(DIS)COMFORT VIEWING IN LA

George Nickle is a fantastic writer (among many, many other skills and talents) who is currently making it happen in LA.  We have been friends since our college days a NCSA where we discovered our mutual affection for extremely bad movies.  Over the years, we've turned our love for these films into something of a, for lack of a better word, feud.  When we do find the time to spend together, we use it to continue our cinematic assault on each other with one ultimate winner.  He sent this piece to me following my last trip to LA.  It perfectly sums up our times together.  I know you will enjoy! 
 

(DIS)COMFORT VIEWING IN LA

by

George Nickle

 

 

My best friend Randy came to visit me in LA to celebrate the big 5 oh. He’s got his own amazing blog here on Queeratorium, so I am sure he will tell you all about our exciting week. And while he will probably go on about the barely missed car crashes, smog and creepy bouncer that kept him from taking me up on my offer of the drink of his choice at Ed Wood Jr’s favorite bar (yup, it is still there, right beside the studio where he shot Plan 9 from Outer Space), I’m going to tell you about our Truly Terrible So Bad It’s Good film festival.

 

A quick refresher on the rules: No fast-forwading, no matter how bad it gets. No looking away. We choose in turn. One for Randy, one for me. And at least one film has to star either Sybil Danning, Morgan Fairchild or Linda Blair.  The last requirement must be fulfilled. And fulfilling it this time led to... The Unspeakable.

 

Randy brought a few films and I had a few on hand too. We really didn’t go out of our way to stock up, since this time we were doing it in LA and thought that there might be a few things that kept us out of the house a little more than they do in Sophia, NC.

Our last film fest had been in October and it was heavy on 1970s Made for TV Movies. The worst of which has better writing than most any 100 million dollar studio feature today, so it had been pretty harmless and lots of fun. Randy had the last choice (Bad Ronald!) So this time I went first.

Night Of The Creeps on blu-ray. A good, solid 1980s flick about space slugs that turn people into zombies. Fun, but not as fun as we remembered. Randy followed-up with Tucker and Dale vs Evil and boy it was good! If you haven't seen it, go get it now!

I do have to say, its quality made me worry a bit.  I thought it was high time to hit the boulevard. We’re talking Angel! “High School Honor Student by Day. Hollywood  Hooker by Night.” One of my favorite films from childhood.  It’s got hookers, Rory Calhoun, Dick Shawn in a dress, a necrophilic killer with serious mommy issues and the one-and-only Susan Tyrrell as a hard-as-nails dyke with a heart.

Life was good. Then it was Randy’s turn again. Now he’d been telling me about Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives for some time. He really liked it and it had pissed off all sorts of people (apparently “trannies” is not PC). That alone was reason enough for excitement.  

I didn’t like it. It sort of made me angry. Now it is well known that I still consider the gay film Issues 101 to be the second worst film ever shown in our film festival. Besting even The Visitor and beaten only by Battlefield Earth (which I chose in terrible retaliation to Issues 101). Let me be clear, Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives is no Issues 101. It wasn’t terrible it just pissed me off. I’m sick of seeing gay men put on dresses then act like the worst stereotypes of womanhood. I know it is supposed to be like the classic grindhouse revenge flicks, but we are not far enough along to see men in dresses cowering as manly men beat them to death. Even if the surviving trannies return for revenge, which they do, they already lost me.  So I chose another of my 1980s classics, Screwballs. Sure it is puerile and does not come near the classic it is a rip-off of, Porky's, but it: 1) is never boring (again, the most offensive thing a film can be) , 2) has characters named Purity Busch & Bootsie Goodhead and 3) had the best line of the entire fest (girl asks the school tramp Bootsie if she is dating her brother. Bootise replies “Probably. What’s his name?”). Even Randy admits that, but oh no there were titties!

 

 

And so Randy plotted revenge. During one of our 5 or so holy pilgrimages to Amoeba (www.amoeba.com) Randy unearthed a foul work in my most detested genre (musicals) by the name of  The Unsinkable Molly Brown. I had to talk some sense into him. If he showed that then, on only the 3rd night of his week long stay, it would mean 4 days of retaliatory strikes that neither of us could take. We agreed to hold off, it would be his last choice on the last night. That gave me time to plot my response.

