Random Notes

On the Dangers of Sin

You know, there are a lot of jokes I could make about people's ideas of pornography. You know, like why "gay male" means someone wants to see a dude getting on a chick, why "nonude" means naked, or, best of all, why cfnm now involves groups of naked women. It is sometimes said that pornography has no intrinsic value in civilized society; I dissent, and would suggest it is a powerful record for anthropological consideration, and in this internet age creates a massive data pool for large-scale study and distillation.

And, you know, I guess I see how a "straight" guy might want to watch another dude attend himself on the grounds that there is, say, a picture of a woman involved. Yeah. Go figure.

I don't know. When all you've got is a punch line, everything looks like a setup.

"Fucking a Corvette".

No, really, I get the mechanics. I do not, however, understand the psyche driving such behavior.

Gay porn. Go figure. So says the database that brings gay men videos of Japanese girls with electric massagers.

Still, though, what do you do with three words like, "Fucking a Corvette"?

I mean, I get why it's in that part of the database, right? I mean, it's just this dude, getting himself off. No chicks around.

And there's also a Corvette.

I can't bring myself to actually watch. I mean, sure, this goes on in the world and all, but ... I don't know, I ... I ... it just seems sad, and it just isn't kind to ... to ... I mean, that's his sadness as much as it is his spunk, you know?

But you know how it goes. One second you're bopping to "Cherryboy Riot", the next you're staring at a thumbnail of a guy humping a Chevrolet.

And what the hell do you do with that?

Three words I can never give back.

 

Log in or Sign up to hide all adverts.

St. Patty Melt

Yet ... another ... holiday ... ruined.

Look, there aren't many holidays I enjoy celebrating with the rest of my society. I'm an American. Look at our big days. A couple of Christian days, three celebrations of genocide, and two borrowed cultural traditions we've managed to muck up into unrecognizable bacchinalia.

St. Patrick's Day is one of the latter.

I don't mind it. I even look past the genocidal heritage, since we Americans don't really care about all that and have our own chapters of morbid insanity to celebrate. St. Patty's is a primarily a drinking holiday, like New Year's Eve, MLK Day, and Cinco de Mayo.

And no, that wasn't a joke about MLK Day.

Sorry. I wish it was.

But I'm middle aged and don't drink myself into a stupor. And, let's face it, the drinking holidays are amateur nights; the pubs and roads alike become immeasurably more dangerous when packed with a bunch of amateur drinkers hoovering cheap beer until they puke on the sidewalk and then drive home.

The 'Nucks game was good. Believe it or not, my personal schedule has worked out such that this is actually the first time this season I've watched a game that they won. That was something of a relief.

But we were among I don't know how many households around Seattle celebrating with the new traditional meal―no, seriously, it's only the last couple years I've seen this happening around here―of corned beef, cabbage, soda bread, and Guinness. And I find myself wondering what's wrong with lobscouse? Or even just pizza and beer, like we used to do before a show.

But sometime last year I finally started paying attention to my Facebook feed; it became necessary that I do so. Point being it was a bit unsettling to see the stream of status updates from friends doing the new traditional dinner. At some point I wanted to ask, "Hey, maybe we could all get together tonight for a fistfight or a riot, or something? You know, to complete the stereotype?"

(Actually, that's not fair. Corned beef and cabbage is an American assertion of Irish tradition originating in the eighteenth or nineteenth century.)

Seriously, next St. Patty's, I'm doing sushi alfredo, just to be a prig about it. Actually, I won't. Probably alfredo with curried bacon. Better yet, chili.

Part of it is my palate, I admit; at its finest, corned beef is still mediocre at best to my palate. The shitty excuse for conversation didn't help, and deliberately going out of my way to not drink too much―an outcome that is impossible when measured according to what other people want, even though they will complain if you just say, "Nah, I'm not drinking tonight"―really turned the screw. I mean, seriously, I know I've hit middle age, but this is what St. Patrick's Day is supposed to mean for the rest of my life?

Fuckin' fine. I'll just skip it.

Best way to do celebratory holidays is to not tell anyone when they are.

So, yeah, retaining the old Wheel of the Year has at least that advantage. I can slip away with an excuse to celebrate and nobody else knows what's going on. These days, that's kind of what it takes.

 

Log in or Sign up to hide all adverts.

Log in or Sign up to hide all adverts.

I now have a craving for fried cabbage and corned beef.

 

Phantom of the Rant

Well, you know ... it's "Irish".

