"Perge modo et qua te ducit via dirige gressum," said Venus to Aeneas.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Near the Staten Island Ferry Station
C took this rather perfect picture last week while we were wandering lower Manhattan.
Color. Composition. Texture.
What's not to like?
Friday, February 24, 2006
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Lesbians, Ty-ers and Bears, Oh My!
Well there really weren’t any lesbians, but on Saturday night, We went downtown to see the blizzard, the wonderful blizzard of Blarg.
Earlier in the day, we had brunch at DeMarcheliers with Joe and this Fascinator. When I suggested that he fall in with us for the evening’s procession, RJ laughed and said, “Oh no thanks. Been there.”
“Well you’ll be able to peruse the reviews in about a dozen different blogs.”
“Please. I could write it right now.”
And he could have.
At exactly 10PM, the snow and the wind, arriving as predicted, swept us into Pieces, the first blarg depot. This is a pleasant place peopled with men who seem to be dreaming of a better world but are happy to turn some scraps of color into a warm and functioning engine of a Saturday night. The Blarg doubles their ranks, and we meet a really cute young guy with shiny wavy long black hair to whom the concept of blog must be explained. He’s a first grade teacher, and while he compares professional notes with Glenn, I wonder how school would have been different had I been taught by two hot men like these.
Also at Pieces, Mark-O-Cane's limber boyfriend and I get into a Catholic conversation that is of interest to only the two of us. Rule: if you want to clear a room, get me started on Church.
Joe interrupts us with protocol. “We’ve got a tight schedule, my tender butterflies.” I contribute the first of many half finished beers that will form a 40 blarger wake of debris along this nostalgic canal of tumbleweedy watering holes.
I recall odd moments of conversation.
At the Monster, C, and someone who will remain nameless, had a serious discussion about the bathroom door at Urge and its need for restoration.
At the Duplex, C and Helen have an astoundingly serious conversation about midget sex. Here, also, we make the first of several toasts to the absent Dagon.
At Ty’s, Circle (who got the evening’s Congeniality award for spending quality time with absolutely everyone) receives instruction from Glennalicious about how to produce the Funny Voice by inhaling the contents of a helium balloon. Here, we also examine the “John Deere green” of WeLike Sheep's tee shirt, and are reminded by C that corporate colors are not uncommon in the pantone world. Pepsi blue is an example.
As we leave Chi-Chiz, a rueful bystander says “They told us there’d be more of you here”. I’m not sure what he meant. I don’t think he was referring to “bloggers”. I have an idea it might have been a statement of racial/ethnic expectation.
At the Hangar, Joe is restrained from taking photos while Glennalicious announces “I can so look at any girl and tell exactly what her bra size is.” Helen is the only opportunity for verification, and Glenn nails it.
There is only one conclusion to be derived from this anthropological tour: bloggers may have off-switches, but they are rarely used. Marinate them in bad beer and wind-driven snow for a few hours and they will remain lively. I kept thinking that this is the exact group with whom I’ve always dreamed of taking a bus trip to Cleveland. The driver has a medical/dental condition that causes a detour to Akron, the only food on the bus is a five pound Yugoslavian salami hidden in Aaron's backpack, and, well, RJ, you can just write the rest from here, can’t you?
Earlier in the day, we had brunch at DeMarcheliers with Joe and this Fascinator. When I suggested that he fall in with us for the evening’s procession, RJ laughed and said, “Oh no thanks. Been there.”
“Well you’ll be able to peruse the reviews in about a dozen different blogs.”
“Please. I could write it right now.”
And he could have.
At exactly 10PM, the snow and the wind, arriving as predicted, swept us into Pieces, the first blarg depot. This is a pleasant place peopled with men who seem to be dreaming of a better world but are happy to turn some scraps of color into a warm and functioning engine of a Saturday night. The Blarg doubles their ranks, and we meet a really cute young guy with shiny wavy long black hair to whom the concept of blog must be explained. He’s a first grade teacher, and while he compares professional notes with Glenn, I wonder how school would have been different had I been taught by two hot men like these.
