Before we begin, as this is the holiday season, please allow me to indulge myself and to recycle an old blog post from ten years ago. I love to parody songs, to rewrite wholesome lyrics into something truly inappropriate, and this little diddy is perfect for those rosy-cheeked carolers - and to counteract the unnecessary frequency WLS plays Wham's "Last Christmas."
(Ahem.)
You know Dancer and Prancer and Comet and Blitzen.
Bette, Babs, and Liza ... and some hooker called "Vixen."
But, can you recall, the most famous reindeer of all ... ?
Rudolph the drag queen reindeer ... had a thing for panty-hose ...
He had an eye for fashion ... his cave was draped in Gucci throws!
All of the other reindeer ... used to laugh, they'd call him "queer." They'd really get offended when ... he'd order wine instead of beer! Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say: (Drunkenly) "Rudolph ... I want you ... I need you ... I love you ... did I mention I'm gay?
(A bum-bum-bum ...)
Now all the reindeer loathe him ... as Rudolph's Santa's favorite "buck." Santa eyed Rudolph's antlers ... rubbed his crotch and said "Let's fuck!" Soon, the happy couple was married ... the elves, they wished them all the best. And now Santa Claus and Rudolph spend ... (big finish) ... Christmas fisting in Key Weeeeeeest!
I shall now pause for your riotous applause.
(Ahem.)
You know Dancer and Prancer and Comet and Blitzen.
Bette, Babs, and Liza ... and some hooker called "Vixen."
But, can you recall, the most famous reindeer of all ... ?
Rudolph the drag queen reindeer ... had a thing for panty-hose ...
He had an eye for fashion ... his cave was draped in Gucci throws!
All of the other reindeer ... used to laugh, they'd call him "queer." They'd really get offended when ... he'd order wine instead of beer! Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say: (Drunkenly) "Rudolph ... I want you ... I need you ... I love you ... did I mention I'm gay?
(A bum-bum-bum ...)
Now all the reindeer loathe him ... as Rudolph's Santa's favorite "buck." Santa eyed Rudolph's antlers ... rubbed his crotch and said "Let's fuck!" Soon, the happy couple was married ... the elves, they wished them all the best. And now Santa Claus and Rudolph spend ... (big finish) ... Christmas fisting in Key Weeeeeeest!
I shall now pause for your riotous applause.
Trump tried that already, but it wouldn't fit on a hat. Moving on to other matters, it was brisk December Tuesday a week ago when shit-water rained down from my dining room ceiling directly over my writing desk. I own an old house, and the bathroom is on the second floor above my computers. A trick had used the washroom, and had apparently overflowed the toilet without telling me. The dude was gross. I hate man-scents, and actually stopped our scene at one point to make him put on deodorant. He was good 30 lbs heavier than his Recon photos, and I should have given more attention to the screening process. But, alas, I rushed things because I wanted the company that afternoon. He turned out to be a sarcastic little shit, a frequent participant in Touche's clubroom free-for-all, and I could feel my alters joking with each other, as "Alan" was teaching "Michael" his style of play - but kept getting knocked out of his headspace.
Midway through the session I had completely lost all interest, and I was trying to stay in character while going through the motions. I was fighting the urge to laugh when he climaxed; he shot so hard, cum sprayed across my bed like seltzer water. When he finally finished, I joked that I now needed to wash my comforter. The gentleman didn't miss a beat: "Yeah," he said snottily. "Like I'm sure this is the first time that's ever happened in this room." Ahem. I almost slapped him.
I often joke to subs "Be sure and give me a good Yelp review," but in this particular case, like Uber allows drivers to rate customers, I wished I could do the same for some of the guys I've played with. Something tells me I'd be adept with the comments.
Midway through the session I had completely lost all interest, and I was trying to stay in character while going through the motions. I was fighting the urge to laugh when he climaxed; he shot so hard, cum sprayed across my bed like seltzer water. When he finally finished, I joked that I now needed to wash my comforter. The gentleman didn't miss a beat: "Yeah," he said snottily. "Like I'm sure this is the first time that's ever happened in this room." Ahem. I almost slapped him.
