12.21.98
Yeah, yeah, I know what I said about the previous entry being the last. Right now, I'm too lazy to generate a new file and upload the whole thing to the server. Besides, it's early, and I have to run off to Kauai for a bit. work. :(
Jingle Bell Run? Well,had I not shown up, the thing would have been reeeeeal booooooring. The wolf-woman was there, so everybody was on "best behaviour." That, dear ones, is unfortunate, but I could care less. I acted silly and sophomorically as everybody expected, and pulled the damn thing out of the toilet...again. I swear the whole place would curl up and die if this queerboy wasn't here to lighten it up.
As previously mentioned, I was Rudolph. Jill fetched for me a flashing red nose thing, which was very uncomfortable, and a dog-collar of sleigh bells. Around my neck, the laplandish bell that usually graces the front door. We had a nice stroll around the downtown area, stopping to occasionally belt out a really mediocre "Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer." I did silly, hammy, and embarrassing things (in good taste for once), including posing on all fours with a nauseated look on my face. I was apparently so lifelike, a rather large dog checked me out to insure that I wasn't something to fuck or eat. (nose in ass. cuuute)
Suggestions for next year? LIBERAL amounts of alcohol b4. No boss. Everybody sings carols throughout the entire course, (or die.) I swear some people just don't know how to enjoy life.
Too wrapped up in matters of consequence, I suppose. To them, I say:
"Just get a fucking life, okay?"
Other things that caught my attention....
Our grand and somewhat boring morning paper, the Honolulu Advertiser published an extra edition on Saturday with 96 point print exclaiming Clinton Impeached. *yawn!* I wondered if the second coming would get as much press.
There's a boy in Toronto, with whom I occasionally correspond. I've mentioned Tommy before. It seems that our boy was carousing the gay ghetto of Toronto with one of the "sisters" picking up helpful homo tips. The happy twosome were stopped by a polling person (cuz obviously they looked like a couple of gayboiz...50% correct) and asked the title of their favourite opera. The homo of the two answered to the effect that he didn't like opera. Tommy was surprised that one of his stereotypes had been busted to bits.
I felt compelled to set him straight. (unintentional pun) You see, it is the "Old Guard" homos that do all the stereotypical things that are associated with gay men. I, dear ones, lead the regiment. We speak French (at least the important phrases like "Moet por moi," "aplus tard," and "je ne sais quois" {a note about my command of the French language later}) Members of the old guard own sterling flatware, (our pattern, Francis I) own stuff from Tiffany and Cartier, have rugs over hardwood floors, and NEVER, NEVER leave the house with bad hair. Hats, yes. Bad hair, no. As Fran Lebowitz said, "If you removed all of the homosexuals and homosexual influence from what is regarded as American culture, you would pretty much be left with Let's Make a Deal." Dear, she was referring to the old guard.
Members of my regiment have an undying affinity for things classic. It is not necessarily a money thing, and certainly one does not have to be affluent to be an old guard, Sempre Avanti queer. Faggots on foodstamps can do it too. We are simply not swayed overly by the winds of change. You can buy a perfectly passable Madame Butterfly in the bargain bin at Virgin (or HMV in Canada, where mine came from) for under $10. Clothing? another easy thing. You require a decent pair of wool trousers, which can be had for under $50, but if you are like me, you live in a pair of Punahou gym shorts and a beat up T-shirt. Most importantly, though is the idea that an old guard fag knows that something more abrasive than toilet paper is required to properly clean a toilet bowl.
More than anything, a member of the old guard does not aspire to be an A-lister. if he is, que sera, sera. If not, he recognises that A-listers are really pompous and arrogant.
More on this subject as it comes to me.
Before I continue further, a question has been raised as to my usage of the superfluous U. (favour vs. favor) I'm unsure as to its real name, but that's what I call it. Excessive U usage is one of those great and grand British Commonwealth things which has survived the test of time, despite the various attempts of other English-speaking countries to obliterate it. However, there is a small pocket of people who were reared in a small town in Idaho who were taught by the Canadian standard (My home and native land....) Blame it on the nuns, but it stuck for some reason. That, more than anything, is the reason for my favorite center becoming a favourite centre. It's not really an affectation, just some quark in my upbringing which makes these things come out.
I started changing every added U word when the spell checker stopped and told me that I had misspelled the word colour, but later decided that if my fingers subconsciously wanted me to make the word humour, I should just let it remain. So there. I've taught my computer how to be Canadian. Merci, Sr. M. Jeanne d'Arc, pax vobiscum.
