Jesus Has Two Daddies

Hark, the herald angels shout!
One goddamn string of lights is out!

Well, 'tis the season - at night, other than the Great Wall of China, the only other thing that can be seen from outer space is: our house (although it is a very, very, very fine house). 

My housemates, of 20 years, John & Tony, LOVE to decorate the house at Christmas.  Tony is sent up on to the roof, generally in October to put all of the outside house lights in place (before weather makes that a suicide mission).  The outside trees and bushes can then be done at leisure.

Right after Thanksgiving and once poor Tony (the only one still agile enough) brings all of the boxes of ornaments up from the basement - they fill up the guest bedroom in its entirety.  Christmas, especially for gay men (I don't mean to call out any one group, but if you can name another who is, in a preternaturally large percentage, associated with good taste and creativity then please do keep me posted) as Christmas allows for the very tasteful to dip their toes in, dare I say it, the Sea of Gaudy. 

As long as taste and elegance have been restored by Epiphany.

In fact, it is a widely held belief, amongst a very large group of our friends, that any house, any where, that has Christmas decorations up after the 6th of January, must sadly be the home of people who drink way too much to care.  Although strands of just white lights are always in good taste.  In a car of any size, with any combination and permutation of our friends, the ones we see all the time and the ones we see once every few years, if we pass a house with Christmas stuff happening outside of the allotted time period, all conversation stops, and just like a Greek chorus, we cast our eyes downwards, and whisper, out of the sides of our mouths, "Alcoholics".

Anyway, this year is rather low-key and we have just the one tree.  Perfectly shaped and decorated, precisely as John's mother taught him - small ornaments at the top and then growing in size with the very largest baubles at the bottom.  It truly is magnificent and I have seen more than one straight man clutch his pearls and mutter "stunning" under his breath.  This year is a "bubble lights" year which Tony & I adore (and John does not).

Last year had been a non-bubble light year and so we hung the movie star ornaments on the main tree as well (they have often had their own tree in other years).  Ours, I can absolutely guarantee you, is the only household, in the world, in which it is possible for the following exchange to have actually happened last year:

Me: Uh-oh
John: What?
Me: I believe Myrna Loy just fell off the tree.

And sure enough she had.  This year, the movie stars are adorning the oleander.

For the first ten years that we lived here - I was always away at work, hearing Christmas carols played on the steel drum.  Really never did get used to that.  Anyway, at some point, John had decided to go through my boxes of Christmas ornaments which I had packed up when mummy died and never looked at again.  Lo and behold, he found the little wooden crèche that had belonged to my mother's mother and perhaps went even further back to Ireland.  The house here had been always been manger-free until then but for some reason John brought it out. 

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Now, this is "Crèche Fucking Central".  The boys have collected either whole manger scenes or parts thereof in their travels over the last 20 years.  I was quite moved, the first year I was living here on a full-time basis, to see the crèche of my childhood that had always been on our mantle at home.  Upon closer inspection however, I found that a pink Cadillac and a turkey, that is way larger than scale, had apparently also made their way to Bethlehem.  Part of the reason for the turkey being so large is that once you lift up the turkey, there is a couple illustrating one of the many, many positions of the kama-sutra.  Oh, holy night, indeed!

Now, there is one Nativity that is all gold (which would be OTT at any other time of year, but is perfectly perfect just now).  There was another that was basically just three large wisemen, so we always thought of that one as them packing for their road trip to Bethlehem.  Sadly, Tony took out two of those wisemen last year when he fell down the steps and cracked a couple of his ribs.  A couple of other manger scenes are also scattered about the house.

Santa Claus? I cannot even begin to guess the number but there is not a place to cast one's eye in the kitchen in which there is nary a Santa.  But then again, the kitchen is black & white with red accents so it was just made for Santamania.

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We are having a very small sit-down tomorrow night and I must remember to point out two things to our guests - one would be to not let the dessert I have made get anywhere near the candles.  The bourbon content is high.

And the other, is to point out our favourite of all of the nativity scenes.  It is a wee, small one and was brought back from one of John & Tony's many trips to Italy but sadly, the Blessed Mother had been decapitated on the trip home.  No worries though, we hooked Joseph up with one of the wisemen and voilà -

Jesus has two daddies!

