v e n u e c r a s h

Zip-a-de-do-dah, zip-a-dee-a, it's a zip-a-de-do-dah-day.

HBO's Big Love has fast become my only show I rush home to see every Sunday night. It hooked me from the opening credits with a Todd Rundgren-Faithfull-like take on the BB's God Only Knows. It's wierder than 6 feet; it messes with polygamy, Latter Day Saints and hints of Waco.(Just what Mitt needs right now) Creepiest is Rhonda, a teen Eve Harrington; her creepiest moment occured when she sang, live on a telethon for children rescued from polygamy, Happiest Girl in the Whole USA Donna Fargo sang it happy. Rhonda belted it out without a trace of any emotion. ooooooo it's gonne be a great ride.

 

Mississippi Turning.

Verbatum from The Clarion-Ledger, the state's primary newspaper. From the Q & A column:

"Jack, can you please, please explain the proper usage of the roundabout at the airport?"

Jack: "According to traffic laws, there are two simple rules to keep in mind; as you approach a roundabout you'll always turn right, and you have to yield to any vehicle already in it. On the one at the airport, if you're in the right-hand lane, you're going to make a right turn. If you're in the left-hand lane as you approch, you'll enter the roundabout and drive a semi-circle to go straight or three-quarters of a circle to go left, but you'll go to the right. And, if the roundabout has two lanes, you yield to the traffic on the inside lane as well, since the vehicle will have to enter the outer lane to exit the roundabout. So go right to turn right, go right to go straight and go right to turn left."

We're trying. Really. We really are.

Things i would greatly miss (excluding family). 

fireplaces, bears, the sweet smell of rotting antique buildings in the deep south,

New Orleans, docs and thier meds, cotton linens, sex, mowing lawns, NYT,

pre-Murdoch WSJ, ice-cold theaters, Coke Classic in glass bottles, air conditioning,

adopted alley cats, silly Brits past and present, Penhaligon Blenheim Bouquet soap,

BB or Gap boxers, foggy San Diego mornings, khaki shorts and tees. net access.

"Bush, at Bridge Collapse Site, Vows to Rebuild"

New Orleans, Summer, 2007.

You now have 2 minutes to reach minimum safe distance.

The man at the far end of the bar smiled at me. He looked alone,and i was also, so i knew how he felt, so i smiled and nodded.

He started making his way towards me, and all i intended was a nod, so i exited the other end of the bar, past the Groping Guys, up the stairs to the "boutique".

I really was interested in looking for a cock ring since i'd left mine under a guy's bed a few weeks earlier and it just wasn't worth moving the whole bed with the guy in it still moaning...it wasn't like it was damien hirst diamond encrusted, although that is an interesting thought.

So I continued my escape...through the pool room, down the stair, past the guys who stand silently in thier own worlds, looking up at a plasma fuck scene, past the no-man's land mid bar, out onto the patio, back inside.. he was still following, but i was nearing the front door: past the front bar, the boot black, turning right, up the ramp past the rack of queer rags, pushing through the door, the steam outside meeting the inside.

I half-ran, half-walked...ok, it was skipping...to my truck, because the street isn't exactly safe, atho Wallis "that woman!" Simpson once lived on it. I took off. In the rearview, the Eagle's front door opened.

Decline and Fall.

After going through one of the more invasive procedures, i recieved this questionaire in the mail asking me to rate, from 'very poor" to very good" things like the "comfort of the wating area", "skill of the staff who provided your treatment" (OMG, they allow a "very poor" box for skills?), and " likelihood of recommending our facilities to others" ( hey bob, if you ever need your colon checked out, have i got a place for you! and i think they're skillfull, too!)

And, no kidding, if i return the survey, i am automatically entered in a sweepstakes for a new ford mustang. i'm not, er, shitting you. 

These    are    the    good times.

I was greeted by Dory, a friendly lady with a warm smile that rather melted me. She would be with me all the way through recovery. She looked much like my grade school friend's mother: in a pencil-skirted tweed suit, trying to herd my demonseed friend to wed night St. Andrews.

Dory gave me a two bias-cut green plaid numbers. She told me to put the first one on with the opening in the back, and the second on as i would a bathrobe. The entire ensemble was unflattering, especially the sleeve length. The color would never be available at Farrow & Ball.

