We went to Folsom Street East on Sunday (West 28th St). Great fun, but there were moments when we visited some of the far outposts of the gay family where dwell folks with whom we have little in common.
"Perge modo et qua te ducit via dirige gressum," said Venus to Aeneas.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Monday, June 13, 2005
We love our Harry
Harry sends us email like no others. We miss him. He's long since left these parts for San Francisco, where he moved in with an ex-Colt model and really nice guy with whom he has formed a new life.
I met Harry several years ago in the Macho bar in Provincetown at the height of peak season. C was in NYC for a few days, and I, left to my own devices, was out for Montage. (Sorry, I'll define that sometime in the future). The place was a testosteroom of hot shirtless desire. Harry stood in the front rank of the standing-beer-armed soldiers. His smoldering hispanic looks caught my eye immediately. We fell into each other and for nearly an hour and a half, made-out cinematically (think of Moulin Rouge. We must have looked hot. The next day, friends and strangers complimented me on our display and the provoked envy). We ended up back at my house and slightly before dawn, Harry left.
Six hours later, when I awoke, he was sitting on a chair by the bed.
This was odd. I never locked the doors in Ptown, but I have never had a trick return that soon, and without the usual mechanisms of invitation and response. He had made coffee in the kitchen, and despairing over my possible resolution to sleep out the entire day, was writing me a long note while he sat by the bed.
I reached over and snatched the note from his hands and read it aloud. That was my first experience of Harry's tendency to write beautifully long, elaborate and fearless notes. Harry doesn't need to edit himself because his instincts (trained by an earlier career in theater) are perfect. Here is his latest to us, written after he read the Spes Messis in Semine series: (Oh , and Harry, I still have that first note, and C sends his love, and we are hoping you guys will come east soon. We'll be staying with Bob and Peter during Carnivale week in Ptown. Game?)
from Harry:
Dearest _____ - - I was compelled to write after reading some of your entries on life in the seminary. Needless to say, it triggered long forgotten memories - (cue background pipe organ music and a filtered lense montage accompanied by chords from a distant harp...) from a lifetime ago. I was overwhelmed by one particular occasion - a memory stemming from the sensation of a stiff and bleached white collar fastened tightly by the gaudiest of red faux bow ties. I remember how the collar chaffed against my neck, almost unbearable in the summer heat. Beads of sweat rolled down my back forming tiny rivulets hidden under the bulky weight of red and white vestments. Normally they would flow and billow in a passing breeze but that day they were still as if wilted under the heat. Sweat ran down my shoulders and arms, down to my wrist. In my grip dangled a gold plated censer swinging lazily from a taunt, discolored chain. Faint white smoke floated in delicate spirals from cross shaped holes and at times was obsured by the beams of colored sunlight shooting through stained glass. The droning organ music, combined with the humidity and my nervous energy, made it impossible to focus. I was nervous. This was my first time and I wondered how it would go. Contemplating the growing number of possibilities, I managed to turn my attention down the aisle without drawing any focus on myself. I looked past the rows of pews filled with my classmates and the rest of the school, just beyond the Sixth Station of the Cross near the confessionals. There he was. He stepped into his ensemble with methodical percision. It seemed as if he was visible only to me. The door was opened part of the way but he was framed perfectly against the dark word paneling. Even from my vantage point I see how he would tower over me, he was well over 6 feet with the lanky legs of a basketball player and the visage of an early Chuck Conners (sans the deranged stare and, sadly, sans a shirtless, hemp rope bound William Conrad in tow). He was younger than most clergymen I had seen and an affable man whose hearty laugh and kind eyes endeared the hardest of hearts. There had been rumors he was married at one time which wasn't hard to believe. Even under the bulk of his cassock and vestments, you could still follow the contour of his large body, the fabric hugging and draping the rise and fall of his generous chest, the curve of his back. He had the figure of the ideal woodsman, broad shouldered with arms that yearned to burst from his shirt sleeves, with tufts of dark hair peeking through his short sleeves giving him a hint of primal energy. He moved with equal grace and precision despite his long legs. On the warm days when he was not dressed for mass, I would look forward to seeing him in his summer blacks. There was the aforementioned short sleeve shirt framing his handsome upper body but it was his pants which were the highlight of my midday treat. His pants could barely contain the two physical attributes which forever cemented the memovy of Father Rock: his thighs had the girth of tree trunks and he was blessed with an outline of a bulge so prominent one could safely conclude he was gifted with a prodigious endowment. puffing slowly, intently on last time before he would have to extinguish his treasure stogie. I saw his ice baby blues narrow behind his gold rimmed aviator sunglasses, his fat cigar jutting from his supple lips. Was he grinning? I couldn't tell without leaning forward and squinting and inevitably draw attention to me. He finished slipping into his knee high black boots (...just buffed and polished by Sister Agathe Ignacia - a gargoyle of a woman but a fierce boot black) and he was threading the final strap of his harness. The final touch to this exercise was the captain's hat which sat with the slight tilt, his chestnut mane concealed in favor of the stark conformity of worn leather, dulled chains and his exposed skin. Draped arms that welcomed congregants to prayer on Sunday were now a visceral display of long milkly white arms and even from I stood I see the biceps flex and release as he slipped on the gloves. Gone was the crucifix. Now there rested a metallic ring anchoring the harness and framing his sternum. And there were his chest, defined even in partial light The cindered glow grew brighter as he turned and he beckoned me closer with a gloved hand. Commandant Rock was ready. He picked up a riding crop as I began my slow approach. My throat was dry and yet I managed to swallow. Still nervous. On that day "Make me channel of your peace" lost its hallowed earnestness and took on a more sinister application...
