I’m only putting this up and pretending it’s a post because I have been such a laggard in posting anything. Plus it was banned! How scandalous. Plus, despite WordPress insisting on dating this as Nov. 1, I put it in on Halloween, so it’s timely.
As an American person of America, a couple of times a year, I will be in the grocery store and suddenly decide I have to have a hotdog. There I am, faced with packages of meat tubes. Their excessively phallic nature immediately calls to my smutty hind brain which responds gleefully
while my responsible conscious shrieks “No, no, stop that. That is not what is in that wrapper. All that is in there is some pink thing that has somehow managed to qualify as “Meat,” and sodium by the bucket, chemicals I can’t even spell, and grief, sorrow and remorse.” Somehow, the hot dogs wind up as dinner that very evening and now the grief, sorrow, remorse and heartburn have all kicked in.
What is it with these nasty skinlesss sausages? Isn’t that phrase in itself enough to make one turn aside? But I remember loving them as a stupid small child, and thus I need to be retaught, a few times annually, that they are to food as Miley Cyrus is to singing. Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go knock back the traditional post-hot dog quaff: Alka Seltzer.
And so tomorrow I’m going to the doctor to discuss how both of my rotator cuffs have suddenly decided they want some of the attention my scoliotic bad back has been hogging for all these years and have abruptly started aching and restricting some range of motion, including no longer being able to point at the place on my back where the pain is centered. Who would have thought bones had a sense of irony? My joints have declared war on each other.
And Tom Petty died, Since 1981 when I stumbled across his album Damn the Torpedoes, he was always one of my favorites. He made his own music that I loved. I was so poor at the time, I cleaned houses for a semi-living, eatng my employers’ peanut butter and dancing to this album at full blast when I should have been vacuuuming. Some how David Bowie’s and Prince’s death failed to strike me the way this did. Just one more milestone to remind me I’m old. I mean, give me a small break, it’s not like I’m going to forget it.
So, after cleaning up all the scrapes and scraps and cuts and bits that came from my fight with the garden, I tried to be extra conscientious about keeping it clean and sterilized and, of course, it took about a day and a half to get infected. I wound up on antibiotics that I finished yesterday, yay, with only puking once. Any prescription that ends in “…xin” is guaranteed to do a job on my delicate stomach. So that’s over, I’m guzzling yogurt to replace all the flora and fauna that the meds killed off in my gut and things will be great very soon.
In the meantime, let us turn our attention to a much more appealing topic, the ever popular Muscle Pussy. I always try to include some example of it in my posts because 1) it amuses me and 2) there is so much of it available now through the magic of the internet. When I was a young poof, I could never have dreamed of a day when there was such a wealth of beefcake spread out before us.
Usually, I just paste up some taut skinned youth and don’t really discuss it, but today I have to protest this beauty’s tragic choice of body adornment, or “ink” as the youth of today would have it.
Look at that flawless, smooth, clear, satiny skin, tagged with the stupidest array of strip mall tattoo parlor art I’ve ever seen. It looks like he just wandered in between his shifts at the Olive Garden and had them slap on whatever they had time to finish before he had to get back to work.
Oddly enough, considering what an old codger I am, I don’t mind tattoos in general, but if you’re going to cover a lot of ground with them, there should be some idea or concept that pulls them together in a cohesive style. You know this boy, on the other hand, doubtless has Bart Simpson in there somewhere. “Molly.” Really? What happens when Molly decides she’s a lesbian after all and dumps you and your beautiful tits? And “1994”? I remember 1994, sort of, what about it? I know, it’s probably when he was born, which makes having this much numbnuts stupid tats just that much worse. I can’t get over how lovely his skin is. It’s like he has no pores. To cover any of it seems like a waste.
Then we have this boy, with a much more discreet and attractive… something. And I’m talking about the tattoo, by the way. I don’t know, is it backwards? So he can read it while he admires his big, fat man piece in the mirror? Is it “This end up” in latin? Who knows? And leopard skin hair! I haven’t seen leopard skin hair since I was a gay young thing. And that was a long time ago.
And this last boy just because I thought he was pretty and had such lovely eyes.
All these came courtesy of the fascinating tumblr site Sparticus 2000 . I cannot recommend cruising around there enough.
Everyone who is even an occasional gardener knows that, inevitably, the garden fights back. One goes into this with vague images of looking like Scarlet O’Hara surrounded by her delicately scented vale. Then you run into the reality that the only scarlet is supplied by the bloody gash you have.
Which of course brings us to yesterday. My gardener, Z, was here and we were standing in the middle of the yard discussing what is a weed and what is a fortuitous invader (the distinction can be difficult) when, all of a sudden, I was falling. I assume I shifted my weight and the terrain, steep, rocky, and very uncertain of foot did the rest. I have no real idea what started the whole thing; one minute I was upright, the next I was a small avalanche.
Anyway, once I fell I started to roll and bounce the rest of the way. I came to rest wedged against a tree fern. Never have I been so glad to see a tree fern.
