Saturday, March 28, 2009

Pet Shop Boys.
Yes. No. Maybe.

Pet Shop Boys|NUMB

Don't wanna hear the news
What's going on
What's coming through
I don't wanna know
Don't wanna know
Just wanna hide away
Make my my escape
I want the world
To leave me alone
Feels like I feel too much
I've seen too much
For a little while
I want to forget

I wanna be numb
I don't wanna feel this pain no more
Wanna lose touch
I just wanna go and lock the door
I don't wanna think
I don't wanna feel nothing
I wanna be numb
I just wanna be
Wanna be numb

Can't find no space to breathe
World's closing in
Right on me now
Well that's how it feels
That's how it feels
Too much light
There's too much sound
Wanna turn it off
Wanna shut it out
I need some relief
Think that like I think too much
I've seen too much
There is just too much
Thought in my head

I wanna be numb
I don't wanna feel this pain no more
Wanna lose touch
I just wanna go and lock the door
I don't wanna think
I don't wanna feel nothing
I wanna be numb
I just wanna be
Wanna be
Taken away from all the madness
Need to escape
Escape from the pain
I'm out on the edge
About to lose my mind
For a little while
For a little while
I wanna be numb

I don't wanna think
I don't wanna feel nothing
I wanna be numb
I don't wanna feel this pain no more
Wanna lose touch
I just wanna go and lock the door
I don't wanna think
I don't wanna feel nothing
I wanna be numb
I just wanna be
Wanna be numb
I just wanna be
Wanna be numb

AT&T to start sending copyright warnings

By PETER SVENSSON AP Technology Writer

NEW YORK — AT&T Inc., the nation's largest Internet service provider, will start sending warnings to its subscribers when music labels and movie studios allege that they are trafficking in pirated material, according to an executive.

The phone company joins other major ISPs that either go beyond legal requirements or interpret their duties under the law to mean that they have to forward such notices.

Jim Cicconi, AT&T's top executive in Washington, confirmed this week the company is looking to expand a trial program it ran late last year with movie studios. It is testing a system with the Recording Industry Association of America and will expand the program with other rights organizations.

Comcast Corp., Cox Communications Inc. and Verizon Communications Inc. already forward such notices, but the approaches differ, and the legal situation is muddled.

Copyright holders like movie studios can, in many cases, identify Internet users who download or provide pirated material by their numerical Internet address, but cannot match it up with a subscriber name without the cooperation of the Internet service provider.

ISPs have previously identified their customers to copyright holders who bring court orders. The copyright holders and their representatives, like the RIAA, have then been able to sue the customers.

But that strategy had been widely criticized, and the RIAA said late last year it was abandoning its policy of filing lawsuits, opting instead to work with ISPs to cut abusers' access if they ignore repeated warnings. At the time, the RIAA said it agreed with several leading ISPs, without naming which ones, to notify alleged illegal file-sharers and cut off service if they failed to stop.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

1st 12" Color Screen TV Set|RCA

Sexy Philatelic Addition!

Happy Birthday Elton!

MacHeist 3 Announced!
Get in early!

Help 10 different charities, either all ten, or one of your choice,
and get a KICK-ASS bundle of hysterically-discounted (by 90%)
"can't live without" software.

Wander over to
MacHeist to find out all the details.
C'mon people! It's only $39!!!

The Vault|October 1980
REPORT|The Independent Magazine
Syracuse University
October 1980 Vol. 6, No. 2

I just about got tossed out of Newhouse for this one.
It was late at Ryan's (Syracuse's gay disco from 1978 - 1982),
and I spotted this character. He never moved. All. Night. Long.
He just stood there, conveniently parked under a spotlight,
with a cat o' nine tails (whip) in his hand.

Musta been the moment, or the fact that I recently started taking PHOTO 301,
the introductory photography course at the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications
at Syracuse University.

Either way, now I had a camera in my hands, a force-field all around me which would protect
me from all the denizens of "BIZARRO" world, and I could talk to anyone.

And that I did.

I remember this guy's name was Frank. He was wearing a leather vest (not in this photograph)
and he had one of those black name tags with white engraving, with a pin, meaning he wore it.
A lot. Also on the name tag was the title PRESIDENT, and below that the white-letter engraving:

Now I wasn't exactly raised on a farm in Connecticut, but we did have countryside, and my parents were big on taking Sunday drives, with the four of us piled in the deep blue Plymouth Valiant.

So yeah, I saw barns, and silos, and pigs and cows and all that, and, since I was the eager-beaver
good boy in Catholic school, I knew that F.F.A. (or FFA) meant FUTURE FARMERS OF AMERICA.