So we proceeded with Birdemic: Shock and Terror (the worst porn film I ever saw, Batdude, had better acting & special effects), Barbarella (count how often Jane gets hit on the head, has sex and changes outfits), The Doberman Gang and The Warrior and the Sorceress (name one other film that has a lizard as a political advisor & a four-breasted chick who shoots poisoned tentacles from her navel!). All pretty standard stuff for our film fests.

 

 

Then we took a trip to Cinefile (www.cinefilevideo.com) where Randy found Deep Red (not as gory as expected and too damn artsy), The Possession of Joel Delaney (shocking for what seems to be a pro 1% message and really discomforting nudity) and The Possessed (a 1977 OK TV movie staring Harrison Ford!). I got The Naked Cage. Every film festival should have a women in prison flick, don’t you think?

 

Then we realized that the requirement hadn’t been met!  No Sybil, Linda or Morgan had been seen. I had paid a dollar for a Linda Blair film co-starring David Hasselhoff, but I also had a little number from 1979 with Morgan Fairchild and Tom Selleck, Jerry Reed, Barbara Mandrell and a whole bunch of other country music stars (including, weep for us, Ray Sevens). Yes, it fulfilled the requirement, and yes it did have Morgan in a shocking duel-role (one which had her crooning a country ditty) but it was mind-numbingly bad, slow, cornpone “humor” of the worst kind. We try to refer to it only as “The Unspeakable”, but I tell you now, it is called Concrete Cowboys and it is evil.

 

So there we were on the night before Randy was set to return to NC and The Unsinkable Molly Brown was infecting my living room. It was pretty damn tough, but I have to say that this one is a matter of taste. It is a well made movie and probably even tolerable to those who actually like

musicals. Maybe The Unspeakable had numbed me, but I survived. Still, surviving was no excuse to be nice. I could have chosen to retaliate with Loose Screws (the sequel to Screwballs), but that would have been expected. I went a different rout. A more pretentious rout. A post-apocalyptic (how appropriate is that?!), long, boring, incomprehensible rout. I chose Zardoz!

Let me tell you, even after Morgan singing, terrible killer bird effects, Jane’s psychedelic space outfits and Bootsie Goodhead’s extended topless scene pressed against the window of a van, almost 2 hours of Sean Connery in a red diaper will wear you down. Sweaty, swarthy, excessively hairy and
flabby Sean in a red diaper playing with crystals and reordering society.

21 films and we are still trying to decide which is the worst of the worst. Despite our best efforts to do harm to each other it is probably The Unspeakable (aka Concrete Cowboys). Chosen only for our love of Morgan. It is the first time she ever let us down.  I’m already on the lookout for entries for the next film festival. If nothing else, I have my DVD of Loose Screws ready to spin and make Randy squirm!

THE END

TO LIVE AND (NEARLY) DIE IN LA

My friend George Nickle sent me an awesome piece for the blog.  It's about the very special nature of our relationsiop.  But it needs an introduction so I decided to dig deep and find a piece I wrote some time ago.  George's piece will follow.

TO LIVE AND (NEARLY) DIE IN LA

By:  Randy Gillis

 

For my 50^th birthday my friend George and his partner invited me to spend the week with them in Los Angeles.  I leapt at the chance.  I needed to get away from South, just for a bit.  It had been 7 years since my last visit and within 20 minutes of landing I was overwhelmed with the same realization that I’m sure a lot of people have when visiting LA; holy shit I’m fat.  If I thought I was hefty in NC, it was confirmed with a stylish brutality one can only find in West Hollywood.  It hit me 7 years earlier when I asked George why he had taken me to a children’s clothing store on our shopping day.  He informed me, as gently as he could, that we were indeed in an adult clothing store.  It was a cloud over the rest of the visit.  This time I was prepared.  I owned my fatness, jumped into Walmart’s best (baggy cargo shorts that fall tastefully below the knee and a classic though roomy tee-shirt from their “big boy” collection) and dove in.  It was the time of my life.

The first near-death experience happened on the first night.  George was at the wheel and as we approached the intersection of Fountain and Vista, a kid in an SUV decided that red lights are for the little people and bolted across the intersection.  We barely missed him and the car in the lane next to us plowed into his backside (this is West Hollywood after all) spinning him around 360 degrees and into the car on the other side of the intersection.  Now, considering that I was the only representative from Sophia, NC in the car, I think my reaction was perfectly within reason.  As George impassively watched this play out, I screamed once, grabbed my ears, attempted to get saved (there are no atheists in LA traffic) and threw up a little.  We also had to find an all-night upholsterer to help remove George’s car seat from my ass.  He was a nice guy who comforted me by saying I was not the most bizarre case he’d seen (this is West Hollywood after all).

