Author: David Roddis

I live in Canada, where we show the United States how life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are actually done. (If you guys down south ever want a refresher, we have the latest version. You're welcome!) Proud progressive polymath: Canadian writer, artist, photographer (really). I worship Beethoven, mourn Amy Winehouse, and wear a lot of slightly-tight, too youthful clothing in poorly-lit environments so you'll think I'm younger than 61; never forgetting that "GAP Relaxed Fit" is Death's French kiss!" (Mavis the Fashion Maven). My websites comprise portfolio sites for my special brand of photography; and a showcase for my off-the-wall humorous writing. Take your pick. Either way, I'll discreetly hound you for money, our society's primary method of demonstrating 'success'. Roll On The bloody Floor Laughing!

True Confessions of a Meshugener Fag

A very saintly, filled with god-sky, and maybe just a

teensy bit sanctimonious good morning to all you guys and gals!  Better have your extinguishers ready ’cause I’m tellin’ ya, I’m so stoked to be here today, my glorious raiment is like unto fire! 

Hey, I’m only goofin’ around with the bible talk, is that just so sixteen-eleven or what?!

Not forgetting to offer a fruity, full-bodied sip from the chalice to the rest of Dad’s creation, and— last but not least—a cheery yet perplexed shout-out to all those men, women and children, plus their respective farm animals, currently trampling each other to death as they board the ferry scheduled to sink in the Arabian Sea on Boxing Day.

Never change, ferry dudes! Gotta love your stick-to-it-ivity!

jesusmachinegunFirst off, I’d like to thank the whole world for dropping everything so we could hang out, and also for the seven billion cappuccinos and “morning glory” muffins, that’s awe-sommmme! 

And frankly, the high fibre is just what I need today. You’d think with all the pieces of whole-wheat toast I appear on, I’d be more regular.  Well, not the case!

And for the millionth time—are you ready for this?— special memo to the ferry passengers:  Please, just this once, could you not get on the fucking ferry.

I know, right?  I mean, what is that??!

I can tell by the way some of you are looking at me like so many Sauls on so many collector lanes of the Damascus Freeway that you’re freaked out.  It’s OK, I’m used to it.  But yes, Mrs Aquino, it really is me, so you can put away the rosary, honey, and— just look up, I’m right here, OK?  Sheesh.

Traveling light today, with my accompanying clouds of glory, but minus the sheep and the goats, because— well, I know they need dividing, one from the other, but, like many of you I’m sure, I woke up, took one look at the sunshine and said to myself, “It’s just way too nice a day to be stuck in Purgatory with a bunch of even-toed ungulates.”

And of course, minus the angels.  If you’re out of the loop, it’s a collective action thing until we sort out how many of them can dance on the head of a pin without creating a fire hazard, which a certain Heavenly Father, not to mention any names, never got around to deciding.

Plus c’est change—!  

Now, the IT department says that many of you have been close to crashing starry-firmament-dot-com with your requests to develop a close, personal relationship with Yours Truly.

Hey, don’t be be nice to me, I can’t take it!

So let’s kick off this getting-acquainted confessional conflab with a little segment I like to call “My Favorite Things”.

I used to call it “I am sixteen, going on seventeen”, but someone pointed out that there’s a limit to what back lighting and too-tight raiment of fire can do for a guy.

And far be it from me you should have “Second Coming Shock”!  There’s enough to worry about as it is, right?

Now, when it’s a question of My Favorite Things, let me set the record straight: you can just back off with your raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.  Gag me with a spoon, Murgatroyd!

Similarly, I’m about five hundred hallelujah’s short of a Handel chorus for any wild geese that fly with the moon—or anything else, for that matter—on their wings.

No way, José!

And make no mistake, it was after a dinner of apple strudel, doorbells and sleighbells and schnitzel with noodles, that Mr Hitler said to Mrs Hitler, “I think Jesus Christ, the guy with the cross over there in the corner, is ordering me to kill Jews.  Why would I want to do that?

