Hello? Anybody here?

Hello ladies. Meh. Not even going to try to explain how my last post was in January. Here it is March and this year is flying by just as quickly as last year. But that’s the thing as one gets older. Time literally flies. I heard some psych pro discuss this ‘racing time’ phenomenon on NPR, I think it was– several years ago. It has something to do about aging memory cells in the brain to simplify the topic. When one is young, the brain is young and therefore not filled up with a lot of life experiences. But as we age we gain experiences/memories and run out of memory space, so to speak, like the floppy disks of yesteryear. The brain discards past memories to make room for today’s experiences and in doing so creates some brain fuck of a time warp wherein the older brain senses the passing of time much faster. Make sense? I’m paraphrasing, sweetie, and more than likely screwed up the core thinking on the topic but at the time I heard the explanation it made such perfect sense. Go figure.

Ugh. I have corporate travel on the horizon. Again. Don’t mind the being there but it is always the getting there that sucks donkey dick. The last trip that I noted was timed during a nasty head cold which left me with a severe case of ‘airplane ear.’ And, no, it’s not a matter of extreme yawning and blowing my nose. Back in the 80s I had a similar bad experience with an airplane’s descent that had me in my doctor’s office 48-hours later. He essentially said that the tiny capillaries behind my eardrum had ruptured and that stuffed, odd blocked hearing loss was actually a tiny pool of blood behind the ear drum. I took some antibiotics and in a few days it passed. Still, I have to take a sinus decongestant and chew two pieces of “ICE” hyper-minty gum to clear my nasal passages for takeoff and landings. This is the core reason I’m not a fan of travel anymore.

Insert odd segue here: What with all the angst and heartbreak of the modern world, and with half the nation on anti-depressants I’ve been questioning why we stay here on this green earth at all. If the good book promises an afterlife of bliss, tranquility, and a sense of overwhelming love from benevolent Jesus why then are folks not offing themselves by the hundreds? I mean, right? If my version of happiness is just a quick step (leap?) from this apartment window what is the hold up? Maybe it’s just the unknown, the uncertainty, that the white light is even waiting for us. I have not figured this out and maybe it requires a theological pro for a more advanced answer. I make no bones about it: the one thing that keeps me here is my inability to get my affairs in order. I do not need my family combing through my massive wardrobe, thrift shop tchotchkes, and porn stash. You all only need worry when I have a walk-in closet that one can actually, like, walk in.

Still, I’ve pondered my demise and what that might look like as one does at this advanced age. And that aspect of offing myself is also a problematic facet. Who will do my bronzer? Where will I get planted? Do I want to go in ground or be cremated and spread on high, somewhere up a mountain overlooking Palm Springs? I just don’t have answers. But it should all be painfully tasteful and discriminatingly invitation only. Oh. And one more thing keeps me here: that lightning-in-a-bottle chance that I may, once again, fall madly in love and find that unicorn individual who will complete me and support my better shoes addiction.


New year/old shit

Well here we are. 2018. Advancing to our graves with the advent of the new year; the old year gone and along with it all the missed opportunities and failed coulda/woulda/shouldas. I recently read a quote from some senior citizen fuck who stated something along the thought of ‘…I have more years behind me than I do ahead of me. Best to make the most of the years I have left…’

Oh fuck you, granny. Sorry. My new year’s resolution is to be even more curmudgeonly and annoyed with humanity. And I don’t have to try too hard; look at the state of the world we now inhabit. Let’s roll back environmental protections, kick damn foreigners out, and grab everyone by the pussy! BOOYAH! I’ll circle back on the P word. Hold tight.

bw-drnksantaChristmas trim is about 90% packed away. I was feeling mighty accomplished until I realized that I have yet another box load of Xmas shit residing on the breakfast bar in my kitchen. It’s an easy oversight: “kitchen” is a wing I rarely visit. I just know that the room contains a metal box to make stuff hot and a bigger metal box to keep things cold. Sad, no? I used to throw down dinner parties for ten and not lose a beat; why, I’ve been known to paint the entire living room/dining room a fresh coat and entertain the same evening. But my desire to cook for one is limited nowadays; I haven’t really whipped up a dinner party in ten years. I’m rambling…

Oh. So Christmas was so so. I had zero expectations and those were met and exceeded. Mother sent a package in mid-December and followed up with a phone chat like this:

“…Did you get my package? Let me know when you get the package cuz’ I sent it priority mail. They said you should have my package by Wednesday. Now if you don’t get my package…well, you will probably get it but it was a shirt. So now you know…but anyway…that’s what should be coming Wednesday. If you don’t like it give it to someone who can use it…”

smokin_jesusOh the surprise and delights of the Christmas season are never ending. Such is the bounty of the unwilling and bitter. And the shirt did arrive; no tissue, no wrapping, no Christmas anything –just a shirt in a United States Post Office mailer pack. I suppose I sound like a bitch but I know damn well mother is at Dollar General 10 times a week and can surely grab a goddamn gift bag. Color me disappointed but what was I expecting?! GUCCI resort 2018?


