Queer Eye Decoder, Doris Lives!

“All I ever wanted in my life was to get married, have kids, keep house and cook, and even though I did all these things, I still ended up in Hollywood.”-- the grand diva of more idyllic days

Only bits and pieces of Pillow Talk can be visualized, the confetti of its time. It may be a stretch, the notion that Rock Hudson was taking a mild enmity-riddled jab at la grand dandy in that scene with Doris, their little coffee klatsch, and then the staid post-Commissioner wasting away before our eyes at a Hollywood press conference. This was the Hudson I knew, the one trying to be the daddy wise ass. Even in death, in the grip of the worst disease to pass from bush hunters to queers, Hudson was reluctant to deconstruct himself along Clifton Webb's lines. Webb was the studio caricature of  Oscar Wilde, Proust, Henry James, their social milieu, but Hudson was the more clever chameleon, *the gay bachelor,* wasting away in public, exciting plague memories, mob panic, quarantine. We haven't  removed ourselves so far away from that vociferous social fear. We'd all love to believe otherwise, taking yet a new set of faggots on good faith (sigh).

I'm getting too old for volleys, and this bores you (or bores me), my adult settings that have taken only a few truly graphic turns, and most of those in a spittoon around a graphic temper which isn't really genocidal. I mean, come on. Caliban is only playfully demonic.

My back up kicked in, the Haitian at my adopted franchise, and I am supposed to meet with an Italian CNA the afternoon of 4/11. Female. You'd think it would please me, but it does not, 95% of my mind has already rejected her without a real interview so much as a confessional stress complaint over my decoupling with Jesse. 

I am slightly too overwhelmed to make our rendezvous; this post has nothing to do with it. Power chairs need to be charged, writing, reading, or throwing a load of laundry in the machine, teaching the cleaning lady about the Paperwhite, and the miraculous ability to utilize Amazon's book loan while some senile fucker sets off the fire alarm. I cannot fight Presby solely on the basis of my own legal acumen. Yet this doesn't seem to stop me.

I'll admit privatization causes mobility impaired individuals as much grief as the state system. Within plateaus of stability, I've failed. Sometimes the solutions simply aren't there.

Psychic Space

I suppose I should be responsible for my computer maintenance and start my upgrade this evening, if my disc drive will in fact run. If it will not, I will have to hope I can reverse course, come back online, download W7, or hope my Amazon Toshiba is still healthy and that kimmy, my miniature jaguar, did not damage its charger. In terms of hardware I'm primitive, and software less so but still illiterate, and really just want to work, but suppose I will need to lose 48 hours, perhaps more. I do not know. If I delay a little longer it may be until after Midnight Lace, but would prefer the above.

I have seen them both before, and that I am not on for extrapolation now does not mean something would not occur to me later, like why putting sexually high status blonds in danger seems a kind of trace residue from the dark side of Hellenistic culture. I have my own caste resentment of blondes, whether organic or bottle, and have been entertaining an essay about that for awhile, because I got into a snipe with a contributing editor who was in fact a blond, with a kidney transplant concern, and though it has no actual impact on my career (what career?) I can take my impolitic aspects and make some hay.

I am a misogamist at least some of the time. Masturbation is no longer pleasurable, and vibrators probably not much of an option, too much arthritis, and who knows what else, but I have procrastinated long enough. Perhaps this will be less excruciating than I believe. What does peace feel like? As if any fool would be brave enough to interact with me over that question.