 Dory sensed I was uncomfortable so she put one on too so i wasn't the only jerk walking around like this. i felt no arousal.

They took me into into the operating room on a stretcher. I think it impressed Dory that when they flurry around me attatching leads, IV ports, administering injections, i already know to hold up my middle finger for the blood oxygen clip to be attached. as they wheeled me in , aleady beeping, they had shoo away some 6 yo kid bleeding some guy to death. they quickly cleaned it up and spanked his behind. i helped.

afterwards, Dory comforted my confused surgeon. had he left a pair of scissors inside?

I put it in the biohazard bin. for so, so many reasons.

100% of Individual Deductible met for 2007.

I don't know what you want but I can't give it anymore.

 

Hospital tommorow. Numbers off. Again. I do feel blurry; I can't pin me down.

In my little town, where the streets have no name.

Feel sincere.

There are two blogs I read almost daily: we like sheep , and jockohomo, to whom i can't seem to link. I really don't know anything about either these guys. They are who they choose to present in blog form. I don't have any idea who the guys are behind sheep and jocko.

Some blogs are just bogus. These two I feel are sincere. They are both very well-written, in totally different styles:

Sheep's thoughts flow calmly and smoothly and make me wish desperately I could write as well. His posts are linked stories. He allows you to follow his days, which are frequently, deeply deadpan hilarious. He's not a diarist; he's a commentator. His posts seem one step away from essays, a difficult form. And his accompanying pics are wonderful. I totally wish to God i'd have ended up with a group of friends like his. He shares his vacation pics with you and the best manpic he posts is one of a bunch of oiled abs in a row, but a longshot of a guy casting from the surf. (For what? I only fish the Gulf.)

Jocko's writings are a guide to the thoughts slamming around inside his skull. Sometimes they shatter and reasssemble into new wordbits. I have to read them three times just to make sure I barely grasp the pop culture touchpoints. Topics are all over the place and have lead me to other valuable sites many,many times (great hoodies, handicapped barbies..yes they did make them)...but he has some degree in Art, so the whole thing is a High/Low sort of thing. In a blender. And the most gorgeous graphic design I've seen.

No more potter-dis.

Casting Call 1

Shirley Mclaine as Barbara Bush.

James Cromwell as George H. W. Bush.

Turtle as Michael Brown.

Being user-friendly can be a great turn-on: Part 3.

love your pics and profile and thank you for veiwing mine feel free to email me if you like

sounds greate xxxxx. Anytime. John

You sound like alot of fun!! xxxxx here,  goodlooking oral bottom. I come to balitmore often. I am 6'1 165 brown/hazel swimmers build (see: carpenter, karen) and very oral. (this phrase always makes me think: teething ring. not an entirely bad thing i suppose)I live in nova and my cell is xxx xxx xxxx. Give  a call.

Nice pic and profile. Similar interests. Safe and sane, regular-type no drama guy
here. Would be interested in talking further/meeting

38/m, 5'10", 175, vgl hung Italian (TRUTH IN ADVERTISING!)

you in Cleveland (i am a camera)

Best building in Baltimore.

"Unless yer Dad is daft enough to stand on a stingray. Then wildlife sucks."

"I'm proud to be showing kids that conservation and helping wildlife is a stack of fun," the 8-year-old Bindi Irwin said Friday at the Australian launch of "Bindi: The Jungle Girl."

Decline and Fall.

 

Family. comfort.

'Twas the most horrible night of the year.

Last night: awful, awful, awful, awful, awful, terrible, ego-destroying, endless, horrible trick of the century. terrible. i can't even begin to describe it. i opened the door with an apology and closed the door with an apology. it was that bad. it had been so long since the back surgery...afterwards i realized: a whole year. no wonder i was such a shaking mess. and god i hate condoms. i'm not used to them anymore.

i literally had a dream of beheading a sales person at a walmart who made fun of my lack of IT skills.

Don't you treat it like a toy.

The Beach Boys are not silly. They are serious shit, and thier fun,fun,fun was from the start masking manipulation, hurt and lonliness that later led to substance abuse, psychosis and death. When you put twangy Wipeout surf music in front of them, and the Eagles after them, you have california. and tom woolf, and ken kesey, billy al bengsten, robert irwin...

i love the pivitol moment in don't worry baby when they don't remove the accidental cough during the instrumental break.

