Like riding a bicycle, part two.

In my newfound life, I recently parted from my partner of nine years and am late thirties looking for purpose in the universe, I am doing thing out of the ordinary. I recently posted how I pulled my bicycle out of storage and took to the road, though I think the road to more from me than I it. I've been to the galleries, I've called old friends, I've been to the theatre, I've eaten alot of sushi, or basically; I've been to me, but I'm courting paradise. My friend Rob (straight) owns a boat and loves to go out on the water with it. Rob's an actor with lots of toys, he fully subscribes to the theory that whoever dies with the most, wins. He needs people to go out with on the water, as it simplifies the tasks, but in LA we are snowbound in Flakes. Rob is full on determined to share the experience with those of us at the restaurant where we all work and take them waterskiing. I sign up and soon after, Paul does. Paul (straight) is a Jersey guy with the perfect hair, perfect body, and perfect smile hate him he's nice. Paul and Rob are very athletic and in great shape, I hold my own, and sometimes hold my own stomach in. Basically it's two dudes and dad.

I say Dad as the last time I was up on waterskiis was thirty years ago. Both of my cohorts for the day weren't even born then. (Pause, breathe) (Pause, breathe) My cousin Peter used to take out his cousins on his powerboat when we would summer in Cape Cod. I miraculously rose to the top of the water several times before eating most of Sippican Harbor. I was basically a spastic sponge. My baby sister Trish, never got up on skiis and Cousin Peter often instructed us to inform her friends at school if she started bragging that she waterskiid this summer that she actually" just sat in the water with skiis on". The past came back to haunt me as I sat in the lake with skiis on.





I gave this my best effort. I leaned back. I kept my knees together. I kept my feet together. I kept my wits together. I swallowed more water the official drove by to remind us that we were in a drought season and that I should stop affecting the lake level. I gave it the old college try but the irony is in that I was in college when Rob and Paul were in grade school. Rob, genius that he is, decided we should tie the skiis together to keep my legs together. I was doing more splits than Nadia Comenechi, and the irony is that neither Rob and Paul will know who she is. We tied me together and almost got Papa Spats up. The film of this is attached to the post. I was almost there when my spaghetti-like thighs informed me that there would be no further abuse needed; I would limp for a week.

We were on Lake Castaic from 9:30 until around 4 pm. The weather was perfect and the sun beaming. Slathering on the 30 spf wasn't going to prove enough. The traffic on the water went from good to plenty during the hours. We made our way to the innertube. This insidious devious was of a great size with handles and a crucifix. We were covered physically and spiritually. I was able to save some face by riding that little bugger like a trooper. The look on my face should sell that. We took turns driving the boat and learned the navigation of cruelty, this is where your learn what centrifugal force will do relating from boat turns to trailer whipping. As hand over hand wheel turning would drive the boat, the wake effect and tube snapping was comical and sometimes malicious. They have various types of these tubes to do a boat's bidding. I'm told there's one that resembles a manta ray that actually can take airborn. I managed just enough air on the tube that I had, but I am intrigued. This device was much more friendly to me than the skis, and I won't even mention the wakeboard. Battered, bloated and babbling we made our way to shore. We had stopped at a little gas station/deli enroute and gotten manly italian combo sub which we ate so fast that the paper surrounding them had teeth marks. Feeding time at the zoo, indeed.

I limped for a week and prized my sunburn. It was a fantastic day and I'm beholden to Rob for constantly offering to take us out, and me for accepting. Thirty years in the making I decide to try to re-create the Go Go's Album cover, Vacation. J and I say dragqueens recreate that album cover in Key West. I digress. Did I mention I limped for a week? I will get up on skis next time. I may swallow the other half of the lake, but hey-at least it's fresh water. Oh, my legs.

More images; Mr LA on his Razor.

Self Portrait 1.

Paul in action, he had a little routine to keep himself pretty when he got up on the skis. He made sure the shorts came down, the lips got wiped and the hair got juzjed up.

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Self Portrait 2. We haven't thought of Rob in minutes, we're just yuking it up for the camera. Is he still on?

And finally, one very happy Rob. He didn't conquer the wakeboard that day, but sure as heck he did the next time he went out. Did I mention, my limp?

September 19th, Talk Like A Pirate Day.

Anyone who knows me or has read all of my posts while sitting under power lines, knows that I celebrate the mundane and cherish the banal. I fancy holidays that I've created in my own mind and work diligently on spreading their good name. Well now, I 've had the rug pulled out from under my (peg) leg.











