Monday, November 20, 2017
An Appointment To See Santa, At Macy's??????????? Are You Kidding Me?????? This Is Going Too Far!!!!!!!!!!
This is all extremely ironic, following how closely it does on the heels of my having read David Sedaris' "Santaland Diaries."
Remember the scene in the 1947 classic, "Miracle On 34th Street," (the sacred black-and-white version, not the bastadized color one) where the little Dutch girl approaches Edmund Gwenn, and the touching exchange they have, which transitions Natalie Wood into belief? It is the first time in the film where I cry real tears!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, with Macy's merchandising techniques today, that poor, loving, innocent child would be left out in the cold! Because, now, for the first time in history, in order to see Santa at Macy's, you have GOT to have an appointment!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I say, "You have got to be kidding?" In a town where Upper East Side mothers actually fellate headmasters, to get their darlings into the right private school,(it was dramatized in a "Law And Order SVU" episode) parents are practically going to have to do this and more, just to get a spot to see Santa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hey, I am The Raving Queen, and I want to sit on Santa's lap! Especially if Santa is Stephen Colbert, Andrew Keenan-Bolger, Beck Bennett, or Chris Elliot!!!!!!!!! Even Chris Meloni--Yoweeeeee! But you are telling me I have to get an appointment?????
It's just Santa, not a hair makeover, at Sally Hershberger's! That I can understand! Parents and kids alike are stressed enough as it is, before and during the Holidays! Why does Macy's insist on making it worse????????????
There is another scene in the 1947 film, where an administrator boasts how Macy's has always been "the friendly store, the one with a heart!" Well, honey, I am telling you, those days are gone!
Now, it says parents and children have to make an appointment, but what about dogs??????????????????????
Maybe I can sail right in, with Cujo, Chloe, Mellow, Nia, , Indiana Jones, and my lovely cockatoo friend, Bacci.
Stick it up. good and deep, Macy's!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This is an important lesson, as I have advised on here, to avoid Great Big Closet Cases, because they can be extremely dangerous, and, in the cases here, of Gerry Gheardi and George Lamphere, lethal.
It was a rare Paula Zahn show, where even I stayed awake. And after what looked like a belt of bullets worn around her waist. Either someone on staff is playing a sick, homophobic joke, or, they need to hire gay designers to dress Paula. The woman hasn't a clue!
Maybe because the show dealt with covert homophobia, it gave me courage to stay awake.
The first murder was Gheardi's. As soon as I heard he was a church organist, and was found naked, alone, in his apartment, I knew this was some 'Goodbar' thing.
This occurred on March 29, 1981. It was not until George Lamphere, another gay church organist, in South Bend, was murdered, in 1983, that police begin searching for a connection, since the victims did not know each other--Gheardi lived in Mishawaka--but the findings and circumstances were the same.
Both had admitted someone they knew, or met, to their apartment, with tragic results.
After tipsters, and DNA profiling, the culprit turned out to be someone who lived in the area, Daniel Seltzer.
Now, I want you to take a good look at this picture. Even twenty years younger than here, Seltzer was ugly, and dangerous looking. Those eyes tell it all. His victims were 28, and 34, respectively, and I think this was part of the reason they were killed.
Seltzer had a violent, Jekyll-and-Hyde personality, and he lived with this woman, Kathy, who eventually testified against him, because, even living with him, she was afraid of him. I bet she knew his secret. I bet she was some kind of fag hag.
I can tell you the kind of man Seltzer was. He would peep through doors, at home, like Jennifer Jason Leigh spying on Bridget Fonda, in "Single White Female," because he wanted to observe Kathy putting on make-up, which he wanted to try, hoping to look pretty. The fact that he knew it wouldn't enraged him. So he went out, right to the bars, and picked up these gay men. I am willing to bet the act of killing them gave him some sort of homosexual thrill, possibly to the point of ejaculation. Then, guilt and self-hate set in, which is why there was a two year interval between killings. Which tells me, had he not been apprehended, he would have gone on killing local gays.
I have to feel sorry for both Gerry and George. Not only did they not deserve what they got, the fact that they went with this creep says how desperate it is to be gay in Indiana. There are closet cases, in New York, who are outnumbered, but, darlings, for those of you who are still oppressed out Midwest way, come East to here, or West, to San Francisco. Otherwise you will psychologically self-destruct, or end up murdered, like Gerry and George.
Again, there is nothing more dangerous than a Great Big Closet Case. Daniel Seltzer would have better dancing in the mirror, in crotchless panties, like Doatsy Mae, in "The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas!"
It would have been his only chance to try and look beautiful. But I am sure lots of inmates are now forcing Daniel out of his closet!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I say, "Go to it, boys!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Who would have imagined that the most celebratory song, related to death, came from my all-time favorite movie, "The Wizard Of Oz?????????" I mean, in the sequence where this is performed, the Munchkins are celebrating the death of the Wicked Witch Of The East.
