Thank God That’s Over

That’s what Mary said after she finally popped the biscuit out of the oven.  Little did she know.

I had a lovely christmas, thanks.   Secret Agent Fred was over at his abusive boyfriend’s place (which is actually Fred’s place, but when the boyfriend becomes too abusive, Fred comes over here to hide.  Life is so complicated.)  So it was just me and Saki and some banana pudding and some left over home made chicken pot pie (beyond delicious) and some fudge, also home made, and some oxycontin.   Saki would stand on my chest screaming that it was time to feed him, I would stumble downstairs, scrape out the cat food, eat a piece of fudge and fall back in bed.  Fabulous.

As is this mid-century Norman Rockwell knockoff.

You know those two gentlemen on the end of the couch are planning sodomy once they’ve fed their wives enough Manhattans, those teens by the clock are tripping like a thousand screamin monkeys and think they’re talking to Chrissie Hynde and the old farts in the kitchen are chained to the stove after last years’ “incident.”  Happy Holidays bitches.

Speaking of planning sodomy, here:

 

No Bahs, No Humbugs

As i mentioned recently, I have decided to make peace with Christmas decorations.  Afterall, no matter how I spit and fume, they are not going anywhere, they are (sort of ) attractive, and all too soon tax season will be upon us; save your venom for then.

In that vein, I decided to photograph the prim and terribly quiet neighborhood I live next to (their home owners association will not accept our street.  How mortifying.) and which I drive through to the grocery store.  When I say they are prim and quiet to the point of being prissy, I mean that for the balance of the year.  Come Yuletide, these motherfucker start slinging gaudy, vulgar decorations around like a dock whore on a crack vacation.

My apologies for the crappy  quality of the photos, it’s the best my phone can do at night on the way home from the grocery with me just leaning out of the window.

The classic California Xmas: a palm tree wrapped in lights.

Or just some random bush

I am actually old enough to remember when they introduced simple white lights as an alternative to all the cheery colorful madness.  They seemed SO minimalistic and tasteful.  Now  I think they’re just dull.  Step it up bitches or step off.

The “Why Bother?”

And the grand finale, “The Blockbuster.”  I only regret I couldn’t capture the tinkling carole music that I assume grinds aloong nonstop and which, were I their neighbor, would drive me to attck it with a pick axe.

Please note, none of these trashy hoes are on MY street.  I look out my window and all I can see are those awful compact fluorescent lightbulbs lighting front porches waaiting for UPS men to draw near.

So anyway, joyeux Noel, bitches.  My plan for christmas? Extra oxycodone and consciousness only when Saki absolutely demands it for me to feed him.

My security guard will be enforcing this.

Rants, Rants, and More Rants

So what have we learned from trying the Ice Age Paleo Foods All Tacos, All the Time Diet?  A secret to a happy life is to avoid crappy food that makes you long for Alka Seltzer AS YOU’RE EATING IT.

I stumbled on this room and was struck by a couple of things 1) I could furnish probably 10 – 15 rooms with all that crap and still have a lot of fringe left over and 2) what are the chances of finding your phone or your glasses or last night’s rent boy in there?  And yet, I like it.

My gardener, who is driving three hours up the coast to spend the day with his semi-invalid mother who doesn’t like his boyfriend, asked me today what I planned for Xmas.  I said I was going to take Oxycodone and stay in bed all day.  We both knew he envied me, but talked about pruning the tibouchina and how nice the ceanothus looks with all the little stick dead branches meticulously removed instead.  I still like my plan best.

Saki has decided he wants to live the life of a wild, free feral cat and so has taken to trying to squeeze out the backdoor if I happen go out there.  Since his idea of making a break for it constitutes trotting two feet out onto the patio and then stopping and waiting for me to pick him up and carry him inside, progress has been slow.

It’s my blog.  If I want to insert random muscle butts, I will.  At least until the death of Net Neutrality starts charging me extra for it.  But who wouldn’t pay for pussy like that?

I have taken to shaving only on the nights before I know I will have to leave the house the next day.  Since that is becoming  a rarer and rarer event, I now look like a not very competent pedophile who’s going to ask you for spare change.  You will not give it, and I will scream “Yeah, Merry fucking christmas you cheap motherfucker.”  I  have it all planned out.

I’ve decided to quit complaining about Xmas decorations being flung about starting before Halloweeen and just go with it.  Last year at this time I was in a Houston hotel that’s connected to a shopping center, the decorations of which would cause temporary blindness they were so extravagant.  So this year, avoiding downtown, the decorations seem innocuous.  They’re an attractive enough addition to the local scene; they are, afterall, decorative.  Turns out being a shut-in has its advantages.  The military industrial retail complex and the christians are going to shove christmas down our throats anyway.   Just relax your gag reflex and it’ll all be over soon enough.