Throw-away camera jesus.

 

Little ranter: i admit i can't write.

I knew I was an architect by age 6 [just like i knew i was queer]. At church suppers he would call me over from across the multi-purpose room. that was my cue. i'd dash over, jump my buster browns on top of his wing-tips, look up at him, close my eyes, stretch my arms up. He'd pull me up and spin me around and set me back down on his shoes. i would be so very smiling; he loved me!

Both of Us now facing his peers, my outline was superimposed upon his like an old newspaper graphic depicting how children become adults: they simply blow up to bigger versions of themselves. With his Rotary peers forming a circle he would ask "what do you want to be when you grow up, jeffrey?" and i would yell out before he finished my name: "ARCHITET!"

Now i cannot do that which i truly believe was assembled to do. There are other ways to express yourself blah blah blah say the army of therapists who march through me, unannounced; some float around:the meds, pills and pills and pills. have you ever tried writing? yeah. i'm writing at a functioning HS grad level.

So i can write, but not a writer. eh. i'm not stopping!

Fame.

I have five direct [or sort-of direct] connections to sort-of bold letters:

1. a harlem globetrotter once spit directly in my face while i waited for his autograph in a gangway.

2. we were having dinner years ago at le caprice in london, and (then) camilla parker-bowles' mother or cousin fell off her chair and plunked, sitting up, at my feet. i helped pick her up. she was pickled.

3. in london, joe jackson stepped on me.

4. i know, well, knew, amanda burden.

5. i have had dinner with the guy behind mary cheney. several times.

that's pretty much it.

 

The Barefoot, Double-Wide Contessa.

i gotta pee.

Shame.

Little ranter dearest.

A writer, and author of a very good memoir, also has a blog. I admire his work. It took not a little courage to re-locate multiple childhood hurts. and put them on paper. The author and I have written 3-sentence emails back and forth a few times. Then I wrote a lengthier email about how some gooey southern writing can get. it was posted. apparently an acquaintance of his read it, thought an ametuer attack, and alerted him to the blood-red horror of my "little lit rant".

That is now my new moniker: at dinner tonight my brit friend katherine turned to me and said, "and which ale will you have, dear little ranter"?

   

Something of which i am proud.

This is the last building i designed before i was fired from my last job [depression, seroconversion, daddy's long, long, long slide, xanax & beer...i deserved it & it was a blessing]. It is the performing arts center at the university of delaware, in newWARK delaware. I have only one pic, of the front facade. Everything in the old campus is beautifully-detailed 1900-20 georgian. The arts center had to stay within those parameters, w/o the craftsmen system or budgets available then.

The facade fenestration follows a pattern that was a bitch to figure out: EaBaCaBaOaBaCaBaE. They forced us to include "chimney stacks", which i subverted into beacns/skylights. And a small victory:we persuaded the university to allow the use of the luxurious and expensive double-stretcher flemish bond. thank you forever, steve.

I know it's stiff. the whole idea, site and restrictions were absurd. But it exists, in 3 dimensions, not paper space, aned I am proud.

Prior to the estate sale at our family home, this is what I must sort through and decide what is true trash and what is kitsch-our kitsch- to keep. And these are the places in the house I must search, where each of our crossed material worlds reside.

linen closets. winter-weather coat closet with mahogany fold-up card table at the back, Ester baskets with that pastel grass stuff and a stray, stale jelly bean from 1973 hiding inside. jelly cupboard filled to capacity with goblets, shakers, coasters. gold oak clock that stopped chiming when i fucked with it, thinking i could make it sound richer.

a doorbell chime i only recently discovered was designed by norman bel geddes. as the only queer, it's mine. a silver ice bucket dad won at a golf tournament. a pewter loving cup won by my great uncle in 1932. a framed certificate for someone winning the 1956 bermuda "fish roundup".

tons of wool suits, both Mother's and Dad's. His hickory shaft putter, with the face grooves embedded with turf from countless greens. I've already hidden this for me.

