gringo frio

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the other day i came across that rarest of all things: a blogpost to which all self-respecting blogposts aspire. and i haven't been able to get it outta my mind since.

written by an american [he's straight, but try not to hold that against him] who moved to south america in order to seek the yin/yang balance that had so eluded him in his homeland, and using gabriel garcia marquez's love in the time of cholera as his metaphor, he lays out the essential difference between the south- and north-american cultures in a way that not only had i never seen it laid out before, but that spelled out shit i had instinctively known and had been unable to articulate from the first time a warm glance from a latin guy made my dick hard.

the money quotes:

Latinos say “gringo frio” – cold gringo. They say our culture is cold. It’s a unanimous opinion. One Colombian girl, with a confused look on her face, asked me why gringos are like that.

and, a little further in,

Modern advances seen in the developed world require cold, hard intellect free of romantic delusion. Cold, calculating gringos have made some impressive societal advancements throughout history.

in other words, we make the trains run on time, and they live with passion. which, in the end, is more important?

think about that, and then read the post--and yeah, i mean the whole goddam thing. trust me, it'll be time well spent.

let's talk about roman polanski a minute

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when the king of pop died a couple months back, i closed my eulogy to him with the question

so, was all the sheer, gorgeous talent the world managed to wring outta michael jackson before he flamed out worth the sacrifice of tossing him a boy every once in awhile?

it was a serious question. and since i was the only one asking it, it never got answered.

today, in light of recent events, i'd approach the question differently--if i could, i'd walk my middle-aged ass up to nicolas sarkozy, compliment him on his loyalty to mr. polanski, and ask

so, mr. president, when your son turns 13 next year, is it all right if i take him out for his birthday, get him drunk and fuck him?

and when he lunged at me with a roar, i'd step back and ask him why it's ok for his friend mr. polanski, but not for me--or why it's ok for some other kid, but not for his.

because obviously there's a threshold there somewhere, and that's all i'm tryin to get at.

i want a number: exactly how rich, talented and famous does one have to be before this shit becomes ok?

maybe one of these days i'll get an honest answer. whoopi? anyone?

mystery theatre

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one of the pleasures of this blog is that it gives me the opportunity to back-and-forth with my close friend and constant commenter noblesavage in a way that time and circumstance have robbed from us in real life.

one of his recent comments about beauty and messiness got me to thinking about his own pretty-boy days, which in turn prompted me to dig through boxes today until--yes!--i found what i was looking for: a faded copy of genre magazine from the early nineties on which he was featured as its tortured bisexual [don't even get me started] coverboy, semi-lovingly inscribed to me.

since in the intervening years noblesavage--who, in addition to being a very successful twink-slash-muscleboy in his day, is an accomplished product of two prestigious universities--has achieved a degree of respectability he disdained at the time this cover was shot, i'm hereby masking his pretty face until and unless i get his permission to drag him down into the gutter with me.



and the interior shot for the article:



[i remember he hated these shots because, aside from what he saw as their cheesiness, he thought they made his budding-bodybuilder physique look scrawny.]

as i thumbed through the magazine, i came across something unexpected--an old playbill tucked in its pages which fell into my hands, triggering another memory.

[and if you've ever wondered why triggered memories play such a big part in this blog, it's because without them, my past would be nothing more to me than a fuzzy blur--another reason i'm writing all this shit down here as it comes up.]



celebration theatre--what the fuck?

then i opened it and remembered, sort of.


i scanned the above pictures and sent 'em off to noblesavage, along with the following accompanying text:

as i was flipping through the copy of genre i just found, this playbill fell out--although for the life of me i can't remember much about that night except that (a) a bunch of us went to the premiere together as a group, (b) we had some kinda after-gathering at our place, (c) we went bar-hopping with the cast afterwards, and (d) one of those boys ended up in my bed.

i am relying on your memory of steel to provide me with the details.

to which noblesavage replied:

Ah, The Ballad of Little Mikey at Celebration Theater.

Yes, I do remember the details.

All will be revealed tomorrow 'cause I am going to bed now.

damn him for making us wait.

the "smelly chair" commercial

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trio's "da da da" came up on on shuffle tonight for the first time in a long time, triggering a memory of the first overtly-gay tv ad i ever saw.




it's still pretty cute.