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.