I met Harry several years ago in the Macho bar in Provincetown at the height of peak season. C was in NYC for a few days, and I, left to my own devices, was out for Montage. (Sorry, I'll define that sometime in the future). The place was a testosteroom of hot shirtless desire. Harry stood in the front rank of the standing-beer-armed soldiers. His smoldering hispanic looks caught my eye immediately. We fell into each other and for nearly an hour and a half, made-out cinematically (think of Moulin Rouge. We must have looked hot. The next day, friends and strangers complimented me on our display and the provoked envy). We ended up back at my house and slightly before dawn, Harry left.
Six hours later, when I awoke, he was sitting on a chair by the bed.
This was odd. I never locked the doors in Ptown, but I have never had a trick return that soon, and without the usual mechanisms of invitation and response. He had made coffee in the kitchen, and despairing over my possible resolution to sleep out the entire day, was writing me a long note while he sat by the bed.
I reached over and snatched the note from his hands and read it aloud. That was my first experience of Harry's tendency to write beautifully long, elaborate and fearless notes. Harry doesn't need to edit himself because his instincts (trained by an earlier career in theater) are perfect. Here is his latest to us, written after he read the Spes Messis in Semine series: (Oh , and Harry, I still have that first note, and C sends his love, and we are hoping you guys will come east soon. We'll be staying with Bob and Peter during Carnivale week in Ptown. Game?)
from Harry:
Dearest _____ - - I was compelled to write after reading some of your entries on life in the seminary. Needless to say, it triggered long forgotten memories - (cue background pipe organ music and a filtered lense montage accompanied by chords from a distant harp...) from a lifetime ago. I was overwhelmed by one particular occasion - a memory stemming from the sensation of a stiff and bleached white collar fastened tightly by the gaudiest of red faux bow ties. I remember how the collar chaffed against my neck, almost unbearable in the summer heat. Beads of sweat rolled down my back forming tiny rivulets hidden under the bulky weight of red and white vestments. Normally they would flow and billow in a passing breeze but that day they were still as if wilted under the heat. Sweat ran down my shoulders and arms, down to my wrist. In my grip dangled a gold plated censer swinging lazily from a taunt, discolored chain. Faint white smoke floated in delicate spirals from cross shaped holes and at times was obsured by the beams of colored sunlight shooting through stained glass. The droning organ music, combined with the humidity and my nervous energy, made it impossible to focus. I was nervous. This was my first time and I wondered how it would go. Contemplating the growing number of possibilities, I managed to turn my attention down the aisle without drawing any focus on myself. I looked past the rows of pews filled with my classmates and the rest of the school, just beyond the Sixth Station of the Cross near the confessionals. There he was. He stepped into his ensemble with methodical percision. It seemed as if he was visible only to me. The door was opened part of the way but he was framed perfectly against the dark word paneling. Even from my vantage point I see how he would tower over me, he was well over 6 feet with the lanky legs of a basketball player and the visage of an early Chuck Conners (sans the deranged stare and, sadly, sans a shirtless, hemp rope bound William Conrad in tow). He was younger than most clergymen I had seen and an affable man whose hearty laugh and kind eyes endeared the hardest of hearts. There had been rumors he was married at one time which wasn't hard to believe. Even under the bulk of his cassock and vestments, you could still follow the contour of his large body, the fabric hugging and draping the rise and fall of his generous chest, the curve of his back. He had the figure of the ideal woodsman, broad shouldered with arms that yearned to burst from his shirt sleeves, with tufts of dark hair peeking through his short sleeves giving him a hint of primal energy. He moved with equal grace and precision despite his long legs. On the warm days when he was not dressed for mass, I would look forward to seeing him in his summer blacks. There was the aforementioned short sleeve shirt framing his handsome upper body but it was his pants which were the highlight of my midday treat. His pants could barely contain the two physical attributes which forever cemented the memovy of Father Rock: his thighs had the girth of tree trunks and he was blessed with an outline of a bulge so prominent one could safely conclude he was gifted with a prodigious endowment. puffing slowly, intently on last time before he would have to extinguish his treasure stogie. I saw his ice baby blues narrow behind his gold rimmed aviator sunglasses, his fat cigar jutting from his supple lips. Was he grinning? I couldn't tell without leaning forward and squinting and inevitably draw attention to me. He finished slipping into his knee high black boots (...just buffed and polished by Sister Agathe Ignacia - a gargoyle of a woman but a fierce boot black) and he was threading the final strap of his harness. The final touch to this exercise was the captain's hat which sat with the slight tilt, his chestnut mane concealed in favor of the stark conformity of worn leather, dulled chains and his exposed skin. Draped arms that welcomed congregants to prayer on Sunday were now a visceral display of long milkly white arms and even from I stood I see the biceps flex and release as he slipped on the gloves. Gone was the crucifix. Now there rested a metallic ring anchoring the harness and framing his sternum. And there were his chest, defined even in partial light The cindered glow grew brighter as he turned and he beckoned me closer with a gloved hand. Commandant Rock was ready. He picked up a riding crop as I began my slow approach. My throat was dry and yet I managed to swallow. Still nervous. On that day "Make me channel of your peace" lost its hallowed earnestness and took on a more sinister application...
