The Bad Seed, Redux

I've given up on horror movies for a long time and here's the reason: horror, per se, doesn't truly terrify me.  My recent viewing of Martin Scorcese's laughably bad and strident "Shutter Island" via Netflix proved my point.  However, I've always seen that the real horror lies within people themselves.  I keep wondering whenever I see Paris Hilton and her never changing expression, her blatant exhibition of vapid stupidity, and her Friday brush with the Las Vegas law after being caught with a bag of cocaine in a purse she claims was not her own (even though the contents inside were hers), what does her mother, Kathy Hilton, think?  Does she look at her vagina in the mirror and collapse into a puddle of pee while shaking and shrieking, "How did that gleefully sociopathic monster plop out of me?"

Now that's a horror movie I'd love to watch.

The Good, the Sad, and the Downright Ugly

The month is coming to a close while I relax my ass off in rainy Tampa.  Yep.  No sun for me.  Again.  It never fails: everytime I come here escaping the crazy and the Type-A that is NYC I wind up getting wetter than H2O and the sky always looks as if it had decided to cover itself in blackface, pregnant, ready to deliver the goods.

Even so, it is ending on a good note.  While New York City battles bed bugs, I sit back and read some good ol' porn and imagine myself in a myriad of settings, none which will ever come true because since when does porn equate the spoken truth?

Of course, every so often I have to take a peek at the news channels or other people's blogs to see where the world is spinning.  As I did so, here is what I found:

The Good:

• There seems to be a breakthrough in the fight against AIDs: scientists at the University of Minnesota have come to a belief that "two drugs, decitabine and gemcitabine -- both FDA approved and currently used in pre-cancer and cancer therapy -- were found to eliminate HIV infection in the mouse model by causing the virus to mutate itself to death -- an outcome researchers dubbed "lethal mutagenesis." --  From Science Daily.

I couldn't be more anxious to see where this leads, since I have friends who live with this on a daily basis.  If and when this becomes available for mass consumption, there could very well be a high chance we might see the end of AIDs as we know it.  Fingers crossed.

The Sad:

• When a public figure comes out of the closet it's either a yawn-inducing affair (Ricky Martin) or a surprise (Tom Hardy--although he didn't come out, proper; he expressed an extremely gay-positive attitude, which is more than many have done).  When a politician comes out it's usually a sad event.  Anyone remember NJ Gov. McGreevey (and the Golan Sipel scandal?)  The most recent case is that of Ken Mehlman, a man who on first sight doesn't conjure images of a smoldering, distinguished gentleman but a nasty perv who snakes up behind you on the subway, most likely not to engage you in witty conversation.  Mehlman, for years, backed the RNC's opposition to same-sex marriage; now that he's out, he intends to be an advocate for gay marriage.  That's fine with me, but how can I accept someone's support when for years he's been behind the very same people who decided we were to remain as second-class citizens?

The Ugly:

• Jan Mickelson, an Iowa-based radio talk show host, decided to lend his two cents of hate to the already hate-laden LGBT community.  His pearls of wisdom?  That "homosexuality is intrinsically promiscuous" and AIDs is God's way of punishing homosexuality."

I'm going to go out on a limb here and thank Mickelson for his profound views.  I mean, he talks about "God's law" as if there were a Book on it, published who knows when.  He approaches the disease in a way that spells, "Well, you're a homosexual, you engage in a lifestyle that isn't according to The Law; therefore, you deserve what you get."  Who'd have known?  Certainly not I.  I'm as ign'ant as fuck.

However, I wonder if the woman who caught AIDs while going to the doctor for a simple procedure and therefore also gave it to her baby also qualifies.

Dominican Feminism

For the past 24 hours I've been subject to witness how a Latino household run by "da man" truly works and it's appalling.  Where did feminism go?  Is it a cultural phenomenon that well after women have begun to compete and even excel in salaries and some husbands have resorted to be "stay-at-home-dads" a man can still yell at his complacent wife who works like a horse and has to have dinner served, chop-chop, or risk public humiliation?

