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Two Things

  • When it comes to the overwrought and underwhelming, I didn’t think movies got much worse than Showgirls. Then I saw Showgirls edited for TNT…. Ted Turner, ladies and gentlemen: making incoherent films completely incomprehensible in the name of family programming.
  • To the reader who commented that yesterday’s post really was TMI and then, in the same paragraph, asked what I thought of the Fred Durst conflamma: you’ll watch illegally hacked private vids of la Durst getting busy with some poor groupie but then tell me that semi-thoughtful musings on underwear is too personal? Honey, where do I begin?
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oy. double-oy, even.

T M I

Like most preschool boys, I graduated from diapers to briefs without much choice in the matter. Not that I would’ve had anything to say, mind you. At the time, I neither liked nor disliked briefs–in fact, I never really thought of them at all. I just knew (a) I needed to wear underwear, and (b) briefs were underwear. End of story.

Before long, though, I noticed that my dad and my uncle and my grandfather weren’t wearing briefs but boxers. Naturally, I wanted to be all grown up, too, so like a seven-year-old girl begging to wear lipstick, I asked mom if I could make the switch. She didn’t go for it. Even in junior high, when my dad suggested to mom that it was time for us to wear something looser, the tighty-whiteys kept coming.

Years later, in college, I finally got my chance to experience boxers. And what a disappointment. It was like…like the first time you taste whiskey. Your dad’s having a bourbon on the rocks after work, and you ask for a sip, thinking you’ll feel all adult, but it’s just about the worst tasting thing you’ve ever put in your mouth, and you think, “Damn, if that’s what being a grown-up is like, I’ll stay a kid, thanks.”

I just didn’t see what all the excitement was about. Briefs may have been a bit constricting, but at least they stayed in place. The elastic waistband on boxers, however, slipped around my torso like a snug-fitting hula-hoop. And forget about wearing them under snug-fitting jeans: it was like tucking in a second shirt, one that needed constant adjusting and untangling. Given men’s, um, pendulous anatomy, why would so many guys subject themselves to such torture?

By the time I discovered boxer-briefs a few years later, I was already soured on the idea of underwear altogether, and I stopped wearing it, more or less, after college. Every so often, I’d throw on a pair–like when my ex-boyfriend yelled at me and said I looked trashy. And even today, I’ll don the unmentionables if I’ve got on linen. But other than that, folks, when you see me on the street, I’m going commando.

That said, I’ve still got a soft spot (i.e. a fetish) for underwear. Not all of it, to be sure–like that International Male-looking crap that you see in cheesebag gay shops. Not even jockstraps do it for me, really. But a nice-looking guy in boxers or simple briefs? Mmmm.

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me and youknowwho     bunny? ball-ball! (if you can cite that quote, heaven help you)

Two more Fat Tuesday pics, courtesy of our pal Rakia (last seen chez nous at the far left of a ratty Duncan-Phyfe on New Year’s Eve):

  • The one on the left features yours truly, looking like a grieving linebacker suffering from gender dysphoria, and the boyfriend-cum-priest.
  • And on the right, that’s Rakia’s boyfriend Matt (aka Bunny, also seen on the sofa) dressed as a Mexican wrestler with unusually prominent genitals.

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MISCELLANY

  • Sissybears rule! I mean, Austin was adorable and all, but judging from his dullish fake-out Fashion Week show, maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t win…. Not that I’m so gay that I rushed home to watch the Project Runway finale or anything…. Oh, who am I kidding? I am indeed so gay.
  • Apparently, the whole girl-groping thing on Japanese trains has gotten so bad that they’re now considering female-only cars. Sounds fine to me, but is it really safe to assume that when it comes to copping a feel, women don’t do such things?
  • Speaking of Japan, sex, and cops, the G-Project wallpaper for February/March is finally available. (Okay, I lied about the cop part. But he’s a welder or something. That’s kinda close, right?)
  • And since I seem to be on a roll with the foreign thing, why not throw in some free multicultural gay porn? (Sadly, the Asian gallery has no bears to speak of–not surprising, since most gay Asian porn tends toward the twinky Thai stuff. When, oh when, will they learn?)
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The future of our nations and the future of the Middle East are linked and our peace depends on their hope and development and freedom.