Also at Pieces, Mark-O-Cane's limber boyfriend and I get into a Catholic conversation that is of interest to only the two of us. Rule: if you want to clear a room, get me started on Church.
Joe interrupts us with protocol. “We’ve got a tight schedule, my tender butterflies.” I contribute the first of many half finished beers that will form a 40 blarger wake of debris along this nostalgic canal of tumbleweedy watering holes.
I recall odd moments of conversation.
At the Monster, C, and someone who will remain nameless, had a serious discussion about the bathroom door at Urge and its need for restoration.
At the Duplex, C and Helen have an astoundingly serious conversation about midget sex. Here, also, we make the first of several toasts to the absent Dagon.
At Ty’s, Circle (who got the evening’s Congeniality award for spending quality time with absolutely everyone) receives instruction from Glennalicious about how to produce the Funny Voice by inhaling the contents of a helium balloon. Here, we also examine the “John Deere green” of WeLike Sheep's tee shirt, and are reminded by C that corporate colors are not uncommon in the pantone world. Pepsi blue is an example.
As we leave Chi-Chiz, a rueful bystander says “They told us there’d be more of you here”. I’m not sure what he meant. I don’t think he was referring to “bloggers”. I have an idea it might have been a statement of racial/ethnic expectation.
At the Hangar, Joe is restrained from taking photos while Glennalicious announces “I can so look at any girl and tell exactly what her bra size is.” Helen is the only opportunity for verification, and Glenn nails it.
There is only one conclusion to be derived from this anthropological tour: bloggers may have off-switches, but they are rarely used. Marinate them in bad beer and wind-driven snow for a few hours and they will remain lively. I kept thinking that this is the exact group with whom I’ve always dreamed of taking a bus trip to Cleveland. The driver has a medical/dental condition that causes a detour to Akron, the only food on the bus is a five pound Yugoslavian salami hidden in Aaron's backpack, and, well, RJ, you can just write the rest from here, can’t you?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Blarg moment
Helendamnation, with the aire of a middle eastern seductress, displays evidence that there is at least one straight man in NYC who recognizes a fine woman. This attainment happened at either The Hangar or Chi-Chiz. Clear memory is lost under 26.9 inches of snow that night.
Blarg Moment
Helendamnation, Circleinasquare and Bouncer Brendan formed this disconsolate, wistful, melancholic and slightly irritated (Brendan) group whose pose deserved John Singer Sargent.
This was at Boots and Saddles which had once been a venerable bar, but has been brutally gutted and redecorated by a taxidermist. It was our fourth stop of the night. (Circle requested I take out the "red eye", but I think leaving it in more fully captures the entire evening.)
Monday, February 13, 2006
Central Park Studioigloo
New construction. Excellent location. Southern exposure. Superb amenities. Many bathrooms. Terrace. Professional landscaping. Body heated. Pets OK. Expansion/addition possible. Act fast. This one won't last.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Four Bitches
“Hi Bart. Can I pick up my case of Shiraz Mourvedre or have you sold it like last time.”
I put on the exaggeratedly sour and suspicious face that is designed to signify humor to someone who does not know me well enough to be sure that I am only joking. Although. Although last year he did break open his last case and sell it off rather than hold it for me, so there is precedent for worry.
While he is calling downstairs for someone named Aleef to locate the case, I wonder if I really need to use the big “cartoon face” to signify sardony when I am in New York. God knows I need it in Connecticut where ordinary conversations must be accompanied by hammer blows to the skull and 90 decibel laugh tracks before anyone actually gets you. Here perhaps, just maybe, may I actually relax and assume that the guy who sells me wine can swallow the nuances of his customers without choking? What a luxury. (Fort Lauderdale offers social relief that is the flip side of this coin: there is no such thing as subtlety, so no one tries it, and no one expects it. Traffic is loud. Men are drunk, and the sun sits on your face like a fat whore smoking a cigarette on your dime.)