Slow-cooked. Crock pot. Boiled corned beef with cabbage. Potatoes, carrots ... at this point, just do a pot roast, you know? I mean, as long as we're doing American Irish, you know? And in a small familial cohort where two of the four in attendance like making pot roasts specifically to use the leftovers for soup, really, I don't see what would have been wrong with a lobscouse. Seriously, can you get any more petit-bourgeois than pot-roast lobscouse? And we live in Washington freaking state! Between the Canadian border and the southern Oregon border is a beer Mecca. In the Evergreen State we don't need to reach very far to attend our beer needs. And it's not like I disdain Guinness, but come on. Black Raven? (Gunpowder Plot, Grandfather Raven, Morrighan, and apparently they have an x-blue called Chocolate Wild) Or Iron Horse, with Quilter's Irish Death? There's really not a growler of Black Raven, or a twenty-two of QID within walking distance?

And the thing is that this was somehow a rage this year. I learned more about what kinds of crock pots my friends use than it ever would have occurred to wonder. I stopped counting the Corned Beef and Cabbage with Soda Bread and Guinness posts.

And all of this really does hinge on family dynamics. When we're gathered like that, I'm actually supposed to report to my own mother what the ABV of each beer, and I get dirty looks after the second. It's sort of ritual, because, you know, there are just some things you don't say to your mother, even when she's trying to set off a fake crisis. One of the results, of course, is that it must be Guinness, because it has a lower ABV. I mean, you know how substance interventions include questions about how much of your life something is affecting, and how much conflict it creates? You ever watch someone try to create conflict specifically in order to pitch about the conflict? Was a time when it was entertaining to hear every guy with a wife or girlfriend complain about that sort of "bitch" behavior, but when it's actually real it's not a punch line, and when it's, say, your mother?

The whole thing felt like "going to church", where a group "celebrates" in quiet boredom at best, if not outright misery. And, believe it or not, simply not participating is beyond the pale. I've tried that route. It offends the fuck out of people.

It's to the point where I'm wondering if maybe I should spend some money replacing lost gear so I can pagan up; after all, next on the celebratory calendar is Ostara, and that's always an annoying experience.

They can't have All Hallows' Eve. They can't have Samhain. I won't allow it. And they can't have the solar days; of course, they wouldn't know what to do with them. (Okay, we do have a Solstice Parade for Midsummer, that includes foil g-strings, pasties, body paint, and a legion of nude bicyclists, so it would seem somebody in this town knows what to do with a solar sabbat.)

I wonder what our ritual candy will be for Hallowe'en. Probably Hershey Kisses.

And the saddest thing for me is internal; I went through an exceptionally juvenile episode last night when I accidentally ran across the best joke I'd heard all day, and possibly in weeks or months. And then I caught myself begging people to pay attention long enough (what, six seconds?) to share the joke, and despite their alleged interest in the subject, it just didn't translate. And why would it? Instead of an organic, genuine human moment of real humor, it was simply an irritation because I ended up interrupting a conversation about how much the cats weigh versus where they piss ... that had been going on for an hour.

We sometimes tell people to simply change their circumstances. But my family isn't riddled with alcoholism or violence. These aren't bad people. There is nothing going on that should require so drastic a change. And, besides, the quickest route to that change is to whore myself out, marry for the money, and then never speak to my mother or brother again. Marrying for the money is a joke; it's just that such an idea recently became possible in my society, so ... right. And never speaking to them again? I mean, come on, that's really, really drastic and not realistically on the table.

But my life right now feels like a calculated psychology experiment. It's a rising paranoia I refuse to give myself over to. But within this cohort I seem to exist as a set piece. A decoration. Furniture. And that would be one thing except my role as a set piece is apparently to be the undesirable contrast in the room. It would be one thing to say my behavior is such to cause concern, but it is literally only my behavior, and the concern has exactly no reliable correlation to my actual behavior.

You know, after The Game, that play that makes no sense to anyone who knows anything about American football, I didn't say a word. I just got up, walked outside, lit a cigarette, packed a bowl, and didn't say a damn thing. Inside, I could hear my brother beating furniture, and one of our friends was shouting so loudly and furiously that his girlfriend―we're expecting eventually his fiancée―could only watch with jaw open and eyes fixed to horror.

Didn't even make it through the month before people reminded me of how I was shouting and beating the furniture and scaring the hell out of everyone after The Game.

And there was a time during the season, during a college game involving an alma mater, when my brother, who was in an aircast for a stress fracture in his foot, was stomping the boot against the floor, kicking the table, and literally punching the hell out of the sofa. But, you know, it was one of those family moments. I walked into the kitchen to get a beer, and as I passed my mother I simply whispered, "Remember this". She turned and asked, quite loudly, and yes, with that bizarre comedic accent intended to signify cluelessness, asked, "Remember what?" Unfortunately, she wasn't joking.

