LGBT

SlowPainful: Director’s Cut, cha-cha-cha!

Well, it’s good news, here at bittersweet-comic-personal-essay-political-satire-with-a pimento-stuffed-olive-and-a-twist-of-gay-as-a-goose bootcamp.

I’m done. 

Not just done. 

Done, or even DONE.  There’s nothing more. I am squeezed dry, like a lemon wedge squeezed repeatedly by a blue-haired lady over her Dover sole in the dining room of her cheap seaside bed and breakfast, somewhere on the south coast of England, possibly Portsmouth, where the paint is peeling off from the salt wind, the hydrangeas nod their heavy rain-laden heads and the bathroom smells of bay rum and lavender sachets …

… She eats her tea alone, spinning out her final days, fading with the twilight. The crisp yellow spritz of lemon juice, the delicate mauve taste of the sole. Soggy chips and coleslaw with salad creme … Squeeze …

I’ve finished shoe-horning in the yacht race out of Newport with the Bright Young Things; the obligatory interlude with the aliens who teleport the entire Jones clan to their spacecraft for an extended nightmare of  intimate probing; a trope now so eagerly anticipated, it’s practically a family tradition—Little House on the Prairie, with sphincters;

A little musical bon-bon with the young, but still scary, Angela Lansbury that will have your grandad rubbing the stained crotch of his sweatpants against the newel posts in the seventh floor stairwell at “Sunset Lodge,” and, of course, The Scene with the Dinosaurs that finally explains, without the baggage of words, the ultimate meaning of our existence. 

SPOILER:

This involves a Club Pack of ground beef that was left out in the sun too long, made the leap into consciousness and in a surprise coup assumes the office of President of the United States. Giant Patty for Prez! is all the slogan s/he needs to win hearts and minds with shock and awe, but Patty’s Presidency’s a polarizing one, and soon there’s just two camps: The Pity People, who want to tax the middle class until they’re poor, fuck the poor, then give it all to the forty-seven old white guys;  and their sworn, mortal enemies, the Patty People, who want to do all of that exactly the same, but with tear gas.

Who will save the free world from Giant Patty’s reign of hamburger horror? 

“I will save you!” We hear the voice before we see the speaker, but wait—is that—Persistent, Urine-y Old-Guy Smell…?  

Yes, Bernie Sanders has arrived to spoil everything! He’s formed the Purity Party, and really, the choice is simple:  vote for a billionaire racist misogynist who hires his relatives, sucks Russia’s cock, runs his campaign with money laundered through his charity, and flouts the rule of law; vote for Bernie, who wants full frontal social democracy in a country where the idea of health care has NRA members marching in formation and screaming “communism”—or a woman.

Sorry, BITCH.

Obviously it’s the billionaire racist, hands down, and there’s hardly a millennial who’s figured out how to open the front door and wait for someone to drive them to the polls who doesn’t throw up their hands, slam that door shut again and wail,  “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody, baby! 

Bernie’s thrown a spanner in the works. Bernie’s shown them how important he is. Bernie’s The Man. Bernie Bernie Bernie!  At least he saw to it that The Bitch didn’t win.  At least there’s that. And to a man with Persistent, Urine-y Old Guy Smell, that feels an awful lot like a lose made of win.

So once again it falls to our redoubtable Marines, half of them in clingy cotton floral-printed sundresses and the other half grabbing the butts of the first half without consent, to deploy their secret weapon:  A firehose with the diameter of the Lincoln tunnel that originates in a genderless washroom in Texas, snakes its way across the half-submerged south eastern states and floods Giant Patty, Washington, D.C., and most of Park Slope, Brooklyn, with chunky tsunamis of Kraft Sandwich Spread; reminding us once more that none of us ever really enjoyed having the word “chunky” associated with food.

Not. At. ALL!!

In the thrilling dénouement, Hillary, in full Carmen Miranda kit,  lobs a giant pineapple at “that leetle Corteth beetch”, knocking the upstart Socialista for a loop, but finally gets her corporatista comeuppance when Robert Mueller, lumpy as a sack of potatoes in a pair of blue tights which I’m not even sure belong to him, catches up to Hillsy as she shakes her maracas on top of Mount Rushmore and smacks her in the cha-cha-cha with a salt-packed anchovy fillet.  Hillsy then falls to her death, which renders her temporarily speechless.

Epilogue: Just as the credits are about to roll, Bernie Sanders wanders in looking angry and confused and spoils everything.  

I know, I know. 

It’s been done.

On the other hand:  Buy my book.  It contains absolutely nothing I’ve mentioned here. 

This link will land you smack dab on the e-book page.