Thursday, June 02, 2005
An unknown soldier
Would the soldier (you're in Bagdad or maybe Moscow judging by the time zone marker) who daily reads this blog and then goes to Joe.My.God. please email me. I have so many questions. farmboyz@mac.com
Sunday, May 29, 2005
diversion
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.
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
seminary
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.
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.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Melody of Love
For reasons unknown, some of my fave bloggers are writing about music these days, and so, not one to drop my oar, I offer the following which has been simmering within me since the colder months.
All last winter, at the Club Fort Lauderdale, they played the same four songs endlessly and repeatedly and loudly. At first, I was glad for the fact that these songs had replaced J Lo reminding us that she's just Jenny from the Block which was the previous mantra that filled those halls. It was annoying because, in fact, none of those present were just Jenny from the block, although on occasion, with the right piece in one's hand, the lyric "I used to have a little now I got a lot" did seem to make some sense.
The Four Inevitables, as I referred to them in my unheeded complaints to the manager, were
"Beautiful Soul" by Jesse McCartney, which contains the words "I don't want another pretty face". Those of us who sang along while sauntering or posing were outright liars.
"True" by Ryan Cabrera, which contains the words "I've waited all my life to be with you". Another terrific lie. Most of us in that place would wait longer for an ATM to spit out twenty bucks than we would for the attentions of the next man to come around the corner.
"Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day, featuring the constant phrase "I walk alone". This choice was only partially absurd. I did occasionally walk alone, usually while exiting someone's room and wiping my hands along the walls on my way to the showers. That moment, however, did not capture the existential yearning intended by the Green Day.
"I'm With You" by Avril LaVigne. Finally a tolerable anthem for many of those evenings. Ms. LaVigne commences with the words "It's a damn cold night" which was certainly true of Fort Lauderdale during its last unusually frigid high season, and when she wails "Take me by the hand...I don't know who you are but I'm with you", well there just wasn't a dry dick in the place.
I once read that "Chocolate Cake" by Crowded House was first a hit in the bath houses of Australia, and that the Finn brothers took this as a fine compliment. I wonder if Captain and Tennille would have felt the same if they had heard me whistling "Do that to me one more time" while walking the halls of the Sloane House YMCA many years ago. I liked the fact that there was no music piped into the halls of that wonderful place. Some guys, using a shoe to prop open the door, indicating an interest in the reception of guests, had radios that might catch your ear as you passed, but not in the agressive way that the speakers mounted overhead in most bath houses deliver divas where you just don't want them.
Next career: traveling bath house music consultant. So easy to pack. Won't even need the overhead bin.
All last winter, at the Club Fort Lauderdale, they played the same four songs endlessly and repeatedly and loudly. At first, I was glad for the fact that these songs had replaced J Lo reminding us that she's just Jenny from the Block which was the previous mantra that filled those halls. It was annoying because, in fact, none of those present were just Jenny from the block, although on occasion, with the right piece in one's hand, the lyric "I used to have a little now I got a lot" did seem to make some sense.
The Four Inevitables, as I referred to them in my unheeded complaints to the manager, were
"Beautiful Soul" by Jesse McCartney, which contains the words "I don't want another pretty face". Those of us who sang along while sauntering or posing were outright liars.
"True" by Ryan Cabrera, which contains the words "I've waited all my life to be with you". Another terrific lie. Most of us in that place would wait longer for an ATM to spit out twenty bucks than we would for the attentions of the next man to come around the corner.
"Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day, featuring the constant phrase "I walk alone". This choice was only partially absurd. I did occasionally walk alone, usually while exiting someone's room and wiping my hands along the walls on my way to the showers. That moment, however, did not capture the existential yearning intended by the Green Day.
"I'm With You" by Avril LaVigne. Finally a tolerable anthem for many of those evenings. Ms. LaVigne commences with the words "It's a damn cold night" which was certainly true of Fort Lauderdale during its last unusually frigid high season, and when she wails "Take me by the hand...I don't know who you are but I'm with you", well there just wasn't a dry dick in the place.
I once read that "Chocolate Cake" by Crowded House was first a hit in the bath houses of Australia, and that the Finn brothers took this as a fine compliment. I wonder if Captain and Tennille would have felt the same if they had heard me whistling "Do that to me one more time" while walking the halls of the Sloane House YMCA many years ago. I liked the fact that there was no music piped into the halls of that wonderful place. Some guys, using a shoe to prop open the door, indicating an interest in the reception of guests, had radios that might catch your ear as you passed, but not in the agressive way that the speakers mounted overhead in most bath houses deliver divas where you just don't want them.
Next career: traveling bath house music consultant. So easy to pack. Won't even need the overhead bin.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Fortune
As we were getting into bed last night, C. said, "Do you realize that I have spent the majority of my life with you?"
"No. I hadn't really thought of that but I guess it's true, isn't it?" After a few seconds, I added, "Are you happy?"
Without hesitation, with eyes closed and forehead scrunched against my shoulder, he smiled and vigorously nodded yes.
"Well I've spent the majority of my life with you too", I announced.
"No you haven't", he murmured, "Unless you've been lieing about your age."
