Month: September 2018

Grab ’em by the Pussy! Continuing Thoughts on a Confirmation

RepublIcan think tank convenes tomorrow to finalize Trump Doctrine of American Feminism.

Thursday, September 27

Watching the hearings it’s really a matter of grabbing them by the pussies’ surrogate. Eleven white male Senators so incapable of doing the job they were elected to do they need to bring in a hired gun.  Their voices are stifled, as mute as a rape victim whose cries are smothered by an attacker.

With apologies to Titian (but none to Peter Max), The Rape of Senatoria

Lindsay “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” Graham says he’s suspicious that Dr. Blasley Ford took a polygraph and hired an attorney. Suspicious of what? That she might be telling the truth? That the right to counsel is being exercised by the wrong people?

And Trump is furious with his staff for not knowing how credible Blasley Ford would be as a witness. Just reinforces the fact that we are a nation of laws–and how best to bend them.

Friday, September 28

Beware the venomous South Carolina Coral She-Bitch. When cornered this closeted viper emits a deadly pus.

The demeanor alone of the two witnesses yesterday speaks volumes. One controlled, troubled, whose sincerity shines through the difficulty of outing herself. The other furiously adamant about not sharing his toys, enraged that his little pretend game is not playing out the way he wanted.

But we’re not selecting Miss Congeniality here. This is for the next Associate Justice on the Supreme Court. Thinking is more important than comportment. Presumably.

In a recent Fox News interview, Kavanaugh invoked the infrequently used “Virginity Halo” defense. Because he was of unpopped cherry he was therefore incapable of any aberrant sexual activity.

The best I could piece together from his narrative was that he did not get his first piece until about mid-20’s. Rather late in the game. The frustrations from such repressed desire might manifest itself in socially unacceptable behavior in some young adults. But not when the promise keeper is an entitled prep school boy with a privileged background. That just never happens. (Cue the Skakel kid.)

Then there is his personal use of stare decisis. That because he was cleared by the FBI in the late nineties and declared of outstanding moral character, the issue has been decided and therefore can never be revisited again. One might argue that the level of scrutiny for a low-level staff attorney in the Special Counsel’s office might be less intense than for a Justice on the Supreme Court. What’s decided is decided, damn it, and no subsequent events or newly discovered evidence can ever tarnish his status as “virtuous dude.”

This is the best mind, legal or otherwise, available for the High Court?

Most sex offenders in the United States are forced to wear their Scarlet A throughout eternity. Their mobility and ability to reside in various neighborhoods are severely restricted. About the only place left for them is in dodgy trailer parks living with other sex offenders. No potential problems there that I can see.

In the modern-day, strict-constructionist interpretation of our forefather’s wisdom, however, it has now almost become a prerequisite for Republican appointees to the Supreme Court. The SCOTUS exception for serial sex offenders is born.

And The Flake wept.

Monday, October 1

When politicians like the South Carolina Coral Viper offer advice to rape victims, their magic bullet is reporting the incident to police.  The fuzz will know what to do and take appropriate action. It seems so simple. But it isn’t.

This is not a fender bender that lends itself to a dispassionate moment-by-moment recount. The trauma leaves the victim with feelings of guilt, embarrassment. and shame that make them reluctant to relive events and share their recollections. And the gumshoe behind the desk, whose views on sex have probably been shaped by the 15th Century leanings of the Holy See in Rome, lacks the skill and sensitivity to properly handle the situation.

To say that sexual assault has not been a priority of law enforcement is an understatement. Witness the hundreds of thousands of rape kits that have sat unanalyzed for the last twenty years.  With the exception of Jayne Mansfield’s daughter, god love her, there has been no leadership on the issue. Politicians have not devoted the time, resources or money needed to spearhead any kind of effort.

What have elected officials considered a better use of their time instead? In the case of Republicans like those on the Judiciary Committee over the last decade, to pursue an elusive holy grail. That pesky Kenyan birth certificate they can never quite put their hands on.

Thursday, October 4

Chuck who? Wall Street’s Darling is once again out played by Kentucky’s Chinless Wonder. Or is he?

Republicans in Congress put all of their energy into getting what they want. Democrats put all of their energy into “being fair.” So that Republicans can get what they want. It’s a one party town.

Friday, October 5

Susan “Show Me the Money” Collins. What a ridiculous human being.

Next time you’re in your favorite bar order a Susan Collins, cousin to the legendary Tom. 2 shots arsenic, a shot of cyanide, with a splash of strychnine and a wire hanger garnish. Be prepared, they’re extremely expensive.

Since she probably won’t be running for reelection in 2020 her vote was basically up for sale.  Huge corporate benefactors are supposedly lined up to give her cush jobs that require her to do nothing upon retirement. A trait she’s exhibited in spades her entire Senate career.

I’m sure Senator Collins will remain “extremely concerned” all the way to the bank.

No Exit

From what I can remember of Jean Paul Sartre’s play, it was about three strangers trapped in a room that is supposed to represent Hell. As in other theatrical pieces that tackle unnatural confinement (e.g., Tallulah Bankhead’s indelible performance in Lifeboat), the situation starts out friendly enough but rapidly disintegrates into unbearable friction. Everyone ends up wanting to kill each other. But are there any consequences to murder if you’re already in Hell?

My over-simplified take away was if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with. Try to make the most of something that can’t be changed.

That is the peace I’ve made with Fort Wayne’s Three Rivers Festival. Held every July it has no purpose other than to enjoy the nice summer weather and encourage people to eat crappy food. Which most of them don’t need.

The focal point of activities is Junk Food Alley with typical carnival fare of corn dogs, elephant ears and taffy. They always sound and smell appealing but never are.