I’m still sick. I’m nursing a damn head cold that won’t die. On top of that misery I had business travel this past week. I’m called to corporate every 8 to 10 weeks; it’s okay once I’m there. It’s the getting there that is problematic. I am not a bad flyer but I don’t think I’m a good one either. I had to drag my balls out of bed around 4:00am to make an 8:00am flight. Which was pretty miserable but only because I was headed to the airport and not my sofa for a porn buffet.

I’m of the generation who still wears a sport coat to get on a plane; folks do question my penchant for an ‘airport outfit’ but it’s rather an easy explanation: if that jet falls from the sky I’m meeting Christ in a tailored jacket and possibly a tie. I do not need a $15 buck-an-hour crash site crisis crew to find me dead in sweatpants and no bronzer. No ma’am.


Over the holidays I made a radical porn discovery and it was quite by accident. I landed on ‘ruff fuck pussy boi’ movie clip, etcetera, as one does– and was literally shocked to a steel stiffie to learn that the “pussy boi” in the particular artistic endeavor did –in fact, have a pussy! I’m now all caught up on female to male trans men for future cocktail chatter and wank fests. Maybe this current penchant for vajay and furry chest combo is what OPRAH meant when I read that changing one’s narrative is always a good notion at the onset of a new year.

Mary Christmas, bitch


Hello and holiday greetings from my chardonnay haze and tuna sandwich breath. You see, kind reader, I am off work this week. On holiday at the holidays as it was; a staycation! And this much I can share: day drinking is highly underrated. I can’t wait for my pending retirement years to start my days with sparkling mimosa and burnt sausages; I’ll segue into a lunchtime spicy Bloody Mary that will carry me through to cocktail hour promptly at 4:00pm. No wonder old people go to bed early. If they’re doing ‘old’ right they should be properly hammered and pissed in their big drawers by 6:00pm. But I digress.

BW_tree-trashChristmas 2017 is over. I had zero expectations and those zero expectations were met. There were no OMG gift highlights this year. And while well-meaning coworkers afforded the awkward “…thinking of you at Christmas” notecards I’d rather some spent their money on better dentistry.

Sweetie, I don’t need ‘fun socks’ at this age. But that snaggle tooth is going to ruin some dude’s uncut manhood in the coat room at your next ‘STAR WARS PRINCESS’ Quinceañera. Just saying.

People collectively agree that I’m that picky individual on their gift list that is ‘hard to buy for.’ That is, to be gentle– a fucking cop-out. Walk through Neiman’s. I’m certain one can find a suitable gift that I’d enjoy on the very first floor. But, no, they would rather fear my arched brow when I sense that their ‘designer candle’ gift is from Dollar General. Do not regift me that shit, Shirley. I wrote the book on regifting and a goddamn candle is the very first regift item on the top ten mutha’fuckin’ things that folks regift. So there’s that.

Let’s tarry forth. I have zero New Year’s Eve plans. I did not have NYE plans last year. Or the year before that. And, I believe– maybe the past five New Year’s Eves I have had no plans; I was home–very much alone. The last few years I broiled a filet mignon, smothered a baked potato in sour cream and chives, sipped some champagne and sailed off on a kitten soft cloud of champagne infused Xanax chill well before 10:00pm. Those pot lid banging fools out on their high-rise balconies are wasting their fool efforts to get a peep out of me come midnight; I will be nowhere near any ball drop.

BW_ONE-BALLWhich makes me a bit nostalgic for the one-balled dude that I dated let fuck me in my early 20s. I mean, in retrospect, the topic of his solo testicle didn’t enter our casual morning banter as we punched in at ye olde time clock back in my retail maven days. Yes, I used to be a ribbon clerk and was quite good at it because I was a superior salesperson an easy fuck. Where was I? Oh, so one-ball-dude really had the heavy hots for me in a grand way; he was an artist and viewed me as his next muse, you see; he lived in a wacky sprawling apartment on the city’s north side. I recall it was mostly painted a hunter green color as was the early 80’s rage with a nod to emerging Ralph Lauren style. But that’s where the nod to Upper East Side stopped. The rest of his apartment was filled with Mexican folk art, feathery wind catchers, painted tribal masks, and the odd ball taxidermist furry animal. There were layered, frayed carpets that suggested exotic, distant Morocco and crawling, vine clinging houseplants; a heady scent of YSL’s ‘OPIUM,’ oven baked muffins, and used sex poppers hung thick. In a word: DIVINE.

