The Pop Fop


Snobbery & Decay


Dispatches from the Beer Can Zone

“It’s been ages since I’ve had a SMITH-wicks”, the man behind me said as I plunked the six pack down on the counter.  Internally I winced at the mispronunciation.  The package store clerk attempted a recovery.  ”Oh yeah, Schmiddicks is a great beer.”  I appreciated the gesture but I didn’t understand why an Irish ale should be subjected to Germanic accentuation. 

Outside I trundled home overtly aware of my occasional missteps.  Ever so careful not to tear the black plastic.  Eyes darting back and forth, taking in the nuances of quaint dilapidation.

But there is a place beyond all this.  It’s only a short walk.  Islands of hidden solitude where even Google satellites only hit the canopy.  Here public access and private thought enter into an uneasy alliance.  The jumble jaunt step an effect of the rocky road.

This is not wilderness, this is the beer can zone.  The Doppler zoom of bug eyed killers ever present.  But a muggy fog can produce a dissociation that seems almost tropical.  Glasses marred by lint specs.  You gotta run through the jungle.

Is this like those IDF soldiers using Deleuzian theory for tactical warfare?  Put the map down and smash through the walls.  Rock and refuse for entropic violence.  Finding idiotic justification in Zerzanian quips.  

Insurrection is never worth the risk of discovery.  Open heart and empty head they say. It’s not hiding in plain sight.  I’m not hiding in plain sight.  It’s not a nowhere zone…  I’ve been to Purgatory Chasm and this ain’t it.  It’s a fell ya feel, an empty old.  Go in one end and disappear for a while.  No one will know.

Up With Dialog, Part 1

Cool tumblr dude jones300 recently sent me a very nice note and asked three questions. For the sake of time and space, I will answer each one in a separate post.  First up:

How did you first get involved in politics?

I come from a pretty political family.  My father is a trade unionist who led a major strike in Boston back in the late 1980s and won.  My mother was involved in the Women’s Movement and her father originally worked on the lead up to the Vietnam War for the RAND Corporation before having a moral crisis whereby he became a pacifist.  My father enlisted in the Marines when he was 18 but became a conscientious objector on religious grounds (he was Roman Catholic at the time) and received an honorable discharge.  In addition, one of my parents’ closest and oldest friends is the daughter of the most accomplished Marxist labor historian in the United States.

I joined the International Socialist Organization, a Trotskyist group, when I was a senior in high school after attending a rally against the build up to the Iraq War.  At that time I was educating myself on the different schools of Marxism mostly through the websites Red Encyclopedia and BroadLeft.  I left the ISO shortly after due to school and social constraints but rejoined during my freshman year of college.

I stayed with the ISO for a little over a year before leaving over ideological differences.  I wrote a criticism afterwards which promoted a more ultraleft perspective and was originally published on the anarchist site InfoShop.  I had some minor associations with other socialist groups afterwards, specifically the libertarian Marxist World Socialist Party USA and the labor oriented group Solidarity.  

Despite my continued interest in socialist philosophy, I was becoming increasingly disillusioned with the impotence of contemporary activism.  Not only did all that marching and yelling seem pointless and absurd, but the uneasy alliance between socialists and anarchists and the larger groups of Democrats and liberals, who didn’t seem to mind endless war as long as it was approved of by the UN, pissed me off to no end.  How could it be properly called an antiwar movement if there wasn’t even a majority consensus against military interventionism?  The view from the ground was that the Left had no cohesive values and was only named as such because it’s members would shrink in horror at being called “conservative” or “right wing.”  Lastly, the social politics promoted by both the radicals and moderates (i.e. antiracism, gay marriage, identity politics) seemed to compliment the narcissistic individualism of consumer capitalism much better than a system based on economic mutualism.

Thoroughly fed up with the Left and activism in general, I focused on developing a political outlook in tune with the values I felt most committed to.  As such, I developed a slogan based off the motto of the French Revolution:

Liberty • Autonomy • Community

The first plank refers to civil libertarianism.  The second to the concept of self rule in terms of individual choices as well as economic ones, most notably the right of workers to control the means of production though cooperatives or councils.  Lastly, the right to a collective identity and living space.  That is, the freedom of association and therefore the right to establish closed societies according to the principles of self sufficiency.

