Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Gay Boy Scouting


A Brief History of Boy Scouting
Boy Scout Bad Boys
The Gay Scout Master
Bad Boys in the Boonies
Earning Your Merit Badge
Elements of Scouting
Boy Scout Secrets
Scouting Out of the Closet
The Scouting Oath
The True Scout Master
Boy Scout as Houseboy
Merit Badge with Splashes of Cum on It

A Brief History of Boy Scouting

“The announcement on Monday 
by Scouts officials that the ban 
on gays was in line for elimination 
was a thunderclap”—KIRK JOHNSON
“In a Quick Shift, Scouts Rethink a 
Ban on Gays,” The New York Times 
January 28, 2013

Hence the bad boys—
making our landscape tres gay
young boy scouts bare-ass naked
except for their butchy boots…

Boy Scout Bad Boys

He seeks solitude in the woods—
his worn-out jeans and flimsy
little thongs, my cute eagle scout

While he lets me sample—
his Orange Julius eggwhite froth
those sloppy salami seconds

Smoking a joint—
while I gobble his nice gob
a lob of cumly jail bait

The Gay Scout Master

Let the needy, the glutinous—
the bald-headed gay scout masters
sprinkled with pixie dust into the

Formidable kingdom of boys—
pink as cotton candy where
the heart starts throbbing

This is where bad boys come—
feeling it down to their toes
their teenage choirs shrieking

The snug bar of soap fits—
so nicely up their tight assholes
zippity-do-dah shooting their wads

Bad Boys in the Boonies

“where we could be boys together”
—D. A. Powell, “Boonies,” Useless
Landscape: A Guide for Boys

This region of wanting it bad—
the campestral adolescent
campfire of hard-to-get

Finally I get to kiss his tits—
slide down the slippery slope
into his raffish darkest dingles

No longer banished from his—
slick abdomen, busting his nut
gloriously gobsmacked gluttony

Bon voyage to blushing boyage—
flexing his limbs, his ripe lips
finding his secret drupe at last

Earning Your Merit Badge

Your sullen slouch, rakish grin—
how is it you hold such an
awesome influence over me?

You’re the real scout master—
mastering me with a school boy’s
hard salacious striptease act

You draw me down to the prize—
earning my ultimate faggot’s
merit badge for taboo touché 

The porky-pig runny snot—
whose singular labor is mine
your snatch of plush peach-fuzz

Elements of Scouting

The horny boy scout favors nudity—
his tight loin-chop bare ass shedding
his yellow-stained pair of shorts

Gliding into my arms in the tent—
not scrimping with the exquisite
funky odor of his boyish groin

He jerks, lurches, comes—
I’m a rare spectator between his
succulent start and sweaty finish

We listen to the hoot owls at night—
but neither he nor I can sleep
so sleek sloppy seconds follow next

Boy Scout Secrets

Love never seems to dismay him—
the pop fly, brusque fast ball strike,
the Fenway Park Green Monster

He’s an easy out, an athletic slug—
letting me have his downy fuzzy
strenuous pubed runny homeruns

He takes his time making me beg—
so clever with each tight lob of cum
the queer joy of getting him off

Turning me into gay scout master—
scurrying around in a clownish tizzy
while he just sedately yawns

Scouting Out of the Closet

It’s so tacky being a faggy priest—
Worshipping the little abused lambs 
Huddled in the confession booths

I’d rather be a gay scoutmaster—
Out in the open in Mother Nature
Doing the confessing in the woods

The Vatican is so very maddening—
The Catholic Legion of Decency
Simply gets on my nelly nerves

Let me shear the cute yearlings—
Pale prepucial peachfuzz pubes
My lips smeared with cum & smegma

The Scouting Oath

Hiking up to the headwaters of—
Genius Falls in Mt. Rainier Park
you lie back naked closing your eyes

Wiry boy with an uncut prick—
pealing you back like a juicy apricot
savoring each dribble down your chest

Your long lanky legs around my neck—
your whole delinquent body full of 
Crème of Olay truant manly juices

