Friday, February 24, 2006

Notes towards the rehabilitation of the seventh grade definition of the word GAY.

We live in a watershed era for Gay civic participation in these here United States of ours. “Brokeback Mountain” has giving respectability to what was for a long time a subversive trope in Western Folklife: The Lonesome Cowboy Who Likes Other Cowboys. (Both the Velvet Underground and their sworn enemy Frank Zappa have worked that vineyard.)

And trust me, the dam has bursting. If Hollywood’s cannibalistic recent past is any indication, Tales of Sailors who can fold sweaters and hairless Bikers trading in their hogs for Miatas will be flooding the Cineplexes soon, MARK MY WORDS.

Surveys show that healthy majorities of emerging young voters support universal marriage rights, adding an interesting dimension to a debate that was unimaginable even 24 months ago.

As our GLBT claim their places at the Republic’s all you can eat pancake feed, it may be soon that us, their allies in the straight community, will be able to reclaim something that we have put aside in the interest of human dignity. I mean of course the 7th grade definition of the word GAY.

In those moist, glistening pre-Britney days of sexual innocence, when a young lad seeing Phoebe Cates emerging from a pool had enough fodder to get him you through the year, the emergence of Gay culture was confusing.

We were pretty sure Gay simply meant being so depraved as wanting to have sex with anything: shoes, Chryslers, hedgehogs and the concept of Pi were all fair game for these denizens of the twilight world, these GAYS. John Ritter was not pretending to be to be seeking emotional succor from another man, he was pretending to be a twisted pervert so far past what was normal that he would fully ignore Chrissi’s jiggling as he pined for a grapefruit or a crack at one of Burt Convey’s bleeding hair plugs.

So out of this confusion and our sheltered lives we hobbled our own definition of the word that was all over the media that our parents were unwilling to define for us.

Gay, as used on the playground and biketrail, meant a misplaced aesthetic moment, an enthusiasm for something clearly shoddy and self-reverential. It’s pretty close to Clement Greenburg’s definition of kitsch, that is "the debased ... simulacrum of genuine culture", although something GAY isn’t necessarily as cynical as inferred by Greenburg’s kitsch. It can entirely merely be misguided, or overblown. 7th graders can give two shits about intent. Tough little buggers.

Catch them is an introspective, vulnerable moment however, and 7th graders can admit to occasionally losing them to gayness. In this sense gayness is Dionysian.

Case in point: Disneyland.

Super freaking gay. But get past them past their instinctual queasiness and the 7th grader will be wearing those gay ass goofy ears and eating cotton candy like a goddamn Little Lord Fountlegay.

(Curious lexigraphical note: under certain conditions, Disney can meet the three definitions of the word GAY. There is one weekend a year where the GLBT community informally descends en masse on Disneyland. So it’s gay, gay, AND gay, all at once.)

Things that are gay:

Game Shows
Middle Age men playing golf
Sunday Brunches
Roller Skating
Fan Clubs
Unconcealed nose picking
Foods that are “Extreme”
BMX bikes with fake gas tanks
Skateboards bought at Grocery Stores
Your boss
Inordinately enthusiastic hair care
Clothes that match
Clothes that don’t match
Bright things
Ralph Lauren
Dave Matthews
Fake 80s Hair Metal Fandom
(Note: Chaps are not gay. They are Homo. )

I hope this has helped. I also hope that, you know, it wasn’t too….Gay. (That was gay. I’m sorry.)

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Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Farm subsidies are dumb and evil.

Interesting little column on why farm subsidies and protections are dumb and evil.

(Two of my favorites: screwing the Third World by tariffing the one trade catagory where they have a competitive advantage and making it financial attractive to twist and rape unsuitable land to grow crops that have no reason to be there in the first place. I don't like farm subsidies.)


This greeted me on Amazon this evening:


Customers with similar searches purchased

Astroglide Personal Lubricant, 5 oz
Colt Anal Douche
Astroglide 5 oz

I had done a search for a Russian band named Lyube. At least, that's what I tell people.

