I called my mortgage company today to get some tax info, and the customer service rep says, "Can you spell your last name?"
I say, "Sure. I've been spelling it my whole life."
Marco and Danny
Marco and Danny got married yesterday at City Hall in Palm Springs. They looked very lovely in their ivory and powder-blue tuxes.
Donielle and I were the witnesses.
Now they are two husbands.
We ate at Al Dente in Palm Springs. A plate was shattered symoblically. The tiramisu was delicious. Then we came home and relaxed with our friends.
No on 8
Marco and Danny got married today.
And it was so beautiful,
the Yes on 8 people just threw up their hands
and gave up.
Nightmare on Lange Street
[actual size--and doubles as a punching bag!]
Horror of Horrors
Today the housekeeper found my bullet vibe. It was stashed, forgotten, under a pillow on my bed, and she moved it on top of my desk chair so she could wash the linen without having to look at it. Sheesh. Nothing like exhibiting your "needs" to a stranger.* The worst thing about it is, the little bullet has a hair-trigger control button, and no safety. If you even so much as breathe on the thing, it starts up with a roar and proceeds to scoot across any flat surface.
I found myself wanting to call her, like I did the time my roommate, Mike, put a giant flesh-colored dildo in the dishwasher (half to sterilize it before donating it to gf's and my film and half as a joke on our other roommate, Brian.) I called her and said, "Have you looked in the dishwasher? If not, don't."
She said, "What? There's a bad connection..." And then, "AAAaaaaaaaaaah!"
I felt like a real ass explaining that it was a practical joke on Brian.
Yeah, right, loca puta. You think I even care?
Tonight, in the immediate aftermath of the bullet vibe discovery, I imagined several "make it better" conversations--well, actually, monologues--in my mind's ear, such as casually informing Juana that I hadn't even gotten the chance to use it that night, as I was too tired and the battery was dead. ("It may have been under my pillow, but it wasn't just used!"). Or, even better, that Brian's sister had stayed the night in my room while I was out of town over the weekend and must have left it there. The harlot! But offering excuses only makes things worse. The best bet is to pretend it never happened. And give a big tip.
Thank god she wears rubber gloves.
*A stranger who's actually inside my home every week. As opposed to those who read this blog.
Groggy Doggy Haiku Schmaiku
Pinkle & Pinkle
strike a pose without trying.
Synchronized sleeping.
Democrats, I beg of you! Moratorium on Palin!
This week, my e-mail account was flooded with Sarah Palin SPAM, also known as SPAL-AM. Sarah Palin in a red-white-and-blue bikini, wielding an assault rifle, a grotesque configuration of hydrogen molecules post-exposure to Sarah Palin's vice presidential nomination speech, Sarah Palin the Wolf Killer, Sarah Palin the Book-Banner, etc... etc... DNC anti-Palin SPAM. SPAM from various outreach groups: Concerned Mothers Against Sarah Palin (CMASP), People Having Nightmares About Sarah Palin (PHNASP), Sarah Palin Ate My Aborted Baby (SPAMAB), and so on.
I say ENOUGH! I do not want to hear any more about this crazy bee-yatch. She's everyone's new negative obsession.
This message was recently left on my answering machine: "Call me. I've just got to vent about Sarah Palin."
A slice of burnt toast flies out of my toaster with BURN IN HELL, S.P. carved on it.
OK, OK, I carved that toast myself with the little doohickey tool in my fingernail clippers, but still. If this response isn't like sending a shipment of free cotton candy to every bile-spewing Limbaugh Republican, I don't know what is.
It's time Oprah stood up and gave a public service announcement to democrats. Hello! Remember THE SECRET??? Stop focusing on what you hate, and start focusing on what you want. (What do I want, anyway?)
Send me a link about a planet full of unicorns. A U-tube video of Obama practicing free throws or of that kitten and its cute mechanical mouse. How about a nice benevolent chain letter? A schmaltzy feel-good anecdote, even one that rhymes, would even be OK at this point. But please, no more SPAM about her.
Nothing Is Ever Just 99 Cents
The other day, my housekeeper, asked me to buy myself some hangers. "It will be easier, you know, to hang up your clothes."
So, as I was roaming Desperate Hot Springs, running to the bank, avoiding off-leash pit bulls with my car, etc... I happened to see a sign for a new local 99-cent store. Juana is going to be so proud of me, I thought. I didn't waste money on expensive hangers from Walgreen's.