So, I thought it would be the perfect song to celebrate the passing of the Twentieth Century's Supreme Sicko, Charles Manson. He died at 83, of, would you believe, natural; causes, when there was actually nothing natural about him. In my early working days, I feared he would get paroled, because, if he did, I knew for sure he would come to my workplace, where we had all sorts of wackos, so that he would have fit right in!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I love this picture, because, to his left, look at that spooked-out picture of Susan Atkins. It begs me to ask the question I was going to ask anyway. Charles never got his hands dirty, in carrying out these nefarious deeds, but how in the world did he coerce Susan and the others to do the bloody killings? Were they that stupid? Manipulative? Naïve? Did Manson have a twelve inch dick? Hey, even gay men, who certainly, back then, were not the brightest, would know enough to stay away from this guy. Besides, he looks like one of those guys, who never took a bath!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You have to feel sorry for Sharon Tate. Married only briefly to Roman Polanksi, they might have had a nice future, let alone a child, and I bet she would have done some films with him, so that her legacy would not be walking down a set of studio stairs, in leotards and a cheap head dress, saying, "I feel a little top heavy," as Jennifer North, in "Valley Of The Dolls." I think it is something to be proud of, but I also think it unfortunate, that Sharon, unlike Marilyn, did not get a chance to show there was more to her than what met the eye.
I feel sorry, and guilty, for saying I am glad someone is dead. But I am. Even Satan must be nervous, about having this sicko for Eternity.
Two things he did for society in his life. He made us aware of the presence of Evil.
And, for guilt ridden Catholics, hey, just start with Manson, and you are already, several, Several, SEVERAL Steps, closer to Heaven.
Manson raises the bar on hope for us all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Good riddance, you scum!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I intend to read his books, in order, so I managed to get through his first book, "Barrel Fever," quickly. I had no idea the title meant something related to alcoholism, and I have known some alcoholics in mu time, darlings; believe me.
My ultimate discovery was I liked the essays better than the short stories, though one, "Glen's Homophobia Newsletter, Vol. 3, No. 2, was a favorite of mine. Not only did I relate to it, I wish I had written it, myself, and you could not ask for a higher compliment, on here.
The stories seem to be disguised family chronicles. If you nothing of the Sedarises history, you are lost at sea. If you do, then you know it is disguised autobiography, but, frankly, I like it better when he goes straight to the truth. And this is the book containing the classic "Santaland Diaries," which is already going to change my outlook for Christmas.
I like David, but I still love Amy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
His book is humorous, insightful, and not, as I initially feared, pretentious.
For that, you would have to go to Augusten Burroughs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Even though Nicole was representative of Bay Ridge, I think she lives on Staten Island, which means she could be returning to either a slag heap, or a landfill, because, besides that, and malls, what the hell else is there, on Staten Island?????????????
The thing that bothered me the most about Nicole, was not her unwillingness to come out as a Lipstick Lesbian--and why should she, since that fact is as known as Kevin Spacey's homosexuality???????-- but that she went to Seton Hall!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, I am a graduate of Seton Hall--Class Of 1977, darlings!!!!!!!!--and I do not want people to get the mistaken idea, via Nicole, that all Seton Hall students are Republicans!!!!!!!!!! I am sure Nicole would love for us all to think that, but, let me assure you, darlings, it is not true!!!!!!!!!
There were even gays and lesbians on campus, in my time; now, I am sure, there are organizations, so I am sure Nicole fit right in. Whether she wanted to admit it, or not.
Now that she is forced to keep a low profile, don't cause Seton Hall any further embarrassment, Nicole!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If there has to be Republican candidates, then bring back Condoleeza Rice!!!!!!!!!! She dresses better, has an intriguing name, and is a barrel of laughs!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Girls, it was a fabulous day, but things that happened along the way..well, they could only happen to me.
The day began with routinely enough with an early breakfast, coffee, and me reading. I finished "Barrel Fever" by David Sedaris; more on that, another post. Then I opened my birthday cards, with David and Baby Gojira. We were all so happy.
It was when we got out of the house, things got really interesting.
We had to travel to the Fifth Avenue stop on the R, because the restaurant, conveniently, was, literally a block away. We literally stepped to and from the train, and back again.
But, riding on the train, there was this street musician, playing for money, of course, which I have nothing against, who boarded the train. I can read through anything on a train, because I zone out, so I don't have to deal with all the wackos. I have dealt with enough of them in my time, darlings. The musician was playing an accordion, and I had a vague recollection of the melody but could not recall it--until he got to the mid-section. You know what he was playing???? It was Fantine's song from "Les Miz," "I Dreamed A Dream." Now, I have nothing against this song, or Fantine, God knows, but on MY birthday, THIS is what I had to hear? For a second, it gave me an odd foreboding of the year to come, but David helped put me that from my mind.
We arrived at the hotel--the Sherry-Netherland, and the restaurant, which was Harry Cipriani, and just one step in from the street. Things got off to a rocky start, when our table was not quite ready. Seems they had a big lunch rush, and were still recovering. So, we were dismissed to the bar, to have a drink, where, it seemed The Raving Queen was about to explode. Nothing like that December luncheon at Delemarchier--I do not think anything will top that--but I was simmering. David, and the fact that it was my birthday, and I was here to enjoy, prevailed, and I kept my cool. We were soon shown to a lovely table that gave us a perfect view of the room, and, believe me, there was plenty to observe.
