adventures in watersports

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[yet another from the "back when i was new" file]

at three o'clock on a sunday morning, the boy was as incongruously out-of-place in vaseline alley as a pearl in a pigpen.

young and fresh-faced in his letter jacket, he was the spitting image of tom cruise in all the right moves, and all my drunken mind could think of was whisking this sweet, untainted kid away from that awful place to somewhere safe (like my bed) as quickly as possible.

he had other ideas, however--his parents were gone and he wanted to go back to his place, which turned out to be a mcmansion in westwood.

we headed up the stairs of the darkened house and into his bedroom, stripped down--he was everything i'd hoped for and more--and it was just as i was reminding myself not to push this innocent boy too far too fast that he pulled away, dragged me into the bathroom and the evening took its left turn.

"wait--you want me to do what?"  because this was new, but whatever--mkf is nothing if not accommodating, especially when he's drunk.

problem is, even when i'm drunk, i'm shy.  and even more so, turns out, when there's a boy crouched wide-eyed and expectant in a bathtub between my legs.  talk about performance anxiety--jesus.

but by now i'm on a mission, so i tell him to wait, walk over and flip on the taps full blast and stand in front of the toilet.

as soon as i feel the urge, i stumble over to the tub, but by the time i get there, it's gone.  damn.

so i head back to the toilet, determined to wait for the optimal moment this time.  when it finally arrives, i whirl around, triumphant--and in so doing, spray a wild, uncontrolled, drunken arc across the boy's bathroom, coating pretty much everything but him in the process.

my take-aways from the evening:  (a) never judge a book by its cover; and (2) people who are into that sorta thing have absolutely no sense of humor.

state of the world

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[so on any news channel you turn to today, it's all about how the powers-that-be are circling the wagons and trying to contain the damage before the delusional megalomaniac takes everybody and everything down with him.

and then once the subject of charlie sheen is exhausted, the talk generally turns to qaddafi.]


today the posturing of the western powers vis a vis libya got particularly idiotic--for instance, the british prime minister saying shit like

We must not tolerate this regime using military force against its own people.

and then our own [liberal] secretary of state chiming in with

Nothing is off the table so long as the Libyan government continues to threaten and kill Libyans.

ah yes, the same rationale our previous [conservative] administration trumped up to justify our last great military misadventure (but only as a last resort after the "weapons of mass destruction" and "threat to the region" arguments fell apart, of course).

and as i listen to this latest self-serving bullshit, i wonder if anybody else besides me remembers that these are the self-same western powers that couldn't be bothered to lift a finger when the rwandans and the sudanese and the somalians were all slaughtering each other.

and then i wonder, for maybe the thousandth time, if in my lifetime one of the powers-that-be will ever just finally come out and and say

we're doing it for the goddam oil.

because i, for one, would find the truth a much more compelling argument--hell, i like driving my car.

why i'm not a libertarian (part 1)

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[this post is a continuation of the comments from this post, and thus very 'inside baseball'--feel free to skip]


so silver hit a new 30-year high yesterday, and promptly plunged today--just like it did on the days following the last couple times it hit new 30-year highs--and, as a result, lots of people who weren't prepared for it lost a lot of money.  a very smart friend emailed me this morning and said, "looks like dr. evil's reared his ugly head once again."

dr. evil, you ask?  allow me to explain.

back in 2004, the british arm of a very big, powerful american investment bank had been given a directive by the mother ship to "increase profits through the development of new strategies."

so a few of their more clever bankers devised a plan to (a) short some eurobonds in which said big, powerful bank held a big, powerful position; (b) then flood the market with all of said eurobonds at once, thus causing the price to plunge precipitously; and (c) in the midst of the ensuing mini-panic, cover their shorts and buy back said newly-devalued eurobonds at a handsome profit.  pure genius, right?

and their clever plan (dubbed "dr. evil" in the emails which surfaced later) went off without a hitch--almost.

i say "almost" because the european union--whose various governments lost untold millions as a result of the bank's clever plan--turned out not to have anywhere near the sense of humor that we americans have about such things.  see, rather than being allowed to keep their obscene profits resulting from the day's activities, the kill-joy british regulators made the bank give it all back, plus pay a big penalty--and instead of receiving huge year-end bonuses for their cleverness, the traders in question damn near lost their british licenses.

the other consequence of that day's mischief?  since its shenanigans were brought to light by said british regulators, said bank (citigroup, if you're curious) lost and has never recovered the confidence of the various european governments that were so badly burned by its actions--its bond business there is still a fraction of what it used to be.

