March 3, 2011

Oscar producers are not female. Otherwise the Javier Bardem/Josh Brolin kiss would have aired. And there would have been teleprompter cues encouraging a Robert Downey Jr/Jude Law kiss besides.

I think the Academy largely believes gay is a fictional state of mind that sometimes arty directors make long important films about - not unlike making a film about unicorns or One Ring or whatever. Mythical, vague, unrealistic things. This may explain why an actual spontaneous kiss between two real men would terrify them. "But they're not even gay!" But they could be, that's the point. Anybody could be. It's just not a big deal, see? It is, however, to the old guard. It's okay to make long important films about mythical subjects but it is not okay to bring those things to the Oscar broadcast right up there onstage under the lights and everything. Have some decorum! Show some moral restraint! It's okay to dress James Franco up in a wan drag homage to Marilyn Monroe because who doesn't like an unpretty poorly-fitted possibly-stoned homage to Marilyn but... men kissing? For fun?

Academy men. So not down with the female mind and the kids and everybody's freedom of choice these days.

March 2, 2011

Homie asked for a poem.
And now... A Moment of Poetry. Composed spontaneously here for you, my pretty mortals.

*ahem*

The dog upon the coverlet
looks dead
legs limp
head lolling
eyes sealed shut
but if someone opens the front door
she will resurrect
FLASH
and tumble headlong down the stairs
like a bowling ball
released from lane servitude
bouncing free
pell mell
every which way
until she comes to a sliding halt
carpet crumpled under-four-foot
nosing at the hand
of whoever just arrived
with hindquarters wagging
full speed
Dogs are curious animals
perpetually loving that you're home
always miserable when you leave
never indifferent
full tilt into extremes
sleep
wag
sleep
wag
sleepwag

I myself am a cat person
but admit to growing affection
for the attentions
of the dead-looking dog
upon the coverlet


The End

March 1, 2011

Having tired of waxing sorrowful (and non-eloquent) on the subject of breakups - though that subject and the accompanying emotional napalm are an ongoing project with me - I am returning to the Crypt with questions rather than enlightening bits of verbal delight.

What shall I write about now in my beloved but long-neglected Crypt?

What now is my direction in this, my eight hundred and ninety-seventh year? (Or thereabouts. Immortality does become tiresome to track.)