While Bart makes the call, I lean on the counter and look at the other three customers who seem to have convened at exactly the same time, and may be wondering who ought to be served next. They are three Typical Upper West Side Women. Thin, spectral, with cheekbones of defiance, and straight hair streaked in a way that makes me think that a pipe must have burst at their salons, drenching their dos mid-tint and ruining the intended color. They are dressed in ski garb of teal and plum and lime. Ms. Teal holds a bottle of George DeBeouf Beaujolais Nouveau. Ms. Plum holds a bottle of Red Truck, and Ms. Lime is grinding her teeth into her cell phone. They are impatiently chewing gum, and when they see that I am looking at them, they each perform an almost imperceptible adjustment of carriage that throws forward their well-tended breasts. I smile with amusement. They read appreciation.
When Bart puts down the phone, I turn around to face him.
“Do you have any organic Sardinian wine?”
He comes around from behind the counter and brings me to a rack just a few feet away.
“I don’t have any organic, but it’s funny you should mention it because I was thinking of ordering some. I do have these four from Sardinia. This one’s fine, oh, but this one, the Cannonau di Sardegna, now that is one big, great big mouthful of good wine.” He taps the bottle and raises his eyebrows.
“OK. I’ll try that one.”
While Bart returns to the counter to ring up the sale, I turn to face Teal, Plum and Lime who have been intently listening to every word of my transaction.
I look at the bottle of Red Truck that Plum has placed on the counter.
“Oh. Red Truck. Pretty color. The label, I mean.”
I look at the bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau, and then I look up into Teal’s face, hoping for an explanation. Finding none, I let the smile wordlessly fall off my face.
And now for the hat trick.
Lime wags a finger at Bart and at the bottle of Sardinian wine on the counter, and says into her cell, “Gimme one of those.”
“Sorry. He’s taking our last one.”
I turn to face her with a big Bette Davis cartoon face.
“I’d love ta invitcha over for a sip but my husband just washed his hair.”
I put on the exaggeratedly sour and suspicious face that is designed to signify humor to someone who does not know me well enough to be sure that I am only joking. Although. Although last year he did break open his last case and sell it off rather than hold it for me, so there is precedent for worry.
While he is calling downstairs for someone named Aleef to locate the case, I wonder if I really need to use the big “cartoon face” to signify sardony when I am in New York. God knows I need it in Connecticut where ordinary conversations must be accompanied by hammer blows to the skull and 90 decibel laugh tracks before anyone actually gets you. Here perhaps, just maybe, may I actually relax and assume that the guy who sells me wine can swallow the nuances of his customers without choking? What a luxury. (Fort Lauderdale offers social relief that is the flip side of this coin: there is no such thing as subtlety, so no one tries it, and no one expects it. Traffic is loud. Men are drunk, and the sun sits on your face like a fat whore smoking a cigarette on your dime.)
While Bart makes the call, I lean on the counter and look at the other three customers who seem to have convened at exactly the same time, and may be wondering who ought to be served next. They are three Typical Upper West Side Women. Thin, spectral, with cheekbones of defiance, and straight hair streaked in a way that makes me think that a pipe must have burst at their salons, drenching their dos mid-tint and ruining the intended color. They are dressed in ski garb of teal and plum and lime. Ms. Teal holds a bottle of George DeBeouf Beaujolais Nouveau. Ms. Plum holds a bottle of Red Truck, and Ms. Lime is grinding her teeth into her cell phone. They are impatiently chewing gum, and when they see that I am looking at them, they each perform an almost imperceptible adjustment of carriage that throws forward their well-tended breasts. I smile with amusement. They read appreciation.
When Bart puts down the phone, I turn around to face him.
“Do you have any organic Sardinian wine?”
He comes around from behind the counter and brings me to a rack just a few feet away.
“I don’t have any organic, but it’s funny you should mention it because I was thinking of ordering some. I do have these four from Sardinia. This one’s fine, oh, but this one, the Cannonau di Sardegna, now that is one big, great big mouthful of good wine.” He taps the bottle and raises his eyebrows.
“OK. I’ll try that one.”
While Bart returns to the counter to ring up the sale, I turn to face Teal, Plum and Lime who have been intently listening to every word of my transaction.
I look at the bottle of Red Truck that Plum has placed on the counter.
“Oh. Red Truck. Pretty color. The label, I mean.”
