Thursday, October 27, 2016

Michael Moore gives powerful pro-Trump speech (without meaning to)

"Trump's election is going to be the biggest F*** You in human history."

Early self-abusive deaths of Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, and, yes, Pete Burns are depressing as hell: These men had a confluence of what most of us plebes wish for and dream of -- good looks, fame, wealth, creative ability. But it all meant nothing to them.

If life means nothing to those blessed, what are the rest of us to think?

(I'll add Sylvia Plath -- whose birthday is today, October 27-- to this list. In 1963, when she killed herself at age 30, she wasn't sexy or rich or famous, but she was brilliant and had had a noted scholastic and literary career and a meaningful love in Ted Hughes. All of which, apparently, meant nothing to her.)

Interesting to me what an individual chooses to live for, or not live for.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Fastball - The Way (1998)

Initially bought this CD in 1998 based on this wonderful song. Rest of the CD was mediocre, aside from "Out of My Head." Quickly sold the CD months later, forgot about the band. Just today, though, heard "The Way" on Austin radio on the way back from lunch... CRANKED IT UP. Such a goose-bump-raising good song.

Then went and bought Fastball's Greatest Hits on Amazon, which included these 2 songs. Hopefully the "Hits" will be better overall than the initial mediocre "All the Pain Money Can Buy" CD that I sold off all those years ago. Whatever --- I want both "The Way" and "Out of My Head" in my collection.

2016: You Spin Me Round -- Pete Burns

Pete Burns singing "You Spin Me Round" in 2016.
What was interesting in 1985 had turned into utter psychosis 30 years later. The song remained the same, but the singer now nothing but a diminutive middle-aged man with a horribly re-done plastic face pretending to be a diva... then having to share the stage with whoever that random guy was. And everybody pretending that it was all still sexy and meaningful... Whatever happened to Pete Burns' EYES? They were so teasing and inviting and sexy in the '85 video; by 2016, they were dumb-nothing utterly blank slits embedded in a plastic face.
Try as the Gay Community might to reconstruct, "camp" will never equal true "sexiness." (Not "joke sexy" as the Gay World and Media present, but actual sexiness --- where you're too moved/struck by another person to make any sort of fun. Well, until later...)

1985: You Spin Me Round -- Dead or Alive/Pete Burns

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

the rolling stones - tell me (long version)

1964 Stones song played at every Trump rally.

America's Re-Boot

(For those reading from other countries, you have no idea what we've been experiencing since 2000. Bush and Obama exactly the same as far as incompetence and corporate globalist influence go.)

"Either we win this election or we lose our country."

Trump Fix Needed

While working on my Joan website tonight, had C-SPAN on in the background: Senatorial debates from (1) Florida, with Marco Rubio (R) and Patrick Murphy (D); and (2) Ohio, with Ted Strickland (D) and Rob Portman (R).

(1) Rubio and Murphy, in their 30/40s, were like aggressive, spastic kids raised on the Internet. Rapid-fire figure-spouting, each trying to prove he was the smartest guy in the room. But both utterly soul-less. Both operating on talking points, obviously believing nothing.

(2) Strickland and Portman, in their 60s/70s, were more staid in their speech. Slower, more considered. But both throw-backs to, say, 1984: Trudging along, repeating party platitudes. Both utterly soul-less. Both operating on talking points, obviously believing nothing.

Made me desperate for a Trump fix. I've been spoiled for over a year with the raw truth. What am I going to do without him?

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Member of the Immoral Majority

In my senior year of high school, 1983, I was feeling my political oats and had at least two T-shirts made at the local Fort Worth mall T-shirt shop. I used to love going into mall T-shirt shops, and mall record stores, and mall pseudo-head-shops like Spencer's---although located in malls (which are much mocked today), these shops offered exciting promises of self-fulfillment to a teenager raised in a small town far-removed from any mall until able to visit one upon getting a car at age 16.

One of the T-shirts was hot pink, with "Frances Lives" in yellow and white letters. My best friend at the time, Ginny (whom I was also in love with), had a matching shirt made. (I remember that on the way home from the mall, she changed into the shirt in the car I was driving.) We were both enthralled with the movie "Frances" (starring Jessica Lange) that had just been released. And outraged at her treatment by "society." Unfortunately, that T-shirt of mine has vanished.

Another shirt, though, has survived. In '83, Jerry Falwell's religious group "The Moral Majority" was in full sway, supported by President Reagan and constantly in the news. I thought the group sanctimonious and obnoxiously self-righteous, and, again, headed to the mall to have a protest T made: "Member of the Immoral Majority." Which I paraded around my high school in during the spring of my senior year. 

