Category Archives: christmas

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.

Happy Holidaze


Sixty years ago today, Ike and Mamie lead the survivors of the Annual Solstice Virgin Sacrifice stumbling away from the slaughter pit. Ike is lost in thought as to which might still be the most succulent, while Mamie manages to cling to her dazed consciousness only by focusing on what awaits her in the White House cellar.

Merry Exmas!!

Did You Know Christmas is Coming Up?

We actually know heterosexual men. Straight males who love the furry clam, the pink taco, the innie, not the outie, the hole not the pole. Five of them – no, six – wait, make that seven. Maybe 6.5. One of the straightest of them made us a fabulous gingerbread house. God love him, he knew we could use a little Christmas, right this very minute and he came across.

My favorite part? The tiny little gingerbread man packing a tiny little gingerbread bazooka.

The artist claimed it was no such thing, that, instead, it represented him carrying in firewood, but considering how carefully he’s aiming it at his tiny little gingerbread wife, I am not fooled.

I recognize psychosexual dynamics, the madonna/whore conflict, the terror of the desired that straight men have to live with. Of course, we gays don’t have all that; we just don’t like pussy.
Unless it looks like this.

I snagged this photo from Kevin over at The Lisp and let me just thank him publicly. I think this will be my favorite Xmas present this year.
I genuinely am delighted with the house; the artistry is very impressive and it was most considerate of the old darling to make it for us. I had to have a very firm talk with Saki about not fucking with it. Negotiating with a cat: always your first mistake.
And it seems as if this will be the only gesture towards the season we will be presenting this year at Chez peenee. That’s fine with me, I’m lukewarm towards Christianity as a whole. Most of my religious instruction consisted of “Shut up and sit down” so once I escaped and understood the whole thing was a Jewish fairytale about a zombie starring in a snuff film featuring his cannibalistic ex-boyfriends, I don’t know, the magic sort of escaped me.
But let me go on the record as being firmly in favor of gingerbread houses.

Christmas Passed


Twas the night before Crixmus……and Urban Street Pirate dropped by.

The next day was a little something we like to call “Christmas.” Maybe you’ve heard of it? While everyone else was snoring away at visions of sugar plums, I got up and made Spice Applesauce Muffins and then served them with tea in bed.Don’t you wish you were married to me? Yeah, sometimes I wish I was married to me, too.

And then, PRESENTS:

Including the present that had been transported to the floor sometime during the night.No one is pointing any fingers, but I have my suspects.

Suspect A: j’ accuse.

Gifties were a big hit. I got lavender argyles, hoo hoo.

Urban Street Pirate thought we had given him a stole. I considered explaining it was, in fact, a largish bath mat, but decided to leave him his sad little dreams.Besides, I think he looks good in it. If you see him out at the bars tonight, be sure to compliment on it.

I gave R Man a netsuke shelf. Saki dug it. Shades of old, prissy poofs in Tilling, we have turned into E.F. Benson’s Georgie. Someone shoot me. Please.

I also found a totally cool picture frame at a consignment store,so I went out to Ocean Beach, shot some random pictures and blew one up for it as another R Man present. He likes, but then again, it’s all about the frame.

In my post about the new color in the dining room, that sharp-eyed minx, Diane von Austinberg, demanded to know what we were putting in the living room where the astronaut picture had been. Zip it sister, I wanted to snap, it’s a secret. Well, now the truth can be told. R Man’s christmas present is up on the wall where the astronauts lived so happily for so long.And then Christmas was over. How was yours?

Paper Tiger


My white trash mommie could not bring herself to prepare me for the wild world by teaching me to cook, balance a checkbook or even run a washing machine, but she did manage to instill one housekeeping virtue in me that I have never shaken: One must not waste wrapping paper. When I was growing up, Christmas morning was a tense exercise in a sort of reverse origami; paper was meticulously removed from packages, folded neatly and then put aside for next year, then you could look at your present. If it wasn’t for the various hurricanes that swept through our home, I’m sure there would still be the crumbling remains of paper from before I was born.

As it is, R Man and I have a vast collection of wrapping material going back to when we first got together in New Orleans, and we’ve lived here in San Francisco for 21 years. Pictures of our Christmas mornings show us growing grayer, but the pile of gifts looks like it never changes. Only our jammies evolve.

This year, though, I was just a wild man and actually went out and bought new paper. You can do that, you know. I was standing in Walgreens looking at their pitiful selection (and why in one of the few times in two decades that I’ve bought paper I wound up there is just one of those Christmas mysteries) when I was struck by a particularly gay roll. I couldn’t decide if the decorations were martini olives or billiard balls, but amidst all the insipid Santas and holly, its cheeky humor appealed to me mightily.