It was through this refocusing of political principles that I came into online contact with a group of people who had seemingly come to the same conclusions I had but from the other end of the political spectrum.  These folks had origins in far right, nationalist scenes but were sick of the authoritarianism, the rank bigotry, the crazies and the uncritical allegiance to an economic system which promotes exploitation and atomistic individualism at the expense of national and local communities.  They called themselves National Anarchists.

While this group was organized primarily online through a few egroups, on an intellectual level it was far superior to anything I had participated in before.  Through these associations, I became aware of and receptive to certain conservative (one might say arch conservative) and right wing ideas.  Specifically an aristocratic critique of democracy and equality as well as the Stoic anarchism of Ernst Jünger.

While I wouldn’t necessarily consider my contemporary outlook right wing or conservative, I would classify it as illiberal.  The reason for this is that our current socioeconomic system is the end result of Anglo-American liberalism.  Leftism and American “conservatism” are brother enemies who both originate from this now fetid well.  Leftist social schemes aimed at producing an individual without preference for gender, ethnicity or culture are reminiscent of the New Soviet Man.  What Leftists (liberals, socialists, and anarchists alike) fail to realize is that this deadening universalism has been far better achieved by neoliberal capitalism whereby individual identity is the product of consumer choice.  We can now simply buy who we want to be.  At root we are economic animal, everything else is fleeting and ancillary.

Likewise, I see nothing sinister about religion per se or the preference to associate with others of a shared ethnicity or culture.  A corrupted or exploitive power structure breeds corruption or exploitation, regardless of the intentions of it’s creators.  Methodology is often just as responsible for how beneficial or malevolent a system will be than the ideology behind it.  That said, ideological presumptions often dictate methodology.

If I’ve learned any lessons from this political journey, it’s that ideas never remain liberatory forever and the way the we do things is just as important, if not more so, as the things we say.

Southwest By Northeast

Arizona is a pizza stone.  When not in use it is cool to the touch.  But when the Sun is up, when the oven lights are on, it’s a hot hot heat.  A baked heat that cuts through the wimpy SPF, produces those mirage waves you’ve seen in every movie about high temperature places.  This isn’t new to me though.  It’s just been a while.  Close to a decade?  I’m bad with time sometimes.

But the heat isn’t invasive.  No, this is New America.  Far too modern for nature’s totalitarian schemes.  A place fit for a Henry Miller title (you know which one).  So sod to the heat, it’s the serenity that permeates.  It’s hitched on the breeze, animates the wind chimes, extends the distance of the helicopter blade sound.  Even with feet bare on the semi dead grass, the chlorophyll deprived blades like highlights in the hair of some dopey Phoenix teenager, waiting for the pitchfork pinches to come up from hell so I can retreat twenty feet into the shade, staring languidly at the perfectly clean pool - it’s there.  If anything, it’s there especially.

I had to keep correcting myself, in my own mind that is, from referring to Arizona as West Coast.  I have this tendency to refer to anything west of the Mississippi as West Coast, even though the vast majority of it is landlocked.  

It’s more about philosophy than geography.  I’ve read plenty of reactionaries who write off America as the land where Europeans shed their precious heritage for some bunk modernist cultic codswallop and insofar as this is true it is true of the West Coast: my definition.  Now I concede that part of the reason I’ve come to this conclusion is self serving claptrap.  I won’t ever throw my sweet New England under the bus like that.  Objectively speaking though, the proto Black Metal Puritans knew that there wasn’t any good reason to stick around for Henry VIII and his ancestors.  Europe wouldn’t get good again until the Romantics and then taper off at mid century grooviness.  Now it’s just an open air assisted living complex run by masochists and corporate auctioneers.  We move forward, yes, but in cycles you see.  Spengler and Hegel locked forever in this weird dance.