The waterfall rocks slick, dark, steep—
The way you get cross-eyed losing it
Your family jewels squandered helplessly

The True Scout Master

The true scoutmaster always finds a way—
he knows his forebears since ancient
Greece and Rome queered those goodies

He knows how to rummage politely—
in some slick kid’s stinky stained drawers
tasting the stillborn infants yet to come

Yes, the true scoutmaster is a bastard—
needs to be bitch-slapped and chastised 
if only the parents knew his predilections

The true scoutmaster is nobody’s fool—
a lurid audacious greedy chicken queen
desecrating young pubes his work of art

Boy Scout as Houseboy

Each last drag off his cigarette—
a tacky piece of jewelry piercing
his tit, upper lip and foreskin

How i love to take out my false teeth—
and gum the kid to death, my little
lazyboy liebschen so louche & lewd

My pretty little peacock kept boy—
spawning his pouch of breeder joy
his lovely boy scout badboy booty

Society should be glad that i take—
the time to rid the boring bourgeoisie
of such a profligate useless youth

Merit Badge with Splashes of Cum on It

Once I got a lewd wad stuck down deep—
clogging my throat with the nastiest cum
tickling my tonsils like a good line of coke

I had him stripped and hanging down—
from the ceiling in chains & black leather
using a car aerial as a mean S/M switch

My mouth felt like a filthy lavatory—
doing a hand-job as he pleaded with me:
“Beat me, burn me, fuck me to death!!!”

Jailbat can be so tantalizing and alluring—
pouty young poultry the first time around
especially when you snap their Necks

Monday, January 28, 2013

Str8t Guyz Doing Drag

Str8t Guyz Doing Drag

It's such a hoot to watch str8t guys do drag. Whether it's drag, burlesque or strip-club cabaret. It's so campy like those Parisian can-can girls showing leg and doing their act up on the stage. For some reason butchy numbers getting loose and letting it all hang out turns me on. Ever since I went to a UW Crew Team Party with Frank one weekend in the U-District. It was just hilariously funny and exquisitely sexy. A couple of the muscular guys must have been bi.... because they knew how to get the whole crew team to simply howl, honey. I was simply aghast, of course. Many of them were slumming in Frank's Hesse classes. Let's say I got to have sloppy seconds after Frank got done back then.......

Gawd, I feel like Dorian's portrait up in the attic...

Saturday, January 26, 2013

After the Revolution

—for Richard Blanco

It was in the early Sixties—
And here they all were
Spread out from Miami
All the way to New Orleans

Such a loud and nervous—
Bunch of exiled young Cubans
Speaking Spanish so very
Quickly nobody could
Keep up with them

Exiles of Castro’s revolution—
Children of all the wealthy
Havana elite class: doctors,
Lawyers, politicians, spawn
Of gone Batista fat cat days

This was Latino diaspora—
Arenas, Servo Sarduy, 
Even Manuel Puig and
Kiss of the Spider Woman
Exiled gay writers that
Were more like me than
I thought back then

My exile was slower—
About as revolutionary
As a slug track of mucous
In a Garden of Str8t Eden
From which I’d been cast
In my “gringo” diaspora

I was born in bondage—
Raised in a pig sty of
Bigots and exiled the
Minute I started lisping,
Swishing, flipping my
Nelly weak wrists…

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Inaugural Poem


—for Richard Blanco

“Better to have a granddaughter
who’s a whore than a grandson 
who is un pato faggot like you”
—Richard Blanco, “Making a Man
Out of Me,” Who’s Yer Daddy?

Richard Blanco’s poem—
That he read that cold January
Day of the Inauguration
Caught America by surprise

Such a handsome Latino—
Born in Miami after Castro’s
Cuban Revolution and now
All these years later

But do things get better—
Does the abuse & bullying
Ever stop for our young gays
Exiling them to the Closet?

Did our Stonewall Riots—
And our Gay Revolution 
Ever trickle down to the
Young exiles of today?