I often joke to subs "Be sure and give me a good Yelp review," but in this particular case, like Uber allows drivers to rate customers, I wished I could do the same for some of the guys I've played with. Something tells me I'd be adept with the comments.
Springfield's Hell on Earth: Little Flower Catholic School. As my eleven personalities reintegrate, it's hard not to see the humor in how fucked up my life has become. As I've finally shed my crippling Catholic guilt - and the hammered, hammered, hammered-in notion that traditional relationships are the only ones acceptable - I'm rapidly reassessing what I "really" want in a partnership, should the opportunity ever present itself. This isn't the place for a Match.com profile, but I will say that I'm a "sapiosexual" - I'm sexually attracted to intelligent people. Considering that I've been trapped in my head for 45 years, it's no surprise that I'm drawn to the cerebral, but in my particular case I also must find someone who understands Dissociative Identity Disorder, and can follow my rapid-fire stream of consciousness, especially when things get emotional. Right now I'm in a sort of "euphoria," a frustrating freeness because nobody knows I'm here yet; everyone still sees me as the Dave they've always known, and that likely won't change until When People Go Away is published. Add to that, I have at least eleven different people fighting for my attention - some of them children, and one of them suicidal. There's also an "invisible" alter who completely takes over my body without my knowledge. I learned of his existence last week when I was told by a friend that we'd attended a performance of The Rocky Horror Show live onstage together - but I have absolutely no recollection of the evening.
Going back to nontraditional relationships, what I reeeeeeally want is someone who takes leather as seriously as I do, while at the same time understands the melancholy that comes with growing older - but refuses to succumb to it. That's what my whole life has been about: refusing to accept other people's opinions of me (especially when I was drinking), knowing that no matter how challenging the adversities, I would find a way to thrive. There is no such thing as an unsolvable problem; you just need a different perspective, and I happen to have eleven. I'm 54 years old, and for the first time in my life, I actually feel alive. And depending on how these next few months go - and God willing, I make some cash off my book - I intend to live the rest of my life to the fullest, while never giving up my disturbingly-dark sense of humor. Chuckling...one of my personalities likes to make people cringe.
That being said, I can't help but chuckle when I think about what has become "normal" to me as I explore my new life. About six months ago, I was in the Touche clubroom, talking to a friend at the back bar. My buddy is well-known in the community, a beloved local sleazebag who gets off on being humiliated in public, and while the two of us were chatting, a random dude walked up to him from behind and brazenly plowed him at the bar in front of me. I fought back a smile; my friend didn't miss a beat in our conversation. He was very good at multi-tasking. With the sole exception of his googly-eyes bulging out in time with the penetration, there was no indication that anything was happening at all - and I realized that occurrences like this have been a natural thing for me, as long as I can remember. When I think about "normal" people, traditional things just don't interest me anymore. Forgive me for being rude, but most people are so damn boring. And I say "boring" only because nobody seems to know what "vapid" means, even if they Google the definition, and God knows I've all but screamed it in their faces as I merrily go about daily life. Nobody reads books. Nobody's seen a Hitchcock movie. Nobody's done a YouTube deep-dive on North Korea, just...because. Nobody appreciates the subtlety of Julian Fellowes' The Gilded Age, when Christine Baranski's Agnes - on realizing she was broke - opted to throw her gowns into the trash (rather than give them to charity) because the needy "wouldn't appreciate how fine her garments were."
(Spitting out my coffee in laughter.)
Seriously, am I the only gay man who looks "up" from his phone when he leaves the house? I mean sure, my smartphone is usually glued to me (I'm always texting), but the texts I write are about my observations - and the reason I have them is because I look UP. I love observational humor. Few people do it well. The late Mitch Hedberg was probably the master at it - Escalators never break; they just become stairs - but Anthony Jeselnik is my current favorite, as his humor is Hitchcockian: The worst gift you can give someone who just had an abortion is a to-go box. (He's my fuckin' wet dream when he wears his leather jacket.) And for those of you following along, notice that I just made "Hitchcock" into an adjective. You can do that you know. Be creeeeeeative when you write?
