This weekend, I commented in a post that I had once had a laparoscopic appendectomy and that I consequently bled on my mattress. That comment received seventeen stars, to date.
I am perched up high on the balcony of a mildly posh senior apartment complex, eating subgum lo mein in the greatly diffused, overcast sunlight, and yet I can feel my face sun-burning like some pasty slob at the beach.
I don’t even like breakfast cereal: I always assume most of it’s loaded with rat hair and anyway it usually smells like a bottle of Walgreen’s vitamins. Plus, cow’s milk: ugh.
Despite my aversion to human knees and their even uglier cousins, feet.
As a gay man of a certain age, especially living in the Twin Cities as a young man, The Mary Tyler Moore Show was like a beacon of possibility. So many gay men moved from the Dakotas and Iowa to Minneapolis and started new lives here, leaving behind family sadness or worse, and created new families and new history in…
Three things that are making my pulse ring loudly in my head:
“Bess shrieked, wordlessly. Ned was nonplussed. “Hypers!” George ejaculated. Hannah soothingly proffered pie. Nancy sighed, “It’s a psychological moment, that’s for certain.” Carson Drew nodded, sagely.”
I never thought about it before I saw the top image, above, on the main page Paisley Park post, but I kind of like the idea of them touring together in the afterlife.*
For Father’s Day, my (78 year-old) mom and I watched the first half hour of The Shining, while yelling to Shelly Duvall, “JUST KILL THE FUCKER NOW, C’MON,” and eating ice cream sandwiches because my stepfather didn’t like them and they cost a dime more than a plain, cheap-ass ice cream cone, so nobody could have them,…
I swear, it was just February.