If I ever marry an underachieving Latino man who expects to be serviced at the word "go", please, shoot me and make me suffer every bullet I receive.  What a shame I wasn't born female.  I would have probably been as castrating as they come.  But who am I to talk.  I'll just pretend it isn't me, and marvel that it isn't me.  Because I have a knack for boiling water until it's a darling shade of champagne bubbly and at the slightest provocation, oh, perhaps I'd pour it right on the fucker's face.  And claim temporary insanity.  Happy endings all around!

I'd be applauded.  Cue Chicago's "Cell Block Tango" to "he had it coming."

Swoon - Chemical Brothers

Chemical Brothers.  You've heard of them.  They were ubiquitous over 15 years ago and somehow often confused with Propellerheads, The Crystal Method, or even Prodigy.  You couldn't un-listen to them.  They made electronica "cool", "not gay", something fratboys could bang their heads to without wimping out.  I was one who reveled in their Big Beat sound---the growling, percolating drums, the squelching bleeps and hoots.  It was a masculine sound, huge, epic.  The songs were branded in my mind: Block Rockin' Beats, Setting Sun, Let Forever Be, Out of Control.  Even a relatively slower song like Galvanize, with its nods to ther uber-chilled Thievery Corporation had its teeth firmly planted in the street.

Somehow they faded.  The Aughties brought Disco House, Chill-Out, and Electroclash, which is fine with me.  Big Beat was a 90s phase and didn't seem to have room for Chemical Brothers.

And then, just when I thought electronic music was beginning to sound somewhat... eh, I'm suddenly reminded that the genre has enormous, boundless energy and hat-tricks even when it can recycle itself over and over.  The song I'm going to write about isn't probably going to cause a massive dent in the dance charts this side of the pond and it's been out since late May, fluttering in the lower parts of the UK Top 100.  However, it packs an emotional wallop.  That's a lot to say of a band that's not known for soft, dreamy dance tunes.

Swoon.  The term points at "to be overwhelmed by a sense of joy."  It's the name of their newest song on their newest album Further, a cross between Dream and Progressive Trance with hints of breaks and acid squelches here and there.  It starts rather plainly, but builds in crescendo, tension escalating, needing release as the chorus---"just remember to fall in love/there's nothing else/there's nothing else" repeats itself like a mantra.  Nowhere can you capture its feeling of sheer ecstasy than in its accompanying video, where the silhouette of a girl and a boy escape what seems to be a world going crazy and fall into each others' arms.  It's a stroke of true beauty, soft, nothing like their previous work, ethereal and simple in its affirmation of love.  After all, that is what swoon is about: a surrender to pure nirvana.


The Chemical Brothers - Swoon
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Objects in the Rearview Mirror

The perils of online dating.  Who can say they haven't had this Jack-in-the-box pounce on them?

Hair-rotica at the Barbershop

After years of being in a DIY mode, returning to your local barbershop to get a military cut is one of the most erotic experiences a man can have.  And to think I used to hate that sound of the buzzer, the way it put me to sleep, the hair on my nose making me sneeze, the scent of talc.  Hence why I did it all myself.  Much like masturbation, this was a project best done by me.  

However, I think I may have just discovered a new scene.  I just realized how it feels to get your head fucked.  And not a drop of bodily fluids exchanged... but I almost fell right over the ledge.  Doesn't matter if he's your type or not, he just has to have hands, and a way with tools.  Totally safe.

The Harsh Reality

Perhaps it might be because she has an STD?

Muscleheadz: A Hate Letter

I think it's official: I'm always, for better or worse, going to have a love-hate relationship with bodybuilders.  Now please don't get me wrong; not all of them are steroid-dependent, empty-headed, emotionally fragile, narcissistic, attention-seeking, applause-craving muscleheadz drenched in an inferiority complex only a skilled team of psychologists hired to analyze even the most intricate personality misfires can comprehend under a microscope and analyze in multiple sessions.  Of that I'm certain.  I know some who while they have lifted and sculpted their physiques, they do so to inspire others, and don't make a beef meringue out of it.