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alarming keywords

old skanks
bright and dirty lyrics
shane mcgowan teeth
hairy coworker
sony xcp list kings of leon
nude fat ass
michael dempsey guiding light
greg mills
Free sex film
Mike’s Hard Lemonade
Stock shot celebrity teeth
People in Canada
L. Ron Hubbard
Kim Il Sung hero
Saturn astronomy Rockets
Nude Celebrity
Hairy ass
Free sexy computer
Escaped parrot video
Tuvan throat singing
Spelling nude


Weird Dating Tales

A blog friend is chronicling her tales from the Lavalife trail. You can find her hair-raising stories here.


A lesson learned in Berlin

ALF is kind of funnier dubbed into German.


Thursday, February 16, 2006

Hookers attack!!!!! And a mild reassetment ,vis-a-vis St. Petersburg

I was aggressively approached by a particularly vile Russian hooker tonight.

She looked like Stephen King dressed as Cyndy Lauper. Only with larger, hairier arms.

This is what happened: I was have a late dinner at the St. Petersburg Marriott with two very nice people from the vendors I'm working with on this project, crappy bar food (bumpkin me) and osetra caviar (Deee-lish. Ordered by my more worldly and presentable work chums). We were chatting, watching the hotel lounge fill up with older German tourists fresh from the opera. Then the clock struck 11. And the HOOKERS came to work. There were four of them, each with a slightly different hook. The first to arrive, was a sort of frumpy gal in a cocktail dress, something that makes no sense given the temperature was approaching 0*F. I think she was going for the single gal sipping a wine spritzer at the bar.

Then Lady Sherbert, the she-ape who was later to offer herself to me. Ick! She was wearing fruit colors that Ray Charles would find too garish, top off with trowel applied make up and Midwestern owl lady bifocals on a chain. Interestingly, she avoided the bar and went straight to the conversation pit in the front of the lobby.

Three was a spooky goth chick, who was certainly on an opiate of some kind. Who could blame her, really?

And fourth was a gal who was moderately better dressed than than the woman attacked me.

Now here's the weird thing. I think that the three who worked the lounge are on some kind of shift system, 10 minutes on, 20 off, usually spent in the ladies powderroom. I tried to get one of the women I was dining with to go into the Ladies to spy on them, but no such luck.

(This is the fucking filled to capacity with older German couples lounge in the pansy-ass Marriott. Just so we're clear.)

So we finishing eating and I head off to the lobby, that I might catch the whore-free elevator to my room that I might rest.

Sadly, it is a slow elevator in the Marriott, not one of the Otis company's greater models. My waiting for the elevator in the well lit lobby of the regional flagship of a middle of the road hotel chain was disturbed by a flash of tangerine and fushia, puncuated by the fwap-fwap-fwapping of sour cream flesh. The smell of Giorgio filled my nose. It was Lady Sherbert, the ugliest whore in the St. Petersburg Marriott whore collective, ready to bring to BRING the GAME.

"Eckskoos me. Eckskoos me, baybee."

I suddenly develop a deep, newly abiding interesting in the construction and craftsmanship of the Otis Elevator Company of Toledo, Ohio. I stare straight ahead, admiring the copper doors of the slowest elevator east of Estonia.

My plane of view is violated by Lady Sherbert, dancing a little jig like she has to piss: "Let me come to your room. We party, yes?" Her massive forearms were rippling.

Me, trying not to laugh: "Uh, no. No thank you. I'm going to sleep."

The doors slide open, I get in, and suddenly the slab has stood in the doorframe of the elevator. Those doors weren't closing.

"We party. It will be a fon-taz-tica time. CHEAP! One hour!"

"Oh, no thank you. I would like to go to bed now. To sleep. So, good night and please move."

"Okay, baby. I come by later, yes? Gimme your room number, we party?"

"Won't be necessary, ma'am. Good night."

"Okay, good night. Have fun, baby."

"Yeah. Thanks."


I think I was harsh on St. Petersburg in my last post. Today the sun was shining and people were out going about their business and it was a wonderful city to be in. The Neva had melted and the river was a glassly blue. The dirty crust of snow had melted off and so the parks were glacial white. Little kids were playing in playgrounds and the pastel colors of the building became neon in the sunshine. A good day.

