Dancing with Trannies

Back in the '90s, I used to go out to clubs constantly, both gay dance clubs and "roots rock" live music venues. What male trannies and roots-rock musicians have in common is that their bodies are HARD. Not their "dicks" but their entire bodies. They're rigid. All of their muscles are rigid. When you dance with them, there's no blending in. All of this current media about trannies being women---they're not. They're men dressed as women, with the same hard bodies as the most rigid of men.

If you haven't ever been to either a gay bar or a country-dance bar (as I'm sure most media members have not been, except as observers), then you have no idea what the bodies of different dance partners feel like.

My personal experience: Gay-club trannies are hard; rock-club young guys are hard. Straight men at country dance bars are older, and usually smoother and softer and more used to being around, and more relaxed around, women. (Lesbians are usually too mushily soft. I consider myself mostly attracted to women in general, based on Hollywood pictures, but not attracted to most Birkenstock-wearing lesbians---with their mushy bodies and equally mushy opinions---that I meet in real life.)

One near-ideal man that I was once with (the first and only man I ever had sex with): He was authoritative. He was the head of an organization. He was from a working-class background but had made it to the top of his field. He was both macho and sensitive. He could quote poetry. He subscribed to "Cat Fancy" magazine, fer Christ's sake! This guy and Joan Crawford are kind of my romantic ideals, for similar reasons!

SIX SHOOTER (2004) | dir. Martin McDonagh

My very last film watched via Netflix was "Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri" directed by McDonagh, with many Oscar noms. Hated it because of its shallow "cops bad" / "blacks good." Completely non-Oscar worthy.

This short by the same director was included on the "Three Billboards" DVD. A half-hour from 2004. Completely GREAT! What happened to the director between 2004 and 2017?

Goodbye, Netflix DVDs (September 29, 2023)

Since Netflix DVD announced in April that it would be closing down operations this September 29, there have been plenty of snarky online comments about "What are DVDs?" and about people who didn't know how to stream, etc.

I'd first been a Neflix DVD subscriber in the earlier years (maybe 2003 thru 2006, if I remember right). When I moved to NYC in early 2007, I cancelled Netflix because I was very poor. I remained financially unstable until 2014 (during NYC and back to Austin). Didn't start Netflix up again until 2021.

In '21, the obvious choice was to stream---I was making more money, I had a nice TV, I could obviously afford the $14.99 or whatever it was per month. But I did a little bit of research into exactly what titles were available for Netflix streaming vs. the old-fashioned Netflix DVD delivery. Streaming = About 1,000 titles available (which all fluctuated per month). Old-fashioned = About 10,000 stable titles. I then did a basic search on the Neflix streaming website for two things: "Joan Crawford" and "Mary Tyler Moore." Not abstract, not "out of the way." One of the most famous film stars ever, and one of the most famous TV stars ever. Netflix streaming had nothing on either of these two women. But the DVD site did. So I picked the old-fashioned DVDs. 

 

Because I didn't care a whit about the latest left-wing Netflix "specials" on Obama or Meghan Markle or their crappy "original" TV shows. I wanted to LEARN about films of the past, and about recent Oscar noms that I hadn't seen. If I saw a film I liked, I wanted to be able to check out other films by the same director or the same star. Netflix DVD allowed that. As well as allowing me to explore older bios of literary/music/film stars that I found interesting (or Beatles docs that I hadn't seen). I also enjoyed being able to discover previously unseen films by Bergman, Fellini, Truffaut, Antonioni, Kurosawa, and Ozu. I learned via my Netflix queue that I loved Bergman and Fellini and Antonioni and Ozu. That I liked Truffaut. That I hated the pretentious Godard after his radical tipping point. And that I absolutely hated Herzog and very much disliked Tarkovsky. (Also learned to like von Stroheim!)

I never would have learned about any of this without Netflix and its DVDs. So, yes, I'll very much miss my old-fashioned Netflix DVDs, with their old-fashioned treasure-trove of film history.

Knowing about the September 29 Netflix demise, I did some research about possible replacements: Netflix Streaming is a clown-show of popular and PC BS. The Criterion Channel is a possibility; but, as with Netflix Streaming, its current listings are far over-weighted with dumbed-down "Equity" inclusions that aren't actually good films. I want to see good art, and social realism---not current propaganda about how supposedly "noble" black people/gays/women are.