[and not to mention, no american investment bank has dared pull that shit in europe since.]

but the most remarkable thing (to me, anyway) about the incident was the injured incredulity of the clever traders when they were called on the carpet--their attitude was, "hey, this is how we do things in the states--what's the matter with you people?!"

and, of course, they were right--this shit happens routinely here in america and has for years, all under the benign aegis of that joke of a regulatory agency known as the SEC--you know, the guys who couldn't even catch bernie madoff.

which is only one of the reasons why the financial markets of america have become a rigged casino for the big banks, and the laughingstock of the civilized world.

i mean, seriously--where else but modern-day america would a bank able to effectively buy insurance on its neighbor's house and then burn that house down and collect from the government when the guys it bought the insurance from turned out not to have any money to pay off the claim--and then laugh along with the guys who sold the fraudulent insurance as they're given a total walk?

*     *     *     *     *

i was 24 years old when ronald reagan became president and started deregulating things.

one of the first things he deregulated (well, finished deregulating, anyway) was the phone industry, which has turned out pretty well.

but one of the other things he deregulated was the savings-and-loan industry, whose members couldn't wait to run with the big boys on wall street--woohoo, right?

yeah--right up until, within just a couple years of being freed from the regulatory shackles which had kept their industry stodgy-but-safe since the depression, they'd blown all their depositors' money on bad investments and run their newly-deregulated asses straight into bankruptcy, thus prompting the taxpayer bailout which started us down the ugly road to where we find ourselves today, that is.

needless to say, i've come to view government deregulation with somewhat of a jaundiced eye.


[part 2 to come, because i'm seriously starting to nod off]

uh oh

so today i read that the the saudi royal family is frantically and pre-emptively announcing all sortsa coming dispensations of manna from heaven to its happy subjects

...and now i know why

[and to all of my friends and family out there who still can't understand why i traded my beloved truck last year for the dumb, ugly prius:  i'm afraid you're about to find out.]

arrested development

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the other day i'm talking to an old friend, for some reason the subject of my brother comes up and he asks, "so do his kids hate him yet?"

based on the stories i've told him, it's a fair question, but my answer surprises him. truth is, while my brother holds little but contempt for the family he came from, he's done pretty well by the one he created:  a solid 27-year marriage, and two great kids who adore him.

"holy shit," i realize after hanging up the phone, "my little brother'll probably be a grandfather before long."

and then i thought about my own grandfathers, both of whom died, worn and weary in their mid-fifties, before i was born.  i thought about how old and grandfatherly they had always looked to me in the faded snapshots, and that's when it hit me that these stolid, churchgoing men were the same age in those pictures as my drunken irresponsible boy-chasing ass is now.

and then i thought, and not for the first time, about all that these men--my brother, my grandfathers and countless others before and after--had given up in order to create stable homes and provide not only for their families, but for the generations to come.  i thought about the commitment, the monogamy, the expense, the diapers, the drudgery, the school plays, the loans for college--you know, all that shit that, in small, sacrificial increments, weaves the fabric of society that the rest of us pretty much take for granted.

and then i asked myself, and not for the first time, if there was ever a point at which the fabulous mkf woulda been capable of such sacrifice--i.e., of living for a sustained period of time for anyone or anything other than himself.

[since the answer to that question is so obviously "no", i won't bother tryin to keep you in suspense.]

*     *     *     *     *

i watch the christians as they rage against gay marriage, and i totally feel their pain.

joe and ethel in toledo have trod the straight-and-narrow their entire lives, and now are forced to watch in horror as these promiscuous, hedonistic homosexuals co-opt and crap on their sacred traditions with their folsom street fairs and open relationships and god only knows what else.

homosexuality is an abomination! they cry, as they settle their fat asses onto their designer sofas in their calvin klein outfits to watch desperate housewives.

*     *     *     *     *

i watch my fellow gays as they rage against the evil, intolerant christians, and i feel their pain, too.

fuck the breeders! they cry, as they eagerly await the next generation of their offspring.

