The Urban Elf

I am ill. Not in any sort of overtly biological projectile fashion, but ill nonetheless. I mention this only because it has blunted and blurred my mind slightly. So, please, bear with me.

Arisia. Brilliant. Much fun. The Park Plaza was lovely with the exception of the snowy television, the non-alarmist alarm clock and the only bar being closed for a private function while we were snowed-in Sunday evening. To clarify, McCormick & Schmick’s was closed and the Todd English debacle, while serving intriguing food was hardly a proper bar… and no, there was no mini bar option. In fairness I should mention that the bed was lovely and the staff very helpful… however these things are not in the least related. I got enough back of house nookie when I worked at the Ritz. So last century.

Costumes were fab. Masquerade impressive. Goth beachwear fashion show? Eh… but the lifeguard and the winning junior and senior art school Goth girls were mad fabulous. If anyone has pictures send me the link. Please? Despite my solemn vow to take more pictures than I took as Noreascon I took none. I am a reprehensible ruin.

Two great parties: Skank Saloon and The Chris Party. No one seemed to know who Chris was and there were a multiplicity of “skanks”. I myself was merely bawdy… I mean, really, who could compete with the puppet-master a.k.a. Bunsen Honeydew Gynecologist and his lovely writhing assistant? The Queer Fandom party was entertaining but bereft of alcohol… No, really, it still had its moments. I had smuggled in my own.

I met lovely people. Nice people. A few very attractive people… and a few people that further cemented my firm belief in skimming the gene pool on a regular basis. I discussed the Iraq war with a polyamorous male/female married couple. This also marked my first documented sighting of an actual practicing bisexual male within the poly community. Must not have been local. Some of the gene pool people on the other hand… definitely local.

Let’s see… I learned how to discipline a horse. I found out way too much about Henry the Eighth, but the incidental orator in this case was not without a certain charm. I learned that it is very difficult to make a living off of web comics. OK, I had it carved in stone and sealed with blood that it is very difficult to make a living off of web comics. I did the Time Warp with a crutch and cast; demonstrated the proper way to be swallowed by a boa constrictor; and made-out with a Midwestern bear at the post midnight dance in between flailing around singing along to Sisters of Mercy. No, not the nuns, dear. It wasn’t that kinky. Drew strange pictures in green light listening to Pink Floyd, total college flashback. “Got snowed in.” Really got snowed in. Attended a wonderful panel on Dr. Seuss. And, it was all over way too soon.

More random details later, and thank you to Larkin, John, Chad, Lars, Kate, Ayden, Jesse, Troy, the volunteers and the pros and various and sundry persons familiar and unknown for making this a grand weekend.

Oh… and if anybody knows where on the internet I can find naked photos of the bartender in the Indiana Jones hat from the Skank Saloon party??? PLEASE let me know. I need to wallow in a mire of unrequited and pointless lust just a wee bit more. It was refreshing feeling inadequate and sixteen again. LOL!

I was going to write about this weekend's con experience today, but this morning I received an email that Senator Wayne Allard (R-CO) is reintroducing the Marriage Protection Amendment (MPA) on the Senate floor today. Thus, I was inspired to write to my senators, Ted Kennedy and John Kerry. The text of that email is as follows.
----------------------------

As your constituent, I am writing to urge you to oppose the discriminatory, unnecessary, so-called "Marriage Protection Amendment."

In all honesty I am weary of having to keep writing letters and e-mails on this issue. So, let's just get down to the point. This is the United States of America, a nation founded on the principle of freedom. This is a nation that has tried and sometimes succeeded in leading the world toward an increasingly enlightened view of and appreciation for the inherent value of the individual and the individual’s rights, privileges, and potential and actual contribution to local and global society. Therefore we cannot do this. We cannot allow this to be done. We cannot allow discrimination to be written into the very document that is physical manifestation of the egalitarian soul of our nation. No. Just, no. No compromise, no debate, no half measures, no way, now how, just no. We shall not, we cannot, we will not, allow this assault on and insult to one of the fundamental glories of what America is.

