SELF-PAT-ON-THE-BACK UPDATE: From Pope Frank’s activity the past twenty-four hours, his revelation about his inspiration for the name, it’s clear I hit the nail on the head with this article written shortly after the announcement of his election. If I were Nikki Finke from Deadline.com I’d blare “TOLDJA!” Read on:
At the risk of annoying my regular readers, but as a way of explaining to the new, I was raised in Rome in the 70s, which means I had the strange experience of three popes in one year, 1978: the likely super-gay Paul VI died on August 6; John Paul I succeeded him twenty days later, then may or may not have been assassinated thirty-three days later (those were dodgy times in Italy, and more so than usual in the Vatican); then John Paul II stepped into the “shoes of the fisherman” on October 16
I was sent an article the other day by Rain Li’s boyfriend, Forest Liu. I think Forest is fantastic, and hope that, if or when Rain is done with him, she’ll pass him along to me. There aren’t many leftover dumplings I would eat from Rain Li’s dim sum brunch, but Forest is definitely one of them.
The New York Times article is about its author going to Cheyenne, Wyoming to meet his friend and former colleague, reformed gay activist Michael Glatze, now an ex-Ghey evangelical. It’s a long piece, so I’ll let you read it here at your leisure.
Michael Glatze in more miserable times (left) with his boyfriend, and now happy as a clam with a new companion, the Bible. You'll be back, baby. You'll be back.
In a nut’s shell, because such things are completely nutty, Glatze has abandoned cock worship for Bible worship, which says everything about religion right there, in a nutshell.
You’ve always been my favorite of the fictional characters I was asked to believe in without question from childhood. As an adult, I admire how humbly and stoically you have endured under the shadow of that fat bitch Santa Claus over the centuries. You are a testament to how cute ultimately triumphs over gluttony with the right amount of tenacity.
I had the strangest dream this morning. Betty White was married to my father or some other amorphous patriarchal member of my family, and we belonged to some hyper-conservative, super-slick country club. Betty got very drunk and loud, so I admonished her for making a fool of the family in front of the rest of the club and threw her glass of champagne in the pool. I woke up full of remorse for how I’d treated her, for being so bourgeois in my dreams when I am so not in waking life. I felt like writing her an apology note and sending it to her agent. The truth is I rather like drunk, loud, bat-shit-crazy old women, like Royce and Marilyn. Royce’s favorite exclamation is from whence comes the title of this post: