Wednesday, November 01, 2006


The end of October has come, and with an entire twelve days of statistics to warm my hands at, the winner for most referrals, by a f@#&ing landslide, is our friend, my friend, Dr. Bigg. He of the good advice, complicated life and serial blogs; I live in fear that he will come up with a way to perform drive-by blogging.

Then we are all in trouble.

Now, I have enjoyed
Dr. Bigg's PG blog for a long time; I have even wandered off into the thickets of his, ahem, non-PG blog on occasion. And here's the thing: no matter what he's up to, he's almost always funny. That's a wonderful thing, and especially useful in a friend. And he does it on no sleep, as near as I can figure out, unless he's lying. And if he is lying, that's another full-time job he somehow manages to juggle. He reminds me that my life is really quite simple, which under the circumstances, strikes me as something of an achievement. The big dirty secret: he can write. Why he spends his time writing what he does is another small mystery, but he can certainly shake it out of his sleeve.

So here's hats off to our loyal friends and partners in crime. That includes
Nate, Ian, Hurricane, Joe the Bear, and even though he has taken a sabbatical, Ernesto Raul, without whose good offices I am convinced I would never get a glimpse at anyone from "Best Gay Blogs," and they do keep turning up. I mean, I know I now have a gay license plate and a gay hair-do, but I can't say that I feel my membership in the Three Percent Club is secure: I fall seriously short on the interior design and grooming fronts, and we won't even mention fitness. [I am just not going to survive, period, according to Darwin.]

In spite of which, I occasionally catch a glimpse of myself in shop windows and bank doorways and think how odd it is that I have gone from trying my darnedest, insofar as I could without straining anything, to avoid whatever the gay look of the moment might be, to presenting myself so that a single glance probably says "Mighty Faggot." As the weather has cooled, that glance has also begun to say "Leather Fetishist." Of course, once November really sets in, it will start saying "Recycles Credit Cards to Keep Warm" instead. But we're still into heavy baseball jacket/ears-bare-hat weather so far.

Bare ears I can cope with; my heart goes out to those guys in P'town with
bare asses in the cold, cold rain. And no jackets because only sissies wear jackets, and leather slaves can be anything but not... sissies. [Who exactly do we think we are kidding? As so often, it's only us who are silly enough to fall for it. Why is that?]

Because of all the Hallowe'en hoo-ra locally over the weekend, I had completely forgotten that Tuesday was the actual day of Hallowe'en. So, as I was striding through the mall from the parking garage to my place of semi-employment, I had my mind on other things -- such, perhaps, as the last item above. I got to the doors by the bank, only to be met by a gaggle of adults in full kid drag. Mostly from K-mart, from the look of it [well, the costumes
were 40% off already], but there was enough ersatz Disney [and bad make-up -- why not just leave it off?] to keep a small Florida town in tourists:

Snow White, complete with a wig like an improved Brillo pad and a big bow,
Pinocchio, whose nose was a bit pointy for my taste, but who sported the most amazing pair of red shorts with truly gigantic buttons -- and
Several Others of similar familiarity: someone had watched those movies and taken really good notes. And it all hit me completely unprepared. I stood there in the mall lobby outside the bank entrance, hooting with laughter
, until I could finally get my feet going again. Luckily, no one took it amiss.

Well, there's more to say, but it's getting late and tomorrow is another day.
Stay close to your loved ones; they make the world go 'round. And if you have another set of not-quite-so cold limbs in bed next to you, count your blessings. As Marni Nixon sang, "I had a love of my own" which I seem to have traded for a mess of Very Cold Pottage.


Hang in there.


  1. Ah, Troll. How I love you.
    I know we're all telling you to get laid. In my case, it's probably because getting laid made such a startling difference in my own life. However, I have faith that this most basic of human drives will force you out and into the man-to-man dating scene when you're ready, and not a moment before.
    Until then, and after, you have all my best wishes.

  2. Well, I think it is safe to say that this is the first declaration of love I have ever received on a public billboard.

    Biggo, it's not that I don't WANT to get laid. It's all in the timing.

    I know it can never get to "no muss, no fuss, no sticky mess" -- and who would want it if it did? -- but there is a limit to the amount of drama you can ask people to deal with -- just look at the personal ads. So I'm waiting for some of the storms to subside.

    Believe me, no one is more eager than I to follow your excellent advice. I'm ready. I'm just not ready for prime time.

    yr time-biding

    and my word verification pattern is: lzgoats -- lazy goats?