And she replied, “Security?”

So fuck all that Oscar Hammerstein II, Mary Martin bullshit!

My favorite thing is:

When a whole bunch of people get gunned down in a church. 

Call me shallow!  Mister Away-In-a-Manger-Irony-Pants, that’s Me! L O Friggin’ L!

Because nothing, I tell ya, nothing brings people together more effectively or reminds you, in the course of  your tedious, workaday life, of what’s really important better than a mass shooting by a deranged civil servant or psychotic fast-food employee who’s gonna kill himself anyway.

Nothing, I tell ya, gets your adrenaline flowing like a hail of bullets erupting as you sing “Amazing Grace”; nothing ups the ante like seeing your loved ones’ blood on the Book of Common Prayer, or hearing your kids screaming in panic as they try to take cover.

I mean, it’s at moments like that when life is revealed in all its gorgeous complexity. But wait! Are you thinking what I’m thinking…? Yep, you got it!


The candlelight vigil is the warm, hemorrhaging heart of an American-as-apple-pie mass shooting incident.  It’s the healing moment, the time when America sits itself down, looks itself in the eye, and faces a difficult truth: that we still don’t have enough guns or few enough gun controls for us to feel safe enough to sit ourselves down, look ourselves in the eye and face the difficult truth: that it’s time to forgive ourselves, and move forward after closure, and do everything exactly the same!

When it comes right down to it, the candlelight vigil is why we do mass shootings in the first place, the “raison de ne pas être”, as it were.  Awww— ! I dunno about you, but personally, as someone who’s embraced Pontius Pilate, Pol Pot, and everyone in between—I’ve never felt so damned “huggy”!

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  Some people don’t appreciate my work, and I try not to pay attention to them or let them bring me down. I just continue making people’s lives a little more holy, holy, holy, a tad more Lamb of God-y, with never a thought for my own fleshly desires or even finding someone to watch Game of Thrones with on a Saturday night.

For example, ever since I found out that LOL stands for “lots of love”, I try to work it in wherever I can.  Like, I just appeared on a crying-old-lady-in-Bosnia’s piece of rye bread covered with apricot preserves—and looking up, you know, into the apricot preserves, I wrote with my tongue—

Žao mi je što je puhasto pregazio tramva LOL!

Which means, “I’m sorry Fluffy got run over by a tram LOL!”— but then the old lady just kind of freaked out and cried even more.


You either get it, and you’re on the High Speed GO Train of God Bless Our God; or you don’t get it and you’re just walkin’ in place, walkin’ in place in that old soft-shoe routine headed straight to “Welcome to Loserville, population one”.

I could end up with my ego right down the toilet if I listened to every Tom, Dick andceramic-gun Harry. “It only hurts if you think it’s true!” That’s what Charlene, my life coach, told me back in 1993, and I was like, “In which case, Charlene, it won’t hurt when I point out that, sure, with my stripes ye are healed, but in your case I should have specified vertical.”  Oi ve voy!

We’re all adults?  I can talk freely? ‘Cause I do have issues.  Low self-esteem, social anxiety. Chronic frizzies when it gets even a teensy bit humid out.

I was that typical crucifix-building nerd, you know, scrawny.  Bullies kickin’ the Dead Sea in my face when I’d be just minding my own business, trying to even out my tan.

And I was a horny little bugger, but inept. There’s one time, like, I’m about twelve and I see Mary Magdalene at the well, you know, promoting her “Buy One, Your Ten Closest Male Relatives Get It Free!” special.  So I approach her, I’m so excited and so shy at the same time, and she pops her tits out—well, yeah, OK.  I guess they were more or less like juicy pomegranates if you wanna get all Song of Solomon about it.

And what do I do?  Instead of, like, just pulling a Weinstein, instead of jumping on her like a pit bull and tit-fucking her like any other normal, red-blooded Israelite of twelve, I’m like, “Nice belt!”