("Follow me, fellow readers and Facebook e-friends!  Look at my mah-velous progress!  I'm 6 weeks out, and getting le-e-eaner!  I'm so tan I look like generic furniture or a completely different race!  Yay for me!")

However, when you have to read daily blog entries/notes of a competitive bodybuilder's progress and see pictures that essentially look the same unless you have an impossible attention to detail or the Hubble telescope at hand, you begin to wonder.  How fascinating can it be to read a person's blasting of their biceps to the beat of some Heavy Metal song I could never get into?  Even if you were a renowned competitor, following and complimenting with "oohs" and "aahs", an action I suspect goes with one hand firmly stroking an erect cock while the other types is about as fruitless as watching an episode of the Jersey Shore and making heads or tails of it.  And that's an exercise in visual irony in itself: that guys that muscular, that tanned, and that coiffed are in fact, the living image of self-promotion that has stupidity writ large over their greasy heads like some Broadway marquee.  I'd much rather watch Blue Blake's muscle-studs going at it.  At least they're doing something I can relate to: porking with a lot of nasty thrown in.

In short, I do love muscular men.  Just not the aberrations that their non-personalities tend to display.  Find me a guy who has presence, enormous depth of self, is distinguished, successful and sports the rugged body to accompany it and I'll give you my complete surrender.  Until then?

Meh.  Next.  My booted foot squashing a bug, and by that I mean a bug.  On purpose.  Over and over again.  'Cos I'm just lovely that way.  I can live with myself.  I've never missed a night's sleep.

Dilemma

No comment from the peanut gallery.  I'm sure to get tomatoes thrown at me for this one.  Note, I'm more on the excesses of bodybuilding than anything else.

Anticipation

His eyes conveyed the yes that I needed, the affirmation that the geography of his twin, nippled pectorals were in fact, ripe for the sucking, glistening with anticipation, a clang of chocolate aching with need and breathing, to and fro, to and fro.  His hand, hiding the delectable cock under a shy grasp, making it stand out even more as I studied the moment when I would leap onto him, sink into his mouth, and take him all the way inside as if I were accepting the body of Christ in one febrile gulp.

The Pen is Mightier Than the....

During the early part of this year I was embroiled in a situation with a former female acquaintance of mine who went from being one of my closest (online) friends to a full-blown frenemy for no tangible reason.  Of course, leave it to me to have online acquaintances, and shame on me as well, but I know better.  Now, because I'm a darling, I decided to use her quirks and our fall-out as a means of humorous creativity.

Because I write about everything.  Yes, everything---my miseries, my embarrassments, or any crazy event that I happen to be a witness to.  If it somehow involves me, even on a passive, visual level, I'll write about it.

And make it funny.

Well, well!  Didn't that stir up the pot!  And I wasn't even remotely referencing her by name!  I could be writing about Beulah the Cow or Olive Oyl; she saw it as an affront, a personal attack, a campaign of harassment against women, and stated I soon would find myself at the other end of a subpoena and a lawsuit.  Neither came, not surprisingly, she drifted off into Never-never-land, and I have soldiered forward.  And yes, I continue to write, and write, and write.  About people, places, things.  About you.  Yes, you.  [Provided I know you enough and in person and think you might make it a delightful character.]

See, if you were the bully in my High School, I'm gonna write a story about a homophobe who twenty years later succumbs to a gay tryst.  And gets it in the rear.

If you were a former female fag-hag who went Queen Bee on me, you're going to be

• the bitchy queen whose body was found in the ravine and probably had it coming
• a mother of 6 with a sloppy husband living in the backwaters and a hell of a life
• a druggie
• a grotesque caricature
• a woman married to a beard who finds out in the most unsavory of ways her dreamboat is queer
• an unassuming virgin who gets unknowingly involved with the occult and gives birth to something rather odd.

