Gone Writin'

I've been a bad boy and let my writing outside of here build up and now I've got to clear the backlog. (Damn you, Mercury Retrograde.)

Y'see, I think of writing as being like a well, it all comes from the same place and when you use it in one place, it means the others don't get as much as they used to. So, my play and my articles need some nourishment and I'm taking the week or so off of here.

'Tis a shame, because go figure things are getting quite interesting. Former Illinois governor (and perfect expressway or TV anchor name) George Ryan is on trial and his slightly hidden campaign for the gay vote looks to play a role, and SVT has released the names of most of the performers at next year's Melodifestivalen, which looks quite full of Swedish-language songs (hurrah).

Before I sign off, here's something for the referrals: Eric Braate, Eric Braate, Ron Corning, Ron Corning. (I swear, you mention somebody's name twice...)

Splash-The View Post Mortem: The Grand Coda

I think too much. Honestly, I think I do, and it prevents me from actually relaxing and taking that pole out of my ass. Tonight was a prime example.

It started out with me intending on having a few Mike's Cranberries over at Splash. Little did I know that this choice would bring me face to face with the previously intended object of revenge...who actually didn't do anything, but still left me pissed.

Guess what? He was wearing a harness and jock strap tonight. If only I was a little bit more assertive, I could've worked it to my favour. (Then again, I wouldn't be myself if I wasn't a tad bit gunshy.) I was not about the spend the whole night waiting for a resolution, but I've come to the conclusion that indeed, he is a ho, and I like him for that. In the parallel universe where this all has a happy ending, we would be your standard happy non-monogamous couple. In this world, however; I am quite content with dubious purrings of "sexy" and a hug, because dammit, I have no time to be anything other than pursued. (He wasn't that good, and I don't brake for copraphiliacs.)

I get my coat and decide to have a Corona for the road before braving the elements. Wrong move. Somebody spots me and decides that I am the perfect receptacle for his pent-up hormones over his ex-boyfriend. Mister, I am trying to have a beer and nothing else! Yet, I cannot shake my politeness. Somehow "bugger off" is a difficult thing to say for me...on occasion.

Eventually liberated by giving him an outdated number and certain that said person would hold no damage to my career, it was off to the View. Here's where things get interesting: Not only do I meet an interesting guy, but he happens to be from Southeastern Wisconsin no less and happens to share my intellectual curiosity towards beating someone up. (You can be a pacifist and curious about self-defense.)

It can be unbelievably freaky how certain aspects of someone just cause such an immediate reaction inside. This was the case here. In one corner, you had a curious slut (me). In the other corner you had a total hipster complete with Mo Rocca hairdo, glasses, and vocabulary that used "kid," and "son" as terms of endearment. No sooner than we'd left the bar, than the groping, pawing, and naked acrobatics commenced.

He may not have been the type to enact revenge with, but it felt just as satisfying.

Airline Smackdown!

I received this card in the mail recently (I'd scan it, except I have no scanner nor digital camera with me):

On the outside, it showed the picture of a cookie and said "This is a key feature of a certain local airline."

On the inside, it showed a globe and read "This is a key feature of Northwest Airlines."

Ouch.

(Some back story. Milwaukee is home to Midwest Airlines, which gives a chocolate chip cookie on the majority of their flights. This is also quite funny--at least to me--because Northwest has opened, closed, and now re-opened a mini-hub in Milwaukee. It's Mitchell Field's on-again, off-again dysfunctional relationship.)

Tail-Between-Legs

Remember when I was all hellbent on destroying a certain person?

Well, I was reviewing my text messages, and it turns out that person is now off the hook. It turns out that the mystery messenger was the drunk black man from way earlier this month who gave me Maria Shriver's book.

To be honest, I'm now kind of miffed that it wasn't who I thought it was. The thought of taking some vapid pretty-boy down was quite pleasurable.

Thanksgiving Day Parade Post-Mortem

(Well, technically it's not a post-mortem since as I write this the parade is not yet over in either the Central Time Zone, but I'm not going to split hairs.)