It takes courage to enter any 99-cent store, because, you know, there's no such thing as a free lunch, freedom isn't free, and nothing is ever just 99 cents. The last time I went, there was a fight at the cashier's station--a fight that lasted a long long time. Hence, the discount was offset by the time wasted, and by that I mean the years taken off my life at the stress of being exposed to a large blotchy-faced white guy (the customer) yelling at a petite, clear-complexioned black woman (the cashier) who told him, "Get out my face you dumb m$#%&." (She was clearly worried about catching his blotchiness.) There was also the time the price of cheap goods was a wait behind this guy whose elbow had a tennis ball-sized open sore, complete with stench and small insects. Would I have paid a few cents more not to have had my face all up in that? Actually, I'd have paid a hell of a lot more--and I work in a hospital.
But all these things were forgotten as I plunged into this new 99-cent establishment. This was going to be different because I was in D-Town. Everything is so crappy in D-Town, I figured the 99-cent store would be actually upscale. So I went in and it was true. The aisles were clean, organized, the shoppers respectful and free of sores. The cashier spoke naught but Spanish, but, hey, that's OK. I'm a proud multilingual (can offend in any tongue). I was so happy to get my three sets of 5 maroon hangers for $2.97 plus the tiny bit of tax.
Then I exited the store.
And there she was.
There she was, pushing what looked to be a baby stroller from K-mart.
She was grubby and there may have been a baby in the stroller, but the stroller was draped in blankets. What kind of blankets? Grubby blankets. There may have been nothing underneath those blankets but a grubby stuffed baboon. Still, the implication was: a baby out in 100-degree weather. She asked me for some change, mumbling something about being out of gas. I gave her several dollars, enough dollars to buy 15 hangers from Bed, Bath & Beyond.
Then I got in the car. Did I think, Gee, I'm glad I was able to help another human being? No, instead, I thought this: Once again, I have not saved money at the 99-cent store. In fact, I spent more money and received lesser quality items.
Once home, I complained about this to Juana. She said, "Oh, but you didn't lose that money because God was watching, and you will be rewarded for this, you know, because He sees everything." This made me feel better, not because I think God is watching me and keeping records, but because Juana is watching..and now maybe she'll forgive me for that big dildo I left in the dishwasher last week. Or maybe she was reminding me, in her own subtle way, that God saw the dildo too.
The Corn Dog Diet
I really really like corn dogs. Hot dogs too. And a chili dog just might be my favor-ite meal. But, hey, whatever, they're all very bad for you. And I do not want to eat any meat that's been factory farmed or that, even more to the point, makes me fat and clogs my aorta. The problem is, I miss my little phallic bundles of toe, lip, and eyeball. I miss them a lot, and here and there (like in the parking lot of Home Depot) I have a little wienie slip, and then I feel the guilt. Yes, the ol' guilt, it kicks in hard.
Just think of my joy at discovering this amazing new (or at least new to me) product: vegetarian corn dogs.
I bought five boxes from good ol' Trader Joe's, and commenced to eating two, sometimes three of these delectables every day at lunch. They're great. Just pull 'em out of the freezer and pop 'em in the microwave for a quick two and thirty. Squirt a happy swirl of mustard and catsup on your paper plate and ZAM! Guilt-free goodness with a wicked-corny taste.
So why, suddenly (at the end of 7 days) can I not zip up my pants? Why does my belly hang over my belt like, oh, I don't know, a huge bunch of grapes? Best not to ask such questions. Best to have another corn dog. It's good for you. It's good for the environment. And it doesn't kill a pig. Or a cow.
The time had come: I had to look myself in the mirror. And when I did, I really knew it. Something was wrong with the corn dog diet. Was it all the corn? Had I turned into an over-grown cornfed hen? I decided to check the box and hello. Guess how much sodium is in one lousy corn dog....
560 mg
Is that a lot? It seems like it. But maybe, since I love them so much, it isn't. We've all heard how diet sodas have a lot of sodium and cause bloat which causes depression and overeating, and etc.. So I checked one of my roommate Marco's diet Pepsi cans. How much sodium in a diet Pepsi? Huh?
35 mg
Oh, hale no.
For those of you who hate math. In two corn dogs there's how much sodium?
