If you’re just joining our broadcast, you’ll want to read the previous post and its comments before slagging through this long winded response.

So, let me begin by saying two things:

1. I’m writing my response to you as a post, mainly because it is easier to read large blocks of text in this space rather than in the comment area, and I do this in the hopes that this time you might actually take the time to read AND comprehend. (Well that, and this is MY site, so I can do what I want.)

2. This will be the last thing I have to say to you. You will never see my point of view - this is quite clear as you don’t even know what the point is - and since you apparently have no sense of humor, most of my comedic gems are wasted on you completely. I don’t feel the need to defend myself against your attempts at insults - it’s so painfully clear from your choice of attacks that you know NOTHING about me, there’s really no point. It’s also pretty apparent that you are the type of person who simply must have the last word on something, so I’ll let you. Feel free to comment here as many times as you feel necessary; I’ve got lots of bandwidth to spare. (And anyone else who feels like expending the energy to reply may feel free to do so. So far I’ve been amused with my friends’ grasp of wit.) I did not use your comment as a “springboard to start this discussion” - you misread (something you’re really good at). I used your comment as a spring board to post on my blog again, something I have been remiss in doing because I am a busy, busy girl. I do not have the time or the energy to continue debating you after I’m done with this post, as it has become tiresome and I have a life to live.

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In the spare few moments between the time I woke up and the time I had to be at the store this morning, I read over a comment being held in moderation left earlier in the AM on my page that defines a fruit fly. I had about 5 minutes to spare and 20 or more emails to get through. The comment was long and wordy - when I’ve just come out of a sleep state, about the only words I can comprehend fully are cigarette and caffeine - so I put it off till later and went about getting ready for work. I returned to read the comment later from the store, when the dream cobwebs were gone from my brain (and yikes have I been having some odd dreams lately, but that’s a topic for another day), and I couldn’t help but be amused. Amy is quite put off - nay, sickened - by the expression “fruit fly”, and has admonished me to be ashamed that I do not want to associate myself with “fag hags.” How dare I!

I resolved that I would eventually use this comment as a spring board to actually POSTING something on this here blog again, but the important business of renting gay porn and selling Madonna DVDs would have to come first, as we are busier than ever at Diverse Universe these days. (Which, overall is a good thing, but is just one of the myriad reasons I’ve been leaving this blog to languish.)

But my oh-so-serious detractor returned, apparently miffed to the hilt at my not having approved her lengthy comment yet, with accusations of deletion and not being able to handle her “truth.” Apparently, such an “important discussion” deserved my immediate attention. Amy, I’m so sorry that you had to wait almost a full day for me to approve your comment and respond, but there were copies of Spy Cocks and Straight College Men to be rented out, and believe me, you don’t want to delay these things. That could have the makings of a riot in the store.

If you are not Amy and you are reading this, you should start by reading my “I am a fruit fly” page if you haven’t recently, then skip down to the first comment left by my Ms. Fag Hag. Then, come back here.

Ready? Here we go.

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I have recently become enamored with a bit of classic literature. It began innocently enough, when on StumbleUpon I came across The Oscar Wilde Collection. Oscar Wilde has always been somewhat intriguing to me, but I’d never actually read any of his work, save for a few random quips here and there. Thanks to the wonders of the Internet, I’ve now completed The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Importance of Being Earnest, both of which I enjoyed quite a bit. I also spent a bit of time reading about Oscar Wilde himself… despite a perceptible misogyny in his writing - which could well be attributed to many influences in his life as well as the thinking of the time - he’s a fascinating figure. And of course, my fascination with him goes right along with my fruit fly status, given that he was known for a fondness for the “love that dare not speak its name.”

Then I breezily clicked over to Project Gutenberg. (Oh, this is an avid reader’s wet dream, boys and girls. How have I missed this before? Now I just need about 8 more waking hours a day to be truly happy.) Poking around at PG’s site led me to a listing of works by Guy de Maupassant. I can remember reading “The Necklace” as a freshman in high school and being fascinated by it, and I knew a little about his status as the father of the modern short story. (Short stories being my favorite forms of literature.) What caught my eye tonight though was the title of one of his novels, Bel Ami.

In my current day world, the phrase Bel Ami conjures images of pretty young men having sex with each other. You see, Bel Ami is the brand name for a quite prominent line of gay porn titles, in fact, I would venture the Bel Ami titles are the most popular of the adult DVDs in our store. And just yesterday, I had the occasion to watch a few moments of one, as a customer had complained that the copy of A+ he had rented would not play. I popped it in just for a moment to see if it played on our DVD player at the store. (It did, in case you were thinking of stopping in to rent it.)

