Fun With The Coochie Pop

My favorite lesbian is the dirtiest guy I ever met. Which is why we get along perfectly. I’ve noticed certain commonalities in all of my friends: a dirty mind, happy obsessions with sex, a love of porn, and a certain free-flowing, twisted outlook on subjects that would make a right wing conservative twitch uncontrollably. We can talk about pretty much any topic and turn it sexual in a very juvenile Beavis and Butthead way. Me and my friend Huey have been making pussy jokes about my cat Delta for years, and we still think it’s deeply funny. Think pubescent boy humor: I’m gonna go home and pet my pussy. Or, be careful you don't rub your pussy the wrong way! And, my pussy’s all worked up tonight; it’s totally out of control. You get the idea. My best buddy Miss M said that yesterday she pulled a four-wine-bottle carton out from under her airplane seat and announced, “Hey, there’s lint on my box!” then dissolved into a fit of laughter with her friends. Yes, I love her dearly. The first time I knew I loved her? We worked together at this alternative newspaper where people tended to be uptight in a PC, self-righteous, lefty, Berkeley-ish kind of way. Miss M was working the front desk and she was a breath of fresh air. I was standing there talking to her and she put on this gorgeous dark lipstick. I complimented her on it, and she said, “Yeah, and it leaves a nice ring around the base of a guy’s cock when you suck his dick.” Oh, what a girl. If I were a dude I woulda married her years ago. Instead I just stick my finger in her luscious cleavage now and then.

Any time I meet up with my homies we talk smut, or porn, or something in that arena. It’s inevitable. A couple days ago I finished reading Box Lunch: The Layperson’s Guide to Cunnilingus, by Diana Cage, a local area sexpert and former editor of On Our Backs, etc. You see, this is what happens when you hang out with lesbians. You end up picking up books at their house, you end up reading said books, and you end up learning all sorts of things about your cunt, which you then feel compelled to bring up in conversation with your friends. It’s a funny, informative read, if you go in for that sort of thing, and who doesn’t?

What did I Iearn? Well, found out about the things that change internally in an aroused woman that make fisting possible (aka “tenting”). Always wondered about that. Johnny Boy, the afore-mentioned lesbo friend of mine, assures me that she could insert anything that she wants to insert into a girl’s pussy, and I believe her. And ladies, she is one well-endowed lesbian: she’s got some seriously big hands with long fingers.

Okay class, what else did we learn about eating out? Learned about a great lube called Liquid Silk, which is tasteless, so you can lube her up, fuck the shit out of her, and then still go down on her without getting some weird chemical taste in your mouth. Sounds like a must-have for the goody drawer.

I think my very favorite part of Box Lunch is the break-down of all the plastic surgery procedures that porn stars (or any other girl) can have done on their box. So fucking interesting. I only knew of one, but now I know several. Now THAT'S good cocktail party conversation material! I mentioned Diana Cage to my friend Jesse, and he totally knew of her, her work, had read Box Lunch, etc. What a guy. I can see why his wife always looks satisfied. At one point, this crazy high fetishy black stripper shoe fell out of their bedroom closet. Jesse picked it up, turned it over, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, carefully pointed out to me that there was absolutely no wear on the sole whatsoever. His wife just laughed knowingly. Oh happy day! Years ago I had a lover who suggested I wear some red stiletto heels. I was like, “Honey, I am 6’2” and there is no way I can walk in those things cuz I would be 6’7”!” His response? “You don’t have to walk in them, girl, you just have to keep them on.” Well shut my mouth. I have several pair of high heels nowadays, and there is one pair in particular that just totally turns me on. Just seeing them on my own feet makes me purr. Black strappy numbers with maybe a 4” heel, and I’ve never worn them out in the world. Jesse would be so proud!

So is there any big difference between the straight folks and the gay folks I know? Not a hell of a lot. It’s just all about pussy, dick, and getting fucked good and proper, right? We all wanna walk a little funny the next day and smile when we remember why. We all wanna kiss till our lips get puffy and swoon for the one that makes our blood boil. Jesse, a hetero guy, was the one who turned me on to the strange goodness of the full-length porn film The Fashionistas, and yet it’s Johnny Boy, Lesbianus Extremus, who is one of the biggest fans of that film that I know. We all love Belladonna in any way, shape, or form…no question. She is the best thing going in The Fashionistas, and we all want to fuck her senseless AND have her baby. Oh jeez, just thinking about her gets me riled up. When I mentioned her to my friend G, he smiled happily and said simply, “Oh, she’s a very dirty girl.” Yes, exactly.

