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My former therapist was on the fifth floor of a building in Boston that also housed on its ground floor a gay bar. Scott was a decent guy, handsome as all get out, but he was always taking personal phone calls during my sessions. I decided this to be not only unprofessional on his part, but a reflection on the lack of psychological drama provided on mine. So I would arrive an hour early, tank up on ginger brandy at the bar downstairs, and then carry on with histrionic anguish upstairs. I even got him to cry a few times.
Because I am not only a Gemini but also a twin, my life is an incredible swirl of contradictions and dichotomies. This fact is most overtly apparent in my gastronomical tastes. I delight in visits to shi-shi restaurants, where one is served three string beans, two baby carrots, and an inefficacious helping of pork medallions the size of quarters. But my mouth also waters over more embarrassingly pedestrian fare, like boiled hot dogs, Spam, and canned hash. Proving there is a cyber-God for folks like me, the site below contains "white trash" recipes ("Hot Dog Fried Rice" – pure heaven!).
How's this for a corker? When David and I bought our home together, and the nature of our relationship became public knowledge to our neighbors, we became the victims of harassment by an elderly bachelor who hid behind the Bible to justify his homophobic ignorance. He picketed in front of our house (his clever sign read "AIDS is God's Answer to Fags"), and he even vandalized our property. The police finally kept him in check.
Yesterday he died, and today, by a random, mind-boggling quirk of fate, I've been asked to sing at his funeral!
I'm going to do it.
I've learned more about my deceased homophobic neighbor and why I was asked to sing at his "send off." Several years ago I sang at his nephew's wedding ceremony, a task I admit accepting in order to piss off the elderly prick, but apparently old Geoff wept during "Let There Be Peace on Earth" (ironically enough, a hymn I've been asked to sing at his funeral). My lifestyle was insipid and abhorrent to him, but my voice raised in song moved him deeply. Or, as a lifelong "bachelor," perhaps my life with David was something he secretly envied. Who knows?
"Hello, Beckah? It's Tiffany! … So did you watch it?! … Didn't I tell you the oldest brother is a HUNK?! … I know, I know, totally a babe … ‘Six Feet Under' is now officially my favorite TV show … What? …
His last name is NOT ‘Kraut', it's ‘Krause' …
Did you see how they showed his barefeet tonight? …
… FUCK YOU!! I do NOT have a foot fetish, you terrorist! … No, YOU'RE the terrorist! … I'm just saying that any guy who takes such good care of his feet knows what's important …"
My Mom's doctor prescribed a cane for her to use whenever she's feeling acutely "wibbly-wobbly." She's 80 years old, God bless her, and she is taking it all on in admirable stride. But I must admit I'm having a difficult time watching the impedimenta of the elderly being thrust upon her, bit by bit. Yesterday she laughingly recited the litany of medications she takes and the various times of day they must be administered; we recently acquired a Life Alert account for her, the button for which she wears assiduously round her neck when alone.
She's courageous; I'm a coward.
I'm in the throes of a midlife crisis, I guess.
Enthusiasm is sadly lost on me; "enterprises of great pith and moment" are unrecognizable. I'm older wishing I were younger. I think that qualifies.
As is usual with me, my crisis is self-contained and causing no difficulties for anyone but myself. I've no lifemate to psychologically scar, no children to emotionally destroy, in the wake of my battle. My adult youth was oh-so-fulfilling, a brightly-kissed promise, but the approaching nether years seem to be oh-so-empty, an incomprehensible wait in an endless line.
My merrily rowed boat isn't but a dream.
"I'm wild again,
A simpering, whimpering child again:
Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered
Am I …"
A wonderful song. One of our favorites. Exquisite lyrics. Sexy baseline. Ella sings it to perfection.
Thanks a PANTLOAD, Jeff Koyen – that tune sums up my relationship with you AND 100-Fucking-Words. Living your life vicariously –
"… your ups, your downs, are second nature to me now, like breathing out and breathing in …"
Christ, I even went out and bought a laptop to satisfy this ADDICTION called 100 Words! Now I am able to access it WHEREVER I happen to land.