"Sweet, if I were going to lie about my age, I certainly wouldn't have been padding it all these years, would I? I'm simply discounting and subtracting those years of my early childhood in which I was obsessed with and desired only sapphires, leopard skin and Troy Donahue. I think it's only fair to let me bundle up and sequester those years in the way that a freed prisoner might sidestep his time of incarceration while making cocktail chat, or an ex-addict might set-aside his pre-clean years or the way someone coming out of a coma might box up the years of oblivion and refer to them as a separate and distinct life. And incidentally, you would think that by now someone would have bought me at least a small sapphire, but no, I remain unadorned, like the last unpurchased Christmas tree on the street corner, late on the 24th, destined for blinglessnessdom."
It took me three tries to get that last word out correctly. Put the blame on the meds I am taking for the pain of my recent back injury (see below). C. missed the whole of my ramble for he had fallen asleep within seconds of closing his eyes. This is his way, and mine as well, for more than twenty years. At various times in the course of the night we will twist and turn, always making sure that some parts of our bodies are touching.
I have lost almost all the jewelry I have ever owned.
I am allergic to cats.
There is definitely no room for Troy in this bed.
"I'm happy too", I whispered into the top of his head.
"No. I hadn't really thought of that but I guess it's true, isn't it?" After a few seconds, I added, "Are you happy?"
Without hesitation, with eyes closed and forehead scrunched against my shoulder, he smiled and vigorously nodded yes.
"Well I've spent the majority of my life with you too", I announced.
"No you haven't", he murmured, "Unless you've been lieing about your age."
"Sweet, if I were going to lie about my age, I certainly wouldn't have been padding it all these years, would I? I'm simply discounting and subtracting those years of my early childhood in which I was obsessed with and desired only sapphires, leopard skin and Troy Donahue. I think it's only fair to let me bundle up and sequester those years in the way that a freed prisoner might sidestep his time of incarceration while making cocktail chat, or an ex-addict might set-aside his pre-clean years or the way someone coming out of a coma might box up the years of oblivion and refer to them as a separate and distinct life. And incidentally, you would think that by now someone would have bought me at least a small sapphire, but no, I remain unadorned, like the last unpurchased Christmas tree on the street corner, late on the 24th, destined for blinglessnessdom."
It took me three tries to get that last word out correctly. Put the blame on the meds I am taking for the pain of my recent back injury (see below). C. missed the whole of my ramble for he had fallen asleep within seconds of closing his eyes. This is his way, and mine as well, for more than twenty years. At various times in the course of the night we will twist and turn, always making sure that some parts of our bodies are touching.
I have lost almost all the jewelry I have ever owned.
I am allergic to cats.
There is definitely no room for Troy in this bed.
"I'm happy too", I whispered into the top of his head.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
A Plenary Indulgence
By way of follow up to my mention of the indulgence to be gained by correctly receiving Ratzie's Urbe et Orbe blessing, I offer the following interchange with a Monsignor who knows all this stuff. He once taught me the words to Wallis Simpson's favorite hymn entitled "Will There Be Any Stars In My Crown?"
Dear_______,
What kind of indulgence does one get for receiving the first U et O
blessing of a new Pope?
Is it valid via CNN, or does one have to have gotten it through Fox News?
Seriously, what's the indulgence attached to it? Do you have to hear it
live? Via TV OK? Aside from having to be disposed to the indulgence,
what are the requisite prayers that must also be said in order to make
it work?
Dear ____________,
It is plenary -- and even over the radio or TV. However, one has to be in a
state of grace, and free of "any attachment" at that current instant to
venial sin. Since I think neither of us can claim the "any attachment"
part, any indulgence we received from receiving the blessing would be
"partial," rather than plenary, and God would deliver, based upon our good
will. So there!
Dear_______,
What kind of indulgence does one get for receiving the first U et O
blessing of a new Pope?
Is it valid via CNN, or does one have to have gotten it through Fox News?
Seriously, what's the indulgence attached to it? Do you have to hear it
live? Via TV OK? Aside from having to be disposed to the indulgence,
what are the requisite prayers that must also be said in order to make
it work?
Dear ____________,
It is plenary -- and even over the radio or TV. However, one has to be in a
state of grace, and free of "any attachment" at that current instant to
venial sin. Since I think neither of us can claim the "any attachment"
part, any indulgence we received from receiving the blessing would be
"partial," rather than plenary, and God would deliver, based upon our good
will. So there!
Benedict XVI
There won't be much of a honeymoon. The faithful have already been forced into bed with this guy for decades, and it hasn't been fun. There's something in his smile that betrays his relishment of the role of Grand Inquisitor. He tried to twist that smile into something conveying Benevolent Pastor as he presented himself on the balcony for the Urbe et Orbe blessing (which, big time sinners take note, is good for a whooping big indulgence). Think formulaic Hollywood: the seemingly nice man smiles upon his victim revealing the bloodied fangs of a vampire. My body hair stood up as I received this blessing. It was cold and unGodly.
I hear that he has said quite plainly that he will not mind the shrinkage of the Roman Catholic Church due to conservative adherence to doctrine. OK, so he's just another stubborn old man who has stopped trusting the unfettered breezes of the Holy Spirit for guidance, preferring to rail against the targets of the old school: gays and women. He stands with that group in "The Poseidon Adventure" that did not go with Shelley Winters. They said, "Nope. We're going to stay right here in the ballroom. Better to dig in our heels rather than to start scampering about." We all know what happened to them.
