LUCUBRATIONS OF A MAD GENIUS Igor!  Igor!  My arms are getting tired.  Come here and embrace insanity for a while.






The rants, raves, ponderings and hallucinations of
a man embracing insanity





Our infinitives are always fresh and split to order





Names always changed to protect the guilty


Sunday, August 10, 2003  

I



posted by Mad | 12:20:00 PM




Wednesday, June 25, 2003  

I Give Up!


It’s snowing again. That does it! I’m quaffing a dram of my magic potion and I’m going to sleep until the magnolias on Commonwealth Avenue are in bloom again.

posted by Mad | 3:31:00 PM


 

Damas y Caballeros


That is all. That is all I wanted to say...just because I know how to say it.

They say that the mind is the first thing to go.

posted by Mad | 3:31:00 PM




Tuesday, June 24, 2003  

I’m Back!



I’m back from the Sunshine State. Not much to report now except that I’ve gained 274 pounds—it was hell getting on that plane!

Stay tuned, my darlings.

posted by Mad | 5:13:00 PM




Thursday, June 12, 2003  

In Memoriam




1916-2003

posted by Mad | 4:08:00 PM




Wednesday, June 11, 2003  

I Love a Parade



It’s not a march any more, it’s a parade. A parade with corporate sponsors such as Fleet Bank, Wainright Bank, Captain Morgan’s Rum, Smirnoff, Bud Lite, Jose Cuervo and Verizon. It’s not about gay rights any more. It’s about outrageous displays of public behavior. It’s about half-naked steroid boys tweaked out of their minds on crystal meth publicly strutting their buffed and well-oiled bodies. It’s about women baring their torsos to shockingly display their pierced nipples. And we lament our lot in life because we’re not taken seriously.

Gay men are still dying of a disease for which there is no cure but we are not demanding that our representatives in Congress allocate more funds for AIDS research; but once a year, we put on leather chaps and wiggle our bare asses while dancing in the back of a big black truck. We’re not voting homophobic politicians out of office or demanding our basic right to marry each other or be able to adopt; but once a year we can manage to spend a day twirling on the sidewalks looking for a fuck. We bemoan that the media doesn’t take us seriously; but once a year, we parade in smartly designed frocks and size thirteen EEE come fuck me pumps while frantically waving at anything with a lens.

I’ll be missing the Gay Pride celebrations in Boston—for the thirteenth consecutive year. I’ll be landing in the Sunshine State just as the show gets underway. I guess I’ll have to make amends for my uncannily bad timing and, after Saturday, spend 364 days quietly and relentlessly trying to be a proud gay man.

posted by Mad | 10:31:00 AM




Saturday, June 07, 2003  

The Fry-O-Lator Beckons



I try to keep a healthy diet. Once in a while, however, I get cravings for junk food. No, not McDonalds or Burger King, what they serve hardly qualifies as food.

I’m talking about local greasy spoons. Today, I’ve been craving food from Kelly’s in Revere Beach—a suburb of this fine city. I am craving a big bucket of juicy, fried clam bellies with sides of french fries, onion rings and coleslaw and a large chocolate frappe—a frappe, for those of you from the rest of the country, is a milk shake, or a cabinet for those of you from the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations; did you know that that is Rhode Island’s official name?

Since it’s raining and it’s a little chilly—an outing to Kelly’s requires good weather, their food tastes better when eaten on the beach—I’ll settle for a nice piece of grilled salmon, sautéed cucumbers with dill and brown rice. I am having a chocolate frappe for dessert.

Maybe the sun will come out tomorrow.

posted by Mad | 7:37:00 PM


 

OED Approved



I should have never had that last bewy1 last night. Not only did I fall asleep in my bling-bling2 but I also had to get up twice in the middle of the night to go to the minging3 khazi4. Now I feel like such a head-case5 that I think I'll just plop in front of the tele and watch blipverts6 all day. Can someone please half-inch7 me when it's over?
____________________

These words have been added to the latest edition of the English Oxford Dictionary (OED). They are officially part of the English lexicon.

1 Beer
2 Elaborate jewelry or clothing
3 Disgusting
4 Toilet
5 Person who exhibits irrational behavior
6 Subliminal television advertisement—Considered for inclusion but not adopted
7 Pinch

posted by Mad | 12:59:00 PM




Thursday, June 05, 2003  

Gorgeous Ladies Behind Bars




Ladies, please allow me to introduce you. Martha...Big Bertha...Leona. Big Bertha...Martha...Leona. Leona...Martha...Big Bertha.

posted by Mad | 5:54:00 PM


 

HRH Prince Phillip Cuts the Cheese



posted by Mad | 3:32:00 PM




Wednesday, June 04, 2003  

You’re Not From Around Here, Are You?