There is no virility in Arizona.  It is not a state for the young.  It’s where people go to retire - mentally, aesthetically, socially.  There is the Georgia O’Keeffe crowd: fat old dykes in sun hats who stroll around confusing botany for art.  Former teachers, currently good neighbors.

Then there are the tanning bed McCain voters.  People who wear a shirt and tie with a baseball hat, sunglasses on the brim.  Red generic polo shirts tucked loosely into cheap chinos, unaware that a red polo always signifies retail electronics. But this is of little concern in the land of national sales conferences, real estate pyramids and popular car dealership mascots.  Greasy tanned old drones with half sober ideas about self ownership and property.  This is the rabble of airport drunks, petit bourgeois settlers and owners of newspapers that write in monotone officialdom.

Go beyond this and it’s mere hybrids.  Slather some New Age aioli on one of the other subgroups.  There are emo Chicanos, rockabilly skaters and white Sikhs.  The last grouping I know only because I have relatives who are members of this community.  Keep in mind that ‘community’ is a word seldom used in Arizona.  I’m not even sure I’d use it in this respect, it’s more accurately a form of Orientalist welfare for aging baby boomers.  There are arranged marriages, yoga classes and free food from the Ashram. Those accursed children born into this generally flee once they get old enough.

Arizona isn’t a state, it’s a landscape.  A smiling cactus painted on a cold tile combined with a working knowledge of what flowers bloom when.  Everything moves at half speed, even on the five lane highways packed with white cars and black windshields.  The noise barriers decorated with a faux Amerindian pattern.  The mind has plenty of time to think here, unencumbered by the actions of reality.  Multiple drafts are completed before the answers are delivered.  This is the place to take your tests.  Will this tempeh trigger my allergy?  Is this guy queer or was he earnestly flirting with my sister?  Revelation: people aren’t stupid, they just do stupid things (and like it).  Unimportant decisions are left up to God.  Bad plastic surgery in the cafeteria of the art museum.  Stay Healthy, Holy, Happy®, I’m taking a 5 hour flight home. 

Fated to Die: Romantic Fatalism and the Twink (Selections)

The almost spiritual contemplation of male beauty is a persistent theme in Western literature and one that is often tied closely with death. Consider the word fey which today is mostly used to describe someone as slightly efeminate, whimiscal or delicate. A more exact definition means either “fated to die” or “appearing under a spell.” Now consider the plot of Death in Venice where Aschenbach, a widowed writer, becomes obsessed with the beauty of Tadzio, an adolscent boy he sees on vacation. While never even speaking to the boy (notice the lack of actual engagement), the protagonist finds his beauty increasingly rapturous. Could it be that Tadzio is actually representative of beauty itself, rather than a simple physical desire? As Aschenbach’s obsession increases, he finds himself becoming increasingly ill. He dies shortly after a brief visual acknowledgement by Tadzio on the beach.

In other representations, it is the beautiful male himself who is destined for tragedy. Cather’s Paul’s Case features a teenaged protagonist who elicits the usual euphemisms: troubled, overly concerned with beauty, ambitious, desirous of power and glamour, elitist, ill of health.  In Cather’s short story, Paul runs away from home and adopts a stylish and wealthy persona after stealing one thousand dollars from his employer.  Upon learning that his crime has been discovered and his father is in transit to bring him home, he commits suicide by jumping in front of a train.  His refusal to live a mundane existence, the immediatism of his desires, and his blind overvaluing of aesthetic beauty all conspire in a determinist narrative where flight from the material world is the only option.

It should be noted that the romantic fatalism of which the fey principle is an example, is separate from the sexuality imbued in the adolescent nihilism of Dennis Cooper and Larry Clark.  The works of Cooper and Clark rather reflect a negative liberty which produces self destruction, experimentation, amorality and a complete denial of body ownership.  Wether this is purely a guilt mechanism for a section of the bohemian class which wants to party with young and attractive wastrels, drug addicts and criminals or a simple tribute to Genet, it does not fall under the rubric of the thesis presented.  The realization of the fey relates to the gap between the real and the ideal.  It is about the impossibility of living the aesthete narrative, with specific relation to certain classical archetypes of male beauty.