The right-wing Republican neo-crusaders have one thing correct; this is a moral issue. What they do not see is that we, their opposition, are on the just and good side of it. Much has been said about the American people sighting values as the deciding factor in their choice as voters this past November. Unfortunately, and do not believe accidentally, that is nearly always spun as a cry from the masses that they wish to lock step with the christianist extremists. What you do not hear is that nearly all those who voted Democrat in the aforementioned election were compelled to do so by passionately held values that this nation is forgetting: equality, freedom from oppression, freedom of speech, economic and social justice, the protection both internationally and domestically of all human rights. This is indeed a moral issue and the left has to seize the banner and proclaim that ours is the moral position and that we will defend it on the barricades.

The institutionalization of discrimination and bigotry is a slippery slope. Passing this ban is the kick that sends us sliding. And, I for one do not wish to see my country joining Pat Robertson and his cronies at their annual church picnic in the ninth circle. So, please, end this. Stop them. Red and blue, blue and grey… this may look to you like just another battle, but believe me this is war. You are our voice. You are our champions. Report for duty. Don’t let us down.

I look forward to receiving your response.

I regret my failure to post anything this past Friday. I spent the first part of the day running around like some sort of berzerking cruise director trying to get my piles of detritus into a coherent and nominally portable state. Then I scrambled off to Arisia where I spent the rest of the day. Indeed that is where I spent the entire weekend, right up until this morning, snowed in at the Park Plaza with everything one needs for a good time... except anything close to enough liquor. Despite the state of emergency I am however at work. And thus I apologize not only for the aforementioned lack of a Friday post but also for the inherent lameness of today’s post. More on the convention and the storm tomorrow. I promise. I have notes.

I have avoided the news today. I only just at 4:00 felt maybe it was safe to listen as my radio shifted from Stravinsky to the BBC. I couldn’t bear to listen as play by play descriptions of this day’s spectacle of despair were trickled into my ear and pooled like mercury in my mind’s eye. I have spent no money. I am wearing black. I just wish I had the opportunity and the gumption of those who took a public stand. I will not give up the fight, but today I feel defeated.

Do I want to walk that beach with you
or do I just want to walk that beach
with stars singing hymns to joy
with my hand held
in the warming grip
of a man who is still a boy?
Do I want to roll
in that dune with you
or is it only just a dream
of an archetype
and a promised love
that will rescue me
from this chilling scene?
Do I want to gaze
into your eyes
and see my future there
or do I only seek
for some pair of eyes
that will reflect on my life with care?
Do I want to taste the honey
of your sweet kiss
or kiss some myth
I’ve long been chasing?
Do I want to find my home
in your embrace
or just fall into a warmth
of the memory
I never have quite shaken?
It’s a new thing
a scary thing
fast and full of promise.
Is it the one thing
the one true thing
that resonates in my bones?
I’ve been a long time
on this road
and weary from the travelling.
I’ve been a long way
away from home
so long that I’m often mistaken.
Do I want to walk that beach
alone with you
letting love unfold beneath the moon
or am I only so lonely
that I can’t see
that I just might jump too soon?
You are a promise
that may never be fulfilled.
Are you a dream
from which I should awaken?
Are you the promised one
I’ve been waiting for
or am I impetuous
from the years that have passed
while my heart has refused to stop aching?
These are the questions I ask
these are the things that I fear
as I navigate my path.
Are you the golden boy
the savior come
or the avatar of my aftermath?
Do I want to walk that beach
alone with you
as the stars hum in silent conceit
or do I merely wish
not to walk alone
on this road that offers no retreat?
Don’t be cross.
Don’t take it personally.
Please don’t think I doubt your ardor.
This is only me
as I’ve come to be
a hollow reflection
of an innocent believer
now only Cupid’s war rattled
and gun-shy martyr.


R. L. Allison 1/19/05

One finds the oddest things when cleaning out coat pockets. On a cocktail napkin I found the following ; not exactly literature but what do you want for bar scrawl?.
-----------------------------------------------

I look into your eyes
and I see
mutant fires burning bright
the soul of the outsider
committed and estranged.

