chaotic androgyny

i can't cope

there’s a friday ass vibe about this wednesday boys keep your wits about you

in the beginning, the trump assassination attempts were spaced by twenty four weeks. then twelve, then six, then every two weeks. the last one, at the white house, was a week. in four days we could be seeing a trump assassination attempt every eight hours until they are coming every four minutes. we should witness a double event within seven days,

my best friend linen my brother in arms cotton my partner wool my beautiful sister silk

our sick deranged enemy polyester....

the demon lord, prince of lies, "Vegan Leather"...

DPC and DPL.  Dead People’s Clothes and Dead People’s Leather. Their toys, their paintings of half naked, naked, screwing men.  The statues.  The leather.  The sling.  The posters.  The … all of it. We’d literally Straighten homes.  Depending.  Some families knew and were fine. Or more ok.  But pictures of other guys on phones was the least of it. I have… leather that’s been passed through three or four men who’ve died before getting to me.  They’re the heirlooms now, passed down chosen families.   Sometimes there were crews.  We’d show up as soon as possible, as a unit.  We’d hit the bedrooms first.  Clear out closets, under beds, bedsides.  We’d donate, throw out, take mementos.  Pass on.  Secret lives and secret, us only treasures.   Then we’d leave.  For some family’s you never talked about it.  They never knew.  It was better all around.   I have vests, gloves.  A belt.  Arm bands.  Paintings.  T-shirts.  Photos, undeveloped film that’d I’m still somewhat terrified to try to get developed (lol).  We live on in the living rooms of others.

Transcription: So back in the late 80s and early 90s, when I was 20 and there was another friend dying of AIDS like every three weeks. Yeah, seriously those days were terrible. Young gay men now will just never know what it was like. But when a friend would die we would ALL know exactly what to do. We’d get to their houses as fast as possible (most of us already had a key) and we would know EXACTLY where the smut was, we would know EXACTLY where the stuff they didn’t want their family to find. We would get it and we would destroy it. OR we would keep it for ourselves if it was cool, or we would donate it to…something. I dunno. It’s kind of a messed up memory, but uh, back then we all just had to have each other’s backs and uuh, yeah. This video just reminded me of that.

So something similar to this happened with this Leatherdyke Organization that I pal around with. At the end of an event one of the elder org members revealed that one of her close friends—the only one of her gay male brothers to survive the aids crisis—had died and she needed help cleaning out his apartment. This close friend happened to be a guy named David S. Menkes. David S. Menkes was probably one of the most prolific leatherworkers in NYC. Dude designed outfits for Lady Gaga and dressed leatherqueers all over the world. He was a glorious, glorious man. Anyway, I and some other young queers helped clean out his apartment. First there was an estate sale which was incredibly moving in itself. There were just…so many moments. There was the moment I found his old book of Cole Porter songs. I opened it, found one my gay godfather (another survivor of the AIDS era) introduced me to and began to sing. Night and day, you are the one Only you beneath the moon and under the sun Whether near to me or far It’s no matter darling where you are I think of you Night and day One of the older gays at the estate sale stopped in their tracks when they heard me, visibly moved. “I didn’t know young people knew that song. I haven’t heard it sung in years.” There was the moment a bunch of younger queers (myself included) gathered around David’s stash of leather. Some of them were leather workers, others (like me) were not. We all exchanged numbers and resolved to start learning to make our own pieces. I came back the day after the estate sale to help pack more stuff up in boxes. That evening as I sat in my room with my inherited leathers I thought of another theatre-gay classic I’d heard when I was younger. It’s a song composed by George Gershwin shortly before his death about love and community in the face of impermanence. The lyrics were written by George’s brother, Ira, after the former’s funeral. The more I read the papers The less I comprehend The world and all its capers And how it all will end Nothing seems to be lasting But that isn’t our affair We’ve got something permanent I mean in the way we care It’s very clear. Our love is here to stay.

Fozzy getting hit on by lots of twinks

Happy Pride Month

Ten years later, this bit still slaps. They made a great pun and realized they could be nice/inclusive with it too.