I look at the bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau, and then I look up into Teal’s face, hoping for an explanation. Finding none, I let the smile wordlessly fall off my face.
And now for the hat trick.
Lime wags a finger at Bart and at the bottle of Sardinian wine on the counter, and says into her cell, “Gimme one of those.”
“Sorry. He’s taking our last one.”
I turn to face her with a big Bette Davis cartoon face.
“I’d love ta invitcha over for a sip but my husband just washed his hair.”
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Blarg Hopping
I'm not sure why we are announcing this, as it may result in what something like the arrival of a plague of locusts, but here's the news, lifted straight out of Joe.My.God, and we will all feel free to ignore the one cocktail per bar rule, as that is exactly what did me in during the Proto-Blarg-Hop of two weeks ago:
Event: Blarg Hop (blog + bar hop = blarg hop)
Date: Saturday, February 11th
Place: Christopher Street
Time: 10PM (22:00 hrs if you are Eric)
What: An old school bar crawl down Christopher Street
Who: A veritable cavalcade of gay bloggers and friends, including: Blather And Bosh, CircleInASquare, Diary Of A Dandy, Glennalicious, Ham & Cheese On Wry, Joe.My.God., Perge Modo, Plastic Music, PogueGO, Robocub, Someone In A Tree, The Ninth Circle Of Helen, Tin Man, The Mark Of Kane, VelleityNYC, We Like Sheep and doubtlessly some others. Bloggers interested in joining us, email me to add your name here.
Itinerary: (We start at Pieces at 10pm. The bars will be visited in the following order, at least one cocktail per bar, but we allocate no specific duration to any venue in case they like, suck and stuff.)
1. Pieces - 8 Christopher Street
2. Stonewall - 53 Christopher Street
3. Duplex - 61 Christopher Street
4. The Monster - 80 Grove Street*
5. Boots & Saddles - 76 Christopher Street
6. Ty's - 114 Christopher Street
7. The Hangar - 115 Christopher Street
8. Chi-Chiz - 135 Christopher Street
9. Dugout - 185 Christopher Street
Feel free to join us. Mike P of Blather & Bosh will be audioblogging the event for his podcast, and there will be copious photographic records made of the entire, sure to be sordid, affair. And of course, we will all post hungover recaps on Sunday. But probably not too early.
* Yes, we know that The Monster is not on Christopher, but it's close enough and too legendary to ignore. Marie's Crisis gets no such dispensation.
Event: Blarg Hop (blog + bar hop = blarg hop)
Date: Saturday, February 11th
Place: Christopher Street
Time: 10PM (22:00 hrs if you are Eric)
What: An old school bar crawl down Christopher Street
Who: A veritable cavalcade of gay bloggers and friends, including: Blather And Bosh, CircleInASquare, Diary Of A Dandy, Glennalicious, Ham & Cheese On Wry, Joe.My.God., Perge Modo, Plastic Music, PogueGO, Robocub, Someone In A Tree, The Ninth Circle Of Helen, Tin Man, The Mark Of Kane, VelleityNYC, We Like Sheep and doubtlessly some others. Bloggers interested in joining us, email me to add your name here.
Itinerary: (We start at Pieces at 10pm. The bars will be visited in the following order, at least one cocktail per bar, but we allocate no specific duration to any venue in case they like, suck and stuff.)
1. Pieces - 8 Christopher Street
2. Stonewall - 53 Christopher Street
3. Duplex - 61 Christopher Street
4. The Monster - 80 Grove Street*
5. Boots & Saddles - 76 Christopher Street
6. Ty's - 114 Christopher Street
7. The Hangar - 115 Christopher Street
8. Chi-Chiz - 135 Christopher Street
9. Dugout - 185 Christopher Street
Feel free to join us. Mike P of Blather & Bosh will be audioblogging the event for his podcast, and there will be copious photographic records made of the entire, sure to be sordid, affair. And of course, we will all post hungover recaps on Sunday. But probably not too early.
* Yes, we know that The Monster is not on Christopher, but it's close enough and too legendary to ignore. Marie's Crisis gets no such dispensation.