Which is why, tonight as I began reading Guy de Maupassant’s novel Bel Ami, a nagging thought kept tugging at the back of my brain. Did the porn company get its name from Guy de Maupassant, or was it just some strange coincidence? A few chapters in, some bell when off in my head… Georges Duroy is the main character in this novel. I knew that name from somewhere…

As a lark, I looked up the information on a Bel Ami porn title, and sure enough, the producer’s given name is George Duroy.

Who knew you could link gay porn and classic literature that easily? Though I doubt there is any such connection for Jack Rabbit titles. Then again, I never did actually read all of Watership Down…

I eat a lot of IHOP food these days. I do not proclaim this with any sense of pride, it’s just a fact. It’s cheap, made even more so by the buy-one-get-one-free coupons we have most of the time, it’s close to the apartment, and it’s easy for me to pick stuff from the menu that jives with my whole low-carb thing. I’d rather regularly patronize a locally owned small business if I could, but the only locally owned place that actually compares on all of the aforementioned points is The Diner on Clifton. I adore the Diner, but I can’t smoke in there. Given the likelihood that I won’t be able to smoke in any restaurant soon enough, I choose to dine where I can relax a bit after eating.

I eat there so often, a portion of the staff knows me on sight. I’m usually there one day during the week with my boyfriend, and recently I’ve spent a few Saturday nights after work there with my dearest fruit, Dan. (The Lakewood IHOP at 9:30 PM on a Saturday night is the best place to relax, chat, eat, drink, and smoke… because it’s usually completely deserted. Which is what Dan and I need, as we tend to get a little um… goofy and loud. Any outside observer would probably swear that we were high. A less tolerant or more busy establishment might not be able to deal with us.)

This past Thursday as my boyfriend and I were being seated, the waitress who usually ends up stuck with the slightly insane power-giggling duo of me and Dan on Saturday nights waved from a few paces away. At that moment it struck me that she was used to seeing me there with a different guy, and I can’t help but wonder if she thought about that. My boyfriend and I got a kick out of the idea that I might have a bad rep at the IHOP.

Our waitress that night was one we didn’t normally see in the restaurant, an older lady who said she usually worked the morning shift. She remarked that she’d been told that we were regulars and we were really nice people. With a slightly devilish grin, I said, “Yeah, I come here a lot. I’m here with him during the week and with another guy on the weekends.”

She just arched one eyebrow and turned to clear the table without further comment.

On our way home this evening, we discovered an estate sale on the corner across from our apartment building. Despite the fact that expendable income is in seriously short supply in our household, we decided to check it out. It turns out this is sort of an estate sale clearing house sort of event; it’s a sale of what’s left over from several estate sales combined. This made for a very interesting assortment of stuff… There was a large collection of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia, a number of Barbie dolls and Britney Spears dolls, several framed and signed movie posters (including a poster for The Wizard of Oz signed by Ray Bolger), some games, some toys, lamps, housewares, clothes, paintings, and bigger items like ski jets, boats, and exercise equipment, among a lot of other stuff. It was fun to browse.

We did end up buying a few things. We found a couple of XBox games for $5 that we picked up, and a set of Trivial Pursuit cards (the 1980’s set, for $3). And since I was writing a check for the total, I went ahead and splurged on a couple of mementos that I found interesting: a scrapbook that was filled with newspaper clippings circa World War II, and a package of telegrams. I could only see the top telegram, but it was dated April 27, 1927, and just the sheer age of it was enough to pique my interest. The guy ringing up my sale quipped, “Those should make for some interesting reading.” I agreed… I love old stuff like this, and it seemed like a good way to spend $5 that would probably be spent on diet soda otherwise.

This turned out to be a very cool find. When I started reading through them, I realized these were part of a specific collection - they are all related in some way to Clifton Webb. There are 47 telegrams in all, with dates ranging from August 16, 1920 to October 15, 1966. In trying to determine whether these are indeed authentic, I’ve been doing a little research.

There are a number of telegrams from Clifton to his mother, Mabelle, and several from her to him. A little research shows that he was a devoted momma’s boy, who lived with her until her death. There are several addressed to his secretary Helen Matthews, who was taking care of him at the time of his death, expressing condolences for his death on October 13, 1966. There are a number from other luminary names from classic Hollywood, including Noel Coward, George Cukor, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Gene Tierney and one signed simply Tallulah, which I’m guessing would be the infamous Tallulah Bankhead. There are a couple that mention Laura, a performance which garnered Clifton Webb his first Academy Award nomination.

