i woulda given my left nut to be a fly on the wall when michele obama first saw this story, all i'm sayin

here's three possibilities:

1. tail-end of a long, exhausting, losing campaign, sometimes the mask slips and the real thought process peeks out (because you know damn well they've talked about this in hillaryland--"if all else fails, maybe we'll get lucky and somebody'll get off a good shot at that uppity motherfucker").

2. yet one more example of the everything-but-the-kitchen-sink ethos that is the hallmark of all things clinton: since nothing else has worked, how about "i'm a better long-term bet because i'm less likely to be assassinated"?

3. any headline's better than no headline (because, seriously, would anybody have been talking about her today otherwise?).

whatever--tell you the truth, her motives don't matter; what matters is, i have laughed for the last two days over this story and the resultant uproar, and it looks like it's only gonna get better.

thanks, hillary--i needed this.

the secret of my success

i came out late--hit LA fresh from texas, looked around at all the youth and beauty the city had to offer, figured my 34-year-old ass was done before it even got started.  hell, who'd want me here?

little did i know.

i remember the first time i walked into rage (the then-club of the moment)--got picked up almost immediately by this gorgeous kid, we went back to his place, fucked like animals, fell asleep glued to each other by cum, sweat and lube.  bliss.

next morning, being the direct type i am, i put it to him:  "i'm not young or pretty; why'd you pick me?"

kid looked at me as if it shoulda been obvious, smiled and said, "babe, big-dick features beats beats pretty every time."

and although i'd never heard the expression before, i got it immediately--i remember laughing out loud and saying to myself, "hell, if a big nose, hands and feet are all it takes, i've got it made in this town."

as it turned out, for better or worse, that pretty much was all it took.

as the years passed, i continued to laugh: while faggots all over this city spent countless dollars on clothes, haircuts, conditioners and moisturizers and god knows how many hours perfecting their look before they dared venture out onto santa monica boulevard, all i ever had to do was shower (or not), shave (or not), throw on an old t-shirt and jeans, and i was done--my height, broad shoulders and big-dick features did the rest.

because i was a real man, goddammit [or at least what passes for one in weho, which is pretty much the same thing].

it got funny sometimes--i remember walking down the boulevard one day in brand-new fluorescent-white size-14 nike hi-tops, and heads turned left and right all the way down the street--by that time, of course, i understood that nobody was actually looking at me; they were just imagining how big the dick of someone with feet that size must be, and how said dick would feel up their ass.

and still i laughed to myself, but by then not as much.

flash-forward to now: if i ever find myself next to a really pretty guy at a party or a bar or something, i'm never tongue-tied by his beauty, because i know better--if i'm in the mood for conversation, i'll just look him in the eye and ask, "so tell me--how does it feel to be a 'type'? how often do you wonder if people who tell you how much they like you ever actually like you for you?"

and, almost always, he tells me. and i understand.

sorry i haven't been around much lately

but i'm in one of those fine, dark moods these days--i've descended to that particular shade of depression during which i can't even manage to work up sufficient energy to maintain the illusion, so important to me usually, that shit like the the upcoming election will have even the slightest effect on the hell-bound course that this country and the world are on, and have been on for at least the past 100 years.

who knows--maybe if this mood continues i'll get into the way i really see the world. meantime, since i don't have shit today i'll offer up the following:



thanks to jamie over at snarky bastards--that made me laugh.

goddam dog

.
so i'm bent over my alarm clock too early one morning--it's on the floor--groggy, butt-naked, cursing and furiously poking at the snooze button, which is stuck and will not stop beeping. absorbed in my task, i don't hear sasha--no doubt drawn away from her water bowl by all the commotion--walk up behind me.

presented with this fine opportunity, she can hardly be blamed for what happens next, right?

and when that cold, wet nose makes contact with my unsuspecting, virgin (to this, anyway) asshole, i react with a shrieking leap about as far into the air as is possible when one is half-asleep and starting from a head-between-the-knees position, finishing with a one-and-a-half with a full gainer into the wall (level of difficulty: 9.2--try it sometime), landing in an upside-down heap on top of said alarm clock, which at least finally succeeds in shutting the damn thing up.


i miss you , sash.

another plug

so i've been reading this blog for awhile, written by a guy by the name of steven barnes who, by all accounts, is pretty accomplished in a number of disciplines. while i could go on about him, better you should just click over and spend a little time there--you'll either resonate with him or you won't.

i read him because he (a) writes really well, (b) has a fine and demonstrably open mind, and (c) seems to have come closer to achieving that rare quality of balance than most anybody i personally know--and this comes across very clearly not only in his posts, but (if you take the time to read between the lines) in his life as well.

(and i'd put him on my blogroll except that, being straight, married-with-kids and in his mid-50s, he'd probably look upon a permanent plug by the likes of me in much the same way as would, say, barack obama a full-page new york times endorsement by louis farrakhan--so as my ultimate gift to him, i'll spare him that.)

anyway, check him out--you like me, chances are you'll love him.