Can't you just imagine him holding a knife to Annette Funicello's throat, while she sings/cries: M-I-C-K-E-Y...? I JUST LEARNED THAT "STEAMBOAT WILLIE" went Public Domain on the 1st - and there's nothing that Disney can do about it. The article explained that's the real reason "Winnie the Pooh" was made into a slasher film. How interesting, I thought. I was wondering why Winnie's pot-o-hunny was filled with viscera, rather than Hickory Farms. Any idea when "The Day the Clown Died" hits public domain, by chance? Not only do I want to see the movie, I really want to see what the source material inspires, like SNL parodies, YouTube fan-films, and an interesting spin on Krusty the Clown. (I can't wait for the Broadway show!) BTW, on a completely unrelated note, when ex-actly *does* Sondheim's "Send in the Clowns" go public domain?
"Isn't is rich? Are you prepared?
Just follow my floppy red shoes into the oven - it's right over there!
Send in the clownnnns...!"
Just follow my floppy red shoes into the oven - it's right over there!
Send in the clownnnns...!"
Also, in regards to giving Chucky - err, I mean Mickey - a "voice" in the horror movie being a potential copyright issue (as the original black & white film was silent), I mean, seriously? Can the live, in-person, modern Cinemark audience reeeeeeeally hear Mickey's squeaky little rodent voice over the goddamn CHAINSAW ?
Chuckling. It's fun to watch the memories of my childhood being retooled into something horrible for a modern audience. The moment I realized Pooh had been "reimagined" as a splatterfest, the Smurfs immediately came to mind. I remember taking road trips as a kid, in the back seat of our 81' Fleetwood Diesel, putting on "shows" in the car's rear window (for passing motorists to see) with the $2.99-with-purchase Smurfs dolls from some fast food joint. For as dark as my mind gets, it didn't even dawn on me, the real reason Papa Smurf's jammy-bottoms-with-feet were red (while everyone else's were white) was because of what probably happened to all the other smurfs in the acid-vat-filled-basement of his whimsical mushroom house. I mean, sure: You'd think that with as "small" of a society the Smurfs had (I believe there were only 100 of them, per the series' lore), a SE7EN-like serial killer would have been noticed by someone, as the already-tiny population slowly disappeared, one...by...eviscerated one, into the enchanted forest? No wonder I never missed an episode as a kid. Well, that - and The Smurfs killed the time while waiting for Flash Gordon & Thundarr the Barbarian.
Speaking of acid-vat-filled-basements, Dane was rummaging through my own this afternoon, looking through my power tools. He's working on something in his room. There's thrift store jewelry scattered everywhere. He started by asking if I had a small screwdriver (the kind to repair eyeglasses), and I directed him to my tool boxes, in the basement utility room that also has my sling & bondage wall. He was downstairs for hours. When I eventually came down with laundry, I found him digging through my extra Christmas stuff, scavenging for things to sell (at my request). I was...amused. Dane is as scatterbrained as me. We both like to multi-task, but we also tend to spin so many plates at once, everything hits the ground with a crash, like Nancy Pelosi's face when the Botox wears off. When I found Dane downstairs, he was surrounded by piles of potential money makers: My CD collection. My undisplayed lot of Babylon 5 action figures, mint, in package. My late grandmother's aluminum pots & pans that still smell like bacon grease. A hideous set of Dept 56 Xmas kitch, unloaded - err, I mean given to me - by a well-meaning gay neighbor. As I need to raise some cash to keep the lights on while querying literary agents this month, I'd given Card Blanche to go through my shit...however, I'd failed to give him a timetable of when I wanted the project done. Consequently, my once-tidy utility room now resembles an episode of Hoarders. (Smiling & sighing.) Good thing I like to clean...
