Comfortably Numb

Why is it that whenever an actress more known for her personality---which often eclipses, and sometimes colors, her acting---decides to go kerplunk and over the high side, suddenly All This GRIEF in screaming red letters comes crashing forwards with the force of the Hoover Dam releasing its hundreds of thousands of gallons of water? [It does have all that, right? I haven't checked my facts, and wouldn't we want to see me fall flat on my face. I can picture it now: trolls coming in droves to my little blog that No One Reads, hungry for action, ready to correct me at Every Turn. "You fucking cunt---it's not hundreds of thousands but MILLIONS. Ketchup." Something like that.]

Oh, there I went again. Astray. I should know better. I should try, at least once, to stay focused and not get distracted by some random thought the equivalent of a shiny ball or a hot stud being fucked by another equally hot stud. Man-sex. God. What I would give to have that right now, but men are, apparently, not entering my life. [Well they're not entering me, and there you have it. We're back to square one, Ivan's alone in the world, helpless, a Dickensian orphan who hath knowneth no loveth, nor sexeth, and perchance, never will. Oh, hell.]

So. Back to front row center. The calamity of the weekend and now three days old: Bea Arthur, the man who starred in Maude and Golden Girls, who was as graceful as a truck driver charging down I-95 and as delicate as a tobacco-chewing plumber, went and cacked.

Yup. That Tower of Pisa leaned a little too far to the left and met Mother Earth with a resounding splat!

And fags around the world, ever devoted to either of her two well-known TV characters, cried and wept and all but threw themselves onto the train tracks, because yet Another Diva met her maker.

Me?

Too preoccupied with other things. Like a friend, battling the ferocious C with a smile upon my face and convictions of victory embedded into both my codes and his. Bea was gone, but my Bob is here and alive and well and recuperating at a fantastic rate.

So suck it, fags. Ivan doesn't care much for Bea. She's dead, and lives on TV Land.

Forever.

Frump, Out of the Dump

Looking at her you might not think much---if anything at all.

Her looks won't exactly translate into Cover Girl material, and the photo where you can clearly see her erect nipples might not be masturbatory material (unless you're European and equate this cow with the "ideals of beauty").

When I saw Susan Boyle on YouTube (where else? Who watches TV anymore?) I thought to myself: "This is a joke, isn't it? Of course it is. Charlotte Vale with her curly birds-nest of hair, ill-fitting dress, possible smell of Lifebuoy, and caterpillar eyebrows coming onto the stage, for what? Even more humiliation?" [Extra points if you know who Vale is. Fags over thirty will know.]

Boy. Was I wrong. Wrong as a drag queen sporting a five o'clock shadow. On his ass. Because in case you, the uninitiated, didn't know---drag queens are men, and some men are ha-a-a-airy.

It turns out, she might look like a scullery maid but apparently, My Fair Maidy has a voice.

Here I was, a thirty-eight years old, macho, coming into a video some friend (Fuck you, ****! Fuck you for sending me this lachrymose tripe!) sent me, sobbing my eyes out, completely nonplussed at the revelation of this British Edith Piaf. I cheered, I applauded, and I did the unthinkable---I shared it with a good part of my address book, happily helping it garner it's over fifty million views, all the while thinking "This is bigger than Christian the Lion". Oh, I was fucked. Fucked raw by His Almighty Cock, spat out like a cheap tramp, and sent to the gutter where urine and feces live and converse happily amongst the dead and the decaying and possibly Ellen Cleghorne's dead career.



Of course, right after I saw the video (for the twentieth time) I was over it.

See---as much as I want to say my "Oohs" and "Aahs" and go weepy, this story and La Boyle are as over to me as the new Pet Shop Boys CD which I own, have listened to, and can't stand.

What? You honestly thought I was going to go all sappy? Three cheers for the frump with the voice of an angel? Of course not---that will be the day I cut my balls off.

"Saw VI: Ivan Becomes a Eunuch, Takes Singing Lessons, and Wows Them All With A Fierce Contralto."

Next!

Those Who Live in the Clouds

Celebrities are there for us to look at and sometimes wonder what the fuck is it with their nutty behaviour. Lindsay Lohan's driving skills, anyone?

I, for one, don't really care for them that much because none of them pay my bills and the few I admire, I do so because of something in their personality that stands out from simple ego-trips. But for the most part, they're easy targets for observation and empty canvas from where I can make my assessment of how ridiculous this human race can be.

Lola Rose's video from August of 2006 is an interesting mediation on her own opinions of celebs whom she's either come in contact with or heard of through the Los Angeles synthetic grapevine. Seeing it again made me chuckle because it mirrors much of what I think of the people she talks about.

Terrible Books Are Hazardous to your Brain, and Stuff

You know, this book (and its title) can be made into quite the conversation piece.