1,120 mg
This seems wrong. I checked out the packaging of my Trader Joe's corn dogs. In large white letters, inside a green box to make it POP:
Low Fat
4g Soy
Protein (yes, folks, the word protein gets its own line)
Per Serving
Then, beneath the green box, teeny white letters blend blurrily into pale yellow and red:
*see side panel for
information on sodium
& other nutrients
OK, first of all. Is sodium a "nutrient"? From the way TJ phrases things, it seems like the side panel has information about the nutrient sodium, but there is no such information--in fact there is no information on sodium, other than how much there is. So why not say that?
*See side panel
for one of the highest
ferking sodium levels
anyone has ever
managed to
cram (yes, folks, in my world, the word cram gets its own line)
into anything.
Scary Lily Haiku
Pontifica's niece
got into her mom's lipstick.
This is what happened.
Coyote Dogs
Pink and Pickle and I chased two coyotes on our chariot this morning. They loped ahead, then slipped through a fence, then turned around and stared at us.
Celebrate Your Anniversary by Doing Something Special
Try a delicious all-you-can-eat pea soup meal at Andersen's in Santa Nella, California. We did it, and we're still peeing green!
Pontifica's Birthday Haiku
Tonight: the party
Please, let there be enough food=
predominant thought.
Gay Marriage vs. No John McCain in the White House: how can I have both?
Pontifica and I spent the weekend approaching gay & lesbian partiers at PRIDE, begging for donations to fight the anti-gay marriage initiative appearing on the ballot this November.
Now, I'm feeling a bit bummed. Even though we raised a fair amount of money, this is money we could have raised (and maybe should have raised) for Barack Obama's campaign--exactly why this initiative is so royally f-d up. If I fight for the rights of my own community, will it lead to a John McCain presidency? Holy Disaster of a Lifetime, Batman!
And speaking of Batman...
Please vote to give this puppy a home
(and the right to marry his hound-master!)
Support Gay Marriage!
This weekend is L.A.'s PRIDE weekend, and Pontifica and I will be out at the Equality For All booth, gathering signatures from folks who'll pledge to fight that lame busybody of a ballot initiative--you know, the one that aims to rewrite California's sacred constitution.
Come visit us and show your support for equal rights!
Trouble at the B-Bar-H Ranch
One thing that really pisses me off about my neighborhood: is the frequent dumping of unwanted animals. We have a no-kill shelter nearby (Save-A-Pet), and because it is "no-kill" it gets expensive to take care of all these dogs, so they charge a fee when you turn one in. A by-product of this is the frickin' assembly-line of unforgivable slime who like to come and dump their dogs not at the shelter, but near the shelter. They think the kindly shelter staff will come out and take them in. But here's what usually happens: They starve or die of dehydration or get hit by a car. Nice.
This morning, my neighbor found these two pups on the corner, aimless and just waiting to get run over by morning rush-hour traffic. They are cute and sweet and helpless. No collars. No love. No chance--except my neighbor is a crazy softy who has already taken in god knows how many of these creatures.
If you would like to (or know anyone who would like to) adopt a lovely big-eared boy shepherd pup or a darling boy pit mix (with stripes)--drop me a line at leslie@leslielange.com
They show no aggression, only befuddlement.
Doggie Haiku: guest subject = OTIS
Trying to look cute
so the nasty cat won't claw
my little eyes out
Cautionary Tail: True Hollywood Coyotelore
A woman in our neighborhood lost her chihuahua. We knew this because she put signs up on every telephone pole from here to Timbuktu with the forlorn dog's picture: black-and-white, quivering, and goggle-eyed, its head turned so it viewed the world through one massive peeled-back orbit. The signs said something like: LOST DOG: MAY OR MAY NOT COME TO THE NAME COOKIE. HE IS VERY TIMID AND SCARED OF STRANGERS. SIZEABLE REWARD.
Everyone knows what happens to chihuahuas who disappear in Hollywood. Some run off to claim minor roles in "Beverly Hills Chihuahua," but most, well most....sigh.
This woman loved her dog so much she went door-to-door inquiring. She upped her reward into the thousands. Finally, she did something she probably shouldn't have done. (Because anyone who lives in this neighborhood, so close to Griffith Park, could've just told her what had happened.) But she did it anyway. She hired a professional pet detective, an actual bloodhound (who may or may not have come to the name "Ellie Mae") to sniff out her Cookie.