His choice of name is telling. While casting back to a time and place in which he would feel comfortable, he logically discarded John, Paul and the two John Pauls. But some may wonder why he sidestepped the last century's hugest Germanophile, Pius XII. Maybe it is because of Pius's own difficulties with the Nazis, or because Ratzinger knows that when John XXIII became Pope, the first thing he found on his desk was Pius's plan to call for a Vatican Council, but I suspect the real reason has more to do with Pius's relationship with Cardinal Spellman. There's not much in Benedict XV that stirs the modern heart, but by golly, Ratzinger could place a dollar on the fact that he was a damn fine specimen of an asexual priest.
He's 78. His dictates will be largely ignored, and he is probably not the last nail in the coffin of Roman Catholicism.
I hear that he has said quite plainly that he will not mind the shrinkage of the Roman Catholic Church due to conservative adherence to doctrine. OK, so he's just another stubborn old man who has stopped trusting the unfettered breezes of the Holy Spirit for guidance, preferring to rail against the targets of the old school: gays and women. He stands with that group in "The Poseidon Adventure" that did not go with Shelley Winters. They said, "Nope. We're going to stay right here in the ballroom. Better to dig in our heels rather than to start scampering about." We all know what happened to them.
His choice of name is telling. While casting back to a time and place in which he would feel comfortable, he logically discarded John, Paul and the two John Pauls. But some may wonder why he sidestepped the last century's hugest Germanophile, Pius XII. Maybe it is because of Pius's own difficulties with the Nazis, or because Ratzinger knows that when John XXIII became Pope, the first thing he found on his desk was Pius's plan to call for a Vatican Council, but I suspect the real reason has more to do with Pius's relationship with Cardinal Spellman. There's not much in Benedict XV that stirs the modern heart, but by golly, Ratzinger could place a dollar on the fact that he was a damn fine specimen of an asexual priest.
He's 78. His dictates will be largely ignored, and he is probably not the last nail in the coffin of Roman Catholicism.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
The Spectator Pumps and Sling Backs of Mrs. Noreen Hamilton of Fort Lauderdale, Florida
Not sure why I painted this. We looked at her condo a few years ago when we were looking for a Fort Lauderdale place. She greeted us and the agent in a floor length aquamarine caftan. She was tiny and quite elderly and full of laughter.She had placed a copy of a high end shelter mag by the door. The condo was featured on the cover. She was the widow of an FBI honcho who had worked with J. Edgar. He had taken care of her. Every cabinet she opened contained bottles. She offered us a drink (10:30AM) and even financing as I snapped pictures. When she led me into the depths of her walk-in, I could sense pride in her arrangement of footwear. We didn't buy the place. Should have. She planned to move to a building nearer the Galleria. Must look her up.I think she'd like this.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Snaxx
At the advice of a blogger, we attend this bi-weekly event at the Westside Tavern last Friday night, and we are pleased with what we find. Upon arrival, we pass through a laconic straight crowd draped about the main floor. Dante, or our instinct, guides us past these creatures to a sign that commands "LOUNGE". We make the descent into a cellar where an attentive bartender efficiently fuels a thick mob of men who are mostly taller than us. I shout over the noise to C. that they must be lacing the drinks with calcium. An intelligent DJ has blessedly subtracted any hint of a vocal line from his mix, charging the air with that sort of frisson one feels just before a lightening strike. The men here, with few exceptions, are very white, and all rather butch and built. (Margaret Butch-White?) Their coloration is neither a positive nor a negative. It is simply worth noting, in a city that usually contains more variety. Most everyone has hair that has been allowed to follow the natural contours of the face, like winter rye in a fallow place. No geometric cuts that seem to be lifted from A Pattern Language. And, unlike in other neighborhoods, no one is smoking. Also unlike in other neighborhoods, these men appear to have left their genitals at home, or perhaps to have placed them in some sort of timed-release security box under their vigilantly zippered jeans. There's not a dick to be seen, nor groping nor pawing nor squeezing of the crotch. C. and I, like those shipwrecked boys in Lord of the Flies have almost forgotten this sort of civilized behavior. We are more accustomed to venues in which the objective is to make Origami folds in jeans worn entirely at the ankles. We behave, and acquire a second drink. These men appear to be assessing each other, perhaps taking notes that might be played out over laundry in weeks to come, as in, "Didn't I see you at Snaxx in a Def Leppard tee shirt?". C. remarks that they are the exact same men who may be seen at Siberia. Very Edith Wharton, but a pleasant spectacle, and one which we will return to perhaps with our single, out-of-town, hairy, butch, built, white and taller friends, should we ever acquire any.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Vox Christi
Saturday February 19, 2005
Provoke.
Invoke.
Evocative.
Convocation.
Vocation.
Oddly enough, these words, all rooted in the vocal, seemed to crowd out all other observations as we walked through “The Gates” in Central Park at 10AM in full sun. Odd because despite the huge crowd, a quiet solemnity prevailed. At first I assumed this was by dint of the extreme cold, but came to realize that what we were hearing was the sound of people thinking rather than talking. I cannot recall a time when I have been part of a throng this big that wasn’t jabbering, fidgeting, jostling, shrieking, chanting or cheering. Even in Rome, when we trotted out the Pope, the crowd was about as ruly as that of a Superbowl, bruising their neighbors to get a full frontal into their cameras.