I continue to hold out for something new and healthy and am quite gullible about it. Like the year they introduced onion blossoms. Huge fried onions served with a blue cheese dipping sauce, how marvelous! How greasy! I barely ate a third of it. Their idea of food preparation and mine are quite different.

The Festival started when I was in my teens and seemed hokey as hell at the time. In the days of Woodstock and Altamont, we got warmed over Norman Rockwell. Still, when you’re with young family members who have not yet been fully indoctrinated in my cynicism, it can be fun seen through their eyes.

The Festival starts with a parade on Saturday morning. My one memory from those 60’s events is of the cop from Indianapolis who toured the state doing his motorcycle schtick. As he beguiled the crowd with his riding tricks, a look of self-righteous certitude was frozen on his face. He was the law and you motherfuckers better obey.

The highlight was his signature move. Pulling his knees into his chest, he placed his feet on the seat and slowly pushed himself until he was standing completely upright. With his arms out-stretched he was able to balance the motorcycle as it continued to move forward. Like a Christ on Sugar Loaf, he ruled over the parade.

My brothers and I goofed on that pompous fool for years to come. Our favorite Mad Magazine scenario was of his  bike careening out of control, him thrashing on the pavement in excruciating pain, and the cycle mowing through the crowd of adoring school children. Good times.

Not the cop in question but an example of the technique. Without the sanctimony.

Despite his air of moral superiority, there were flaws in the officer’s thinking. Mainly the kids’ impression of how  terribly cool his stunt was. How easily you could be killed trying to do it was never mentioned.

Thank you for your service, Nimrod.

Howdy neighbor! Three times younger than me, four times as heavy.

As the popularity of Junk Food Alley suggests, portion control is a major issue in this region. It’s surprising one of my favorite restaurants, The Italian Connection, is still in business.

Their pasta is homemade, the sauces are thin but rich, the servings are modest and satisfying. You leave sated not stomach bombed. Occasionally, however, you’ll encounter a local being served an entree for the first time. An expression of “you mean for $12 I only get three ravioli?” comes over their face.

I had a delicious meal there again this summer. In addition to the epiphany of accepting what can’t be changed, as we walked through the restaurant’s parking lot that evening there was another stark realization about my life. Despite my old age I am never going to grow up. I mean, you can’t put a Shroud of Turin touring van in front of me and not expect me to react.

Even though my photogenic days are dog years behind me, the “show people” in me forced me to strike a pose.

 

 

Era’s End

The first piece I remember buying with my Grandmother was this clover design porcelain covered dish. She taught me to look for the red maker’s mark because it might be Prussian, which she considered the best. I always assumed this one was until 50 years later I looked again and saw, to my horror, it was only Limoges.

Grandmother was a serious antique collector. From the age of 10 until I moved to San Francisco I would attend auctions with her. She’d pack our lunch, take her knitting and stay for the day.

She always sat towards the front and a little to the right of the podium so she could be seen. The auctioneers knew her well. When an item she was interested in came up they would glance at her as they yodeled incomprehensible garble. I’m not sure exactly what Grandmother’s mysterious consent gesture was but the auctioneer knew. She was one of the few bidders who were named in the call. “I have Mrs. Kimmer at 55!”

Unlike her grandson, she was a penny-pincher and knew her limits. Her assent motion may have been imperceptible but when the bids went too high she’d shake her head dramatically while mouthing the word “No!” She seemed offended by the price, as if it was the most disgusting thing she’d ever heard.

Wheelchair access in Aisle 5 also allowed for additional performance space. Thank you ADA!

I sometimes bemoan the fact that in the second coming of my San Francisco life I don’t have the connections I had the first time around. There used to be parties, dinners, and openings every day of the week. And in the years I hung out with David Gillette we could be stacked 3 or 4 deep over JFK with nightly invites.

So it was a great thrill two weeks ago to be asked at the last minute to the Nob Hill Theatre closing day barbecue. My friend got us in for free and we had a leisurely stroll through the premises. I particularly enjoyed the go-go boys in their stretch terry hot pants.

Fucking wall of fame.

Behind the stage was a door I’d never seen before. Outside it were circular steps leading down to a deck and the entrance to the owners residence. The apartment, which supposedly had been featured in Architectural Digest, could only be accessed through the theater. Very La Cage aux Folles. Having Mom over for dinner while they screened Seven in a Barn must have been an interesting evening.

The back of the property abutted the former Williams-Sonoma Mail Order patio where we once found the California Bay Laurel doused in dog piss. And, yes, abutment is the proper term for discussing the physical attributes of a gay porn theater.

In addition to the closing day festivities, my connection (who was empowered with price negotiation status) took me on a private tour of their Touch Our Junk sale yesterday.  All the glory hole panels had been sold by the time I got there but there were still stripper poles, autographed porn star 8×10’s and half priced lube to be had.

Skilled performers on stage expertly worked both the lip and the tongue.

In 1996 I took Mother on a Jackie O Getaway to Manhattan. We saw Zoe Caldwell in Master Class, took a long walk through Central Park by the 1040 Fifth Avenue condo, ate oysters at Grand Central, marched through Bergdorfs  and attended the preview of The Jackie Estate Sale at Sotheby’s. I left only one bid, an excessive $1100 for the monogrammed cocktail shaker. The eventual winner paid about $6500.

I did not get shut out at the Nob Hill sale yesterday though. I scored an original Justin Simpson painting “Spring” from the 2008 Men of Wine Collection. Done in a sickening Lawrence Welk teal, it has the unsettling thematic quality of a Keane painting (minus the eyes) with just a soupcon of Linda Blair’s Excorist menace thrown in.

One can almost see Grandmother doing her phantom “No!”