hear directly from a Perv of Letters and it’s doubly satisfying to know my suspicions were on target. Jack Fritscher saw my comments about his shrine/eBay woes and wrote:
“Your analysis of the politically-driven corporation eBay is right on the mark. In fact, the ‘Shrine’ ran up to the very hour that Arnold’s ‘female trouble’ hit the media on the afternoon of the Thursday before the election.”
Thank you, Jack!
BTW, Jack is beginning to post stories he wrote many years ago for Drummer magazine on his site. Look under Magazine Erotica if you’d either like to recapture a sense of the leather past or if you’ve always wondered what it was like “back then.” Me, I was trying really, really hard to avoid disco.
Permission granted! I got the go-ahead to tell you who that mystery author in the Salon/Steinberg photo gallery was: M. Christian. Look for the Michael Rosen photo involving a big, beautiful women’s spread body, a glove, and a very happy dark-haired man. Yes, that’s Chris. And like Jack, he has a new book out, The Bachelor Machine, with coverage here, here, and here.
Yes, call me Book Whore. But it’s not a shameless plug when you love books and admire authors. Shameless bibliomania, perhaps, but so what. (“So what?” Oh, now that is shameless. Naughty me.)
It’s happened again: Another fetish event gets the squeeze. This time, it didn’t even get to the point where a hotel had to cancel under pressure. Instead, a police chief simply told the hotels “it ain’t gonna happen in my town.” Wanna bet said sheriff will be running for higher office? Can you say self-serving?
The episode caught the musing eye of a local journalist which is fine, but please: It’s Jack McGeorge, not Harvey.
Oh, and Andrew Simmons? Take a look at the mission statement of the Folsom Street Fair folks. No mention of spooking social conservatives anywhere. Sorry to disappoint you.
Meta: Sorry about my silent week. I’ve been having nasty trouble with my laptop and it’s made blogging almost impossible. I should have it a little easier next week, thanks to my son’s new laptop joining the family. Call it parental borrowing privileges.