Property & Use

I went for a nice walk the other day.  Not as long as some, but a decent distance.  To all familiar places.  Up past the blue triangle house and in to the woods.  ”Jerry Jingle Road.”  Only passed one other publican (improper use).  His ray banned Lee Roth mug grimacing with the spastic beat of his dog’s jocular movements.  Step on the leash, step on the leash, head up - make exhaustive hello.

A little while later pass a yellow plastic chained to a tree.  It is mislabeled as a dog.

The old hospital looks as it always has.  The pastel colors warming in the sun.  The relative mediocrity of it’s design still beating out the new and in-use medical office attached to it.  I walk into the entrance which divides the two.  The door to my left, which leads into the expansive abandoned section, is sadly locked but the door directly in front of me is not.  There I find neurosurgery journals from the 1990s, a pharmacology book from the 1970s and florescent light bulbs.  When I exit with a seemingly interesting neurosurgery journal (rectal temperature charts, a history of the practice with an illustration of trepanation) there is an attractive 40something woman in blue scrubs standing outside the entrance smoking.  She smiles at me and I return the gesture.  Cue MILF fantasy in an alternative universe.

3 seconds of Frogger® and it’s off towards the pond trails for me. My mind contemplating writing a guide to lying and mulling over word associations

Irish Sprite / Spiteful Sprite / Spriteful Celtic / …

A List of Things from 2011 (Part 2)

Warriors: Anders Behring Breivik

Now while I find what Breivik did to be fatalistic and horrible, this doesn’t mean that his acts didn’t have justification.  His assault was not the work of a crazy person or just another spree killer, it was strategic, politically motivated terrorism and his targets were perfectly legitimate.  More than that, it was the only response left to him by an ethnomasochistic political elite which promotes Cultural Marxism and democratic totalitarianism.  

When even critics of illegal immigration are belittled and cowed into a ghetto of illegitimacy as “haters” and “bigots” and those who air political opinions outside of a narrowly defined mainstream face legal action, what choice is left but physical force?  Especially when one’s self preservation is at stake.

The default pacifism of the everyday often inoculates one from the slow poison of the power elite’s social engineering schemes.  One can dress it up with all sorts of progressive language but importing a foreign underclass which out of desperation will be easier to control and outlawing differing opinions as hate crimes is the mark of a politics which seeks total control and demands utmost obedience.  And with the traditional channels of political power becoming ever more slight, this is the sort of thing we’re going to be seeing more of. Coming to a government building near you…

Disappointments: The Gay Rights Crowd

Now I agree that homosexual marriage is a civic right as is the ability to serve in the armed forces regardless of who gives you a wide/hard on, but there is a fine line between demanding a share in the legal egalitarianism of liberal democracy and criminalizing others who may find your lifestyle distasteful, no matter how uninformed they may be. Gay rights as a determinant of foreign aid?  Not too dissimilar to bombing Afghanistan to free women from the burka.  The Great Gay Bullying Epidemic of 2011?  A moral panic for the Hope-stickers-on-a-Subaru crowd.  I guess they were jealous of all the Churchies who got in a tizzy over Satanic Ritual Abuse back in the 1980s.  

And it only gets worse from there.  From the hobo homos who made a gripe with the Salvation Army who denied them service over their lifestyle (as if there aren’t plenty of secular or gay oriented homeless charities) to the Canadian pastor who was brought before the Human Rights Commission and ordered to pay $5000 for “hate speech” for a letter he sent to some hayseed newspaper.

Apparently it’s no longer about, “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it” but more a matter of, “your rights end where my feelings begin.” 

But the issue is really beyond sexuality, it’s about New Left victimology being legislated by the neoliberal state.

A List of Things from 2011 (Part 1)

Film: Nicolas Winding Refn

Like most Americans, I was introduced to his work through the stylistically excellent, though critically overrated Drive.  While ostensibly dedicated to Alejandro Jodorowsky, I personally saw nods to David Lynch from the Angelo Badalamenti score and shots that would have been at home in Lost Highway.  And of course, Ryan Gosling was great for his sharp combination of Classical male beauty, Spartan violence and mechanical Stoicism.