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Wednesday, February 15, 2006


Tonight I am writing from the Capital of All the Russias, the Brasilia of the 18th century, St. Petersburg -- home of the Hermitage and insane cathedrals up the anus. AND HOOKERS!!! This week I'm in St. Petersburg, next week I'm in Berlin, for work. Not hookers.

And hookers like in 80's movies hookers. At my hotel. At my hotel, THE GODDAMN MARRIOTT. Hookers, dressed like 40 year old skanks in Catholic schoolgirl outfits, probably with PhDs in Dialectical Economics, WAVING and WINKING to all and sundry
(but especially South Korean Biz Dev cocksuckers and Marxist French Agronomists) in the bland business hotel lounge like some hottie in a POPEYE cartoon, only they are not so hot, and are depressing like Cancer. The disconnect, if you are a sociopath, is the hotties in Popeye cartoons are:

a) Sort of hot, as within the self-consistent Popeye universe, where Olive Oyl is considered hot.


b) Not three blocks away from the massive, terrifying, and gorgeous St. Isaac's Cathedral, Peter the Great's massive Imperial fuck you to Russian parochialism, and, I think, Jehovah. (Running from whores, you turn an unassuming corner, and BY THE HOLY FECES OF THE JESUS IMMACULATELY CONCEPTED, there is A DOME OF DOLLY PARTON MAGNITUDE, serving as a perch to the host of 50 Foot Archangels and Cuter Saints, who stand in a ring around the quadruple Z-cup Italianate dome, big enough that the bourses of distant Amsterdam and London would enlarge and engorge their credit ratings for the Hottie on the Neva, i.e. Holy Russia.)


c) Not hookers. Although, Wimpy would have done anything to anyone, if they had seen fit to furnish the funds for a hamburger today, which would then lead to a golden shower next Tuesday. But that was only implied because the Fleisher Brothers had something called taste, you Pulp Fiction-loving asshole.

Anyways, I'm having zakooska with workmates downstairs late night at the bar (in the fucking Marriott. How bland can a motherfucker get with a hotel chain?), which is the Russian equivilant of smorgasbord, only I guess that the major disconnect between zakooska and smorgasbord is the inclusion of, how you say, putas.

These women had the subtly of, I don't know, clinically insane people who are half way normally dressed who start talking to you about when Malcolm X appeared to them in a toilet stall at the Greyhound station as they rinsed out their wading boots while you wait for the bus to come. They wink. Who the hell winks. I got winked at tonight. WINKED, motherfucker. Last time I got winked at was by your grandma, and I do not mean anything sexual by that.

So, as to St. Petersburg itself... alternately transcendent aesthetic nirvana and the set of Kelly's Heroes. Everything historically worth saving, or new and financially profitable, is in immaculate shape; newer buildings look low-end Scandinavian and there more Mercedes here than I've seen in LA, easily. The banks of the Neva you'll find a stretch of perfect block long Palladian manors, in bright eggshell blues and chiffon yellow, extending for a dozen miles But, holy shit, everything else is a husk. If the Bronx were the size of London, and had equestrian statues and Russian orthodox cathedrals everywhere with gilded domes, it would look like St. Petersburg.

A illustrative case: earlier today, my first full day in St. P's, I went to an unnamed hugely historically significant Russian film studio for some work related hoo-ha. And the place looked like a crackhouse the size of the Louvre. Endless parallelogram hallways with light absorbing, pocked marked plaster walls painted the color green if the word "green" described the act of drowning puppies in the bile of war criminals.

But... big, huge but... the people are nicer than Canadians, they work hard, Jesus, they are rebuilding a continent-size country from scratch. So, golly, I'm some kind of an asshole. I also had the most amazing piroshski of my life, the Budweiser is the real Czech Budweiser (delicious) and really, St. Isaacs Cathedral is a balls out, kidney punching example of yes-I-am-a-giant-tasteless-monstrosity-fuck-you-beauty and I can see its swollen Italianate dome from my window, which I spent the first night gazing at, waiting for sleep. So, I'm conflicted. Lemme see more. I'll get back to you.

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Thursday, February 09, 2006

The blogger's plea: Please like me. Please?

This is the first post over on my new blog, Daily Stone Cold Jam. Oh, it's great fun over there! You should go give it a whirl!