And then, like one of those trick pictures with blurs that resolve into dolphins or cats or lesbians when you look at it the right way, I suddenly realized it was just tree ornaments. How disappointing, but I got it anyway. I plan on sticking with my claim that it’s olives. As you can see:

The Mall. Dear God. The Mall.


What do I have in common with my heterosexual brethren? Aside from the fact we all like to stick our wieners in somebody’s mouth? We all hate shopping. Hate, hate, hate it. In any form or fashion hate it. Not just Christmas – any time. I have mentioned, have not I, how thrilled I was to discover you can buy clothes at Costco. I would never venture beyond there and Walgreen’s if I could help it. But Christmas rears its ugly head and I’m faced by my two problems: I love to give presents and I love to get them. I don’t particularly care what’s in them, I just thrill to the big, unopened pile of them, the mystery, the possibility of them.

So, that finds me this afternoon in Bloomingdale’s, the nadir of a man’s shopping experience. All I wanted was some shirts for R Man, but no, that’s asking too much. I picked over racks of crappy, really expensive schmata that couldn’t have announced more clearly its origin in slave labor sweatshops if it had a logo consisting of shackles and whip. All of it trying so very hard to be so very hip and failing miserably and all of it apparently targeted towards skateboarding suburban boys with mommy’s credit card. And why on earth would that market be in Bloomingdale’s? Even I, in my failing decripitude, could find a hipper store than that without breaking a sweat. The whole place seems to be shrieking “Weren’t the 80s a bitchin’ decade?” Well yes, but time to move on, darling, move on. And so I did, fleeing to the mall outside and running straight into a lounge area filled with middle aged guys parked there by their wives. I’m sure their glazed, bitter expressions mirrored my own. For an instant I was sorry not to have been straight, so I could have sent the little Missus off handling the shopping while I sat glumly thinking about porn. But then I remembered, you know, vaginas and all that. I decided it isn’t worth it.

So here is the statement that truly reveals the depths of my stodgienss: “Thank god for the Docker’s store.” Well, it’s better than Walgreen’s.

Ugly Hats. Loaded Santas. Tis the Season.


Truly, I have no vanity. When one’s best feature is in one’s pants, being concerned about fashion seems like too much trouble. Even so, when I discovered my new winter hat (in a hardware store, natch) this afternoon, I was a teensy bit disconcerted by its aggressive dorkiness. It looks rather like a cloche which has been left out in the rain more than once; it emphasizes every flaw in my long bony face like a neon arrow; its color is most likely described as Hairball Gray. And yet, I adore it. Mostly because it fits, which is not something I come across frequently in what little hat shopping I indulge in. I have a big head (not in the sense of being stuck up, remember, the only deadly vice I skip is vanity) but in the sense that I have a great big skull; one assumes it must be all the super duper brain matter lodged therein. Knit caps, on the other hand are designed for the daintily empty pinheads of all the geisha boys one sees around here. Plus, this particular one is warm and covers my ears, which are always icy. R Man can pretend not to know me when we’e on the street together, I don’t care as long as my ears aren’t numb.

And then, right after I snagged my hat and was walking down Castro admiring my startling reflection in every window, we ran into Santarchy, a flipped out parade and party of miscreants tarted up as old Saint Nick. Old Saint Nick on a bender, but still…. About a couple hundred Santies and every one of them tripping like a million screaming monkeys. We passed one small group that was either fighting or trying to wrestle one of their number up off the sidewalk. Hard to tell. A good time was being had by all.

I do love San Francisco.



Life, you know, is a time a machine, but the thing is, it only goes in one direction. Certainly, if it were possible to go backwards, I’d go back to this morning when I was unloading the dishwasher and not cut my goddam knuckle, which has resulted in my typing being even more erratic than usual.Anyway, time is very much on my mind this morning since I have plenty of it, here in the world’s quietest office and while I’ve been reading everyone’s blogs from the past few days while I was out of town and away from the internets. It’s so interesting catching up, but since I read the blogs from the top down, things go backwards, sort of like Amy Winehouse’s rehab efforts. Since I have now reached December 25 in my perusals, let me wish you all the warmest of season greetings and as a Christmas present, please accept these random Australian underwear models. Bon Noel!

I Hate Irony


Of course, I should have known putting up a smug little post about how much I loathe snow and how glad I am to have escaped its clutches was simply setting myself up for a fall, a snowy, icy, skidding fall.

Our yuletide plans are to drive down to Los Angeles for a couple of days, leaving on Christmas day because there’s nothing to do then anyway, so spending seven hours on the road is just a way to fill in the gap. Now comes word that the Grapevine, the part of Ineterstate 5 that crosses over the mountains outside of LA, closed yesterday because of snow and ice. It’s open again, but I can recognize a cosmic smackdown in the wings. Oh dear. I would hate to spend Christmas night in that weird little gas station in Buttonwillow.