My Past Needs a Silkwood Shower

Convenience Store Clerk: [having not seen me in ages]  “Good morning!”

Me: [realizing I’ve left my wallet in the car] “Hello! I’ll be right back.”

Convenience Store Clerk: [sympathetically] “Do you need beer?”

Me: “Um… what?”

[He gestures to the clock behind the counter. It’s 11 a.m. In Texas, it’s illegal to sell alcohol before noon on Sundays.]

Me: “OH. No, I don’t. I just forgot my wallet.”

Convenience Store Clerk: “…Oh. Okay!”

And you know what’s fucked up? I haven’t shopped at this particular establishment in years. Years.

Reputations are sometimes very hard to scrub off.

The Astonishing X-Fits

Every year, one of the Misfits (Dean: center, blue do-rag) draws a group portrait of our organization’s active members, and it gives me immeasurable joy to show off his 2017 masterpiece.


Dean really went out of his way to make us look like we’re all competitive bodybuilders, which is, y’know, inaccurate at best. Some of us are actually professional gymnasts, while others were bombarded by gamma rays during experimental weapons testing. John (top row, red cap) is an alien god from another dimension who came to earth seeking adventure, whereas Eric (bottom row, far right) volunteered for a secret government “Super Soldier” program and spent many years fighting valiantly against the Nazis before pledging a leather club.

Scott (second row, green camouflage) is a cyborg assassin sent from the future to annihilate Linda Hamilton, and I (gray shirt, between Scott and Dean) have been seeing a nutritionist and working out a couple of times a week. But I can also fly and walk through walls, so they went ahead and let me stay.

Anyway, these are the Misfits — my brothers; my tribe; my teammates; my occasional archnemeses. Genetic mutations and film adaptations that fail to live up to canon aside, I definitely think I’ll keep ’em.

Pink Elephant Swap

Customer 1: “We’re doing Secret Santa at work, so I need to get something for my co-worker.”

Customer 2: “Wait… isn’t he straight?”

Customer 1: “Yes, but he’s in love with me.”

And then they left before I thought to suggest beard oil.

Straight dudes totally fall more in love with their gay co-workers when given beard oil. That’s just science.

I feel like we all missed some opportunities here.

Paisley Print Mood Rings for Everyone

Customer: “What do the colors of these harnesses mean?”

Me: “The colors of the harnesses don’t really mean anything — a lot of people wear red or blue leather, just because they happen to like those colors. The only time color conveys meaning is if someone is flagging a handkerchief in their back pocket.”

Customer: “So it’s like the Zodiac, and the colors represent personality traits.”

Me: “Well, kind of. See, each hanky indicates a different sexual preference…”

Customer: “I’m an accountant, and submissive. What color would I be?”

Me: “Uh… hunter green on the right?”

And of course he disagreed. I expected nothing less.

Fucking Capricorns.

Hip-hopping through the desert sand. Like you do.

As per our discussion on last night’s episode of Facets of Leather, please find below a scene from the 1980 classic Cruising, in which Officer Steve Burns (played by a young, doe-eyed Al Pacino), gets schooled on the Hanky Code and then… dances. Sort of.

We unfortunately ran out of time before we could broadcast every bizarre song on our very special playlist, so as a holiday bonus, my gift to you is the Greatest Inappropriate Christmas Cover in the History of Yuletide Carols:

Merry December!


In the spirit of the season, I cheerfully submit observations from myself, Nuke and Rok (collectively known as Nujorok) on this year’s White House Christmas decorations:

“I feel like the concept is ‘Overly Contoured Tilda Swinton.'”

“It’s more ‘Russian Mail Order Bride Meets the Underground Railroad.’ Or, as Melania calls it, ‘Hope.'”

“Or The Beach, after Tilda almost shoots Leo DiCaprio, and all the happiness drains from her body as she is left alone…”

“It’s like Tilda Swinton exploded, and somebody went, ‘Well… what if we made trees out of it?'”

