sliding into the holidaze 2018

I received an email inviting me to a local tree lighting festival and screamed a thousand screams inside. Don’t get me wrong: I love the holidays. I also hate the holidays. I don’t know that I can attribute that to a Gemini star sign or the fun house, hall of mirrors that defined my childhood holidays via mother’s loose grip on what she could do and what she should do.

It’s funny. Now that she’s up there in years her memory or recall of events is rose-colored. “Oh, I just toss a wreath on the door nowadays. But you do remember how I decorated the entire front of this house with lights and pine. Remember the green foil door?”

No. Actually I remember swaying on a wobbly ladder back in the day, hooking lights and living in fear that something wouldn’t look correct to mother’s artistic watchful eye. I decorated THAT house. And I took it all down. And that’s the thing about holidays. Or holiday memories, I mean. They magnify all that is good in a family and all that is bad. Just like weddings and funerals do.

I recall coming home from school one day and making some gleeful remark about Christmas coming while mother, clad in 70’s peach Vanity Fair robe, manhandled a coffee pot and a KOOL. My coming home from school often aligned with her rise and shine. A fact she kept hidden and stage-managed very well from my father’s knowledge. Household tip: place the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the living room floor before your man gets home. But I digress.

I must have been 15 or so; you know how jumpy and awkward teens are to begin with. But my comment on the pending magical holidays garnered a swift backhand across my face. It came sudden. Swift. And with deep, hot anger. It’s as if my youthful joy was not allowed or merited in the presence of someone whose own early childhood was rocked by divorce and near abandonment.

And it’s why–to this very day, in my own advancing years, I refuse to back down, give in, or toss in the towel when it comes to holiday trim and decorating my own home. I see some peers doing less and less; others jet off to warmer climes during Christmas so they frame absent holiday decor with “…it will only be up for a week and then we’re all in Barbados…” But for me each year presents a renewed challenge to make it brighter, more shiny, and exceedingly joyful. It takes all that I’ve got to not slide into the ‘why bother’ mentality that envelopes mother’s holiday season.

It also serves as a visual reminder: I am nothing like her. And I am everything like her. Come hold my ladder, dammit.


complacency; single male w esteem issues

Hi whores. I won’t even begin to apologize for the lack of content here. Life is for the living; I have better things to do than mentally whack off at this blog site. (Points remote to any REAL HOUSEWIVES franchise…)

Here we are: Labor Day weekend. Historically this would be a weekend of get-away revelry with friends and dancing into the early hours of the morning. But that’s all gone. Everyone that used to converge for nude sunbathing in PSP has scattered to the four corners of the earth. Not really, but sometimes it feels that way; we’re all just too busy with life’s shit to reach out and connect with one another. I hope they pause and feel a wee bit of guilt when learning of my untimely death. And by ‘untimely death’ I mean the fact that we live in a mean and angry world nowadays and a nonchalant trip to the mini-mart for milk can result in one racing between canned goods to dodge some whacked out white fool’s misguided anger and hate via a sawed off shotgun. Cue Nazi salute; ‘very fine people’ as our president calls that tribe. Ahem.

I digress. I have no plans for the pending Labor Day weekend. I will drink white wine, fold up my white denim for the season, watch internet bi-pussy porn, and sort my sock drawer for thin socks older than the Reagan presidency. Let’s keep it real: life is a long series of so-so moments after a certain age. And I’ve surpassed that ‘certain age’ by a long shot. I regularly receive mail from motherfucking AARP and that clinic place asking if I want to join a study for folks who have trouble standing and walking. “Trouble walking?” Suck my rock hard dick, betch.