See how that works?  Anyone who writes does so about topics he knows.  If I met someone who gave me hell... or just was uncooperative in any way shape or form, he or she will most likely show up as a person who gets a nasty comeuppance.  There is nothing anyone can do about that.

And even if I do use a name of a real-life person... as long as there's that disclaimer's note explaining that any similarity between these characters and real-life people is purely coincidental is my defense.


However there's a cute lil' article I just read on the WSJ that goes to great lengths to describe how TV writers are a force to be reckoned with nowadays.

Tea, Sympathy, and Dr. Laura

"Hello?  Is this Dr. Laura?  Oh, good... I'm in need of five uncomfortable minutes of verbal abuse and I happen to be of an ethnicity that you'd have a field day with.  Could you kindly and with great care, enunciate that unmentionable word to me in seven different shades of intolerable and a notch just above 'I'ma slap yo' hateful sef right the fuck in?'  Oh, good.  That would be just lovely, especially coming from you.  Why, yes, certainly.  I'm a bona fide _____, born and bred.  The thing is, I just need some reassurance that my kind is still looked down upon by people of your ilk.  You know the deal: one can never not be reminded enough.  Stick that dagger in one more time.  You're such a pro.  God Bless America, and you!"

Smoldering Ennui

As I float under the hot Florida winds all I can conjure up are images of a perfect sculpture lazily taunting me with the opportunity to procure a moment of queer bliss.

Disclaimer's note: I do not claim ownership of this (or any future) image... and will be more than happy to remove them from this entry if prompted to do so.

When a Mosque is a Mask of Trouble

So apparently, the use of the term "Ground Zero Mosque" is 'inappropriate'.  The correct terminology should be that the mosque isn't at Ground Zero, but near Ground Zero.

Doesn't matter to me or any self-respecting New Yorker, two blocks away means it's too close for comfort.  It's in the vicinity, which makes it Ground Zero by default.  New York blocks are tiny (it's the blocks between avenues that are long once you go up past 14th Street), and the farther south you go, the smaller they get.

What does Feisal Abdul Rauf get by imposing this vanity project?  Sure, he might be of a very 'liberal' Sufist---itself a section of Islam---but that doesn't change the fact of the stab going into a wound that has still not healed, that still spouts the blood of the dead ten years later.

And while Our President might be all smooth with contentment and political correctness in that Muslims have their right to have their own worship center, it flies against the face of what we experienced years earlier and will open the floodgates of a wave of intolerance.  Not the opposite.

So, could it please be relocated someplace else?  Like the Bronx?  Anyplace but at the former Burlington Coat Factory.

Yes, it's too soon.  No, this is not the way to "reach out" and "forgive."

Thank you.

Definition of the Superego

Words are useless. Especially sentences. They don't stand for anything.

How can they explain how I feel?

Bliss: to embrace the hands of Death and feel His cold lips enfold me, destroy me, fill me with the power of destruction and rebirth that I am. Because I am, even as I die and return, always. A Scorpio to the fullest. Implacable and alive under a placid, dreamy exterior. Rose petals filled with tiny daggers that can either Kiss You or Stab You. Or both. Just because. Rhyme or reason was never my strength. I'm always traveling through the arms of unconsciousness. Even when I am awake. I am The Fool. Sadism and Masochism in a loving embrace.

"And all that you ever learned... try to forget. I'll never explain again."

Bedtime Story

Madonna | MySpace Music Videos

An Invitation to the Dance: Madonna Turns 52.

Who would have thought that this tiny singer would be the Original Little Monster we know to-day as Madonna, or Madge?  I was 12 when this song came around and I thought she was black and looked like Stacy Lattisaw.  Little did I---and we---know that she'd soon, like to-day's Lady GaGa, take the world by storm, stir controversy after controversy without a care in the world and revolutionize the presentation that involves a female pop singer.

