Posts

Posted on

Friday Tiedrich

I’m so tired of being told that Preznit Fuckwit — a quadrice-indicted twice-impeached once-convicted popular-vote-losing adderall-huffing dead-pedo-bestie-schmoozing East-Wing-destroying insurrection-leading ear-diapering testimony-ducking judge-threatening lawyer-ignoring debate-avoiding witness-tampering disabled-veteran-dishonoring inheritance-squandering rube-fleecing clown-makeup-smearing language-mangling sneaker-hawking serial-sexual-predating draft-dodging casino-bankrupting butler-bullying daughter-perving hush-money-paying real-estate-scamming bone-spur-faking ketchup-hurling justice-obstructing classified-war-plan-thieving golf-cheating stock-manipulating weather-map-defacing war-criminal-pardoning horse-paste-promoting paper-towel-flinging race-baiting tax-evading evidence-destroying charity-defrauding money-laundering diaper-filling 34-count 79-year-old fluorescent-tangerine narcoleptic fart factory — is some kind of second coming of Jesus.

check out Troy Nehls, the doughy pantload who the voters of Texas keep sending back to Congress.

“I believe that Donald Trump is better than sliced bread. I think he’s— he’s almost the second coming.”

nice catch there, Troy, sticking that ‘almost’ in there. we wouldn’t want any ethereal lightning bolts hurled down from above, aimed squarely at our ass, would we?

I’ve got a news flash for Troy, and all these other Republican fucksticks who never stop yammering about how Dear Leader walks on water: Donny is not the messiah. he’s a very naughty boy. now go away.

let’s do a bit of a fact check. here are some highlights from the dog-and-pony show Donny held in the Oval Bordello yesterday.

tell me, would a true messiah never shut his big fat yap about crowd size?

that’s where Martin Luther King gave his— great speech. and he had a million people, and— I had the same exact crowd, maybe a little bit more, but they said I had twenty-five thousand people on July 4th. I have pictures of Martin Luther King’s crowd, my crowd, exact same— everything. but it was seventy years difference. the exact same crowd, but— I actually had more people, but that’s okay. they gave him— they gave him a million people, they said a million people but I had twenty-five thousand people, so, but— these are the things that you get with the— we had on July 4th uhhhh, a few years ago. first term.”

I’m no Biblical scholar, but I’m pretty sure that Jesus never bragged about the crowd size for the Sermon on the Mount — and let’s not forget, the attendance for that sucker was ginormous. the Sermon crowd was so huge that people in the back couldn’t even properly make out what he was saying.

a real messiah would be humble about that shit, and not wave photos at every opportunity. ‘see this crowd? Pontius Pilate’s autopen wishes he could get that many people.’

Donny sure is jealous of the accomplishments of black men, isn’t he? how small and petty is he, that he can’t even mention King’s speech without insisting that his own crowd was just as big — no, wait, it was bigger! — and that he never got proper recognition for it. shut the fuck up, you tiny, insecure gnat.

how hilarious is it that back in the 1970s, Donny and his tyrant Klansman father got fined by the federal government for refusing to rent any of their apartments to black people — and now, black people like Barack Obama and Martin Luther King Jr live rent-free in Donny’s head?

now I ask you, would a true messiah fall asleep at 3:30 in the afternoon, filling the Oval Bordello with the pungent aroma of ass music?

look at this narcoleptic old coot. he can’t hack it.

what in the actual fuck is going on here? Donny is out like a fucking light — and it looks like he’s about to slide off his chair and disappear under the Resolute Desk. won’t anybody help this frail old man? won’t someone get Dear Leader his pudding cup and lead him to bed?

this, by the way, is why Donny’s handlers kept him hidden from the press all week — he’s crashing out, hard. he can no longer handle the rigors of the presidency.

a real King of Kings wouldn’t be pulling that ‘I’m such a sleepy boy’ crap in the middle of the day — not when there are multitudes to be fed. a true messiah would be on that shit.

consider this: the math involved in figuring out how to divvy up one fish and one loaf into— into— hey, how many is ‘a multitude,’ anyway? look, my point is that a real messiah wouldn’t fail basic fourth-grade arithmetic.

the Apostle Brainworms: “[Elizabeth Warren] was ridiculing President Trump for his math. she was saying it’s mathematically impossible to have a drug drop by 600% in cost. I said ‘well, if the drug was $100 and it raises the price to $600, that would be a 600% rise. well, if it drops from $600 to $100, that’s a 600% savings.’”

