Look at me, forgettin’ my own meme.

Good thing I had Scott to remind me. He picked a movie that he saw. Since I didn’t see it, i’ll have to write about what I saw at the theater most recently, Legally Blonde 2.

I mostly wear pink.
Haven’t I been here before?
It worked once before.

Bruiser’s mom locked up?
Animal testing is bad!
D.C. Here I Come!

Hello Patriots!
I am Capitol Barbie!
Where is my office?

Bob Newhart is rad!
My Bruiser is a gay boy!
Stan uses Product!

A Million Dog March
Activate the Delta Nu’s!
We Saved Bruiser’s Bill!

I mostly wear pink.
Haven’t I been here before?
It worked once before.

Schmaltzy vs Schlocky

My phab phemale phriend, Jeanome , refused to allow me to email her an AAC of “Beach Baby”, fearing that it would be too much schmaltz. Schmaltz???

Scott “Palo-stud-puhpet” actually disagreed with my assessment of the Best Pop Song EVER…I am shocked to inner stillness. But his suggestion of “Lonely Boy” is schmaltz…NOT schlock.

Clearly, we need a distinction.

A schmaltzy song, to my way of thinking, involves one or more of the following topics:

  • passing of generations
  • passing of a loved one
  • passing of a pet

In other words, maudlin maudlin maudlin!

Now, a schlocky song, on the other hand, is one that isn’t very well-made, but it’s dumb fun, and makes me smile. Schlocky songs:

  • are about luv, not LOVE
  • say ‘baby’ a LOT
  • usually have complex harmonies that sound simple

Schmaltzy songs: “Alone Again, Naturally” — Gilbert O’Sullivan (rolling eyes at the name) “Seasons in the Sun” — Terry Jacks “Shannon” — must have blocked it out…Henry Gross, I think.

So…death of family, death of self, death of dog.

Schlocky songs: “Heartbeat, It’s a Love Beat” — The DeFranco Family “Beach Baby” — First Class “Julie, Do Ya Love Me?” — Bobby Sherman

Here we have….a 12 yr old boy and his brothers & sisters singing about nebulous ‘Luv”, a song about a summer and a girl and spilled soda….and an anthemic nod to girl from a boy with a crush.

Schlocky songs make me happy…make me want to bounce around. Schmaltzy songs, on the other hand, make me uncomfortable in all those same places where, say, sand would be uncomfortable.

Very simple. Very easy.

Candor, Can Do

It’s strange, the things we’re taught should go unspoken. Like the good feelings we have about our friends and our loved-ones. Stranger still that when we do break through to say those things, the session of being candid becomes something that we don’t speak about after the fact: when a brutally honest, brutally candid, brutally sober instance of taking a friend aside and reminding him or her how important s/he is to me, and how much I enjoy and even depend on the relationship occurs, it’s almost embarrassing to call up the memory later, much less reminisce openly about it.

The resulting silences, when measured against the sheer noise of the negativity that rains down upon us all the time, would suggest that those instances of positivity are rare.

For me, they simply aren’t. Many of my friends remind me, bluntly or in more nuanced ways, that they are happy I am around, that I am their friends. My sense of abundance, as I have referred to it priorly, demands that I burden my friends and family with my feelings in kind, or just as often, that I get the ball rolling.

My friend, Dominic, is a rare bird (and a dirrrdy bird, but that’s another story). He and I are a perverse and, dammit, QUEER, pair. Honesty runs rampant between us; candor has its say. It’s a beautiful thing; he’s a beautiful thing.

This is us at Pink Saturday (our Saturday-night-before-Pride party)…

So do me a favor….go grab a friend (figuratively and literally, if you must/want), and tell that person how amazed and lucky you are to have him/her in your life.

Dirrrrdy Birds

I have to fess up something significant: I’m coming out….again.

Keep in mind that I’ll be the same person after I tell you, but you’ll just know more about me.

Whew. Here goes:

I LOVE schlocky pop music. And i don’t mean bubble-gummy stuff..i mean dirrrdy, sleazy, SCHLOCKY stuff. The Partridge Family (dirrrdy birds!), Bobby Sherman. First Class (Anyone remember Beach Baby, perhaps the most finely-crafted POP song in history?)