And she's now, 52, doing fine, thank you very much.  Five, two.  Not many pop singers can still create sensation at that age with just their existing, unless you're Cher, but that's another article.  Follow her, you bitches---she's the First.  Pop's answer to Bette Davis or Meryl Streep.  Timeless and eternal.

Here is the ORIGINAL "Just Dance":

Madonna - Everybody [Video]
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Social Ineptitude, Observed

If I ever type as a status update the following sentence...

“Morning all – good night, all”

...in any way shape or variant, please shoot me. But do pay attention to pain, suffering, degradation, and finally, an ignoble death. Because I deserve it. Or just cross the street and pretend you don't know me and once you've walked past and you find yourself in a safe zone, swing an empty bottle and see if you can hit X marks the spot, i. e. my head. Score!


Where did reality become blurred? I recall joining the internet in the mid-90s and yes, I was innocent, I at first believed the chats with “hot guys”---whether they had pictures or not---was real. However, with social networking sites running rampant, it seems that some people have taken this to be an extended version of their own selves. A virtual mirror, if you will. Me? Probably. I’m not above typing crazy tweets in order to elicit a reaction. In a way they do paint a version of me, true.


But to take it to a level of “Hello Facebook family”?


Now, that’s absurd. And you need to tone it down a notch. I don't need to know you had "oatmeal for lunch". It doesn't make you "quirky."


It makes you a complete idiot.

The Sun Always Shines When You're Blind

You go, girl!  Have another mimosa!  You go meet up with that dashing fella who swept you off your heels at 21 Club and filled your head with all them half-truths!  And please, protection?  Why dear, it's simply not fashionable to use any so carry on and go out with a bang!  And after all, he'll be there for you, always!  Especially in those dark and stormy nights when you need reassurance the most and lil' Tom, Mo, and Harry are bawling their eyes out and asking where did Daddy go!

The Senator's Apprentice

Recently Sen. Paul Koering of a far, far away land called Min-neh-soh-tah took a porn star of the dubious name Brandon Wilde to dinner.  It cost him his seat.  I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that perhaps it wasn't the smartest move in his political chess game?  Then again, perhaps he had altruistic motives unrelated to possible, alleged porking and an exchange of greens.

After all, twinks are notoriously thin.  Someone has to feed them!

Disclaimer's Note:  Brandon Wilde bears no relation to former Hollywood actor and now dead person Brandon de Wilde.  Although the resemblance is slightly uncanny.  Perhaps this is a reincarnation and de Wilde decided to, um... further his acting abilities but concentrate it in his tunnel of love?  "Shane" on you, indeed.

Brandon de Wilde in The Sorceror's Apprentice.

Diggin Your Grave With Your Teeth

I have no say in this one: but Palin's foot-in-mouth contortionist act just keeps getting better, and deeper. I wonder how far down her trachea her leg is, though. Must be really hard on her body.

Transcript by Shannyn Moore of the Huffington Post:

Palin: ....like how? What’s up?

Kathleen: You swore on your precious Bible that you would uphold the interests of this state, and then when cash was waved in front of your face, you quit.

Palin: OH, you WANTED me to be your governor! I’m honored! Thank you!

Kathleen: I wanted you to honor your responsibilities. That is what I wanted. I wanted you to be part of the political process instead of becoming a celebrity so that you could (inaudible). And if that’s the best you could do, then good for you. If that’s the best you could do.

Palin: Here’s the deal. Here’s the deal. (inaudible) That’s what I’m out there fightin’ for Americans to be able to have a Constitution protected so that we can have free speech…And ALSO there…

Kathleen: In what way are you fighting for that?

Palin: Oh my goodness!

Kathleen: In what way?

Palin: To elect candidates who understand the Constitution, to protect our military interests so that we can keep on fightin’ for our constitution that will protect some of the freedoms that evidently are important to you too.

Kathleen: By using your celebrity status, certainly not by political status.

Palin Daughter: How is she a celebrity? That’s my question.