In my dream I was back in the export industry, frantically trying to complete invoices for an international Letter of Credit shipment to Mauritius in time for the trucking company to transport the freight to the airport for that night's flight. Every computer I attempted to access was down, and I was forced into utilizing an old IBM Selectric typewriter. If I typed too quickly, the spherical font element would fly out of its housing and hit me in the head. I completed my task in the nick of time, but during its overwrought process I lost my right eye.
I saw the film "Signs" this evening. It's neither a great film nor a bad one; if nothing else, M. Night Shyamalan proves once again he's a ripping good storyteller, complete with another one of his killer endings. Although I have issues with him as a person, it's nice to see Mel Gibson flexing his considerable acting muscles and not simply appearing as the featured beefcake. We don't even get to see his nekkid butt in this movie (sigh). And Joaquin Phoenix's entire performance flows through his eyes—those expressive, moist, shimmering eyes of bluest truth. A decent soundtrack too.
Today I booked an extensive vacation for myself upon which I will embark next May. I hate having to plan travel so far in advance, mainly because it seems to set oneself up for the ultimate irony—namely, that one will croak before getting the opportunity to enjoy it. I know it's a morbid attitude, but not entirely unfounded. A few months ago an engineer tripped on the stairs at work, fell and broke his neck. Boom—dead. I heard later that among the trifles found on him was a grocery-shopping list. For some reason that detail completely unnerved me.
I watched a sweet little gay film tonight entitled "Big Eden," a quiet exercise in wishful thinking. Everyone in a God-fearing Montana village loves and accepts the "gay guy" (Henry), with the exception of Henry himself. Even the burly rednecks that hang out at the local country store are eager for Henry to find his happiness, and at one point they act like a passel of giggling girlfriends. I wept at the end, not because I was moved by the sentiment—it was almost embarrassingly schmaltzy—but because it depicted Life as it could be; live-and-let-live in happy, harmonious peace.
There is a guy at work who has absolutely no social skills. He's obviously brilliant, but he's a lumbering, hunched presence of a man, rarely if ever responding to a greeting. I decided that he must be painfully withdrawn, a shy soul hidden beneath a carapace of silent fear and secret wounds. It became my mission to reach out the hand of friendship to him, carefully and patiently, to lure out the shining spirit I felt certain he possessed. One must earn a feral cat's trust by degrees.
As it turns out, this guy is just an unmitigated, flaming asshole.
In a misguided fit of humor, Mr. and Mrs. Emma christened their infant son with the name Barium N.
It would seem being named after an egregious analeptic procedure might place one at an automatic disadvantage in life. Not so for our Barry. Surprising everyone, he turned out to be a prodigy, earning his first of several doctorates by the age of twelve. At fourteen he published a treatise titled "Sinks for Anthropogenic Carbons." And at sixteen he furtively slipped sedatives into Mr. and Mrs. Emma's teas, then tied them up and eviscerated them both while they were still conscious.
My Auntie Pella was an odd, exotic creature. Although born and raised in the northeast, she married a southern gentleman and spent much of her adult life in rural Georgia. She picked up the accent as a matter of form and held tenaciously onto it for the rest of her life. Auntie Pella had the longest, clawlike fingernails I had ever seen, painted a violent scarlet, and it was a wonder she never put out someone's eye. She used to say things like, "I don't need your photo, darlin' … your image is decoupaged onto my heart," meaning every word.
Although I've heard their stinging, buzzing songs all my lifetime of summers, today is the first day I ever actually saw a cicada. There was one on the ground in the smoker's kiosk at work this morning. Although I don't smoke, I do enjoy socializing with the cool people who do, so I happened to be out there to witness the sighting. They are pretty nasty looking insects, although apparently quite harmless. They look like a huge housefly, with large, greenish, translucent wings. It puttered around for a bit, then suddenly took flight, causing us all to dart and duck.
: A hospital room. Nurse Flatula enters with a thermometer.]