Nice belt?!  Hot hairy balls on a communion wafer, what a little meshugener faggot! May all the Sons of Abraham lube me up with locusts and honey if she didn’t probably think I was one of those sodomites the Pharisees are always going on about.

Like Bruce bar Lenny, our local combination hair stylist and abomination. This is back in Galilee you understand, where it was soooo provincial. I mean, the big show finally makes it here, everyone lines up for an absolute eternity for tickets, then they all prance around at intermission sayin’ “Leessa Minooli”.  Talk about embarrassing!

Yeah, so anyway this is the new lean, mean Joshua bar Joseph Son O’ God machine, kind of thing. I was getting sick of the eighty-hour weeks, absolutely no “me time”, always exhausted and dropping my iPhone in the hummus, I’m sure you can all identify.

Day in, day out, same old drudgery, then one day I say to myself, Jesusbro, you are not up to speed with this shit. Game the system, dude!  I mean, have you totally forgotten the Eight Beatitudes of Highly Successful People?

So I started pumpin’ iron, cuttin’ down on the saturated fat. Screw loaves and fishes, I bulked up on rice cakes. Compared to which, frankly, styrofoam would be tastier.

No more freebies, either. Who’s gonna work if they got everything handed to them on a plate?  Seriously.  Food miracle queens!  The Riviera’s full of ’em!

And I initiated some time-saving strategies.  Now, instead of giving babies original sin individually—I mean, bespoke is all very well, but that shit’s just not scalable—I came up with, we line up a few hundred thousand in a grid, and then Adam and Eve, and sometimes Steve, can just piss on all of them at once.

So yeah, I cut down on the human resources, too.  Got five disciples doin’ the work of twelve.  Now that I’m ripped, of course, John gets hissy fits whenever Judas gives me the old hairy eyeball, and I tell ya! Those gingers! We’re talkin’ trouser snake, major, and when they say that cock crowed three times — sometimes four!  Whoa!

So I end up with some leisure time, and at first it’s fun.  I get together with Milton Friedman, that old schlemozzel!  And once the old blood and water’s flowing from my pierc-èd side, and he’s stuck his fingers in for proof, we have a ‘trickle-down’ contest.

Good times, man.  Good times.

So, whatever. Leisure is for the masses, but when you got ambition—!  I decide to do a hard-hitting exposé of corruption among the Pharisees, and the people are like, “Are you nuts? They’ll crucify you!”  How the hell was I supposed to know they meant it literally?

Gun_Mailbox-1Around the same time, I create this new religion spin-off with my buddy Mohammed, and we do some A-B testing.  Will people like the latkes, or will they like the tabbouli, kind of thing.  Pants and shirts or kaftans?  Donkeys or mules? Oppressed women or oppressed women?

But then I find Mo’s been fiddling with the concept, he’s added all kinds of crazy perqs for the tin-foil hatters.

I mean, nine-year-old brides? Right. Maybe you’re fooling the Age of Aquarius crowd with that “girls got the curse earlier in those days” shtick.  But I say let her tinker with her “Jihad Barbie Dream Caravan” for a couple more years, OK?

Like my mom, Ave Maria, used to say:

“A nicely brought up little girl should never give birth to anything larger than her own head.  Unless she’s a shiksa, in which case I hope every ten-year-old chick on the Left Bank should pop out a camel!”

So yeah, I joined the NRA, just ’cause I love when some pansy called Beauregard gets his panties in a twist about packing a rocket launcher in his hand luggage.  And I indulge in a little target practice: San Antonio one week, Las Vegas the next.

Orlando, now, that was different. I’m crying with laughter when some genius suggests it woulda been better if they’d all had guns.

Are you fuckin’ retarded? Boys and girls who flounced off to the disco for a fun time are sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, and you’re suggesting a hundred screaming queens messed up on crystal fighting back with automatic weapons?  It’d be like “All About Eve” meets “Saving Private Ryan”!