Merries & Ho's to one and all!

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Why Can't I Think Of Something That Stupid?

Whoever said, "There's a sucker born every minute" (and to those, who even as you are reading this are thinking, "P.T. Barnum, ya stupid git" or words to that effect and to whom I must counter, "Nuh-uh, s'not - Google it") now, where was I?  Oh yes, an illiteracy of idiots, a confederacy of dunces - well, let's just say they abound.

The vastness of the very vapid first became apparent to me in the mid-70's when the "Pet Rock" became such a sensation.   I could see how it might've had limited appeal in say, New York City.  Although let's be realistic, if, for reasons I still cannot fathom, we wanted to add a rock to the family, we would've had to go either all the way (three blocks) to Central Park or "to the country" to pick one out. We could however go and view them at The Met (four blocks), or on our very exciting forays (in taxi cabs through the park) to The West Side and The Museum of Natural History.  This way we could visit them without all the responsibility and emotional attachment that might come with having a pet one.

I have, of course, now found, over several decades of not living in New York, that rocks are every-fucking-where!  Not a day has passed since then that I haven't kicked, trod upon, tripped over, driven over or had ricochet off my windscreen, gravel, pebbles and rocks.  This is Montana - we grow rocks here.

And yet - quite successful were those rocks in a box.  Go figure.

At the moment, I am greatly perturbed by the popularity of something called a "Snuggie".  Can there really be THAT many people who are ill-equipped to use a normal blanket?  Except for the polyester part, back in the day, my people used to have the same thing - except we turned it around, added a smart little belt and called it a robe, FFS!

But wait - there's more!

Now there is some new thing that is a one piece body suit, that looks good on absolutely not. one. single. person in the commercial.  It appears to be made of 151% fully flammable polyester and there is absolutely no way that anyone wearing this ensemble can look dignified.  Ever.  And yet, they'd have you think that it's what everyone is wearing now.  There's at least one guy in the ad who, in a smart suit, could totally pull off Captain of Industry but alas, just as with the rest of the poor people in the ad, the only vision that this one piece suit really conjurs up is Polyester Cult Member.

Why am I talking such smack about polyester? Well, A) I really only like natural fibers - mostly cotton (I have a love/hate relationship with fleece and will only wear that which is either 100% cotton or has the very smallest amount of polyester) and 2) Other than that, what can I say - it's the same thing with Mandy Patinkin.  Neither Mandy nor polyester have ever done anything to me personally, it's just that they both give me the creeps.

Let's face it, I ain't gettin' any younger and not only are the chances almost non-existent that I will ever get to retire - I may actually still have to work for another three years after I am dead - so it is clearly becoming incumbent upon me to come up with a better plan than the daily entry into the Publisher's Clearing House dealio.  I wonder if they reanimate Ed McMahon now to give the winner the giant cheque or if it is someone else?

So, pet rocks, backwards robes and an outfit that screams, "Help me, I am being held hostage in some sort of wintery Jonestown.  They're going to make us drink the hot spiced cider tonight". 

I'm reasonably smart, why can't I think of something that stupid?

Nigel Tufnel pain scale

My body came up with a way to celebrate both Veteran's Day as well as Nigel Tufnel Day.  Unfortunately, it was an executive decision in which I had not been consulted.  I so would've voted no.

Anyone who has been playing along knows that I have rather a lot of body parts that have just packed it in.  I don't mean to be whiny, just catching other people up. It started with a ruptured disc and sciatica in 1978 and it's just been downhill from there. I wondered if my doc's assistant (a lovely woman, really) was taking acting lessons on the side after calling me with the results of my x-ray's to tell me, in a rather dramatic delivery that I had "severe osteoarthritis" in my knees.  No cartilage. Nada. Zip.  Alright then, good to know. Thanks.

At the time of my heart attack, two and a half years ago - I would say that my daily pain, on the old 1-10 scale was maybe 5.  I think that because my body has been falling apart gradually rather than all at once it has allowed me to develop a fairly high threshold of pain.  I also think that like our parents' generation, we still hold a sort of "suck-it up and walk-it off" ethic.  I tried to walk off my heart attack for 20 hours before I finally thought "Yeah, this can't be good".  I just got lucky.