BW_BackdoorWe dated fucked for about a couple of months until he found someone even younger and more beautiful. And I feel no shame in being boldly narcissistic in my self assessment commentary: I WAS young AND beautiful; how the fuck do you think I got into Studio 54? And the half-dozen or so men who finger banged my hot hairy hole back in the day are still dreaming about it. But I am sooo digressing. There is no thread of consistency here as I’m deep into cocktails early today and rambling along my keyboard. I can see this clearly. Just like I can see my hazy memory tip toe back to Reed’s shit show artist’s apartment and the shared showers post-sheet biting sex where I’d let him rub Tiger Balm on my tight Italian asshole and wait for the ball to drop.

Bitters with a twist


On occasion {read: every other hour} I surf unknown posts via the “because you liked” algorithm that my INSTA feed provides. Earlier today my research based on non-stop swipes lead me to this conclusion: I hate young, 20-something gays with perfect tousle-haired boyfriends. Or Husbands.

diamdsYes. I know. Please add my name to the legions of tired, bitter old queens with better jewelry because we can afford it. And I suppose “hate” in this context is far too scathing and unmerited. Maybe acid green ‘jealous’ is a better, truer word.

Mother said “Life is not supposed to be fair; you get what you get.” Which in my early thirties made no sense when I shared at a family gathering that I’d been passed over for a promotion that afforded a pay increase. I should have known better to root around for empathy from a narcissistic parent but daresay I was much more open to hope and dreams that my nuclear family would– one day, act like a family. But I digress.

When I INSTA viewed a young gay couple holding hands pulling their wagon filled with a bound Christmas tree with the caption “Corbin’s first Christmas tree at our new apartment” I wanted to vomit. Okay. Okay. Again with the too harsh criticism and judgement. If I were to vaporize into their Kodak moment I would ask them how many goddamn HRC chicken dinner galas and AIDS candlelight marches they’ve engaged for the privilege and right to haul ass through mid-town holding hands in broad daylight spat from the pages of L.L.Bean.

wagonWhen I moved in with my boyfriend 35+ years ago it was indeed a different world. We were first and foremost ‘roommates.’ A term I emphatically voiced to tell my parents that I was moving into a new apartment with a– gasp, man! I was madly, deeply in love; you see– frankly, I would have moved into a cardboard box with him but my young, first love is not what this missive is about.

No. We had everything working against our success as a gay couple. Society. Workplace. Family. We maintained two separate phone lines; when I phoned home I shut the bedroom door for fear that my then partner might make some human noise like a mere sneeze or yell an ill-timed question like “…did you fold the towels?” which would implicate me living in sin. With a man.

In the workplace, at the peak of my career, I placed a 10-second delay on my Monday morning responses to “What’d you do this weekend?” Those inquiring questions were always met with “I did this…” or “I did that…”   Single; never ‘we.’  Because “we” in the eyes of the mass, general public did not exist. In a nutshell: we were the sick and depraved homosexuals who spread disease while preying on young boys; some of us committed suicide for having our dirty secret life of shame exposed. One doesn’t have to dig too far back during the early Reagan era to learn I stand correct on this line of encapsulated thought.


There was no bridal registry for us. There was very little support. Ever. We burrowed into our circle of gay friends– that extended family of choice, to share our joys and sorrows as a partnered couple. And that well spring was a sustaining fresh font of kindred spirits either partnered or looking for Mr. Right. That tribe split up with the demise of my relationship. And their absence in my life today is no one’s fault or even surprising. It’s like carny work; as long as the circus is in town, they have a job.

sadparrotWell. This reads all rather sad as fuck. I don’t know if there is a point of view contained in this mish mash or not. I suppose no generation ever truly understands the sacrifices or thanks the prior generations for making their path in the world somewhat easier. I can’t say I’ve ever thanked a WWII vet for stopping the Nazis from taking over the world so I could enjoy consumerism by shopping Neimans in our modern day democracy.  And to the young, 20-something gays, well — my apologies for a green-eyed monster perspective; you just keep the fires burning for the next generation. Don’t coast on today’s rights; while our President seeks to close borders his larger initiative is to close minds. If I live long enough maybe I’ll see a gay President and ‘first husband’ at 1600 Pennsylvania. Now wouldn’t that be a lavender kick in my light loafers?