So what I do is, I stand next to them in my Invisibility Cloak, help the guys aim, whisper in their ears who to pick off next.

Fourteen-year-old preacher’s daughter. BAM!  J. F. K.— BAM BAM! Yeah, I can finally come out about Dallas.

Good to have a creative hobby, it’s like, I’m top of the pyramid in Maslow’s Hierarchy, self-actualization, and it’s not many guys in sandals can say that.

No one achieves anything on their own, but as long as I get the credit, I don’t care. Ten years ago I invested heavily in a vanilla-scented candle operation, cornered the market in adorable stuffed animals and launched my event planning division, “Vigils by Emmanuel!” which has already won two “Smarmies” and a “Dead Teddie” for “Best Grieving by Ten or More Hysterical Survivors”.

I tell ya. Americans can make sausage out of anything!

Anyhoo, tomorrow’s an early start. Looking forward to appearing on some Aunt Jemima pancakes drenched in maple syrup, that’s always been like my Holy Grail.

Holy Grail!  What the fuck, ha ha HA!

I tell ya, I don’t know where it all comes from.  It’s like mom used to say, Josh, she’d say.  You’re a natural!  You like, totally nailed it!

And that, my friends, is why they pay me the big bucks.




Joy will rise

Joy will rise.

Trample on it, beat it down, it will live.

Joy is sunlight, it’s rain,

it’s life blazing up to the sky in vines and white flowers, it’s mud that shields the root, it’s wind breathing.

Do your worst—

joy will rise,

not to torment you, but because it must. It doesn’t know what else to do.

Birds open their throats and song pours out.

Joy will defy your gravity, always.

Decay ‘n why: The SEX issue. (II)

(Missed Part I?  » Read it here.)


Yesterday on slowPainful dot com:

Blah blah back from hiatus blah blah introduced theme blah Craigslist blah.  Images images images napkin by Einstein image. Blah Blah. Talking about gay sex blah repugnant/enticing blah blah blah. Cliffhanger…

Like I was saying, repugnant gay sex, once str8 dudes hear about it enough, starts to become incredibly, irresistibly enticing.

If you want proof, like I did, place an ad on Craigslist, or on Backpage if you’re feeling extra slutty, and offer no-strings-attached, no-effort-involved and super respectful quick release to your hetero bro’s.  Use your imagination, sell it baby, flaunt it!

(Sorry, mom, about the flaunting, if you happen to be watching with eternally pursed lips from your ectoplasmic eyrie. And speaking of which, how about that back-to-school birthday present you gave me in Grade 9—seriously?  Hot pants?)

Well, pump my pecker with a canister vacuum! It just so happens that the average dude’s Holy Grail is a blow job that doesn’t involve twelve weeks of training, big hugs every time she remembers about “the teeth thing”, and a gold star when she doesn’t stop when you scream, five seconds before you’re about to ejaculate, “for fuck’s sake don’t stop!”


So enticing has that Craigslist ad been to bi-neutral babes that I’ve had three years of mind-alteringly gorgeous hammer hawks from nineteen to forty-plus dropping by to change their pace, then skipping out of my apartment with demented smiles on their faces faster than they can say “Shit, I just got a text from my girlfriend”.

Women, let’s talk.woman eating a banana not sexy Google Search

Straight dudes are terrified of, mystified by and hopeless at relating to women and understanding women ’cause they’ve been in the ManBox since birth, where the only manly things to do are get mad or grow a tumor. Their idea of constructive argument, and this is at its best, is to convince you via logic that you’re not feeling what you’re feeling.  You know this already.

I’m telling you this, girlfriend, because your man needs a skin flute virtuoso to improvise for an hour or two; at least once in his life, the future father of your kids needs to kick back, watch girl-on-girl porn and enjoy the ministrations of a pro, and honey, I’m sorry.  Every time you lose focus to brush that strand of hair behind your ear I think,“there should be a certification for this before someone gets hurt.”