I was faithful about going to the physical therapy, but
unfortunately finally had to quit because they didn't listen to me.  When I explained that my knees and back no longer work all that well, I'd get, "Why don't we just do a mile on the treadmill?" We?  WE??  OK, well first, even when I had hit "Circus Fat" did I ever refer to myself in the first person plural. Please do not "we" me, lady.  I've been living in this body for almost 51 and a half years and I don't recall ever seeing you there.

Anyway, in my effort to be a good and compliant patient, I went along with it until finally I couldn't deal with the collateral damage that was being done to other parts. When I told them that we would be parting ways, the always upbeat lady said "Oh, that's too bad - we were doing so well" and all I could think was, "Yeah, well I'm beginning to feel like an only slightly more ambulatory version of James Caan to your Kathy Bates".  My daily average pain had wandered up to about 6.

Now I just go with stretching, five pound weights and dancing.  Just put on my iPod and rock out.  It's both cathartic and is flexible enough so that on the days that the same can not be said for you, you can just use the other parts that seem to be acting reasonably.

This past spring my body decided to give me a little something new to take out for a spin: bursitis in my right hip.  How craptastic.  It was pretty hideous for a couple of weeks and then faded back a bit.  It never went away completely but was behaving rather like a sibling who is waving his fingers 1/32 of an inch away from your face thus inciting the ballad of the back seat: "Make him stop touching me", "Nuh-uh, not touching, not touching".  Anyway, it never went completely away, it was no where near what it was in the beginning but it would continue to make its presence known.  I believe that I was being stalked quite frankly.  Up we go to 6.5 now being the very best for which I can hope.   Oh well, suck it up.

Just this past Monday, at some point in the mid-day, BOOM, full-on, "Hi, didja miss me? I'm baaack" in my right hip.  I am trying to maintain my sense of humour and remember that Maya Angelou said something to the effect of "Just because I have pain, doesn't mean I have to be one".

On Tuesday morning, I put in for refills of my pain meds because it can sometimes take a couple of days and I wanted to make sure I was covered for the weekend.  Today's pain is brought to you by the number 8.

Check-in at the pharmacy Tuesday on the way home from work.  Yes for my muscle relaxers, No for the hydrocodone.  Oh well, that was just a crap-shoot anyway. I still have a couple of my pills left. 

Wednesday morning, closing in on 9 territory.  I really hate when that happens.  Had to go do one thing that absolutely had to be done for work, went to check back at the Drug store. Nein.  Alright, still have another day or so.

Thursday - this is going to be my lucky day, I can just feel it in my bones.  And joints.  And tendons.  And muscles. And nerves.  No worries, I have two pills left (although three is what it takes to make even the slightest difference).  I get through the things that I absolutely, positively had to get sorted out at work and then on my way home at around 3:00pm, I was going to suck it up, put my head phones on loud, get food for the weekend, pick-up my pain meds, go home, make a nest of the 9 pillows I seem to require and spend the weekend laying on ices packs, etc. and really commit to not doing all of that ADD wandering about - just for a couple of days.

The prescription still has not come back - very frustrating because they really are usually quite good on both ends.  No pain meds on Thursday night. Ow.

Guess what happened this morning?  Did anyone guess bursitis in the other hip as well?  Alright then - gold stars on your foreheads.

Called the Pharmacy, the prescription is in, oh, wait but there is a hold on it because insurance won't pay for it until the 15th.  I only wished that this sort of thing surprised me anymore but I am, more often than not, the living embodiment of "If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all".  The young lady (they know me well there, and really always do their best to try to sort something out) said though that she could give me some of the prescription if I wanted to just pay the regular non-insurance rate.  Hell yeah, I'll pay anything.  Seriously, I'm at 9.5 and sinking.

Now, how to get there with the least amount of sceaming and swearing? ........Nope, never mind, there is no way - just off you go.  9.5 was my resting pain rate, certain movements, going up and down the stairs and in and out of the car for example, had me letting go with some humdingers.  No one can compete with a private catholic school girl when it comes to swearing. No. One.  