Monday, February 06, 2006
new fl
Just before the downpour, we stood on our terrace wondering who would own a boat this big and why. How much do these things cost, and how many people are required as crew? Pointing out the largest of them, C guesses twenty million. I guess lower. Maybe five million. We have no clue, and we have no desire for it. Something smaller and inflatable maybe. Once, on a lake in the Bershires, C and I had sex in an inflatable raft as the yellow plastic paddles floated away from us.
You'd miss this. We will all miss this.
Old Fort Lauderdale was composed of exactly this sort of visual moment. New development is obliterating all traces of the past as parcels are assembled to allow for glass towers. Walking or driving across the draw bridge on East Sunrise, you'd barely notice this place down twenty feet at the level of the old road before the bridge was built. Oh well.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
shadow face
Here's another photo C got last Saturday while I was still asleep. It's Central Park West, a block or two up from us. The shadow of the street light does form a sort of animal face. Sort of conjures the Pink Panther, I think.
under bow bridge
Sometimes C gets out of bed before me and goes for a pre-coffee trudge in Central Park. Sometimes he comes back with pics in the cam. Here's one he took last Saturday. A place we've photographed a million times and crossed two million times, but for some reason, this photo stood above the usual ones as a beacon to memory of the place. This bridge leads to the Ramble, at night.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Townhouse, O.W., Web & Escualita
Let me just say that keeping up with The Unsinkable One and The Fascinating One is not easy, but great fun.
Saturday night, we embarked on an anthropological tour of “Venues-Usually-Eschewed”. We were minus C who wisely remained abed to shed the remnants of a cold, anticipating our trip to Fort Lauderdale this coming thursday.
We started at The Townhouse. The glowing peach-colored walls. The many huge vases of pink star gazer lilies (real, not fake). The lively piano in the farthest room. The clean bathroom. The humane noise level. And most of all, the huge crowd of patrons. To say that they were “of all ages” would be accurate and rather kind.
I have hesitated long and hard before saying this, but the place (despite the piano) reminded me of a funeral parlor during a very bubbly wake. And yet, it was oddly cruisey (except for the quasi-corpses seated on the banquette near the piano. Do not look there.). 10PM and the place was mobbed. Everyone was dressed for real life. No fetish wear, but as Joe reminded me later in the evening, RuPaul once said that we are all born naked and the rest is drag.
I was standing at a urinal in the bathroom when a Townhouse staff person came in and tidied up a bit, using his broom to tamp down the paper towels brimming over the top of the trash can. He discreetly did not look at me. I said out loud, “Wow. No one ever cleans the bathroom at the Eagle”. This provoked a look in my direction that seemed to imply that I had used a curse word in church. Joe announced that we were leaving, and I screamed “No. I haven’t seen everyone yet, and we haven’t talked to anyone yet. We need to stay here all night. Maybe forever.” It was as though I was Jason and the sirens’ call had gotten to me. The Argonauts, Joe and Aaron, dragged me out the door to safety.
I need to also report that the dancer boys at The Web (or was it at O.W.?) and at Escualita were really fine. Especially the guy at Escualita with the humongous swaying dick that was encased in what I thought was a red and blue hand-painted condom. Joe corrected me, saying that he was wearing a “banana hammock” and that anyone can order one on the net. Maybe so, but not everyone could wear one as well as that boy did. I sure hope Joe posts the photos (maybe even the video) he took of that particular event.
I made the mistake of trying to keep pace beer-wise with Joe. Never again. I stumbled out of the bathroom at Escualita and everything seemed close and distant all at once. I tried to locate Joe and Aaron, and they might have been two feet in front of me, but I didn’t see them. The extremely young crowd just arriving parted for me as I climbed the stairs to the exit in a sort of zigzag pattern. At least I think they parted for me.
Saturday night, we embarked on an anthropological tour of “Venues-Usually-Eschewed”. We were minus C who wisely remained abed to shed the remnants of a cold, anticipating our trip to Fort Lauderdale this coming thursday.
We started at The Townhouse. The glowing peach-colored walls. The many huge vases of pink star gazer lilies (real, not fake). The lively piano in the farthest room. The clean bathroom. The humane noise level. And most of all, the huge crowd of patrons. To say that they were “of all ages” would be accurate and rather kind.