So much homophobia—
Intergenerational warfare
Like Blanco’s prejudicial
Cuban grandmother 

Guilting the young poet—
For being effeminate and
Gay back when he was
Just seven years old

Philip Larkin knew it—
In his “This Be The Verse”
How they fuck you up, your 
Parents and your peer group

They mean to, they want to—
They fill you with the faults 
They had and add some extra
Especially just for you

Perhaps the only solution—
Letting the older generation
Finally kick the fucking bucket
Let Whitman back in town.

Monday, January 21, 2013

The Simple Art of Fag Noir Fiction


“In everything that 
can be called art…”
—Raymond Chandler
The Simple Art of Murder


In everything that can be called “Noir”—there is a quality of Subversion. It can be white trash tragedy, dinge denouement, high camp drag or dreary-dearie
sobs of distraught, heart-broken poor closet-cases.

And then there’s the fag noir writer—cruising down the mean Str8t streets who seemingly remains nonchalantly both tarnished white trash as well as dizzy dinge queen without giving it a second thought.

Like Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali, the fag noir literati know how to trash the str8t bourgeois avant-garde and shock all the hetero peons—with charming surrealist shockers like the slit eye in “Un Chien andalou” (The Andalusian Dog).

Guided by instinct—writing out of inevitability without thought, without thinking about what’s good for the church or state, not caring about the contemporary bourgeoisie, neither eunuch nor satyr, neither a duchess or a virgin queen, neither a nun nor a cross-eyed, harelipped, hunchbacked, gimpy, child-idiot nincompoop.


Insolent and snarky when in a grand dame Guignol trashy mood, quick to say “What a dump!” when in a Bette Davis bitchy disposition. Dispassionately dishy when reading some other queen’s beads, but equally as rude and caustic when parlaying with some tacky grotesque creature from “The Night of the Living Straight Dead.”

The story the fag noir writer seeks doesn’t have anything to do with truth—because the world is a grotesque House of Mirrors in a creepy str8t Circus of Sideshow Freaks and Nightmarish Debaucheries. 

Genet smirking at his handsome one-armed lover Stilatano in “Journal of a Thief”—as the hoodlum stud gets confused and lost in a carnival house of mirrors and can’t get out. So he sits down on the floor—and simply gives up. Genet doesn’t attempt to help his stra8t lover—but rather enjoys seeing such an epitome of muy macho masculinity castrated, emasculated and helpless before the laughing crowd of jeering spectators…

The story the fag noir writer seeks—doesn’t have anything to do with anything. Since the fag noir author senses the inevitable—that it’s all just a fake House of Mirrors with a range of awesome awareness by everyone that there’s no escape which startles and stuns even the dumbest reader.


The classics of fag noir fiction ooze with camp, kitsch, burlesque, cabaret and drag acts—spawning fag parodies and queer pastiches of the most sacrosanct str8t icons.

Villainous femme fatales of both sexes are cheaper by the dozen—with the resulting dose of cynicism and trashiness giving deliciously the tired, bored, str8t  bourgeoisie a nice little dose of DOD.

Not that the discrete charms of the gay bourgeoisie are much better or more acceptable—with their inevitable Fetishization of Coiffures, Cunts and stylish Contempt for each other. The usual parade of tacky tropes and typical faggy types—swishy stereotypes performing in our little “Birdcage” theater.


It probably started with Poetry—almost everything does anyway, my dears. Chandler took fag noir out of the Venetian vase and dropped it in the Vienna sewer. It doesn’t have to stay there—but it’s as a good start as anywhere. For a gay well-bred debutante—to get gnawing on a nice Justin Bieber chicken bone. 

Queens with a sharp mature aggressive attitude toward life aren’t afraid of the seamy side of things—Chandler giving campy fag noir back to the queens who committed the the despicable crime in the first place for whatever reason. 

Satire and kitschy parody of the Str8ts—is like Murder in the Cathedral. Lovely Homicide—for the Haughty Spoiled Heterosexuals.


Fag noir is a style—even though audiences don’t know it because it’s in a language not supposed to be capable of such gay refinements. 