I didn't take the T to college in the fall of '83; left it at my mother's house. Soon forgot about it. About 15 years later (in the late '90s), my mom presented me with the below Christmas present: My "Immoral Majority" T made into a pillow:

1990s "Immoral Majority" pillow made out of my 1983 T-shirt.

I appreciated that my mom took the time to make the pillow, and I had it with me for a few years, but by the 2000's, after various moves, I'd long relegated it to storage at my mother's house. On my birthday this year, though, my mother had dug it up, and she gave it to me again.

At 51, I was mildly interested in seeing it again. Wanted to keep it for nostalgia's sake, not sure where to put it. ("Rebellion" is cute in your teens and 20s, but it wasn't like I was going to have it as a throw-pillow on the couch in my home today.) I ended up tossing it in the back of my cute Mazda 2 that I just bought in late July---adding "personality" to the car (along with the yin-yang fringed symbol hanging on my rear-view mirror and my "The Donald 2016" bumpersticker).

And then I again forgot about the pillow. Until today, though, when I was in the drive-thru for a local Austin sandwich shop (Thundercloud, for those who know it) on the way to work. The very young, very pleasant girl at the window was peering intently into my car, then said, "I was just trying to figure out what your pillow said."

So I started out with, "Well, Jerry Falwell had a religious group in the '80s..."---not sure if she'd have any idea who Jerry Falwell was. Turned out she did know of him and the group. And then she really thought it was "cool" that I had had that T-shirt made when I was 18---and that my mom had made a pillow out of it --- AND that I now had the pillow in my car.

Nice that someone was perceptive. Also nice to be asked about something that I cared about. Lately, I've been trudging along in life like I was invisible. It was nice to be asked about.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Going Down On Love - John Lennon (1974)

The opening song of the first John Lennon solo album I ever bought ("Walls and Bridges").

Got to get down, down on my knees
Got to get down, down on my knees
Going down on love
Going down on love
Going down, going down, going down

When the real thing goes wrong
And you can't get it on
And your love she has gone
And you got to carry on
And you shoot out the light
Ain't coming home for the night
You know you got to, got to, got to pay the price

Somebody please, please help me
You know I'm drowning in the sea of hatred

Got to get down, down on my knees
Got to get down, down on my knees
Going down on love
Going down on love
Going down, going down, going down

Something precious and rare
Disappears in thin air
And it seems so unfair
Nothing doin' nowhere
Well you burn all your boats
And you sow your wild oats
Well you know, you know, you know the price is right!

Got to get down, down on my knees...

Weird New York Times video: Trump Groping Allegations 1979

"If he had stuck with the upper part of the body, I might not have gotten that upset." This is only a brief NYTimes-created/sponsored clip (unheard of by a supposedly serious US media outlet---did the Times offer a heavily-produced video clip for Paula Jones back in the '90s?).

If you watch the full 30-minute interview with Jessica Leeds on Anderson Cooper, she reveals: This make-out session happened in 1979. Trump was not yet famous or powerful. Trump was 33 years old; Leeds was 37 years old. (She says in the Cooper interview that she's now 74, which means she was born in in 1942; Trump was born in 1946.) 

I'm sorry... A 33-year-old guy making out with a 37-year-old woman on a plane isn't IN ANY WAY sexual harrassment. It's two people feeling horny at the moment. The Cooper CNN interview didn't include the "If he had stuck with the upper part of the body..." quote.

p.s. I was raped in 2000 by a guy claiming to be gay whom I invited home from a gay club hoping to just hang out. When I was in college in the '80s, I was sexually harrassed by both professors and grad students --- yes, actually promised better grades for "a date." I've also made out with a guy in a SuperShuttle on the way to New York City who was just in for the weekend, as I was. Today, I don't feel bad at all about the SuperShuttle "incident." But I am permanently psychologically marked by the rapist who claimed to be gay and the straight professors/grad students who suggested that I "date" them for a better grade.

This idiotic New York Times video demeans the actual psychological damage caused by actual rape and actual sexual harrassment. (Making out, on the other hand, is just making out.)

Friday, October 07, 2016

2005 Donald Trump Secret Recording

Sorry. I don't think a powerful guy who desires to kiss pretty girls (and self-consciously pops Tic-Tacs ahead of time) is bad.

Wednesday, October 05, 2016

Getting Up For Work

Up until my 40s, I had a drinking cut-off: 2am. Whatever I was doing, I had to quit at 2am in order to get at least 5 hours of sleep before having to get up for work the next day.

In the past year or so, though, the cut-off time has somehow migrated to... 10pm!! (OK, as I write this, it's 11:30pm, but this is an exception.)

Nothing set, but there ARE internal guides: 10 years ago, I could, indeed, drink all night and get only 5 hours of sleep before work the next day.