Going back to nontraditional relationships, what I reeeeeeally want is someone who takes leather as seriously as I do, while at the same time understands the melancholy that comes with growing older - but refuses to succumb to it. That's what my whole life has been about: refusing to accept other people's opinions of me (especially when I was drinking), knowing that no matter how challenging the adversities, I would find a way to thrive. There is no such thing as an unsolvable problem; you just need a different perspective, and I happen to have eleven. I'm 54 years old, and for the first time in my life, I actually feel alive. And depending on how these next few months go - and God willing, I make some cash off my book - I intend to live the rest of my life to the fullest, while never giving up my disturbingly-dark sense of humor. Chuckling...one of my personalities likes to make people cringe.
That being said, I can't help but chuckle when I think about what has become "normal" to me as I explore my new life. About six months ago, I was in the Touche clubroom, talking to a friend at the back bar. My buddy is well-known in the community, a beloved local sleazebag who gets off on being humiliated in public, and while the two of us were chatting, a random dude walked up to him from behind and brazenly plowed him at the bar in front of me. I fought back a smile; my friend didn't miss a beat in our conversation. He was very good at multi-tasking. With the sole exception of his googly-eyes bulging out in time with the penetration, there was no indication that anything was happening at all - and I realized that occurrences like this have been a natural thing for me, as long as I can remember. When I think about "normal" people, traditional things just don't interest me anymore. Forgive me for being rude, but most people are so damn boring. And I say "boring" only because nobody seems to know what "vapid" means, even if they Google the definition, and God knows I've all but screamed it in their faces as I merrily go about daily life. Nobody reads books. Nobody's seen a Hitchcock movie. Nobody's done a YouTube deep-dive on North Korea, just...because. Nobody appreciates the subtlety of Julian Fellowes' The Gilded Age, when Christine Baranski's Agnes - on realizing she was broke - opted to throw her gowns into the trash (rather than give them to charity) because the needy "wouldn't appreciate how fine her garments were."
(Spitting out my coffee in laughter.)
Seriously, am I the only gay man who looks "up" from his phone when he leaves the house? I mean sure, my smartphone is usually glued to me (I'm always texting), but the texts I write are about my observations - and the reason I have them is because I look UP. I love observational humor. Few people do it well. The late Mitch Hedberg was probably the master at it - Escalators never break; they just become stairs - but Anthony Jeselnik is my current favorite, as his humor is Hitchcockian: The worst gift you can give someone who just had an abortion is a to-go box. (He's my fuckin' wet dream when he wears his leather jacket.) And for those of you following along, notice that I just made "Hitchcock" into an adjective. You can do that you know. Be creeeeeeative when you write?
Brilliant. The last truly original novel I read was Andrew Davidson's staggering 2009 debut, "The Gargoyle." The book is fucking brilliant. Google it if you want the Amazon synopsis, but the basic gist is that it's the most twisted, fucked-up, Hitchcockian love story ever written, and it actually made me cry on two levels: one, the ending was beautiful; and two, Davidson succeeded in distracting me because the story was so good, I never even noticed that the book's main character - a pornographer-slash-third-degree burn victim who is eternally in love with a schizophrenic sculptor who carves grotesques in the nude - never gave his name...once. (Standing to CLAP.) This book is so original, there's nothing else to compare it to, but it's timing was off; had the publisher sat on it for a decade before its release, it would have been a bestseller. As a writer myself, I know the importance of a strong opening sentence, and Davidson knocks it out of the ballpark: Accidents ambush the unsuspecting, often violently, just like love. To me, those words are so seared into my memory, and even with my cognitive issues, I'm confident I don't have to get my copy to double-check it.
On the subject of memories, all books contain three of them, in addition to the narrative. First is the "story" obviously, the dust jacket stuff, the Patterson-y prose in your favorite author's latest. For me those authors include Caleb Carr (The Alienist was incredible), Michael Crichton (he was very cinematic), Stephen King (obviously), and of course Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child. Preston/Child in particular are probably my current fav's because they're so over the fuckin' top. (Like when Pendergast killed Diogenes, after a three-book story-arc, by literally throwing him into a volcano ... or DID he?). I also love that fact that his butler's name is "Proctor," his daily ride is a vintage Silver Wraith, and that he lives in The Dakota, where Lennon was shot, on Fox Mulder's salary. I also like that he drinks absinthe with dinner. And that his family home has a necropolis.
