The Little Pixie

Maybe it’s the unusually mild weather today or all The Beatles tunes that came up on my iPod this morning at the gym. Of course, it could also be the arrow that Cupid successfully lodged in my sternum. Heck, maybe it’s just the two brownies I found squirreled away at the back of the freezer. But whatever the reason I really am feeling pretty good about things these days. Optimistic… enthusiastic… hopeful.

Yes, it’s true that the only thing standing between me and calling a refrigerator box “home” is about $300 (and you know that my refrigerator box will be the absolute envy of the underpass…) but I also get to see my amazingly wonderful second family on Thursday (and next weekend I get to—gulp—meet the Fokkers), there’s a pot of fish chowder simmering away on the stove waiting to be e’t, a couple of books sizzling away on my Kindle waiting to be read and, later this afternoon, a really good nap waiting to be taken.

Pollyana-ish? Perhaps. But it all puts me in mind of this song from that great—yet forgotten—off-off-Broadway musical from the early 'nineties, White Cotton Sheets, written by… me (and performed here by the amazing Bobby Reed and Stephen Pell.)

And I really do wish that you could be a pixie, too.

Ooops.

You can imagine it might be a little awkward if your boyfriend is searching the internet and stumbles upon naked pictures of you standing by a truck out in the desert. Unless, of course, you used to do that for a living and it’s in that context that the aforementioned boyfriend first became aware of your existence at all.

And there folks, you have yet another example of the usefulness of porn.

Yes, Johnathan, my new (and totally adorable) boyfriend just showed me a set of photos he found online that were taken on the set of Big Rig, my swansong in the adult film biz, and one of the two movies I made for Colt Studios. (And definitely the most fun I had on a shoot.) That was the movie where I had to drive a semi down a deserted road all of about 100’. Terrifying.

I hadn’t seen these pictures before. I must admit that on reflection they’re pretty good. The funny thing is, though, that I was so neurotic about the Hudson Wright shoot I did this past summer for Canned Ham that I’m in better shape now than when I was in the business.

Oh, irony! Well, J. gets to appreciate it, anyway.

Did I mention it’s sure fun having a boyfriend? Especially a new and totally adorable one. Living two hours apart is a challenge, of course, but not much to be done about that at present. It has caused me to spend more time in the city, though, which I’ve enjoyed. And I may have to be in town on a more regular basis if I get some kind of part-time job down there.

Did I mention I’m broke?! There’s really no work up here in the sticks to speak of so I may look for some bartending or waitering gig in the city to hold me over until the Canned Ham bookings start coming in more regularly. I always swore I’d never do that kind of work again. Never! Funny thing is now that I’m, uh, older, I haven’t any qualms at all about looking for a job like that. I think it’s because back when I used to sling hash or pull brewskies I was always an aspiring something. Well, I’m not aspiring anymore. I think it’s pretty clear by now that my Times obit will not read “Tom Judson, noted _______, is Dead.” I suppose they could insert “gadfly” in there, but I can’t imagine being pinned down to any one profession at this point. So, I no longer aspire. I just do. And it looks like in the short term I may “do” bartending. If I can get hired, that is. I’ve done it before (and here’s the dirty little secret about bartending—it’s so easy. Almost as easy as playing the saxophone) but now they expect you to have resumés and references and blah blah blah. Last time I was a bartender I came home every night with my clothes and hair stinking of smoke. That’s how long it’s been.

Why am I going on about this? Just to meet my blogging commitment, I guess (Amy…) Oh, no! Being broke, that’s it! So many friends of mine are in a similar situation these days. For years we’ve all been getting by (or better) but now the collapse of the economy has really trickled down. I have married friends—two different couples—who have discussed getting a divorce just to qualify for Medicaid. In my book that qualifies as grotesque. Especially when the idiots who are decimating health care reform which might make insurance affordable and keep my friends from contemplating splitting up are the very same ones who would deny me the right to marry another man… to protect marriage.

[So, I'm talking to my right-wing brother-in-law yesterday and the subject of the Death Panels comes up. "You just wait," he says. "They're just around the corner. It's already started: now they're saying 'No mammograms after 50.' If you're older than 50, you're not worth it, I guess." "Uh," I said, "I think what they said was no mammograms under 50." "Oh, so if you're under 50 you're not worth it. See what I mean?! Death Panels are next." Someone please tell me how you argue with that kind of "logic."]

Oy. Here I go again.

Meanwhile I’m sitting in my little cabin catching up on my reading and movie watching and cat petting and cooking (but trying not to bake too much.) I’m trying to get a writing project off the ground to occupy my time and even though I have no photo shoots lined up I’m going to the gym every day. Almost.

In short, life, for a late-middle-aged, destitute, newly-in-love gadfly is pretty good.

Anyway, here’s one of the less risqué pictures from that Big Rig shoot. I don’t know whether Jeff or Mick took this shot so I’ll mention them both.