Today, though, at 51... I CAN stay up late drinking, but... there's no way in hell I can then get up at 7am for work after only 5 hours of sleep. Nor am I going to have a pleasant day on the weekend after waking up with a huge hangover. After several years of dismissing weekends, because I had no friends to do anything with, I'm just now starting to understand the potential niceness of weekends. (Kind of like the only time I've had Valium: I got my wisdom teeth out back in '87 or something. When the dentist shot me up with Valium, I suddenly felt incredibly calm and good ... "Wow! Is this how everyone else has been feeling all the time?")

I am quite aware that I've been incredibly bereft, sans any love whatsoever, for a very, very, very long time--since age 8 or so? No one else feels bad for me; I now give myself permission to feel very, very, very bad for me.

Tuesday, October 04, 2016

My malaise is my hairdresser's fault.


OK, not really. I've felt malaise since July. I've had the same hairdresser for a year and a half or so.

What my hairdresser extremely just fucked up last week, though: I've told her from the beginning: DON'T EVER do that "slicing thing" with the edge of the scissors on my hair. It has NEVER worked. After a year and half of explaining my hair to her, I hear that horrible, grating, slicing sound... When I said, "WHOA! No! Don't do that on my thinning hair!" she replied insouciantly, "Noted."

Yeah, you were told to NOTE THIS a year and a half ago! God...

The right side of my hair looks like shit.

Worse, I've been going to this Aveda salon across from my workplace for over 2 years. This hairdresser is the 3rd one, and she's just as mediocre as the first two. I've got to now change AGAIN. Where the hell do I go now? I liked the temple and hand massages a lot (the only time anyone touches me), but... what's the use of temple/hand massages if your hair ends up looking like shit?

(It's a deceptively simple "long bob" that I've been after.)

Monday, October 03, 2016

1938. Joan Crawford "Vogue" publicity by Horst P. Horst

10 more months!

Every month, I'm going to announce my counting down until August of 2017, when my lease at my current apartment complex is up.

I've lived here since February 2015. I sublet from Feb. 2015 to Aug. 2015 ($875 month), then signed my own lease from Aug. 2015 to Aug. 2016 ($925 month). In August 2016, the rent was jacked up to $1000 month, and I had just bought my first car since 2007. With the new expenses, I couldn't afford to move, despite my general unhappiness with the place (guy constantly yelling downstairs, neighbor next door either cranking up his music every couple of weeks or sitting out on the stoop having hours-long phone conversations, kids screaming outside).

Plus, when I first sublet the place, I didn't pay attention to the placement of the apartment: The complex is small (which I like), in a "J"-shape... I'm located at the top of the "J"; there's parking on every side of me -- front, right, back bedroom and study. Which means I constantly hear people coming and going and hanging out and jamming their music, no matter which room I'm in. There's no "inner/back room" that I can go to for quiet. I can rarely relax. "Relaxation" means to me: Nearly complete silence. Me and my own thoughts and feelings. Vibing/being in tune with what book I'm reading, what movie I'm watching, what music I'm listening to, my work on my Joan Crawford website.

Within months of moving in, I had to abandon what I'd planned for my "study" (the 2nd bedroom of the apartment) because the yelling neighbor downstairs had his headquarters in the room just below. Where I'd initially planned to go and read was scrapped because of the guy's constant screaming on the phone and his music; that room now just holds my bookshelves and books, and my unused desk --- I have my computer on the kitchen table in the front of the apartment, trying to avoid the neighbor yelling (but then being exposed to all of the coming-and-going traffic).

That's why I'm counting down the months 'til I can leave. (Only problem: I don't think that $1000 in Austin is necessarily going to rent me a more private place next year. Trapped.)

OK, I'm not going anywhere for the next few years.

Despite what I said in my last post. Honestly, I care more now, at 51, than I did at 42 (when I tossed over everything to move to NYC without a job) about giving up hard-earned stuff.

For one thing, I like my current job a lot. It's intellectually stimulating, I look forward to going to work every day, and the day passes quickly because I'm engrossed in what I'm doing. Back in '07, when I moved to NYC, I couldn't say the same about that job at Holt. The editing I was doing was tedious. And, a year or so before I left, the company had been bought by an international, British-based company and layoffs were going on constantly, every 3 months or so. (The Pakistani guy brought in to lead our office was an utterly clueless, rude dick.) In the 3 rounds of layoffs that I experienced personally: Survived 1st round (when long-time employees were literally escorted off the premises within an hour after being told they'd lost their jobs), was laid off 2nd round and brought back in several weeks later, survived 3rd round... Was disgusted and not about to stick around for a 4th round. The timing was perfect to get the hell out of that toxic environment and go try something completely new. I had nothing to lose.