After watching Drive and the excellent Valhalla Rising, I think Refn should easily replace Von Trier as the It Danish director.  Especially as Von Trier’s work since ditching Dogme 95 standards seems to be effects heavy, shock schlock for the art house crowd.  I will be watching my third Refn film tonight, Pusher, and hopefully my opinion will only be strengthened.

Characters: Rick Perry

This contribution should in no way be construed as an endorsement of Perry’s presidential bid or his politics in general.  Instead, I am evaluating Rick Perry as a person.  

For one he’s hypnotically handsome and by this I don’t mean I’m sexually attracted to him.  It’s just quite rare to see a man who so naturally embodies a certain rugged pulchritudinous quality without sinking into caricature.  Secondly, and certainly related, he is just so damn American.  A rancher-famer with a degree in animal science, he’s the guy who taught George W. how to clear brush and showed Scott Brown how to fix his truck.  I certainly wouldn’t vote for this man, but I would definitely have a beer with him.  

In fact his himbo gaffs only make him more likable, like when he tried to out-libertarian Ron Paul but couldn’t name the government agencies he would dismantle or when he got all silly in New Hampshire.  Even when he sunk to gay bashing (relax homos your hard earned rights and special privileges aren’t going anywhere, this is an old GOP strategy to invigorate socially conservative voters in the primaries before going all moderate in the election) it was clear that he’d pretty much say anything to get elected.  Now normally this is quite a disreputable quality, but with Perry one gets the impression that he views the election as he would a run for student council in his high school days.  In other words, a popularity contest.  Ol’ Rick just wants everybody to like him and look at his big toothy grin and think, “Aww shucks, what a great guy.”  Remember, this guy started off in politics as a Democrat. 

I’m sure I’m giving this dope way too much credit, but I come from a state where numerous people fawn over Barney Frank, a morally righteous slob who is partially responsible for our current economic crisis so, like, deal with it and shit.

EFK Unlimited - Numinov

Car Sirens Like Cats

Justin Bieber suck your peter

Justin Bieber suck your peter

Justin Bieber suck your peter

suck your peter

Pumpkin eater

Dunkin’ Donuts has it’s pumpkin coffee out now.  It’s rather delish. It’s like liquid pumpkin pie. Pieh.  Let’s all say it like cartoon characters. 

There was a boy who loved to write copy.  He would just do it for fun.

This boy had a friend and he told my friend so that’s how I know this story is true.  But there was this guy who was a real jerk on the ether. On the spider networks of numbers, identities and functions.  He was fat with a small face like a cat.  Well not really.  He just had these prosthetic extensions installed in his cheeks which were all jowl-y and with sour appellations.  Well he was real mean on all the forums. Real mean to all the bedazzled correspondents and print-out-diploma anarcho cynics.  He had written ‘MACHINE GUN ALL FAGGOTS’ in lavatories when he was in high school.  This was before the days when loup de loops with dual plastic tongue rings approach you to promote the latest in hate crime legislation.  But he was not a visionary - just some ass hole with a handle.

So one Halloween night he’s on the forums.  Making the kids cry. There is no such thing as France, Santa Claus caused 9.11, Paulberg - you know the deal.  Then he hears something outside.  He doesn’t expect any tricker treaters because he never leaves out any candy. He’s a real dick, remember?  The only thing that he leaves are the leaves of autumn, the wet leaves of Fall in New England creating a pungent compost.  Fermenting the lost desires of summer with the fears of winter.

When he goes to the window he doesn’t see anything.  But right when he turns he sees the shadows cast across his crumbly carpet.  They jut and contort with ghoulish humor.  He slowly turns with timid, fearful expectation.  Troll faces!!  But discombobulated… and somewhat transparent.  Even emitting their own light source, though somewhat dim.  They float for minutes.  He collapses in to the Frito Lay® blanket, his inner throat bubbling and flexing with pink virulence, his eyes transfixed on those bitmasks.  

