Monday, December 25, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
I walked into MJ's last night for Rimjob (mightily sad that I'd missed godly Adam Killian the week before) and was glad and astonished to see Mario Cruz (who I spent several years in love with) on one of the go-go pedestals. That happiness quickly dissipated when he told me that Rocky had died last week. I first met Rocky cruising outside a certain scaggy-ass Silverlake Latin fag dive (that I used to frequent) 2 or 3 years ago, but I had been in love with him for years before that via his porn work. He never got his due, but as far as I'm concerned he was always a godly, sublime, awe-inspiringly beautiful man (and his boundlessly beautiful dildo sessions in the archive on Live and Raw will always bear that out). One of the only good things I can see about my time as Ed.-in-Chief at Cybersocket was that I had a magnificently lustrous time speaking to and hanging out with him for the better part of 2 hours one day when he came in on a Rentboy matter. When I told him that I loved seeing him get pummeled by Rod Barry in Getting It Straight, he told me that that hadn't been a good shoot because Rod fucked him as if "he were fucking a pussy," but that Jeff Palmer had given him the most beautiful fuck of his life. I knew that he was a tweaker, but I didn't know that he was positive. Either way, I had always hoped that I might someday get to lick that sublime hole of his. That might sound trite considering, but the fact is that he was a sweet, beautiful, incredible man that I'm so glad I had the pleasure of knowing, and to say that I'll miss him is an understatement of horrific proportions. Rest in peace lovely. We do and will always love you here. xxooxx, B.
Friday, December 08, 2006
I had long been pining for a new Amy Winehouse album, but I could NEVER have anticipated the sublime kaleidoscopic soul killer that is Back to Black. Yes, Frank was lovely (as was Seiji's mighty rethink of "Take the Box"), but it is nothing next to its successor. From the miraculously lustrous and epically pure Tamla/Motown bliss of "Tears Dry on Their Own" (my pick for song of the year, alongside DJ Mitsu the Beats and Ivana Santilli's "Living Love Song" from the other album of the year, Inspiration Exclusives, and quite possibly (don't hate me for saying this—if Gilles has made peace with loving an occasional track of hers, I can too) Mariah + Kanye's "Stay the Night.") to the pensive Shangri-La's melancholy of "Back to Black" to the gently effulgent Scepter snap of "Love is a Losing Game" to the gruff locomotive blues-drenched Stax flavor of "Some Unholy War" to the rapturous cascading Brunswick shimmy of "He Can Only Hold Her," BTB is absolutely, indefatigably fucking ESSENTIAL, plus she admits to having a lifelong dream of becoming a butcher. (And what is it about her makeup these days that keeps reminding me of Adult Net-era Brix Smith?)