Monthly Archives: August 2009

I heart Dick Cheney.

I respect the hell out of former VP Dick Cheney and as I watch him on Fox News Sunday, cool as can be, discussing Eric Holder’s supposedly independent decision to investigate the CIA, I feel a sense of profound loss. This guy is all class, compared to the joker we’ve got now. The difference between serious statesmen and opportunistic career politicians. That Cheney has to time and again take to the talk show circuit to defend the previous administration is maddening. Obama is petty and small, and more than willing to allow his minions do his dirty work. He’s running this government like a mafia don, maintaining plausible deniability while overseeing the destruction of his enemies.

He’s weak. This should come as no surprise.

Working some stuff out.

I’m trying to see if I can blog from my iPhone. So far it has been difficult. I’m doing this from the Safari browser. I’ll try the WordPress app next post.

That’s why he’s the man.

YES. A thing of beauty, this column. Thank you for this, Mark. Elegant and merciless. I love it.


This just makes me so sad and so sick to my stomach. Don’t let them get away with it, Britain. Please.

Get angry. Take your dignity back. Show us how it’s done. We’d never have become us without you, you know. Only former subjects of the Empire could have accomplished what we have.

Music stuff.

You all are going to hate for blogging about nothing political and everything fluffy, but I took a trip out of town today and all I wanted to listen to as I was driving was CC Adcock. “Stealin’ All Day” is probably my favorite song on the Lafayette Marquis album. It’s got such great guitar. I can’t even handle it, how much I’m loving this guy. I bought both his albums on Amazon and have been sharing him with my friend Aaron, a sweet man who loves bluesy Southern rock as much as I do. Aaron introduced me to Th’ Legendary Shack*Shakers, and we’re both big fans of Skynyrd and Willie Nelson. My mom teases me, saying that Skynyrd must have been playing somewhere in the hospital the day I was born. since I’m too young to remember the ’70′s.

It’s just been a long, long time since I’ve found a band that I instantly loved. I’ve been intrigued, enamoured of, in puppy love and pleased with many new names, but I’ve been searching for a certain, undefinable, unknowable “sound” for so long and I felt like I’ve found it with Adcock. It’s like searching for that perfect sparkly-but-not-glittery-looks-good-on-everyone golden beige lipgloss with the perfect not-sticky-not-too-sheer texture, (MAC Oh Baby, in case you were wondering), or the perfect pair of not-too-tight-not-too-loose jeans with a low-but-not-skanky rise, (the new Gap 1969 line) and then finding them. You want to buy them in bulk. I want Adcock to record more albums. I want to see him in concert, and I am so over concerts. Concerts are for stupid, impressionable teens. Which I am not.

I’m just so comfortable with his music, an unusual sensation. I listened to the Lafayette Marquis album for the first time and felt like I had always been listening to it. It’s hard to explain, but I’m hooked.

Speaking of music, the Daily Mail is running a story on Lady Gaga’s scandalous nude photo shoot for an American magazine. From reading the article, however, I can only surmise that the most scandalous part of the shoot was not the cotton candy pink merkin or the nudity or even the overuse of orange self-tanner–it was the Lady’s choice to pose with a cigarette–quelle horreur!–on account of her “impressionable young fans.” Dude, Lady Gaga should not be on your teenager’s ipod. That woman is dirty. Fun, interesting, performance art dirty, but dirty nonetheless. If your “impressionable” kid is listening to her, you’ve got a bit more to worry about than cigarettes. “Disco stick” is all I’ve got to say to that.

I love Gaga. She’s so much more interesting than those pop clones out there, and she’s actually got a great voice.

Last word on the subject.

I have one more post on Alex Skarsgård and then I will weather my lust in silence–well, relative silence. I just want to lick honey off his chest for Chrissakes, it’s so distracting. A friend of mine is obsessed with Lady Gaga, that refreshingly interesting singer who seems to be everywhere right now, and was bringing up all of her videos on YouTube. Lo and behold, Skarsgård is in the video for her latest single,  “Paparazzi”. The video itself was creepy in an L.A. Confidential/Black Dahlia sort of way, but that really is beside the point.

There really is no point, if you want the truth, but I just had to say something about it. I’m tired. I’m taking the above mental image to bed with me.