At the end of it all, Netflix offered a download of one's own personal history of rentals. Below is my Genre history for my brief 2-year latter-day period. (During this time, I had 192 total rentals and left 135 reviews.)

 

Nomadland (2020)

I can't think of the last time I cried during a movie or in real life, but by the end of this movie, I wept. I bawled so loudly that I scared my cats. I cried out for my Ginny of 1983. Because of its great beauty and heart, for the Frances McDormand character's resiliency and stoicism in the face of much barrenness (which is palliated by the stark beauty of the American West---mirroring her inner state---and the brief but warm contacts she makes with other fellow down-and-outers). I haven't agreed with many Academy choices for nominees and winners in recent years, but I think this film more than deserves its wins for Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actress. A great film should make you think and feel, and this one certainly did that for me.

George Jones - "Walk Through This World With Me" (1966)

I can't remember the last time I went out with someone.

It's not "sex." It's you and another person going out and enjoying something together---going out to breakfast, going to the library, going to see a show, going for a walk, going to a favorite shop. 

Here's an example of a really awkward date I had back in the 1990s, someone I met through an online dating site. There was a cafe a few blocks from my house that was holding a "Yoko Ono Hoot Night." Now, a Yoko Ono Hoot Night was/still is my idea of a hilarious fun evening! So I invited my online female date. She was dyke-y and plain and dumb and just sat there and didn't laugh at anything (I don't know that she even knew who Yoko Ono was). 

At the end of the evening, we politely hugged goodbye and went home separately. Later, I got an e-mail from her saying that she thought that I didn't want to have sex with her because she'd mentioned that she didn't have sex on the first date... How to explain that, no, I didn't care anything at all about "sex on the first date," but that I DID care about whether or not someone had at least heard of Yoko Ono and was even mildly aware of her freak/irony factor! And that it would take even a mild awareness of such to turn me on. Sigh.

You might think that being with someone you don't like is bad, but even worse is having no one to go to an event with and thus missing out ---when the drive is really far, or it's awkward to be someplace by yourself.  In the early 2010s, there was a silent Joan Crawford film being shown outdoors up in some hills of Austin. Well, YES, I would have loved to have attended the showing, but I didn't know anyone to invite and thought it would be awkward if I drove for 30 miles and then just sat there on a bench by myself.

In short: I am utterly isolated because of my probably weird tastes and have no one to do anything with. It's been this way for forever. Don't know how to change it. 

I can't remember the last time I saw the stars.

I have a small backyard that comes with my apartment, but other apartments are just right across the way. Any time I go out in my backyard, there are numerous others walking by or looking down. So I don't go out there, except to water my plants.

I went to my beer store at 7:30pm tonight, and the moon was out. A half-moon. I kept looking up and looking up and looking up---I hadn't seen the moon in so long.

I can't remember the last time I saw the sky and the stars. I grew up in more-rural areas, and the stars were always readily available to look at and think about. Haven't seen them in decades. I miss them. That's probably an important part of one's Earthly life: to be able to view the heavens. I feel stuck and condensed and trapped.

Paul McCartney in Moscow's Red Square (2005)

Dear Ukraine: Get the Western NGO money out of your country.
Ukraine has always been part of Russia; act like it instead of being a US/Euro shill.
(Zelensky: We all know that Western corporations have been paying you off for years.
And you wonder why Putin is pissed off? I don't blame him one bit.)

Tammy Wynette: Crying Steel Guitar (1974)

Tammy Wynette: Til I Can Make It On My Own (1976)

This sucker took me 4 hours to put together!

I'd ordered this shelf set weeks ago; the huge box was sitting in my living room for over a week. Cats loved sitting on top of the long box and acting cocky, but I'd completely dreaded having to open it and put the shelf together. 

 

Finally, on a Sunday afternoon/evening---when there was a multi-hour stretch of good TV (Cowboys football plus "90 Day Fiance" and "Sister Wives")---I finally made myself do this chore!