The service and cuisine were superb. For drinks, David had one of their famous Bellinis, which I had a sip of; it was delicious. I just stuck with club soda and a lemon twist.
For the appetizer, I went simple, with vinaigrette asparagus sticks. Yummy. David had a bowl of Chic Pea soup, and a veal platter with capers. I ordered a glass of Merlot for my main course, which was Veal Piccatta, minus capers. It was luscious. With it, came the most delicious rice, crisp, and curried so lightly there was just a hint of exotic flavor, but not a bit overpowering. David had the Mediterranean Brranzio al Forno, with Saute Broccoli Rabe. I did not try the fish, but the latter was delicious.
I was so proud of myself. We had kept the meal light, because I did not want to overeat, because of gastric issues that can arise from my diabetes medication. But, we went overboard on deserts.
We could not decide between the Whipped Vanilla Cream Cake, or the Freshly Whipped Vanilla Ice Cream, made on the premises. So, we got both, with coffee, and, I am telling you, it was like eating Baked Alaska. The best meringue I have ever eaten, creamy and whipped, not stiff, and the same with the ice cream; it was more like meringue.
We were stuffed, but not to the gills. The coffee was luscious and rich, as were the little petite cookies we were given. Cipriani's definitely knows how to keep its customers happy.
This was followed by a floor show that only we observed. At a table almost perpendicular to us, came in these blowzy male business types, with these women--wives, mistresses, who could tell?????? The one who stood out the most sat closest to us, had more than a middle-aged spread, and looked like she was trying to channel Dorothy Loudon, going elegant. And I have no doubt, looking the age she did, she would have known who Dorothy Loudon was. But her acolytes--because they all fluttered around her, like she was some celebrity, looked collectively the same--breast implants, or those who needed them, the same shade and style of blonde hair--dyed, of course!!!!!!--almost the same cut of dress, if different pattern, and faces where the skin has been pulled back so far, any more, and the skull would be visible! Wives, mistresses, trophy wives, I have no idea what they were, but I can tell you, as a unit, who they were--"that invincible bunch! The dinosaurs surviving the crunch! The Ladies Who Lunch!!!!!!!!!!!" Only this wasn't lunch; this was dinner. How do they keep their figures? Drink, I guess. Which is where those face lifts come in handy!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But, even at Cipriani's, this group was upstaged. Because, while we were waiting for the check, in walked this gigantic Goombah, tall, in a tailored suit, with his hair down the back, longer than Frank Mills. He was definitely Mafiosi, and he gave me a look, like he knew I knew he knew I had his number. Which I did. Especially when I saw what he walked in with--this buxom, wide hipped, hair piled high thing, who, I am certain, was a mistress, if not a prostitute--probably runs a nail salon, in New Jersey---with the most outrageous outfit--a white blouse, sleeveless on one side (like it had been torn off) and sleeved on the other. She was trying to create a fashion statement, but, honestly, the poor girl looked like she had been in a fight. An d what I want to know is, how the hell did she balance herself, on those tiny heels?????? This was capped off by maroon toreador pants--when have we last seen those, darlings--which were so tight they seemed to be part of her skin!!!!!!!!!!!! I have no idea how she got into them, but she did, but I can tell you this; it will her longer to get out of them. The capper of it all was that each ankle on these pants had---now get this!!!!!!--a black rosette, wrapped around it. I mean, is this a look or what?????? No wonder her escort looked at me; I looked classier than she did! Still, I will never forget those rosettes on the ankles! And neither will anyone else, who saw them!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
On that note, we left, got on the train, and rode home--satisfied, relaxed, I could read all the way, and so could David, and no sad songs this time.
It was a birthday, like any other. For me, that is!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday, November 18, 2017
You all recall that Richie Valens classic, don't you, darlings?????????
Donna Tartt, what in the hell are you doing?
I have just learned, this week, that Brat Pack High Priestess Donna Tartt, has severed ties with her literary agent, the celebrated Amanda "Binky" Urban.
Sure, Amanda may be no Blythe Danner in the looks department, but, hey, Donna, how long are you going to carry on with that Goth Butch look? Or is it Butch Goth? I mean, it is getting to the point where, if you were a biopic, Chaz Bono could play you!
Not only does it pain me to say all this about one of my favorite writers, it comes at a funny point in my life, when I am reaching the end of my Brat Pack project, and have only left to read Donna's two signature works, "The Secret History," and "The Goldfinch." It isn't like I have never read either. Her first work I have read three, maybe four, times, and it will be interesting to see if the discoveries I made during the first reading of "The Goldfinch" hold up, or if there are more.
Personally, I think Donna is a fool! Brilliant writer, but a fool! Everyone out there, who fancies themselves as a writer, would just about kill--or close to it--to be represented by Amanda "Binky" Urban. Including yours truly!!!!!!!!!!
Donna, I will always be a loyal reader.
But, Amanda, now that you have a spot open, how about looking over this blog? So we can talk about a future project!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!