The second memory contained within the book is what was happening in the author's mind, at the time he/she wrote the work. One of my all-time favorite books - and yes, this will probably shock you - is Richard Adams' Watership Down from 1972. The book is a fascinating adventure story about a pack of wild rabbits who flee their home just days before it's destroyed by housing development. It's told from the Point of View of the rabbits themselves, and even though the story "reads" like a Biblical epic, when you actually see a map of the novel's location (included at the start of the book), you realize that the whole thing took place over just a few miles. It's a beautiful metaphor of how small we really are, once we think about what lays beyond the heavens. I believe the book got its start by Adams telling his children a story to keep them entertained during a long family road trip, and luckily, somewhere along the drive, someone realized the importance of writing it down.
On the subject of memories, all books contain three of them, in addition to the narrative. First is the "story" obviously, the dust jacket stuff, the Patterson-y prose in your favorite author's latest. For me those authors include Caleb Carr (The Alienist was incredible), Michael Crichton (he was very cinematic), Stephen King (obviously), and of course Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child. Preston/Child in particular are probably my current fav's because they're so over the fuckin' top. (Like when Pendergast killed Diogenes, after a three-book story-arc, by literally throwing him into a volcano ... or DID he?). I also love that fact that his butler's name is "Proctor," his daily ride is a vintage Silver Wraith, and that he lives in The Dakota, where Lennon was shot, on Fox Mulder's salary. I also like that he drinks absinthe with dinner. And that his family home has a necropolis.
The second memory contained within the book is what was happening in the author's mind, at the time he/she wrote the work. One of my all-time favorite books - and yes, this will probably shock you - is Richard Adams' Watership Down from 1972. The book is a fascinating adventure story about a pack of wild rabbits who flee their home just days before it's destroyed by housing development. It's told from the Point of View of the rabbits themselves, and even though the story "reads" like a Biblical epic, when you actually see a map of the novel's location (included at the start of the book), you realize that the whole thing took place over just a few miles. It's a beautiful metaphor of how small we really are, once we think about what lays beyond the heavens. I believe the book got its start by Adams telling his children a story to keep them entertained during a long family road trip, and luckily, somewhere along the drive, someone realized the importance of writing it down.
The cover of The Hitchhiker's Guide to Galaxy was emblazoned with the words: "Don't Panic." The third memory involves what was happening in the reader's mind when they read the novel. I doubt I'll ever re-read my early Stephen King hardcovers, but I still keep them proudly displayed because they have fond memories of the 1980s (and I love their early-to-mid-80s graphics). That period of the nineteen-eighties was a fun time to be a reader, especially will the era's all-but-forgotten genre of good, solid, science-based sci-fi pulps, like James P Hogan's Inherit the Stars, anything by Asimov, and of course Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Like my treasured childhood toy collection, I also display what I have left from my books at the time, and Watership Down is displayed among them. But it's not my original copy. Chuckling...I have a have a habit of giving books to men who are dear to me*, and my childhood paperback was inadvertently lost because I gave it to someone I shouldn't have. My bad - I'd been vapid. I've always been observant, but only recently have I grown to both understand - and appreciate - people's true character. Something to add to my Yelp review, I guess.
Anyway ...
Anyway ...
So technically, as a man of a certain age, I should be home on the couch on Saturday night, falling asleep to Netflix with a cat between my legs - a glimpse into retirement, and death. But I refuse to be that person. Fuck normalcy. As Capote said: "It may be normal Darling, but I'd rather be natural."
And naturally, as it is the Christmas season, let's wrap this up with another gem from the vault:
And naturally, as it is the Christmas season, let's wrap this up with another gem from the vault:
Santa at a DUI checkpoint. Up on the housetop, reindeer crash ... out stumbles Santa, stoned and smashed! He falls down through the chimney, breaking all the toys ... the children wake up from his drug-fueled noise! Ho, ho, ho ... Santa blows! He's like a slob from a reality show! Ho, ho, ho ... Santa's "blow!" It's all over his face and around his nose! Face down on the squad car, click, click, click! The man in the Muir cuffs old Saint Nick!
Have yourself a merry little XXX-mas ....
- Sir Dave
Have yourself a merry little XXX-mas ....
- Sir Dave