I was seeing stars at this point but made it to the shop, picked-up my meds and took them immediately when I got home.  I'm down to about a 7.5 which doesn't sound all that great but believe me, I am grateful since a couple of times today certain movements made me hit 11, just for a second, but still...

The irony of hitting an 11 on 1-10 scale on 11/11/11 has not been lost to me. It does not amuse me but I accept it.

Do not attempt to adjust your regular pain scale. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Nigel Tufnel pain scale.

If Only My Metabolism Matched My Attention Span.

I used to have an attention span.  Really, I did.  As a child I could spend hours reading a book, or playing cards, or backgammon or whatever.  Now, there is absolutely no question that I have ADHD.  Or ADD.  Or, quite simply, JWTFiGoH (Just WTF is Going on Here)?

I no longer seem to be able to go from Point A to Point B in one straight line.  Either physically or mentally.  My last 15 minutes have been as follows: I should really write a post about something. I think I'll nuke some broccoli.  Type in the name of the post and part of the first paragraph.  Go to iTunes, download a song.  Think about downloading some more.  Nope, let me go back to writing the post.  WTF am I watching on TV at the moment?  Comment on someone's post on facebook.  Type a bit more.  Oh, I should take my empty broccoli bowl to the kitchen. Get up (or slide down, my bed is a bit higher than standard but then again, I am a bit shorter than standard) and let loose with the usual string of invectives that accompany any movement made once all of my joints have frozen up from sitting for all of 6 minutes.  Return from the kitchen with some pistachio nuts.  It's the lowest fat nut you know. Seriously, what is on my TV?  Scroll through the channel channel.  Switch over to "Little Miss Sunshine".  Oh shucks, man - why isn't this one of the High Def channels?  Crap, now I need a fresh Diet Coke.  Exchange empty can for full one.  Alright then, what was I writing about?

Oh yes, then there are the times I find myself in a room but have no idea why I am there.  The small lounge off of my bedroom is a room that I refer to as "The Room of French Farce".  It is maybe 8 x 10 but there are five (yeah, I said it, FIVE) doors off of this room - so when I come to the inevitable halt in that room and ask myself what in the fresh hell is it that I was going to do, this room is of no help whatsoever.  It is merely a portal to several other places.  Am I doing laundry?  Was I getting something from the kitchen?  From the bathroom? From the cupboard?  From the back fridge? Am I leaving the house?  It often just ends up with me back in my bedroom trying to remember what it was I was trying to accomplish in the first place. 

Oh, sorry I'm back again, just went over to fb for a minute. 

Hey, look - the guy  from "Breaking Bad" is in "Little Miss Sunshine". 

Right, the attention span thing - I blame it on the whole "multi-tasking" movement.  What the hell happened to just tasking?

Why do we need to move faster? Why do we have to have everything right now?  Patience used to be a virtue - now the three minutes it takes to boil a cup of water for tea just seems WAY too long.  As foretold in the book of Eagle: "Life in the fast lane - surely makes you lose your mind.  Life in the fast lane - everything - all the time".

I believe that the philosopher, West, summed it up nicely when he said:

Work it, make it, do it, makes us
Harder, better, faster, stronger

N-n-now that that don't kill me
Can only make me stronger
I need you to hurry up now
Cause I can't wait much longer

I have already wandered aimlessly for over a half a mile in a very small space today. 

I have also just gone back to iTunes and downloaded that Kanye song.  Now I am listening to it, dancing from the waist up and typing...

Nope, wait here - full dance break!

I have the attention span of a hummingbird - if only my metabolism matched my attention span...

Bite Me!

Oh Yay!  It's almost November - one of the three sweeps periods of the year.  Every show pulls out all the stops competing for the biggest audience.  Or, technically, the most number of viewers.

For reasons I cannot fathom, for talk and entertainment shows this means -  let's dust off the fat suit again and dress some unbelievably tiny woman in it and send her out into the world.  Goody!

After watching her attempt to maneuver her way through life (through the miracle of at least 25 pounds of hidden camera equipment built into the suit), we then get to listen to the once again wee woman weep her way through the narration of the video.  The taunting, the cruelty, the shame, the pity, the agony, the agony, blah, blah.  Fun!