Your dude needs some attention without having to worry about feelings, or buying flowers, or possible future ramifications like child support, or having to figure out whether you’re crying ’cause you crave his warm embrace or ’cause you’re working up to your Lorena Bobbitt moment.

He just needs a blowcation.

And when the five minutes, or fifteen or fifty minutes, or five hours is done, and your dude hugs me, or shakes my hand, and heads back home, I think,

“I wonder if women know what goes on between men when women aren’t around…”

Then I give myself a high five, wash the cum off my face and have a glass of wine.


I just “celebrated” my sixty-second birthday.  I sent myself a surprise card, ate a pint of Kawartha Lakes vanilla ice cream (I’m terribly post-Häagen-Dazs) and settled into a gentle evening of naked Skype-ing.

The gentleman from Germany asked ME, not the other way around, which I like, because at my age I’m very careful about not pulling the homo version of a “Weinstein”. (I figure I might as well go for the “entered the language” thing right away.)

Gay youths in particular deserve sexual hijinks and substance-fueled shenanigans with guys their own age, something I never experienced as a fledgling fag.  You can’t determine what’s age-appropriate for teen boyfriends if the very idea starts people foaming at the mouth and quoting Leviticus, which religious people do so much their bibles’ cracked spines fall open at the page.

In my day, a Thursday in 1973 if my memory is correct, queers of all ages worked the dark, seamy side of the subculture, sneaking around in a crepuscular wet dream of bars, public washrooms, parks and porn houses; when not sneaking around we hid in plain sight, and it was the hiding and the sneaking, not the sex, that was bad for us.

Young guys didn’t know who to turn to, because even acknowledging what you were doing was unthinkable.

But older guys, who’d orchestrated double lives for decades, teetering on a cliff-edge, in daily imminent danger of losing all—they could at least show you the ropes before they put on Judy at Carnegie Hall and tied you up with them.   Clang, clang, clang went the trolley!

The paradigm was ancient Greece: a mentor who took you under his wing, or the pink, wrinkly albatross who hung around your neck, and it all felt as old as time and just as dismally inescapable.

Sixty-two now means that, to the freshly baked batch of baby queers still cooling in the pans, I am more than “past my prime”.

Oh, dear lord. I am a few laps around the racetrack beyond even “silver daddy”, and I don’t know how to fake it past this point, ’cause the first-wave baby boomer who was supposed to fax The Globe and Mail with whatever ghastly fate we’re rehabilitating next (“fifty is the new forty!”) is apparently hiding in his bedroom with a dog dish full of gin.

“Golden Grandad” is all I can come up with, and it just sounds like something that would cost you jail time: “He was doing so well on probation, then—BOOM!  He golden-grandad’s himself right back inside!”

Old age is getting older, faster. Every grade nine kid hacks banking websites for casual fun; my generation had to be sat down at assembly to have it explained to us that the people on the screen didn’t actually live inside the TV.  Some of us cried.

And every year, at the special showing of The Wizard of Oz—for which I would provide my mother with an encyclical from the Pope giving me permission to stay up past 7 pm—

—when that magical moment came when Dorothy walked out of her farmhouse door into Oz, I was overcome with joy, for those three extra shades of grey suddenly flickering on our black and white telly would obviously make her life as a gay icon and refugee from reality infinitely more bearable.


Pictures that flew through the air.


Since being shipped off for landfill by the Shelf-Life Sub-Committee of the Supreme Council of Gay Hook-Ups, I’ve noticed a change.

During those white nights when someone discovers me unconscious at the computer in my chaps and an egg-yolk stained cardigan from Hudson’s Bay, and eases me with infinite tenderness onto the floor so they can get back onto mormonboyz dot com, I find that not a single one of the someones is curious any more why I bark out “Kate Bush!” or “thalidomide!” during my REM cycle, or why, every mid-November, I awake shrieking “Where were you when Kennedy was shot?! The first one!”