Look at me! Look at Greggie! Oh christ, I am so very lonely.

Stone Cold Jam #1: Hallogallo (Neu!)

The Band: Neu!

Album: Neu!(1971)

But is it a Stone Cold Jam?: Yes! And this is despite the song is ONLY ONE GODDAMN CHORD FOR TEN MINUTES over a obsessive 4/4 pulse. But this chord, this chord is special. This chord is fwacka-fwacka-fwacka'd up and down like taffy. And not the cheap shitty grocery store taffy, but the good kind you buy from little shrunken apple Port-o-gee men down at the Shore. Only you're not an apple-cheeked New England tyke in Madras boardshorts, you are a haggard German speed freak in a beige linen suit, with pale blue saucer eyes and a TottenKopf bone structure.

Anyway, this is a funky Stone Cold Jam, with the emphasis on Cold. Cold as chrome. Cold as the Bavarian wind rushing in to the crumpled frame of the old Citreon you just abandoned wrapped around a birch, but you are so spun you've decided to walk to Dusseldorf, which is 35 KM away. That doesn't matter though, because Hallogallo is karoming through your frying skull, giving you the counterpoint to face down the asphalt until you reach the outer city ring.

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This is not a photo blog.

But I took this shot with my phone on the Bay Bridge and I like it. Looks like a screen grab from Carmaggedon.


Wednesday, February 08, 2006

I have a large blotchy forehead.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Enjoying a relaxing stroll, before the love making.

Here Percival and I are taking a relaxing stroll at the local fun faire, before the acquisition of the women required for lovemaking.

The Velveteen waistcoats, the insouciant string ties worn in the manner of an Old Southern Cavalier. As you can see, we dress in a manner that advertises our boldness and cunning in the sack, or hedge, wherever the lovemaking may occur. The Location is not important, for the Seduction WILL happen, the entire Drum of Prophylactics WILL be used. Percival and I will not accept less.

The cool air of evening rushing into our unbuttoned flies makes our dangly bits foritified by numbness that ensures maximum pleasure for the women of any classes and any nation that we might bed that evening. We will entertain women of any tinge, of far Mandalay or Hindoo lands. We are willing to avail ourselves of gimps, lepers, indeed any cur of even the most foulest caste, from the most obscure and vile atolls in waters brackish and stank.

None of this matters, for we are anointed by pomades, and chrisms, and unguents designed specifically to release maximum estrogen, thus rendering the most time-blasted hag into a warm fog of dewy suppleness and womanly succulents. And our ardor provides the sweetest sauce, one suited for any dish the night lays before us.

We will screw anything that moves.

And I will not cry, or sob. And Percival will not foul his pants. No, not this time. For tonight, we will become men. Hopefully like eight times.


Monday, February 06, 2006

Birth of a deeply unfunny douchebaggy viral email


Hi, Rachel. It’s Donny again. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about this photo thing.
Um, it’ll just be an afternoon. Less than an afternoon. And…uh… like I said, it’s photo. You and Sandy get in a pair of bikinis…wait I’m getting ahead of myself. Sorry. You mentioned something about really comfortable about how you look right now. Well,
that’s part of the joke… that you’re not uncomfortable, despite…uh…not fitting society’s falsely narrow view of what’s quote healthy and desirable unquote. And actually, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable… at all. If you want to drink some liquor, great. Smoke reefer. Whatever it takes. I want YOU to be comfortable. I want Sandy to be comfortable. In fact, the only way that I…or wait, let me rephrase that…WE can pull this off is if you have the right… what’s the word… insouciance. Anyway, I think we’ve got a concept here that has legs and will get us all noticed in the douchebaggy viral email, uh, scene.
Cool. Let me know soon. I gotta go get the trucks waxed. Bye bye.

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Saturday, February 04, 2006

My other, even stupider blog

I've started a music blog, The Daily Stone Cold Jam. It's a diary of songs I like. That's it. Not even albums. SONGS. Songs I like. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?

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Thursday, February 02, 2006

Facts about Lemmy I know in my heart are true, but cannot prove.

Lemmy is a titled lord. His formal name is Lord Lemmy, AOS (Ace of Spades).