But when language develops to the point of becoming a fag noir language—it only looks like speech. Such a style doesn’t belong to anybody—but is the American gay lingo (and not even exclusively that anymore). It can say things we don’t know how to say or feel the need for saying. It has no overtones, leaves no echo, evokes no images at the end of the rainbow.


Hemingway says somewhere that the good writer competes only with the dead. The good fag noir story writer (there must be a few out there) competes not only with the Night of the Living Dead str8t writers—but also all the hosts of living walking dead str8ts as well. 

The thing that makes fags read fag noir fiction or be fag noir moviegoers—isn’t at all the same kind of book or movie that str8ts enjoy. It’s about entirely different things. But the fag noir story and the str8t story are about the same thing. There are reasons for this too—and reasons for the reasons.

The classic Str8t Story has learned nothing—and forgotten everything. It’s a story you’ll find every day on TV, in movies, in advertising. 

The fag storyline is a trifle different—the dialog a little quicker, more risqué, more glib. There are more frozen daiquiris and stingers—more clothes by Vogue and decors tres chic. 


We spend time in Miami Beach in expensive hotels like The Carlyle—engaging in campy “Birdcage” burlesque and drag comedies. Sipping our Singapore Slings and sneering at each other. 

Straight storylines as well as fag noir ones—don’t truly come off intellectually as problems or artistically as fiction. Escaping form genre boredom—is impossible. Both str8ts and fags so similar to— Miss Genet and Stilatano in Journal of a Thief.


“every original novel is 
‘anti’—because it does not 
resemble the genre or 
kind of its predecessor”
—Vladimir Nabokov,
Strong Opinions

There’s this scene—
In Journal of a Thief when
Genet’s lover Stilatano gets
Lost in a House of Mirrors

The fairground audience—
Laughs at the spectable and
Miss Genet does nothing to
Help his handsome gangster

Genet betrays Stilatano—
Weeps yet takes a gay perverse
Satisfaction in being a voyeur
To this one-armed youth’s angst

Usually it’s the other way—
The gays continuously betrayed
By the aloof stra8t coolness 
The usual homicidal homo hate

So when Puig plays with—
Betrayal by Rita Hayworth
It’s his femme fatale alter ego
That’s getting even, my dears.

Authority frightens fags—
And yet we’re drawn to it
As surely as a nelly moth
Is drawn to butchy flame

Saturday, January 19, 2013



“While L’Age d’or perfectly illustrates the
political dimension described by Breton
in the Second Surrealist Manifesto, it
embodies in the form of the passionate
lovers the earlier Manifesto of Surrealism’s
emphasis on the role of instinct “free from
all control exercised by reason, without
regard to any aesthetic or moral concern.”
—Gwynne Edwards, A Companion to Luis Buñuel

Fag amour fou is a terrible thing—it can be just as neurotic, tortuous and heartbreaking as the compulsive heterosexual str8t version of the same thing. 

Even worse though—since fag amour fou has been up-until-lately a completely forbidden, unacceptable American lifestyle. Yet still an ever-present hidden undercurrent Undertow of the Unconscious. 

While fags in the Caribbean, the Mediterranean and ancient islands like Capri and Taormina—the people there, the wealthy aristocratic visitors, even the tired decadent jaded Roman emperors like Tiberius have simply shrugged and said “Who cares?” for centuries. 

As trashy bitchy Parker Tyler in his “Screening the Sexes: Homosexuality in the Movies” says—one  doesn’t need a beautiful sexy Elizabeth Taylor “fag hag”—for fags like Sebastian Venable to get what they want. Young tricks—Spanish, Italian, everywhere in the Third World—fall out of the sky like sparrows only too ready to do anything for a peso, lira or lousy dollar bill.

Just ask Baron von Gloeden, Norman Douglas, Andre Gide, Oscar Wilde, Lord Bosie, Graham Greene—or any of all the other queens returning from all those ocean cruises on various swank modern versions of the queer Queen Mary. 

