

You know I have a long-standing passion for this song, but I had forgotten what an amusing video this is and how sexy Roland Gift's dancing is. Sexy little beast.

Thanks Were Given

Thanksgiving, yes, it actually can be amusing, especially if you cut out all the family drama and sneak off to the beauties of Big Sur instead.

Food was terribly tasty. Nom nom, in fact.

We went hiking along a trail I remembered from years ago as both easy and charming, wandering back and forth along a small creek up to some waterfalls. But when we got to the start, the path made a sharp left and then veered up a steep ravine. After we had slogged there and back, I read the park's brochure and found out the old trail had been the victim of a big fire down there in 2008 and they rerouted it so the old one could recuperate. Burned, schmurned, I say. The end was the only good part.

But then, we went to the beach a couple of times cause, you know, it's California and stuff. Man, was that ever worth it.

Balmy, sunny weather down amongst the gorgeous rock formations and a few notably cute boys just to make things interesting.

Also, we played Yahtzee every night, including the evening where I hit 7 (SEVEN) yahtzees in four hands and still only won one of them. I had obviously fallen in with a rough crowd. Dice sharks.

I know this is not what Brian Eno playing a fast hand of Yahtzee actually looks like, but it is what I think he SHOULD look like.