Nurse: All right, Mr. Clown, it's time to take your temperature. [She pulls back the curtain to reveal P.C.
Studio audience goes wild, applauding/emitting raspberries.]
: Theme Song.]
"His shorts are fudgie
and his crack is brown!
Uh-oh! It's the Poopie Clown!"
Nurse: Please roll over.
[P.C. rolls over and thrusts his naked buttocks into the air. Nurse inserts thermometer; there is an unearthly groaning sound, and then P.C. expels a mind-blowing fart. The thermometer, shooting out like a missile, neatly impales Nurse in the forehead. The audience laughs uproariously.]
Although he has many fine qualities, Jesse Helms can be something of a bigot.
We were enjoying cocktails at Leather-‘n'-Heights, a trendy gay bar in downtown Manhattan. Unfortunately Jesse had consumed one too many Cosmopolitans.
"Get rid of ‘em," he slurred thickly. His tiara was askew on his shiny pate, and one of his rhinestone-laden false eyelashes hung crustily into his left eye. "Gather up all them damn heteros, put ‘em on a bus, and drive ‘em off a fuckin' cliff! Then they can perform their sick, perverse sexual acts in hell!" I sighed heavily, tired of arguing with him.
Jesse Helms con't.
My husband Tom Cruise was patiently attempting to reason with the inebriated Jesse. "Listen, Jesse, straight people are just as valid and important as us gays," Tom said, speaking with his characteristic quiet compassion. "Diversity is what makes the world go round. And just look at all the remarkable people who are straight … like Bette Davis, for instance. I know she was one of your favorites."
"HA!" Jesse shrilly screeched. "
?! Bette Davis was Truman-fucking-Capote in
Just then Vin Diesel sauntered over and, surprisingly, asked Jesse to dance. "This oughta' be interesting," I thought mirthfully.
Jesse Helms conclusion.
Jesse and Vin Diesel had disappeared, and after half an hour I became concerned. A thorough search ended in the men's room; Jesse was draped pantless over a urinal and Vin was rutting him mightily, taking no prisoners. Jesse looked up and saw me standing there in disbelief. "Don't look so shocked, Darlin'," Jesse exclaimed amiably, "Vin is half colored, ain't you, Boy?" I winced, but the slur only seemed to inspire Vin unto further glory. He fucked Jesse like a sex-crazed lunatic, and I could actually hear the gurgling gush as Vin filled Jesse to capacity.
“No way am I going to one of Jesse’s parties,” I protested to my husband Tom Cruise. “They always turn into orgies.” As an afterthought I added, “And I always end up with the dregs.”
“What are you talking about?” Tom asked.
“Remember last year?” I reminded him. “I found you in a room with Ben Affleck, Matthew McConaughey, Guy Pearce, and Russell Crowe. I on the other hand got stuck in a pile consisting of Charlton Heston, Donald Rumsfeld, Morley Safer, and Madeline Albright.” I shuddered at the memory. “She has long, dangly moles on her back—it’s disgusting.”
I had a dream once, a strange, empyrean dream, now long forgotten but in existence still, the dream from whence another being born, another p0ssibility, secreting sacred essences, a product and a fragment of The Whole, The Constant, infinitely keening its pretty and chaotic melodies, soft caressing flutters, enamored and entrancing vocalizations, quilted onto a fabric both ethereal and hylomorphic, sagacious and forbearing, still and minute, measured, sensual, flowered, arising through the gunas, soaring past tamas, rajas, and sattva, towards the much-sought after Atman, and awakening in a crash, a jarring return, and closer somehow to something rare, something important.
After spending most of her life in Britain and in India, elderly Mrs. Featherstonehaugh (unbelievably pronounced ‘Fanshaw') settled in a large home on the town common of our rural Massachusetts village. She became famous for her Sunday "High Teas," over which she reigned with stately British aplomb.
Word got about that the sly old thing was having an affair. This would have elicited nothing more than an "atta' girl!" from all but the most uptight of our citizenry. Unfortunately, the object of her affections was the thirteen-year-old paperboy, and Mrs. Featherstonehaugh was sent up the river on a morals charge.