The moral of this story? Going down applies to all colors and creeds, because c’mon, who wouldn’t want to have their face buried in all that goodness? Just don’t forget to put the dark lipstick on first so you’ll leave your mark. *wink*

Black Cowboys, or, How The West Was Really Won

Folks get surprised when I talk about black cowboys of the Old West, and some don’t even believe me. Dumbasses. These guys (and some gals) played a big role as cowboys, marshals, ranchers, business owners, land owners, and all-around rowdy citizens of the best kind. You had to be rowdy and full of gumption to even survive those hard times. Some were escaped slaves, some were born free, others received their freedom with the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863. Very few jobs were open to former slaves, or black folks in general, but the booming cattle industry out West was hiring. And so the trek began. Aapproximately five thousand black cowboys rode the cattle trails in the 19th century. They have great stories, and I love talking about ‘em. I can feel a Texas accent comin' on as I speak. It's a thrill to see black cowboys and cowgirls in the saddle in the here and now, as I have on a few happy occasions, although I cannot claim to have been ridden by one myself. But hey, the night’s still young!

So here I go. Can you see me? I’m stepping up onto my Black-Cowboys-Rock Soapbox. I am now even taller, which you probably thought was not even possible.

We’ll start with the most famous: Bill Pickett. Bill was such a bad ass. Holy crap. Lemme tell you why. Stray steers are very hard for a lone horseman to catch. So cowboys used to have dogs that they used to help retrieve steers that had wandered away from the herd. These “bulldogs” would lunge at the bull, sinking their teeth into the bull’s upper nose/lip area, which is one of the few sensitive areas on a steer. The other is his nuts, but good luck dodging the hooves to reach those. This brought the bull to the ground right quick, and the cowboy could rope it and bring it back in. Well Mr. Pickett got it into his head one day that if the dogs could do it, why couldn’t he? Maybe he had a wayward steer and no bulldog handy on one of his runs; it’s hard to say. But he developed this technique where he would launch himself from his running horse onto the bull, grabbing him by the horns, twisting till the steer went down to the ground. Then he would bite the bull in the nose just as the dogs did, leaning backwards till he had one very submissive steer holding very still. Boom bam goddamn! You see what I mean? Bill Pickett was the shit. Word got out that he has doing this crazy shit, and they started calling him the “Bulldogger.” Later he joined up with his four cowboy brothers and started The Pickett Brothers Bronco Busters and Rough Riders Association, performing his bulldogging trick for crowds all over Texas, Oklahoma, Arizona, and Wyoming. Later he traveled to Europe with the 101 Wild West Shows group, as the only black man among 90 white performers. Frequently he competed in competitions where he was not allowed to collect the prize money if we won. Goddamn honkies. But Bill’s the one laughing now, cuz The Bill Pickett Rodeo is the most successful US rodeo, as well as the only traveling and black-owned rodeo, going on two decades now. I have wanted to go to that thing for years, but I have a knack for figuring out its in town about two weeks after its left. Dangit, stupid honky!

Nat Love is a pretty cool name. But Deadwood Dick is hella cool, right? Sounds like an Old West porn star. Well, Nat Love was a star in his day, cuz he was one amazing bronc rider and sharpshooter. That's his picture up above. The Emancipation Proclamation set him free when he was 15, and he made his way west. He got his first cowboy job based on the fact that one of the most notorious broncos around just couldn’t budge Love from his back. In 1876 he entered the roping, shooting, and wild horseback competitions of a special July 4th event. He won all three, and his 12.5 minutes on their craziest bronc earned him the nickname “Deadwood Dick.” Not totally sure what the connection was. I guess the Deadwood part cuz he was like a bump on a log on that horse’s back (I shall not be moved!). But where does the Dick part fit in? (*snicker* somehow the dick always fits in…). Prolly just cuz it sounded good; but then, dick always sounds good, don’t it? Sorry, I’ll stop. I get the feeling that if you were still going by your given name in ye Old West, you had not done anything noteworthy yet. Do something to get noticed, and you got yourself a crazy new nickname. Look at his picture again; didn't that guy have some serious flair? Not the Office Space movie kind of flair, but more the “I’m-wicked-talented-in-a-bad-ass-way” kind of flair. Dude wore his hair all long (unusual for that period, when most men cultivated enormous mustaches instead), and had a great cocky air that comes through in his photo. If he were around today, he’d be a gazillionaire sports/movie star known for his high fashion and his way with the ladies. Just a guess. Mister Love also wrote his own biography when he got older. Take that, illiterate honkies!