I have hesitated long and hard before saying this, but the place (despite the piano) reminded me of a funeral parlor during a very bubbly wake. And yet, it was oddly cruisey (except for the quasi-corpses seated on the banquette near the piano. Do not look there.). 10PM and the place was mobbed. Everyone was dressed for real life. No fetish wear, but as Joe reminded me later in the evening, RuPaul once said that we are all born naked and the rest is drag.
I was standing at a urinal in the bathroom when a Townhouse staff person came in and tidied up a bit, using his broom to tamp down the paper towels brimming over the top of the trash can. He discreetly did not look at me. I said out loud, “Wow. No one ever cleans the bathroom at the Eagle”. This provoked a look in my direction that seemed to imply that I had used a curse word in church. Joe announced that we were leaving, and I screamed “No. I haven’t seen everyone yet, and we haven’t talked to anyone yet. We need to stay here all night. Maybe forever.” It was as though I was Jason and the sirens’ call had gotten to me. The Argonauts, Joe and Aaron, dragged me out the door to safety.
I need to also report that the dancer boys at The Web (or was it at O.W.?) and at Escualita were really fine. Especially the guy at Escualita with the humongous swaying dick that was encased in what I thought was a red and blue hand-painted condom. Joe corrected me, saying that he was wearing a “banana hammock” and that anyone can order one on the net. Maybe so, but not everyone could wear one as well as that boy did. I sure hope Joe posts the photos (maybe even the video) he took of that particular event.
I made the mistake of trying to keep pace beer-wise with Joe. Never again. I stumbled out of the bathroom at Escualita and everything seemed close and distant all at once. I tried to locate Joe and Aaron, and they might have been two feet in front of me, but I didn’t see them. The extremely young crowd just arriving parted for me as I climbed the stairs to the exit in a sort of zigzag pattern. At least I think they parted for me.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
A Campaign
A campaign for the custody of my soul
Is waged with greed by the prattling ranks of daylighters who
Nag,
And with pleasure by the relaxing athletes of midnight who
Know.
I daily toss the coin at midcourt on my own behalf,
And covering the results with a palm,
Shout out “heads!” or “tails!” to suit desire or for laughs.
This crusade is sometimes ugly
In the irritable sun of headlines, arrests and padlocked doors
Where spectators include false friends crammed with the fat of envy.
They are eating popcorn in their beds,
While watching my events on wide screen,
Taking notes, they telephone each other, seeing red.
But I am riveted to those other men,
Sturdy as metal bridges over big black water,
I cross them in danger, in darkness,
Learning how they are constructed, and following their curves
I wonder if their span is doomed, will fail me, kill me.
I sleep it off at dawn, this fearing of the worst.
When I am old, this match will rage without me.
Then, I may seek peace with those whose Christmas cards stopped coming.
Confined to my chair, who cares? I’ll take their penance easily.
As usual, I want it all.
The sin of now, the cheers, the loss of blood,
The come-backs from the falls.
And if I walked out on my game before the clock is run,
Jumping bed to bed to outpace all my creditors,
Won’t God himself say what I’d have become?
A dated trophy perched near the coaches’ rants,
I spoil the team I wish to see retreat,
and grant the field to those I wish advanced.
I am too close to the action of my contest,
I topple, shatter and the soldiers run me over
Forgetting why they wanted me, they take no rest.
Is waged with greed by the prattling ranks of daylighters who
Nag,
And with pleasure by the relaxing athletes of midnight who
Know.
I daily toss the coin at midcourt on my own behalf,
And covering the results with a palm,
Shout out “heads!” or “tails!” to suit desire or for laughs.
This crusade is sometimes ugly
In the irritable sun of headlines, arrests and padlocked doors
Where spectators include false friends crammed with the fat of envy.
They are eating popcorn in their beds,
While watching my events on wide screen,
Taking notes, they telephone each other, seeing red.
But I am riveted to those other men,
Sturdy as metal bridges over big black water,
I cross them in danger, in darkness,
Learning how they are constructed, and following their curves
I wonder if their span is doomed, will fail me, kill me.