And they’ll all say the same thing—the same thing that Mrs. Stone said during those lovely Roman Spring days of her young Italian hustler infatuations. Thanks to her pimp procurer—Lotte Lenya the Contessa of Cock.

Fag amour fou is nothing new—it’s surely as old as the Garden of Eden. Who among us, my dears, hasn’t been tempted and afflicted with fag amour fou—somewhere sometime at one time or another in our lives? Having had to live our lives in a buttoned-up, closeted world—of so-called perverted homoerotic passion? Did it really make any difference—once fag amour fou grabbed you by the balls? Hardly, my dear.

Finding ourselves caught up in queer love’s amour fou—ending up in heaven and hell being dominated and ruled by a secret passion’s forbidden pleasures, dirty denigrations, and despicable jealousies?

Any celebration of fag amour fou, the wild passion championed by the surrealists, however—has been usually defeated by the str8t world’s insidious constantly negating bourgeois restraints. Even more so with the boomerang guilt and fears of queer amour fou—the anxiety and self-imposed restraints that the str8t bourgeoisie have historically imprisoned themselves and all of us fag inmates for quite some time now.

Buñuel, however, back in Paris in the Twenties, championed amour fou—both gay and str8t. Having had relationships with Lorca and Dali—even tho he later pooh-poohed or denied it—fag amour fou opened up his surrealist filmmaking aggression with filming amour fou in both "Un Chien andalou” and “L’Age d’or.”

By the time “L’Age d’or” made it startling premier—Breton in his “Second Manifesto” had suggested that the psychical or psycho-neurotic material of automatic writing synonymous with the previous stage of Surrealism no longer was enough. The movement needed a larger conceptual stance—such as Buñuel’s structure of “L’Age d’or” rather than the automatic scriptwriting used in “Un Chien andalou.”

This was Buñuel and Dali’s method that they had streamlined and used in automatically writing the script for “Un Chien andalou”:

“Our only rule was very simple: no idea or image or image that might lend itself to a rational explanation of any kind would be accepted. We had to open all doors to the irrational and keep only those images that surprised us, without trying to explain why”

“While L’Age d’or perfectly illustrates the political dimension described by Breton in the Second Surrealist Manifesto, even with its seemingly more organized filmic structure, “L’Age d’or" still had a great deal of the mad amour fou that had earlier characterized “Un Chien andalou.”

Oblivious to all social and moral impediments, the two young people live for each other. When they are set upon by the enraged onlookers and dragged away, their physical separation cannot obliterate their thoughts or feelings for each other. 

The young man sees his beloved everywhere in advertisements for hand cream and silk stockings, and in the portrait of a girl in a window. And when she sits in front of a mirror in her bedroom, she sees not her own reflected image but a beautiful sky and passing clouds, the image of her romantic thoughts.

un chien andalou


“The cinema seems to have 
been invented to express the 
subconscious life, whose roots 
penetrate so deeply into poetry; 
but it is almost never used for 
that end.”—Luis Buñuel, Cinema, 
Instrument of Poetry

I fell for this Andalusian guy—
When he came, he’d become his dick

Or rather his dick would become—
Him with his tongue hanging out

He’d howl like a fucking dog—
Baying at the full moon at night

It wasn’t an innocent fairy tale—
Beginning with “Once upon a time”

He got me right in the eye—
Before I could get my lips on it

I doubt if Miss Dali and Buñuel—
Would approve of my queer surrealism

But what was really avant garde tho—
Was getting my tongue up his asshole

un chien andalou


The second time I got him off—
On top of the sleek grand piano 

I dragged every drop outta him—
Including a dead horse & some priests

His jet-black Andalusian pubes—
Glued themselves to my upper lip

How muy macho I looked afterwards—
With my brand new manly moustache

My palms were all itchy with ants—
The neighbors banging on the walls

He made me swallow every drop—
Every snotty, cheesy, awful squirt

It was all very surrealistically chic—
My new Andalusian boyfriend so hot

War Gods of the Deep


“Smells like overripe cheese”
—Samuel Z. Arkoff

“The worst films which I have
seen contain five marvelous 
minutes, while the best films,
the most praised, have
scarcely more than five
worthwhile moments.”
—Man Ray

Any film with Vincent Price and Tab Hunter in it—has simply got to be exquisitely kitschy and campy.