I look into your eyes
and I see
the mournful undead
reaching for warmth
of a heart beating life.

I look into your eyes
and I see
the brilliance of a dream
that carries generations
to the stars.

I look into your eyes
and I see
a world of magic
where the races tall and small
strive to mystic justice.

I look into your eyes
and I see
the boy no one wanted
until his newfound people
made him a star.

I look into your eyes
and I see
the struggle of the lesser man
who found the hero
within himself.

I look into your eyes
and I see
the joy and the rapture
of the boy still within
taking flight
amongst his fellows.

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Like I said, not exactly literature.
But hey, I was drunk... and always have been a bit of a bar groupie.

May I take a moment to discuss the lamentable irony of the bar scene in Boston? Of course I can. This is my show.

I have been out a very night of this long weekend and for the record met some lovely people, caroused and carried-on with friends, drank, flirted, participated in a handful of vague indiscretions and ruined one or two unmentionable boors... so it is not as if this was a time bereft of fun. That being said, what in the name of lustful indulgent flesh mongering is wrong with this town? The most egregious example is Saturday night. Let me set the scene.

The Alley, Bear Night, a sea of bodies packed so tightly one might have mistaken it for a Who concert on Ellis Island had it not been for all the whiskers, flannel, pool tables and beer. The cast includes not only anyone who has ever appeared in Broadway cast, but every leading man, prima donna, understudy and script toting stage manager ever associated the traveling, community theatre or college productions mounted in the last five years. I, doing my utmost to balance my role delicately between gossip maven, gamine ingenue and salacious provocateur, moved through this sea of fur-bearing manhood much like and injured yet lovable harbor seal in search of an Animal Planet series contract. I caught many eyes, fielded many smiles and inquiries. There were blushings and gropings, exchanged drinks, lit cigarettes. There were bawdy allusions and suggestive banter.

And that's it.

After all this, with lines left dangling and a severe case of "which-way-did-he-go", I came home alone possessed of one email address and a condition best discussed with Doctor Ruth. And, to top it all off (no pun intended) at closing time the unprecedented crowd created a traffic jam within the parking garage. As I made my way up the ramp to the floor from which the elevator can be accessed (I am so calling the ADA people) I was treated to the entreaties of men who had flirted and then disappeared earlier in the evening... of course they were in line in cars full of their buddies. What was I to do, abandon my car and leap in across their laps? My Shirley MacLaine to their Vegas chorus boys? Where was all this enthusiasm earlier? Why is it that only in the context of a poorly staged clearance sale in a parking garage can anyone make a move? Oh, the pain, William. The pain.

I have no idea what to write today. I face an unscripted and unscheduled long weekend which is a good thing but for the outline of compulsory talking points lurking below its dreamy surface. Places I really should be, things I really should do, the accomplishment of which will of course be nothing akin to simple. I can feel it in my bones, somewhere in the unscripted scenes of my journey into the suburbs to obtain a haircut at an actual barber shop and to deliver the last Christmas gifts left unclaimed due to a snow storm there lurks time swallowing, energy draining, sanity rattling drama. Trust me, I just know. Oh to be inspired instead of being nibbled at by the toothless maw of a vague and nascent sense of doom.

Ugh, is it cocktail hour yet?

What is wrong with people? In a nation run amok with actual examples of intolerance, prejudice and outright hatred who has time to vilify a teddy bear? Apparently a certain Jerry Goessel does. Whether Mr. Goessel's position as the executive director of the Vermont chapter of the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill denotes his status as a mental health care professional or as professionally under mental health care I cannot say, but he is threatened by teddy bears.

