Netflux

The internet: a sea of information and entertainment at my fingertips and I spend the last two weeks obsessively working my way through Netflix's backlog of stupid science fiction. Oddly, there seems to be only one plot available to all these shows: a rift in the space/time fabric allows Bad Things to come though and menace earth. "Bad Things" is a technical term. Here's my report as well as I can remember it.

Primeval. Doctor Who. Torchwood. ("Torchwood" is an anagram of "Doctor Who," the nerdly kind of thing that appeals to me.) In order they were: grim and stupid; whimiscal and stupid; and gay and stupid. Torchwood, gay science fiction! Hooray! They killed off the boyfriend of the excessively pretty hero and anyway, it was stupid. Not hooray! Kind of un-hooray!

Plus, let me just mention, if there is a rift in the space/time blahblahblah I would much prefer to have armies of seriously mean guys going up against the Bad Things rather than some tiny random gang of BBC nerds, even if they do have such thick Manchester accents no one can understand them. That's just how I roll.

But I also stumbled across Pushing Daisies which was not stupid and was charming and funny and cool and great visuals and Swoosie Kurtz and Kristin Chenoweth, who were both fantastic, and the very attractive Lee Pace in the lead.

Of course, it was canceled by ABC after two short seasons, probably to make room for Sarah Palin's Monster Truck Rally or something.

So now I've reeled back down off the Netflix binge. Much like eating a whole box of Girl Scout cookies at one sitting, about half-way through, you think "This is probably a bad idea." And then when you finish, you realize you were right, but that doesn't help, particularly.

Also, speaking of science fiction, here's my new parallel universe boyfriend.

I call him Spunk Nozzle.

Toy Story Two

It all started out so innocently. Super Agent Fred and I went to lunch this afternoon and I was telling him about the post below on the Invasion of the Barbies and then I told him about how the wicked, wicked commentators on the post had urged me to follow through on my harmless little whim about creating a Barbie cabaret act diorama and then, the next thing I knew, we were wheeling off for the Toys R Us in the suburban hellhole south of here in order to get the necessary Ken dolls for the essential, sordid tea room sex scene.

How do these things happen?

All the way to the store we sympathized with each other about how we loathe shopping malls. Once there, it turned out to be every bit as a bad as we had pissed and moaned about, if not worse. The whole place seems to have evolved over the years out of one bad idea into several. There was no directory, so we were forced to wander around amongst the fat people past the most dreadful merchandisers you can imagine. Who needs multiple stores hawking football logo crap? Did you know Orange Julius and Dairy Queen have joined in some unholy union? The only cute guy in the entire place only wanted to sell us a new cell phone.

When we did find Toys R Us, it turned out to be a stunted little mini-operation; it's possible the space was originally a storage closet. Still, Fred and I shared in the guilty thrill of it all. There was a whole raft of pirate stuff. Pirate stuff! If I hadn't already started down the Barbie path, I would so certainly have gone pirate. Maybe after the cabaret I can move onto Barbies of the Caribbean, Buccaneer Princess.

Instead of the sweeping aisles of Barbies I had envisioned, there was one dinky little section. I could have done better staying at home waiting for random kids to leave their dolls behind. We took two Ken dolls (thus cleaning out their entire selection) and scrammed, pausing only to feel really, really sorry for the poor schmo clerk, in his mid-30's, stuck in a third rate toy store with a crappy Casio knock-off keyboard set on "irritating 80s beat" to keep him company. He recommended we go to a famously evil, anti-gay mass marketer for more choice of all things Barbie. Possibly out of spite, I don't know. We went. I am ashamed.

Did you know Barbie has morphed out of the slightly slutty style icon she was in the 60s into some kind of fat faced mutant with a much smaller rack? What's the point? On a positive note, all of the Kens look totally, absolutely gay, gayer than me, and that's saying something.

Crushingly, there was no Solo in the Spotlight Barbie,

which, obviously, is pretty much the centerpiece of any cabaret act diorama, goddamit, unless I want to go with some Priscilla, Queen of the Desert salute with the Kens.

Exhausted, I dropped off Fred and came home where I started vaguely remembering a gay doll from the 90's that would add a lot to the whole thing. Internet-based research turned up the item that he was "Billy Doll, the anatomically correct gay doll" Although "anatomically exaggerated" would probably be more accurate.

I took some Vicodan and started looking further on the web (and let me say, no sentence starting with those words will turn out well) and stumbled on an EBay auction of him. I've heard how difficult EBay has become, with online tutorials about how to win now, but in this, my first crack at it, I bid and by the time I thought "I hope I don't score this stupid thing," it was too late.

So now I have two Barbies, three Kens and two Billys, one of which is his Puerto Rican friend, Carlos.

It's all spiraling out of control.

Toy Story

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I've Given Up Being On Time for Lent

I actually posted this three years ago for Mardi Gras and just ran across it now, more than a day late, but I'm dragging it back up now because a) I still feel this way about Carnival and b) I'm too lazy to come up with anything new.

Tomorrow, I promise to share the thrilling details about the Barbie dolls that have come to haunt me.

Anyway, back to Mardi Gras posts gone by:

Darlings, a moment, please, while an old man wipes a sentimental tear away. As a young homo living in the French Quarter in New Orleans, Carnival was a time that never failed to thrill me to my very core. The whole season is a celebration of debauchery, and Mardi Gras is its apex, nominally to get it all out of your system in time for Lent, to which I always said a hearty "whatever". I adored the tons of boys pouring into town looking for sex, which I was only too happy to provide; getting loaded with friends at all hours for hours; the parades; hell, I even looked forward to the nasty little king cakes.

I actually moved to New Orleans because of Carnival. I had been lucky enough to go to several while in college in Austin, driving 10 hours to New Orleans, careening through the weekend and then dragging my sorry ass home. After I left Austin, I briefly wound up in Seattle, but one day suddenly realized I could live in New Orleans and have Mardi Gras come to me instead of the other way around. Coincidentally, that was the same day Reagen was elected the first time and NOLA seemed like a good place to go hide. I was there in time for the next Carnival. I seem to remember costuming as a flamingo.

I spent one Mardi Gras lying on my back athwart the threshold of my bathroom tripping like a million screaming monkeys. My friends alternated between stepping daintily over me to use the facilities and trying to talk me into going outside. I steadfastly refused, announcing that I was perfectly comfortable. And I was. I had spent the whole weekend running around to bars with my dick hanging out. I needed the rest. After another Mardi Gras, I was discussing what a gorgeous day it had been with my dear friend Magda who finally had to point out it had, in fact, rained non-stop and that I had simply been too loaded to notice.

The year I was working as a room service waiter, I amused myself all morning doing acid and then had to go to work for the 3:00 shift still tripping. Oh, that was a year to cherish, let me tell you.

Of course, drugs and sex are not all Carnival has to offer. There's also parades and beads, both of which are dear to me. I vividly recall the image of a float bearing down on me one night on St. Charles Avenue, its glaring lights illuminating a fountain of beads erupting from it. They were cheap and gaudy and I would fight you to the ground for them. Do not get between me and them pearls, bitch. We had bags of them by the time we left town, everyone does.

After we moved to San Francisco I went back once for Mardi Gras. It was terribly amusing, of course, but not the same, poignantly enough. Still, this time of the year, every year, I remember it all longingly. And to that young poofter hanging out in a jam packed bar tonight, high as the proverbial kite, feeling up some humpy guy from out of town, and simultaneously wondering what he's going to wear on Tuesday, I say Here's to ya honey. You go girl.

An Afternoon at the Opera

Super Agent Fred and I went Sunday afternoon to Philip Glass's opera Orphee. It seemed like a good idea at the time; I love Philip Glass's weird little neener-neener-neener music and the opera was based on Jean Cocteau's film, of which I am one big gay fan.

We settled in and I was trying to listen to the Glassian melodic noodling, but there was this ongoing, annoying noise interrrupting my concentration. I finally realized it was the singing. The whole thing was a "word for word re-enactment of the movie." Again, probably a good seeming idea, but it meant all the singing was actually recitative, which I hate because I'm shallow, and no arias, which are the parts I love because I was raised on operas performed in Bugs Bunny cartoons.

The best line: "My life stinks of success and death," sung by Orphee and which wins the award for the most French sounding declaration in history. Speaking of Orphee, one of the show's insurmountable problems was that Jean Marais (one of the most beautiful men in history) played him in the movie and those are some pretty big cheekbones to fill. Compare and contrast:

Jean Marais

Eugene Brancoveneau, the Orphee in Sunday's opera.