*     *     *     *     *

here's the truth, bitches:  gays and straights of civilized societies from time immemorial have always existed in uneasy symbiosis--neither can truly flourish without the other.

i live for the day when joe and ethel wake up and understand how truly gray their world would be without the evil homosexuals.

but far more importantly, i live for the day when my fellow faggots wake up and respect the fact that, without the sacrifices of the joe-and-ethels who comprise the backbone of this country, our collective self-indulgent fabulousness would be impossible.

am i the only one who gets this?

the trouble with george

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one of these days i swear i'm gonna codify all the pillow-talk stories i've collected over the years of all the uniquely gay messes all the gays i've come across in the course of my gay travels have suffered at the hands of their various and sundry gay boyfriends/roommates/hookups, because there's definitely a book there.  until that happens...


hadn't seen alvaro in ages, so when he hit me up outta the blue this past week and invited me over, it was a nice surprise.

his new place--a neat little suburban ranch with a pool on a peaceful street in the foothills above pasadena--is also a nice surprise. a far cry from the pico/union hellhole he used to call home, it's a definite step up, and i'm happy for him--at first, anyway.

i note the for-sale sign in the front yard, and, once inside, look around for evidence of roommates.  there is none, and the house has a definite empty look.

"how are you swinging this place by yourself?" i ask him.  and then he tells me about george.

george, the owner of the house and alvaro's benefactor, was apparently a hale-and-hearty specimen of the genus silverus daddyolus--right up until the day his tanned, pot-bellied ass suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack in some bar in palm springs, that is.

[alvaro found out when the last twink george gave his number to called it, got alvaro and told him, "old dude handed me his card, spread his arms to give me a hug and instead of leaning in, got this look on his face, fell backward, and wham! he was gone."

dunno about you, but that's totally the way i wanna go out.]

anyway, alvaro shed a tear or two for george, who had apparently been a good guy, and started preparing himself for yet another move.  he packed his shit and awaited the inevitable call from george's family.

while he waited, he poked around in george's shit, found his will

"weirdest thing--it was right on top of all his papers"

it left everything to george's enfeebled, elderly mother, with the specific stipulation that nothing go to his brothers, who had been mean to him all his life.

alvaro got a taste of what poor george had endured a few days later when mean brother #1 showed up with a u-haul to clean out the house.

"he walked in like he owned the place, and as soon as he did all the lights in the house started flickering--he asked me how long that had been happening, and i told him it had never happened before.  he laughed like he didn't believe me and said he'd call an electrician to fix it.

"the whole time they were moving george's stuff out, i kept tryin to talk to him, and he wouldn't listen--just waved me away.  and the whole time they were there, the lights were flickering like crazy.

"when they were done, he told me i had five days to clear my faggot ass outta there, or he was gonna call the cops.  i didn't say anything--just stood there in shock with my mouth open as they drove away."

and this, gentle readers, is where karma enters the tale.

because, see, the two things alvaro kept tryin to communicate to mean brother #1--but that mean brother #1 apparently didn't wanna hear--were, respectively:  (1) alvaro had found the will; and (2) all alvaro was asking was a little time in which to find a new place to live.  and if mean brother #1 had merely troubled himself to listen to alvaro with even a modicum of respect on that fateful day, this story would've ended then and there.

what happened instead?  alvaro--the sweetest guy in the world, trust me--got righteously pissed, lost the will, called an attorney, got clued into the tenant's paradise that is california, dug in his heels and has been successfully battling poor dead george's mean brothers for the past two years.

yeah, two years--since no will had been filed, probate dragged on forever due to fierce internecine battling between mean brother #1 and mean brother #2 (because by that time mom was half-addled toast), no doubt at great expense to the estate, and every attempt to sell the house once ownership was finally settled has ended badly.

"whenever people look at the house," alvaro tells me, "things just seem to go wrong."

mostly, it's the lights, he says--while they're perfectly fine most of the time, and the wiring has been given a clean bill of health by any number of electricians, they have an uncanny tendency to dim and flicker whenever a prospective buyer (or, for that matter, either of the mean brothers) is on the premises.  or sometimes a realtor will show up with a prospect, the place will suddenly "smell funny", and they'll leave quickly.

whatever--sucks for the mean brothers, but good for alvaro, right?  well, not exactly--his cheap rent has cost him dearly.