Every single year I watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade like religion. Perhaps it's the march of time, but the parade has truly lost its whimsy, at least to me. First off, either WTMJ or NBC screwed up the HDTV broadcast because for the first ten minutes we were watching the East Coast feed which was high-definition and already an hour into it, then suddenly it changed to the regular delayed Central feed. The upside was Rita Coolidge twice. The downside? Sesame Street's sacchrine performance twice. (Seriously, half of that cast just needs to retire. Bob looks and sounds like he needs a respirator.)

Other live observations:

• You can plug The Office as much as you'd like, NBC. I doubt it'll do any good after those horrific "water-cooler talk" radio commercials. I now go out of the way to avoid it.
• Tommy Tune looks old. Yikes.
• I pity the poor people who have to walk that route in those Pilgrim balloon heads.
• Rihanna? Go away now.
• Why oh why would they put Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on? It's closing soon.
• My mother's assessment of Jersey Boys: "Dull and that man does not look like Frankie Valli." This led into a mini-spat over semantics. She referred to it as a "play." I said "it's a musical." "Isn't a musical a play?" "Hell, no." We argued this point for 5 minutes, looked up the definition online, and I have to minorly concede to her that she is technically correct, but I will never refer to any musical as a "play." Unfortunately, she now knows that usign that term will get under my skin.
• Who are all these no-name singers on all these floats?
• In my fantasy 2005 parade: Yummy Bingham on a float performing "Come Get It." Anyone who has seen the Soca floats during Pride knows how fun that would be to see.
• It says something about the rest of the show when I actually enjoy seeing that opening number (which was censored, by the way) from Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Still can't stand that Butz man.
• Matt Lauer sounds unbelievably awkward saying "off the chain." I know I do as well, but geez...This is national television.
• Does Click 5 have any credibility anymore? If they did, I think appearing on the Hess float killed it.
• Please let Al Roker lose his voice next year.
• My god, NBC is actually letting it run over now. Quelle horreur! Though I suspect that the dog show is not going to get great ratings anyway.
• I will scream if see that asshole mayor.
• To my neighbours: I send you my wishes, because Sixth Avenue is probably Hell today.
• My stone heart was moved by the Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
• "Camp Broadway." It works on so many levels.
• Those cheerleaders are on E, I tell you.
• Who the hell are the Cheetah Girls? Can't we sic a cheetah on them?
• Hands up if you want to see an all-male version of The Rockettes. (The Cockettes don't count.)
• Apparently James Dobson's homophobic cult (Focus on the Family) was soliciting during the parade by handing out "balls." He doesn't get the irony of doing so. I hope some Upper West Siders pelt him with them.
• Jai Rodriguez should stay the hell away from performing anything from the Steve Martin songbook. The lyric "my favorite honky" was surprisingly not cut.
• Four Kings: I smell "sophmore slump." Shame, because Seth Green is actually quite talented as a comedic actor.
• Are those marching band uniforms designed to give everybody a huge gut?
• Whoever scripts those Shecky Greene "jokes" for Matt Lauer, Katie Couric, and Al Roker needs to be bound, gagged, and lobotomised.
• I think Aaron Neville is keeping that mole just to piss the rest of the world off. Was that a facial tattoo of schimtar I saw on his cheek?

So...It's Thanksgiving

We're still alive.

We still have some modicum of freedom.

We still can have gay sex.

And we're still fighting back.

Happy Thanksgiving to all, with special greetings to everyone on my blogroll: Adam, Cane, Stephen, Pookie, Dondon, FARB, Frank, Thomas, and STB. (And even though the Mizez is in France now, Happy Thanksgiving.)

Snow!

We got a nice covering of snow last night, about two inches. Waking up and seeing it warmed the cockels of my hardened heart.

Of course, the high today is going to be 42, and rain is supposed to move in later so it's likely it'll last throughout the day. However, real Wisconsin weather (which is cold as opposed to snow) comes in this evening with the low going down to 16. I never felt so butch as when I was forced to go to high school in -30 degree weather (that's the temperature, not the windchill).

I'm going to cut this post off now before I start to morph into a dark-skinned Garrison Keillor.

Bayshore and Other Nostalgia

They have torn half of Bayshore Mall down. Barnes & Noble, Abercrombie & Fitch, Walgreen's, Blockbuster Video, all memories.