Chuckling. It's fun to watch the memories of my childhood being retooled into something horrible for a modern audience. The moment I realized Pooh had been "reimagined" as a splatterfest, the Smurfs immediately came to mind. I remember taking road trips as a kid, in the back seat of our 81' Fleetwood Diesel, putting on "shows" in the car's rear window (for passing motorists to see) with the $2.99-with-purchase Smurfs dolls from some fast food joint. For as dark as my mind gets, it didn't even dawn on me, the real reason Papa Smurf's jammy-bottoms-with-feet were red (while everyone else's were white) was because of what probably happened to all the other smurfs in the acid-vat-filled-basement of his whimsical mushroom house. I mean, sure: You'd think that with as "small" of a society the Smurfs had (I believe there were only 100 of them, per the series' lore), a SE7EN-like serial killer would have been noticed by someone, as the already-tiny population slowly disappeared, one...by...eviscerated one, into the enchanted forest? No wonder I never missed an episode as a kid. Well, that - and The Smurfs killed the time while waiting for Flash Gordon & Thundarr the Barbarian.
Speaking of acid-vat-filled-basements, Dane was rummaging through my own this afternoon, looking through my power tools. He's working on something in his room. There's thrift store jewelry scattered everywhere. He started by asking if I had a small screwdriver (the kind to repair eyeglasses), and I directed him to my tool boxes, in the basement utility room that also has my sling & bondage wall. He was downstairs for hours. When I eventually came down with laundry, I found him digging through my extra Christmas stuff, scavenging for things to sell (at my request). I was...amused. Dane is as scatterbrained as me. We both like to multi-task, but we also tend to spin so many plates at once, everything hits the ground with a crash, like Nancy Pelosi's face when the Botox wears off. When I found Dane downstairs, he was surrounded by piles of potential money makers: My CD collection. My undisplayed lot of Babylon 5 action figures, mint, in package. My late grandmother's aluminum pots & pans that still smell like bacon grease. A hideous set of Dept 56 Xmas kitch, unloaded - err, I mean given to me - by a well-meaning gay neighbor. As I need to raise some cash to keep the lights on while querying literary agents this month, I'd given Card Blanche to go through my shit...however, I'd failed to give him a timetable of when I wanted the project done. Consequently, my once-tidy utility room now resembles an episode of Hoarders. (Smiling & sighing.) Good thing I like to clean...
"Have you ladies read Fifty Shades of Grey?" On the topic of cleaning, I asked John at Touche last weekend if the staff had to stay after the bar closed, and clean up the New Years Eve mess. It seemed like I'd spent the entire weekend at the club with the guys, and Monday night's NYE party marked the end to an interesting three days, the fitting close of 2023. For two of the three nights, I'd hung with a group of grizzled, old leather daddies, visiting from out of town. They were drunk, high, and a rollicking lot, though I was getting pawed lasciviously by one of the dudes who mentioned more than once that he and his partner had an open relationship. Their attention made me feel all warm & fuzzy inside, a much-needed ego boost to a man hitting 55 in March. The evening's second ego boost happened when my last boy - who hasn't given me the time of day since my recent suicide attempt - stumbled into the bar at 2am, dressed in disheveled gear. It took him awhile to notice me, and when he did it was deliciously awkward. I smiled politely as he drunkenly stripped to his boots, jock, & vest, and tried - and failed - to walk a straight line to the clubroom. I was reminded of my own sobriety test - well, tests actually, as I've had more than one DUI - when I assured the officer that I'd stopped after three, maybe four, okay - eleven drinks tops, and that my Cary-Grant-in-North-by-Northwest driving had really been caused by fatigue - rather than the fact that I was speaking through a Chernobyl-like cloud of whiskey. Christ, I miss the 90s. Or at least, what I can remember of the nineties.
