Gee, don’t come rushing at me all at once, like a Handel chorus


Veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor. Strawberry = you.

Well! (he spluttered).

This is a fine how-d’you do!

I work myself to the bone getting all sacrilegious, spend literally minutes in Photoshop desecrating the memory of possibly the 10th-greatest plummy English contralto who ever lived, blend it half-heartedly together into a veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor that would make a reader of Harvard Lampoon blush, and what thanks.

Not even a flicker of furious placard-writing activity from the Phelps family; No snooty, outraged editors at Gramophone magazine canceling my remaining issues; No high-minded “disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” complaints, not even a sad little WordPress unsubscribe¹.  Nada. Plenty o’ nuttin’.

A great big world so full of “NO” it could make Dame Janet herself take up a second career in lap dancing.  (Dame Janet Jackin’. Off her high horse and onto yours.  So to speak.)

A great big world so chock-full of “so-what, dude?” it could make a co-pilot take an Airbus filled with over-stimulated adorable teenage choristers on their first trip away and apple-cheeked adorable grannies clutching Tupperware containers of brownies in their lap lest the icing should get dislodged during turbulence, and face-plant it into the nearest Alp.  As if!

When it comes right down to it.  Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?  Like, Hello-o-o-o – ! Over here, darling, other person who exists!  Lips moving that aren’t your own!  I mean really.

But never you mind, Murgatroyd. Your pathetic attempts at making amends by text message come too little and – at 3.37 AM – way too late.  I’m resilient.  I’m a survivor. I’m filled with pluck, grit and spunk.  Or at least I was on Saturday night which I assure you is the last time I’ll try to get laid by a shift-worker in a chicken-processing facility. While on the job!

It’s all the more grist to my application-for-lifetime-and-beyond-PTSD-benefits mill, cause guess what?

You are just the strawberry on my smoothie, babe.  Naked.  Or even better, in your saggy, made-at-home-yet-still-just-as-crappy-as-if-made-by-Third-World-slave-labor American Apparel Y-fronts.

And one more thing since I finally have the floor and will miracles never cease you’ve paused for breath:  Jesus WAS white.

You know how I know?

The Bible tells me so.

¹ Update:  Between starting this post and finishing, someone DID 
unsubscribe.  Which would seem entirely to put the kibosh on the 
already pretty thin premise of the piece. This might flatten 
a lesser man.   But self-esteem, no matter how rooted 
in fantasy it may be, always 
wins the day.  So nice try.  Little Miss Unsubscribe.

Yes, friends. It’s time for : GAY WALK OF SHAME # 47

Heads up!  Male camel-toe alert...

Heads up! Male camel-toe alert…

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury:  I give you Exhibit A.  And I know what you’re thinking:

With finely-draped plaid shorts like these, those ketchup-stained, armpit-hiked old-age trousers from Gap are all but inevitable;

There is incipient male camel-toe, that little-mentioned yet classic mark of future whoredom, apparent in the saggy yet suggestively prominent v-marked crotch;

And my contr’apposto, that flirty, toe-twirling-in-the-dirt stance native to coquettish pretty boys from Donatello’s “David” onward, needs polish.

But here’s what I’m most bitter about, and mark me well :  This is apparently the one, brief, snapshot-length moment in the sum total of my wretched life when I had 1. no glasses, 2. total self-assurance, albeit pathetically unwarranted, and 3. interesting hair.

Interesting blond hair.

Oh my fur and whiskers. Youth is wasted on the pre-pubescent.


A first and entirely unoriginal epiphany, which nonetheless was still a big deal for me.

A friend of mine stopped by and knocked on my apartment door. Because I was running a bath, I didn’t hear him.

He continued to knock for a bit, then just stood there (so he reported later) feeling frustrated and confused.

After about 10 minutes, he knocked again, and this time I did hear him. I shouted at him from my bath to come in, and, to his surprise, he tried the door and found it unlocked.

It had been unlocked all the time.

And, in a sudden “Beast in the Jungle” moment, a little epiphany that made my skin prickle, I thought of a terrible epitaph:


“He waited his whole life in fear in front of an unlocked door.”


Hope this helps.