Z was very concerned and helped me to my feet, which was no small task. I was sort of between two beds and not terribly accessible, plus I was shaken. And stirred. In the words of Warren Zevon, the yard “really worked me over good … /Sort of like a Waring blender.”
Fortunately, I was wearing long pants and along sleeved shirt, but I was still a bloody mess. A collection of cuts and scratches and a couple of big-ish places where the top layer of skin was scraped back and all manner of garden debris shoved up under the remaining skin. I was a mess.
Super Agent Fred was at hand, luckily, and able to help with the bandaging. Fred is sort of living here now and I realized how nice it is to have someone beside the cat around during these crises.
Now, of course, the worse ache has dropped by. I woke up with the distinct impression that several Trolls had beaten me with their collection of hammers. So I’m signing off now to go find the opiate and the valium and my bed.
Once again, the garden wins.
I been trying to scrape up the energy to post something, but energy seems to be thin on the ground these days. Mostly, it’s hot. I know my readers everywhere but here have been dealing with the atmosphere turning into something like a slow roasting oven, but this is San Francisco! We do not do hot weather. It is an outrage. Records all over the place being broken, with temperatures over 100, which is something in Celsius, who knows? It is fucking hot, how’s that?
My house has no air conditioning, which is pretty much never a problem, except when it is. Like now. How I hate to climb into a bed with the sheets already warm. And only a sad fan huffing hot air around like that helps.
Last night, in the middle of sweating and being grouchy, I suddenly smelled smoke. Wildfires are all around us and smoke has been kind of a background scent for weeks, but this was, suddenly, much stronger and getting more pungent fast. More neighbors and I gathered in the street in this vague sort of way, asking each other “Do you smell smoke?” I think if I had announced “No, I do not” in a firm voice, everyone would have just said “Oh, great. Thanks” and wandered back home. Instead, I said, I was calling the Fire Department. There was a sense of great relief. Turns out no one wants to be the one to deal with bureaucracy, but I worked for the government my whole career. Bureaucracy is my home turf.
So I called and the emergency operator was incredibly chill. Speaking with her was like tuning into the Mellow Jam Hour. Eventually the firetrucks rolled in, one on each end of the street, cause apparently someone else called and one end of the my street is one fire station and the other end is another. Fine with me, they were as cute as the cliché. When you apply to be a firefighter, do you have to send in a headshot?
The tromped through my house, complimented me on both my decorating and my garden (this is so San Francisco) and poked around in the brush that fills the canyon behind me. We all agreed, yes, you could smell the smoke (which made me feel better; at least I’m not crazy in that general direction,) the short cute one said “It doesn’t smell like a brush fire, it’s too sweet.” “Like cedar” I said and he agreed with charming enthusiasm. If it got any more gay cozy, we were all going to have to plan brunch.
We went back out front and the truck from the alien firehouse came down to chat with their fire man buddies (probably planning brunch) and eventually toddled on off. The smoke faded, still with no cause, and the cat and I went back to watching porn.
The hot weather finally broke around dawn, but the huge fire down in Los Angeles has already made its way up here and is making my eyes burn and my sinuses dribble down my throat. I’m slowly drowning in my own snot.
On to more weather news, but this without humpy firemen. My father, my remaining brother, 5 of my nephews andneices and their nigh countless children, all still live in Houston, where a no-big-deal hurricane hit late last week and then stalled and dumped an astonishing flood. More than 50 inches in one day. San Francisco’s annual rainfall average is less than 24 inches.
My brother and I have been texting, him airily assuring me everything’s fine, which is what everyone in my family says right up to the point when they have to scramble out of the kitchen window to escape. When I was in high school, the morning I was supposed to leave on our senior trip, our neighborhood was so flooded, my neighbor and classmate Stephanie and I were ferried out in a National Guard truck. We made quite an entrance at school that day. And then Stephanie and I went off to the beach for the weekend, leaving our mothers behind to cope. But they were tough old Texas gals, didn’t bother them. Probably glad to be rid of us, they spent the day drinking beer and watching to see if their houses were going to flood. The houses didn’t, but they did run out of beer and so they talked the National Guard guys into giving them a ride to the liquor store.
Now that, motherfuckers, is Texas.
The refrigerator started making an ominous thumping noise a few days ago like the bass line from the trailer for a bad science-fiction movie. Two days later it was colder outside than in. Our old plumber had died. Thats how long we’e lived here, we have outlived our service guys, so I had to find a new one. I had one in mind like this:
But he answered the phone with a dense Russian accent, so I had to adjust my fantasy pipe layer to something more like this:
He came out and said the freezer drain and gotten plugged and turned the bottom of the freezer into an ice berg. A thaw, an extra copper wire to heat the drainpipe more effectively. and a couple of hundred bucks. Do I really have to mention he did not look like any of these Slavic dreamboats? Amazingly, at least I didn’t have to buy a new refrigerator.
I love my house, but I hate taking care of it. There is a constant sense that I should be doing more and since my daily schedule is rather relaxed.
I suppose it’s not exactly The Impossible Dream.
