The title of this post comes from a search term that showed up on my WordPress Dashboard, which as I mentioned in yesterday’s post I am addicted to for the time being. Some British titty-phile wanted to see a man macking on a girl’s boob, and found my blog. All I can say is, bless the very horny, for they perpetuate the race.
I should just rename this entire blogsite Filthy and Filthier and drop the Pure Film Creative pretense. I am clearly no longer concerned with attracting clients who are going to pay me vast sums to jazz up their content, which is typically cavalier and short-sighted of me. It seems I would rather sit here cackling like Liberace on E while I tinkle out mildly offensive caustic badinage that is entirely inappropriate as a writing sample. Oh, well.
Every decade or so, a sentence leaps out at me in some random article I am reading that changes my life. I like to think of this as a manifestation of my personal karmic wheels grinding and showing me The Way, albeit an M.C. Escher-esque way; my life is nothing but karmic wheel cogs twisting impossibly on each other, with medieval men in tights and hoodies marching up and down stairs that seem interconnected but are really just illusions.
A case in point was an article in People magazine way back in 1986 that described the tragic death of Olivia Channon, a Guinness cousin. She ODed on heroin and too many cocktails called “Heaven Can Wait” in Gottfried von Bismarck’s dorm room at Oxford. People described the cocktail as a mixture in equal portions of vodka, champagne and orange juice. I immediately went out and tried this elixir, and it worked: it was the pre-Red Bull buzzy-fun cocktail that got you raucously drunk as opposed to woozy drunk. I think it must have been the massive sugar rush of orange juice and champagne combined with the alcohol. I drank Heaven Can Waits until the budget ran out, and then drank them again when the budget came back. I’ve always thought it was the best use for champagne, no matter how expensive the brand.
More or less the same epiphany thing happened the other day when I read the New York Times article about Hugh Hefner. So inspiring. Apparently, he has kept his skin so soft and youthful by slathering it with baby oil. It is said by his concubines that he glows in the dark as a result. My life changed at that moment. Heaven could wait no longer. I needed to become a baby oil man just like Hef.
Los Angeles is basically an artificially irrigated desert. Much as I admire Clint Eastwood and, like many middle-aged still-hopefuls, aspire to his late-life career, I don’t want my skin to look like a dusty vintage stuffed armadillo sitting in the back of an antiques store in Midland, Texas. Nor do I have the finances that Madonna has to embalm myself every night in super-refined petroleum byproducts like an Ancient Egyptian Queen rehearsing for the hereafter. So baby oil it has become, once in the morning, once before bed. Tiny amounts of it, of course; I don’t want to seem too greasy. But I have already started glowing. By the time I am ready for my nieces to change my Depends, a prospect I love to tease them with, I intend to have become the infant Pitt in the first scenes of “Benjamin Button.”
Speaking of aging eccentrics, the world of fashion is aflame and agog for the first time since McQueen’s suicide with the news of John Galliano’s suspension from the House of Dior. He got into some smack-down spat in a café in the Marais, Paris. They called him ugly, he called them Jews or Asians, or maybe he was so drunk he mistook Asians for Jews, nobody is sure which. I’ve only met the man briefly, but we were both very drunk, so it seems incredible to me that he wasn’t massively provoked. At the risk of sounding like a complete nancy, no matter what John looks like on the outside, there is nothing ugly about a man who produces such breathtaking beauty. If and when Hatter gets going again as a play next season in London, I will go back to John to ask him to design the costumes. When it was a film with me directing, he turned me down on the grounds he wanted creative control. We still met in Paris at the couture shows in 2003 (yes, we’ve been in development with Hatter that long) and had the aforementioned very funny, very inebriated evening together. Or I thought it was funny; I’ve been dining out on the story ever since. It involves a six-foot-five, 21-year-old German kid and some spanking. If he and I don’t work together, which is likely, I’ll blog the story at a later date, again in conjunction with the production of Hatter. So be warned, John: either do the costumes or I’m spilling the beans. [Fuck that shit. I take all of that back. I hope I’ve made up for it in this post.]
Now that I’ve peppered this blog with ramblings about eccentric old queens, let me stop calling the kettle African-American and jump into the fray with my own pic, which will get added to Google Image searches of me:
And a big shout-out (Christ, I hate that expression) to my new buddy Old Ancestor, who has left a couple of lust-riddled comments to the right of this column. Because this particular blog ended up kind of homo sordidus, I thought I’d straighten things up a bit by taking a screen shot of Amanda Seyfried’s “side boob,” as Peter from Family Guy calls it. Here you go, Old Ancestor buddy. My regards to your wife: