Since I have been such an ass lately, and forgetting to keep up with my "Oprah's Gratitude Journal," clearly depicted in my cranky ass, mopey posts as of late... I have decided to mix it up a bit.
Please forgive me now, if you have no sense of humor. (If you don't, I suspect we aren't really friends anyway, so how did you get this link???) If you do have a (perhaps crass and inappropriate) sense of humor, then please read on.
Despite my boring yet candid prattling on, I realized that this is maybe the most direct line of communication I have with people right now. (Dodging a few phone calls here and there, and taking too long to get back to emails that ask me how I am doing. Emily, I am well... How are you?)
I am seeing patterns that much of what I have been writing about is bad television, silly movies: Strangers with Candy, Graham Norton (Oh, so good~), Imagine Me & You, and the like. And these films, shows, and clips are what color my day, and therefore my stream of conscious writing. (Wow, imagine if I believed in having some restraint or intentionality --is that a word?-- in what I write, rather than being a victim to synchronicity, and couch-potato-ism-syndrome.)
With that said, one of the things that I watched (as previously mentioned in an earlier post) was Gay Sex in the 70s. It depicted a time that now seems ancient and extinct: a time of hedonistic, completely anonymous homo hook ups in the abandoned buildings (and the back of shipping trucks) surrounding the Chelsea Piers. Stories of guys falling through the floors and climbing into the frighteningly dark back entrances of these commercial trucks, in hopes of finding release. Huh. I guess I should stop complaining about needing to stop reaching for coffee mugs on the second shelf.
So, in a horrible attempt to lighten things up a bit, I have attached some more recent pics of my increasingly healed body. In a campaign for bad humor, I have made them an "Ode to Gay Sex in the 70s," inclusive of a bad sketched on moustache and blown out colors in photoshop, to try to capture the right "bad" essence. Did it work?
It's more difficult than I imagined to recreate the perfect Tom of Finland (NOT to be confused with Tom's of Maine) facial hair and side burns. (Although I did want to craft and market a Tom of Finland line of deodorant and mouth wash. Heh. And ewe...)
As you can see, I am wearing my "1976 Bicentennial" skivvies. (I would have turned age 1 back then...) I need to lose like 60 pounds to have been really accurate, but I'm not that proficient in Photoshop yet... Damn it all! Instead of a six pack, I have "party ball" abs of lead. Ugh~ And how much fatter does my face look with that creepy 'stache? (I tried handlebars, and the Kermit the Frog linear track as well. Tough call~)
So, despite being a bit grumpy and having twinges of feeling sorry for myself, I am still here. Doing pretty well, over all. I am actually pretty psyched for how well I am healing, and need to kick my own arse outta this pity party. Sorry... For being annoying, and for terrorizing you with mostly naked creepy pictures of me. (My Victorian ways of keeping my ankles and wrists covered have escaped me!)
Hoping this makes you laugh. (and not throw up in your mouth a little... heh heh.)
Happy Bicentennial America!
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