Well have I got NEEEWWS for you.

I quickly learned about the FIST FUCKERS of AMERICA, but it would be decades before I could
do that math. And another couple of years before I actually saw, well, nevermind.

Frank stunk to high-heaven ("man-funk") and I had him come up to the photo labs deep in
the bowels (ha-ha!) of Newhouse II.

There was all kinds of scandal afterwards, and you just know that anyone who saw this hard-core
leatherman said I was either fucked by him, or he sucked my cock or something equally absurd,
and TOTALLY out of the question.

I remember this much about "Frank the president of the FFA" (oh, and I forgot the little pink pig which dangled from his leather vest.)

He was so proud of the fact that he had just been in a movie. A real movie? I asked? Yeah,
a real movie, he answered. Not even thinking it might have been a porn movie, I asked him
what the title of the movie was, thinking maybe, just maybe, I'd heard of it.

"What was the name of the movie, Frank?"

"Cruising" he answered. I hadn't heard of it.

"Is it new? I haven't heard of it."

"Yeah, it's new. It's either just come out, or it's coming out shortly. It's by that guy who directed
THE EXORCIST" he said to me.

I'd heard of The EXORCIST. I hadn't seen it yet, because it was supposed to be really bad,
and I knew kids who used to read the paperback book in 8th grade, wrapped in brown kraft
grocery bags, so no one would know what they were reading. A couple of kids got caught
reading it, and I didn't know what was so bad, but I do know they were punished, made to
stay after school, had to speak with the parish priest (don't forget, I went to Catholic grammar
AND high school). Then their parents were called. I never got to ask any of the kids who read
the book what the big deal was about because we were all spoken to by the big-time parish
priest. And all I knew was that this was a book which could send you straight to hell.

Shit. I always got in trouble anyways, so I didn't want to get the shit kicked out of me
for some book which needed to be wrapped in grocery store bag paper.

"Really? THE EXORCIST? Wow. He must be famous."

"Yeah, he is. Wait 'til the movie comes out."

"Why? Is it scary like THE EXORCIST?"

"No. It's worse."

Frank stunk so much, other people using the other three of the four "hot light" studios
complained, and I had to hurry up and finish, and have him leave the building.

I remember he used a pink hair brush which I dutifully brought with me, but his hair was
so disgusting and he smelled so badly, I threw the brush out.

I remember getting yelled at by Tony Golden, then a professor, now the head of the photography program.

"Never bring in people you meet in bars to this school's photo studio again. Do you understand?"

I was scared shitless. Worse than THE EXORCIST? And I was in a lot of trouble just for taking the photograph.

Peter Wilkinson, editor-in-chief of REPORT ("REPORT is an independent magazine published monthly by and for Syracuse University students.") saw the photo and said it was perfect for the cover of the upcoming October-slash-Halloween issue,
and would I let him put the photo on the cover.

Sure! I said.

I had never been published before, in my life.

So this slice of THE VAULT is my very first published piece of college work.
The cover of REPORT magazine.

The credit line in the masthead reads COVER PHOTOGRAPH|Bernard M Lynch.

It took me years (not too many) to realize I was running parallel to Robert Mapplethorpe and
the as-of-yet unheard of Diane Arbus.

Fuck that school.

And fuck Tony Golden.

I'm still laughing.

And I'm surprised I still have only one copy...some 30 years later.
Faded, yellowed, and water-stained.

But nothing Photoshop couldn't fix.

And in the great words of the late Joan Crawford:


And every single syllable of this story is TRUE TRUE TRUE!

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Stick 'em up!

Guest of Cindy Sherman|The Trailer

Have to check this one out!
Guest of Cindy Sherman

In 1993, artist Paul H-O discovered a new passion when he melded his two great loves: the art world and the video camera. From that combination came the quirky, handmade public-access show, “GalleryBeat.” Years later and flying high, Paul discovers one of his biggest fans is the reclusive, art world superstar Cindy Sherman. During a series of exclusive interviews, Paul and Cindy fall in love and begin a romance. Unexpectedly, the relationship forces Paul to confront issues of ego, gender and identity as he gets caught up in the aura of Cindy’s celebrity. With unprecedented access, the documentary places us in the company of the great artist. Spanning over 15 years and including more than fifty interviews with art world and entertainment luminaries (including Eli Broad, Eric Bogosian, Jerry Saltz, Roberta Smith, Danny DeVito, Carol Kane, Christine Vachon, Ingrid Sischy, Molly Ringwald, Eric Fischl and April Gornik), the film offers a unique critique of the ever-inflated New York art market and the culture of celebrity.

National Orange Day!

Happy 139th Birthday, Syracuse!