And all of this doesn't really mean much to others, say, in this community. It shouldn't, because let's face it, this is one of those complicated situations that seems really stupid even when you're living it, but seems even more ridiculous to others in the context of why you're bothering them with it in the first place. But the sum total is that with all of these influences―and more―in play, St. Patrick's Day has just become another semi-formal family gathering during which we are expected to sit around and pretend to enjoy ourselves while loathing every second that feels like gathering dust and waiting for God. I mean, really? I'm expected to participate in Easter, Independence Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas; we don't have enough stupid holidays where we sit around and be miserable together? We need another one? What, are we going to do this again in May? Why not? Let's go all Mexican, eating tacos, drinking cheap beer, and ... you know ... watching ... hockey. While talking about cat piss and wondering just how much more Tecate and Pacífico Clara is required before I either start having fun or simply pass out. Maybe I'll take up tequila, a liquor I avoid for safety-related reasons.

Point One: Never celebrate St. Patrick's Day with your mother.

Point Two: Really? This is what middle age is going to look and feel like? Fuck it, I'm going to call down a midlife crisis and spend a week incoherently loaded and fucking everything that wants to get on.​

I guess I just don't get why people do this to themselves; I've never understood why they do it to each other.

―Fin―​

 

http://www.worldlifeexpectancy.com/usa/california-life-expectancy

http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/263659.php

 

Best MGTOW video ever:

 

Earworm

See if we can do this in bullet form:

• As some are aware, I have a touchy relationship with electronica.

• As some are aware, I went through the futile demonstrative act of actually coming out of the closet last year, though this meant telling something like two people so it was hardly a big deal.

• The joke: Now I have to learn how to be gay. You know, like learning how to dance. Which, in turn, means more electronica.

― It is also true that I do have one dance album I listen to (PSG OST).​

• The drive: Driving home from my father's place, there is a stretch where there are only a couple of decent radio stations I can get. One turns out to be KNHC (C89.5), a dance station run by a local high school. And every time I tune in, I always hear a particular song. It's like listening to Z101.5 when we were kids and Falco dominated the local airplay with "Rock Me Amadeus".

• The hook: I now have a ridiculously awful song stuck in my head; an outfit called Lost Frequencies has covered Easton Corbin's "Are You With Me", and by the Goddess, won't someone please make it stop?​

Thus, from me to you:

​

 

Who says gay people have to dance? Or for that matter listen to electronic music? If you love metal then stick with it.

 

It's kind of a joke. I'm a terrible dancer, to the one, and, you know how it goes: When in Rome, speak Latin.

No, seriously, it's just one of those things; if you're around enough gay men, you will eventually go dancing. Maybe it's different in the east half of the state, but I live in the Corridor, and dancing seems to be one of the prevailing customs.

And it really is an interesting juxtaposition: "Dancing? Why not stay home, smoke bowls, and fuck?" Can't we do both?

Have you seen the modern flat? Where the hell you going to put the mix table?

 

Part of the Problem

Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!

​

So, right. The search term: men tights. Looking for something to match a skirt. Never mind.

Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!

​

Note to self: Next time, scale the search to something smaller than all departments.

Because, you know, what anyone looking to buy some tights needs is exploitation pornography.

I mean, I get how it turns up, sure, but still, it feels like the fact that I should have predicted such a return only reiterates a particular problem.

Come for the fashion, and come again for the tight little brats.

 

Note to self: the last song on the with_teeth music creation by NIN is so wonderfully relaxing, it sort of exits everything related to 'greed 'hate and 'violence at such a blissfull leisure, excellent song.

 

Skirting the Subject

I discovered a boundary today. I suppose I sort of expected something, like the little white stakes on the golf course or something. I wasn't expecting a minefield.

But holy shit.

I feel like I should be feeling worse. Like I should be curled up, screeching like a Nathan Lane diva.

Luckily enough―for all of us, as such―that's not me.

(sigh)

Flowers on the razor wire, indeed.

Or, who put that fucking wall right there?

 

Purse Strings

So ... okay, the thing is that when people ask me why I have that leather jacket with me, my usual response has something to do with it being my pockets; I stopped carrying my wallet and keys in my pants years ago, for practical reasons.

Maybe it's a security blanket. Maybe one of those self-image things I pretend to not suffer from.

Or maybe I really am simply accustomed to that arrangement.

Anyway, I think I learned something today.

You know, guys, how we have a quiver full of queries or comments about women's purses, and sometimes they talk about how much they hate them and we say something like don't carry one, and all that?

Right.

Look, the jacket doesn't always go with the skirt.

And the skirt doesn't have pockets.

I'm not about to start carrying a purse; probably just find a more fashionable jacket. But that's the thing. Without the jacket, I can always go back to stuffing things in my trouser pockets ... except when I'm ... you know ... not wearing trousers.

(Ha!°)

And, no, I can't say for certain, because this is all newer to me than you might otherwise imagine, but yes, something about why women carry purses did occur to me today.
____________________

Notes:

° What? I'm always up for a cheap double-entendre.

 

The idea that I can headbang to Wire.

 

Yeah ... I should probably regret that one. In the moment it seemed a fine stab at ... well, something. There were about six things that went into it, but ... er ... okay. I can only recall three. Still, trying to explain how they line up so that seems funny would be a proverbially interesting adventure.