Took me 4 hours. And many contortions of body and hand, screwing in all the screws. (Note: I'm over 50, not overweight but a smoker---putting this together was actually strenuous and I had to take frequent breaks---albeit to drink and smoke... And I woke up the next day SORE from lifting the whole thing this-way and that-way so I could get the right angle to screw the screws in!)

Anyway: It's done, and I really like how it looks.

 

Paul McCartney: Ram On (written 1971; here, live at Rotterdam 2012)

As a teen, Paul used to call himself "Ramon" and pretend to be a Latin Lover who could barely speak English when meeting girls. "Ramon" / "Ram On"

Also: Paul's dad was a local musician who played in bands post-WWI, and the ukulele was a popular instrument in the 20s. Very creative and interesting and sweet for Paul to incorporate.

When a co-worker dies but you've never met him

I've been working from home since 2020. I got hired right after Covid, and none of the group ever went back to the office.

We've had 3 meet-ups in the past 3 years. Aside from that, we'd get an e-mail every now and then: Someone has cancer, someone's brother died, someone's father died, someone's wife died. Can we contribute for flowers or a meal plan, whatever.

The man in question: His wife died last year after going through cancer treatment. Before she died, he sent many positive messages to the work group saying that she'd beaten cancer. Once she died, we all contributed for flowers.

I knew that he was in his 60s. And that when we transitioned from one company to another in July 2023, he chose to retire instead of going to the new company. Just got a Teams message today that he was dead. He wasn't sick, as far as I know. I'm guessing that he committed suicide, but who knows.

I'm living in the world of "who knows." I am completely isolated from any human and any actual human interaction. There was no one person in the work group that I could send a message to to find out more about this human being who had just died, and why he died. 

I get these drastic messages and obediently send PayPal money for flowers in blank memoriam.

Joan Crawford: Apartment Love

I just saw an Ozu film for the first time a few days ago.
Note the red plastic cup near the upper left of the shot. (What does it MEAN?)

Floating Weeds (1959, Yasujiro Ozu)

The first Ozu film I've ever seen. (Thank you, soon-to-be-gone Netflix!)
Very beautiful and carefully shot. And, despite its quiet-ness, also emotionally life-honest (both humorously and tragically).

Message to self: While there may not be any One in your personal life, there is always ART that you can rely on to reflect, or negate, what you're feeling or thinking. 

It's nicer and warmer, of course, to have a real-life person to exchange ideas with... But in lieu of that, the thoughts and images of decades and centuries past also serve to make you feel less alone by reflecting universal thoughts---ideas and emotions that you've had, and that all of these people 1000 years ago or 100 years ago or 50 years ago also had. We're never alone as long as we have the thoughts of our human ancestors with us, to either agree or argue with.

Partnerships that would have lasted barely a year (if that)...

...had the man only once had the balls to say to his woman, even ever-so-gently: "My dear, please shut up. You are full of shit."

Caesar/Marc Antony and Cleopatra
Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson
John Lennon and Yoko Ono
Colin Kaepernick and Nessa Diab
Prince Harry and Meghan Markle
My brother and his Marxist teacher wife ("Social-Emotional Learning" devotee, now brainwashing Austin's kids as the principal of a middle-school)

Some bad decisions are world-changing, some only music- or sports-changing. Some, like Harry or my brother, don't matter at all in the grand scheme of things. But all involve sadly weak men who couldn't think for themselves, who didn't dare stand up to their less-intelligent, but much more adamant, partners.

Of the above list: Hey, at least my brother still has his generic middle-class career (he's a journalist---having a left-wing teacher wife in Austin doesn't damage him publicly at all; though soul-wise... he did used to call himself "libertarian"--Ha! Whatever happened to that?).

The Smiths - Cemetry Gates (1986)

A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
While Wilde is on mine

So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people, all those lives
Where are they now?
With loves, and hates
And passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived
And then they died
It seems so unfair
I want to cry

You say : "'Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn"
And you claim these words as your own
But I've read well, and I've heard them said
A hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)
If you must write prose/poems
The words you use should be your own
Don't plagiarise or take "on loan"
'Cause there's always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
And who trips you up and laughs
When you fall
Who'll trip you up and laugh
When you fall

You say : "'Ere long done do does did"
Words which could only be your own
And then produce the text
From whence was ripped
(Some dizzy whore, 1804)

A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're happy
And I meet you at the cemetry gates
Oh, Keats and Yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're wanted
And I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
But you lose
'Cause weird lover Wilde is on mine

Scooby Doo, Where Are You! (Intro 1969)

The Banana Splits/The Tra La La Song (1969)

Tra la la, la la la la.
Tra la la, la la la la.
Tra la la, la la la la.
Tra la la, la la la la.