For this reason above all others, we decide the installation is good.
C feels it conjures fluorescent laundry. I counter with the impression of a bevy of Catholic school girls, but that is because I am obsessed with pleats. Yup, I love em. (I think that in heaven, if Miss Jesus will have me, I will be perpetually draped in Mariano Fortuny, but still allowed upstairs at the Eagle.)
As we approach The Boathouse for brunch, C, who loves this park, says that he’ll side with the Christo fans, but he is glad the installation is temporary “like when the carnival comes to town”.
I am distracted by the sight of a volunteer wearing an official beige “Gates” vest. He holds a long pole with a yellow tennis ball skewered on its tip. This is used to adjust the saffron when the wind twists it over the armatures (and, we agree wholeheartedly with that savvy stud from Philadelphia who observed that the armatures should have been grey to blend in with the winter trees and make the saffron really float.)
C suggests that we should be Christo volunteers next time. I agree and share the rumor that Jeanne-Claude has announced her desire to cover Jeff Stryker with red and gold flocked wallpaper. Wheat paste: the lube of a legend.
Later that evening, I laugh as I enter the soaring atrium of the Time Warner building and am assaulted by the sight of two one hundred foot long orange curtains and a matching valance framing the escalator down to Whole Foods. Is this a tribute or is it a nasty bit of mockery? Either way, it’s just pitifully lame. Worse is next door, where the window dressers at Hugo Boss have replaced the relentlessly black clothing with some orange tat. Everyone seems to have gotten the spirit except for the dour clerks at the Thomas Pink store where the colors were recalcitrant. I suppose that to be a function of the brand name, and I rethink my decision that if C and I ever had a daughter, we would name her Saffron. She might never be pretty in pink. I return to our earlier choice: Aerial Surveillance. She’ll grow into it.
Provoke.
Invoke.
Evocative.
Convocation.
Vocation.
Oddly enough, these words, all rooted in the vocal, seemed to crowd out all other observations as we walked through “The Gates” in Central Park at 10AM in full sun. Odd because despite the huge crowd, a quiet solemnity prevailed. At first I assumed this was by dint of the extreme cold, but came to realize that what we were hearing was the sound of people thinking rather than talking. I cannot recall a time when I have been part of a throng this big that wasn’t jabbering, fidgeting, jostling, shrieking, chanting or cheering. Even in Rome, when we trotted out the Pope, the crowd was about as ruly as that of a Superbowl, bruising their neighbors to get a full frontal into their cameras.
For this reason above all others, we decide the installation is good.
C feels it conjures fluorescent laundry. I counter with the impression of a bevy of Catholic school girls, but that is because I am obsessed with pleats. Yup, I love em. (I think that in heaven, if Miss Jesus will have me, I will be perpetually draped in Mariano Fortuny, but still allowed upstairs at the Eagle.)
As we approach The Boathouse for brunch, C, who loves this park, says that he’ll side with the Christo fans, but he is glad the installation is temporary “like when the carnival comes to town”.
I am distracted by the sight of a volunteer wearing an official beige “Gates” vest. He holds a long pole with a yellow tennis ball skewered on its tip. This is used to adjust the saffron when the wind twists it over the armatures (and, we agree wholeheartedly with that savvy stud from Philadelphia who observed that the armatures should have been grey to blend in with the winter trees and make the saffron really float.)
C suggests that we should be Christo volunteers next time. I agree and share the rumor that Jeanne-Claude has announced her desire to cover Jeff Stryker with red and gold flocked wallpaper. Wheat paste: the lube of a legend.
Later that evening, I laugh as I enter the soaring atrium of the Time Warner building and am assaulted by the sight of two one hundred foot long orange curtains and a matching valance framing the escalator down to Whole Foods. Is this a tribute or is it a nasty bit of mockery? Either way, it’s just pitifully lame. Worse is next door, where the window dressers at Hugo Boss have replaced the relentlessly black clothing with some orange tat. Everyone seems to have gotten the spirit except for the dour clerks at the Thomas Pink store where the colors were recalcitrant. I suppose that to be a function of the brand name, and I rethink my decision that if C and I ever had a daughter, we would name her Saffron. She might never be pretty in pink. I return to our earlier choice: Aerial Surveillance. She’ll grow into it.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
In 2008
An openly gay man will be elected president, because:
a) he will run largely under the radar screen, on the net
b) he will get the youth, urban and swiftly growing minority vote
c) he will get the women vote because he won't be pushing a moral agenda that is prohibitive
d) the media will come up with names of people he has had sex with. It will be a long list. He will beam while proudly admitting to having had sex with them all (even the ones he can't quite recall)
e) the Libertarians will toss in with him just before the election, giving him the support of guys like Clint Eastwood and Kurt Russell
f) The two party system, which is as close to death as the electoral college, will once again produce two candidates who will be distasteful to most of America. Americans will look about for a hero and will sense something in the voice of the gay candidate: that long-lost sound of sincerety.
g) Other countries (need I name them?) will toss in with the gay candidate, as will Oprah
(h) It will help if he has military and government experience)
i) Barbra Streisand will get to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom again.
Early in his presidency, he will be assassinated, and will become instantly heroic in memoriam. Gay issues will reach resolution. He will have been the catalyst.
I know that all this sounds Messianic, but that is rather what is born of oppression.