There are two good things that have come out of my unholy and rather predictable addiction to HBO’s True Blood: the discovery of Alexander Skarsgård, who is striking in a tall, muscular, Nordic, Viking way, and the discovery of CC Adcock. Through CC Adcock’s music, I have made a tertiary discovery: I like something called “swamp pop.” Though Adcock is mostly blues-rock, swamp pop is also interesting. I like it. A lot.

As for Skarsgård–holy mother, he is sexy. I am not a fan of blondes, but this one is a keeper. TW’s picking up what I’m putting down. Real people are not that impossibly attractive, therefore, he must be some sort of consensual hallucination shared by TW and I, which wouldn’t surprise me.

Way Back machine.

My Way Back machine is getting some mileage on it these last few months, let me tell ya. Honestly, I’m getting all kinds of tired dragging the hypocrisy of the Left into the revealing light of day, but it has got to be done.

CNet has an article announcing that the newest “cybersecurity” bill being pushed by this administration would give the president “emergency control of the Internet.” I’ll let that sink in for a second. You see, this is what prompted my dragging the Way Back machine out of the garage yet again. Do you have any idea how expensive fuel is for this thing? I’m going to charge the Obama administration for this. Better yet, take it out of my taxes.

This bill apparently “permit[s] the president to seize temporary control of private-sector networks during a so-called cybersecurity emergency.”

The Way Back machine is here to provide perspective. This bill with its alarming language has received little attention, as if it is every day that our president calls for the ability to control privately owned networks during a “cybersecurity emergency.” Enter the Way Back machine. Let us travel back to the dark age of America under King George the Surprisingly Crafty Village Idiot/Evil Genius. The exact date does not matter, for any time between the stolen 2000 election and the glorious ascension of Muad’Dib Barack and his Abs of Righteousness will suffice.

Stepping out of the velvet-apolstered, slightly smarmy neo ’70′s interior of my WBM, we find ourselves in what really amounts to a hellish scene. There are gestapo 2.0 on every corner, listening through the walls to our private conversations, snooping on our email chain letters and generally up to the no good of that power hungry chimp in the White House. He has used the attacks tragedy accident unpleasantness punishment of 9/11 to seize control of the country declaring a state of emergency and passing the Patriot Act, which, among other things, allows American intelligence and law enforcement agencies to work together and share information. I know, he is a monster.

Sagely, the fringiest of the fringe on the Left are warning us all of the Impending Doom hidden within the tedious legalese of the Patriot Act–Chimpy McHitler could manufacture “emergencies” to seize power indefinitely, infringing upon and ultimately destroying our civil liberties.

So what’s the lesson here, besides the fact that my hair was unconscionable in the early ‘oo’s? Oh, yeah, that’s right–the Left only cares about civil liberties when they are out of power, because once they get comfortable being in charge, they would really rather not hear all of the bleating from the proles. Do you think that Barack “Never Waste a Good Crisis” Obama is trustworthy?


Ew. If this is true–EW. How disgusting. If this is correct, I take back all of the nice-ish things I said about Teddy.

Crying all the time.

In college I had the requisite GBF, a high school friend with whom I had reconnected while working at a gay “family bar & grill”. He felt compelled to explain the mechanics of his relationships with men, sharing facts which were no mystery to me, and he dutifully reported the excruciating minutiae of every Pride he attended. He was quite excited about being out, so much so that I’m quite sure he’d never speak to me if he saw my voter registration card. I love him still, regardless of his choice of partners.

One year, after he returned from Pride, he told me the story of the unconventional triad he encountered, two lesbians and a transexual lesbian–i.e. a man who lived life as a woman and referred to himself as a lesbian. From what I gathered, he still had all of his equipment, and I snorted, “Now there’s a guy who knows how to pick up chicks.” My friend then lectured me on my closeminded provencialism, my sad need to stuff people into boxes of sexual repression.

“How dare you label him?” He sniffed. “He’s a transgendered lesbian!” Which had to be one of the best lines I’ve ever heard on the subject.

Apparently, people like my former GBF are reading Macleans. Though my friend was one of my favorite people to party with, and a truly brilliant person filled with much kindness, he had no sense of humor when it came to some things.

Me, I try to have a sense of humor about almost everything, because if I didn’t, I’d be crying.

Some verbal(ish) processing.