And occasionally, as from my privileged vantage point of the floor I smoke a cigarette and watch their flawless millennial ankles cross and recross, I remember something.

I explain to the someone, because he’s here, and old guys need to explain, that there was once a time when you read a personal ad in a newspaper, and something grabbed you about it, so that your heart beat a little faster at the idea of meeting its author.

You then sat down at your desk and replied with a letter, writing with care using a fountain pen on real stationery, possibly including a snapshot you’d had developed at the Rexall drug store, put the whole kit—thoughtful, handwritten letter and photograph—in the matching envelope, then dropped it into the post box for collection.

Then, if you can even imagine it, you waited patiently for a reply.

Waited — !

The German guy naked-Skype-ing with me is in his fifties, not bad looking. He’s high on something. 

(Well, obviously!)

He looks at me for several seconds, his face without expression.

He says,

“I luff ze body,  ja your body is old, your chest ist schrecklich! Schrecklich!  Jaaaa, I like very much your old body, your body in a state of decay!”

… and waited.

Decay ‘n why: The SEX issue.


After thoroughly enjoying my long hiatus, I’m

raring to go and full of p and v, whatever that is, and I like to imagine you’re just teasing a guy when you look up from the task at hand—topping up the ink levels in the mimeograph machine, or barnstorming your fission statement, I think I heard that right —and say to your co-workers,

“Hey, he’s back! Could somebody shoot me in the head while I’m sleeping?”

Incidentally, those of you still stuck in the Creativity Pod with your caramel lattes long grown cold can spare yourself the effort with the mission/vision thing.  Now that The Donald has ushered in the end of days with all the finesse of a three-hundred-pound WalMart bouncer on Black Friday, we’re well aware that they both go “making a shitload of money while selling useless crap to bored consumers, polluting a lake, then going bankrupt so we don’t have to pay those pensions”, except “vision” starts “We see ourselves…” while “mission” kicks off with “Just try and stop us from…”.

And incidentally to the incidentally, allow me to prise those lattes from your hands and replace them with “partially recycled” plastic bottles made from virgin petroleum and filled with tap water labelled “mountain springs” at eight dollars per gallon—three times what you pay for gas in your car.

Gaia, that old hippie chick, withered breasts dangling at kneecap level, now slouches towards Bethlehem, not to be born but to expire with one final, raspy sigh in the Valley of The Shadow of Non-biodegradable Plastic (on the bright side, the discovery of mountains in Guelph should dramatically cut the costs of a Toronto family ski trip, come nuclear winter).

But enough about you.

I was going to call this post “The In’s ‘n Out’s of Gay Sex”, but—

1.  The In’s ‘n Out’s double-entendre is terribly overdone, at least in my mind, whose peak of ambition is to make eight-year-olds laugh;
2. I’m still searching Merriam-Webster for the correct plurals for In and Out and I don’t want anyone to think I’m one of those louche non-reader’s who believe’s that everything with “s” on the end, or even not on the end,  ha’s an apo’strophe; and,
3. I figured it would be entertaining to lure you in with just “sex” then pour cold Eau Sauvage all over you with “gay”.

judy as dorothy Google SearchAnd never worry, if you don’t get the jokes I will explain them to you, which is probably why, around 1995, everyone stopped accepting my dinner invitations and started humoring me instead.  So to all of you who responded with:

“We’d love to, but we’re so tied up getting ready for the millennium!”

may I just say, “Dudes? Like, soooo totally??!!  Random???!!!

The older you get, the more you will experience being humored. To discover if this awful fate is yours, I suggest the following experiment:

Go ahead, tell your rapt listeners for the hundredth time how Beethoven wrote his greatest music while deaf, which is why deaf people love it;

or how much better rhubarb pie was before they put the strawberries in it,

or, if a genuine coup de théâtre rather than thigh-slapping humor is the order of the day, demonstrate how to rewind an unspooled cassette tape with an HB pencil.