The next night was birthday night and we met up with some college friends, Kelly and Murray, who rode in on Murray’s motorcycle.  Kelly asked if I would like to ride on back of the motorcycle to Baby Cakes NYC (a vegan desert place) for after dinner treats.  At that point my mother’s spirit invaded my body and said yes faster than West Hollywood has rear-ended “collisions.”  I put on Kelly’s helmet which had “bad girl” written on the side. 



It was AWESOME!   I was cruising West Hollywood on the back of a hot guys bike (Murray, I totally mean that in a friendly way) and I was nearing a religious experience. I was like the Grinch’s goofy dog with my tongue flapping in the wind and my tail wagging.  It was one of my best birthdays ever.

The second near-death experience happened at Runyon Canyon.  When George suggested hiking, I enthusiastically said yes without considering the soon-to-be crystal clear difference in the definition we each have of “hiking.”  And don’t be fooled by the comments at the Runyon Canyon website.  This is no “easy hike,” or “super-short jaunt.”  This is Everest baby.  Sure, it lulls you in with a gradual incline at the beginning but by the time you reach the point of no return it’s a vertical climb to your own death. 


The crowds were the number one complaint about this mountain and I have to admit I’ve never seen so many people (each with a dog) apparently born without sweat glands.  I, on the other hand, was sweating like a hog and breathing like a horse.  Of course the crowds didn’t bother me.  I seemed to get a wide berth as I trudged along.  It’s kind of like seeing a rhinoceros plodding toward his secret burial ground and you try to avoid it because you just don’t want to get involved.  There was a point near the top when even the dogs avoided me.  To my credit, after roughly 45 minutes, 2 wellness checks, a mule team (thanks to George’s impeccable planning) a few leather straps and a strategically placed grappling hook, I MADE IT!  And the view was spectacular.  It was totally worth the angina, blurred vision and slight urinary incontinence.

The following days brought great times, from the beaches at Malibu to the Getty, from Chinatown to down town LA, from a totally vegan chili cheese burger at Doomies (that was amazingly close) to the Farmers’ Market to…..Rough Trade Leather and Gear.  Well, you know I had to go in.  The name alone made it impossible to resist.  It simply confirmed what I knew deep down already.  I just can’t afford a fetish.  My god, the prices!  Exotic sex, like everything else nowadays, is for the rich.  I did pick up a pair of handcuffs from the bargain bin.  I felt like I had to buy something, you know, just to be polite.

And no trip to LA would be complete without a shame-filled visit to The Pleasure Chest, the world’s most infamous porn store.  I was rather proud of how well I handled it.  Well, compared to my first visit 7 years ago when I was greeted at the door by a fully leather-clad dominatrix walking her two “slaves,” (one male and one female) on leashes.  I remember looking at my friends and, with a panicked glare, asked if we should call the authorities.  I calmed down after they explained what was really going on.  This time I was filled with questions.  “What’s this for?  What’s that for?  What’s THAT for?” I asked.  I found it all quite fascinating.  The best part of it was being around and seeing people who didn’t seem to be ashamed, people who hadn’t allowed sex to be ruined for them.  I found that to be quite amazing and, in a strange way, comforting.

But the closest near-death experience happened at George’s house.  Even with an agenda packed full, we were able to continue our bad movie brawl.  We managed to get in about 21 films.  LA traffic is nothing.  Runyon Canyon coronaries are child’s play.  I saw the true face of death and its name is…..SCREWBALLS. 

 

 

CLIMATE CHANGE

CLIMATE CHANGE

By:  Randy Gillis

 

 

Hi believers! And by 'believer' I mean believers of all stripes.  I don't want anyone to think I'm picking on a specific group.  Anyway, there is change in the air!  I just read a quote by one of your leaders (see below).