Milwaukee, especially in the 1980's and 1990's was a metropolitan area divided by malls. If a person told you where they shopped, then you had a somewhat of an idea of where they lived. Bayshore, for the most part was the closest mall to the part of Mequon where I grew up. (You could argue Northridge (RIP), but I spent more time at Bayshore.) It was relatively modern in that 1980's glass atrium way, and had a Rocky Rococo. What was not to like?

Well, apparently the owners thought that Bayshore was outdated and they have embarked on some ambitious new remodeling which will turn it from one solitary building into what appears to be several buildings plus a parking structure. I agree with the parking structure. (Surprisingly only The Grand Avenue in downtown Milwaukee was the only local mall to have a parking structure up until this year.) I have severe doubts with everything else in the plan. Part of the appeal of Bayshore for me was that it was basically all one level and in one structure. You didn't have to go hunting for an escalator or a map unless you were very new to the area. This also made it popular with senior citizens who would power walk from one end of it to another every morning before the shops opened. (The mall even posted "power walk" hours.)

It will be very interesting to see what this new look Bayshore will look like, but I'm not quite certain that it's a sign of progress.

Being at Bayshore last night also took me back to my late teens where it was one of the places I would arrange to meet men for sex. It went like this: we'd meet up in a chatroom, find somewhere public to meet up, one of us would drive the other back to his place, we'd do it, and then go back like strangers. Being a horny teenager, however, I didn't really play it safe all the time. I always wore protection, but oftentimes I'd skip the "public meeting place" rule and just have them come to my house while my parents were out.

I remember staring through the gauzy curtains, paying close attention to the sporadic traffic passing by, thinking one of two thoughts:

1) "Will this finally be a guy who's actually good looking?"
2) "Well, at least I'm having sex."

#1 always let me down in the end. How could it not? Every online sex meeting is basically a crap shoot, and ultimately I came to realise that there is something attractive about everyone. I'll be honest with you, I was no prize as a teenager except to chickenhawks who see youth over everything else. I was pimply, plump, had gynecomastia, and my hair was very unkempt. Yet most of the guys I was with achieved orgasm. Somehow there was something about me that got them off, if not myself.

In retrospect, I think the fact that the suburbs tend to be rife full of closeted married men who are just desperate to have any sort of gay sexual expression, played a major role. It was the act, not the actors.

Yet, it's nice to go back and remember this time when I felt like I was such a rebel having gay sex. A time when I was both sleazy and innocent. A time where scanning the cars and waiting for that one unfamiliar car to pull up onto the driveway. A time where I wasn't politically aware of the ramifications of what I was doing. I just knew that it felt good to be desired for a brief moment in time.

Today, I rarely go into chatrooms. I'm of age, quite happily hit the bars, and I feel no need for secrecy about what and who I do and associate with. That said, I still get those pleasant butterflies before sex. I still put my partner's pleasure first. And most importantly, I still feel that every guy is attractive.

Given all the primping and cloning that many gay men do, we do often lose who we are. We start to exclude others based on initial judgments. "He's fat." "He's effeminate." "He's this, that and/or the other." I think that if one day we all just gave ourselves a chance to look deeper, we'd find that there's a part of us that really is attracted to something that we claim we aren't attracted to.

The New Referral King

Apparently it's Eric Braate, who follows previous kings Ron Corning and Reichen Whateverhisnameisnow. I don't know whether he makes the hausfraus from Waukesha County all funny in the morning or if he's appealing to the gay men in the metro area (or indeed, both), but he's certainly popular. Perhaps he's Milwaukee's meterological answer to Anderson Cooper?

Anyway, he hasn't left Milwaukee television (yet) much to the contentment of the aforementioned groups and myself. Watching him this morning, I noticed that with his departure scheduled, Il Braate seems a lot less stiff than he did in October. Wherever he's headed it must be somewhere he really likes.

Mequon Strikes Back: Now It's Personal

"Tea? You brought me fucking tea? How long have you've known me? Tea. Gin. Tea. Gin."

This line from The Closet has been in my head for lo 3 days now and it still cracks me up. I do not know if it was meant to be serious or just flat out campy, but I cannot get it out of my head.