Déjà vu All Over Again

Leave it to a bunch of queens to bring scented candles to a rally.

There was a modest but sincere gathering on the steps of the state capitol earlier this evening in anticipation of tomorrow’s vote on the Marriage Equality bill in the ever-dysfunctional New York State Senate. After last week’s vote in Maine I am resigned to another defeat here in my home state, but that didn’t stop me from showing up to raise a flame of hope into the night sky, nor will it keep me from the senate gallery tomorrow to witness the vote. My ever-vigilant friend Beth showed up, too, and as she sniffed at her strawberry scented votive said, “Well, here we are again.” And I guess we’ll be here again and again until they pass this thing or until the hateful bigots just, well, die off and leave the world to the people who think there are a whole lot more important things to worry about.

At the rally I ran into another friend who is in the final stages of gender-reassignment therapy (M-to-F.) She told me passage of the bill was especially important to her now because she’s engaged to a “really nice girl” and they hope to get married. But, after saying that “it doesn’t really matter in her case,” she went on to explain that in spite of the fact that she will legally be re-classified as female after the surgery, since the Catholic church doesn’t recognize gender reassignment, she can still get married (under her boy name) in a church ceremony. So does that mean the state will have to recognize her marriage? Even though the state will consider her a girl? Who will then be married to another girl?

And if that doesn’t illustrate as clearly as anything possibly could how completely ridiculous this whole marriage brouhaha is, I don’t know what does.

Down With Down East

My blog update record has been pretty pathetic since returning from Saba. I’ve been reluctant to post anything that’s not “event-related” i.e. a balloon flight, a wedding of two dear friends, a tentative foray into Loveland. But as my life has been somewhat uneventful of late (other than that last example) this blog has been lying pretty fallow. And after I went to all the trouble of designing that fabulous new header!

So, I’m going to try to get back to my roots as a novice blogger, way back when I first started gusmattox.com and would write about whatever trivial inanity crosses my mind. I seem to recall that strategy did result in the occasional interesting entry. (That blog was also laced with an x-rated photo now and then. That, uh, won’t be happening here.) My goal is to post three entries per week. They may be very short but at least they’ll exist. I make no promises and you certainly shouldn’t check out this page for any thrice-weekly pearls of wisdom. But at least you’ll know I’m alive.

So, what’s on my mind?

This Maine thing. Tsk tsk tsk. I’ve been saying it for years: we homos are the last minority it’s acceptable to hate, and the vote to repeal our civil right to marriage (please note how terrifying is that phrase: to repeal our civil right) confirmed it. Once inside the voting booth people are free to unleash their bigotry with impunity. And here’s the thing: of course they are. This is still a free country, right? I don’t care if you hate me and what I am. Chances are I hate you right back. But as long as you stay on your side of the fence I will not get in your hateful way. But you don’t stay on your side. You come barging through the garden gate with your morals and your God and your 50% divorce rate and try to tell me I’m going to Hell. I find it so difficult to argue this point once religion enters into it because I think people who believe in God and are members of organized religion are deluded idiots who shouldn’t have the right to vote in the first place if they’re going to bring all that malarkey into the voting booth with them.

Y’know, I’m really pretty tired of this whole argument. Its so painfully obvious to me that it’s rooted in the hatred of homosexuals. And often by some supposedly enlightened individuals. And just as often by the homosexuals themselves. I’m not going to get started about how I believe that the closeted gays are to blame for the lack of and/or slow progress in LGBT rights over the past 10 years. I’ve already been on that soapbox. But I would like to mention that a lot of our straight allies (including our families) could be doing more, but don’t because we homos are the last minority it’s acceptable to hate. If someone utters a homophobic (or any kind of bigoted) remark and it is not rebutted, it is implicitly endorsed. If you let your kid be in the cub scouts in spite of their official anti-gay policy, well, I guess you think that policy is sound. There’s a pretty terrific restaurant in my area run by some religious community. I used to be a regular patron until I found out they, too, are officially anti-gay. I suppose I wasn’t surprised to learn that information, but once I did you’d better believe I stopped going there. But dang it if most of my friends don’t continue to eat there. Even some of my gay friends. They’re actually giving money to people who think their friend (me) is, by his very existence, an affront to nature. Thanks, friends.

I wish I had answers but I don’t. I do wish people would do the substitution thing, though, and see how they come down on different issues. Let’s try: “The official Boy Scout policy is that people who are black runs counter to the values promoted by the Boy Scouts. Therefore we don’t allow black boys to join the scouts or black men to be scoutmasters.” Sign me up! Or: “We believe the Jewish 'lifestyle' is incompatible with a moral and just life.” What’s on the menu?! I think people would be surprised at their own buried prejudices if they tried that tack.

Blah blah blah. This is what you get with a rambling blog entry, I’m afraid. Lots of carping and no suggestions for improvement.

Oh, and did I mention I’m completely disillusioned with Barack Obama?