I’m pretty convinced that these are real, and though it would appear that telegrams as memorabilia isn’t worth a whole lot of money (my dreams of striking it rich with an estate sale discovery have been dashed!), I still think this was a pretty cool find. If nothing else, I learned a little bit of Hollywood history, like the fact that it was pretty much accepted that Clifton Webb was a gay man, but that he avoided scandal and the other silliness by keeping his private life private.

My boyfriend commented that only I, being the gay culture magnet I apparently am, would stumble across a set of old telegrams relating to a gay actor of Hollywood’s past. This is just one of those things that happens to me, one of those fruit fly moments.

My favorite out of the bunch is this party invitation… I’ve been a bit fascinated by stories concerning William Randolph Hearst since I saw The Cat’s Meow, and though this isn’t specifically him, it’s close enough.

If you’re interested in seeing more, I’m just nerd enough to have scanned them all in for posterity. Go see them all and enjoy! (Somehow when I was resizing the images I lost some of the quality - cause I wasn’t paying attention to the settings - so they’re a little blurry. But it took too long for me to go scan them all again. If you *really* want to see them better, make me a financial offer I can’t refuse, and you can own the whole set!)

(A note to Chelle first: I’m telling this 12 year old story from a damaged memory, please feel free to correct any glaring errors if your memory is any better these days.)

I didn’t really discover my place in the world as a fruit fly until I was around 18 years old. Up to that point, I’d only known one openly gay man (the guy who did my hair) and though I adored him, I had not yet realized the depth of my attraction to men of his ilk. When I started working at the airport though, it was like the gates opened and I found my yellow brick road. For some reason, the Charlotte Douglas International Airport was simply teeming with gay men (along with a couple of lesbians) and I quickly found them to be my favorite people there. And I’m not just talking about the flight attendants either - they were in the gift shops, the bars, even the snack bars. I have no idea if it is still that way, but 12 years ago, the airport would have been the best cruising spot in Charlotte.

Chelle and I both worked there, and Chelle got to be pretty close to Dean, a boy she worked with on the D Concourse. Dean had only recently moved to Charlotte from Mount Airy (the town that the Andy Griffith Show’s fictional Mayberry was modeled after) and he was trying to maintain his closeted status in Charlotte as well - habit formed from living in a really small town I suppose. I can’t remember how or when he finally came clean to Chelle, but at some point he did (though I’m pretty sure we’d already figured it out by then) and we ended up making plans for the three of us to hit Scorpio, the prominent gay bar in town.
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Out of the blue a couple days ago, I got an email from a friend I used to work with about 10 years ago. We’ve kept in touch sporadically over the years, but the last time I’d spoken with her was about four years ago, when I was still in LA. Because I was rushed for time a bit in my initial reply, I jokingly gave a quick summary of what I’ve been up to by saying, “I’ve moved to Cleveland, OH, and I sell gay porn for a living.”

Her response? “The Ohio surprises me, the gay porn doesn’t.”

At least the powers that be had the good sense to reject the plan to make the enemy gay.

If nothing else it has the makings of a good gay porn movie, which not altogether surprisingly, I can picture quite clearly in my imagination.

Synopsis of Hot World Piece

The hot American boys are facing the hot Arab boys in the desert… a helicopter flies in and drops a chemical agent over the area where the Arab boys are known to be hiding out. The hot Arab boys start feeling lascivious. They begin to look at their compatriots in a slightly different light. A couple of furtive glances, some platonic back patting turning into soft caresses, a full on kiss - with tongue…

Ah, but wait! The winds have shifted some, scattering the chemical agent further than intended, and now the hot American boys are feeling it too. They are watching the scene in front of them unfold slowly… there’s suddenly a longing they cannot seem to understand. The lust begins to take over as one by one they drop their weapons and begin disrobing, discarding their military uniforms. They approach the Arab boys, and all notions of warring factions are forgotten, the size of that one boy’s piece the only thing on anyone’s mind. Nary a moment has passed before it’s one great big hot gay military orgy in the desert.

Then again, maybe someone should get to work on this plan RIGHT AWAY. World peace through hot gay orgies.

A conversation that gets repeated around our apartment often (movie title changes with the day):

My boyfriend, yelling to me from the living room: “Honey, there’s a gay movie on TV!”
Me, from my lair: “Which one?”
BF: “Broken Hearts Club.”
M: “Seen it.”

This particular iteration happened a bit ago as I was working on setting this site up. I am such a fruit fly.