I find myself in the strange position of actually missing QTV while I'm in Wisconsin for just that reason alone. I finally figured out what niche it's trying to fill: it's gay tv for those who like their swearing. No porn, but we do get swearing.

Oh well.

My idiot US Representative, James Sensenbrenner was on the local news last night defending our district's spending of Homeland Security money on security items that frankly this area does not need. This got under my skin for several reasons:

1. Nobody knows how to use it. Just ask the family of Matthew Sheridan.
2. We are not a major target. Yes, there should be some protection, but more than Milwaukee? (And Milwaukee isn't even a major target!)
3. There's a tiny portion of the city of Milwaukee that is in Washington County, which is even more rural than Ozaukee County (where Mequon is). This portion has no voters and has nothing more than a recycling plant. However, this does allow Washington County access to the money set aside for urban areas. And you know what? They took it.

God save me, but the closet-case megalomaniac GOP fool that is the mayor of New York City is right about New York getting the short end of the stick in respect to more money for security. (Still don't like him, will never like him, but he's right on this point.) It is absolutely asinine that Officer Bob out in Germantown is getting equipment that he doesn't even have clue how to operate while the NYPD & FDNY are still underfunded and ill-equipped for a city that has been on "Orange" since September 11, 2001.

(They're underpaid as well, but the yuppies apparently don't care about that, as evidenced on Election Day.)

One last local note for today: Three local radio stations are already all-Christmas music all the time. Three! I mean, I like Christmas music as much as the next person, but three?

Splash-Stonewall-Rawhide Post-Mortem: The Last Boogie on Earth

...(until Thanksgiving).

So tonight was the last night that I had to get blotto in public, and it's...kind of a success.

At Splash, I wound up drinking in Rocco & Tony's section (ask Stephen), which proved rather abrasive and forced me to amscray over to the Stonewall ultimately. (There are only so many "thanks bro" that I can take.)

The Stonewall was interesting, since I found myself drinking with the head of a security company and occasional bodyguard. Now, after feeling his chest, I wouldn't quite trust him with my life, but the fantasy was sufficient. On a sidenote, what's with all these bisexuals that I keep on coming across? I mean, I'm a tolerant person, but I kind of would like it if you're thinking about me while we're going at it, or at least someone with the some anatomical makeup. Plus, I'm a little worried that a deranged girlfriend or wife might come along. (Perhaps I was little too much into The Dying Gaul when I saw it.)

Since misery enjoys company, I came up against the same situation at Rawhide. Yes...Rawhide. I'm starting to wonder if I put out some bi-friendly vibe. Well, there are worst things in the world if I do. Like the go go "boys" at Rawhide, and that Screamin' Rachael lady. Where did she come from with her cheap video and--I'm sorry--lack of screaming capabilities.

And this was my last boogie on Earth...until Thanksgiving. I'm a good date.

OUT TV Lives!

You know that haphazardly run gay network on Will & Grace that Jack works for?

Well, it lives and is called Q Television. For $7.95 a month you can have it in New York now (which is getting it after Birmingham, Alabama and Eureka, California of all places). It looks very nice, with five hours of in-house live programming daily, but after watching it after only 20 minutes you can really tell how much money Viacom pumped into LOGO by comparison. Some of those sets look as rickety as an SRO off of 11th Avenue.

QTV has its own daily newscast which seems like it is normally hosted by a black man, but is guest anchored by Steve Kmetko this month, who is nearly unrecognisable and more jittery than I ever remember him. This newscast does seem very airy and casual, which is...I guess a good thing. (There was someone from Air America giving an anti-Bush commentary who said "goddamn." My kinda show.)

They have also given Reichen whateverhisnameisrightnow his own weekly call in show. Honey Labrador? She's got her own show. Dallas's gay and lesbian church, the Cathedral of Hope? They've got their own show. Hell, they seemed to have given anybody a show AND DAMMIT I WANT MY OWN! I mean you're airing Mirage of Blaze, which is an anime about gay angels of death. It's like you're just begging me to have my own half-hour.