Palin: I’m honored! No, she thinks I’m a celebrity!

Palin Daughter: That’s funny that you think she is.

Kathleen: Well, you’re certainly not representing the state of Alaska any longer…even though…

Palin Daughter: She’s representing United States?

Kathleen: Yes, I know. You belong to America now, and that suits me just fine. Yeah.

Palin: What do you do here?

Kathleen: I’m a teacher

Palin: Oh. (Eye roll and protracted grimace)

Palin Daughter: Oh.

Kathleen: I also have a few other jobs. I’m married to a commercial fisherman. And so I fish.

Palin: Oh that’s cool. So am I! I married to-we probably have a lot in common!

Kathleen: Yeah. You know, I think that we do.

Palin: Hi! (waves to camera) Are we on video?

Kathleen: Too bad. I’m more of a still camera girl myself. (inaudible) I am, I am…I will tell you I’m very pleased to meet you.

Palin: I’m honored to meet you, I really am. And, no we both agree on the freedom of speech and the-

Kathleen: Yes we do.

Palin: you know – the protection of that. So, um, no I and, you know… best of everything to you too and... yeah.

Kathleen: Thank you for coming over.

Palin: Well, okay. It’s nice to meet you anyway.

Never Provoke a Queen

The other day I posted a little status update--the equivalent of a Twitter mini-blog--on Facebook.  Here it goes, and the ensuing little exchange of comments after. Names have been replaced with initials, and I of course, am Me.  Always.

 

All I have to say about Steven Slater, the flight attendant who went out with a cunty bang!, is that he shouldn't have let his moobs show.  Always keep a little dignity when getting arrested. Has anyone noticed he looks quite a bit like the flamboyant actor in "Airplane"?

 

A:  "I speak jive!"

Me:   "They have a sale at Penny's!!"

A:  "I can make a paper hat, a pterodactyl..."

Me:  I dunno, I'm kinda turned on that Slater beat the shit out of the schmuck who couldn't WAIT til the plane was fully in flight to get his bag. Sometimes the passengers can drive a flight attendant batshit insane.  Although nothing compares to McNugget woman.  Or Sarah Palin getting her ass kicked by the Alaskan dyke who said she was ashamed of her as a former governor.  Oh, I am in total heaven.... who needs a man to pork when I have all this beef to eat?  I have so much material to write about tonight... It's gonna be an orgy of words for me the second I get home!

A:  Can't wait to see what u wrote....u know, maybe Dr Phil could help the Palins?

Me:  Oh I don't want Palin to get help.  She exists for one reason: to provide the public, her adoring fans, cheap, loud laughs. We all must do our duty and come 2012 throw shoes at her by the bucketful as she garbles her way through a butchered English only she and wild animals in the Yukon can understand.

A:  She's like Dubya; she makes it TOO easy!

Me:  And we who can actually formulate complete sentences filled with thought make her stupid look like art.

A:  Oh My Gawd! You are so right!  I just noticed!  He does look like the guy in "Airplane"!!

Me:  See?  I was right.  Moral of the story?  Never mess with an angry queen.  She will spit you right in the eye.

Behold the Female Amazon

I'd  hate to see a full frontal.  Engorged labia majora, anyone?

Helen Hunt looks like she's suffocating underneath all that mus-Q-larity. Breathe, Helen! Breathe! We need you for Twister 2!

Lights, Camera, Action

If you suddenly experience an urge to curse and berate the crap out of the Pakistani, Nigerian, or dubiously legal Mexican (essentially, a non-Anglo) server who happens to sport a thick accent reminiscent of a cat viciously humping an un-sexy hyena, and you send him or her (or, if you're in San Fran, "herm") into a frantic tizzy, please do film it. The public eye demands it. You'll be a virtual hit on HLN, a channel where the important news often gets sidelined by an incessant ticker tape focusing on the most banal of things and where a blond newscaster pretends to describe the action with practiced gestures of sheer surprise.