Who's it going to be? I've been scanning the horizon for sight of him. He hasn't yet appeared. He's out there somewhere maybe just beginning to sense his responsibility and destiny.
a) he will run largely under the radar screen, on the net
b) he will get the youth, urban and swiftly growing minority vote
c) he will get the women vote because he won't be pushing a moral agenda that is prohibitive
d) the media will come up with names of people he has had sex with. It will be a long list. He will beam while proudly admitting to having had sex with them all (even the ones he can't quite recall)
e) the Libertarians will toss in with him just before the election, giving him the support of guys like Clint Eastwood and Kurt Russell
f) The two party system, which is as close to death as the electoral college, will once again produce two candidates who will be distasteful to most of America. Americans will look about for a hero and will sense something in the voice of the gay candidate: that long-lost sound of sincerety.
g) Other countries (need I name them?) will toss in with the gay candidate, as will Oprah
(h) It will help if he has military and government experience)
i) Barbra Streisand will get to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom again.
Early in his presidency, he will be assassinated, and will become instantly heroic in memoriam. Gay issues will reach resolution. He will have been the catalyst.
I know that all this sounds Messianic, but that is rather what is born of oppression.
Who's it going to be? I've been scanning the horizon for sight of him. He hasn't yet appeared. He's out there somewhere maybe just beginning to sense his responsibility and destiny.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Skin Flint
(As I said in askisadora.com)
Sean,
There are gradations to which you must pay attention if you are to get this:
a) heterosexual men do not moisturize, unless they are farmers who use a product called Bag Balm. It was designed for a cow's utter and comes in a nifty tin with some green and rose campion colored graphics. It is vile smelling, but efficient.
b) Suburban metrosexual men of the lowest rank will moisturize but only after they are married, have begun to see wrinkles, and reaching first into their wives' side of the medicine cabinet, uncork potions that don't smell butch. The more persistent of this group will go to the CVS or to Costco, and stock up on Lubriderm or a similar generic.
c) The next rank of metrosexuals are single men who discover that they are better looking than their buddies (mostly because girls tell them this, but sometimes because they are narcissies). They nurture a fascination with their own looks that is free of the boundaries set by heterosexual men.
There are two subsets of this group:
1) black and hispanic men who have been using nail polish for decades
2) television weather forecasters (also known as meteorosexuals)
d) the highest rank of metrosexuals are those men who have extended the investments made by their ego to encompass their face and body. Not only do they have to have the best car, condo, job and babe, but they have to have the best skin, hair, muscles and suits. These are the guys who study grooming products and sometimes consult with their gay friends. These are also the guys who stand on the precarious edge of actually having sex with other men. Afterall, their preoccupation with the whole "men" thing can't help but lead them to appreciation of some men as sex objects.
e) And finally, Sean, there are the homosexuals who have been moisturizing since kindergarten. (No joke, I begged my Aunt Claire to let me use her Noxema, and I knew, even at the age of five, that this was something best kept between her and me.)
Homosexuals don't need to shop in the "Men's Grooming" section for their products. We head straight to the L'Oreal Plenitude Revitalift with brazen assurance (when the jar is empty, the labels are easily removed and you can refill them with pesto for freezing and gifting through the winter.)
The way-high level of this group is the New York homosexual who gets advance notice that Kiehl's is opening a new store on the Upper West Side. He's there right away, and because he drops a hundred bucks on 1.7 ounces of cryste marine cream, and a small jar of multi-purpose facial formula (and because he compliments the salesgirl on her thick mahogany mane), he walks out with enough sample packets to furnish his gym bag for months.
The very highest level of homosexual is inhabited by only one man: me. I am the person who, while visiting the island of Montserrat (two years before it blew up) brought a dozen zip lock bags with me and filled them with various colored muds from the simmering volcano. This made for some very heavy luggage which I forced my very annoyed partner to share. Getting through customs was hilarious. When we got home, I ruined my Cuisinart food processor by trying to mix the mud with some almond paste and eucalyptus oil. Within a few weeks, the baggies of mud hardened into bricks. I set them out as the threshold of the herb garden we put in that year. They were soon covered with glorious lichen and moss. And yes, while putting in that garden, the only thing that replenished my hands was a good dollop of bag balm.
And that, Sean, should answer your question.
Sean,
There are gradations to which you must pay attention if you are to get this:
a) heterosexual men do not moisturize, unless they are farmers who use a product called Bag Balm. It was designed for a cow's utter and comes in a nifty tin with some green and rose campion colored graphics. It is vile smelling, but efficient.
b) Suburban metrosexual men of the lowest rank will moisturize but only after they are married, have begun to see wrinkles, and reaching first into their wives' side of the medicine cabinet, uncork potions that don't smell butch. The more persistent of this group will go to the CVS or to Costco, and stock up on Lubriderm or a similar generic.
c) The next rank of metrosexuals are single men who discover that they are better looking than their buddies (mostly because girls tell them this, but sometimes because they are narcissies). They nurture a fascination with their own looks that is free of the boundaries set by heterosexual men.