"Just like what Nazi Germany did to the Jews, so liberal America is now doing to the evangelical Christians. It's no different. It is the same thing. It is happening all over again. It is the Democratic Congress, the liberal-based media and the homosexuals who want to destroy the Christians. Wholesale abuse and discrimination and the worst bigotry directed toward any group in America today. More terrible than anything suffered by any minority in history." –Pat Robertson

I have to admit, he may be on to something.  Of course he is being a bit of a screamer, I mean "More terrible than anything suffered by any minority in history," is a bit of a stretch if you ask me (or Native-Americans, or African-Americans, or women, or.......),  and to be perfectly honest, the Phelps clan over at Westboro Baptist Church (your brothers and sisters in arms) have done far more damage to you than we homos could ever hope to achieve.  All that aside, I think he has a more concrete reason to be worried.  After all, according to The Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, one-in-five adults have no religious affiliation.

"In the last 5 years alone, the unaffiliated have increased from just over 15% to just under 20% of all U.S. adults.  Their ranks include more than 13 million self-described atheists and agnostics (nearly 6% of the U.S. public)."

The writing is on the wall and, barring a totally earth ass-kicking asteroid, a freshly mutated virus, global financial collapse resulting in a zombie apocalypse, or some other example of the earth's insistence on following its own path (one that obviously doesn't include us),....or god's holy wrath (whichever you prefer), it looks like your time in the sun is drawing to a close.   I feel like the only humane thing to do is offer you some advice as someone who has been where you are going.  Say goodbye to the daylight and hello to the underground.

Once your numbers shrink down to about, 3 to 10% of the general population (your enemies will insist it's actually 1% but you will be convinced it's no less than 30%), you will have to 'wonder in the wilderness' as they say.  Many of you will live out lifetimes in isolation, thinking you are a freak or a monster.  The only connections you will make with those like yourself will be fleeting and probably involve alleyways or public restrooms, or worse...mall parking lots.

As no one will be able to tell who you are by outward appearances, you will strive to blend in by utilizing self-censorship and by practicing a sturdy gait and a firm handshake.  You will sit quietly or even join in as friends and family feel free to mock and ridicule believers with a combination of revulsion and disgust. 

After several generations of this, something will occur that will send large numbers of you into the city where you will be astounded to find out that you are not the only one.  You will need to develop ways of identifying each other in public without drawing attention to yourself.  I would go with the eyes.  A simple glance that lasts just a beat too long should do it.  I predict it will be all the more efficient considering that in the future, eye contact between anyone, will be a rarity.  Or, perhaps a specifically colored bow tie (they'll be around forever!).  I would shy away from toe-tapping.  That's been done to death and could jeopardize your political career.  But you're a creative people, you'll figure something out.

After a few decades of this, you will grow tired of the fear, intimidation, and constant threat of  exposure and incarceration (with sentences varying but maxing out at 10 years imprisonment).  You will decide to organize.  It will be difficult as your enemies will smell your courage and mobilize a vast propaganda machine to strike you first and often, hardening public opinion against you.

I wish I had more time to go over all the other stuff you will be facing; the medical experimentations (your brains will be dissected to compare with those of non-believers to try to devise a cure, probably something adjusted intrauterine during the 4th-6th month of gestation), psychological abuse (are you crazy, or are you not crazy), bullying, and of course the violence, but you're a resilient people, you'll come through with shining colors.

You will need meeting places for people who share your yearnings, something less conspicuous and only slightly more garish than what you have now.  I would suggest something small, located in a back alley of the meat packing district in any major city, preferably run by some kind of organized crime syndicate to help keep the law off your back.  There, you will be able to pray openly so long as there's a man by the light switch to warn you when the cops arrive.

This is the most important piece of advice I have for you.  Once the bravest of you begin to take stands, you are going to need allies.  Fortunately for you, liberals love a good cause.  Soon you will be joined by others not of your ilk.  And you are going to need them.  Your enemies will be well financed and well connected politically.  The amount of money and manpower it will take to dismantle all the laws and legislative restrictions against you will be formidable (after all, freedom is only the first prize in a popularity contest) but you're a stubborn people and you won't give up.

And after all the bloody battles and step-by-step victories, who knows, you may even enjoy a brief time in the sun again....before you start splintering off into bickering, back-stabbing factions that eventually fracture into violent schisms that......ah shit, who am I kidding.  Where's that asteroid?



FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I couldn't quite believe what I was reading.  I had just stumbled into my office chair with my bowl of cereal and was checking my usual sites when I spotted something on Facebook.  It was an article from i09 with the headline 'Meterorite Explodes Over Russia'.  Honestly, my first thought was that some asshole CGI students had struck again.  I'm still feeling the burn from the whole 'Eagle nearly flies off with toddler' fiasco. 