What happened then?  You can bet he died.  Of fright?  Perhaps, little shaver.

This Ain’t No Foolin’ Around

I want to like the Occupy protests.  I really do.  I don’t expect them to actually change anything of course but the very notion of occupying something indefinitely is a step forward.  The present has finally caught up with the past.  The futility of showing up somewhere for a set period of time to yell and scream aimlessly and then go home seems to finally have dawned on some.  Of course all the silliness one expects of the Left these days will be present, no one doubts that.  I could highlight it like the crypto rightist sleaze that I pretend to be sometimes, but why bother?  It’s just depressing.  Remember that movie PCU that they used to play on Comedy Central all day?  Well it’s way worse than that.

When I read the email from the Boston Regional Intelligence Center (real thing) about the flashmob planned for this Sunday to support Tarek Mehanna I figured it was a provocateur job.  Even through the maze of ridiculous interest groups that any protest is bound to attract, I figured there would be bigger, more relevant fish to fry like, oh, I dunno the tax payer funded financial oligarchy, the unrelenting influence of neoliberalism on cultural and economic matters - stuff like that.  But then I go on the website for the Free Tarek Committee and find out that it’s even worse.

Boston Sass Attack and the Tarek Mehanna Support Committee team up for an afternoon of (legal) spectacle to spread awareness about Tarek Mehanna’s unjust prosecution! We’ll be performing a song about Tarek to the tune of a popular Destiny’s Child song (guess which one!)

Take that capitalist oligarchs!  Take that police state goons!  

To give you a little context, here is Boston Sass Attack making a statement about the Hyatt housekeeping workers who were viciously thrown aside for a cheaper labor force.  I mean, I get it to an extent, they want to use humor and pop culture to appeal to people and that’s fine.  But see the faces of those bystanders who think you’re just fucking around?  Yeah…  It’s because you’re just fucking around.  Of course one could do something far more drastic and permanent but that would most certainly alienate even more people.  So what’s the answer?  Stop trying to win people over.  Experiences radicalize people, not things other people say or do to convince you.  There are plenty of hard times coming up for everybody to get their share.  

And this brings me to my main gripe about the Occupy [This] protests: too much democracy.  Waaaay too much democracy.  From the leaderless leadership of the assembly of everyone to the fact that every video I watched of these protests just make them seem like open air internet debates.  There is no directive, no authority, no power. And if there is one thing that people respect: it’s power.  Remember that song Clampdown by The Clash?  ”Anger can be power, do you know that you can use it?”  Well dancing around to Destiny’s Child in support of some asshole that would love to have you all killed doesn’t make you sound very angry or powerful.  

Jus’ sayin.

New Fiction

Journey to the End of the Oasis Song

One day I took a bunch of pills.  Later on I had to meet some friends so I hopped in a cab.  ”Heyyyy, take me to the place,” I told the driver.  ”What?” he asked.  ”Huh?” I replied.  I don’t remember what happened after that but I got to where my friends were on time.

Günter Grassing on the Dweebs

Dylan and Eric were two teenage boys who were friends.  They grew up in Weimar Germany.  Eric was soft and a bit fragile.  His family was from a rather rural province.  Eric often found himself concerned with the lack of compassion and empathy in the ever modernizing world.  People seemed to be as mechanized as the means of production.

Dylan, on the other hand, was a wild child.  He liked drinking big beers with big men and women and engaging in communal sing song. Sometimes he got a little out of hand and the police would rough him up a bit.

When the Big Man came about, Dylan and Eric started to move apart.  Eric became even more frightened by the world around him and spent most of his days indoors.  Sometimes he would travel by train to the countryside and collect flowers for his scrapbook.  Dylan, meanwhile, got in with a rough crowd that considered a lack of benevolence as a personal strength and strength as a virtue.  Dylan liked being surrounded by big men almost as much as he liked being up front for the rough stuff: throwing a chair through a window, kicking someone in the head when they’re down - shit like that.