I’ve trying to psych myself up for my pilgrimage to Florida. I’ve been checking the weather; 98ºF, 100% humidity, partly sunny with a 30% chance of thundershowers every day for the next ten days. I don’t know why I bother to check the forecast. Florida’s weather is, if anything, predictable in June. Hot. Humid. Sticky. I’ll be packing lots of shorts, fluffy shirts and sandals. Best not forget a couple of swimming trunks for the beach. Please note that I did not say Speedos. Speedos ought to be banned along with their cousin Thong—a.k.a. anal floss. I better pack some disco wear in case I want to take in some of the local nightlife.

Yes, disco. It’s Florida but it’s not South Beach.

Now, I’ve never been particularly fond of gay bars—or bars in general. I don’t particularly enjoy smoky and crowded rooms. I ‘d rather stay home with a good book. I do make an exception when I visit Mother Genius. I go out at night. It gets me out of the house and it keeps me from having to watch reruns of the Golden Girls.

There is one gay bar where Mother Genius lives. It’s not only a gay bar but also a drive-thru liquor store—I kid you not. It’s a drag bar. It’s a dance bar. It’s a dyke bar. It’s a twink bar. It’s stuck in the seventies. Seriously stuck in the look-at-the-dance-floor-light-up seventies.

Bevy of Space Coast beauties.Every weekend night is a theme night. Trash Night Friday: female patrons are encouraged to bare their breasts on the dance floor; and they do. Sort of a Gong Show in reverse. The victor is always Jeanne, an eighty-six year old fag hag who always wows the judges with her flaccid and pendulous boobs. The grand prize is the winner’s bar tab for the night. Jeanne drinks a lot. Then there is Gorgeous Girls of the Space Coast Saturday: drag show. Bad drag show. Bad drag queens. Fat drag queens. Ugly drag queens. And the weekend ends with a relative whimper on Bingo Sunday: Desperate people sitting on desperate bar stools playing a desperate game. B-27! Barks the bar tender as two patrons fall off their stools.

I can’t wait for the man who asks me the same question every time I’m there. After working up the courage to speak to me—it usually takes him about an hour—he’ll approach me in his drunken stupor and ask: You are not from around here, are you? I’ll smile politely and uncomfortable and say: No, I’m not. Then, with incredulity, my eyes will turn to the dance floor where Jeanne will be twirling her tits for a case of Bud Lite.

I can’t wait to get there!

posted by Mad | 2:32:00 PM




Monday, June 02, 2003  

What Country Are You From?



I have never been in a country where so many of its citizens claim to be nationals from other lands. There seems to be a tremendous deal of confusion about the nationality of American citizens. A great deal of people who were born and raised here seem to hail from other shores.

Please let me help you with your citizenship status.

If you were born in Hamtramck and your grandparents emigrated from Poland, you are not Polish. You are American. Your grandparents were Polish.

If you were born in San Juan, Puerto Rico after your parents fled Cuba, you are not Cuban. You are Puerto Rican—American by a mere technicality. Your parents are Cuban.

If you were born in South Boston and your great grandparents left Ireland during the great potato famine, that doesn’t make you Irish. You are American. Your great grandparents were Irish.

If you were born in South Philly and your grandparents were from Italy, you are not Italian. You are American. Your grandparents were Italian.

I won’t touch you if you are one-half French, one-eighth Swedish, one-eighth Scotch, one-eighth Russian and one-eighth Portuguese. If you were born in Hoboken, you are American.

I think it’s nice to be proud of one’s heritage but, please, check your birth certificates and identify yourselves appropriately. America needs Americans.

posted by Mad | 1:32:00 PM


 

Food Fest 2003



Mother Genius just heard her favorite words: I’ll be there in two weeks. Her predictable response was: What do you want to eat?

In my family everything revolves around food. The kitchen is the center of the universe; my mother its supreme ruler.

When my parents retired twenty years ago, they built the house of their dreams. It has a gargantuan living room, a dining room that comfortably seats twelve, a large family room. You get the picture. The most utilized room in the house, however, is the kitchen. When one stays at my mother’s house, ninety-five percent of one’s conscious time is spent at the kitchen table. Eating. There are mandatory feedings every hour. Mother Genius is easily wounded when an offering of food is refused. Those of us who love her know that we must eat everything that is put in front of us.

I’m sure that Mother Genius is already cooking. I better start packing. Size 30 jeans for the flight down; size 31 jeans for the transition; size 32 jeans for the return flight. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into her legendary empanadas, or a platter of her bite-sized cheesecakes.

posted by Mad | 9:00:00 AM




Wednesday, May 28, 2003  

Back in Business



The grease traps have been cleaned, the emergency exits have been cleared and the nice man from the sanitation department has been bribed.

We are back in business

posted by Mad | 11:57:00 PM


 

posted by Mad | 8:24:00 AM




Tuesday, May 27, 2003  

If You Can’t Beat Them, Join Them!