Not all the black cowboys of the West played by the rules. A few were hustling cattle and horses, much to the chagrin of the local constabulary, because they tended to be good at it. And some African-Americans of the time lived pretty much within the law, but had run-ins now and then. Which brings us to Stagecoach Mary. This chick did not mess around. And methinks that if she lived in the here and now, she would be one serious butch dyke. The kind you don’t mess with cuz she will fuck your shit up. First of all, she was a solid build, about 6’ tall (that’s one for my team), and weighed over 200 lbs. Second, she meant what she said and didn’t take kindly to being shafted (in more ways than one! *snicker*). For instance, she ran a laundry business when she was in her 70s and too old to run the stagecoaches. One male client refused to pay his bill, but took his clean clothes anyway. (Yeah, he was a honky, what else?) When Mary next saw him at the saloon, she clocked him right in the face, knocking him out. She then announced that… “NOW his laundry bill is paid.” I guess so! And please note, gentle reader, that Mary was the only female allowed into the all-male saloon. Prolly cuz she dressed in men’s clothes, carried two six shooters and a rifle, smoked cigars that she rolled herself, and drank like a pro. Nobody noticed she wasn't a dude! I’m betting she could piss her name on the wall if she felt like it. Stagecoach Mary once almost shot a man after a verbal insult led to a fistfight between them. Wonder what he said? She worked in many different professions in her life, with many of them facilitated by her relationship with a certain Mother Amadeus, the leader of a bunch of nuns, and uh, maybe an admirer of Mary’s outlandishly bold behavior? I bet the Mother Superior just loved having someone else be a top once in awhile! Mother A helped her get the mail-carrier stagecoach route that earned Mary her nickname (See? That nickname thing again!), among other jobs. You just gotta love a big ol’ lesbian who knows how to use a bull whip. Yee ha!

So you see, this is a topic comprised of amazing stories. And even better, folks are still carrying on the tradition. Not sure anyone really wants to bite into the snotty nostrils of a steer anymore, but there’s one fella, Fred Whitfield, who is a three-time world champion calf roper with rodeo earnings of over one million dollars. How ‘bout them apples? And how about a black rodeo in Harlem?

If you really wanna know more, here’s a book that might make ya happy. And how can you talk about cowboys without talking about country music? But no, I will resist, and do a separate blog on that one, cuz it's too good to do quickly. But I will tell you that I just listened to the following awesome songs: "All the Gold in California" (Gatlin Brothers), Devil Woman (Marty Robbins), and "Missing You" (Charley Pride), and oh yes, "The Gambler" (Kenny Rogers). That song is the shiznit! My coworkers hate me now, but do I give a damn? Hellz no, punk ass mutha fuckas! Country music is in the hiz-ouse!

Goddamn honkies.

The FBI Hates Porn, the Republicans Hate Sex

The FBI has nothing to do. Or, our neo-con government is once again making icky, icky, bad, bad things happen to support their own right-wing agenda. On what do I base these assumptions? The Washington Post reports that the FBI’s Washington office is setting up a new unit specifically to address porn. An FBI unit to fight pedophile porn? Great. Bring it. But no... “The new squad will divert eight agents, a supervisor and assorted support staff to gather evidence against ‘manufacturers and purveyors’ of pornography -- not the kind exploiting children, but the kind that depicts, and is marketed to, consenting adults.” Bloody hell. The only good news is that many people who work for the FBI are making fun of this, annoyed that resources are being diverted for such foolishness (my words, not theirs). But the recruiting memos in FBI offices list this new unit (unit! *snicker*) as being of the highest priority to the Attorney General and the FBI Director. Great. That’s just great.

What I can’t stop thinking about is the fact that the most right wing, uptight, straight-laced people are the ones into the craziest kink. Seriously. It has been proven over and over again. And they want lots of sex like anyone else does, but they just won’t admit to it. Did you know that whenever the Republican Convention comes to town (any town), the local prostitution rings bring in tons of extra talent from other cities, because the local sex workers cannot keep up with the demand? Not kidding. The 2004 convention was in New York. Think about how huge NY is, and how many hookers there must be. Then think about how many more can be found in surrounding areas like Queens, the Bronx, Brooklyn, whatever. Right: lotsa lotsa. And yet, several madams were quoted as saying that they were flying girls in from other cities to meet the exceptionally high demand. And they were basing their preparations on previous Republican Convention needs. "We have girls from London, Seattle, California, all coming in for that week," said a madam at a Manhattan escort service. "It's the week everyone wants to work."