Another interesting observation was the inordinate amount of women in the club on New Years Eve; I don't know where they came from, and many didn't have dates. As 3am neared, I saw a tipsy straight couple dancing together in the front bar. HE wore a suit & tie, SHE, a kicky gold sequined dress & heels. As house music blasted over the sound system, the two danced merrily, as though at a wedding with a very unusual theme. Paul, an intelligent, predatorial, and delightfully-soulless friend of mine commented that Touche might become a bachelorette destination. Funny. I'd been thinking the same thing. And I'm sure that reading "Fifty Shades of Grey" a decade ago had fully prepared these open-minded women for what happens in the clubroom at 2am on a weekend, when the Halsted bars close - and the drunken, the damned, & the douchebags stumble into the club, hoping to get their dick sucked because their Grindr trick ghosted them.
Something to work into their wedding vows, perhaps...?
Another interesting observation was the inordinate amount of women in the club on New Years Eve; I don't know where they came from, and many didn't have dates. As 3am neared, I saw a tipsy straight couple dancing together in the front bar. HE wore a suit & tie, SHE, a kicky gold sequined dress & heels. As house music blasted over the sound system, the two danced merrily, as though at a wedding with a very unusual theme. Paul, an intelligent, predatorial, and delightfully-soulless friend of mine commented that Touche might become a bachelorette destination. Funny. I'd been thinking the same thing. And I'm sure that reading "Fifty Shades of Grey" a decade ago had fully prepared these open-minded women for what happens in the clubroom at 2am on a weekend, when the Halsted bars close - and the drunken, the damned, & the douchebags stumble into the club, hoping to get their dick sucked because their Grindr trick ghosted them.
Something to work into their wedding vows, perhaps...?
So, do you cum here often? I first met Paul on a "Daddy & son" night at Touche, probably a good six months ago. He sat next to me at the bar, and I think I started the conversation. We hit it off immediately. We were two smart dirtbags who liked good books, obscure movies, and fucking with people in the bar. For the past few months, Paul & I have developed a curmudgeonly friendship, as we seem to share the same jaded outlook on life. We're now past the early stage of getting to know the other, the part where we tried to impress each other with wit & sexual conquest, and we've moved into the deeper subjects - most recently, the tragicomedy of growing older, as we've each entered middle age, and the melancholy that ensues. Yesterday, we shared our first sexual experiences before we shed our Catholic guilt:
I had my first sexual experience in an XXX bookstore, back in the 80s. It was on Farmington Road in Peoria Illinois, one of four such fine establishments per that year's Dameron Guide (which I'd found hidden in my Father's work car), and its parking lot was filled with rusty pickup trucks & family station wagons. I was young, terrified of AIDS, still living with the folks, and I had just discovered bulimia.
I remember dissociating myself as some older guy fondled me in the booth, while the grainy audio from looped VHS porn filled the smokey air with moans, "Yeah baby's," quarters falling into coin slots, zippers unzipping, labored breathing, and sloppy squirts of lube. (I *did* mention the untreatable AIDS, right?). Oh - and the smell: a blend of cigarettes, Drakkar Noir, mold, cum, and Pine Sol.
I don't even remember if I climaxed, but I DO remember getting home before my parents, and tearing off my clothes as I ran sobbing towards the shower, where I scrubbed myself in the hottest water possible, like a first responder at Fukushima. Oh, and I did mention the untreatable -
Nevermind.
Yup - my first sexual experience was indeed, enchanting -
And Paul's, I learned sadly, had been equally so.
I had my first sexual experience in an XXX bookstore, back in the 80s. It was on Farmington Road in Peoria Illinois, one of four such fine establishments per that year's Dameron Guide (which I'd found hidden in my Father's work car), and its parking lot was filled with rusty pickup trucks & family station wagons. I was young, terrified of AIDS, still living with the folks, and I had just discovered bulimia.
I remember dissociating myself as some older guy fondled me in the booth, while the grainy audio from looped VHS porn filled the smokey air with moans, "Yeah baby's," quarters falling into coin slots, zippers unzipping, labored breathing, and sloppy squirts of lube. (I *did* mention the untreatable AIDS, right?). Oh - and the smell: a blend of cigarettes, Drakkar Noir, mold, cum, and Pine Sol.