Ellie-the-bloodhound was given a full-on whiff of Cookie's pet bed and creamsicle-orange camo vest, Cookie's favorite stuffed carrot, and his sweet little orange rubber shoes. The hound was released. A trained professional, she resisted her urge toward the bag of only half-eaten Kentucky Fried chicken wings some drunk had left out on the sidewalk the night before. The only thing on her mind was to find Cookie. Because if she found Cookie, she would receive something so much better than maggoty fastfood leftovers. She'd receive a steak--a filet mignon medallion, actually, cooked bloody with a sprig of parsely, which is just how all professional bloodhounds like it. Ellie's brain chanted softly to her: must find Cookie, must find Cookie....must find....suddenly, her finely tuned nasal spectrometer detected something small, delicate, and gamey, something nervous, sometimes yippy, with a faint trace of pee--eau de Cookie! She picked up more of the scent, then more. MUST FIND COOKIE! MUST FIND COOKIE! her brain shrieked as she gathered speed and snaked down the sidewalk as if winding through an obstacle course of invisible orange traffic cones, and then under a hedge, across a small patch of grass, under another hedge (which scratched her back, but she didn't care), and back to the sidewalk. Must find Cookie, HERE IS COOKIE!!!
There the hound stood, wagging happily before a tiny patch of red-stained concrete.
Beautiful Wildflowers of Desperate Hot Springs
Who says Desperate Hot Springs ain't got no wildflowers?
(We say Desperate Hot Springs ain't got no wildflowers!)
Delilah Haiku
Oh, where have you been?
My belly echoes hunger.
Let me lick your face
Wee-yurd Search of the Year
"her air-mattress" sex
Air mattress sex is definitely lesbian, perhaps even more so than futon sex. To inflate our leaky love raft, my first lover and I (in the days before motorized pumps came included) would take turns blowing ourselves into a deoxygenated stupor. I'm not sure whether this detracted from or enhanced the overall experience.
gratuitous dog photo
WANTED: FOR CRIMES OF PINKNESS
[and for cheese-snatching, sabotage, and bed-hoggery]
Day of the Iguana
This is not a very good image since I had to use my Razor. But you get the idea. The iguana crawled all over the patio, climbed the purple-flowered lantana hedge, and bobbed his head happily as we all shrieked in terror. "He's marvelous," I said.
Pink and Pickle thought so too.
Tail of a Lizard
Lying in bed with Pontifica this morning, I receive a call from Brian on my cell. He sounds frantic, but that isn't necessarily unusual. "There's a lizard outside our window," he says. "And I think it's dead...at least it isn't moving."
"A big lizard?" I say.
"Yeah, pretty big...looks like it's almost a foot long."
"Do you want to maybe put it in a box?"
"Well...."
"That's OK, Brian. I'm on my way home and I'm not squeamish at all about these things. I'll dispose of the dead lizard. Maybe I'll even give it a funeral."
"Thank you."
So, I get home and I stride over to the window where Brian said the lizard would be. I stride because I'm all full of myself that I can deal with this lizard situation when my housemate, a grown man, an actual handyman cannot. I'm expecting a small green-grey thing, a foot long from head to end of tail, but I don't see anything. Guess it wasn't dead, I muse. And then I see this:
and this, as you can see, is just its freakin' tail.
Brian, the freakin' tail is longer than a foot, OK?
Weird Search of the Week: wet armpit fetish
The "weird search of the week" has returned witih a vengeance in the New Year with this breathtaking combination of words:
lesbian sniff wet armpit
I find that I am at a loss for words on this one. All I can say is that it brings a big wide smile to my face.
Leslie Lange on Internet Radio's "The Lesbian Lounge"
Hear ye, hear ye! Tune into THE LESBIAN LOUNGE (www.MyLesbianRadio.com) this Wednesday, January 2nd, at 9 p.m. EST/6 p.m. PST to hear Leslie Lange and hosts Donna and Denise blow off steam regarding the single most important facet of lesbian culture ever (!!!): DYKE DRAMA. 
Christmas Eve in D-town
Christmas Eve: Pontifica is in Portland, Oregon, visiting her family, while--due to the fact that old people never stop getting out of the hospital around the holidays--I am stuck delivering care to them by way of a hot pink health care delivery truck. then heading home to my beautiful shar pei/pit bull mixes in D-Town. Ah, Desperate Hot Springs! Official Safe Haven City to paroled sex offenders, male dogs with testicles intact, and mulleted folk in monster trucks with decals of the little peeing boy kneeling low before The Cross. (Thank God, someone reined in that little bastard and he now loves The Lord!)