I go to the site and read the story and then I watched the videos.  I sat there, dumbfounded.  I played the videos over and over again.  Especially the ones that caught the sonic boom.  Maybe it's living through countless end-times dates, maybe it's watching unregulated capitalists rape the world (and its inhabitants) for something as trivial and ultimately meaningless as wealth, maybe it's watching as the current culture devolves into corporate sponsored lunacy and ignorance, maybe it's the fact that within minutes, some were declaring that a meteorite exploding over Russia is a warning from god because gays can now get married in Illinois, but whatever the reason, a feeling of euphoria began to creep over me.

There's just no other word for it, and I was confounded by it.  For the rest of the day, absolutely nothing bothered me in the slightest.  The concept of work just flew right out the window.  All the trivial daily worries evaporated.  When I went for my daily walk on a local trail, everything seemed crystal clear and vividly bright.  The feeling followed me the rest of the day.

I wasn't hoping to see mass destruction, nor did I want to see global suffering that will no doubt come with a mass population thinning (which we are way overdue for).  I think I was focusing in on what a sudden, cataclysmic event could mean for us in the biggest picture I can imagine because maybe I think it will take nothing less for us to finally break through into something better.  It will have to be something that happens without warning and huge enough that it acts as a reset button for us.  A clean slate.

Not that I have any idea what should be put on that slate.  But I know the concept of money has to die and it has to die hard.  It can't go out quietly.  It has to be a screaming, agonizing, 'see you in hell' kind of death that involves fire and broken glass.  While we're cleaning house, I can think of a few other things that the next phase of human existence could do with out.  Religion (every single last one of them) and American Idol come to mind (almost simultaneously). 

As I was contemplating all of this, Patricia walked past the door.  I called her in.  "If that had been a really big meteor that explode over Russia this morning, what kind world would rise from the ashes?" I asked.  "Still chasing that Star Trek silver lining?" she asked.  "Just answer the question," I shot back.  "What kind of world should replace this one?"  She thought for a moment, tapping her chin for extra emphasis.  "It really wouldn't matter to me," she said, "as long as I can consume lots of vagina."  (I'm paraphrasing of course.)  I suppose it was a silly question.

 

WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE?

WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE?

By:  Randy Gillis

Dear LGBT Students of Sullivan High School,

 

PURPOSE:  The reason for which something exists or is done, made, used, etc.

I've been thinking a lot about that word lately, thanks to Special Education teacher Diana Medley (not affiliated with Sullivan High School).  I, along with the rest of the country, listened, slack-jawed as Ms. Medley made several statements about the gay students at your school (and gay people in general) that defies comprehension. 

She is supporting a group of christian students at your school as they lobby for a separate 'traditonal prom' where you will not be welcomed. 

To listen as a special education teacher says that she believes god created everyone equal is bewildering enough.  I suppose the examples of the flaws in that theory that sit in front of her on a daily basis have failed to make an impression.  My mother taught me as a child that this idea that god created us equally is but a ruse created by people who want to criticize and/or judge their fellow human beings without guilt or responsibility.  We are not created 'equally' and though  I don't know anything about god's eyes, we are most certainly not equal in each other's eyes.

But let's put that aside.  Ms. Medley went on to make a statement that I had to rewind several times just to make sure I had heard her correctly.  When the reporter asked her if she thought gay people had a purpose in life, she shook her head, smiled and said, "No, I don't, I personally don't, I'm sorry."

For an educator to make such a statement was inexcusable...I thought.  But I've finally come to the conclusion that Ms Medley's purpose is directly related to you.  Here's what I think she is trying to get you to do:

1.  To steel your wool.
2.  To open your eyes.
3.  To wake you up.
4.  To spur you into action (if not now, then she's planted the seed for down the road).
5.  To stiffen your spine.
6.  To toughen your hide.
7.  To force you to question.....EVERYTHING.
8.  To inspire you to take a stand.
9.  To give you a reason to seek each other out.
10. To get you involved.
11. To be counted.
12. To research.
13. To teach you not to yield to a belief that belittles.
14. To find your voice.

As LGBT people, you are so very special and you will be punished for it.  You will also find out just how incredibly strong, smart, creative, resourceful, resilient, loving, essential and immeasurably...... purposeful you all are.

And as for Ms. Medley, well, I think she has served her purpose very well indeed.