I sleep it off at dawn, this fearing of the worst.
When I am old, this match will rage without me.
Then, I may seek peace with those whose Christmas cards stopped coming.
Confined to my chair, who cares? I’ll take their penance easily.
As usual, I want it all.
The sin of now, the cheers, the loss of blood,
The come-backs from the falls.
And if I walked out on my game before the clock is run,
Jumping bed to bed to outpace all my creditors,
Won’t God himself say what I’d have become?
A dated trophy perched near the coaches’ rants,
I spoil the team I wish to see retreat,
and grant the field to those I wish advanced.
I am too close to the action of my contest,
I topple, shatter and the soldiers run me over
Forgetting why they wanted me, they take no rest.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Best Gay Blog of 2005
Do take a moment and go here not just to vote for "Farmboyz" in the Best Gay Blog of 2005 category, (or for Joe.My.God. in the Best Popular Gay Blog of 2005 category, or for CircleinaSquare for Best New Gay Blog) but also to sample some of the other rather extraordinary lives belonging to so many really hot men.
So little time for it all.
PS: what are we to make of the fact that someone's google search for "Asian locker room" brought them to Perge Modo on the same day that someone else's search for "bimbo butt bang" also brought them here? Ecco la mia vita; come sono caduto in baso.
So little time for it all.
PS: what are we to make of the fact that someone's google search for "Asian locker room" brought them to Perge Modo on the same day that someone else's search for "bimbo butt bang" also brought them here? Ecco la mia vita; come sono caduto in baso.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Brokeback Mountain
Last night, “Brokeback Mountain” opened in New York. All showings were sold-out, and although we had tickets and arrived early, we could not find two adjacent seats. I scanned the crowd wondering who all these people were who wanted to see two cowboys in love.I would estimate the crowd to have been 95% straight and rather young. During the previews, a recruitment ad for the National Guard was shown. It contained comments from enlistees who gushed about how “wunnerful it is to serve Amurka in the Guard”. This was greeted by some clever anti-war-in-Iraq shouts from the crowd that had everyone laughing. They seemed liberal, but I began to worry about how they would react during the love scenes we were probably about to see in the feature. My worries proved needless, and the highest tribute I can pay to this extremely fine movie is that everyone in the theater was spellbound by it from start to finish.
See it.
Do not read any reviews before you see it. Especially avoid Stephen Holden’s review in the New York Times. It is downright stupid for a reviewer to tell his readers the story of the movie, to outline the plot, more or less, and to disclose the happy, sad, ambiguous, redemptive, win or lose ending to any movie. I prefer not to know what happens until I see it happen. For this reason, I stopped reading that review after a few paragraphs, and I am glad I did.
Without causing harm, I can tell you that everything about this movie is almost perfectly rendered, but as C and I walked out of the theater we were both surprised by our mutual wondering about one odd scene. It involved a lingering close-up of the back of Jack’s hand. There seemed to be wide discolorations on his skin. Were they lesions? If so, nothing before or after that shot related in any way to the spots we both noticed. We think it was accidental. To be sure, I may read Annie Proulx’s novella to see if there is some reference that was almost entirely edited out of the film, with one shot accidentally remaining. I’ll be curious to know if anyone else notices or can explain this.
See it.
See it.
Do not read any reviews before you see it. Especially avoid Stephen Holden’s review in the New York Times. It is downright stupid for a reviewer to tell his readers the story of the movie, to outline the plot, more or less, and to disclose the happy, sad, ambiguous, redemptive, win or lose ending to any movie. I prefer not to know what happens until I see it happen. For this reason, I stopped reading that review after a few paragraphs, and I am glad I did.
Without causing harm, I can tell you that everything about this movie is almost perfectly rendered, but as C and I walked out of the theater we were both surprised by our mutual wondering about one odd scene. It involved a lingering close-up of the back of Jack’s hand. There seemed to be wide discolorations on his skin. Were they lesions? If so, nothing before or after that shot related in any way to the spots we both noticed. We think it was accidental. To be sure, I may read Annie Proulx’s novella to see if there is some reference that was almost entirely edited out of the film, with one shot accidentally remaining. I’ll be curious to know if anyone else notices or can explain this.