This Samuel Z. Arkoff Grade Z trashy movie stars— Vincent Price the master of suspense and horror in another cheesy adaptation of an Edgar Allan Poe turbulent fantasy. 

Along with still handsome and daring Tab Hunter—along with the alluring Susan Hart of “Pajama Party” fame. 

Directed by genius noir Jacques Tourneur—who brought you such thrillers as “The Cat Woman” and “I Walked With a Zombie.” As well as “The Seventh Victim” and “The Curse of the Demon.”

A simply marvelous mish-mash of underwater Mermen and exploding volcanoes beneath the sea—this meandering piece of shit is well worth an intoxicated trashy cheesy Saturday Night at the Faggoty Movies.

Friday, January 18, 2013



And now, my dears, the dark side of gay marriage.

Divorce, disillusionment, disenchantment and then, of course, the usual straight soap opera called Adultery. It’s all there—ready or not. Just like Halloween—trick or treat, my dears. Waiting for us.

Not that I’m pushing the same old usual happy go lucky Wizard of Oz routine—that old hackneyed “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” Riggermarole Spiel. You know, the old used-up gay fairy tale version of—“And they lived happily ever after etc.” 

It gets grimmer than that, honey—try Billy Wilder’s “Double Indemnity” and then think about the legal depths inherent in any marriage vow whether straight or GLBT-wise, my dears. The nefarious legal and insidious insurance racket that awaits thee, my dears—but then isn’t that what we naïve gay lib advocates want? 

But before reverting to the Barbara Stanwyck-Fred MacMurray routine devised by Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler to get rid of that gay spouse of yours that you don’t want anymore—let’s pause a moment at the lovely chapel door or Las Vegas quickie marriage drive-in window and calmly, coolly review our rather sticky-wicket Problem.

What about being accommodated into to this so-called Wonderful Lovely Eternal Str8t Marriage Vow Racket Routine—pause a moment and remember your parents. 

How Str8t Marriage made life hell for them and all those other poor bourgeois Breeders and Straight Suckers out there? 

The same old Whatever Whomever Whenever For Ever and Ever After Routine? Let’s ponder this Heteronormative Carnie Side Show Spiel for a moment—before we leap into Dante’s Str8t System of Hell.

Like the Fall of the Berlin Wall—we’ve got DOMA, DADT, the Ban Against GLBT Marriage as well as the Right Wing Conservative Religious Creeps Coalition seemingly beginning to crack, crumble and tumble down right before our eyes. 

Surely we fags and the other members of our GLBT Coalition are now quite the quite Miss Avant Garde Queen Bees and undoubtedly we’re definitely rather de regeur now, don’t you think?

But  now, my dears—the bright side of gay marriage.

From a fag movie queen’s perspective—what could be a more exquisitely thrilling preview of our future gay marriage possibilities than the classic original  “Staircase” (1969) version of our simply marvelous homosexual marital bliss just waiting for us? 

This simply fabulously tubercular version of Harry (Richard Burton) and Charlie (Rex Harrison) posing as without a doubt the most simply charming and entrancingly thrilling Married Hairdresser Couple in the whole scintillatingly gay fairy Universe?

Vito Russo simply lauds and praises to high heaven this heartwarming Stanley Donen-Charles Dyer stage play adaptation Romance of contemporary ecstatic Gay Marriage—so touchingly lavishing Kudos in his lovely early gay film classic film review Tome ”The Celluloid Closet” (1981).

According to critic Russo, “Staircase” is the perfect example of what our chic kosher Heteronormative Accommodation Style is heading for—a modern gay lifestyle bathed in the glorious Straight Mainline Glow of Busy Breeder Existence today. Doesn’t That just simply Thrill Your Little Funny Bone?