When the Shit Really Hit the Fan, Dylan and Eric became totally separated and pretty much forgot about one another.  Eric was forced by necessity to go forth and help his fellow human beings.  His shyness helped him conduct his aid in secret.  When the Men with Big Hearts and Small Minds arrived he could finally work out in the open.  It was during the Fall of Berlin that he last saw Dylan.  He was being carted away by two Russian soldiers.  Dylan’s face lit up the moment he saw Eric.  ”Hey buddy!” he cried, “It’s been forever.”  Eric was unsure of how to respond so he just stood there staring.  Dylan continued talking, “I’m pretty sure these guys are totally going to shoot me now but it’s been one hell of a ride!”

Historical Ephemera 

“There is no such thing as society.  There is pizza and individual slices of pizza, but that’s it.” - Original transcript of Margaret Thatcher’s famous speech.

#true_story

Okay so Diana Ross played this old theatre in Worcester a few nights ago.  The theatre was staffed by these decrepit ushers who told everybody that dancing was not allowed.  Of course everybody wanted to get up and dance around though, it’s a Diana Ross concert for cripes sake!  The ushers got a bit authoritarian (ever heard of the non aggression principle, doodz!?!?!?) so Diana Ross got involved and said, “Leave my people alone!”  By the end of the concert everybody was getting up and dancing.  It was just like Footloose!  Wait, what’s that?  Actually it was more like Stonewall because the uprising was led by the Clooneys (my friends call gay people Clooneys because George Clooney is gay or maybe because gay people love George Clooney…)  It was a Clooney Uprising!!!  It was even in the Worcester Telegram the next morning:  ”Clooney Uprising - Bigger than Stonewall.”

One More

I heard this one from Dan Savage.  It’s up to you to believe it.  There was this guy with an underwear fetish.  One day he saw a teenage boy’s used underwear for sale on eBay®.  According to description they were really ripe, the kid played soccer and this used to be his favorite pair.  They were white briefs.

So of course this guy bids on it, wins and receives them in the mail a few weeks later. But when he opens the FedEx pak he is totally disappointed. They are a fresh pair of briefs in plastic.  Never been opened.  Just a new pair of underwear, the size that would fit a skinny teenage boy.  ”Fuck this shit,” the man exclaims and leaves them on his bed.  Then he goes out to get a drink at The Eagle.

He comes back a few hours later, a little tipsy and turns on his computer.  He wants to see if Helix Studios has uploaded any new videos.  He goes into his bedroom to change his shirt when he notices something strange.  He first notices the smell.  Very salty. Kind of like green Powerade® being filtered through human pores.  Then he looks down and sees the pair of briefs sopping wet, soaking through to his bed sheet.  He picks them up and smells them.  Clean, athletic sweat.  You can bet he put his face in it.

The next day the man finds them a bit browning.  Then with each day after that they begin to fray at the edges, ever so slightly.  The odor changes too, sometimes more earthy, other times with the hint of laundry detergent mixed with scrotum.  One day the man even claims to find a single pube.  And to think, he only paid $21.99.

New Gay Fiction

A Kevin Smith Movie

I pulled the car nervously into the parking lot of the convenience store.  I hated being in this part of Jersey.  Two hoodlums stood outside the entrance.  They looked vaguely familiar.  I bet they had ridiculous names.  Shuffles Mackenzie and Pork Tool.  Something like that.  The lanky one eyed me.  ”You Amy’s brother?”  Ah, yes Amy.  My sister.  The only reason I was in East Jersey.  I have to convince her not to marry this schmuck - it’s for this movie…  it’s kind of a long story.  ”Yeah, I am.”  I reply coldly.  I let the pause echo.  Everything seems relaxed though.  ”Hey, can I see your dick?,” I ask the skinny, lanky blonde one.  ”Whatever, man,”  He rolls his eyes as he starts to unzip.

Confession #26

“I once made up a rap that rhymed Bill Duckett with ‘fuck it.’”