"Crazy for You" joins a cast of quirky characters including "Gangster of Love", "Love Handle Bear" and "Playbear Playmate" among others who within the scope of their diverse ranks cover most concepts of what is cute, playful or tasteful your likely to in counter in a 21st century romance. But unlike bears in flaming boxer shorts, push-up bras, and any number of outfits suitable for a Village People concert or after hours at a Shriners convention "Crazy for You" is offensive not because he looks like a furry version of Patsy Cline (which he doesn't) , but because he is wearing a straightjacket. Apparently the modeling of this one garment/device by a wee plushy bear is enough to invoke outrage among certain healers of the psycho-emotional human condition because Mr. Goessel has, with full colleague backing so he claims, demanded that the poor love-addled bear be removed from the market immediately. This is where I am inclined to doubt the complaintants's interest in "sensitivity" as such an action on the part of The Vermont Teddy Bear Company would obviously leave the furry little fellow with severely undermined self-esteem and potentially catastrophic abandonment issues.

Speaking as a person whose sanity has been publicly called into question on any number of occasions let me go on record as stating that, I don't know about you, but Romeo would have a much better shot with me come February 14th if he showed up toting this adorable little straightjacketed ursine nutter in lieu of some tacky dreadful from Macy's, International Male or Chevrolet.

So in closing, physician, or whatever you are, heal thyself and leave the little bear be.

Last night someone shocked and troubled me by making the emphatic assertion that…

Gilda Radner was a Canadian.

Needless to say this rattled the very foundations of my sense of national pride. But, even as I sat there gaping in disbelief like a fish that has just discovered the element of air in a context beyond the glimmering amusement of bubbles I felt ill-equipped to dispute this biographical broadside. Why? Well firstly, I was somewhat in my cups and secondly, my co-conversationalist was himself a Canadian, and let’s face it, with the entertainment industry nearly overrun with more secret Canadians than secret homosexuals they need to track these things. So wouldn't he know? Well, today with a clearer head and a T-1 I did some research.

Gilda Radner was born in Detroit, Michigan on June 28, 1946. She graduated from the University Liggett School in 1964 and then enrolled at the University of Michigan. Gilda spent six years studying drama at U of M but dropped out prior to graduating and moved to Canada. This is where the Canadian bit comes in. She made her stage debut in the 1972 Toronto production of Godspell. In 1974, she departed Toronto for New York City and, well, you know the rest.

So there you have it. Gilda Radner was not a Canadian. So next time you put on a brownie uniform, give some one a noogie, or remind yourself that “It’s always something!” wave a flag and shed a tear for a great American.

Alas, Adam Sandler is also not a Canadian. But if you happen to live near a Canadian embassy or somewhere along the border, please, pop over and let them know they can have him cheap.

Never mind.

Our society is obsessed with filth, sickness and filth. Antivirus software to protect us as we frolic in the plague fields of the internet by proxy of our billions of little and not so little digital plug-in gizmos. Anti-bacterial soaps and cleaners to keep us free of the invisible grasping putrescence of doorknobs, restrooms and small children. The government badgering us for years to get out and get our flu shots and just as the programming is nearly complete executing some sort of evil Piagetian reversal designed to send the otherwise hale and healthy influenza-phobes into a panicked frenzy, overturning walkers, digging pit traps in the Ensure aisle, running entire casino-bound tour busses off of bridges all to assure their place in line for the precious ambrosia of immunity; all the while fulfilling the ruling powers' underlying agenda of relieving strain on an over-burdened social security system.

Well, change is in the air. A movement it brewing to emancipate us from the washing, scrubbing, foaming and sudsing anti-bacterial cleanser-loving mania. Enter… the lovable germ. Yes, in a re-imaging the like of which has not been seen since Taylor Dayne discovered cream rinse the reviled denizens of the microsphere have gone the route of many other maligned organisms and turned to the Gund-ian creed. Whether actual villains or simply misunderstood custodial staff, the members of this community have decided to focus on their commonalities and do their best to use that accumulation of strength and resources to snuggle their way into our collective heart. We may just be seeing the future, and if so, the future is plush.

In the commonwealth of Massachusetts the battle to protect the constitutional right to marriage for all of our citizens still continues. The following is an excerpt from a letter I recently sent to the state senators and state house representatives from my district.