Yes, my dears, Miss Russo courageously pooh-poohs the various gay critics that say that “Staircase” is much too “poofy” of a gay movie to be Real—and that “Staircase” simply portrays much too homophobically the typically stereotypical and politically incorrect views of what Hairdressers are all like. After all, new Gay Lib Times have arrived…

But surely, my dears, all that was then—and this is so very tres Nouveau Now. All that was 40 years ago—it’s Ancient History. And here we are in the bright glowing promising days of GLBT 2013? 

With all the hoopla about DOMA and DADT and Gay Marriage Bans coming down state-by-state like a row of dominos. Like the Fall of the tacky Cold War Berlin Wall way back then—one simply has to surely simply just flow with the Breeder Mob? 

But what does the Faggy Future actually have in store for us, honey? Rather than consulting the usual dreary-deary literary critics prognostications and crummy sniveling drama critics drivel, I decided to go straight to the Font of Flaming Fag Wisdom itself.

I flew to Las Vegas and immediately had a Tarot Reading with Madame Sosostris—the Infamous Clairvoyante of Miss Eliot’s dreary-deary “The Waste Land.”

Unfortunately, she slipped a Mickey is my Martini—and robbed me blind. I woke up in a dark Las Vegas back alley behind Caesar’s Palace casino—hung over and missing one my kidneys that the organ black market dealers sold for big bucks in Poughkeepsie.

Since then I’ve unfortunately had several Gay Divorces. The Divorce Lawyers bled me dry. Plus I’m a Dead Beat Dad now with years of tardy Fag Father Back Child-Support payments hanging over my nelly nefarious head!!!

My Ex-Gay Partner’s sex-change operation forced me into tragic Bankruptcy with all that expensive Desert Springs face-lift surgery—and now She simply hates my guts for her Botched Sex Change Operation without any medical insurance to get her dick back again!!!

Other than that, though, isn’t Gay Marriage simply the most Marvelous Thing to happen to all of us liberated Heteronormative Homosexuals in this whole Wide Wonderful World, my dears?

Thursday, January 17, 2013

indiscreet charm


A deliciously satiric remake of the Luis Buñuel classic film, “The Discreet Charm of Bourgeoisie” (1972).

A gay middleclass sextet sits down to dinner but never gets served. Their attempts to dine in fancy restaurants are continuously frustrated by a series of vaudevillian events both acted out and imagined.

Like the doomed crowd of playgoers in “The Exterminating Angel” (1962)—the gay bourgeoisie are trapped in their cramped condo cage with no escape. 

Then after being miraculously and unexplainably released—they go to a gay nightclub to celebrate their new-found freedom only to end up being trapped all over again. 

The gay bourgeoisie are continuously bored and trapped—commuting back and forth to work on grid-locked freeways day after day. There is no escape.

What’s indiscreet about the gay bourgeoisie—is they lack any class or discrete charm. No saucy jouissance or upper middleclass c'est la vie. Only their bored and frustrated attempts—each day to simply get by, to get served and somehow just survive.

The problem with being gay bourgeoisie—is that accommodation by the ruling Str8t Heteronormative Class comes at price. Even after going mainstream after DADT with gay marriage and all those other lovely hetero perks—life still remains so boring and very tiring.

Boring, tiring, tacky & so tres bourgeois and commonplace. There’s simply no escape—being gay middleclass bourgeoisie. 

Simply more excruciating ennui—with each day of crummy captivity.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

north by northwest


“coldness, perverse imagination,
an edge of elitist superiority—
the sophisticated, deadly sissy”
—Vito Russo, The Celluloid Closet
Homosexuality in the Movies

Hollywood’s “deadly sissies”—such as Clifton Webb in “Laura,” Peter Lorre in “The Maltese Falcon” and Martin Landau in “North by Northwest.” 

Why do these “deadly sissies” seem so threatening and perversely lethal to movie audiences?

Is it because these “deadly sissies,” these brooding, sinister “fags” that insidiously pop up in films every once in awhile are inherently evil?