“Remember the time Tilda Swinton tied Jesus to a rock and shaved his lion’s mane? Yeah, that’s what I want Christmas to look like.”

“No, no. This is all wrong. I don’t want ‘festive.’ I want Tilda Swinton’s dreadlocks from that thinkpiece vampire movie. Why do I have to keep explaining Christmas to you people? Is it because you’re poor?”

“This is too blonde. I want only white, to represent the snow on the mountain on which Tilda Swinton abandoned Benedict Cumberbatch. It’s just not harsh enough.”

“You know the face Tilda makes in Constantine right after Keanu Reeves punches her, and she experiences pain for the first time? THAT. THAT RIGHT THERE IS CHRISTMAS.”

“In the Old Country, Tilda Swinton magically appears every Christmas Eve to give good children the gift of gender ambiguity.”

“And bad children get cast in Constantine 2.”

“Surprise! Krampus is actually Tilda Swinton. And I am OK with that.”

“Tilda Swinton is austere as the taiga. Unblemished and silent. And when a bird does dare to break that silence, she glances askance, and it falls dead under her gaze.”


“I’ve been drinking.”

Auntie Miltie

Customer: “Hello! Do you have a black. Leather. Harness?”

Me: “We… have a number of them. Do you have a particular style in mind?”

Customer: “I want something that says, ‘I’m not a slut, but I want to get laid.'”

Customer’s Husband: “What?!”

Customer: “Pay him no mind. I’ve got his credit card.”

Customer’s Husband: “You know, I took him for better or worse, but he’s worse than I took him for!”

Me: “Ha ha…”

Customer’s Husband: “It’s been a business doing pleasure with you!”

[Inner Me: Oh, God. I’m trapped in hell with Milton Berle.]

Customer: [gesturing to the coat rack behind the counter] “Oooh, I like that leather jacket.”

Me: “Oh, that? That’s actually mine.”

Customer’s Husband: “Is that leather skirt yours too?”

Me: “The kilt? No, the kilt is not mine.”

Customer’s Husband: [suddenly adamant] “It’s a skirt.”

Me: “No, really. It’s a kilt.” [I take the kilt off the rack and hold it up for authentication.] “See?”

Customer’s Husband: [grumbling] “Yeah, well… business doing pleasure with you.”

His aversion to unbifurcated clothing is fishy. I’m starting to suspect he’s not the real Milton Berle.

And This is Why I Will Never Be a Professional Mathematicationer

In a venturesome bid to grow up, I’ve spent the past year slowly rebuilding my credit (it’s currently in the “needs work” to “fair” range). I was checking the balances on my cards last night, when I noticed an unusual charge for $122, made in Las Vegas sometime in November. Understandably panicked, I went through all of my recent purchases, desperately trying to remember if I’d ordered anything from Nevada, but ultimately I just surrendered and accepted the fact that my account had been hacked. Sighing pathetically, I picked up the phone to call the “Lost or Stolen” 800 number, glancing back at the charge to confirm the amount, when I noticed the negative sign.

Yeah, turns out? It wasn’t a purchase. It was a payment. I was losing my shit over the recordation of the last time I paid off the card. Apparently, I lived so long as a financial train wreck that proof of timely bill management is enough to give me a coronary.

This whole Mature Adulthood thing is a lot stressier than I thought it would be. I need a final demand notice or something to magically appear and make me go, “Whew, okay, crisis averted. I’m still me.”

Leathers of the Revolution

Preppy Customer 1: [flipping through a rack of T-shirts] “Too trendy… too trendy… too trendy…”

Preppy Customer 2: [examining a display of jockstraps] “Too trendy… too trendy… too trendy…”

Preppy Customer 1: [inspecting an assortment of baseball caps] “Too trendy… too trendy… too trendy…”

And then this big, muscly, bearded dude wearing motorcycle chaps and a harness strolled in, bellowed, “MARJORIE!!!” and about smothered me with a bear hug. The preppies froze for a second, gaped at each other, then quickly put everything back where they found it and ran away.

Score one for leathermen still traumatizing the bourgeoisie.