I believe you could improve your viewership even further if you could put someone, like say, me, into the suit of a woman who weighs less than a load of wet laundry. Now, THAT would be something to see.  Magic!

Americans are getting bigger - it's a fact.  A sad one, but a truth nonetheless.  I question the wisdom then, of pissing off such a large demographic.  And yes, I mean it both figuratively as well as literally.

And what if someone, (and again, I will be the example) were able to whip my big brethren into a frenzy - we would be a force to behold!  While I can be very persuasive, I prefer to use my powers for good.  It's just lucky for you that I am lazy as well (but the jolly and light on my feet bits have held me in good stead my whole life.  It's not all doom and gloom, you know).

And so, to all of you air-brushed, impossibly thin "reporters" and "anchors" (all of whom I could probably snap like a twig just by looking at you real hard - but again, I'll be the, uh, bigger person), on behalf of a movement I prefer to call "More Of Us To Love" (or maybe, "Large & In Charge" - I don't know, can't decide) may I say:

Bite me!

Don't Forget The Glitter.

It recently occurred to me that Keith Morrison of NBC's Dateline has a propensity for making everything he says sound creepy.  He could be reading fairy tales or nursery rhymes and all you could hope was that Chris Hansen would arrive imminently with his hidden camera crew to find out just WTF was going on here.

Upon further reflection I wondered just WTF was going on here and who decided that these generally horrifying stories should be read to small children?  And just before bed?  Some ye Olde Association of Therapists?  The only "fairy tales" that had truth in advertising were those by the Brothers Grimm.  Today they seem more appropriate to be episodes of, I don't know, "Law & Order".

For example, I'm pretty sure that Child Protective Services should've been called in for both the cases of Hansel & Gretel v. Stepmother as well as the old lady who lived in a shoe with so many children she...what's that?  Oh, her name is Nadya Suleman, the shoe is a stucco house and CPS has already been called.  Alright then, good to know.

Or Bambi?  Really?  Bambi, Thumper and Flower frolicking about the forest then BOOM, "Sorry, Bambi, your mother is dead".  I can still remember becoming almost inconsolable listening to this story on the record player (the VCR/DVR of the 50's & 60's).  If I had even ever seen a deer at that point, it would've been in the Central Park Zoo but it was the principle of the thing. 

And Little Miss Muffet?  Bitch, please - really not as innocent as it seems.  Particularly to the arachnophobic child.  If this goddamn spider is so big that it actually "sits" beside her then get Chris Hansen in here STAT because the odds that the local exterminator has released a gross of pregnant spiders from Three Mile Island to drum up business are pretty high.  Especially in this economy. 

So, after enduring wolves blowing down houses (and when they can't get work blowing down the houses then they are out wilding in the forest and stalking a young girl in a red hoodie who is just trying to get to her grandma's house) or hearing about a little blonde girl who had not just one but THREE bears break into her house (and again, where are that child's parents? ) this is then generally followed by "Well then, good night, dear.  Sleep tight." 

Sleep tight my ass! Didn't you hear the story you just read to me?  Oh please, won't you read me "In Cold Blood" or "Frankenstein" tomorrow night?  My sole consolation for many of these stories was the distinct lack of wildlife on the island of Manhattan however my stress levels elevated anytime we left "town" and went to "the country". 

Quite frankly, I would like to suggest that the term "fairy tale" be retired altogether unless it can be said with the proper reverence. This is a complete misnomer anyway - at least for those of us who know that a true Fairy Tale would have better lighting, more musical numbers and witty repartee.  Oh, and glitter. AND it would win Tonys, Emmys and Oscars.  And even the straightest dudes would be heard whistling the tunes - days later.

These stories of horror should henceforth be known as "Here's a little ditty that should start you well on your way down the yellow brick road of life-long insomnia".

Let's eschew (bless me) old school fairy tales and break the chain of reading stories about cannibalism, bear, wolf and atomic-size spider attacks and general death and dying to our children.  There's plenty of time for them to find out that life isn't fair. And that there are days when that is the best that can be said. Also, they really need their sleep.

