Monday, February 26, 2007

Send Me An Angel' lyrics by DJ MYSTIC
Do you believe in heaven above?
Do you believe in love?
Don't tell a lie, don't be false or untrue
It all comes back to you

Open fire!
On my burning heart
I've never been lucky in love
My defenses are down
A kiss or a frown
I can't survive on my own

If boy walks in
And carves his name in my heart.
I'll turn and run away
Everyday we've all been led astray
It's hard to be lucky in love

It gets in your eyes
It's making you cry
Don't know what to do
Don't know what to do
You're looking for love
Calling heaven above

Send me an angel
Send me an angel
Right now, right now

Send me an angel
Send me an angel
Right now, right now

Empty dreams can only disappoint
In a room behind your smile
But don't give up, don't give up
(give up, give up, give up)
You can be lucky in love

It gets in your eyes
It's making you cry
Don't know what to do
Don't know what to do
You're looking for love
Calling heaven above

Send me an angel
Send me an angel
Right now, right now

Send me an angel
Send me an angel
Right now, right now

(Repeat 3 times)

...Right now

Friday, February 23, 2007

A Tragdor Dildo Cozy. Yum, rum and the lash.

Trogdor dildo cozy
"I mean, he was a dragon man."

An art byproduct of the Canadian Kint in Public movement.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Everett Martin Sims
June 27, 1920 -- February 18, 2002
My partner for 24 years.

With an age difference of 37 years between us,
you could say there was asymmetry in the power dynamics.
But that was OK. I always treated him fairly,
and rarely lorded over him.

Before I knew him, he flew bombing missions over Germany as a radar counter-measures technician, and won the Air Medal and the Croix de Gare. He was recalled in the Korean "conflict," but resigned his commission instead, and never spoke of it again.

He could have married big bucks and been set, but then he wouldn't have been very real.

Instead, after the war he went to Harvard on the G.I. Bill, where he was student assistant to F.O. Matthiessen, who jumped off the twelfth-floor ledge of the Hotel Manger in Boston at age 48, in despair over the Cold War and the death of his lover, Russell Cheney, the painter. I'm glad Ev's name isn't forever inextricably mixed with the name of a hotel in Boston.

He was senior Vice-President and Director of College Publishing at Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich-- years I was a test, but he was a trooper, and I turned out to be the best investment he ever made.

We got to go full circle. I took care of him for some sick years, like he had helped me. He is my link to a time when morality was expected of a gentleman, if not a capitalist.

After he died, I went to Town Hall to get copies of his death certificate. At first I was denied access to the "semi-public" document because I couldn't prove a relationship. But then it was noted that I was the informant--had provided the information within the document--and was granted permission.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

My mother recently shared with me a peak life experience of hers from a long time ago. Her holding for 25 years of what I call a secret, to which I also attribute intent, gave the communication the weight of revelation when it finally came. Prompting her was the funeral of President Gerald Ford last month.

To give the briefest necessary back-story: in 1960, she was a newly divorced 22-year-old with two small sons. I was not yet four. My brother was five. Having had to turn down a scholarship at 17, (you do the math,) she set about a career, becoming a reporter in that last crop of journey craftsmen, before journalism became strictly a professional career, what has led to its current downfall

Starting, typically, on the women’s pages, she was a looker, who could back it up, and that led her to the city desk, and to relocate several states south, while I was still wee, there to be raised with my brother in splendid isolation, not so much neglected, as spared.

Her state-capital newspaper had alienated the powers that be with a successful corruption investigation, to the point the local police refused to cooperate with reporters, so in her late twenties she was assigned a police beat, which must have created a very interesting dynamic to the flow of information. She went on to cover the state and federal courts, eventually moving to Washington to cover state news. Thankfully, she continued to pay the rent until I was out of high school.

Thereafter, with me in New York, a kind of competition occurred. Her peak experience came at the very beginning, when she was working on the staff of Senator Howard Baker. But that job ended, and she had trouble from there on. I remember she wrote a piece on being jobless that was published on the op-ed page of the Washington Post. It advised prospects not to do weekend things, like make pancakes, during the work week. It was headlined Is There Life After Macaroni and Cheese?” A reference to the 17-cent boxes that I ate, not her.

She lost her house on Capital Hill, then moved back home to get a college education, with a master’s degree at 60, finally. She’s now back in the D.C. suburbs teaching ESL to wicked smart Korean immigrants and everybody seems happy.