"We, the citizens of this commonwealth, would be shunning our responsibility as a lonely beacon of commitment to equal justice and progressive social values were we to allow the addition of discrimination to our state's constitution. Out there in the darkness of oppression under the crushing weight of legislated hatred and criminalization wrought by the radical religious fundamentalists of this nation are many for whom that beacon is the only hope. Do not snuff that light. Do not abandon so many of your fellow Americans to be rent and wrecked on the rocks pursued by a storm of terror and persecution."


None of us can afford to be silent any longer. The darkness is upon us and its teeth and talons lengthen as its pace quickens. Open your eyes, lift your chin, take up your pen, lift your voice, strike a blow for the light. The battle is joined but not yet lost. We can and must prevail.

First, my apologies for being so lax in my duties these past two days; all time has been consumed by the petty inconveniences of maintaining employment and the domestic and creative whirl that is the lead up to Christmas' last hurrah.

Christmas, I hear you ask, but it's days past Epiphany.

Well, yes, yes it is. But, among my people there is the long held tradition of Christmas in January held the first Saturday to fall after January 2nd. Oh and what a glorious time it was this year, a true Dickensian Christmas tableau from the over-flow of sumptuous food and drink and its accompanying besotted gluttony, down to a cast of characters complete with urchins, a cripple and a mustachioed old woman wandering around in a wedding dress mumbling to herself. There were even rumors that Madame Defarge herself was seen in a corner when the throng parted but such whiskey tainted testimony is still being scrutinized for accuracy and humor value. Ah, the bliss of family and friends at the holidays, the joy, the lunacy, the restraint in the face of the snipping and sniping of persons obviously unable to embrace the spirit of the occasion and count themselves blessed that they are not subject to banishment or worse at the whim of a mercurial monarch...

I do so love Christmas.

Well, I should have known better than to think I could get tips on developing my skills in the retributive use of telekinesis from my psychiatrist. Silly me.

Running late in the rain and ice and just having had a rather indecorous encounter with a wild-eyed and slathering creature in new Mercedes hellbent on claiming a parking space with sufficient fervor as should be reserved for securing right-of-return to his motherland in hell, I flew into the good doctor's office somewhat disheveled. I began apologizing for being late and breathlessly recounting the highlights of the parking incident. I must have been overcome by the comforting vibrations of what serves as my temple of catharsis for I had no sooner passed the threshold than I flew into a bit of a rage and beat the couch senseless with my crutch bellowing a string of obscenities that would make both Richard Pryor and Jack Nicholson blush. Margaret Cho, of course, would have wasted no time blushing and handed me a drink and a "So, are you like done, miss drama thing?" once my adrenaline had ebbed to more David-Banner-like levels. The good doctor however did neither. He merely cowered in the doorway, behind me, no doubt calculating whether he could get past Psycho-Action Tiny Tim and dial 911 before the couch either died horribly or started naming names. Poor dear. As I pointed out later, he was in no danger, I assaulted only an inanimate and unbreakable object.

All in all I think it was a good session.

I am afraid that I have nothing witty or profound to say today.

…

I heard that. That sigh of relief… and don’t roll your eyes at me.

Impudence will not be tolerated.

I cannot yet crush the throats of the impudent with the force like Darth Vader… an inspiration I received from the great Huey Freeman, but I am practicing every day. Every day.

Tomorrow I’ll ask the shrink if he has any tips…

A friend sent me this quote today.

For this reason, we find it seldom happens that a good man seeks to become a prince through evil means even though his aim be good or that an evil man, once he has become prince, seeks to do good, since it never enters his mind to use for good the power he has acquired wickedly.
(7) Machiavelli- Discoursi (book 1 Chapter 18)

This explains what I have been saying for years about the difference between the majority of the left and the majority of the right. The right will win by any means necessary; the left although they often second guess their opponents will not take the appropriate "unsavory" preemptive actions for fear of becoming what they despise. Perhaps one could say this is an example of the impotence of lawful good in a world increasingly dominated by chaotic evil.