I feel better. Please love me.

Silly PAGS

Metrosexuality…I’ve been hearing it a lot, lately. Soi disant straight men who have embraced (ahem) gay culture. All of the fabulousness without all that annoying stigma.


In another sense, it’s fag-lag that has finally caught up. “Fag-lag” was always my name for the testosterone-imposed delay between gay fashion and straights espousing it. History is littered with trendoid macho-shitheads who, after years of ‘bashing’ on the homos for things such as earrings and relaxed-fit soft-leather bomber jackets, end up wearing said trend-fodder cuz,y’know, “it’s ok now”. Well, it’s fag-lag caught up, i think.

For my part, i’m going to refer to them as PAGs….Penis-Averse Gayboys.

If they’re going to fuck with the boundaries, so will I.

Ask you, Askew

So in the entry, Skew, Skewer, Skewest, I had set out to ask a particular question. In fact, it was that very question which presaged the entry.

However, as the polluted, rainbow-colored stream of consciousness flowed out my fingers and onto the page, I ended up in a backwater, an eddy, where I asked a question different to what I intended.

The question I wanted to pose was not about expectations of primary relationships, honestly. It was about more common, work-a-day (I dare not use ‘quotidian’ again), more local and immediate expectations from meeting someone, from hitting it off with someone, with first-dating.

I’m not one of those queens that leaps from “hey, you’re kinda hot” to “happily every after” in a single blue-leotarded-red-caped bound, so the question I did want to ask was of a much less grand scope.

In a local-cosm where sex is like tennis (but with less preparation) or a game of pool (but with more equipment); and where the unchecked growth of open-relationships has polarized sex and love into near-opposites instead of natural adjuncts, have put coyness and subtly on the endangered list and have managed to make secrecy tantamount to privacy (it ain’t, folks), I have to wonder: is there still a place for those of us who, by choice or by accident or experience, are at odds with a culture which has simply lost the knack of moderation?

In my mind, that’s what it’s all about: the knack of moderation.

Ever more extremes, ever bigger, wider, deeper, faster, more intense, harder, more dissociated, less personal, higher, louder, brighter…

Now, before those knees go a-jerking, I acknowledge there are race-conditions everywhere. In politics, bombs fall on countries who have something we want. In evolution, giraffe necks and peacock plumes occur. In religion, Torquemadas and Popes JP2 abound. In Republicans, there are adrenaline-junkies and testosterone addicts everywhere.

Who has learned the lesson of the Closet? The Gay Bash? The stupid, antiquated christian fuckers who either point fingers or stand, arms akimbo, being all judgy ‘n’ stuff?

But I digress.

Has entrenched gay culture led to in-the-trenches thinking?

I have hoards of friends that I simply adore, who I assume feel the same towards me, but there’s rarely an opportunity to test the mettle of the relationships. I suppose that’s good, that I don’t have strong need in any given direction, but I’m not all that certain that most of my friends would approach me out of need, even though I try to be sure they know I’m there for them.

These fragile, tender, subtle things do not seem to have voices that can be heard above the noise created by those in search of their next fix of a laugh, of sex, of a high, of an ego-stroke.

Those are the Moment-Seekers I described in the op-ed piece I wrote for Frontiers SF and that also appeared through QueerDay.com.

Who still believes in the Spannungsbogen—literally, the Span of the Bow—that self-imposed delay between recognizing the desire for the thing and the act of reaching out for that thing? How do we get our knack of moderation back?


It is, at first, a terrible thing to live amongst the legends and lore, the symbols of this or that, or of him or her, of It, existing unremarkably amidst the dull and common esoterica of Everyday.

For instance, nearly every morning he saw “CASTRO” written on each slender white street sign, at every intersection of most of his daily round-trip. How often as a teenager had he dreamed of CASTRO STREET, with all its attendant allure, all the concomitant freedom and delectation? Before he’d moved here to San Francisco, he was certain that in “The Castro”, the sun always shone, day or night, that everyone was “Out and Proud” and that “Closets Are for Clothes”, not for people.

He chuckled at the T-shirt wisdom he once took so seriously, but the smile on his face drooped with a sudden sadness as he mourned his lost innocence and his move away from such simplistic purity.