Lasting successful reform in a broader Middle East will not be imposed from the outside. It must be chosen from within.

Bush in Brussels

I’m sorry, could you repeat that? That bit about “from within”? …No, I heard it just fine. I think some folks may have missed it, though. Rummy, are you listening?

How’s that for a half-hearted, knee-jerk, lackluster critique of the war in Iraq? I suppose I just don’t care anymore.

Besides, 2005 is all about Syria, baby. And PDA hacking. And roller derby. Think Paris Hiton on skates, elbowing her way through Damascus. Totally on fire.

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Green goddess in a bottle! The world has gone gay, gay, gay, gay, gay!

Did I miss a meeting or something? Are we on a comeback streak? Next thing I know, you’ll be trying to tell me that drag is hip again…

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I’ve never really understood why women are so timid. For me, only someone with a powerful look — Diana Vreeland, say, or Minnie Mouse — is a person worth emulating. Because — and here is a big secret — if you construct an eccentric look and make it your own, you will be forever insulated from the world of fashion, a place where, let’s face it, you can never be lissome enough, your hair never curly (or straight) enough, your chest never full (or flat) enough. And here’s an added bonus: Truly wacky style doesn’t date, so all those worries about wrinkles leave you blissfully unaffected.

Lynn Yaeger

Mario’s bold glasses are the remaining emblem of his wild youth. “I got to a certain age and realized that I didn’t need to look crazy,” he says. “What was inside my head was enough.”

Mario Sorrenti

Two freshwater pearls of wisdom (on platinum chain with bezel-set amethyst pendant and a surround of 12 peridot, lobster-claw clasp, Van Cleef & Arpels, $3760, at Van Cleef & Arpels boutiques) from the current edition of T, the New York Times’ style magazine.

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Wow. I’ve been talking a lot of crap, haven’t I? How’s about some good old-fashioned [mostly] gay pornography, just to remind ourselves what’s really important in life? Let’s see, there’s…

Homemade smut

A&F smut

Bear lovin’ smut

Kinky geocities smut

Bad art smut

Funny smut

Movie star smut

Token straight pornstar biographical smut

Faerie smut

High-bandwidth concept smut

Old-skool websmut

and just plain weird smut

Did I mention that none of those links are worksafe and that popup blockers are wonderful things? I mean, I shouldn’t have to, but, you know, responsible person that I am…

If you want more, of course, you can visit the boyfriend, whose stuff is–need I say it?–also, like, totally NSFW.

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Obviously, I Have Too Much Time On My Hands

Inspired by the whole Gannon-snooping thing, I started clicking around, and you know what’s funny?

Not that Men’s News Daily is one of only two documented subscribers to the Talon “News” service (scare quotes mine), which, as we now know, is the sister site of GOPUSA.com, both owned by Texas Republican activist Bobby Eberle (aka “Robert R. Eberle, Ph.D.”).

Not that its title, when considered in tandem with its far-right-leaning viewpoint, makes it sound like the mouthpiece for retro-thinking Archie Bunkers, who’d prefer their women barefoot in the kitchen and confined to “scourge huts” during their menstrual cycles.

No, what’s funny is that Men’s News Daily features run-of-the-mill homophobic vitriol like this and this and this (not to mention some confusing apocalyptocrap), while on the righthand border of every single page, there’s a very prominent link to GayPatriot.org.

Now, I’m a moderate-to-slightly-leftish Democrat, and I probably always will be. (Though, truth be told, it’d be nice to have another option besides Ralph freaking Nader.) Still, I can understand some of the positions held by gay Republicans. I understand how some of them–especially the ones who live outside major metro areas and their established queer communities–dislike the urban, flamboyantly gay lifestyle. I was born and raised in a town like that, and the homogeneity is kinda stifling: at Wal-Mart, at church, everywhere you go, folks are screaming “follow the President” and “defend marriage,” and after a while, you have little choice but to buy in. And hell, for folks who live in places where a lingering glance in a locker room can result in a bloody nose (or worse), the idea of a community where GLBT people walk around holding hands is more than a little foreign and scary.