This morning, at a quarter past six, I put a white plumeria blossom behind my left ear and went to the toilet where I had an extraordinarily odorless and effortless defecation. So odorless, that the plumeria blossom and the scented toilet paper completely dominated the situation. So effortless, that its smoothness reminded me of the honey of busy bees.

This morning’s graceful bowel movement was quite different from the fetid, spasmodic, dithyrambic, explosive, pestilential ignominies that I used to have at the time of my debauches in Detroit with my friend Richard.

I attribute today’s magnificently unsullied movement to my current phase of nearly absolute austerity. I have also noticed, that not unlike Saint Theodorus VonBlastus—a Third Century ascetic who took nourishment from chewing marigold petals without ever swallowing them—I hardly fart at all. These days, the very thought of breaking wind fills my eyes with tears.

posted by Mad | 1:44:00 PM




Thursday, May 22, 2003  

Off to See the Wizard



I'm off to the easternmost point of the continental United States. I’m off to the place on the East Coast where one can watch the sun set over the ocean. I’m off to the place where the likes of Tennessee Williams and Marlon Brando used to frolic on Herring Cove Beach. Yes, I’m officially kicking off the cool and damp beginning of summer in Provincetown.

I love Provincetown. Where else can one sit on a park bench in front of Town Hall swilling coffee at 7:00 AM while having a wonderful conversation with Norman Mailer? Or watch Princess Leah—a retired school teacher—ride her purple bicycle up and down Commercial Street while bedecked in a formal gown and tiara? Or watch a local fisherman having coffee at the Adams Pharmacy soda counter while he’s sitting next to a man wearing hot pants, red come-fuck-me-pumps and a boa? Not a feather boa, a live boa constrictor.

I’m off to pack a bag full of warm clothes and a pile of books to read. See you in a while. Enjoy the long weekend.

Incidentally, Jodi, I’ll be having lunch here just for you!

posted by Mad | 5:24:00 PM




Tuesday, May 20, 2003  

Orange Alert!



posted by Mad | 7:24:00 PM


 

Feh. Kaka.*


I’ve been doing this for nearly a year and I’ve read many blogs—have I ever mentioned how much I detest that word? Have I ever told you that, to me, blog sounds like something that needs to be lanced, packed with gauze and treated with massive doses of antibiotics? I’ve discovered something over these past few months: Bloglandia is, for the most part, a barren and bleak wasteland.

There are tittie blogs where women willingly and shamelessly post pictures of their sagging breasts. There are scat blogs where people think it’s clever to immortalize their bowel movements. There are penis blogs where men post pictures of their pathetic schlongs. There are angst blogs where miserable people grace us with tedious daily whines. There are parrot blogs where people who are incapable of coming up with one original thought blog vicariously through others. There are word salad blogs where people who cannot compose a sentence or organize a paragraph go on ad naseum about nothing.

Incidentally, if you are going to write for an audience, please invest in the following: a good dictionary, or at least use spell check; a thesaurus, it’s good to have a vocabulary of more than twenty-seven words; and, the Chicago Manual of Style, a must for any aspiring amateur writer.


* Feh. Kaka.™ used with permission from the fabulous Jodi.

posted by Mad | 10:56:00 AM




Thursday, May 15, 2003  

When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big Pizza Pie


Tonight, the heavens will grace us with a total lunar eclipse.

In preparation, I mowed the lawn, weeded the flower beds, refilled the patio torches with fragrant citronella oil and bought a loaf of French bread, a few hunks of good cheese and a kick-ass bottle of red wine. I thought it would be nice to bundle up—it will get a little chilly—and sit outside to take in the display.

I just found out, however, that the local television stations will broadcast the celestial event. This leaves me in a quandary. Do I carry on my original plan and get sauced on Cabernet Sauvignon while basking in the moonlight or do I simply stay in and watch it on the idiot box while swilling Kool Aid in my skivvies?

posted by Mad | 2:24:00 PM


 

Swimming for His Life


There is a drama unfolding in Florida four miles off the coast of Key Largo.

After swimming ninety miles across the shark-infested Florida Straits, a Cuban man is being corralled by the U.S. Coast Guard. The Coast Guard is trying to prevent him from reaching land. Once, and if, he reaches the shore, he’ll be granted political asylum; if nabbed at sea, he will be repatriated. That is current U.S. policy. If returned to Cuba, he will either be executed after a quick monkey trial or he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.

This man is not risking his life for economic reasons, he’s trying to escape an oppressive communist regime led by the cruelest dictator in the western hemisphere.

It infuriates me that this country will spend billions of dollars and risk the lives of thousands of innocent Americans ousting a brutal dictator in Iraq in order to quench our thirst for cheap oil, yet, it will not throw a $20 life jacket to a man who risked life and limb in search of freedom and basic human rights.

posted by Mad | 11:38:00 AM


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