Prices are $4.99 CAD for the e-book—that’s Canadian dollars, so, like, our version of free—and 30% off the trade paperback and the gloriously linen’d hardcover for the HOLIDAYS.   Get that?  THE HOLIDAYS.

War on Christmas? Oh, baby—!

Hand me my Kalashnikov, strap on my fuck-me pumps and point me to that manger.

֎

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We have PAPERBACK! + REVIEW offer

smallFINALPAPERBACKCOVER-22769060_cover (1)

My cover design for the paperback version

Sorry to SHOUT BUT I’M REALLY EXCITED!  Oh, fuck I started SHOUTING AGAIN BUT I CAN’T HELP IT!

Really, really sorry about my lack of control.  But it’s not every day that you PUBLISH A PAPERBACK !!!.  Oh, god.  This is really embarrassing.  Just try to bear with me as I tell you a little bit more about MY PAPERBACK WHICH IS NOW ON SALE!!!!.

<awkward>

This is what my friend Shaun Proulx, life-transforming guru extraordinaire and architect of the #ThoughtRevolution, tells me is a “soft launch”.  Well, I’m going to take his word for it, as what he doesn’t know about gorgeously shameless self-promotion and roll-off-a-log success wouldn’t fit on the smallest, fiddley-ist hors d’oeuvre Martha Stewart could stamp out with her heirloom cookie cutter.

In fact, he’s been cheekily dubbed “The Gay #Oprah”; word has it that Ms O’s acolytes occasionally forget themselves and refer to their bossatrix as “The Big, Black, Obscenely Rich and Heterosexual Shaun Proulx, Except Shaun Doesn’t ‘Balloon'”, which earns them a great, big, corrective “love tap” from the CEO.  I can picture her now as she hauls back and, with a follow-through like a Wimbledon champ, cracks the back of that jewel-encrusted hand across each penitent face while screaming, “This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me!  KIDDING!!”

The book is for sale on Lulu.com, who are the gentle and helpful publishing midwives to this elderly primo gravido.  Once I’ve approved the physical copy, it will be sent for possible distribution on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other so KEEP YOUR FINGERS CROSSED!  I AM SO EXCITED!!!

Sheesh.

May only, get 20% off. Click on the cover image above to go to my product page on Lulu.com and to purchase.

REVIEW OFFER

If you’ll go onto Lulu.com and write a review, I’ll send you a PDF of the paperback final version, free of charge.  Shoot me an email at david@davidroddis.com with subject line:  Paperback review offer and I’ll get it off to you within a day or two.

~

Decay ‘n why: The SEX issue.

I.

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:

einstein

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 )

In Defence of Deviance

Toronto’s PRIDE 2017 celebrated diversity and inclusion. Yet some people—even some gay men—still think that’s a shame.

Men, men, men!  Not a flicker of humor in a back room full of us!  Forever shooting our wads, then rolling away from the damp spot and falling asleep; forever forgetting that ejaculation is for Christmas, but a snuggle is for life.

trudeau pride

Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau at the Toronto Pride Parade, June 25, 2017.  [From MSN.com]

I’ve come fresh from Pink News online, the British gay rag that’s the equivalent of Canada’s Xtra (but with better fashion and that string of pearls that you didn’t buy at Winners, but inherited from Great-Aunt Prunella) where the headline read—and you may want to sit down for this bit, lest you collapse onto your vitrine filled with Lalique crystal—

Men tell homophobic jokes because of their own fragile masculinity, study finds.

Well, slice me to ribbons under the Queen streetcar!  That gem ranks as news right up there with “Sun Rises in East” and “Dog Bites Intruder, Then Pees on Carpet”.

Personally, I’m gobsmacked.

So imagine our surprise when a whole Ford F-150-full of fragile masculine egos came out to defend themselves against the “feminists” who designed and conducted the study.

madonna quote(Feminist in this context fulfills the same function as Nazi does elsewhere, describing as it does not an actual specimen of the genre but a scarecrow, only dressed up in dungarees and a tool belt instead of black leather and jackboots;  and instead of translating as “someone I disapprove of on principle”, it reads, “women I’m extra scared of”.)
Take a gander, or maybe a gender, at this response:

The folks who are most threatened and defensive are the writers and editors at PN who relentlessly push effeminacy and gender deviance whilst denigrating traditional masculinity and manhood. It’s almost as if they know that they are failures as men and want to use sexual orientation as an excuse. But decades of studies have shown that effeminacy manifests only in a minority of gay and bi men. So sexual orientation is no excuse for their personal failure to function as men.