One banana, two banana, three banana, four.
Four bananas make a bunch and so do many more.
Over hill and highway the banana buggies go
Comin' on to bring you The Banana Splits Show.

Makin up a mess of fun
Makin up a mess of fun
Lots of fun for everyone.

Tra la la, la la la la.
Tra la la, la la la la.
Tra la la, la la la la.
Tra la la, la la la la.

Four banana, three banana, two banana, one.
All bananas playing in the bright warm sun.
Flippin like a pancake, poppin like a cork
Fleagle, Bingo, Drooper and Snork.

Happy Birthday, George Jones (September 12, 1931)

 

Silver Threads and Golden Needles (1993)

Would have been the best video ever had they gotten George Jones to show up at the door---and maybe bust it down!

George Jones: "The Corvette Song" (1985)

George Jones: Austin City Limits (1980)

I think I've posted this at least twice before in the 25 years of this blog. But here it is again. George Jones and his music are so important. Featuring Johnny Gimble on fiddle.

Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me (The Smiths, 1987)

Last night I dreamt
That somebody loved me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm

Last night I felt
Real arms around me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm

So, tell me how long
Before the last one?
And tell me how long
Before the right one?

The story is old, I know
But it goes on
The story is old, I know
But it goes on

Oh, goes on
And on
Oh, goes on
And on

Last night, I really did dream that several people loved me---in fact, I was a bit TOO popular! I woke up feeling cynical instead of beloved: "Yeah, like THAT will ever happen!" Pretty sad that you can't even feel like a truly loved person even in your own dreams!

Part of the dream was me roaming around among various groups of partiers, indoor and outdoors. There was a classroom, where I wasn't prepared. And then various meanderings. I was wanted by a cute girl on a reality TV show (moreso than her onscreen partner)---I couldn't believe it, but she appeared sincere. And then, on a train, a friend from 30 years ago said to me something like, "We've missed you. Will you come to our birthday party later?" But then there was a catch: The Cute Reality Show girl and the Old Friend were both possibly thinking that I was someone else! Apparently, there was another girl roaming around who looked liked me, except younger and with bleached-blonde hair and much cooler AND who was a drag queen!... No one was sure if it was me or this random girl that they wanted.

What a mind-fuck! You would think that at least dreams would be heartening and/or reassuring. Nah! I woke up feeling simultaneously good and like shit, i.e., neurotic. Is there no escape from the neurotic?

You must either develop a sense of irony or else shoot yourself in the head (or perform acts that are the slow-form coward-equivalent of shooting yourself in the head). As for me: Post-Sandra, 2015, was about it for me. So much bullshit since I was a teen, from '83 to 2015. I'd, I've, had enough. (But still, I'm kind of wistful: Can't my dreams even include someone nice?)

Paul McCartney: Maybe I'm Amazed (1970)

When I read/listen to too much decadence (Kerouac et al), McCartney always cleanses the palate.
He's a sweet soul, with only the basic neuroses---nothing awful.

GEORGE JONES: WHITE LIGHTNING (1959)

Same year (1959) as the Kerouac appearance on the Steve Allen Show (see post below).

George Jones had been to every part of the country that Kerouac bragged about, and had grown up with and interacted with all of the same types of people, but he didn't subsequently claim that he was holier-than-thou (i.e, "more spiritual" than the rest of us).

Example of how two working-class guys handled their experiences and subsequent fame. Jones did it surrounded by his own. Kerouac was corrupted by NYC "intellectuals."

JACK KEROUAC on THE STEVE ALLEN SHOW (1959)

Pretentious as shit. Kerouac looks and sounds like a fool.
(And: Please shut up, Steve Allen, with your idiotic jazz noodlings. I so hate "noodlings.")