STELLA and LOUISE, interior, STELLA's posh living room. Chatting about girl's stuff. It should look like a bad John Waters, underground movie scene---cheap and tacky and straight out of the late 50s.

LOUISE: ...dear, dear. I've just finished my book and I can't find ANYTHING that isn't filthy to feast my eyeballs on.

STELLA: Honey---I've got JUST the book for you. Why didn't you tell me sooner?

LOUISE: You mean you have "Confessions of a Shopaholic"?

STELLA: No, no, no! [laughs] You're so silly. I should plant you a kiss if it didn't make me uncomfortable because you know, us post-War women are repressed like that.

LOUISE: [giggles coyly]

STELLA makes a quick gesture, tip-toes to the bookshelf to the rear, plucks a medium-sized book, and hands it to LOUISE who takes in a deep breath of awe.

LOUISE: Omigod! You got---

STELLA: Um-hum. THE book.

LOUISE begins leafing through it, eyes glowing.

STELLA: I tell you, you will not PICK another book. Ever. Not since Cosmopolitan's "How to Have Dinner Ready for your Husband in Five Minutes, Flat" have I been THIS moved to tears. [STELLA makes a gesture with her hands.] This close.

LOUISE: I know! That was a FANTASTIC article. Made me want to be a better housewife.

STELLA: Oh, it's a total masterpiece!

LOUISE: I know! Why, thank you SO much, dear! I always know I can count on you for literary advice whenever I need it!

LOUISE makes a sudden move of affection and gratitude and with no thought whatsoever she kisses STELLA on the lips, lightly like a breeze, her hands on STELLA's shoulders. Both women immediately find themselves very flushed and embarrassed as they for a second look into the others eyes... as if they'd somehow crossed into some uncomfortable level of closeness, and tittering nervously, they retreat to their mega-polite gestures of societal decorum, chit-chatting about feminine topics things for a while, always sitting at a safe distance.

They're Ba-a-a-a-ack!!!

No comment from the peanut gallery.

Just sit back and watch.

After all, it's fucking Pet Shop Boys.

Cake or Death? Lola-Style

I'll never get over Miss Lola Rose's absolutely irreverent and very blunt opinions on, well, anything---she is an excellent observer, and the images that her daughter Jill Abrams captures (even while goading her like crazy) are hilarious in the extreme.

Mah Thingamajingy

As it happens, I got myself a new toy.

Not an escort, or plaything, or even a boy to keep me company and let me do unspeakable things to him, but a real, honest-to-God toy.

And I was so happy I had to express it with total glee on my Facebook page:

"I jes gawt mah new thingamajingy wit all dem keys an' the big ole' winduh! Yee-haah, gosh-dangit! An' it shorre is fay-uster 'en a queerbait runnin' fer his lahf in dem six-inch heels!"


Of course, leave it to my friend Bill to spoil all the fun.

On the phone, the other night:

Ivan: Hey, Red!

Bill: What's goin' on?

Ivan: Not much (...) Oh---I finally got my laptop and I am loving it! It's a SONY VAIO.

Bill: What?? I thought you were going to get a MacBook Pro!

Ivan: I am, I am, in due time. I just didn't like that Mac doesn't offer me Corel WP and I work with that.

[after some playful arguing and technobabble about how much gigabytes, memory, and what-not...]

Bill: You totally wasted your money on that, you shoulda got yourself a Mac. It'll be old and giving you trouble before you know it.

Ivan: I know, I know! God, you're such a bossy bottom! Tell you what---I'll get one in due time, maybe in a couple of months or something. Just for you. I'll call it Bill and it'll stay in a Special Place on my desk.

Bill: [laughs] You're crazy... you don't have to do that.

Ivan: I know, but I will anyway.

Prayer for the Single Guy

Don’t care for a sugar daddy;
Don’t care for a theater queen;
Don’t matter if he’s named Paddy;
Don’t matter if he’s crystal clean.
Don’t want to be tied up between
Strong emotions: that would just suck.
What I’ve said here can only mean
I just want a really good — .

Don’t give a damn if he’s a caddie
Or if his teeth have a sheen;
Or if he’s from Cincinnati;
Or if he’s barely eighteen.
Won’t mind if his dungeon’s pristine
Or if it stinks like a dump truck.
I’d go wild in a leather scene!
I just want a really good — .

If he bites a Peppermint Pattie
Or possesses a manly mien
I’d go positively batty
And towards his body I’d careen.
Indifferent to me it’s been
If his name be John, Dick, or Chuck.
Designer, producer, marine —
I just want a really good — .


L’envoi:

Bring me a stud like Wolverine.
Bring to my life a bright young buck.
Bring to me a milking machine!
I just want a really good — !