Thy rod comfort me

I wouldn’t imply that I’m a night owl but I do love the early morning hours, say, between 3:00 and 5:00am. The world is so quiet; at rest. Peace on earth. Actually maybe this penchant for early rising makes me that proverbial ‘early bird’ one reads about. The one that gets the worm when coined for career aspirations. Meh.

I have no career aspiration at this age. And what with the recent takeover, ahem, acquisition, of my former business by a behemoth corporation I’m lucky to have retained my position as chief glamstress. (think ‘seamstress’ and see what I did there…)

No, at this age I’m all about hanging on to my insurance and some crumb of mindful work. If my recent staycation was any indicator of the ghost of Christmas future, we are in deep shit. And by ‘we’ I mean the royal we. I enjoyed having no purpose for a couple of days but mid-vacation I was stir crazy; I found myself walking around the apartment with a level to cross check hanging artwork. (I’m that rare individual who levels wonky pictures in hotel rooms.) I cannot rest if something looks off kilter. I suppose I just enjoy the social interaction that my workplace brings; my circle of friends is not much of a circle nowadays. Oh, don’t get me wrong– I have a vast pool of air kiss acquaintances but not so much in the friend category.

I suppose I’m cautious in that regard; it becomes a matter of trust, in my reality. “The dildo box is in the Harrods bag next to my GUCCI shoes…” One just can’t lob that directive to a fake social acquaintance. No ma’am; you do not get the keys to the Lalique cabinet minus the friendship glue that is required. And by ‘required’ I mean I hold and guard some really tragic bit of personal information that could destroy you socially should we ever fall apart. I mean, far be it from me to judge with rolling eyes your attempt at triple penetration with two Mexicans and a tequila bottle in Playa Del Carmen but that news, dearie– will be relished with abject horror when I spill it at my next gala committee meeting. Ooopsie! My bad! Also, now you know why my pet name for you is “Holland Tunnel.” But I digress.

Christmas is fucking here. My original plan was to forgo holiday decorating as a family medical emergency manifest in early November. It was dire; the situation found me embracing my lapsed Catholic religion big time. I prayed; I talked to my deceased father asking for his intervention and if he could speak to God about the earth bound, tragic matter. It was somewhere around YouTubing Mother Angelica’s stations of the cross vid that it dawned on me to celebrate the, ahem, reason for the season: I dragged out my nativity. And then naturally the gay gene kicked in as I dressed it with tiny straw, miniature palms, battery operated ‘seed’ lights to emulate a star-filled sky, and red glass votives as a final nod to holy family sanctuary. It all looks rather Vatican~ish; I am just one life-size statue of Joseph from having the place look like a convent.

The family emergency is better. Far better. Enough to allow my Christmas spirit to flourish further; I hung frosted garland. I carefully ironed that fabric from hell, tissue lame, –the lightweight metallic fabric that will crinkle and melt like a bitch if one’s iron is the tiniest bit too hot, to top off my dining room table. I even sprang for a new slim Christmas tree. On that mark, I score a miss: the decorations are fab but it looks like I decorated a standing missile in my living room and I worry enough about North Korea. It’s a tad too slim for my tastes. This may be a one and done type Christmas tree.

I also think that with the purchase of a standing 3-panel mirrored floor screen/room divider I could create quite the fetch, jewel-box type presentation NEXT holiday season. The illusion being a much fuller Christmas tree. Did I note that its white flocked? It’s a virtual winter wonderland up in here. Like, on a rocket, though. Let’s get through this holiday season first. Today I have low impact plans.

My sole focus today is to score two fabulous glittering evening bags–cocktail clutches, for two gal pal acquaintances. This will be the second and third purchase of bling bling cocktail bags; they’re really the perfect gift for that fashionista friend who is out on the town every night and in the social pages every Sunday morning.  In the spirit of the season, one needs a bit of sparkle. God knows I live for that.


Blackish Friday


Well another Thanksgiving is on the books. I did manage to shower, shave, and coordinate a stylish ensemble (black with black; PRADA sunwear) to go to market yesterday. The supermarket was virtually empty with the exception of two old, Croc-wearing lesbians with mannish haircuts from Central Casting discussing a cabbage and an Asian family of eight who were all clustered together sing songing through a very long list of grocery items. Obvi they were prepping Thanksgiving dinner; one of the teenage girls carried a boxed cherry pie, ahem–vertically, and an elderly woman was clutching at a large bag of cubed bread like it was a lifejacket on the Titanic. I wanted to insert myself into their business but kept it moving in the pickle aisle like Cindy Crawford working Versace in the 90s.