Today is International Talk Like A Pirate Day. The day when all are encouraged to talk like a pirate. It's been in existence for a short period of time, in comparison to Melonball Thursday's inception. It gained national exposure with the aid of syndicated columnist Dave Barry. The originator, Mark Summers (Cap'n Slappy, pictured right) and buddy John Baur (Ol' Chumbucket, left), created the day mostly to remember Summer's wifes Birthday. Here are some brilliant sound bytes to work in to your dialogue today, from Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson;









Bring me one noggin of rum, now, won't you, matey."









"Avast, there!"









"Dead men don't bite."









"Shiver my timbers!" (often pronounced as "Shiver me timbers!")









"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest -- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!" (see Dead Man's Chest)









"There! That's what I think of ye. Before an hour's out, I'll stove in your old block house like a rum puncheon. Laugh, by thunder, laugh! Before an hour's out, ye'll laugh upon the other side. Them that die'll be the lucky ones."









I myself have often been considered a pirate of sorts. And thoroughly welcome this holiday as my own. AAAaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh.

Booty.

(Pictured; Cap'n Pinkertony, the Scourge of Barneys)

grrrrrr.

Shutting the botox door, and opening the collagen window.

This past Emmy Awards is a hallmark to where the vapid Entertainment profession is going; to a boring hell in a knock-off designer bag. TV Guide Channel's decision to replace Fashion Gurus The Rivers Girls with Lisa Rinna says to me that younger markets are being courted. Chumming the audience waters with a beverly hills science project more readily identified from her 'Melrose' days, may increase viewership on their pre-show telecast than Joan and Melissa. Lisa Rinna was as boring as a GE Commercial. Her self serving nature was the only thing remarkable in the show. Joan and Melissa ARE the Red Carpet. Joan herself is identified with creating the whole fashion 'wrap-up' experience and with coining the phrase, "Who are you wearing?" They are the original sillicone enhanced bastions of bitchiness. Seeing an award show without them involved was a very hollow holiday. How can we celebrate without the Court Jesters jabbing and jeering at the prancing and preening? They were pioneers in Prada and the (Bob) Mack (ee) Daddys of the pre-show celebration that we come to look for in award season.

As we are now fully into the Ball Season, stepped in European Tradition, that culminates in Mardis Gras; we echo the vitality with Award Season. The Grammys, The Golden Globes, The Oscars and so many other shows pop up between now and Easter, and the civility and glamor has been thrown out on it's kiester. Ryan Seacrest mc'ing the show is also telling of where style is being replaced with sound bytes of the self serving. Remember when there were people of talent who could Headline an award show, and not just walk it down the aisle? A slice of Bob Hope is all we're asking for, it's not alot. And then to add insult to injury, my local cable carrier didn't carry the actual airing of the show, I had to catch it in bytes on the computer. Hollywood was just over the Hill and I couldn't be entertained in my home.

"I seek Justice. I seek Satisfaction. Denied." -Gomez Addams,
Addams Family Values

Is it wrong to want my cake and to eat it too? Is it an inescapable fact that we will rapidly/vapidly replace tradition with trade-in to get where we're 'going'? Will we eventually realize that society is being left on Jenga foundation when we keep removing these cornerstones like Joan and Melissa Rivers stumble over people on the Red Carpet. I won't
apologize for wanting the Super in my Superficial.

9/11 Remembered.

Tenor, twelve.

Growing up in an Italian household had many joys (and trials). Growing up Italian meant appreciating the little things like aunts that pinched your cheeks until they distended, cousins that you were forced to endure though they were not blood, strange smells/sounds, long holiday celebrations, pasta drying on a string across the living room on sundays. But one constant in the background that never waivered was the voice of Luciano Pavarotti. My grandfather was stalwart in his love for opera, a passion he passed to my father. The tenor's voice filled our house as the music of "choice" on the weekends when family time was mandated. It really made the time pleasant and shared a world we may not have seen had we been raised in more sane environments. Our experiences growing up have made us better adults and very tight as a family. I wouldn't trade much from my youth, I wouldn't trade those memories of sunday with the family and Pagliacci. With Pavarotti's passing a little piece of my childhood goes with him. Pavarotti performed with many varied artists, but this video sums up growing up in the eighties and nineties, to a t(for tenor and twelve)

Tuesday Mourning.

Keeping hypocrisy hip. These crazy conservative Republicans, they just keep shaking their fingers to keep us distracted from what they're other hand is doing. Aye carumba, such a bumble. Keep reading.