Is that why Hollywood put them in films—especially during the homophobic Forties, Fifties and Sixties to the audience’s skin crawl especially if the audience was a bunch of typically hetero str8t moviegoers?


These what I call “Fag Noir” male femme fatales seem to me to be so much more evil, suave and tres sophisticated—than the usual retinue of nefarious Hollywood heterosexual murderers and criminals typically portrayed in classic film noir films.

Or is it just my gay imagination playing tricks on me again? Is there a possible hidden gay genre-within-a-genre called ”fag noir”?   

Fag-noir. A genre which perverts and queers the “normal” run-of-the-mill traditional Heteronormative antihero-narrative so pervasive in the usual Raymond Chandler, Mickey Spillane way of representing crime melodrama fiction?

Is fag noir a new genre or has it always been around—submerged, hidden, subversive and sexually transgressive?

Is it perhaps because most str8ts have been trained,  acculturated, queered into always despising, sneering , even fearing fags—especially sneaky, bitchy, conniving “deadly sissies” like Bruno Anthony (Robert Walker) in “Strangers On a Train”? 

As well as those snide, snotty sissies like George Sanders playing cool but lethal Addison Dewitt the bit dry drama critic in “All about Eve.” 

What about Farley Granger and John Dall in “Rope”—aren’t these killer sissy types simply the worst? Popping up like evil blips on the gaydar screens of all decent law-abiding DOMA DADT antigay Americans?

“covert homosexual relationships
in Hitchcock films like Martin Landau 
and tamer Maim in North by Northwest”
—Vito Russo, The Celluloid Closet
Homosexuality in the Movies

In many ways Martin Landau in “North by Northwest” perhaps portrays one of the most petulant evil deadly sissy villains of all—playing James Mason’s ever vigilant, always close by his side, suspicious personal secretary, Leonard.

At one point toward the end of “North by Northwest” Mason actually says to Landau: “Why Leonard, I’m touched. I think you’re actually jealous.” 

This remark has to do with Mason’s attractive female companion, Eva Marie Saint. With Landau playing the sissy spy simply seething with green homosexual jealousy. Martin Landau is not only Mason’s personal secretary and right-hand man, he’s also Mason’s male lover.

Landau is like a snake—constantly slithering around in the nefarious background of “North by Northwest” masterminding all the dirty work. Like getting Cary Grant totally intoxicated—enough to drive off a cliff in a Mercedes convertible to his death.

Landau is competing with Eva Marie Saint for James Mason’s attention—Mason and Landau appearing as a gay couple in almost every scene. They’re both spy accomplices in the espionage racket—around them much of the action of the movie revolves.

Then toward the end of the movie, Landau grinds his heel down on Cary Grant’s fingers and wrist as he and Eva Marie Saint cling to Washington’s nose on the steep side of Mt. Rushmore. 

The look of insidiously evil sissy hatred writhing on Landau’s face captures the fag noir male femme fatale perfectly—before he himself is shot and falls over the edge into the abyss far down below instead.

It’s interesting how deadly Sissyhood—picks and chooses the Fag noir male actors it wants who get to play the nefarious role of such sinister sisterhood. 

For example, Cary Grant and Montgomery Cliff both turned down the roles of teacher and student in Hitchcock’s “Rope”—it wasn’t good for their so-called Str8t Hollywood image they thought.

While James Mason and Martin Landau both agreed to play the evil sissy roles in “North by Northwest.” The same with Robert Walker and Farley  Granger in “Strangers On A Train.”

Does the role of evil sissy as the epitome of fag noir male femme fatales still exist in Hollywood’s movies today? 

Or was such a role of evil sissyhood just a function of the gay clandestine life style of the time—hidden in the closet and censored by the Legion of Decency  and the Moral Majority from the great Silver Screen? 

Does the James Mason-Martin Landau gay relationship in “North by Northwest” represent gay relations today—or was this so-called evil sissyhood Mason-Landau relationship just a function of the repressed, homophobic times back in 1959?