THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW

by James Killough

It’s one of those gay myths that the more homophobic you are, the more suspect your own sexuality.  I know there are many aspects of gay culture—the rainbow flag, Pride parades, the boom-boom wailing club music, to name a few—that make me want to retch, and often cause me to be adverse to the way we are perceived en masse.  I face the same ridiculous accusations from Gheys as I do from misguided patriots when I object to America’s behavior in the world arena and I’m called anti-American: if you slam gay culture, it’s seen as self-hatred.  Because of course rainbow flags and boom-boom wailing club music are a representation of who I am, and therefore disliking them must mean I dislike myself.  Ho hum.

Daphne Guinness is hardly a new face, she's actually a fashion-scene fixture at this point. I just like this image from Interview, and the fact she's well over 40 and still gets her "Billies" out.

While I do think there might be a kernel of truth about the rabid straight homophobe having issues with his own sexuality, I really hope it is the case for Rick Perry.  As I’ve said before, I think he’s smokin’ hot for an older guy, despite that JFK hair.  He is definitely worthy of being sodomized, over and over.  I can just see him sporting a crew cut, a jockstrap and work boots, and fastened into a sling for a jolly good fisting.

In a move that backfired louder than a redneck’s stock car with faulty ignition, Perry’s “Strong” ad went viral in all the wrong ways.  As of this writing, the ad, which attacks Gheys in the military among other anti-Christian evils, has had slightly over eleven thousand ‘likes’ on YouTube, and close to half a million dislikes.  Of course, this is probably the leftist liberal internet-using elite voting and not a true representation of how the majority of Americans feel.

“The Republican party should be exclusively rich white men,” Tuttle remarked the other night while we were on our way to the Rick Owens furniture show, before I’d had one glass of Trader Joes champagne too many, propositioned our waiter, lost the heel on my right boot and then urinated in the valet parking lot in front of all the attendants.  You can always bank on me to add a touch of glamour to a party.

I admire that Perry has resisted Botox.

I agree with Tuttle that there is a sort of seamless, minimalist elegance to wanting the GOP to go back to its origins, when it owned “elite” exclusively and proudly, before it foisted it like a dead skunk onto the liberals.  This was a time when, according to my establishment Republican father, Joe Kennedy wasn’t admitted to the party because he was Catholic, not to mention a bootlegging gangster.  It is ironic how the Republicans seemed to have traded in “elite” for the Democrats’ Kennedy hairdo.  Alice Through the Looking Glass all over again.

Regarding just how completely out of touch the GOP is, elitist pinko commie bastard/liberal economist Paul Krugman wrote in a New York Times editorial earlier this week:

“The same metaphor [of the dog catching the car it is chasing]… might apply to the G.O.P. pursuit of the White House next year. If the dog actually catches the car — the actual job of running the U.S. government — it will have no idea what to do, because the realities of government in the 21st century bear no resemblance to the mythology all ambitious Republican politicians must pretend to believe. And what will happen then?”

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Oh, joy, there’s hope for me yet: England and Wales have launched a National Stalking Clinic.  This means I can be compassionately cured of my urge to drive around LA in a convertible paintballing all my exes rather than being arrested and slapped with a restraining order.

Stalking is believed to be on the rise because of modern technology.  I’m also pretty sure it has to do with mood-altering recreational drugs.  The latest cause célèbre—sex addiction—must be fueled by all those putative ‘addicts’ doing a few too many bumps of lab-concocted substances, which propel them into a parallel universe of unbridled horniness where even vegetables and certain melons become objects of desire.

Rebecca De Mornay's finest moment, as the stalker in "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle."

The British Crime Survey reports that one in five women and one in ten men are victims of stalking “in its various guises.”  That conjures images of ski masks and army camouflage, when in fact they mean excessive texting and Googling and Facebooking.  Oh, just learn to use the block/unfriend feature, already, sheesh.

All joking aside, stalking is creepy.  I’ve blogged about it before in the tastelessly titled post “The Joy of Stalking.”  My point is there is a distinct difference between expressing your passion and invading someone else’s sovereign territory.  I think it’s okay to serenade a potential lover under her balcony when she has expressed a real, not perceived, romantic interest in you, but not okay to clamber up with a knife in your mouth and a pair of handcuffs to hold her hostage until she returns your affections.