She's Gotta Have It -- The Perils of McNugget Woman, Ohio Native

I think if Chris Crocker was a real woman, this is how he'd look like.  Judging from how far he's denied his masculinity or any sense of dignity, he's not really that far down the pike from this.

Hmm... I'm hella hungry.  All dat weed I been smokin' got me wit da munchies, know what I'm sayin'?  Dats all we do here in dis state of Ohio, yanno?  Smoke weed and git bored.  Now I sho' is hungry.  I gotta git me some food, man.  Yeah, let me get me some grub.  Gotta get some grub.  Some grub for me, yeah-yeah!  Ooh, dere's da Mcdonald's.  Ooh yeah, dat'll do just nicely.  Lemme pull up an' see what dis bitch got.  Hey.  Hey, you.  Yeah, you!  I'd like some McNuggets. No? What you mean, no?  It's six o'clock, bitch!  I want an order of McNuggets.  Come on, man, can't an Ohio gurl get a break?  I want a chicken McNuggets an' I want it NOW.  Yeah.  Um-hum.  Yeah, you heard me, don't act like you din't hear me, bitch.  What you mean breakfast?  I don't want no Egg MacMuffin!  Listen.  Lissen up!  Hey!  Can you read da words dat are comin' from my mouf?  Mac-Nug-gets.  Got it?  Eh?  Eh?  Lissen, you betta give me mah McNuggets or I'ma raise some hell, yo!  HEY!  You goddamn motharfuckin', job-stealin', dirty wetback, you!  Come back here!  Don't you ignore me, ya fucken' beaner!  I!  Want!  Mah!  McNuggets!!  Oh, don't you close dat winduh on me!  Oh, hell no!  Fuck dis---I'ma break thru the window!!!!

And this concludes another episode of "Normal, Ohio".

Anatomy of a Quickie

I'm just a fruit looking for his juicer

Never Fear, The Weather Gurl is Here

Gotta love commitment to your job! Stephanie Abrams got stuck in an elevator at 30 Rock en route to her morning weather broadcast. That didn't stop her: she gave the weather report from within like nothing had happened.  After all--the show must go on.

You can check out the crazy-funny video here.

From Boulders to Pebbles

I'm a living contradiction.  I just posted about 'bigger is better' and disclosed my undying love for all things Viking.  Just as I concluded my last post a video of a 19 year old bodybuilder called 'Stefano' popped on my subscription's page.  He's got the dark blond looks I pant for and is sporting a chiseled physique that could cut your eyeballs out of their sockets from the way every muscle stands out, sharp as ginza knives.  He makes me want to consider Daddy-dom.  And why not, I'll be 40, soon . . . . 

Spare the shrill handbag trance from Basshunter and let the images roll.

A Week in the Life

He makes me want to move to where the BIG men are.

So let's see.

This week's events leading up to tonight.  What did Mother Earth and the Goddess bring me?

MONDAY:

A whole lotta baggage, but that's the usual.  Mondays aren't exactly known for being days when I'm in a delightful mood.  Just so you know, Reader.  Momma can show her teeth and growl.  And Momma sho' nuff did.  'Cuz people did not co-operate, know what I'm sayin'?  People made her 2-Xist shorts cramp and crawl right up to where the cherry puckers and, well, don't we know what that means.

So I busted out four and a half hours early and decided I needed to get my hands full of a little happy.  At Jos. A. Bank.  A well-dressed faggot is a faggot you must observe, and admire.  Especially when he carries clothes well, and every curve is a flawless stroke of genius.

TUESDAY:

Humid.  Hot.  When will it end?  Will a chunk of glacier just, oh, snap right out of Antartica and head this way?  Why can't I be in Norway, or Sweden?  Those Vikings are so civilized.  And they make great furniture.  And darling strongmen.  Magnus, here I come!  You sexy-beast you!