But it was with a definite rueful tone she told me about Hubert Horatio Humphrey’s funeral. To set it up I’ll borrow a beautiful paragraph filled with delicious hyperlinks from Wikipedia:

Humphrey ran for Majority Leader after the 1976 election but lost to Robert Byrd of West Virginia. The Senate honored Humphrey by creating the post of Deputy President pro tempore of the Senate for him. On August 16, 1977, Humphrey revealed his terminal cancer to the public. On October 25, 1977, he addressed the Senate, and on November 3, 1977, Humphrey became the first person other than a member or the president to address the House of Representatives in session. President Carter honored him by giving him command of Air Force One for his final trip to Washington on October 23. One of Humphrey's speeches contained the lines "It was once said that the moral test of Government is how that Government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; and those who are in the shadows of life, the sick, the needy and the handicapped," which is sometimes described as the "liberals' mantra."

Humphrey lay in state in the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol, and after services, a small group retired to the office’s of Minority Leader Baker. The group included my mother and three U.S. Presidents, not in that order, not to mention Kissinger and a Rockefeller or two.

There were no photographers, but Senator Baker, who was an avid amateur, organized an historic group shot. Mother remembers Nixon using an off word-choice, saying Baker always was a “fanatic” about taking pictures. She was given a copy, which is stored away out of state, else I’d share it.

Mother said, “Betty Ford was there, with her coffee and donut. At one point, there was a commotion across the room, and I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Betty Ford had turned Richard Nixon around, and she was bending over, batting, furiously, at his backside. It turned out, Nixon had backed into a chalk board, and Betty was cleaning off his suit jacket.”

I nearly shouted, “Mother, do you have to have a spanking fetish to see what was going on? She had her chance and she wasn’t going to let it pass her by—after what he had put everybody through? So she gave him the spanking he deserved."

I can’t help but feel that the sorts of honors bestowed on Humphrey—he was awarded posthumously the Congressional Gold Medal of Honor on June 13, 1979 and the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1980, have in our day and age been so grossly misapplied on the undeserving, that I am disabused of the idea of honoring a politician. However, I sure would like to spank a couple for pleasure.

And I see the arc of the last thirty years of my mother's life differently, not as a fall away from greatness, but toward something more real, as yet unrevealed, but looming, looming. What is about to be disclosed may be so catastrophic that it will put an end to the interminably great, the fat Rolodexed.

"Iniquity, committed in this world, produces not fruit immediately, but, like the earth, in due season, and advancing by little and little, it eradicates the man who committed it. ...justice, being destroyed, will destroy; being preserved, will preserve; it must never therefore be violated." Manu 1200 BC

On edit: Feb. 11, 2009

Well, this was a disappointment. Having found said images, how boring to see it's just about men in suits. What a lost opportunity, without the context! Anyway, I do look after my audience. And you do realize the spanker above is Jack Dempsey, don't you? Back when men were men and could spank other men in public!

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Venice Bathing Pageant 1926

I bought this panaramic photograph depicting a 1920's beach bathing beauty contest from an e-Bay seller who named it after the advertising sign seen on a background building, Venice Meat Market, while crediting himself for his wicked sense of irony. What the seller didn't realize however, was that he may be getting more meat on the bone than he bargained for, as all these beauties are cross-dressing men.

This had to be the highlight of the gay Venice season, then as now a haven for non-conformists. Scores of contestants in all sizes and hundreds of onlookers pose in a parking lot for a group shot. That they did so, displaying no furtiveness or stigma, but in fact seem very amused with themselves, speaks to a level of sophistication at odds with the middle of America.

Non-competing drag queens vie with real women filling out the sea of onlookers. Winners have already been chosen and sashes awarded, with the beautiful princesses in center court, and the Miss Congenialities, and Miss Poises flanking. Unfortunately, I can't reproduce the whole extended line, nor post with the high-focus details unshrunk, but the effect given off by so much personality and individuality on display is impressive fun.

Very impressive too, given the accepted wisdom in understanding the gender politics of the era, is the cocky behavior of the red-blooded American men who are not afraid to show their appreciation for the feminine treats, some leer quite salaciously. It should be remembered that actual behaviors between the sexes were constricted in the pre-birth control era, even if the history of lust and orientation likely remains the same.
At some point after World War II, recognition and awareness of the fact of same-sex desire became more widespread, then eventually universal. After the 60's, and birth control, women could express their sexuality more completely. The former standard defining sexual roles altered into a rigid boundary, where a man who had sex with a man even once was at risk for being labeled queer.

Which one is fivestring and which one is tad?

...Demons, Crying Demons...