Here’s my reality: I am up a full 25lbs since, say, April 2016. I am busting out of all my designer duds and it is extremely maddening. While shoving cake in my cake hole is one guilty pleasure, I must own the reality that I have self-medicated through a mean-spirited corporate takeover of my company–and survived, and have placated all the idiocy of number 45’s presidency with extra deep dish pizza. Food is my lover and my devil. Because at this age–somewhere between receiving “for XX you look so good” and “..pee in the pot; there you go! You’ll get an extra pudding for dinner; good job…” at assisted living residency, it becomes much harder, and so much more challenging– to burn off even an ounce of a warm chocolate chip cookie. My metabolism isn’t slow: it died and took my once youthful figure with it. I curse you, metabolism.

So imagine my abject horror on recently being notified that I am to receive a ‘man of taste & style’ award this mid-September. I initially begged off the fashion event with the classic “unfortunately I’m traveling on business for that date.” But a bitch ass acquaintance–and that, my friend, in this context–is a term of endearment, phoned me with a “YOU SIMPLY MUST SHOW UP” direct HQ command.

I need to arrive in style as those goddamn pics from the event will live on the internet well-beyond my tasteful memorial service that will be invitation only and oh-so-sorry frenemies,…you do not get to attend and weep over my Dolce & Gabbana clad dead ass. I searched last weekend for a suitable suit; something very English-tailored and with a bit of texture/pattern to the fabric but the search was much like looking for a fucking shower curtain for Shamu, the killer whale. I had my eye on one option, but ripped it off my body in the fitting room as the shop girl noted “…we sure like to eat here in the Midwest…” while I lamented my bit of belly pooch. Hey, girlie: call me when you’re sixty with tits sagging to your crinkle cut vajay. Do that.

Meh. Fuck. I’ll be back, bitches.

when mother is a mutha’

Sunday is Mother’s Day. It’s a day that fills me with dread and sadness as my mother hasn’t really fulfilled the traditional role of ‘mother’ in many, many years. And at this stage of my own advancing years, I’ve no hope that she will receive some divine awakening to an understanding that while her children are adults, our desire for a loving, devoted mother –is still something of a goal.

I have a friend who tells me to let go of my expectations for a change; mother is not going to change now. No ma’am. This friend also states that I understand that while mother’s bitter, narcissistic points of view, her smothering overlord ways, and her deeply crippling emotional abuse, were — on some level, the best she could give.

And I, having survived her ‘reign of terror’ years –well, I should understand that all of that bullshit made me the fabulous person I am today.

But those notions still don’t make me feel much better. Or make my desire for a ‘real’ mom any less. The last crumb of anything good or best quality about mother went into the ground with my father’s casket. She gave up seemingly overnight. Depression? For sure. But it’s hard to wrangle sympathy for a woman who repeatedly kitchen table gossiped with her own children about “should’a left your father year’s ago.” That conversation was craftily framed with guilt: “…but I’ve stayed ‘cuz of you. I didn’t have a daddy but I’ve made sure you kids have one.” I can still see the wafting, lavender smoke from her KOOL cigarette as she waited for the iron to heat.

Cue Tennessee Williams. Our family dynamic swims in southern gumbo gothic. Don’t forget that dash of bitters. Meh. Most of the time I really don’t care that mother is missing in action. I’ve learned to give myself props for the good times and empathy for the bad times. Mother, in my opinion, failed to launch, period– minus her orbit the chance of her being pulled into the magnetic field of her children’s lives is not likely. We’ve grown accustom to that dark void, the lack of love, and the hollow surface conversations that define our phone calls out here in space.

Some day she’ll be gone. And I know in my heart that when that time comes it will either represent peace, closure, and a chance for healing or a spiraling nose-dive of emotional loss from depths that offer no reasonable return.


the invisible man

The muse has struck. Actually I just plowed through six pieces of toast with orange marmalade and have decided to move my fingers to a keyboard versus stuffing carbs and sugar into my pie hole.

Do you follow Astrology Zone for your monthly horoscope? You should. It’s a fascinating read and one I enjoy monthly. There have been the few scattered predictions that have occurred and I suppose it’s my penchant for ‘waiting for the big one’ (which only truly applies to orgasms and heart attacks) that keeps me a stalwart returning reader.

