THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES
by James Killough
In light of certain recent spectacular celebrity re-falls, I thought I would waffle on again about narcissism. I’m saying ‘re-fall,’ but what is the opposite of a comeback, anyway? Can’t be a go-forward, sounds too positive. ‘Relapse’ presumes some sort of addiction or cancer or some other pathological illness, but I guess in the case of Donald Trump it has indeed been a relapse. In terms of how beleaguered he is in the pubic eye, what has happened in the past week is akin to his bankruptcy twenty years ago. Except this time the banking crooks on Wall Street won’t step in to refinance his image and allow him another comeback. No doubt he’ll engineer that himself: much as we would like him put out to pasture, I fear the old warhorse unfortunately has some irksome neighing yet to do.
After yesterday's post, Tuttle said, "We'll never find a shirtless hunk to beat Joe Manganiello." Not to be defeated, or outshone, I dove into my Manhunt.net profile and fished this out. I'm working the whole mirror/narcissism trope here... oh, never mind.
Let me recap where we are with this for readers who were not around during the week I spanked Galliano and then followed it up with a post about narcissism, and who might fear having to wade back and read through reams of dense, convoluted Killough prose:
THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES | REVIEWS
by James Killough
I don’t understand quantum mechanics/string theory completely, and I’m not sure I ever will. Even the Wikipedia explanations lose me after a certain point. I’m sure if I had the sort of intelligence that could appreciate physics in its full glory, if I were as passionate about it as I am about my creative work, I would no doubt be a firm believer, taking daily communion at the Cathedral of St. Einstein of the Atoms. As it is, I get quantum theory enough to appreciate the meaning, and might be able to bang out a plausible sci-fi script on the subject, but it would be nowhere near as satisfyingly complex and taut as Ben Ripley’s is for Source Code.
St. Einstein licks a communion wafer crumb from his chin.
Quantum mechanics is the frontrunner for the Theory Of Everything (TOE), on which all orthodox atheists, myself in particular, pin their hopes. If the TOE is proven, then our ratings war with religious believers will take a massive turn in our favor. It will be like the final scene in that documentary about the McCarthy Hearings when everyone has had enough of Joe’s paranoid, delusional shenanigans and just gets up and exits the room, leaving the sweaty, evil little man to stew in his wrongdoing. One day, which cannot come soon enough, God will be replaced by the Big TOE, neatly pedicured, devoid of calluses or bunions, something about which all of mankind can agree. Creation myths invented by the JRR Tolkiens of Antiquity will be given no more credence than very Grimm fairy tales, and not even considered for the education of children in what should be the most advanced civilization on earth, much less debated. Instead, they will only be taught creation facts with empirical proof behind them, which will be as indelible as a fossil set in limestone, as straightforward as a strand of DNA. In the Continue reading
Ask any red-blooded baboon: as repressed as the Victorians were, the bustle was a flagrant invitation to do nasty things from behind.
I miss the Victorian Era. It’s not just that I miss the high-waisted trousers and the frock coats, and the prospect of reading Dickens serialized in the paper every week. I am probably one of the few men in the modern era who can say he had two frock coats hanging in his closet at one point, made for me by my tailor in Delhi to my amateur designer’s specifications, based on yet another Yohji Yamamoto frock coat I brought in for him to copy. It’s not that thinking about the Victorian Era makes me miss when I had hair, either, which I usually wore long and curly on top and shortish on the sides, with my sideburns always down to my jawline. No, the real reason I miss the Victorian Era most is because had I lived then I would have been straight.
As every gay man knows, while inwardly guffawing at those misguided conservative poodles who incessantly yip that ours is a “lifestyle choice,” only an extreme masochist with a major reactionary streak would ever choose to be gay over being straight. Most of us believe we would make great straight men. We’d be wonderful fathers, we would seriously pay attention to our woman’s appearance, we’d never even tire of clothes shopping with her.
The reason a Ghey like me would have been straight back then is I would likely have gotten married, had kids, and nobody would have been the wiser. My wife would have been so repressed and confined by the rigid corset of social mores that she wouldn’t have admitted even to herself that I wasn’t banging her, much less to anyone else. She would have ignored the stable full of handsome young stable hands, who would have walked funny after I’d spent an afternoon “grooming my horse.” In the unlikely event of a complaint from her, I would have just yanked a lace in the back of her dress like a yo-yo string and she would have passed right out on the parlor floor like a rag doll, after being cut off from what little air she was getting to begin with.
The Victorian Era was basically when Western culture turned Japanese for a hundred years. It was graceful, fraught with fascinating social intricacies and niceties, but was, all kidding aside, clearly a real pain in the ass. Continue reading