Not to be outdone by Ozzy Osbourne’s infamous bat biting incident, Lemmy delivered a newborn foal from a piebald mare named Lizzie, at Knebworth ’83.

When Lemmy plays volleyball, his kneepads are replicas of World War I Prussian Officers Helmets, with the sweet ass spike on top and everything.

Lemmy is the official stud of the Royal Family, since most of the Windsor men have been maimed in various Polo accidents.

Sting credits the Motörhead album “Iron Fist” with inspiring his masterwork, “Ten Summoner’s Tales”.

The dots over the second o in Motörhead do not signify an umlaut. They are there to serve as a permanent memorial for Moonbeam and Widowmaker, Lemmy’s much loved dime store turtles who died in a tour bus crash on the way to Knebworth, ’83.

Lemmy wrote a well-respected bridge column for many years under the pen name Omar Sharif.

Lemmy maintains his own shadow cabinet, just in case British voters decide to stop mucking about and get some shit done for once.

Unique in the hair product industry, Lemmy has marketed a successful line of botanical crème rinses without once washing his own hair.

Knebworth ’83: a blind 14 year old boy’s life long dream is realized when he was introduced to Lemmy backstage. Twenty minutes later, he’s stone deaf. Lemmy just laughs.

Lemmy played organ for the Specials.

Lemmy carries his shaving kit in his foreskin. Actually, his foreskin IS his shaving kit.

Lemmy owns the patent to the fucking-hemi-demi-semi-quaver, a “64th note with balls”.

Whenever Lemmy buys a new computer keyboard, he has a special Death’s Head key custom installed. It doesn’t have any function other than looking fuckin’ balls out insane.

During his vocal warm-up exercises at Knebworth ’83, Lemmy spontaneously scatted what would become the Phil Collins’ hit, “Sussudio”. Collins, a Professional Cockney, has yet to admit his debt to Lemmy.

Knebworth ’83: during the solo of “Ace of Spades”, an agent of Satan spontaneously appears on stage. Lemmy rapes the bewildered hell spawn with a bottle of Beefeater’s. He then laughs. Lemmy does.

British Rail has a single armored train, stocked and at the ready, just in case Lemmy is forced to flee the capitol during wartime.

Lemmy is allowed to override the simultaneous translation headphones at the UN whenever he fucking wants. Why? Because, asshole, the album Overkill is a stone cold jam.

Lemmy has a switchblade made of human bones and lasers. He also has a gazebo.

Elvis died because he had the realization that, at that very moment, somewhere in the world, Motörhead was playing and fucking shit the fuck up. And then his heart exploded. When they found his body, his formerly lustrous black hair was snow white.

Knebworth, ’83: Lemmy gets locked in the dressing room. He plays solitaire quietly, while the tour-operators frantically try to track down a locksmith. On his Walkman, Cyndy Lauper is singing her heart out. “True Colors”. A single tear gentle makes a track down that weather beaten old cheek. He’s been chasing the memory of that moment ever since.

Poor Lemmy.

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Wednesday, February 01, 2006

George W. Bush: Our Last Hope Against the Duck Men.

"Tonight I ask you to pass legislation to prohibit the most egregious abuses of medical research -- human cloning in all its forms ... creating or implanting embryos for experiments ... creating human-animal hybrids..."

We humans –- and by "human", I mean the last of the non-hybridized, bill-free humanoids -- have a new champion. He is our President, George W. Bush.

For of all the leaders of the world, he is a lonely stalwart (and bulwark) against a threat few will speak of, out of fear, out of submission, and sadly, even out of profit. I speak of course of…THE DUCK MEN.

For our President’s vigilance against the rise of the insidious Duck Men, those chimeras of vile countenance, is where our hope for a non-webbed world can find succor and protection. It only because of his words that I can sleep soundly again, knowing that the fiends have been chased back to their debased lairs, skulking among the tules for bread crusts and snails.

Even now, the paladins of the NSA are listening, monitoring our communications for quack and toots. Of course, some snivel shlibertarians will bitch and moan. Why worry if you have nothing to hide? Perhaps you should FLY SOUTH FOR THE WINTER if you don't like it, comrade!

So Run, Duck Men, 'cause the Pride of Yale is coming down hard on your billed race! It's huntin' season!

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