There are two subsets of this group:
1) black and hispanic men who have been using nail polish for decades
2) television weather forecasters (also known as meteorosexuals)
d) the highest rank of metrosexuals are those men who have extended the investments made by their ego to encompass their face and body. Not only do they have to have the best car, condo, job and babe, but they have to have the best skin, hair, muscles and suits. These are the guys who study grooming products and sometimes consult with their gay friends. These are also the guys who stand on the precarious edge of actually having sex with other men. Afterall, their preoccupation with the whole "men" thing can't help but lead them to appreciation of some men as sex objects.
e) And finally, Sean, there are the homosexuals who have been moisturizing since kindergarten. (No joke, I begged my Aunt Claire to let me use her Noxema, and I knew, even at the age of five, that this was something best kept between her and me.)
Homosexuals don't need to shop in the "Men's Grooming" section for their products. We head straight to the L'Oreal Plenitude Revitalift with brazen assurance (when the jar is empty, the labels are easily removed and you can refill them with pesto for freezing and gifting through the winter.)
The way-high level of this group is the New York homosexual who gets advance notice that Kiehl's is opening a new store on the Upper West Side. He's there right away, and because he drops a hundred bucks on 1.7 ounces of cryste marine cream, and a small jar of multi-purpose facial formula (and because he compliments the salesgirl on her thick mahogany mane), he walks out with enough sample packets to furnish his gym bag for months.
The very highest level of homosexual is inhabited by only one man: me. I am the person who, while visiting the island of Montserrat (two years before it blew up) brought a dozen zip lock bags with me and filled them with various colored muds from the simmering volcano. This made for some very heavy luggage which I forced my very annoyed partner to share. Getting through customs was hilarious. When we got home, I ruined my Cuisinart food processor by trying to mix the mud with some almond paste and eucalyptus oil. Within a few weeks, the baggies of mud hardened into bricks. I set them out as the threshold of the herb garden we put in that year. They were soon covered with glorious lichen and moss. And yes, while putting in that garden, the only thing that replenished my hands was a good dollop of bag balm.
And that, Sean, should answer your question.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
We are a what?!
Someone on the television just reminded us that we are afterall a "faith-based nation". He offered this as explanation for the election of Bush to a second term. Never before has this concept been clear to me. I now see that this nation is viewed by most of its citizens as a club of God-fearers. This is not at all the collection of tolerant, freedom-loving and courageous folks who, despising oppression and able to endorse with conviction the welcoming inscription of the statue of liberty, set up this country as a refuge. Don't get me wrong. I am well aware of the enormity of conservative America, but I thought a larger portion of that mass was tempered by compassion for the rest of us. I was wrong.
We are nolonger about inclusion. We are now about the enforcement of someone's boundaries for right and wrong.
The idea that a President should give us comfort by steering a moral course for us is so foreign to me that I wonder how I could have actually grown up amidst these people.
I thought the President was supposed to keep us safe (even while we are performing sex acts he may not agree with).
If you say "faith-based nation" three times fast, you end up saying "faith-bashed nation".
We are nolonger about inclusion. We are now about the enforcement of someone's boundaries for right and wrong.
The idea that a President should give us comfort by steering a moral course for us is so foreign to me that I wonder how I could have actually grown up amidst these people.
I thought the President was supposed to keep us safe (even while we are performing sex acts he may not agree with).
If you say "faith-based nation" three times fast, you end up saying "faith-bashed nation".
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Just like in nature,
Just like in nature, one of these balls is slightly larger than the other.
But really, what were they thinking?
a) "Look Honey, the shiny things are on sale. Let's get two."
b) "Might as well put it out there with the one she gave us last Christmas".
c) "Well, we figured we had two windows..."
d) "That'll show those Hendersons a thing or two."
Feel free:
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Two lesbians have informed me that
in the town of Ubud, on Bali, having sex is referred to as "jig-a-jig".
This fact has been labeled "permanent" and stored in the far lobes.
I think you can safely judge a person by the information he has chosen to retain or discard. For instance, it may be significant that I can name the nine muses, list the eight members of the band playing on deck while the Titanic sank, describe Jason Kidd's tattoos, and accurately deliver every word and pause recorded by Karen Carpenter.
I won't begin to list the things I have forgotten, but I am proud of my editing, and pleased with the shiny things I have kept dusted and neatly displayed on the shelves of memory. All the rest has slipped through the cracks and joints of the floorboards and has been carried off by that dark and silent river flowing beneath us while we sleep.
This fact has been labeled "permanent" and stored in the far lobes.
I think you can safely judge a person by the information he has chosen to retain or discard. For instance, it may be significant that I can name the nine muses, list the eight members of the band playing on deck while the Titanic sank, describe Jason Kidd's tattoos, and accurately deliver every word and pause recorded by Karen Carpenter.
I won't begin to list the things I have forgotten, but I am proud of my editing, and pleased with the shiny things I have kept dusted and neatly displayed on the shelves of memory. All the rest has slipped through the cracks and joints of the floorboards and has been carried off by that dark and silent river flowing beneath us while we sleep.
Friday, October 01, 2004
absurd house
While this may not be the ugliest house in Connecticut, it is certainly the most absurd. It has not a single architectural feature that has not been misapplied, misused, misinterpreted or combined recklessly beyond the limits of sensible proportion. Looking at this house is profoundly irritating, but living in it is probably easier (once inside the foolish front door, you don't have to look at it). Is that the lady of the house coming forth as I get back into my car? I can tell she wants to obtain the name of the high end shelter mag in which her gracious home will be featured. Her hair is five times as large as her skull, and sprayed to imitate a five point buck. I speed away sparing her the reality.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)