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Our roaming correspondent Chris Cramer, who likes to compare me to a cross between Charlie Sheen and the Roman emperor Hadrian, sent me this pic, which he has entitled “Lego James-Hadrian” because it reminds him of me, giving a new meaning to objectification:

I like to think the scowl is my gym face.

In other edgy toy news, my ‘little brother,’ graffiti artist and Kid Robot co-founder Tristan Eaton, will be featured on Sanjay Gupta’s program on CNN, recounting his trials and tribulations as a street artist.  The reason I call Tristan my little brother is because when I tried to set him up with my little sister Rain Li she said, in her Beijing mockney accent, “Why I want to go out with him for?  He look like you.”  Yeah, but with hair and a spray paint can.  (Watch Tristan’s interview here.)

The last time he was in LA for Comic-Con, Tristan gifted me these versions of his famous Thundermutt toy because “they remind me of you and one of your boys”:

Just to be clear, my "boy" on the right is wearing briefs, not a diaper.

I’m trying not to read too much into the fact I remind everyone of little molded plastic representations of disgruntled creatures, but I am nevertheless taking the hint and looking into anger management therapy as well as Stalkers Anonymous.

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For anyone in Los Angeles this weekend, attendance is mandatory at Tuttle’s friend Terry Beeman‘s trippy, enchanting Mental Head Circus.  They’re going up at the King King, 6444 Hollywood Blvd. in Hollywood, Sunday, December 11 at 7 PM.  Step right up, ladies and gents, and be dazzled:

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I was thinking of not doing a Schizo of the Week for this post because I’ve been copping out too much lately by naming Republican politicians and not hitting the streets of Hollywood to find my specimens.  That was until today after the gym, when I decided to get a fat-bitch burrito at Chipotle, on Vine south of Sunset.  Very sadly, I couldn’t access Chipotle because a schizo gunman had opened fire randomly at passing cars, and was in turn shot dead by police.  I managed to get this picture of his shrouded body lying in the middle of the street:

At the police cordon, I met my very first real homicide detective, and he was nothing like the swaggering machos in The Shield or other LA crime dramas.  When he opened his mouth, a big ol’ Vuitton purse fell out, as we say in gay parlance.  A homo from homicide.  Love it.

Just when we started talking, a shouty crackers Schizo passed by, bellowing about how he was gonna get some fucking respect because he was in the Marine Corps, etcetera.

“Oh, look, yet another schizophrenic,” I remarked to Twinkletoes Le Badge.

“He’s just misunderstood,” Miss Le Badge lisped compassionately.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not schizophrenic,” I said before cycling away to Trader Joes up the street.  And there, near the check out, I met Antonio Maria, a dapper, eccentric Cuban gentleman who is living around the corner from the store.  This probably means the Hollywood Gay and Lesbian Elder Housing, which I always imagine must be like Golden Girls meets Paris is Burning.  (More after the jump.)

I aspire to this.

Antonio Maria spoke very little English, but luckily I not only speak Spanish fluidly, I fancy I speak it with an island accent like his.  That fancy was shattered when he asked me if I was from Argentina, which means I sound like a snob with a speech impediment.

Antonio more than willingly agreed to have his picture taken, and even dragged me to the privacy of the shopping cart area to have me do a whole shoot, which he directed.

“I just turned seventy on December 2nd,” he said, breathlessly.  “Yes, I dye part of my beard, but I’m on social security, that’s all I have.  Take one of me with my eyes down… right… first wide angle, then close up.  A photographer in Pasadena took pictures of me the other day, and, my God!  The lighting was so beautiful, I looked amazing.  Like a Rembrandt.  Look, the hairs on my arm are sticking up just thinking about it.”

Properly speaking, Antonio Maria probably isn’t schizophrenic, just a classic old Hollywood narcissist, maybe with a dash of histrionic personality disorder tossed in his salad.  Either way, he is certainly the most elegant we’ve ever had.

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