I think he looks like a shoe salesman. Jean Marais would never sell you shoes. You should be so lucky.

Also, here's a picture I stumbled on of Brancoveneau getting up to something or the other at Spoleto:

Oh dear.

The set looked like it was borrowed from a middle level community college production of Death of Salesman. Eurydice had a snappy little New Look shirtwaist dress that was very pretty, but Death was tarted up in a corset and a full skirt, neither of which fit or did her any favors.

So intermission rolled around and we sort of left. "Fled" would probably be a better description of us scurrying out, looking for cupcakes, which we never did find. Rats.

Silicone Based Love

Commenting on the post below, Ask the Cool Cookie urged me to shave and get out of the house and go do something, apparently in that order. I am always obedient to commands from cookies, so I did just that. Super Agent Fred and I were on the move at the crack of dawn, or possibly just after noon today. It looked like dawn to me. We went off to lunch (tasty,) browsed a fancy art supply store to look at $17 sheets of paper, and agreed to go see a Philip Glass opera on Sunday cause we're all fancy and stuff.

We also dropped back by my house for me to unload some random stuff on him like R Man's sketch pad and paper, a charming little dope pipe, and some clothes of Fred's that had been floating around here for a while. I also tried to talk him in to taking some old sex toys of R Man's, but he wasn't having it. Still, it's only your best friends on whom you can try to urge second hand naughty paraphernalia. By the way, if you're looking for a pair of cuffs lined in the finest of sheepskin fleece, let me know.

Speaking of equipment one doesn't run into at Macy's, I bought a new plaything with the horrendously accurate name of Fleshlight Jackass. I refuse to post a picture of it. There are limits which even I will not cross. If you're so fascinated, you can go look here. Is everybody back now? Good.

The poor little thing is supposed to be an artificial butthole. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, until they finally come up with the sex slave android I've been waiting for. And can I just say, it's the 21st century, still no Judy Jetson apartment buildings on elevated stilts, still no Howard Johnson's on the moon and still no Genuine Mario Lopez Model Sexbot™. What's with that?

For those of you considering the Fleshlight Jackass, let me just say "Lame." Wait for the sex androids and save your money, that's my advice. I'd say the closest approximation to the experience would be a handjob from some guy who's just had a stroke. Not that I would know. I'm just guessing.

Let me know when this rolls off the assembly line, m'kay?

If the Tranny Space Pirates Call, Tell 'Em I'm NOT HERE

Oh. I'm sorry. Have I been absent for a while? Turns out I was kidnapped by tranny secret agent space pirates AGAIN. If I never see another anal probe it'll be too soon.

Also, I had to put together a memorial service for R Man. Did I want to put on a memorial service? No. Did I pout like a little girl about it? Possibly. Still, our friend Gaye pointed out that "It's not all about you" which is still as patently untrue as the first time I heard that line, all those many years ago.

We had a deli cater, we had champagne and bourbon (R Man liked both,) all our friends dropped in and were all very supportive and sweet. Even Diane von Austinburg came back in town to help buck me up, which I most appreciated, since I needed plenty of bucking. I was dreading the whole thing right up until it started and then was immensely glad it was over once we were done. I got through it just fine, thank you ativan, and I even spoke a brief eulogy.

Most of the speech consisted of my not making eye contact with anyone who was crying, looked like they might cry, or even had moisture in their eye. Pretty much, I just looked at the cat. It was very much the same as any other public speaking I've had to do, just start at the beginning and blast on through to the end and don't think too much about what I'm saying.

I also included a firm caveat that there would be no chance for other mourners to speak. You know the bit that has sprung up recently at funerals for everyone to take a chance at "remembering" the departed by offering clumsy attempts at humor at the dead guy's expense so that the whole thing turns into a funereal roast? R Man hated those, so I nipped any idea of it in the bud. Afterwards, several guests thanked me, so yay for heavy handedly laying down rules.

Anyway, it wasn't awful, and afterwards we had a bunch of sandwiches left, although all the petite fours were long gone. Bastards.

So, I've been hanging around, refusing to shave or answer the phone and claiming to be going through a "rough patch." Actually I'm just lazy. Still to make up for being so slack in blogging, here's a humpy houseboy as a token of my apology.

That's not enough? OK here's another one, complete with MeeMaw's couch.

Oh, all right, here's that gay rugby guy.

I hope you're happy.