Sunday, May 29, 2005


Because several clergy friends are privately conveying their admission about following the Spes Messis in Semine business, I'm going to take a few days to edit the next parts for accuracy.
Meanwhile, here's part one of "You Again" which announced itself after I got in at 5AM Saturday. PS, having entered "one of those places" in midtown, I walked past a rack of videos, one of which caught my eye. It was entitled "That Touch of Twink". This put a winning smile on my face as I passed through the turnstile.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Thursday, May 12, 2005


, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

When we walk out onto our deck at dawn before work, or at dusk when we return, this is part of the generous panorama that will make it hard for us to abandon this spot, this home of ours, built from scratch a few years back. This picture does not include the city skyline, or the old farm silos or the ancient cemetery or the village of homes just below us, but it does show you the Gothic tower of the seminary in which I lived for six years, on the edge of a valley cut by what the Indians called "the long tidal river". I was a little boy. All of fourteen. Ready for anything that would take me away. Story to follow.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Come sono caduto in baso

We drive into the city listening to Tears for Fears' Beatlesian "Sowing the Seeds of Love". The song ran itself onto a sandbar just beneath my forehead for the rest of the night. As we walked into Barrage, the bridge was on continuous loop: "Time to eat all your words, swallow your pride, open your eyes". Rather appropriate for an event built around words, and the seeing of the guys behind them. (God, will I ever be free of this homiletic style?)

In somma, if I were a single gay man looking for a boyfriend, Ida bin at Barrage on Friday night to dive into a fine combination of brain and brawn. As a five star yenta, that'll be my best advice from now on. Husband hunters should read blog, follow what fits and then stalk the hell out of a love object.

Really, I wanted only to dispel the rumor that Perge Modo is written by the retired big band singer Margaret Whiting, propped up on a Florida-based sofa, and transcribing snippets of letters left behind by her deceased husband, porn star Jack Wrangler. (If you check out Joe's blue-light-special photos of the event, you can see quite plainly that this blog is written by Rasputin and Alice B. Toklas. Seriously, I love that photo of C and me.)

We got to meet and touch the steamy Tolkienesque Aaron, the Watch-out-Bruce-Vilanch hot Joe, the velvet BJ (whom we have already touched many times in the icky way) the dewy and alluringly handsome Myoclonus and that very bad boy from Philadelphia with whom I re-enacted in the bathroom the steamroom scene from Thunderball. He's the hottest, cuttest, sweettest, and I'm-sure-to-never-hear-from-him-again-ist guy in this hemisphere. Oh well, I don't think anyone was damaged. The band width of the attendees didn't really allow for damage; only for celebration.

Aside: the guys who kept their jackets on were the non-bloggers. One of them, a short lean guy who turned out to be Pakistani (who should have been resting up for a run at Belmont) and spun out some tale about only being Out for a few months, was deliberately not helpful when my hand got stuck beyond his waistband. He had the enviable ability to keep his dick hard while conversing about housewares. There. I used the word "dick" in this post just to play to the person who told me that my blog is "borderline porn". That was the only surprising moment of the night. I don't remember who said it. I don't watch or read much porn. My stuff is more of an effort to record what no one else is willing even to discuss, like the fact of sex with married guys at the gym. I never think of it in terms of titillation. I plan to think more about that. But who has time? They have introduced hanging plastic dividers at Siberia on Saturdays. It was only a matter of time. I surrender to the venues of my age.