Still, I find it hard to believe that even the rightest of right-wing homos could agree with some of the piffle on Men’s News Daily. I mean, even the Log Cabin Republicans pulled their support of Bush in the 2004 election because he got so extreme, right? So why the link? Who put it there? Who keeps it there? Is it meant to give some kind of credence to the right-wingers’ arguments, so they can say, “See, we’ve got some gays on our side, too”? Or is it a fluke of serendipity?

Curiously enough, the owner of GayPatriot.org, “C. M. Grantham,” has the same contact phone number as Outlet Radio, which lists a “Christian Grantham” on its masthead. Mr. Grantham’s articles feature a byline that states he “was a consultant to domestic policy forums for the Clinton Administration as well as events for HRC and GLAAD”–not exactly the sort of credentials you’d expect from the owner of a site that claims to be “the blog home for the more than one million gay [sic] and lesbians who support President Bush” and which “ravishes the Left and has fun doing it!”

After digging a little more, it seems Grantham’s positions on Outlet Radio and on his personal website are a fair bit more liberal than his posts to GayPatriot.org. (In fact, he doesn’t even identify himself on the latter, but it’s safe to assume that he’s the poster who calls himself Gay Patriot and who has the same email addy as “C.M. Grantham,” the registrar of the site.) Still, that’s all fine. I mean, I was on the debate team in high school–I appreciate someone who can argue both sides of the coin.

But what’s strange about all this is that when Grantham refers to Gannon’s former employer, Talon News, in his GayPatriot post, he uses scare quotes, implying a highly skeptical opinion of Talon. Is he not paying attention? Does he not realize that he’s advertising (the banner’s a little too prominent to be just link swap) on the website of one of Talon’s only subscribers?

No, I don’t know what it all means. Frankly, I think I’ve confused myself. But something’s weird.

Update: Great minds, dearie…. Lucky for you, he’s far more articulate than I.

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Back in the day, I used to drink gin. Lots of it. This was during my undergrad years, after I’d gone through the 50-cent-draft-beer phase and the girly liquor phase (mostly rum), and long before I discovered the simpler, more subtle joys of vodka, wine, and really good beer.

Now, I don’t know how many of y’all are gin people, but lemme tell ya: Miss Tanqueray is a cruel, cruel mistress. You party with her more than a couple of times in a couple of hours, and the next thing you know, you’re waking up in the bathtub of a strange apartment sporting a fat black eye and the business end of a horse costume. In fact, there are vast expanses of my early 20s that I can’t remember at all, simply because I was going out every night and swilling g-and-t’s (i.e. gin and tonics, for those who’ve never tended bar) like H2O. Luckily for me–not to mention my friends and the howevermany millions of people who drive automobiles in this country–I put away the gin years ago, and I haven’t looked back.

Which is not to say that I don’t occasionally get tanked. I do. It’s rare, but I do. And when I do, I tend to kinda black out. The next morning, I’ll think back on the night before, and it’s like watching a slide show without my glasses: blurry, and somewhat unsettling. I just have to hope and pray that I didn’t do anything too embarrassing or offensive to anyone I know or anyone who works in the Mayor’s office (’cause you never know when you’ll need to call in a favor, I say).

I mention all this because in the not-too-distant past, I had one of those episodes, and for weeks, I’ve been biding my time. I haven’t specifically asked anyone for an account of my antics, I’ve just been waiting for fallout.

I’m happy to report that as of last night, I’ve seen everyone on my list who I might’ve offended, and they’ve all hugged my neck and given me a kiss like nothing happened. So, I must’ve behaved–something I didn’t always do when I was younger.

I’m becoming a genteel old fogey of a boozer. Even my downward spirals are dull and lifeless and uneventful, just like my hair. How depressing.