National Orange Day 2009

Monday, March 23, 2009

Slumdog Millionaire|The Tear-jerker.

I saved the world today.

Peace. Is just a word.

George Michael|FREEEEK! dir by Joseph Kahn

Eurythmics|I've Got a Life
Dir. Matthew Rolston

Natal Chart & Transit|Now

Just what the doctor ordered

Today, I am in a particularly foul mood.
Not your run-of-the-mill "foul" mood, but the rotting, maggot-covered "foul" mood.
Thanks to the for just being on the end of the phone.

There's nothing that Sharleen Spiteri, with TEXAS, can't cure.
And GETAWAY, the song, the acoustic version, the lyrics and the video.
Ahhhhhhhhh. Peace.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

A Thousand Beautiful Things

And in the beginning
God said "let there be light."


Life is eternal;
and love is immortal;
and death is only a horizon;
and a horizon is nothing
save the limit of our sight.

– Rossiter Worthington Raymond

NASCAR|The Holy War
The Black Party

The dirty little gay secret..


This Day in History

Auguste and Louis Lumiere show their 1st movie to an invited audience.

New York? While you're busy fucking...
Iraq & Afghanistan

This Day in History

1st patent for lasers, granted to Arthur Schawlow and Charles Townes


Thank GOD!
They MUST have been gay!

The Black Party|MarkArt

The Black Party: Ideals of a (Gay) Nation
March 28, 2007

Just when you thought New York had lost its handle on dirt and sex—along comes the Saint-At-Large’s Black Party to reclaim smut for the masses. This year’s edition of the annual 16-hour marathon at Roseland bore the polarizing theme “Holy War,” and yet the theme’s execution was less divisive than democratic. The legions of leather-clad patrons were greeted at Roseland’s massive entryway with a junkyard pile of rubber tires and racecar detritus—as well as an oversized gun target. Inside, the dance floor (Manhattan’s largest) had been converted into something resembling a NASCAR track with walls lined with ads for the evening’s sponsors: Daring Queen, STD, FIST UNION, PNP, Rock Hard, Tina, and Dick in the Box. Life on the NASCAR circuit when the gays take over.

Combined with scaffolding and scrims (behind which werked boys in silhouette, wearing rubber and leather), the overall effect was industrial dank chic—or perhaps a preview of life post-oil-wealth. Think Eastern bloc after the collapse of Communism—and the ensuing Dionysian mayhem. Because there was also the matter of the suggestive Norman Douglas quote which encircled the room’s rim, albeit in pithy Jenny Holzer pieces: YOU CAN TELL – THE IDEALS – OF A NATION – BY ITS ADVERTISEMENTS. It got you thinking—and not just about sex.

This is how it went. It was just after four and Tony was on the boards. His first time at the Black Party controls—but this was a man who’d spent time on the Black Party floor in years past. He knew what the crowd wanted, and why they were there, and he gave it to them his way (which is always an issue for some—the notion of a right way to do Black). Accompanied by Tony’s galloping bass beat, sex workers in shadowy silhouette writhed behind white scrims, high above the packed floor—while NASCAR boyz werked the stage in front of another gun target. Wrestlers in leather singlets and post-apocalyptic warriors, all highlighted by the flash of pink and fuchsia lights as the scrims were razor-sliced and slashed—save for one scrim which remained intact, silhouetting a single interrogation chair.

Video screens around the scaffolding showed an ever-rapid repeating montage of oil fields and ads for the American Oil Company, as well as sex education newsreels and the word ejaculation scrawled over and over on a chalkboard, interspersed with photos of dick and dick and more dick. Subliminal seduction? As if the packed floor of sex addicts needed further provocation.

This was a celebration of the vernal equinox, after all. A reawakening of the libido—and if the Saint-At-Large (under the bold leadership of impresario Stephen Pevner) had anything to say about it, seeds would be scattered—all over da skate flo, as some might say. And as a matter of fact, we know one friend who was finally able to fulfill his long-held fantasy of schtupping his boyfriend amidst that crowded and notorious floor. We all have dreams—and for some of us, they come true at Roseland.

Because, let’s face it, we were dancing in the face of distress. Even if you didn’t know the Black Party theme this year, even if you only glimpsed pieces of the video footage—oil fields burning, climactic disasters mounting…. Even if you were basically clueless about the current state of the planet and our community’s often precarious place on it…. But there we were, nonetheless, dancing to “Everybody Needs Someone” with its insistent lyric “I can make you get down. I can make you…” while overhead flashed scores of green lasers. Not just six or a dozen, but literally scores of green lasers crisscrossing above the floor. Not unlike an electrical grid—and in this case, the grid of connection.