For the month of May my horoscope states that the time for procrastination with regard to writing a book is over. There is no more time left to delay. I’ve had a couple of friends through the years tell me that I need to write a book. But while I maintain everyone has a story to tell — a book that resides within the framework of their life experiences, I’m not certain I have a clue as to what I’d write about. Do we really need another tell all tome on growing up gay? Or a novella on emotional abandonment from a narcissistic mother? I think not. Some legit author or published poet that I used to follow stated that one should “write what you know.” I know a lot of trivial bullshit. And my heart knows betrayal, lust, and revenge. My brain knows the engulfing fog of depression–who, like a good dog, is never far from my side.

But do I have a book within? I remember very few details, actually, from my teen years. Not that I’m suggesting my teen years as a jumping off start point, but those years decidedly created who I am today just as much as any genetic DNA coding.

My family moved to a new town as I entered freshman year. Those clique friendship circles were already locked and loaded; I would be the proverbial ‘new kid’ until I walked across that stage and grabbed a diploma four years later with a kiss-my-ass stride. I walked so purposefully to get out of Dodge that I’ve never been back for a single high school reunion. But I digress.

I can’t tell you much of what I learned from books during those years, but I do know deep, secret shame, the self-doubt, the wobbling insecurities, and the burning flush of embarrassment–with regard to being different and KNOWING one is different, at the hands of ignorant bullies.

There was no “it gets better” program back in my school days. (when dinosaurs walked the earth) and while so many find me the center of attention nowadays with a command of sartorial status and sparkling wit I am also very adept at receding into the shadows without much notice. Those high school years taught me how to become invisible. And if I had to choose a super power that is the one I’d reach for minus hesitation. But those torturous years served me well: I will always see the humanity in those perceived as ‘less than’ and I will always pull from within myself when times are tough. When one has nowhere else to turn for empathy, look deep inside.

My stretched out boi hole


Clever headline, no? Well, I reckon it’s been awhile since anybody who cares if I’m living or six feet under has stopped by to read any of this bullshit. That’s why I went balls-to-the -wall with my headline. Did it peak your curiosity as to what tale might unfold here? Yeah, well…sorry. This is just a check in to dust off the cobwebs on ye’ olde blog.

I miss the golden days of blogging. The early 2000’s were halcyon days for people who wanted (or felt compelled) to commit their thoughts, views, perspectives, and well… stretched out arse hole pics to the realm of cyberspace.

I always enjoyed crafting a fine tale or sharing some gay bitchery from a night out with faux friends. Who doesn’t love a cup of snoop?! At my original blog, a somewhat private place –much like this space, I entered everything under a pen name; the tales were oftentimes a bit too revealing so my pen name gave me a shield to stand behind. After all nobody needs to know that I jacked off in department store fitting room. But maybe under my pseudo name…sure, spill it bub.

My stats on this site are nonexistent. Five views a day is a good day. Though I don’t have much wiggle room to bitch and moan when I don’t keep this site active with my tales of single-handedly rising from the pits of unemployment (I mopped bathroom floors for nine bucks an hour during my part-time stint with a nationally known home decor retailer) to today’s camera flash effervescence on a society gala’s step & repeat carpet. I don’t Facebook much of what I do on the scene because it would be deemed as ‘explainabrag’ and I’m far to cognizant of the personal brand I’m building to fall victim to any lookie lookie posts. Well. I TRY not to post lookie lookie posts but shit happens.

My point is this: I do miss the constructive stream of consciousness that defined the experience of my past blog life. But truth be told: does anyone really want to hear the musings from a depressed old queen nowadays? I think maybe not. I’ve been relegated to PornHub twinks and the sad, lonely task of sponge cleaning cum from velour upholstery. That shit is a tough stain nut to crack, lemme tell you.

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.