I don't even remember if I climaxed, but I DO remember getting home before my parents, and tearing off my clothes as I ran sobbing towards the shower, where I scrubbed myself in the hottest water possible, like a first responder at Fukushima. Oh, and I did mention the untreatable -
Nevermind.
Yup - my first sexual experience was indeed, enchanting -
And Paul's, I learned sadly, had been equally so.
Stairway to Heaven On the other end of the Catholic guilt spectrum, Huck is another close friend who, like myself & Paul, is "coming to life in middle age," only Huck's transcendence came after a shitty check-off-the-matrimony-sacrament-box marriage to a woman. Huck is my "theater buddy" (mentioned in previous blogs), and as he lives just se7en minutes away, I often find myself at his house, chatting about life, love, & loneliness, and watching Broadway on-demand. While Paul is dark & cynical, Huck has an endearing optimism - a growing spirit of hopefulness as he explores his new life as a "Pleasure Dom," with a talent for Sabari bondage. Huck's the confidant who confirmed the existence of my "invisible alter" (who's apparently a dick, btw), and the two of us draw from the same pool of subs in the far western burbs, often comparing notes on our experiences. It's fun to watch Huck grow into the man he was always meant to be. It's refreshing to see that someone with an unhappy past can actually find joy in his fifties, as he joins the kink scene at the tender age of 53, doing what he'd always wanted with his life. Chuckling...Huck has his own "dirty bookstore stories," and unlike my own late Father - a closeted gay man whose miserable Catholic marriage to my Mother completely broke his spirit - Huck's accepted his past, and has found a way to thrive. I respect people like that. I really do.
Back in early December, Huck took me to his own "Touche:" the "G2" sex club, in one of the inner-city communities. G2 was an unexpected experience. It's like this big suburban dungeon space, on the top of a three-story apartment building. A dimly-lit, Exorcist-like staircase - a joy to walk up wearing skin-tight leather pants, btw - takes the visitor to the tippy-top of a steep interior stairwell, where a tiny landing allows just enough room for an unmarked door to swing open, revealing what's hidden behind. G2 is fuckin' massive. It's divided into three chambers: a public (dry) bar for socializing, and two seperate play spaces with slings, spanking benches, bondage tables, suspension arrays, about seven Saint Andrew's Crosses, great lighting & music, and Windex n' paper towels located everywhere. It's basically Wonka's chocolate factory for kinksters.
The whole place has an "exhibitionist" feel, and though it technically caters to everyone, the straight's outnumber the gays. I like G2 because of its strict protocol; the club is governed by a firmly-enforced code of conduct, and the Dungeon Master isn't kind if you break it. Huck has a paid membership, and the second night he took me, we went with Harvey - a sub that we'd both played with on our own before. I'd brought a duffel with restraints (it was my intention to participate), but I ended up just observing as Huck took charge of the scene, and tied Harvey - a dude so tall, he could barely fit on the furniture - to one of the room's larger crosses. Like the numerous George Kennedy's being led on all fours by mistresses, we all had fun in our own, individual ways - and I'm totally going again. I mean, I did mention the Windex, right?
Back in early December, Huck took me to his own "Touche:" the "G2" sex club, in one of the inner-city communities. G2 was an unexpected experience. It's like this big suburban dungeon space, on the top of a three-story apartment building. A dimly-lit, Exorcist-like staircase - a joy to walk up wearing skin-tight leather pants, btw - takes the visitor to the tippy-top of a steep interior stairwell, where a tiny landing allows just enough room for an unmarked door to swing open, revealing what's hidden behind. G2 is fuckin' massive. It's divided into three chambers: a public (dry) bar for socializing, and two seperate play spaces with slings, spanking benches, bondage tables, suspension arrays, about seven Saint Andrew's Crosses, great lighting & music, and Windex n' paper towels located everywhere. It's basically Wonka's chocolate factory for kinksters.