And here’s my response to that :


“Gender deviance”? Holy Krafft-Ebing,

where’s my laudanum? I may have an attack of the vapours!

worldpride2014_20140627_0009.jpg

Pride 2014 / Photo by David Roddis.

I did live in Britain for 16 years and I read Pink News all the time. But that was pre-Internet, so perhaps their relentless pushing of effeminacy was less effective; I’m pretty sure I have at least half a testicle lying around somewhere.

A man is a man is a man, to rewrite Gertrude Stein; if you got the right bits and feel comfortable with them, that’s all it takes. If you don’t feel comfortable with them, that’s called “gender dysphoria” according to the bible of psychiatric diagnosis, the DSM-5, and the word dysphoria in the new edition refers to the anxiety caused by SOCIETAL pressures and the prejudice coming from those who do not accept “deviance” – and what an extraordinarily, umm, nostalgic word choice, by the way.

Nostalgic, or bathetic to the point of laughter, conjuring up as it does the kind of sleazy soft porn novels my dad would have read in the ’50s: “They’re wild! They’re dangerous! They’re: DEVIANT DAUGHTERS!”

But back to your ridiculousness: Men learn how to be men; it’s not innate and it’s not written somewhere in a manual. We learn from fathers, mentors, leaders, heroes (and sometimes the wrong heroes: the most superficially impressive instead of the wisest).

The problem is evident: We men more often than not learn from walking, talking, blustering, posturing models of manhood who have mastered nothing but bravado. We think they’re the reference, but in fact they’ve had a few of the most important pages ripped out.

It’s as though we’re seated at a formal dinner and, at a loss, look to the distinguished older guy on our right; then, following his brave example, we mix our petits pois with the mashed potatoes, then shovel them in with the grapefruit spoon.

Not pretty.

To call a man a failure because he does not fulfill your checklist of “real manhood” tells us perhaps a bit more than you would have us know. That checklist is nothing other than plain old garden-variety homophobia — dressed up in its “Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” best, maybe, but homophobia all the same.

Normal is the average of deviance — Rita Mae Brown

In fact, what you have angrily and perversely crossed off your list is exactly what a man needs: everything you label “effeminate”. But a tablespoon, or more, of “effeminacy” does a man good. Women, you might have noticed, have a refining effect on men; or perhaps their presence helps men lower their guard and discover their own sensitivity, intuition, esthetic sense, all those things we’re taught to push aside by other men who are afraid and unsure of themselves.

So, put a little more mascara on, sweetie.  Slip into your silk peignoir and take a night off. I hereby relieve you of what must be a thankless, lonely burden: of being the self-appointed arbiter of what’s butch.  Us real men will decide that for ourselves.

Real men are works in progress, and we haven’t explored even the first ten percent of what we might become.

HAPPY PRIDE ~

Dedicated to every drag queen in
plexiglass pumps who ever threw shade;

every Quentin Crisp who “didn’t know how to
be any other way”; and

to the little boy who chose the Kewpie Doll
as his prize at the fair—me.

Never change.

pridecomp1

Pride 2014 / Photos by David Roddis

» Link to the Pink News article  (opens in a new window)

“I Feel Like I’m Dressed Really Faggy Today” : A Meditation. ++PLUS++ The Reviews are in!

 


Director’s notes:

This video is, like, about that moment when you’re, like, walking downtown OK and then you suddenly go all wtf I’m dressed really faggy lol ! LMAO!!

And you want to go home and change but, like, you have no home and the world feels dangerous? Like WTF???!!!

©Male Camel Toe Productions, a wholly-owned subsidiary of slowpainful.com


Thank you for watching “I Feel Like I’m Dressed Really Faggy Today?!”~

I thought it would be a cool, kinda “groovy” thing if I updated this page with some of the reviews and stats for those of you who are, you know, independent film nerds and stat wonks.

So far, the other person who watched it besides me—

btwI am taking the unusual step of not including myself in the viewing stats, which marks a radical departure in my methodology,  which to some of my more wonky, nerdy friends constituted inflating the stats artificially.

Oh gawd, saying words like “methodology” makes me break out in a thin film of greasy perspiration all over my upper body, and I get that red “map” thing on my chest.  I look almost exactly like Julianne Moore in one of her raunchy scenes from “Boogie Nights” and yet I’m not even fair-skinned with red hair and freckles!

What was I saying?

Oh yeah, stats. Well the other person who watched said, “This is, like, totally RANDOM?????!”.

Her name was Katt and she was a kind of cool chick who wandered in with my str8 roommate and then wandered out again after a day or so.

So, up to now the critical consensus is “awesome!” (which is me) and “random” or “totally RANDOM?????!” [sic] from the chick.  This could get, like, TENSE!  LOL!

~