zaziel
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I'tr�m breit vula�oz�o ye spalla ei�tlin nel�ffnes pieqi aummit su berwegr'ra'ao.

Algae Blues

Sunday, July 18, 2004 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

This looks like oodles of fun, but oh god, I couldn't allow myself to even consider it. Nope, nope, nope. Don't go there, girlfriend. Of course, I disobeyed myself and considered it. In fact, I went so far as to find a charity I can believe in�here's a worthy cause, dontcha think? But there's no way I'll be able to blog out this coming Saturday.

Sir Auguste Du R�ve has taken up the chivalrous cause and aureate banner of the Dooty Nadog. I am almost tempted to close our semi-round table to new members, because now the Dooty Nadog are The Magnificent Seven, but I can't decide if I want to be Steve McQueen or James Coburn (if this was Once Upon a Time in the West, I'd have dibbies on Charles Bronson). And I know nobody's gonna want to be the irritating noob, Horst Buchholz. Or Brad Dexter as Yul Brenner's good ol' buddy, a one-dimensional character who's only in the movie to fill the quota and die.*

Georg hasn't signed my guestbook since May, the wretched cad. Jealous bitch that I am, I just couldn't let our new members have all his attention, so I went over to Georg's site and posted a Yellow Missive in his guestbook:

Georg! You haven't written me in ages! Absolute ages and ages of yellow pages. Where are your earnest conjurations and greetz from Vienna? I thought you were my faithful ochroid trilobite. Where has gone the love between us like the banana palm did flourish, and like a stiff wheaten garland stood a golden comma 'tween our amities?

(I firmly believe that Shakespeare is appropriate for any occasion.)

~

It's nearly nine o'clock and I'm waiting for the Fiend and Jer to come back from a wedding. Must be a pretty good party, I expected them back more than an hour ago. I was the one who was invited, but I'm grateful that my best beloveds were willing to be my emissaries. At the moment, I'm feeling rather astringent about the subject of marriage. A little bit vinegary, a little bit rancid, despite the recent victory over conservative legislators who want to limit the Bill of Rights to only humans who breed. I'm not gonna climb onto that soapbox, not tonight, I don't have time. When the boys get back we'll be heading north. We'll be camping out in Jimmy Lofvendahl's backyard tonight. For a few days, I'll be helping Jimmy with a backbreaking backlog of work in the Central Coast Division of Yard Dogs, Ltd. (we changed our name last year from 'Zaziel's Landscaping Service because of a minor but longstanding complaint from our customers�they couldn't spell our name). The wedding biz has been booming for 'Zaziel Enterprises, and every weekend this summer we've been making platters and trays and boxes of dainty tidbits�constant piles of firsthand evidence of how easily and carelessly people mate and receive showers of blessings and approval from this society that regards my loves and myself as exhibits in a depraved freak show. But the national brabble over gay marriage is not really why I didn't go to the wedding.

The fact that I have carnal knowledge of the groom might be a good reason to stay away, but that was more than eight years ago, when he was my tenant when I lived in Irvine.� I'm under the definite impression that Gordon has never told his bride about his early expeditions into the wild frontiers of his bisexuality. She's a pert and petite pagan green goddess who has forsaken her Southern California Baptist upbringing for all things wiccan, who once told me, in the nicest possible way, that she was a live-and-let-live kind of gal, but homosexuality was not a natural state of harmony, and homosexual acts misdirected our chi into stagnant pools. "Are you telling me that my cosmic energy is scummy?" was my irrepressible query.

She sure is the cutest little thing when she hems and haws.

But the fact that I was once her husband's fuckbuddy would not cause me to absent myself from this joyful celebration of the holy sacrament of matrimony. Maybe my finer sensibilities aren't as sensitive as they should be. After all, when Lenore, my Queen of the Cowgirls, was to be married, I felt not the slightest tremor of gentile disquiet� about attending the ceremony, even though I had been fucked by both the bride and the groom�and by the bride's father.

Gad, I was such a slut once, wasn't I?

~

* Don't you even dare mention the Magnificent Seven TV-series, whose lonely single redeeming feature was Michael Biehn channeling the Italian-era Clint Eastwood. Michael Biehn. Sigh. I had such a rabid lust for Corporal Dwayne Hicks when I was twelve.

� That was a wild and wooly time in my life. Just outa prison, couldn't get a job that didn't suck, I was virtually abandoned by my disappointed family, who claimed they couldn't recognize the person I had become. But I was young, healthy, gorgeous and willing to work hard, and luckily, I had a few stalwart friends. Who, luckily, had friends with money, people who were looking to invest in a good thing. And somehow I managed to impress them as a good thing. We bought a warehouse in a neighborhood that had been zoned as a hinterland between commercial and residential properties and turned it into three spacious studios (plus one cramped box of a domicile for me). I bought into the partnership by doing all the work of the conversion myself, which cost our little company somewhat more than we anticipated, mostly because I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. Well, I earned a little as I learned a lot, and bluffed my way through a series of disasters that I now realize are common to the construction biz in the Greater Los Angeles Area. But the fun didn't end once all the units were rented�I continued my education by practical application as the property manager, made mistakes and paid for them, and in the process discovered that landlording is not one of my natural talents, and tenants are sneaky, lying, whining, selfish children. I was saved from my misery by Henry and eventually, when I finally started to make some real money driving trucks, I hired Gordon (the only one of my tenants who tried to be a grown-up) as the manager for the apartments. I rented my cramped box to a pair of starving college students and moved in with my sister Rima, who was dying of cancer and needed help. And thus the prodigal son was returned to the good graces and warm bosom of his family, who have, charitably, renounced me only a few times since.

� I did fret for the 104 gold drop beads I sewed on Lenore's dress. Lenore can be quite a vigorous force of nature. I used silk thread, which is strong for its weight, but I remember wishing for Kevlar.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

last eleven:

Resurrection - Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Arts and Letters -
Friday, June 17, 2005
Domestic Obsessions -
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
The Kindness of Strangers -
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
Gone -
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Coming Back, Little By Little -
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Effing Around -
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Explicably Yours -
Wednesday, February 9, 2005
Things Too Innumerable To Mention -
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Mr. Armstrong -
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
The Pope in Our Kitchen -
Saturday, October 2, 2004



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Sa r'ji�o oss�vel meninonceiv �o poshik m�'�nch uscantebatahla o�r musiu o�r muiko.
Copyright � 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by gcs

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