(oh, dear. Just remembered that I gave "mother #2" (my father has blessed me with several mothers. I like them, it is the father I despise) my URL with an email. I neglected to tell her that I was gay. Sorry about the shocker, Joyce. Purely unintentional, I assure you. ;-)
Jingle Bell Run? Well,had I not shown up, the thing would have been reeeeeal booooooring. The wolf-woman was there, so everybody was on "best behaviour." That, dear ones, is unfortunate, but I could care less. I acted silly and sophomorically as everybody expected, and pulled the damn thing out of the toilet...again. I swear the whole place would curl up and die if this queerboy wasn't here to lighten it up.
As previously mentioned, I was Rudolph. Jill fetched for me a flashing red nose thing, which was very uncomfortable, and a dog-collar of sleigh bells. Around my neck, the laplandish bell that usually graces the front door. We had a nice stroll around the downtown area, stopping to occasionally belt out a really mediocre "Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer." I did silly, hammy, and embarrassing things (in good taste for once), including posing on all fours with a nauseated look on my face. I was apparently so lifelike, a rather large dog checked me out to insure that I wasn't something to fuck or eat. (nose in ass. cuuute)
Suggestions for next year? LIBERAL amounts of alcohol b4. No boss. Everybody sings carols throughout the entire course, (or die.) I swear some people just don't know how to enjoy life.
Too wrapped up in matters of consequence, I suppose. To them, I say:
"Just get a fucking life, okay?"
Other things that caught my attention....
Our grand and somewhat boring morning paper, the Honolulu Advertiser published an extra edition on Saturday with 96 point print exclaiming Clinton Impeached. *yawn!* I wondered if the second coming would get as much press.
There's a boy in Toronto, with whom I occasionally correspond. I've mentioned Tommy before. It seems that our boy was carousing the gay ghetto of Toronto with one of the "sisters" picking up helpful homo tips. The happy twosome were stopped by a polling person (cuz obviously they looked like a couple of gayboiz...50% correct) and asked the title of their favourite opera. The homo of the two answered to the effect that he didn't like opera. Tommy was surprised that one of his stereotypes had been busted to bits.
I felt compelled to set him straight. (unintentional pun) You see, it is the "Old Guard" homos that do all the stereotypical things that are associated with gay men. I, dear ones, lead the regiment. We speak French (at least the important phrases like "Moet por moi," "aplus tard," and "je ne sais quois" {a note about my command of the French language later}) Members of the old guard own sterling flatware, (our pattern, Francis I) own stuff from Tiffany and Cartier, have rugs over hardwood floors, and NEVER, NEVER leave the house with bad hair. Hats, yes. Bad hair, no. As Fran Lebowitz said, "If you removed all of the homosexuals and homosexual influence from what is regarded as American culture, you would pretty much be left with Let's Make a Deal." Dear, she was referring to the old guard.
Members of my regiment have an undying affinity for things classic. It is not necessarily a money thing, and certainly one does not have to be affluent to be an old guard, Sempre Avanti queer. Faggots on foodstamps can do it too. We are simply not swayed overly by the winds of change. You can buy a perfectly passable Madame Butterfly in the bargain bin at Virgin (or HMV in Canada, where mine came from) for under $10. Clothing? another easy thing. You require a decent pair of wool trousers, which can be had for under $50, but if you are like me, you live in a pair of Punahou gym shorts and a beat up T-shirt. Most importantly, though is the idea that an old guard fag knows that something more abrasive than toilet paper is required to properly clean a toilet bowl.
More than anything, a member of the old guard does not aspire to be an A-lister. if he is, que sera, sera. If not, he recognises that A-listers are really pompous and arrogant.
More on this subject as it comes to me.
Before I continue further, a question has been raised as to my usage of the superfluous U. (favour vs. favor) I'm unsure as to its real name, but that's what I call it. Excessive U usage is one of those great and grand British Commonwealth things which has survived the test of time, despite the various attempts of other English-speaking countries to obliterate it. However, there is a small pocket of people who were reared in a small town in Idaho who were taught by the Canadian standard (My home and native land....) Blame it on the nuns, but it stuck for some reason. That, more than anything, is the reason for my favorite center becoming a favourite centre. It's not really an affectation, just some quark in my upbringing which makes these things come out.
I started changing every added U word when the spell checker stopped and told me that I had misspelled the word colour, but later decided that if my fingers subconsciously wanted me to make the word humour, I should just let it remain. So there. I've taught my computer how to be Canadian. Merci, Sr. M. Jeanne d'Arc, pax vobiscum.
(oh, dear. Just remembered that I gave "mother #2" (my father has blessed me with several mothers. I like them, it is the father I despise) my URL with an email. I neglected to tell her that I was gay. Sorry about the shocker, Joyce. Purely unintentional, I assure you. ;-)
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