both my sister and i have full sets of clubs in one of the attics. also in the attic: unopened boxes, two baby rockers, broken floor lamps.

finally, from the attic, the thing brought downstairs so infrequently it silenced both sisters and me: a small wood trunk that was placed on the floor in the family room. i would always keep a distance. i knew what was in it, and i knew i alone in that room could never truly understand the emotions it released. i did not belong anywhere near the world in that box. my presence felt almost an affront.

the contents were few; a couple of primitive stuffed vinyl figures. a tiny webbed baseball mitt, still curled, molded from by the shape of a child's hand. a few rompers with first iteration Mickey Mouse pins. finally, gently pulled out and held up for everyone, now sadly smiling, to see: my brother's heavy blue wool play suit.

he died at johns hopkins. he was 6 years old. penicillin had just been put into mass production, at the research portion of the same hospital. it could have saved his life. but it was still wartime and all available stock was shipped to the still island-to-island fighting in the Pacific. my parents did not know this fact until much later. if they had known this at the time, what would they have done? as i get older, the formally 100% sure answer takes on a slight tarnish.

after its return to the attic, mother and dad would stay apart, silent, for the rest of the day, dad watching TV, sunken even deeper into his chair, his jutting lower lip looking Churchillian. i remember mom weeding rather aimlessly about the day lilies, especially the ones known as "naked ladies", if it was the right time of year; or the big gaudy tiger lillies that some called tacky. But the siding on our house was always a solemn and respectable grey, and she always loved the garish orange stalks against it.

I was born 12 years later and was continuously and sickeningly proclaimed "God's miracle gift". But duh, I finally figured out what had happened. My birthday is exactly 9 months after July 4th. My sisters were just off to college: one to Millsaps to become a writer; the other to The W, because you could somehow take your horse with you and stable him there.

So we have a couple who lost a child but were finally placing their two girls away at school. It was time to celebrate! The (still) traditional day-long July 4th event at the country club: bar B Q, drinking at 3 bars, dancing, the "secret" slot machines in the mens' lounge, a few too many Manhattans and Old Fashions...home and a little frisky. no one ever expected me. the OBGYN thought i was an ovarian tumor. that's how i started life. a tumor.

Anyway, I know what piece of furniture I'm taking: the 3-generation-old spindle bed where i was made.

How do you dismantle your Mother's home?

My Mother, who will be 91 this November, still lives in the family home, but cannot anymore. My 68 year old sister, and the long-time housekeeper, have gone as far as they can, but Mom cannot do anything without the help of others.

She knows this. A year ago my sisters and I sat down, turned off CNN (her last constant companion) and had what we thought, for her, would be a horribly upsetting come-to-Jesus talk about it's time, Mom. A Hallmark moment. I'm sure there's a card for it.."So you have to go to a nursing home..."

Instead, as we three broke down sobbing, she sat up: "OK. Where and when? Stop crying. NOW." We sideways glanced at each other, still sniffling. We shouldn't have been so surprised. Mom was in so many ways a young product of two horrible benchmarks of the early 20th century. She had made it through the 1918 Influenza Epidemic and the Great Depression. That diminishing group knew a type of fear, and the attendant, unsentimental pragmatism born of it. I was chastised if I passed by a penny in a parking lot and failed to pick it up. At some point in my parents' lives, that penny meant money.

So, how do you tell your Mother-your husband, friends, families- it's finally time to leave home? To let go? I really don't know, but i keep wondering....all the times I've done early-morning shifts at a friend's bedside, reading aloud old Blue Books about Bhutan, not knowing if he can hear me; held a neighbor as he shivers in a waiting room, sit watching my grandmother die, and later my father....something-many things-fall away. And I at least feel we are holding each other; it's both ways, and it's of love. And that's why my mother never cried. She was holding her portion up, using that learned, unsentimental pragmatism...and love.

I like falling asleep wrapped around each other.

i like guards down for at least a night.

i like feeling his heartbeat through my cock, still in him.

i like the rhythm of breathing. i like it's rise and fall. i like his exhale on my arm.

i like looking at him while he's asleep, or his eyes are just closed. he does the same.

i don't want to leave. i don't want him to leave.

i want to be in my own bed, alone, by sunrise. his scent will overwhelm and startle me when i shower later. It's a mix of sweat, piss, cum, cigarette smoke, the leftover chemical odor of poppers, lubricant from Trojans....beer...sweat...