Donny: “right.”

imagine being this proud of being this ass-clownishly stupid. that’s not the way calculating percentages works, yet Donny and his disciples are doubling down on their dumbfuckery.

an actual messiah wouldn’t need community notes.

a true Light of the World would put down the lamb, pick up a calculator, crunch the numbers and go ‘huh, I guess you’re right.’

a real messiah learns.

I should point out once again that I’m no Biblical scholar — but I’m pretty sure that Jesus never got pissy with a scribe from the Nazareth News Network.

reporter: “what do you say to the American people who question how much longer this will take? obviously you know they’re having higher gas prices.”

Donny: “you’re such a disgrace. did you hear what I just said? how many years was Vietnam?”

oh, now that’s a winning argument, for sure. go right ahead and keep comparing the debacle in Iran to the clusterfuck in Vietnam. I’m sure that’s a pairing that the American people really want to have in their minds right now, as everything goes to shit.

a messiah wouldn’t call someone ‘a disgrace’ just for asking a question. a real Fisher of Men would give a wink and a thumb’s up while convivially winning all doubters over to his side.

but wait — there’s more.

reporter: “does that mean Americans should anticipate spending more on gasoline for the foreseeable future?”

Donny: “for a little while. you know what they get for that? Iran without a nuclear weapon that’s going to try and blow up one of our cities or blow up the entire Middle East. the stock market is at an all time high.”

reporter: “but that doesn’t drive prices down.”

Donny: “let me finish, wise guy.”

there’s nothing in the Biblical record about the Prince of Peace being a thin-skinned piss-baby — and I’m pretty sure that no one had to hold a What The Fuck Is Wrong With You Challenge™ for the ancient scribes of the Lamb of God Press Pool.

so let’s recap.

Jesus: humble as fuck.
Dear Leader: insecure braggart.

Jesus: alert and on the job.
Dear Leader: narcoleptic old fart factory.

Jesus: generous and giving.
Dear Leader: can’t math his way out of a paper bag.

Jesus: patient and kind.
Dear Leader: crabby and short-tempered.

so, it looks like my original premise stands. Preznit Fuckwit is not the messiah. he’s a very naughty boy.

your honor, I rest my case.

this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:

practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.

to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.

we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.

Posted on

Would You Live Here?

In 1976, architect Tadao Ando designed the Azuma House in Sumiyoshi, Osaka, Japan. The residence occupies a narrow plot between two traditional wooden row houses. It was built with smooth reinforced concrete and features no street-facing windows.

The design centers on an open-air courtyard that splits the interior into two distinct sections. Residents must walk outside through the rain or cold to move from the kitchen to the bedroom. This intentional choice forces a constant interaction with the natural elements within a crowded urban environment.

[Source]

Posted on

The Gang Was Still All There, March 1987

(L-R) Leo, Dennis, Your Host, Alan, Lee, Bernie, Steve

Yeah, I’m posting a lot of old photos today. It’s nice to be reminded that the world wasn’t always falling apart with a madman at the helm, still threatening nuclear annihilation.

People have always given me a hard time for taking so many photos, but as I enter the winter of my life, I’m so glad I did. (The same goes for the two decades of journals I kept, even if I can’t place a single face to the men I seemed to always be gushing over.)

Posted on

Welcome To The Castro

May 1985. This was our first trip to The City, a whirlwind adventure of only one weekend. We had so many places we wanted to visit, and a very limited time to do so (especially since we were without a car). We weren’t sure we’d have time to visit the Castro, but managed to fit it in that Sunday afternoon before heading to the airport.

But it was enough. We’d been bitten. We returned in November, at Christmas, and again in April and June of 1986 for longer stays. By the time August ’86 rolled around we’d all (myself, Bernie, and our friends Lee and Alan) relocated there. In the interim Bernie and I had split up but remained friends, and rented a flat together for the next year while we got our bearings.