"my car died last year.  it's in the garage--it starts, but it won't go, and nobody can figure out what's wrong with it.  and without the car, i'm stuck up here in the hills--i'm barely making it."

we're in the master bedroom, admiring a vintage, beautifully framed, signed and numbered tom of finland print that mean brother #1 had found in a closet and contemptuously tossed to alvaro--the only scrap he'd left behind.  i'm researching it and i hope it turns out to be worth $15,000.

"sometimes, mike," he continues," i think i should just leave the car, throw some shit in a bag and get the hell outta here."

and with that, the lamp in the corner--which, like all the lights in the house had been burning steadily and true the whole time i'd been there--starts flickering.

he half-laughs, looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, "see?  it's like george doesn't want me to leave."

i walk him out to the living room, sit him down on the sofa, and we talk.

before i go further with this story, lemme describe the living room: a large, square space, empty save for that single sofa, its perimeter ringed with track lighting shining perfectly-spaced parabolas of light down onto art which is no longer there.

"look, alvaro," i tell him.  "i dunno if dead george is tryin to use you as a foil to keep his mean brothers' hands off his estate or not, and i don't care how cheap your rent is.  for whatever reason, this place has become a prison for you, and you need to get out--now."

simple and direct, right?

yeah.  it's at this point in time that this transient incident in my life--one of countless such moments i've experienced and have long since forgotten--becomes suddenly memorable.

because the instant those words cross my lips--and i shit you not--every light in the living room goes out.

as my eyes try to adjust to the sudden darkness, i look at alvaro with my mouth open and, in the dim twilight afforded by the shaded windows, i can see him smiling ruefully as he says, "see what i mean?"

as spooked as i am, the hairs on the back of my neck don't come to full attention until i look up and see, amongst all the dead soldiers above me, a single, solitary bulb in the perimeter track pulsing steadily with a dim, yellow glow.  because that can't be--either a circuit's dead or it's not; there's no kinda-sorta when it comes to electricity.

"i gotta go, alvaro [because i suddenly really do].  walk me out, ok?"

halfway up the driveway, i quietly tell him, "listen to me, baby:  you need to very suddenly and without warning clear the fuck outta here--like, tomorrow.  i'll come back and help you if you want."

he nods in half-hearted agreement, but he won't meet my eye, and that's when i realize alvaro's not going anywhere, and george's power over him is far greater than mine.

*     *     *     *     *

as for the above picture:  i snapped it when i was back in the car with the heater running full-blast.


as for the lights:  i called when i was a couple miles away--they were all back on.

as for this post:  just like the last story of its kind for which over the years i've taken no end of shit, i stand by every goddam word.


update: if you're interested in the further adventures of alvaro, click here.

a post for adam

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i've had a couple screenshots hanging around my desktop for the longest time, and now seems as good a time as any to use 'em.

first, there's this one:



and i particularly like this one:

as any long-time reader of this blog knows, i am an unabashed pigeonholer of people, and one of my favorite ways to pigeonhole people is by their reaction when i bring up the subject of ayn rand.

i remember the day the fountainhead first fell into my young, impressionable hands--i devoured that motherfucker from cover to cover, electrified equally by the story of architect howard roark and the philosophy underpinning the story.  i then went on to read atlas shrugged, and by the time i finished it, i was convinced--ayn rand was god.

i then grew up, learned a few things, experienced more of life, and realized it wasn't as always as simple as she made out to be--i.e., when left unregulated and to their own devices, her vaunted captains of industry have proven themselves over the course of my adult life to behave just as badly as the rest of grubby humanity when nobody's watching 'em.

but aside from that and a few other things, much of everything else this shrewd survivor of the bolshevik revolution wrote about, she got right--witness the above quotes if you disagree with me.  coming from where she did, she understood far better than the soft, privileged audience to whom she preached what their forefathers had bought for them with their blood, and what was so quickly slipping from their grasp.

bottom line:  to the degree you get ayn rand, mkf will figure you can handle hard truth.  to the degree you think she's just awful, mkf will tend to dismiss you as a lightweight.

[note to adam:  if you can't get her to read the whole post, at least make sure you rub laura's nose in both the above quotes]