"A happy place, in a sunny fairy land." (Killer's Kiss Part II)

(Notorious gnome cruising ground)

And King Ghob, His Majesty King of the Gnomes, speaking from his Portuguese fairy castle, on YouTube did say, "I am ready for the end of the world, and I tell ye, it shall happen on December 21st of the year 2012, and the world shall be filled with pestilence and genital herpes, and to all those boy lovers, fickle and with treachery in their bewitching gaze, who dare to leave us for the fairer sex, they, well they shall be first to suffer with eternal bad hair and slingbacks that chafe but till then, OMG, Fashion Clinic has a sale with the most gorgeous Prada bags going for a STEAL I bought FOUR and they look FABULOUS at Urban Beach and did you see Luis Figo totally waxed his chest duh! Fashion DON'T, gurl! Whatever! Um... where was I?"

(Reputed final broadcast on YouTube from murderer and self-titled Gnome King, Francisco Leitao, which never quite made it on air)

This reclusive Portuguese 'serial killer', self-proclaimed King Ghob, King of the Gnomes, and owner of a scrap metal merchants, was arrested for the murder of one teenage boy lover and his new girlfriend, and the girlfriend of yet another lover who did the same. Leitao regularly videod himself on You Tube performing magic rites and often proclaimed the end of the world was nigh, but that may just have been because he owed over one million euros in unpaid back taxes.

Lisboa could be this right now

(if it wanted)

Grace Jones' and Divine's birthday at Studio 54

Killer's Kiss (Part 1)

She stumbled upon them, in the stable, locked in a torrid embrace. Their mouths exchanged torrid seas of saliva. Their eyes, wild, savage, bore into each other, the flesh as one. Her husband's neckerchief had unravelled, revealing a heaving chest of dark hair. The other, the other clasped her husband's buttocks as though they were rocks on a cliff face, holding him aloft. And there it was, the word of damnation - HIM. Her husband, exchanging bodily fluids with another man, their groins treetrunks, heaving at the zippers of their corduroys, desperate to spring free and sing the song of passion, the song of the ciganos! Maria Serrano Pinheiro's hand grasped her own throat, as if she wished to strangle herself, as if she wished to die!
There would be death tonight, but no, it would not be hers. Tonight was a night for revenge. Torrid revenge.

(15/07/10 - 20 or 30 shots were fired in a fued between gypsy families of the Lisbon bairro of Carlos Botelho, injuring a number of people, after Maria Serrano Pinheiro found her husband kissing another man. Torridly.)

f l a g

Oil and watercolor ink on linen flag.

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner

Any night, you go to a gay bar and there the older men sit, all jutting, sharp elbows and legs crossed, perched on bar stools, alone.
His name is Vasco, late fifties, sauve as a cocktail no one knows. "Talk to me," he begs. "I am so lonely, empty."
You try and reassure him with platitudes that he won't understand. He blames the Church, in all (Catholic) seriousness and he talks, on and on about his mother, as if we don't have one and will never understand. "I am rich," he says, like it helps. He's more drunk than anything else, a filthy, decaying inebriation.
We duck and weave, but it's true NO ONE talks to him and perhaps we are the first in a long while. He clings to us. It's embarrassing. At some point, a banality I dug up from the self-help recesses of my mind inspires him to rage. He spits in drunken fury, profanities like tar, and then just as fast, he is sobbing on Lennie's shoulder, great wracking convulsions of loneliness and incomprehension of how gay became apparently so... nice for those younger than he.
We eventually shake him off, and before I leave the bar, I see Vasco again, swaying on a drunken ship of sorts. He has an impish smile, as if he's enjoying himself there - just for a moment.

All lesbo Brides of Saint Anthony for 2011!

In a shocking move by the Lisbon municipality, next year the long-standing (well, since 1958, and excluding some years when they forgot to do it) tradition of the Saint Anthony brides, namely of marrying dirtpoor and ignorant citizens for free according to repressive Catholic hocus-pocus - will be totally LESBIONIC!!!
Mayor António Costa announced his decision in a media whirlwind, saying: "Frankly, these deluded idiots may be poor, but I for one am growing tired of these heifers being so goddamn ugly! Jesus Christ! Now girl on girl action - that's hot, right?"
When further pressed, Mayor Costa denied he would extend the invition to male couples. Appearing unusually piqued at the non-plussed journalist of football newspaper A Bola, he exited the room, screaming: "Are you calling me a faggot? Dare say that again and I'll make you my bitch till Portugal actually win the World Cup!"
Viva as (muitas) Noivas de Santo António!

B R U T A L I S T

Architecture as expression of male id. Architecture as imposition of masculine form on a female landscape. Architecture as penis envy. FuckMEtecture!