BW_basicI managed to pull off a reasonable facsimile of Thanksgiving dinner; I made that notorious white trash green bean casserole with the crunchy, canned onion topper, a skillet full of sweet potatoes carmelized in heavy butter, brown sugar and Kahlúa, and a pan of basic, but moist, stuffing. I skipped the WHOLE turkey bullshit by ordering two extra thick slices of white breast at the deli section. Meh. It all worked. I also bought a brand of frozen pumpkin pie that I’ve enjoyed before but sort of fucked up by setting my oven to the wrong temp. Essentially I baked a pie for nearly 3 hours as I set the oven too low. I still ate it though with a major dollop of Cool Whip which is about as American Thanksgiving tradition as you can get.

A4Rm_f-maxage-0_s-200x150Chatted with mother for 45-minutes and it was the same litany of narcissistic neediness and selfishness that I’ve heard since father passed. She’s quite capable of opening her home to family but chooses not to. You cannot state “i’ve cooked enough goddamn holiday dinners” while simultaneously lamenting that you’re alone at the holidays. There’s a disconnect there that could become the thread of a one act Tennessee Williams-like play staged in a 70s Italian Provencal dining room. Think gold leaf like a Persian. And then add more gold shit with biggish cherub chandeliers, dangling crystals, and a brooding portrait of dead Nonna printed on canvas to look real painting-like.


The telly was a virtual wasteland of crap yesterday; so many cowboy Westerns and not one faggy musical to sing along with. I seem to recall, back in the day, the TV would telecast something big like “The Sound of Music” or “Auntie Mame” on holidays. But the holidays aren’t what they used to be as Black Friday now begins on Thanksgiving at 2pm with several national retailers opening their doors. Can’t those poor $9 buck an hour sales associates have a damn day off to argue why they’re still single with grandma?

I’m off work today. I don’t think I’ll venture out to any major retailer for Black Friday deals; I don’t need a thing and my holiday shopping list is slim to begin with. I may take a run through a trendy lil’ boutique I recently visited as they have the most divoon ‘diamond’ festooned evening bag clutch that is the PERFECT Xmas gift for a society butterfly of mine. I may spring for that today; I believe one should always create a bit of Christmas ‘surprise & delight’ for a good friend or family member. It keeps them believing in the magic of the season.

Happy Spanxgiving

Honestly today is going to go one of two ways: I’ll muster the gumption to go buy sweet potatoes, prepackaged bread cubes, green beans, blah, blah, etc., or just sip chardonnay and microwave a Weight Watchers frozen dinner. Don’t misunderstand. I know it’s a big holiday but I don’t have the energy {insert the “why bother” haze of depression} to pull it off like I used to back in the days of coupledom. Why, I’ve been known to graciously and effortlessly serve 10 at our table. And by ‘our table’ I reference a partnered life from long ago. Le sigh.

I always wanted to own special Thanksgiving dinnerware but never quite got around to justifying that purchase. Oh, I have gorgeous, stunning china already but the turkey emblazoned dinner plates have always been on my ‘must own’ list of shit. That ship, like the pilgrims, has sailed.

I have no need for turkey dinnerware nowadays. And my for reals good china (READ: Rosenthal, betch) remains in a box from moving day 10+ years ago. Each plate is individually boxed, too. Part of me relishes that it hasn’t been unearthed for some time. There’s a bit of thrill with the knowledge that should I wake up dead my family will peel back the yellowing packing tape and ponder “Who is ver-sayse?” Well-meaning acquaintances joke that all my crap will end up in a yard sale: “Uh, this here stuff with a medusa head on it…we’re askin’ a dollar.”  And that will be the moment Hell freezes with fabulous moi skating the river Styx.

I used the word “acquaintances” as ‘friend’ is harder to come by at this age. And by this age I mean somewhere between knowing the significance of Dallas, November 22nd and a corner room with a nice view in some assisted living complex out by the lake. While I can count innumerable acquaintances in my life, valued/trusted friends are limited and harder to grow. I royally fucked up the last true friendship about 5-years ago. And while some suggest I merely pick up the phone to make amends please reference that “Hell freezes” footnote. Oh, don’t hate on me: I did write a note of apology. I did. Yes. But that’s as far as I’ll venture. I’m very much like mother in this regard. She will sit home today, too, minus any table laden with her cooking surrounded by raucous laughter of family and friends. And by her choosing, I might add. So I have no guilt in this area of alone at the holiday. None.

But that is where today’s struggle comes in. I can go get the groceries and prep a meal for one or sit and stare out the window, streaming tunes, with a better chardonnay. Well. Hmmm. This post is beginning to veer maudlin and no one needs a sad serving of that today. Imma take a break. Maybe I’ll be back once I’ve showered and killed a pot of coffee over at PornHub.