Sincerely,
Randy

RANDY AND KYLE AT THE MOVIES

RANDY AND  KYLE AT THE MOVIES

By:  Randy Gillis

It’s Saturday night and I’m sitting in front of my computer watching Netflix as Kyle is furiously pacing back and forth by my open office door, his hooved feet clomping like a Clydesdale.  He stops in the doorway and bellows, “You know there’s a pecking order in hell right?  I’m trying to move up, but you won’t help me!”  “What are you yammering on about now,” I asked, without looking up.  “You!” he screamed.  “What kind of gay man sits alone on a Saturday night?”  I finally look at him.  “I’d say the majority, but that would just be a guess and wow, you’re a lot redder than usual.”

Kyle stomps into the office and stands over my shoulder.  “Well, what are you watching?  Tell me it’s porn.  Give me some hope,” he pleaded.  “Bear…something,” I said.  “Oh cool, it is porn,” Kyle sighed.  “It’s not porn but the director has obviously used the same talent pool,” I said.  At that point Kyle actually looked at the screen.  “Oh hooray, it’s a Gay themed movie!  Scoot over,” he squealed as he nudged me to one side.  I hate it when he wants to sit with me.

 

“So what’s this one about?” he asked as he tilted the screen slightly to his favor.  “Well, as best as I can tell, it’s about the lives, loves and losses of a group of old, hairy, out of shape gay men and the barely legal stud puppies who admire them.”   “Ah,” Kyle replied.  “I can see what draws you to this material.”  “I am not hairy!” I screamed.  “And you also don’t have that ‘stud puppy admirer’ problem either,” he added.  Yes, Kyle is a bitch.

 

“See that guy,” I said, pointing at the screen.  “He’s the alpha silver-back bear.  I can tell by the constant half-smile smirk on his face, the braidable gray back hair and the hyper-confident, chest forward gait he uses to propel himself through the first 45 minutes of this film.  He is also the only ‘bear’ cast member with a BMI of less than 35.”

“Wow!” Kyle exclaimed, “A bear-o-phobic gay man.”   “I am not bear-o-phobic,” I protested.  “I find all types of men attractive, but since when does being a bear give you license to live like a pig.  I mean, just before you walked in I was treated to a shower scene, and, by-the-way, this is the kind of gay movie where everyone looks sweaty, even in the shower, where a nice bear couple were engaged in a grotesque tug of war with a third bear they invited into their lives, that ended with urination.  At that point I was lost as to where to put my emotions.  I mean, what does the director want me to feel here?  Is this supposed to make me laugh?  Or is he trying to get me to run out and buy deodorant?”  “You’ve obviously never seen ‘MAKEN BACON III – Wallowing with the Herd,” Kyle retorted.  “Well, actually, I did see about 4 minutes of that,” I confessed with a hint of shame.  “Hypocrite,” Kyle sniffed.   

“Who would have thought,” he added, “that when they were handing out assignments in hell, I’d wind up with a moralizing Mo.”  “Okay, now just hold it right there,” I insisted.  “Why is it moralizing to think that sex should be treated as, oh, I don’t know, maybe slightly higher than a body function?”  “Oh, shut up and watch the movie,” Kyle snorted.

We sat in silence, watching as the plot thickened and the stakes grew higher.  “What is it that back alley leather bars nestled in the heart of the meat-packing district, (which is always the location of these bars regardless of the city) have against climate control?” I asked rhetorically.  “You just can’t walk around wearing that much leather over that much natural insulation without air-conditioning.”  I heard Kyle sigh.  I love slowly chipping away at his patience.  “Everybody in this film looks itchy and I’m having sympathy sweat right now.” Kyle ignored me. 

“Oh, who is that?” he finally asked, pointing at the screen, obviously enamored.  “That’s the, I would guess, 19-year-old incoming freshman at NYU that the alpha bear is in love with and I get the impression that the alpha bear has been coming in freshmen at NYU for a long, long time.  He just has that look, you know, when someone has had way too much sex.  They all look moist with a hint of hepatitis and their auras are a bit crusty.  Or maybe that’s just the gray, head-to-toe 5 o’clock (the next day) shadow.”  “Well, I guess that explains why your aura is dry and smooth as a baby’s butt,” Kyle chuckles.  “Hey!” I screamed.  “I’m just choosey!”   