Today, though, while I'm not completely happy with my salary, the company is relatively stable and sans chaos. And, as I said above, I like my job. And I've spent much psychological/emotional energy since coming back to Austin in 2010 rebuilding my place in the world over the past 6 years. I gave away and/or lost literally EVERYTHING when I chose to move to New York. ("Gave away" = selling car and all furniture and most books/CDs, quitting job to throw myself into a NY/national job market that was in the process of crashing; "Lost" = my cat Gracie died while I was there because I couldn't afford vet care.)

Since returning to Austin with my tail between my legs, utterly whipped, in 2010, I now in 2016 have a decent job in the field (editing) that I love, a car that I've purchased myself (the first sans help from a parent), furniture that I chose/bought myself (the first sans help from a parent). The thousands of dollars that I've spent on said car and furniture have been earned by ME over the past 6 years. I'm proud of it. And not so quick to toss all of it over just because I like the weather and architecture better in Weehawken, New Jersey.

I DO like Weehawken and New York City a LOT better than I like Austin. But I already took my chance there. I'm not doing that again without some sort of much greater financial cushion.

If I want to get my head completely clear (i.e., little drinking) and make a concerted effort to apply to jobs in the NYC area, that's one thing. I'll never again, though, just up and leave like I did in 2007. I learned that lesson.

Whoa! I just bought a lot of furniture!

I don't like Austin at all. After 33 years, I have the right to say: Don't like the slacker people, don't like the slacker politics, don't like being here, in a physical world sans any charm or interest.

In the olden days, there was at least cheap rent, and some quirky, interesting places to visit. Today, I'm paying $1000 a month for an apartment that I don't like, around people I don't like, in an utterly generic atmosphere. I gotta get out.

Now... Financially, how to extricate myself and get back to Weehawken/NYC for my twilight years on this earth... When you're in your 20s/early 30s, such movement is relatively easy. At 51, I'm at the border of being utterly stuck where I am.

Sunday, October 02, 2016

Paul McCartney "For No One"

And in her eyes you see nothing.

Joan Crawford, 1934

Crawford was 30 here. Who looks like this when they're only 30?

I've read that watching porn can de-sensitize viewers to sexual relationships with actual women, because said "actual women" can never replicate what's going on in the porn videos.

Similarly, I think just looking at, and reading about, Crawford since 1987 has spoiled me for "actual women." She is, as she once claimed herself, "just too much."


Saturday, October 01, 2016


Since about 12 or so, I've tried my best to look at things intellectually. Probably due to my parents' utter irrationality. (Had I taken the behavior of either of those people seriously, I would have certainly gone mad.)

Post-parents, in the search for love, I've initially believed what people told me. (Why would they lie about such a profound thing?)

Duh... People want any sort of attention, and they'll do anything to get it.

At 51, I've come to the realization that I've been attracted to some losers. Attractive on the surface, but deep-down defective. Not "defective" because they didn't love me, but because they were simply messed up. First-lover Mollie, a near-pedophile. (When I met her, she was 36, I was 23; she was obsessed with hanging out with club teens). Murrah, a lost soul (with a gay father) who hosted karaoke around town and claimed to "want to make a difference." (She made no difference to anyone and is now living in a tiny house outside of Austin.) Sandra, a sexually abused rich kid who grew up to write poetry in college (currently shuffling among Sugar Daddies in Houston). Julie, a confused transsexual (trying to be a woman, but with the mind-set of a gay man).

All of the above seemed so mentally interesting and attractive in the beginning... But then when I got to know these people.. They're fucked up in ways that I myself am not fucked up. I've got my own multitude of problems, sure, but... my own mental problems don't involve pedophilia or closeted gay dads or childhood abuse or transsexuality. Fuck. These things are beyond my comprehension. I understand them intellectually, but I don't understand them on a deep-down organic level.

Mollie (my first lover), for instance, an androgynous/butch woman, had male-on-male locker-room porno under her bed: Jock guys wrestling, etc. Now, good for her. But... don't bring ME into this deep-down scenario. Why would you seek out a young woman if you were into jock guys making out? Same with Julie: How did I get involved with your gay predilection for teens?  And Sandra: How did I get involved with your predilection for Daddies?

I was so curious once I left Ginny and Azle in 1983. So much shit since then. Nothing interesting or creative, or anything that made me feel good, as I had imagined sex was supposed to be. Since leaving home in '83 at the age of 18, I've, in my search for love and sexual connection, primarily encountered a bunch of people with profound hangups trying to project their own disturbances and creepiness onto me.

(How to attract interesting, sexual people who aren't creepy assholes?)