QTV even has it's own Noah's Arc, called The Closet. (Cue the R. Kelly jokes, because lord knows that's what I thought.) Well, it looks like Noah's Arc except it's set in Baltimore, the men aren't physical adonises, and the acting looks and sounds straight out of Tyler Perry, pun intended. In fact, I think La Perry probably wrote this to be produced upon his death because it looks so unnecessarily overwrought. ("She said you were sleeping with her...and her husband!" SLAP!)

One thing that QTV has over LOGO so far is that they know that the gays love their dance music. (Seriously LOGO, you're an MTV network, you can at least give us an hour or two of pop/techno a day as opposed to having it just as filler.) All the obscure remixes of dance hits that you ever wanted. I need never go out to Splash again...okay, I probably will, but now it's just to get drunk.

I have found my guilty pleasure and I pray it stays kitschy and chaotic forever.

Let's All Hold Hands And Beam

Attention Bush administration:

You really want to improve your standing in the Middle East? Send basketball players.

In fact, could we send Iverson to Syria as soon as possible? He'd get all the various factions to unite against him in no time.

Bring Back the Seventies

Yesterday, I went to see Gay Sex in the '70s. It was eye-opening. Watching the documentary, I got the impression that living in 1970's gay New York was basically a nonstop hedonistic orgy of sex, drugs, and even more sex.

It was sex as protest, sex as celebration, sex as fraternity. It didn't seem to have the plethora of no fats, femmes, racism, and other discrimination that has afflicted the gay community now. Unfortunately, the downside of this openness and nonstop sex was the spread of HIV/AIDS, but there is something to be learned and applied from the 1970's ethos to today.

Feel Free and Unashamed. Love all of us. We're all special.

One question that I had after seeing the film. Several times the interviewees mentioned "the trucks" which I gather were in the Meatpacking District (ha ha). The way this seemed to work is that men would get into these trucks and in pitch black darkness proceed to have sex. I can't quite follow this. Sex is such a sensory experience that I think you miss something by not being able to at least see what's going on. Hell, it's pretty hard to know what you're doing in total darkness. Even the backrooms I've been in have had at least some dim lighting.

A final comment, go see this film if you can. Anything that makes me actually like Tom Bianchi for over an hour, is pretty remarkable.

Splash Post-Mortem: I Want My Revenge!

Nowt as scary as a queen with "Hung Up" playing on repeat.

Nowt as determined as a queen hellbent on vengeance.

Let me back up a bit.

So there's a certain person who has been sending me text messages over the past few days, which is fine by me. However, said person seems to have no tact whatsoever when it comes to the content of these text messages.

Hikaru don't play that.

In order to make this preamble short, suffice to say that one of the golden rules in my book is that when you send a text message to someone you PERSONALISE it. You do not go and send mass messages to your entire phonebook. You do not know if that person is liable to go all Angela Basset in Waiting To Exhale on you. No, not at all. Do not disturb my equilibrium by telling me about all the romantic plans you have in store with someone that I do not know. I do not care. I got you off, now let me be, unless I have some spot in your future. Otherwise, it's just tacky...and tacky carries a penalty of cruel revenge with me.

I do not play fair when crossed and I will go for the jugular. Revenge, as I see it, is like a bee sting. It is pointed, it is quick, and it lingers on the victim long after the aggressor has moved on. I like to get my revenge over quickly. It does not linger with me. I need my grudge relieved ASAP or else it will fade away.

Tonight was supposed to be the night that I enacted my revenge on the aforementioned person. I squatted nearly 100 pounds over my weight. I bench pressed just 5 pounds shy of my weight. I wore my most binding and slutty clothes. I was hellbent on breaking a narcissist at his own game.

And then, the fool didn't even show up.

This pissed me off to no end, because I will forget this very soon and I was very much looking forward to carrying out my divine retribution before my short-term memory chucks it out.

It was a brilliant plan: I was going to flirt shamelessly; grope, french kiss, and whatever I could get away with any male body present to make this person realise his apparent lack of morals as well as the fact that I can and will outdo him if I so please. Instead, I'm left feigning interest in some talking head from Pennsylvania who really has nothing of merit to say, but is too nice and scarred to squash.

Dammit, I hate it when I have no resolution.

You Just Knew It Had To Be Ugly

I guess I'm not the only one who finds the idea of a 14 year long Tyra Banks vs. Naomi Campbell feud extremely interesting.