And then that single chair behind the last scrim— And the boyman straddling the chair, global ass high in the air—and the man in leather behind him— And then the fisting. Fisting for a cast of thousands. Karate chopping, double fisting. Fisting? No, make that elbowed. And batted, too—for how else to describe the entry of the implement most often used for baseball. A rather riveting performance, to say the least. And in fact, one person might have taken the concept of disembowelment a bit too far…. It became THE topic of conversation for WAY TOO LONG. Enough already, and in the future: Boyz, please—a little courtesy amidst the madness.

Fortunately, above it all, and all around us, Tony was werking it out, sending out Madonna’s plaintive wail, “Will it ever be the same?” No, Madge, no, it won’t—but never mind, we’ll survive, and maybe even thrive. Because gay men are like cats, prowling through the night—until we find what we need. And on the video screens, an ongoing pounding repetition of the words: IT’S---MORE---HUMAN. IT’S---MORE---HUMAN. Again and again, until the point got hammered home: the reason we were there. Dancing in the face of distress. Because this was more human. Dancing and love versus war and hate. Figure it out: we don’t have to be the sum of our nation’s advertisements.

And meanwhile, Tony kicked it up again, this time with his girl, Deborah, a splattering of “My House, My Home,” with its own connotations of belonging. The man was totally in control, in full gallop mode. And any lingering sense of discomfort or doubt, about the night or the politics, was dispelled in toto as Tony led the way. He made Xtina’s “Hurt” into something both mournful and yet joyous. The end of one season, or one way of life—leading into the embrace of something new. That marching beat. And all around was evidence of what the writer Barbara Ehrenreich has christened “collective joy,” her term for “the ritual, organized ways that people make each other…joyful, delirious, even ecstatic.” Buck Angel, for example, clearly in ecstasy as he werked that kitty onstage in a seemingly impromptu performance. And, for that matter, all around us were butt-sniffing, tea-bagging, ass-licking, mouth-filling performances. You werked it out the way you wanted. And then went off somewhere and changed your clothes—costume change in the wings—before coming back for more. We lost count after Joe Caro strolled by in costume number three: a full-body leather apron. Meanwhile Adam T. in backless chaps safeguarded his hole with a carefully positioned water bottle.

And amidst all this sexual delirium, there were newbies, youngsters fresh to the Black. There for the dance more than the shenanigans, they were ecstatic when Tony dropped “For Your Love” and also “Desert Rose.” And two adorables in matching NASCAR uniforms, complete with racing stripes, and unzipped to...the nethers. And even when there were food fights onstage and mishaps backstage, there was the ever-dedicated Saint-At-Large staff: always helpful, mostly smiling—beacons of calm in the midst of the maelstrom. Thanks be to them, all of them, both young and older.

And of course, the upstairs leather shop ran out of leashes. And Joe C. considered a quick run to the nearest Petsmart—in order to better train his nineteen-year-old bf. Meanwhile, Steve W., took time out to walk his pits, Precious and Killer—not once but twice—and still he might’ve won the Marathon Award for clocking in a full thirteen hours.

Downstairs, some of us lined up for photographs shot by Robert Zash in his tenth and final year of shooting pics of us nasty heathens. A $25 souvenir soon to arrive in the mail so you can say, “ACK! I WORE THAT?”

Oh, but everyone was there, in equally outlandish attire: Alan F. (who managed at least two costume changes) and Patti Razetto and Kat C. and Gael and Talley and Billy Porter and Christian and Eric and Rich Campbell and Matt Kalkhoff and that sly dawg, Jonny McGovern. And then it was “Where the Streets Have No Name” and from the scaffolding, paint cans were emptied over the crowd below. Was it paint or was it—

Around and around, we lapped the room; we circled the floor. On and on, it went: sensory overload. So much to see—and touch. And so much more to come… What a wonderful way to welcome spring: the scattering of the seed amongst our own.

And then, finally, walking home through the Park on a late Sunday morning, walking home amidst the “other” kinds of family, we slid back into that “other” world—but, for the moment, sated.

Happy Black, Happy Spring—what’s one without the other?


The Black Party at 30.
Still going wild.

by Steve Weinstein
NoiZe Magazine
Tuesday Mar 10, 2009

Thousands of years ago at the Spring Equinox, men would go into the woods wearing animal skins to dance ecstatically to drumbeats. They would remain there all night to ensure a good planting season. That’s how Bruce Mailman, the impresario behind the original Saint, conceived the Black Party. Whether or not Druids actually took to the forest, Mailman must have tapped into something deep in the collective gay unconscious. Because after thirty years, the Black Party remains a unique experience. Ask anyone who’s had the luck to attend. This is the modern ritual of men (and women!) who annually dress in animal skins and dance through the night in a secret location.