There. think of this as my christmas card to all of you from me and Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat.  hugs.

The Spirit of Christmas Butt Plug.

Everything is Relative

I had just clicked on a blog I’m rather fond of (brutos eros) and run across this charming tableau

when the guy who does my taxes (Taxguy) called to chat about how painful my relations with the IRS were going to be this year.  The whole thing made me wonder about karma and the coincidence of the universe and the similarity between insufficient deductibles and buttplugs.

Also, I think the red bucket lends an ominously festive note, don’t you?

Also, here’s my crixmus card for all you mischievous miscreants

Thank you wondermark comics

Cause If They Don’t Dance, Then They’re No Friend of Mine

Turns out I vacation so I can take naps in beds other than my own.  Secret Agent Fred and I took the train down to Los Angeles and I spent almost the entire 11 hour trip asleep.  Nothing is as lulling as the rolling rhythm of a train and there’s really nothing else to do, anyway.

The L.A. tain station is gorgeous

We stayed in the Biltmore downtown,  where the lobby and other public spaces were also pretty spectacular, with all the original, elaborate details intact,

but our shabby rooms upstairs were like being confined in an old folks home designed by somebody who had seen The Shining once too often, complete with fluorescent lights and dingy yellowing paint.  We fled to a tonier hotel I like in West Hollywood, so I could sleep in a nice place and so we could be closer to the gogo boys of Santa Monica Boulevard.

The car rental place stuck us with a white Chevy Impala, the Car of Shame.  The poor clerk handling the exchange was trying to be pleasant, he was pretty cute, and acknowledged this was not exactly the Batmobile, but I was overcome by some kind of gay Tourette Syndrome where I couldn’t help blurting out bitchy snark.   I am ashamed, but it’s true, we did look like we could be busting hookers in Hollywood.  Did I just imagine the valet parkers sniggering as we pulled up?  Maybe, but this was L.A. after all, where you are what you roll.

Speaking of muscular semi-naked guys dancing to Madonna, we had a lovely evening out at some bar that I swear is a time warp to 1990.

The strippers were terribly cute and Fred has a way with them, they’re drawn to him like he’s a puppy with a fistful of singles.

Tragically, I now find out we missed the 2013 GoGo Boy Appreciation Day Festival and Competition by a few weeks.  Count me in for next year’s.  I’ll see you there.

TCB

Christmas is upon us once again.  Perhaps you had heard?  Just in case you hadn’t here is some Xmas  smut.  You know somewhere, someone has a freak on for this stuff cause, you know, a lid for every pot and all that.

At lunch today, I realized it’s not even a week into December and I am already sick of holiday music, washed up singers (looking at you, Rod Stewart) puking up sickly retreads of tunes trying very hard to be ecumenical by not mentioning Jeebus Whatshisname during a holiday inspired by his birthfday.  It’s not that I’ve grown sick of them, it’s more that I reached my saturation point years ago and now the instant they roll back around, I am ready to do violence at the first tinkling strain I hear of Silent Night.

Who wants this crap?  Who thought it would be a good idea to see what Ella Fitzgerald could do with Little Drummer Boy?  I am fully prepared to give my business to any bar, restaurant or store that puts up a sign saying “Carol Free Zone.”

As an anodyne to the Bangles covering Blue Christmas and all the other seasonal pap out there, let me offer the Verve remix of Nina Simone’s Take Care of Business.  A few years ago, the venerable jazz label Verve shared their fabulous catalogue with modern producers and DJs who wanted to update these classics with some very mixed results.  This is, I think, one of the most successful.

I don’t think you can refer to the lyrics as double entendres, they are so thinly veiled.  “O lawd, don’t keep me waiting / Be as firm as can be” is more like a single entendre, or 1.5 at best.

The whole is very loose-limbed and crazy (with trombones!  And castanets!) especially for a Simone song, but then, Our Lady of Did I Ask You, Motherfucker? shows up to very firmly kick the project’s butt into gear and the contrast makes things fascinating.

Take it away, Miss Simone:

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:

Big Box

I’ve mentioned before that any shopping not conducted at the grocery or Walgreen’s does not thrill me, and those expeditions are rarely the high point of the day, even if they do result in cookies and Vicodin. So I buy all my clothes online and a new batch just showed up. I’m holding off on opening them until Christmas. Isn’t that precious? I expect to be somewhat surprised with the contents since I have already forgotten what I bought. R Man, god love him, was never good at guessing what presents to get me and would simply demand a detailed list from me in November. And by detailed I mean not just “cashmere sweater, 1,” but explicitly running down what color, size, and where he could get it.

Saki thinks the shipping is simply a superior way of getting wrapping paper and boxes for him to play in. He’s a playah.