So when my tub began draining slowly (and for a boy raised in the swamps to notice means the water is REALLY leisurely on its exit,) I decided to fix it myself. It helped my confidence that I had done this before. The seal is actually a small bucket shaped thingy (wittily called “a bucket.”) that hangs from two brass rods that connect to the back of the plate that holds the little switch.
I got the bucket and wires, took the bathtub drain apart, with a great deal of assistance from the cat, and found out, naturellement, I had gotten the wrong part. It’s not the bucket, its the lever the bucker connects to. I hd simply allowed myself to be swayed by the dream that a plumbing device was called a bucket. On the bright side, the wee little bucket is just the right size for the Barbie Doll Diorama I’m still planning on creating.
You know what I adore?
The pink nipples on redheads. Especially those that have perfected that “Wounded Fawn” expression. Possibly it’s a lack of expression, whatever.
Also, Saki has taken to walking on the keyboard to explain his disapproval of me not attending to my chin scratching duties. And then he bites me.
Super Agent Fred and I ran into some old chums who were showing some out-of-towners the sights. Or is it “sites?” Anyway, one of them turned out to work at the Dept. of State so she and I were talking about the hilarities of government employment. After they toddled off, I realized she had not been born when I started working for the Small Business Administration and that lots of the points I referred to are ancient history to her.
Not all of them, of course, the main one being how odd it is to work in a federal agency during an election. We were supposed to be strictly apolitical, but the heads of all the agencies are appointed by the President and so the push to make all our accomplishments that much more bright and shiny was not terribly subtle. Also, since SBA had an inordinate number of political appointees, every time the administration changed, so did most of the jobs all the way down to right above my head. My what fun, watching the fatter cats sweat, knowing they were likely soon to be looking for some other cushy job.
Anyway, it was interesting gassing on about the old days to some puppy who must have mostly wondered “What the fuck?” Well, she’ll learn. I certainly did.
Meanwhile I’m going to go look for some redheads.
Saturday June 22 will be the funeral of Jim French. I’m sure a big chunk of my readers know this and also know who Jim French is. What he was was simply the best erotic photographer, ever. Ever.
He started a called a business called “Colt Studios” in 1967. The Post Office had recently lifted the ban on sending pictures of hard dicks through the mail. French was a man in the right time.
Before him, gay smut was black and white with whatever trashy hustler/rent boy the photographer scraped up that day. French shook all that up. His early work is klutzy, understandably, but once he got his footing, goodness, how everything changed.
For one thing, French was a good photographer with a background in shooting fashion. His lenswork was admirable, crisp and well balanced, but his real talent was lighting a set. Never had bulging muscles been so three dimensional, cocks and asses gleaming and inviting. And he was interested in their faces too, which other photographers never even looked at. His only weakness was in posing his subjects. There’s a lot of classic body-building style or stiffly interacting with some prop that’s sort of quaint.
One of his best and most frequently reused pose, is where he is on the ground beneath the model, shooting up at those mountainous titties. The pose didn’t do much for me, but I recognize it for what it is: worship. His best shots were the models lounging around looking supernaturally gorgeous. Every muscled honed to perfection and symmetry as perfect as a plumline.
The real zenith of Colt was being reached right at the time I was flaming out into la vie homosexual and many, many of Colt’s models matched the creatures who populated my fantasies. Good heavens, how thrilled I would be to find a new Colt magazine at the dirty book store. With no internet, Colt’s magazines were the best thing we had Even now, 30 years later, Colt Studios, which French sold in the 90s, still use images from those long gone glory days to flog their merchandise. Sometimes I look around in the Castro and think “Some of these little old men in their cardigans and knee braces, shuffling home to feed the cat were the godlings French aimed his lens at.”
I’m illustrating this with my favorites, I know many of you have your own. I encourage you to dig them out on Saturday and remember the man who made them possible. And then rub one out.
I was on the patio a few days ago, reveling in the warm sunshine while I was watering the potted plants. The blank, halfwit expression I wear while doing something so mundane disappeared when I realized I was staring at a skunk about 3 feet away from me and turned into panic. I changed my plans for watering the big pot he was hanging around in and backed away into the house.
For the rest of the day, the skunk strutted around the patio as I watched him through the windows. Eventually Saki joined me and instead of assuming some fierce tiger-like pose. ready to pounce if I would give him the chance, he sat there studying the skunk like it was some not-very-interesting TV. Saki is strictly and indoor cat, so I’m not sure he understands the outside actually exists. He got bored and wanted me to scratch his chin.
Then two nights ago, I opened the door to the downstairs bathroom (which I hardly ever use) and saw a largish rat perched on the edge of the toilet. Was he contemplating suicide? We’ll never know because I screamed like a little girl and slammed the door shut.
So today we have the rodent guy out to rain death down upon them. Or at least some kind of trap. He and I took a tour around the outside of my house while he pointed out all the gaps and holes in the structure which apparently turn my home into some kind of Rodent Marriott. Come on in guys, welcome!