As the movie progresses Kyle gets way more in to it than I do.  I look over and see him sniffing back tears.  “And you’re crying because?” I asked.  “It’s just so sweet,” Kyle choked.  “Alpha is so distraught over losing his little queerling.”  “Yeah,” I said.  “He is so angst-ridden he can barely make the sex with that stranger in the shower.  I can tell by the way he’s scrunching his eyebrows that he’s devastated.  And what’s the deal with showers in this movie?”  I asked.  “This is the second shower scene in the same movie that’s disturbed me far more than PSYCHO.”  “That’s his rebound guy,” Kyle said, fixated on the screen, “and he’s hot as hell!”  “Well,” I huffed, “by my last count that’s his second rebound guy during the same shower.”   

“Boy!” Kyle barked, “I’ve got my work cut out for me with you.  If you can’t even see the love when it…”  “What are you talking about,” I interrupted sarcastically.  “It’s obvious to anyone watching that this old geezer has undoubtedly found his soul-mate, if soul-mate means through the weekend.”

Kyle leapt to his hooves and stomped to the doorway and stopped.  He spun around.  “You are worse than Katharine Hepburn in The African Queen!” he hissed as he walked out of the office.  “Oh, yeah!” I screamed after him.  “Well, I wouldn’t have slept with Humphrey Bogart (okay, I would have but I didn't want him to know that) so I guess that makes me better than Katharine Hepburn!”  

 

 



ALL GAY DOGS GO TO HEAVEN

ALL GAY DOGS GO TO HEAVEN

 

By:  Randy Gillis

 

 

I love the magic moment when that light bulb comes on in your head, and something that as been eluding you, is suddenly clear (it happens so rarely for me these days).  I was reading the story from Tennessee (why is it always Tennessee?) about the bulldog that was surrendered by its owner when he "mounted another male dog."  Yes, a gay dog was dumped at the pound.

 

Okay, first of all, why is it that whenever gay dog-on-dog action is discussed, terms like "mounted another male dog" is used as opposed to, say, "made sweet love to another male dog?"  It's all in the wording kids.  That's why the gay-haters always use the term 'homosexual' instead of 'gay'.  'Homosexual' is distancing, clinical, and scary, and 'gay' is furry and friendly.

 

Anyway, the representative from the Tennessee Rabies Control Center gave me the clue I needed, the final piece of the puzzle, if you will:

 

"Dogs will hunch certain items, and other animals, and they have been known to hunch people.  That don't necessarily mean they're gay.  It means they either want to show dominance, or an over display of affection, or just a random maybe wanting to mate."

So, dogs are a lot like teenage boys.  I started going through all the usual suspects of why so many straight men hate gay men.  First up was the 'icky' sex part but then I thought, surely straight men know about hygiene.  I mean, everybody cleans themselves, if for no other reason, then for their partners, right?  Isn't that a universal common courtesy?  Certainly they must be familiar with the miracles of soap and water. Of course they are, because as we all know by now, straight people have more gay sex than gay people ever thought about, so that theory was blown (hehe). 

Then, I thought about the specific words 'mounted another male dog' and thought, well, maybe to straight men, sex really is a form of domination and...ownership, for lack of a better word.  It's certainly a common theme in porn (gay or straight, so I'm told).  You know, the old 'there are two types of people in this world; the penetraTORS and their penetratWHORES' theory.  But then I remembered Margaret Cho's famous commentary about straight men and their universal love for strap-ons, so that wasn't it.  (The strap-on bit starts at 1:30.)

Of course, next is the 'homophobia as a thinly veiled hatred of women' theory (one of my favorites), because whenever homo-hating straight men are confronted with a same sex couple they're dying to know who's the 'man' and who's the 'woman' in the bedroom. 

And as Quentin Crisp summarized brilliantly; "There's no sin like being a woman."  It's why sissy boys always, always, always have a harder time of it than tomboys.  But then I remembered the MEN OF STALLION series (that a friend told me about) that certainly challenges the notion of what 'sissy' really means.

And lastly, the one theory that has more solid clinical data to support it than any of the others, the 'straight guys who hate gay guys aren't really all that straight' theory.   



So, it's totally understandable that with all these swirling, competing theories about why so many straight guys hate gay guys swimming about, that the true reason got lost for the longest time.  But thanks to a misguided pet owner in Tennessee, we now know that those guys are actually afraid that their over displays of affection for their buddies will ultimately end with ....EUTHANASIA.