Why does everything feel so wrong?

I really, really wanted to escape by myself to p-town, or rehobeth, or even new orleans this summer. but for some reason my virals have started to be tectable and wacky and now i'm on new meds that are making me dizzy; making me stay in a knot in bed all day and night. i know it's feeling sorry for myself, but i have to allow a good sob once in awhile. this was one of those times. i believe vacation must come second to staying close to my docs. anyone out there who is poz may know these feelings. they do pass....

ok, enough of that.

Deep Sunday, cont from below.

After chopping wood i took a looong nap and dreamt I found a director's cut of Brokeback Mountain.  This was much more violent but much more explicit sexually. Infact, for every violent scene there had to be a fuck scene; it was a new Hollywood code.

Then Heath Ledger's hair started growing and he became Heath Ledger playing Val Kilmer playing Jim Morrison, and everyone was talking about a new kind of reportage and new marketing links.

I woke up at 2PM. I ate half a jar of Smucker's Natural oil on the top Peanut Butter, and a Coke Classic. I hate every iteration of the Classic, if only from a graphic perspective. They just keep missing the mark.

I watched Running with Scissors for the third time. I think everyone should watch movies three times. First to see it as the director wanted you to see it; second to watch all the background action, and the eyes of the major actors when the focus isn't on them; and third to put the first two back together. Then you've really seen it, front to back.

The third time I decided the best performances came from Jill Clayburgh, Alec Baldwin and Joseph Fienes. And the group screem scene is gear.

How can one family produce the prissy, simpering khaki-clad Ralph and his furry, intense, take-me-please blackirish brother Joseph???

Deep Sunday.

Sunday morning I woke up far earlier than I usually do. Probably because when husband is out of town I tend to get my already whack sleep/wake cycle fucked even more than usual. i woke up at 6AM. With wood. So I padded to the 'puter, brought up some reliable porn and masturbated, half asleep. I did not achieve Solo Male Ecstasy, as the book at left promises. I achieved enough to climb back into bed, going down slowly.

Who would want/need a book on how to JO?

S. was at a Ten-Year Reunion of his class at the Kennedy School of Public Policy, or something like that, @ harvard.He brought me back a where are we now book.....and apparently alot of 'em are presently running, as quickly as their J.Press bluchers and chanel pumps will allow them, away from their jobs in this administration. Amazing where they landed: Rummy's speech writer (he actually followed a script?); a guy who went in iraq with the first shock and awe wave as the lead translator/negotiator; a woman who was the WH liaison to some goofy institute for promotion of democracy around the world...the latter got in the shit so bad she was mentioned on page 1 above the fold in the NYT as a suspect for doing something, i forget....anyway, she showed up introducing herself as "The Hon. --- ----", which perplexed folks since she was not a judge, ambassador, elected to anything or royalty. Except maybe to Daddy, who gave 10 trillion to Bush's campaigns.

But the Ann Coulter/Lindsay Lohan of the class just couldn't make it. Yes......it was, is and always will be, Estee Lauder human test-bunny and spackle-queen Kathryn Harris, who, like The Hon. Mr. Crapper, changed the course of the world with one, not dissimilar, act.

Being user friendly can be a great turn-on; Part 2.

hi visiting from california, satying in arlington, clean safe oral bottom clean bottom (what's the protest too much thing?)

hope you are doing well-are you?

nope, we're home. Just watching pan's labyrinth... :) what about you? (pan's labyrinth???)

hello there, looking good man

going to a fuck party (fuck. me.)

ive landed.

wanna come fuck my face hard nut n go?

god how big is that i want it in me plse (pics magnify things...)

cmon i still have beard burn on my ass hehe (that WAS soo much fun, r. and too long ago..Christmas!)

i get off shift in 15 mins thers an office we can lock (next to nurses' station???)

not tryed it but would like to try it thats what ws means right?

oh i thoughy you ment somethig else.

i'm not but boyfriend is

i have a pig side

last time i talk to you jeff (sadly, my fault)

An American High School Classic.

Why was there always a full length mirror above it? Oh yeah. I forgot.