In Which We are Victimized Before We Indulge Musically

 

Oh goddamit.  Once again, some fucking THIEF has swiped my credit card number.  This happens on the regular so often that I am no longer irate about it, but rather, simply sort of glum.  I know this dance all too well; my credit card company (much more vigilant than I am about these things) contacts me to ask about some purchase they deem sketchy.  Spoiler alert: it is sketchy.  Once I acknowledge that I have never heard of the vendor or purchase, they cancel my card and I get to brace myself for several weeks of trying to remember which automatic payments and subscriptions I need to update.  Is this a way to celebrate Christmas?  Apparently it is.

In other xmas news, I have decided this year to not indulge in my annual rant against Christmas music.  I have clearly established how I despise the mewling tones of the tunes for, as Jon over at Razzle Dazzle puts it, the Festering Season. 

Instead I will give it up for the one exception I am willing to make every year and that is for Darlene Love and her bombshell, Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).  I am not the only one so very taken by this song, her appearance on the David Letterman show was an annual event from 1994 to 2014.  After the end of the Letterman show, she moved her act to The View from 2015 until 2023.  That is quite a run, and a well-deserved one. 

Ms Love has one of the great, powerful voices in rhythm and blues.  There are very few singers who can match her when she digs in and really starts belting out.  Her collaboration with Phil Spector in the '60s was a work of genius, and Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) is a prime example of that. The song is buoyant with his trademark massive Wall-o-Sound, but Darlene Love's powerhouse singing actually manages to match it.

Without further ado, take it away Darlene.

Baby, please come home:

I find the word "panties" to be so luridly thrilling.

I think this portion of my blog, and its fascination with dicks and butts, does not give enough attention to tiddies.

Also, nut sacs.

Still, it's hard to argue with buttchops like this.

Diego Sans remains studly.

Xtra beefy

I had a good time last week in Texas, but the enchiladas were shockingly disappointing.  Shocking.

My hotel's shower was very nice, but could have been improved by a muscly companion therein.

In Which We Voyage

 

Sunday afternoon, Diane von Austinburg and I will hurl ourselves into the sky and hopefully land in Paris the next morning.  Woohoo.  I'm looking forward to our trip very much, we'll also be dropping in on Venice for a few days.  I haven't been to Europe in more than 30 years, but my previous trips to Paris were very successful and got all the obligatory destinations out of the way so now I can concentrate on my favorite Parisian activity which is simply wandering around aimlessly.

Or possibly just holing up in my hotel room since the weather forecast calls for Gallic gray skies and chilly rain.  As sort of a bon voyage from San Francisco, the weather here has flipped from gorgeous sunny spring back to drizzly winter; I feel like I'm rehearsing for my vacation.

We do have a couple of plans, the one I'm looking forward to the most is an exhibit of work by my favorite artist in the world, Mark Rothko.  It's the largest show of his stuff ever mounted and I only found out about it after I had already arranged the trip.  We get there the day before the show closes, it was meant to be.

Rothko

I also arranged for massages in both Paris and Venice.  Experience has taught me that being trapped in an airplane results in my creaky old carcass needing some assistance straightening up.  The website for the spa in Venice was very straightforward and I got the reservation with no problem.  The Parisian one, naturalment, was considerably more difficult; I'm still not 100% sure I have a reservation.  I'm sure it'll be fine.

"I'm sure it will be fine" pretty much sums up my attitude for this whole trip; I've done fuck all research for where to go and what to do.  We'll be in Paris and Venice.  It's going to be wonderful.  So adieu bitches, the boulevards and the canals are calling me.

Fellow travelers:

Pretty much the only things I've even sort of arranged are dinners.  Because, Paris and Venice.  Duh.

Bryce Evans, a prime example of English beef.

Daniele Montana, Italian humpiness.

I couldn't find any French pussy, so let's just pretend this anonymous beauty is one.

Ooh la la la lah.

OK, that exhausts all of my European smut awareness.

I take it back, here we have Liam Jolley, who I believe is British.