Let's read the stories with the better lighting that show that all anybody wants is to be treated kindly or that being different is to be celebrated. 

Let's teach them happy and empowering songs and not something like, say, "Ring Around the Rosie" - 'cause really, nothing says "Yay, it's great to be alive" better than a song about The Plague.  Instead, teach them to lipsync to Miss Gloria Gaynor's, "I Will Survive" or, "And I Am Telling You" and perhaps for good measure, throw in "R.E.S.P.E.C.T". There are several valuable life lessons to be learned in these songs.

Children should know that sticks and stones may indeed break their bones but that a witty comeback is  often the best revenge.  Develop an extensive vocabulary.  Words good.

Oh, and don't forget the glitter...

For What It's Worth...

This past week I was honoured to be taken as "Show & Tell" to the pre-school of my second tiniest bff, Margot.  Music is a big part of their curriculum (which I find most laudable as well as awesome!) so I went there to sing Loudon Wainwright III's, "The Swimming Song".  This is a song that I have been singing to Margot since she was a baby.

I did not however, as I had threatened on facebook two nights before, conclude the program with "Peace Out. L'il MoFos" and then, gangsta that I am, a mic-drop.  I just thanked them and said that they were the most sober audience for whom I had ever played - leaving off that this included the fact that I used to have to play at Sunday morning Mass (flipping Vatican II, damn your folk masses) as well as Mass at school all the way through middle and high schools.  Jesus wept.

Since I had behaved (which I can only imagine is a sign of aging - not sure I like it), apparently the teachers want me to come back again.  I am delighted but quite frankly my repertoire is built on a foundation of songs about drinking, life's regrets, love (both lost and unrequited), some drug-taking and often include swear words - you know, the set-list of any bar singer - it occurs that I need to have a think about what else I might be able to learn and play for them. 

I haven't quite figured that out yet since my lack of attention span then had me hop on facebook, see that one of my bro's had posted a Peter Gabriel song and then think, "I totally need some Peter Gabriel on my iPod" so, I downloaded "SO" and mentally wandered off, thinking about how finally, FINALLY, the masses are mad as hell and won't take it anymore.   Here.  In America.

Our Federal government has done fuck-all because no one will listen to anyone else and on local levels with the stripping of Union rights, making voter registration requirements almost impossible and these little GOP fiefdoms popping up all over the goddamn place - the kettle has finally whistled.

Yet, I was still on iTunes (RIP Steve Jobs - that you came up with a concept that allows me to sit at home, and think, "I really like that song, X" and then in a true act of instant gratification allows me to own that song two minutes later and be able to play it at high volume in my headphones is, to me, the best invention.  Ever!).  These protests, national and international, made me think of all of the music of my youth, songs of protest, yet songs of peace.  Songs that implored us to make our voices heard.  Anthems and hymns that made us want to in fact, get up, stand up, stand up for our rights.  Not that we are completely without that now, "Sing" by My Chemical Romance is a brilliant example.

The song that then came to my mind (and I'm afraid I don't know the path that got me there, so let's just move along) first came out when I was just beginning to play the guitar.  It was not a song I played at that time since the list of songs that I could sing convincingly, given the fact that I was 10 and growing up on the Upper East Side, was limited.  WTF did I know?  There was really no trouble I had seen, whether anyone knew it or not.  Maybe that's why that little girl who sings in that fat-old-opera-diva-lady voice creeps me out so.  My set-list was mostly The Monkees and those songs suitable for folk masses - some Jesus-y and then others like "Blowing In The Wind". 

This song, I now realize, has only three chords and so, on this cold, gray, wet Montana fall day, I am going to memorize the words so that I can play it and invite those who know it to sing along (no, you wouldn't have to know the words exactly, that's my worry) and dedicate it to those who will now take up the mantle (as we have been there, done that and the mantle is a little heavier than many of us should be reasonably expected to lift at this point).

And so, in the words of the philosopher, Stills:

I think it's time, we stop, children - what's that sound?
Everybody look what's going down.

'Course I also think that Jay-Z/Alicia Keys' "Empire State of Mind" should replace "New York, New York" as the state song.

For what it's worth....