And now, I must make an important decision about fragrance. There’s Tom Ford’s Black Orchid Voile de Fleur, a lighter version of his signature scent that’s heavy on the gardenia; the standard, delicious Robert Piguet Fracas–a classic tuberose; Tom Ford’s aforementioned signature scent, Black Orchid.

There are certain scents that work well with my body chemistry. Citrus scents are not in that category. They end up smelling like old, stale gym shorts when they touch my skin. White flowers, musks, patchouli, sandalwood all mix well with my chemistry. Fruity is another no-go.

Anyway, I’ve been wearing Fracas, Voile de Fleur, and Black Orchid on various parts of my body (simultaneously) in order to see which one lasts longest and smells the best at the end of the day. Black Orchid is balls-out sexy, in the way that Tom Ford himself is sexy–very naughty, musky, dangerous. Fracas is more of a classic sexy, more pinup girl than naked on the cover of Vanity Fair. Voile de Fleur is a less intense Black Orchid, but it doesn’t last as long. Fracas smells like idealized skin; Black Orchid smells like–well, like sex. Fracas goes a bit powdery 6 hours later, Voile is nonexistent, and Black Orchid mellows to reveal sandalwood and black gardenia.

There is no way I’m going to be able to decide. I’ll sort it out.


Ted Kennedy has died and I’m not quite sure what to say about it. I’ve been thinking about it all day and most of this evening, and now, as I watch the most recent episode of “Clash of the Gods” which dissects the Minotaur myth, I can no longer avoid the subject of the Kennedys.

I suppose the hour-long look at Theseus and the half-bovine monster of Crete turned my mind toward the wan, limp, fading mythology of the Kennedy clan. Why a country that had so recently–in historical terms at least–thrown off the yoke of the monarchy felt the need to enagage in the creation of a dynasty of mythological proportions, I will never understand. The family has seen more than its share of tragedy, which has helped bolster its legendary status, and I cannot imagine losing two brothers within six years [corrected from "months"] of each other, not to mention the other losses Teddy had weathered.

As a human, it would be impossible for me to not feel something for the man. He seemed earnest, a true believer, so to say, but I can’t stop thinking about the family of Mary Jo Kopechne, who also suffered catastrophic loss and would forever be tied in with the Kennedy legend. The urge to rewrite history has been especially strong lately, as death seems to come in clusters, and it’s disgraceful. Death does not make one a saint, though speaking ill of the dead is equally as wrong. Teddy Kennedy was a flawed human being, as are we all, and I am sorry that he has passed on. I pray for peace for his family, who have suffered much loss.


New world looks a lot like the old one.

Welcome to postracial America. I am so glad a majority of us didn’t vote for that old white dude and opted instead for the shiny, hip, postracial, post partisan candidate.


Funny that Steyn should mention Faulks–the husband is enjoying Faulks’ Bond book immensely. I keep hearing about how great it is, which is high praise from a laconic man who finds most everything largely unimpressive. Less than three minutes ago, he mentioned how much he liked the book. He is not an avid reader, but he tore through the Bond series as quickly as possible and was skeptical of Faulks’ take, but was, as I mentioned above, impressed.

Steyn’s post itself provides a great contrast between Zakaria’s and Faulks’ disparate worldviews, with tacit acceptance on one end and uncensored observation on the other–Faulks’ statements are less outrageous than Zakaria’s, and yet Zakaria is the distinguished, trusted intellectual.

Most importantly, however, Steyn’s post offers another one of those “what the hell. . .?” moments that I love so much. Check this last bit out:

(Full disclosure: Sebastian came to stay at my pad in New Hampshire to research a novel partly set in my neighborhood. Aside from a blazingly vivid description of the breakfasts I made him, don’t pick it up if you’re looking for glimpses of real life chez Steyn: He turned me into a woman and had sex with me. I thought of issuing a fatwa and burning down his publishers, but I’m not the type to make a fuss.)

While serious types choose the most somber, cutting, politically poignant bits of Steyn’s writing to cut, paste and mail to their friends, I prefer the weird, nonlinear, random pieces of Steyn’s ever-interesting, always relevant writing. I love the serious stuff too, but the strangeness just speaks to me. Randomness is like sweet, sweet music to me, which probably doesn’t surprise any of you.