See it.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
The Prey
C and I andJoe. Our. God. were en ville and at the convivially crowded Barrage on Saturday night. We stood at the angle near the Suzy-homemaker DJ, and huddled over our three beers on the bar. Without warning, a sallow-eyed fellow with badly shaped black hair framing taciturn features hanging over thin shoulders under the oppression of a dark long-coat inserted himself with this line:
"Excuse me. Mind if I join you? I just got robbed and I don't want to be alone right now."
Before finishing this announcement, he boldly placed his drink on the bar in the center of our three beers as if to nail down his positioning.
Joe's eyes turned a glowing red as he sniffed fresh blog meat, and he asked the man where it had happened.
I, with the scepticism of Judge Judy, narrowed my view of this critter, wondering how he had purchased a big ole drink if he had just been robbed, and why his announcement rang with the indifference of someone channel-surfing through an evening of CSI reruns.
The surprise reaction however was from C who is ordinarily compassionate and benevolent in his acceptance of the premises of confidence men everywhere. Without a moment's hesitation, he said "Yes".
The guy seemed surprised by this, but chose to ignore it. C persisted.
"Actually, yes, we do mind if you join us."
The guy silently retrieved his drink and wandered back into the crowd in search of better victims.
This left Joe mildly chagrined, and it left me with a strong desire to claim that I had to piss, pretend to head toward the bathroom but run back home to post this before Joe had a chance to deliver his iteration.
Really, we actually do have lives.
"Excuse me. Mind if I join you? I just got robbed and I don't want to be alone right now."
Before finishing this announcement, he boldly placed his drink on the bar in the center of our three beers as if to nail down his positioning.
Joe's eyes turned a glowing red as he sniffed fresh blog meat, and he asked the man where it had happened.
I, with the scepticism of Judge Judy, narrowed my view of this critter, wondering how he had purchased a big ole drink if he had just been robbed, and why his announcement rang with the indifference of someone channel-surfing through an evening of CSI reruns.
The surprise reaction however was from C who is ordinarily compassionate and benevolent in his acceptance of the premises of confidence men everywhere. Without a moment's hesitation, he said "Yes".
The guy seemed surprised by this, but chose to ignore it. C persisted.
"Actually, yes, we do mind if you join us."
The guy silently retrieved his drink and wandered back into the crowd in search of better victims.
This left Joe mildly chagrined, and it left me with a strong desire to claim that I had to piss, pretend to head toward the bathroom but run back home to post this before Joe had a chance to deliver his iteration.
Really, we actually do have lives.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Our children
Ten years ago, C tossed me a fun assignment. He had a client who wanted some "wild art" for their corporate headquarters in Connecticut. In those days, I was totally absorbed with Photoshop which was not the yawn it is today. Nine hours playing with Photoshop felt to me like five minutes.
I met with the VP assigned to design the work space. He told me that I could do anything I wanted to do except that he didn't want any photos of "men blowing dogs". I told him that restriction would eliminate three quarters of my portfolio. We laughed and I knew we'd be OK.
C installed about a dozen different floor-to-ceiling images. This one is my favorite. It is a composite of photos of gargoyles from the Southam Building in Montreal, a background that is a close-up of the root ball from a Clivia that we were transplanting, a building we loved in the Jardin de Luxembourg in Paris, and some hydrangeas from the farm. I was particularly ecstatic when I managed to "light" the tops of the columns of the building which were actually a dull verdigris, and to create an artificial smoke and glow from inside the building.
These photos were taken last week. I was surprised that the restless and clever employees of this software company had not doctored or defaced the images over the past ten years. No changes in ten years, right down to the furniture placement. The images still entertain in a way that makes words on a screen seem as dry and ephemeral as maple leaves decomposing underfoot on a busy sidewalk..
Book of the Dead
I learned at our walk-through that this image would be installed in an area of file cabinets. I took some photos of the banks of cabinets in my own office, collided them, and combined them with some photos of text from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. I was, in those days, fond of invoking Ra at the beach in Ptown using the correct incantations found in this book. It kept the rain away.
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