Ah, Desperate Hot Springs! On windy days, the poor folk chase their garbage cans down the street. When I say "poor," I don't mean "impoverished," but as in I feel sorry for that poor #$%... as in, "That poor #$%'s stuck living in Desperate Hot Springs" or " That poor #$%'s chasing her garbage can down the street again."
Whatever.
Tasty Nagel Print
"What's a tasteful Nagel print?" you ask.
Well...here's one that's tasteful and tasty.
[note the sexy mullets on these two babe-a-liciouses]
Embracing My Inner Mullet
Who's that lesbian? Why it's Leslie Lange, of course! Not only did I have a mullet, but I could not afford shoes, and wore nothing but volleyball team-issued sweatpants. And, yes, that is an iron-on patch peeling off the right knee. I am also wearing a leopard-print tank top. Hot-t-t-t! Even then I had a certain brooding joie de vivre.
Doggie Haiku
Prehistoric gaze
scooter pulling wrinkle dogs
noble worry-warts
Holy Mugilidae!
The definition of a mullet per Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary (10th Edition): "any of a family (Mugilidae) of valuable chiefly marine food fishes with an elongate rather stout body"
OK, I don't know if I'm crazy or what...but, how can your body be both elongate and stout?
But then again, how can your hair be both elongate and short?
Wait. Oh, my God...is that it?
One further mystery: just how valuable are these food fishes? And how can I get my hands on some nice mullet-stacked mutual funds?
[Below...what appears to be a rather stout lesbian sporting an elongate rather stout mullet]
Mullified
Whoa! Lots of stuff's been going down in Los Angeles lately: Fires, poor air quality, a pending writers' strike (always a writers' strike, never an authors' strike), my favorite Dia de los Muertos celebration at the Hollywood cemetery, and the Murakami exhibit opening at MOCA.
But I'm going to talk about my hair.
I went to my stylist, Viva, in Palm Springs, sipping decaf while enduring the application of numerous highlights, then skimming a whole stack of fluff magazines as my scalp baked in the surround-swelter of 3 discoid radiant heat lamps. Then Viva took up her shears and razor and commenced doing what she always does, which is chop through my thatch of Bushman-like locks, giving it her best shot to produce something akin to "texture" so that I don't look like I'm wearing a brown bike helmet all day.
"I think I'm going to try something new," Viva said, gesturing across the top of my head. "I'm going to cut it short-to-long over here, and long-to-short over here."
"Cool," I said. "Go for it. Make salad."
"Oh, and what about this?" she said, pulling on the wisps at the nape of my neck.
"Um," I said. "I like those."
"Good, because everyone always wants me to cut them off, but they're my favorite."
"OK, leave 'em."
When I got home that night, Pontifica--on her way to kiss me--stopped dead in her tracks.
I found myself unwilling to register her expression. "What?"
Pontifica took me by the shoulders, and made very grave eye contact. "I'm sorry, honey, but that is darn close to a mullet."
I ran to the mirror, turned to look at my profile, and...AAAK! Indeed it was...darn close to a mullet.
But was it still an attractive sort of mullet? Or even better, a subtle, pushing-the-boundaries sort of naughty self-referencing wink, maybe, to the mullet, without actually being one? God, I hoped so.
Help me decide, please! Come visit my table at Palm Springs Pride, November 3rd at 2 p.m., where I'll be signing copies of Dyke Drama: your guide to getting out alive, a book I wrote in my pre-mullet days.
Lesbian Haiku
#2
White cottonelle wipe
blooms like a rose in my hand
erasing our quarrel
Maisie the Cat
Maisie and I, we have our own special sort of play that involves rough-up-the-cat belly rubs, kitty armpit stretches, and games such as the "fake flea paw tickle" and "fanny pat." These brief encounters end with my nose full of snot and my hand covered in little kitty-inflicted welts that I hope (creatively visualize) are mini-innoculations against further allergy attacks. It's fun and nice, but I have to run to the sink to wash my hands immediately or risk having my eyes turn red and start burning. God forbid if I accidentally rub an eye because then a tiny membranous bubble forms around my tear duct. You'd think I would learn to keep my hands off the cat, but I CAN'T BECAUSE I LOVE HER! I am probably her stalker.
GOOD IDEA!
Recent Posts
Good Links
- Pontifica's Parlor
- Femme Menace
- Chariot Lady
- Tiny Blob
- BRAIN CLOUDS
brilliant! 
Leslie's Web Site