This is much more than a typical Circuit party. On the sprawling dance floor of New York City’s Roseland Ballroom, you feel part of a tribe. The Black Party is a celebration of sexuality, carnality, music and freedom.

Stephen Pevner, who produces the party with his Saint-at-Large team working out of a loft space in the East Village, took over Mailman’s role in 1996. A distant cousin of Mailman’s, he had the good fortune to attend the closing of the original Saint in 1988. That party, which lasted three days, has become legendary, as was the Saint itself. Mailman took the old Fillmore East, a rock concert venue, and spent millions of dollars to transform it into the ultimate disco, with a sound system, lighting and dance floor that have never been equaled.

When the Saint closed for good, the Saint-at-Large produced parties around the city before finally settling on Roseland, a former dance hall turned rock venue with the largest dance floor in New York. Every year, Pevner and his team transform what is essentially a "black box"-an empty shell of a space-into a state-of-the-art nightclub. The light shows and sound quality rival the original club-or any extant club, for that matter.

"We basically have one day to do everything," says Guy Smith, who has been the Black Party’s lightman for the past several years. "Everything has already been planned out to the minute: set decorations, talent, lighting, sound. It’s all planned on paper. It’s a one-night event, with no corporate sponsorship, and all based on ticket sales." Walk into Roseland, and you’re transported from the big city into a fantasy world of the hottest men, poured into their form-fitting uniforms, assless chaps, jockstraps, latex bodysuits or just nothing at all. And all of them are primed for a night of fantasy. This year, for Rites XXX, Pevner promises to pull out all the stops.

It will be hard to top the themes of the past few years. Last year’s "Dangerous Black Party for Boys" was a chance for every grown-up gay man to act out all those Boy Scout fantasies. "Lucha Libre" meant go-go dancers and porn stars dressed as Mexican wrestlers, and a live donkey, chickens and a Mexican musician. The next year’s "Nascar Holy War" blended the macho subculture of race cars with Americans’ obsession with brand names. The most talked about, however, had to have been 2006’s "Schwarzwald," or "Black Forest." Female-to-male transsexual porn star Buck Angel overlooked the dance floor in a makeshift castle, as he aroused himself and participated in group scenes with the other actors to the roars (and groans) of the crowd.

Pevner sees the evening as a "story arc" made necessary, he says, by shifting tastes in spectacle-and music. It’s part of a movement from a leather-themed event to more of fetish fest. "We made a conscious decision to give it some context, because the leather scene was important in its time but doesn’t relate to a new generation," he says. "Fetishes can be sexy. Fetishes evolve. It’s not your uncle’s Black Party."

The most (in)famous aspect of the party has to be the live acts on a second-floor stage. The acts began at the original Saint, along with legends like the live adult circumcision. There have been strange uses of boa constrictors, pool balls, firecrackers, food, various body fluids and all manner of role-playing. The emphasis increasingly is on kink rather than the merely sexual. Mike Peyton works for the Saint-at-Large and is a well-known player on New York’s fetish scene. "Fetish keeps changing," he says. "Young kids coming up are wearing latex, gear-scuba, hockey-head to toe, right down to the cleats. A major change is away from leather." The sex isn’t limited to the stages either. The dance floor can get quite frisky, and as for the upstairs Love Lounge-well, the name speaks for itself.

Above all, however, this is a dance party, and the choice of DJs to spin this party inevitably becomes the subject of gossip among party boys weeks before the Saint-at-Large’s official announcement, after President’s Day. A lot of the effort to keep the party fresh goes into the music, and Pevner believes that the DJs must respect the party’s traditions while keeping it current. For many years, original Saint DJ Michael Fierman spun this party solo. But 18 hours is a lot for anyone, and in recent years, there have been three DJs: a warm-up, usually a newer or lesser-known talent, from the Saturday night opening until about 2 a.m.; then a headliner, who goes until about 10:30 a.m.; and a closer, who spins the Morning Music and Sleaze that’s identified as the Saint Sound. The party usually closes around 4 p.m. on Sunday. The DJ roster reads like a "Who’s Who" of the music world. But before the party, they’re all thoroughly prepped on how to spin: dark and sexy.

The Black Party strives to keep the vibe, musically and in every other way, as an underground event. This is not a typical "Circuit weekend," with a pass, tea dance or souvenir booklet. That said, other venues piggyback on the Black Party. Alegria Xtreme, which acts as an unofficial "closing party," takes the boys well into Monday afternoon.

Who knew?


Days Until Hallowe'en!