Tyra: Who took my wig?
Naomi: Oh that's so cute, she needs a wig with her nappy hair.
Tyra: Like you don't.
Naomi: I know you weren't talking to me.
Tyra: Bitch, who you think I'm talking to?
Naomi: Bitch? Who you calling "bitch," you slag?
Tyra: No, you didn't call me no slag.
Naomi: If the shoe fits.
Tyra: In your big ass feet.
Naomi: At least I don't have a five-head.
Tyra: Oh, hell no!!!! I know some heifer who was in the Vanilla Ice movie did not just go and insult me. I worked with John Singleton and Denzel, ho.
Naomi: At least they bought my album.
Tyra: In Japan, heifer.
Naomi: (Silence.) Oh what's that? That's the amount of airplay "shake ya body" got.
Tyra: IT'S ON NOW!!!!
Naomi: I'll beat you like you were my assistant.

Me Vs. Tyler Perry

Tyler Perry is now on the list. The list of people who just need to be silenced by any means possible. It's a small list:

1. George W. Bush
2. Osama Bin Laden
3. Jean-Marie Le Pen
4. Tyler Perry

I'm not worried about numbers 1-3; however, Perry has worked my last nerve. You know, someone out there is going to say this is because I want his money. No. (Believe me, I'd like his money, but that's not why I despise him.)

This fool was on Steve Harvey this morning and just reveling in his ignorance. He was just "god this, god that" and then crowing about how successful his stupid film was back in January. His film (like his "plays") that is basically a glorified minstrel show with a liberal sprinkling of "lawd almightys." This man is an insult to every playwright across the colour spectrum. Plus he's CLOSETED! A closeted playwright? In 2005? For pete's sake, mister, you've literally got a mansion-size closet. Come the hell out.

And then they took calls.

I spent more than 20 minutes trying to get through because I was fittin' (yes, when I'm angry I start talking like my father) to tear into him. Alas, the damn line was busy the whole time. So, Mr. Perry, here is what I would've asked you:

• Do you secretly look down on the people who go to your "plays?"
• Do you seriously believe that anybody buys that "I'm seeing a special woman" excuse?
• Have you even read anything by Suzan-Lori Parks? August Wilson? Genet? Or did you just read the stage version of Uncle Tom's Cabin and ran with it?
• Do you try to actually challenge your audience's perceptions? Or do you find it easier to just confirm their prejudices?
• Do you lie awake at night realising just how much of your script for that movie was ripped off of much better ones?
• Did Shemar Moore get his part by giving up his cookie for you? Did you tell Tavis?
• Have you had any training whatsoever? Didn't they teach you that dialogue which is all plot isn't desirable?
• Do you even know the significance of naming a character "Madea?"

Kiss my ass, you hack.

Monday Jukebox: Is It possible to be in love with an anime character?

If so, I stake my claim on City Hunter's Ryo Saeba:

Sure, he's a lecherous fool and total narcissist, but just look at that body. When he leaves me in the morning without any warning whatsoever, I can console myself by playing "Alone Again" on repeat.

Speaking of Middle-Aged Black Men

I noticed an interesting thing this morning on the treadmill: All three of the networks' weekend morning shows have a black male co-anchor.

Saturday Today: Lester Holt
Good Morning America Saturday: Ron Claiborne
The Saturday Early Show: Russ Mitchell

It's quite remarkable and perhaps a good sign of the future that there is practically no one pointing this out in the media. Remember the days when it was Bryant Gumbel and nobody else? Of course, the aforementioned trio are cut from a similar, but less abrasive and smug, cloth.

Now if we can just get rid of the jolly black weatherperson stereotype. (I'm looking right at you Mike Woods and Al Roker. Don't think you're exempt either, Janice Huff.)

It Was Fun While It Lasted

RIP Kitchen Confidential. My condolences to Darren Starr, although I suspect that he knew it would be hard for lightning to strike more than once and to Bradley Cooper, who I would be very glad to console personally between the sheets.

My advice: Darren, go pitch to the cable networks, particularly LOGO and HBO. Bradley, you're very strong in character roles, follow Darren to cable, find a good spot in a new series either comedic or dramatic, and do some theatre. You could be my muse.