The whole place has an "exhibitionist" feel, and though it technically caters to everyone, the straight's outnumber the gays. I like G2 because of its strict protocol; the club is governed by a firmly-enforced code of conduct, and the Dungeon Master isn't kind if you break it. Huck has a paid membership, and the second night he took me, we went with Harvey - a sub that we'd both played with on our own before. I'd brought a duffel with restraints (it was my intention to participate), but I ended up just observing as Huck took charge of the scene, and tied Harvey - a dude so tall, he could barely fit on the furniture - to one of the room's larger crosses. Like the numerous George Kennedy's being led on all fours by mistresses, we all had fun in our own, individual ways - and I'm totally going again. I mean, I did mention the Windex, right?
"Have YOU ever read Fifty Shades of Grey?" In other news, the website issues are over - and I'm ready to resume shopping the book next week. I think I have a solid query; it's mostly high-powered bullet points, but I'm hoping that between the query & site, an agent will bite - and request the complete manuscript. I'm already working on Book #4, and the new title is: If You Write the Music, I'll Write the Lyrics. The story takes place within the Beekman Place universe, and as When People Go Away introduced/established the three primary alters, the reader will follow these characters in three seperate, distinct, and congruent narratives, told side-by-side in every third chapter - and Frankie, Alan, and Michael will each have their own individual storylines. I think I'm going to open the Prologue with Alan attempting suicide, which will allow me to share what happened in my own mind on the night I cut my wrists, long-ways. I've referenced the event in an earlier blog, but for the sake of brevity, I didn't go into detail - though I did allude to its violence. Truth be told, I didn't feel a goddamn thing as I walked through my house, taking one last look at my collections, cats, & computers. Everyone assumes that committing suicide is an emotional experience, but "true" despair - the grief that I've lived with for almost 30 years - has literally no emotion at all. I was chillingly calm, and strategic in my slices. The only thing that I remember going through my mind was that scene in Constantine where Keanu Reeves talks to Lucifer after John cuts his own wrists. Peter Stormare says something like, Cutting too deep is a rookie mistake. You damage the tendons, and you can't use your cigarette lighter. In hindsight, that was likely one of my alters intervening. Not only did he save my life, he also spared my hands - which I need to write & draw.
But going back to Book #4, I'm setting the main story - the heart of the book, so to speak - smack-dab in the middle of Touche, with a focus on the characters. The bar is filled with many interesting people, and I'm going to do a man-with-a-gyroscopic-camera sorta' thing, where we follow different leathermen - some familiar to readers, others will be new - as they go about their daily lives, against the community's camaraderie, with a deliberate musical path connecting each important scene to the next. It will be challenging in a good way. I'm already trolling friends for material:) I want to capture these men's' lives, from the debauchery of the clubroom to the touching moments that happen outside, where you see close friends huddled together, in clouds of smoke, tears, emotion, & humor...under the glow of the bar's exterior sign.
That's what the real scene is about -
And it's as magical as a chocolate factory.
- Sir Dave
But going back to Book #4, I'm setting the main story - the heart of the book, so to speak - smack-dab in the middle of Touche, with a focus on the characters. The bar is filled with many interesting people, and I'm going to do a man-with-a-gyroscopic-camera sorta' thing, where we follow different leathermen - some familiar to readers, others will be new - as they go about their daily lives, against the community's camaraderie, with a deliberate musical path connecting each important scene to the next. It will be challenging in a good way. I'm already trolling friends for material:) I want to capture these men's' lives, from the debauchery of the clubroom to the touching moments that happen outside, where you see close friends huddled together, in clouds of smoke, tears, emotion, & humor...under the glow of the bar's exterior sign.
That's what the real scene is about -
And it's as magical as a chocolate factory.
- Sir Dave