Next, casually look away for a second, then quickly and unexpectedly look back at them.  (You may want to remove your neck brace for this.)

Not pretty, is it?  Their eyes will be spinning in their sockets like slot-machine fruit and, if you’re fortunate enough to have ruined the afternoon of more than one millennial— which I now just assume is anyone younger than me— they may very well be exchanging knowing looks, which in my case would translate to:

“He’s doing so well today, but if he puts up his hand and calls you ‘Miss Smedley’, dial 911.”

Today’s post is about the eternal push-pull of str8 male—gay male and what these two demographics can learn from each other.

KIDDING!  Today is about the Paradox of Gay Male Desire …   (“Learn from each other”!  Man you shoulda seen the look on your face..!)

But first, a musical interlude.  You can sing it yourself, I’m out of budget.

Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!

Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!
Follow, follow, follow, follow
Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!

If ever and ever a dick there was
A Str-8-Fellow Dick’s the one! Because?
Because because because because because!

Because of the wonderful things it does!

There!  Wasn’t that refreshing? Now settle down.

It’s important to realize that gay men do things, sex-wise, that straight people have never, EVER, done, or even THOUGHT about.

That’s our “donnée”: Gay sex is weird and repugnant. OK? Hold that thought.

And in this era of equality and acceptance—where in Canada two guys can tie the knot, have group sex at the wedding breakfast and divorce before dinner; where in Nigeria they now cut you up into only 10 pieces with a machete instead of 12—weird and repugnant though it be, man to man ugly-bumping is now something we actually talk about.

Tabernac de bavardage!  Whatever that means! And because straight people have never EVER done anything except lights-out, close-your-eyes, missionary position sex in a state of holy wedlock with the same person for all time, or even THOUGHT about anything else, this of course, now that we’re actually talking about repugnant gay sex, makes repugnant gay sex super enticing.

Let the logic of that sink in for a moment. OK, ready?  Jeezus! We haven’t got all day, here!

Let us now add to this Kinsey smoothie some bitter, roasted nuts in the form of The Paradox of Gay Male Desire, admirably formulated on a napkin by Albert Einstein in 1972:


Paradox of Gay Male Desire, napkin formula created by Einstein while eating at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Also Now We Do Burgers!! Except Sundays!”.  (Private Collection, Zurich).

(Where gg= happy gay guy with possible addition of one or more fuck buddies, divided by having to wear the bra, with panties optional, and minus the angry girlfriend, multiplied by a straight guy and an exponential number of dudes who just came to watch.)

Or, as Einstein put it in layman’s terms:

“Every gay guy wants sex with a straight guy – but if the straight guy has sex with you, he’s no longer straight!  Just ask Alan Turing!  Hey, anybody wanna Fresca?”

Now, it’s obvious that your average str8 dude, once he starts thinking about all the manmeat in his life, all that dick sloshing around in those boxer shorts or old worn-out Stanfields, and available at the office, at the golf course, at the gym or during confession, and then starts thinking about all the things he can do with it—I mean, those little monsters in our pants are unruly but at their best moments undeniably impressive—well, Murgatroyd, at that point it’s just a matter of time…

(… continue to » Part II )

From My Squalid Kitchen Episode 5: “Constant! Camera! Coffee!”


In which I find my apartment ransacked, and my camera stolen. What to do? Alicia de Larrocha soothes me and I share the secrets of the Bodum.

Vimeo rocks

I’ve joined Vimeo as a paid member and now my videos are loading from that site – vastly superior to relying on Facebook.

Here’s the complete series so far:

Episode 1

Episode 2

Episode 3

Episode 4 



I’ll be taking a little break until around the 15th of October, to get my online store all set  up and also to prepare for  my floral photography Open Studio on that date.



See you in two weeks,

blackNODATE Signature