How sure he was of the world back then! How sure he was that the world in which he’d grown up, even the world he’d inhabited at the time would most certainly not have the final say in how he was to live his life.

But that was when he lived in their world of black and white, with sharply and rigidly defined lines, to be crossed only at the risk of punishments just as clearly defined. No, that kind of existence, living on the sufferance of the world around him, being the Good Son, the Clean-cut All-American, no, that just wouldn’t do.

Still, he had managed to exist under those exact conditions for better than the first quarter century of his life. As a creature of that society, molded by the pressure and the experience of living according to those strictures and that system of rewards and punishments, he could do no better than to get by. It was not so much a fear of reprisal and exile as it was that he knew of nothing else, of no one else: he’d simply failed to understand that there was indeed a Without, a place to stand apart from the world, the only world he had ever known.

It was the discovery of the World Out There that heralded his return to innocence—or rather, his arrival at a new kind of innocence. It had given him better eyes with which to look at the ordinary live-a-day world around him. Imbued with a sense of wonder and joy, he remained astonished at the breadth and depth of simple and subtle variation in all the little things around him.

Many people come to such a place, come to that kind of an understanding through diligence and hard work, through choosing to ignore that which would bring them down. Many are forced out of the nest begrudgingly, cast out into a bitter atmosphere. Still others cling to the fringe, clearly defiant since their early days, contrarian in an almost doctrinairish sort of way.

He would have to categorize himself as none-of-the-above. For him, it was an epiphanic leap.. He wasn’t so much pushed into revelation as he was pulled toward it. If he had his feet firmly planted in his ordinary world, then he was liberated from his very shoes, stolen away in an instant, only to soft-land barefoot in the tickling grasses of a new world. And he could identify the exact moment when the world went from subdued tones of off-gray to fierce and blossoming riots of color.

Such a moment is a thing too bright and too vivid and too sudden to comprehend, something that can only be endured. But eventually, the eyes adjust and the mind accepts, leaving only the memory of the leap, in itself a source of joy, but certainly not of the substance of continuance.

But his world was not the same, never the same. No longer even familiar. Those elemental, firmamental things that he’d depended upon were all vanished, demolished or changed into things undependable, into configurations ununderstandable.

Put another way, he had been grounded and contented—if not entirely happy—in his own backyard, knowing what was where, how far away each and every known thing was, only to be suddenly yanked away in one glorious, terrifying, eye-opening, over-flight. To have been limitless for a time, unbounded, capable of touching the sky itself and knowing and seeing all, and having it be too much to accept, to the point that the mind blanks and consciousness is lost. And upon awakening, nothing is familiar: he was afloat, but even that did not last. He panicked, scrambled.

The façade of mystery had been blasted away. Mystery, that brute force phenomenon that often masquerades as magic.

And when that ostentatious display and florid din of Esoteric Mystery had given way to plausible pragmatism, when the shouts of dogma were carried off on the ordinary breezes of the practical, the apparent silence was nearly ruinous. It was a vacuum that threatened the context by which his life had been given form.

For those with a strong sense of place, to have one’s station in the universe suddenly made irrelevant, suddenly torn and rent from the fabric of Time, there emerges a despair bordering on terminal. No longer is there a taskmaster-parent. No more are the absolute principals which delineated the world into slots or bins or queues clearly labeled as Good or Bad, Right or Wrong, or any neat categorizations into polar opposites which ordinarily serve to make Sense of the world on one’s behalf.

And there remains nothing but a new and lovely sensitivity to the special and little and frequent gifts that the Universe hands you every day.

A Meme of My Own: Haikuesdays

To kick this off (or, indeed, perhaps to render it stillborn), choose a person, preferably a stranger in a crowd you can make up something about spontaneously, and do it in haiku form.


The dream comes to her.
As all things come to
her. There before requested.

Crystal clarity
Her manifest destiny.
Frictionless journeys.

Skies made of diamonds,
mountains, piles of colored gems.
Her delectation.

Perfect excretions
are bodily deletions
Perfection maintained.

Prettily squatting.
Make waterfalls idyllic
Tink’ling cf clear bells.