Script Idea

Some decaying Northeast town.  Abandoned malls, train tracks, tract housing - you get the idea.  It’s always grey and on the verge of rain, the asphalt is damp.  The first significant scene shows this beautiful boy dancing in a parking lot.  He is wearing jean cutoffs, cut right above the knee, and a black zip up hoodie and some type of canvas sneakers.  When he lifts his arms above his head - pure streamline - his bare torso is exposed.  His skin is pale, his bellybutton just a half moon blip.  ”Grooves of intimacy.”  Spitfire by Prodigy plays.  A black Range Rover pulls up.  Faceless goons grab the boy, drag him into the Range Rover.  The song still plays.  Cut to the boy’s lover. Leader of a certain neo feudal outpost in this environment.  Some adventure shit happens.  He sends his forces.  It’s like Helen of Troy. His forces slowly encroach upon an abandoned office park with a very wide expanse of parking lot.  They emerge from the swamp on it’s borders.  They are few but well armed, marching in a spread dynamic. Machine Gun by Portishead plays.

Read a Book, Faggot

I once went to a gay marriage rally when I was around 19 or 20.  I took my friend L.  We met some silly gay teens.  One chick looked like Hatchet Face from John Waters’ Cry Baby.  Her friends called her this.  There was also a chubby red haired kid who had a drag persona. He told me that all redheads have fat asses no matter their actual weight - men and women both.  He’s right, you know.  There was also this underage twink who was rather attractive but too wiry and with an atrocious fag-townie accent.  There was another boy who took a liking to me.  I gave him my phone number and he called me the next day.  ”I just discovered queer lit,” he told me.  Like Oscar Wilde?  He didn’t know who that was.  He then went on to describe some variety of generic young adult literature with gay characters.  That was the last time I decided to speak to him.

The Rhyme

“Too easy - I passed the buck, said fuck it / Got white beards on my dick like I was Bill Duckett.”

My Time with Bradley Cooper: Part II

I finished my second glass of limeade for the day.  It was about 2 and there was a sharp breeze outside.  A prairie wind?  I kept hoping.  No, this is not Oklahoma.  Bradley came over looking really refreshed. Not that he ever needed it.  Refreshed from what?  He was constantly on.  

“Wanna go out to the caves?” he asked.  He was still shaking his arms around, like he was stretching.  Of course I wanted to go to the caves. I love all that outdoor shit.  ”Maybe we’ll see a cave alien, hahaha.” Obviously I have to inquire further.  ”Yeah these kids in Peru killed this bizarre creature that crawled out of a cave while they were hiking. There are some pictures online.”  I find myself carefully examining a small photo of what looks like a half shaved alpaca with it’s tongue sticking out.  ”Some people think it’s a sloth with mange,” Bradley says loosely, his focus is also on the unnerving photo.

In to the Nissan with the windows down.  A luxury not always possible on the West Coast, I am learning.  I have to turn up the volume on the XM.  The song playing sounds like a stoned band of guys with kitchen equipment covering Penguin Cafe Orchestra.  The piano is warm though.  Bradley nods his head to the toneful plonk.

When we get to the caves, I notice that the cityscape is still visible in the distance.  The openness of this area is taking some getting used to. Sometimes it’s nice to feel alone. The breeze is getting cooler and I start to wish I had some weed.  Our walk over the rocks, which reminds me a bit of landlocked jetties, is mostly silent.  ”That guy was really sweet,” Bradley suddenly and seriously says.  ”Yeah?”  He responds in the affirmative, but it sounds deflated and distant.  

Some trees shoot up.  Their leaves resemble those of the American Chestnut.  The path breaks into packed sand as we approach the entrance to the first cave.  ”Well I hate to cut it short…” Bradley states.  ”But I really did like the B Rad name.  Thanks, dude.”  He knows I look puzzled.  Then he steps into the cave and his body disappears instantly in the sudden darkness.  Only his white eyes and big smile glow through.  Just like the Cheshire Cat.  Then they too vanish.  I stand there a few minutes before walking back to the Nissan.  I should’ve mentioned that I don’t know how to drive.