Strip clubs also get dramatically increased numbers of clients at these times. “Clubs have started booking private parties for delegates anxious to ogle topless beauties after a day of watching fully clothed politicians boast about family values.” Even Hustler covered that convention, just to prove what hypocrites these guys are. They had two correspondents in the laps of, I mean, in the field at the RNC. One female writer played a call girl and a male writer posed as a gay party boy. Their expert opinion on the whole thing? In their words, “The people who are most publicly outraged by healthy depictions of human sexuality are the ones who are into kinky stuff. Just look at John Ashcroft’s face. My guess is he’s not reading Playboy or Hustler—he’s got lesbian bondage rags under his bed.” Exactly!!! He probably has to pay his hookers more because he wants them to shit on his chest while he lays in the bathtub and sings his American Eagle song. Grody.

How about some examples of Republican sex scandals? Jack Ryan (R-Ill.) was married to hottie actress Jeri Ryan (Boston Public and Star Trek Voyager’s Seven of Nine, yo. Hot!), who divorced him because he repeatedly forced her to go to sex clubs, trying to get her to engage in public sex with others. These were the sorts of clubs that had cages, whips, and apparatus hanging from the ceilings. “Seven of Nine is confused by the complexities of human interaction”…uh, yeah.

As I Googled “Republican-Sex-Scandal” I kept getting sites talking about a 1989 scandal relating to the Reagan and Bush senior administrations and their use of male call boys, most underage (14-15). The boys were being given “midnight tours” of the White House, and the scandal linked many known Republicans with sexual activity of the illegal, under-age, totally homo kind. Hundreds of credit card receipts were found in the course of the investigation, proving that Republicans had used their personal and government-issued cards to pay for male prostitutes. Brilliant. I’m all for man-on-man action, but 14-year-old boys? Prostitutes? Paid for by the government? Wouldn’t you pay cash to cover your tracks? Dumbasses.

As for Jim West, the Republican mayor of Spokane, well…“Claims are now rampant that West has used his position of power for years, even since the '70s, ever since he was a Scout leader, ever since he was handing out cute plastic trophies to young preteen boys…West has used his position to lure men and teenage boys into having sex with him.” Aack. A good quote from that same article: “And someone should really do a national, once-and-for-all study to back up what everyone already knows -- which is, of course, that the more repressed and sanctimonious and uptight you are about sex and love and gender and religion, the more likely you are to be involved in secret kink, in deep perversion, illegal perversion, perversion that crosses the line from healthy and slippery and delicious to degrading and morally reprehensible and Karl Rove. Just ask -- did I say this already? -- the Catholic Church.” Republican sex scandals homosexual in nature? Freud would have so much fun with that one.

Now if you think my point is that Republicans have sex scandals but Democrats don’t, then you are weak minded and should probably be put down (in the veterinary sense of the term). Democrats have ‘em, they just don’t spend every day shouting that homosexuality and sexual expression is bad. In fact, many of us Democrats like our presidents to sex it up a bit, and consider it only an issue of concern for the wives of said presidents. I will admit that I liked Clinton better after the Monica debacle, but I have never looked at a cigar in quite the same way since then.

Man, I get sidetracked like nobody’s business. Wasn’t I talking about porn when I started this snarky rant? Yes, porn. One of my favorite things in the world. And now the FBI will be doing it’s best to prosecute the makers and distributors of porn for no particular reason. It’s pretty much guaranteed then that the folks who made The Fashionistas would not fare well with the new FBI porn unit. What if the FBI devoted those resources to helping the victims of human sex trafficking and reducing that ever-growing criminal activity? Aside from Bush’s occasional public comments about it (“Human trafficking and sex slavery is bad, mkay?”), he has not really done a damn thing to change the flow of it in his own country. Bastard.

Blech. This all just leaves an awful taste in my mouth. Usually I would say that I am a cynical optimist. But too many topics like this make me just a plain ol' cynical cynic.

Gotta go. Time to go eat scrambled eggs and watch porn. (20 points if you know what that’s from.)

A Straight Man’s Guide to Flowers

Please note that despite the title of this post, the guidance here also applies to lesbians, bisexuals, married people of all sorts, and small Hedgehogs named Steve. Use as needed, and discontinue use immediately if a rash develops.

I am a woman who loves flowers. I have never met a woman who did not love flowers; I don’t care if they are gay, straight, or somewhere on the slippery slope in between. Those that say they don’t care are also the ones that get the most melty when presented with a big-ass bouquet. There is good reason for the time-worn image of men in trouble with their womenfolk creeping back with flowers and contrite expressions. It’s because that shit works. It might not “fix” the full mess, but it will get you back in the house.