David and I were a couple of cornballs at heart. One of my most treasured memories occurred during the "courtship" phase of our relationship. After inviting me for a late dinner, David greeted me at the door in a tuxedo, looking like Adonis in tails. He had prepared a recorded tape to which we danced, by moonglow and candlelight, to Johnny Mathis singing "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me"; "When I Fall in Love" by The Lettermen; "Cherish" by The Association—you know, all the great old make-out songs.
I knew that night I was, beyond reason, completely in love.
Jake is the only person in my life right now with whom I could be in love, if only he was gay. He's sexy in a threatening way—he looks a lot like 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin, with the shaved head, goatee, steely eyes, a muscled hulk of a man. Actually he's about as dangerous as a ladybug. He's my favorite person to watch a sad film with because he cries more than I do.
Incredibly, he's unlucky in love. The women attracted to him are biker chicks who can't handle his sensitive side.
Turn around, look at me
There is in our family an oil portrait of one of our British ancestors that has been carefully handed down throughout the generations. It's a venerated object that has become positively totemic to my aunts. A few years back, through a convoluted series of events, I ended up the uneasy steward of the portrait. Over the weekend my nephew's birthday party was disrupted when one of the little darlings sprayed the painting with a gooey substance from a water pistol. He said he did it because the picture scared him.
Not as much as facing down the aunts scares me…
One of my alter personalities, lying dormant for months, suddenly became active again. Tits Ahoy left the apartment last night and turned a few sleazy tricks, in betwixt complaining to her street-walking brethren about her savagely cruel, asshole pimp, which is how she refers to me. One of the trannies Tits hangs out with—poetically named SloBlo—convinced her it was time for me to go. Tits agreed, unaware that in successfully killing me she would also be committing suicide. Thankfully Tits' bookend Sweet Twat intervened before she could shove me/throw us off that rooftop.
I gotta' up my meds.
Dear President Bush and Vice President Cheney:
I know you're busy men, so I'll keep this brief.
If you won't listen to global opinion regarding the impending invasion of Iraq, will you for Christ sakes listen to the American people?!
NO ONE WANTS THIS WAR.
Your attempts to justify it are based on convoluted logic at best. And your posturing and your rhetoric would be laughably ridiculous if it wasn't so dangerous. So will you knock it the hell off please? This administration of hawkish fucks is actually making me embarrassed and ashamed of being an American. Way to go.
He bade me to lie face up and naked on the cold linoleum floor, legs apart. He then lit a large scented candle and placed it between my splayed thighs, very near my manhood. My privacy thus subjugated, the candle wax dripping, searing hot, onto my inner skin, he stood above me and, with his free hand, began to masturbate. In the opposing hand he held a gun, pointed towards my flushed, sweating, disoriented face. Approaching his climax, his finger nearly pulling the trigger to firing, he suddenly turned the barrel onto himself, and extinguished the candle with brain matter.
My invitations for people to smell David caused him no end of hot, concise embarrassment.
My initial attraction to him was due to his "scent." It was sexy and earthy and comforting. I could detect it through the heartiest of sweats, or emerging fresh from the shower; it made no difference. It became stronger and more pervasive as he lay dying (perhaps my fancy, that).
No one but my sister knew what I was talking about. She accurately used words like "musky, oily, salty air" to describe it. It was manifest in his hair; it was palpable in his ejaculate.
Forget your troubles,
come on, Get Happy,
You better chase all your cares away!
Come on, Get Happy,
Get ready for the judgement day.
Speak softly yet surely, and be heard. Listen carefully. Exercise caution when dispensing advice; it might be taken. Graciously assist someone. Graciously allow someone to assist you. Do not wipe tears away; allow them to be shed. Conquer bullies with wisdom. Strive to be better. Forgive others their mistakes; forgive yourself your own. Read. Sing. Sparkle. Crest. Flourish. Reach. Touch. Assimilate.
Exit in a plume of Light.
And shout ‘Hallelujah!' at the Judgement Day.
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