WEDNESDAY:

Wow: so we finally got it.  We finally cracked that egg, fertilized it, and spawned a trillion dreams come true.  Thank you, Ted Olson.  Thank you, David Boies.  This is people working with people.  Putting political differences aside.  Working towards One Goal.  Thank you from the bottom of my loveless heart.

THURSDAY:

When you've worked your shoulders to a point where you literally cannot raise your arm past a 45 degree angle you know they're bound to look huge.  And in my world, bigger is better.  As is masculine.

FRIDAY:

Revisting Margaret Cho, in preparation for her upcoming performance at the Wellmont.  Yo go, girl!  You are BEAUTIFUL, and we are CHO DEPENDENT!

SATURDAY:

Chilled-out on overdrive, drunk on AIR and Zero 7, hyperactive fingers, porn on my mind.  Writing my life away.  Editing.  While sitting on a butt-plug.  Thank you, Mr S Leather!  Those Kegel movements sure will come in handy when I decided to put out like the inner slut I am!  Make me a hero!  Gosh, erotica is so HARD to write about without drifting. . . .

Porn-mouth With a Happy Ending

This is not a mathematical equation.

He Loves Me - He Loves Me Not?

There's a certain kind of perversity in listening to certain kinds of songs.  Rap, while a legit genre in itself, seems to spawn a cluster of [male] artists that have a profound hatred of anything with a vagina.  Personally, I don't crave vaginas, but I don't bash them, either.  Now with some rappers, I don't know if it's a deep-seated homoeroticism that remains constantly on the DL and never materializes for fear of "scrutiny", but whatever it may be, it's off-putting.  It's the sole reason I can't get into the genre without a hazmat outfit and hope for the best.

I was at lunch earlier this week when I heard Eminem's ear-rape "Love The Way You Lie".  Thankfully, I was having a grilled chicken Caesar salad so the sound didn't curdle my food and turn it into an obscenity in my stomach.  I stopped, decided I wanted to hear the lyrics, see if there was anything worthwhile . . . and there it was.  His trademark anger.  His schizophrenic lyrics seething with "I love you - I hate you" intonations.  And Rihanna, a guest performer, singing the masochistic chorus, reaffirming a misogynist's dream.

I concluded after a minute or two that it was, after all, apropos for Rihanna to sing to Eminem's song considering her acquaintance to Chris Brown's fist in her face.  There are some women who yearn for that even when it might mean wearing Jackie O sunglasses and repeating to themselves that he'll change, he'll change, he still loves me, he'll come around for me and the baby—

Whap!

Er, maybe not.  But I do love the way you lie.  Don't I?

PS - Do women really listen to this?  I'd love to know.  No, really.  Oh, and that last sentence was a literary exercise in stream of consciousness.  Gotta love those disclaimer's notes.

The Pregnant Pause

Who hasn't been in this kind of predicament?  You decided you simply had to go and this was at Smith and Wollensky's, a place not known for white trash.  You race to the little closet space of a bathroom, barricade yourself in the nearest stall, rip your pants (or skirt) clear off, sit on the toilet seat, sweating, manic, eyes ablaze, your breath coming in stitches and the shivers dancing over your spine like gentle fingers over a harp, and as you're about to say "TIM-BURRRR!!!"---

---in walks someone as desperate as you are.  And sits there.  And sits there.  And... sits... there....


There's that part of you that says "oh what the hell, this is New York after all, who hasn't been in that situation?  Might as well let the mighty Krakatoa do its work."  But that sneaking little voice creeps inside you and says, "What will they think?  You'll be the laughing stock of ___.... You'll be known as "Poop and Circumstance."  Your sonar emissions will be compared to an over-the-top Wagnerian opera.  Just smellier, with a hint of paprika and A1.  Oh, this can't do.  It mustn't do.

The pause, becoming pregnant, deafening, eternal.  Two people about to give birth, hanging on for dear life to their... well.  You know.  

I wonder if eventually they mightn't have engaged in a conversation based solely on their bowel movements.  Rectal flirtation, anyone?