Posted on

I have long held that Prince and David Bowie were the glue holding our reality together. It seems it all started going to hell after their departure from this plane…

Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called Life.

And getting through is a heartbreaking slog right now.

Now, I can’t quantify it, but I’m a firm believer that things really went to hell here after Prince died. A decade ago, losing both him and David Bowie within a couple of months was a collective gut punch I don’t think we’ve ever fully recovered from. I know I haven’t.

Over the past year, watching this fascist regime’s relentless assaults on his beloved Minneapolis, I’ve often thought to myself, “Prince wouldn’t have stood for this shit.” I wonder how he would be using his platform right now, and pulling his community together, and singing truth to power. He damn sure wouldn’t be silent.

A year before his passing, the Purple One released ‘Baltimore,’ a song lamenting the murders of Freddie Gray and Michael Brown by police, and the escalating violence and unrest in America, writing:

Nobody got in nobody’s way
So eye guess u could say
It was a good day
At least a little better than the day in Baltimore
Does anybody hear us pray?
4 Michael Brown or Freddie Gray?

While it’s been a beautiful thing seeing Bruce Springsteen, U2, Florence and the Machine, The Strokes, and so many others making art and launching tours to confront corrupt power, oppose violent bigotry, and call Americans to a higher level, Prince would have hit different. He always did.

I had the good fortune of seeing Prince close to a dozen times. These were, for me, spiritual experiences in the truest sense of the word: joy, liberation, unity, love, euphoria. It was baptism in blistering guitar, heavenly choirs of strangers, holy ground as a dance floor.

As he sang, Strangely beautiful, beautiful strange.

The first time I saw Prince at Philadelphia’s Tower Theater, I can remember standing wedged inside a sweaty, pulsing, kaleidoscopic mass of humanity, thinking: “These are my people!” I’d found my place.

Among a myriad of gifts, this was the solitary magic of Prince. He brought completely disparate groups of people together and made them feel they fit. He transcended musical genres, broke through color lines, and challenged gender roles. He boldly declared the dance floor big enough for all of us. And in that free and joyful place, we all danced.

When you were at a Prince show, you belonged. You were the right color, the right shape, the right religion, the right you. And in that space, you felt at home in your own skin and connected to those around you in ways that defy explanation. As much as anything right now, America could use those joyous nightly reminders of how many good people are still here and what we can still do together.

Prince gave me much more than hundreds of songs that altered my path and lifted my spirits.
He showed me that masculinity and femininity could inhabit the same space and be embodied in people simultaneously.
He made me realize that I could love God while being a complete contradiction.
He showed me that spirituality and sexuality weren’t divergent endeavors, but equally beautiful experiences of the Divine.
He taught me that friends don’t let friends clap on the two and four.
He showed me that humanity’s differences are where the glorious stuff is.
And he showed me that sometimes all you need is a funky beat and some friends who set you free.

Ten years after his passing, Prince’s artistic absence is palpable. As a singer, multi-instrumentalist, songwriter, producer, and dancer, he will forever be without peer; an artistic force of nature, the likes of which we had never seen, and will never see again. The talent, creativity, passion, and light that he left this planet with cannot be measured.

Prince gave me more joy than I can properly express. His music provided me with a place that felt like mine, but never made me feel alone. His shows gave me an occasional three-hour experience of Heaven coming down. As he sang in Uptown: “Black, White, Puerto Rican, everybody just a freakin’…good times were rollin’.” I miss standing in that space; that one where the world could sing one beautiful song together.

Yeah, the threats we’re facing are more complicated than a pop song, and no, life isn’t like a Prince concert, though maybe it should be. There is something defiantly subversive about collective joy. Prince reminded us that we need to fight hatred, but we couldn’t stop dancing.

To all my fellow freaks who are grieving the place we call home and feeling devoid of joy; to all the misfits, outcasts, and weirdos out there who find solidarity in their oddness and who want to make sure everybody gets to join the party:

May all your berets be raspberry.
May all your corvettes be red.
May all your rain be purple.

And if De-elevator tries to bring you down,
go crazy, punch a higher floor.