Perhaps it is just the fact that flowers are really quite miraculous in their own right. Ever looked at them really closely or seen nature shows on just how many tricky things they get up to in a day? Their innards imitate the sexy backsides of the particular insect species they need to attract for pollination. They lure them in with promises of sex! Brilliant. It’s the flower version of a bright red baboon ass. Lotus blossoms close tightly at night and sink down into the water, rising up to the water’s surface again to unfurl themselves before the rising sun. Sunflowers begin their day in one position, and finish it elsewhere, having tracked the movement of the sun with their upturned faces; happy, content, and uncompromisingly tall. Species that rely on bees for their propagation tend to be blue, because bees always prefer blue. In the 1600’s, a single tulip bulb sold for over $2000 in Holland, which was a significantly higher price than an equivalent weight of precious metal was commanding at the time. And don't even get me started on the carnivorous plants!

Leave it to the British to point out the sexual side of things: “Isn't it odd that flowers are the reproductive organs of the plants they grow on?” (Logan Pearsall Smith) Hmmm… maybe that’s why we like to bury our face in big bunches of flowers! It’s like burying your face in the crotch of someone you really, really like. And maybe that’s why the guys who give the biggest, bestest flowers get so much pussy; flowers have that strange power to open a woman’s legs. Did you know that bees must tap two million individual flowers to produce one pound of honey? Dang. (I almost made a “tap that ass” joke but I refrained. But see my comment about flowers imitating sexy little fuzzy backsides and you’ll see my point.)

Okay, so the sex-flower connection has been made in no uncertain terms. And now it’s time to move on to the ins and outs (*snicker*) of buying flowers for your lady, or just buying them for that hot chick that you so desperately wanna bang. Remember that idiotic book, “The Rules” that women were going on about for awhile? Absolute bollocks, but there is a small set of rules that do apply to choosing flowers, so pay attention. And keep in mind that if you are pursuing some totally trashy-ass low rent chick you should feel free to ignore these rules and just buy her the first pathetic wilted mixed bouquet you find at Safeway at 2am. Anyway, onward ho.

1. Avoid the pre-made, mixed bouquet. Straight men are magnetically drawn to these multi-color, multi-flower grab-bag bunches that proliferate in every damn market. Resist the urge, you clueless bastard. They are also big rip-offs because they are made up of 90% cheap filler flowers, with one to three decent flowers thrown in to approximate authenticity. See item #2.

2. Avoid the following common, filler flowers in any shape or form: baby’s breath (frothy tiny white flowers, usually half dead, mixed around other stuff), carnations (save them for your Great Grandmother, dorkwad), basic mums aka chrysanthemums (cuz they smell funky and are better suited to funerals and the cheapest FTD bouquets known to man). And for the love of God, do not ever buy those single flowers wrapped tightly in clear cellophane, usually sold next to the register at the Quickie Mart (i.e., they have been out of water forever). They choose the crappiest roses for those, and giving one to a girl makes you look like a cheap bastard with no taste whatsoever. Any flowers that are sold at 7-11 are likely to be a bad choice, unless you are courting a crack whore.

3. Now we must talk about choosing. Do not be afraid to choose flowers yourself. You will do all right. Use the Force, Luke. Just listen closely. Take a few minutes to really walk around the flower shop and look at all the flowers. You will see some that look kind of sad: wilted petals or leaves, brown spots, or yellowing of the petals (decay = bad). Keep walking. Find the ones that are perky, that have really rich color, that have leaves that are in decent shape (dying leaves mean the flower is about to die as well). Once you have a few options, think about your lady. Is she soft and sweet? Or is she brash and sassy? Try and match that to the few flowers you have chosen. Your sassy girls is a good match to the tall red-orange thingies that remind you of fire. Your sweet little peach is a good match to the pink lilies you also liked. Skip to step #5.

4. Not feeling it? Petrified? Feeling extremely Cro-Magnon that particular day? Grab the florist and use their brain and emotions. Ask which flowers they think are the very best that day, ask what will last awhile. When they give you a couple of options, you can also make them do the matching part for you. Important disclaimer: this option works only with florists who are chicks or gay men. A bored 18-year-old guy working there to make iPod money is not your ally. Go elsewhere, cuz you are about to drop some bank, and why do it badly? More on spending issues in a minute.

5. You are making your final choice and you must now resist your mixed bouquet urges. RESIST! Choose lots of just one flower. I am not kidding. This works. I am a girl, I have a pussy, so you gotta trust me on this. I also worked in flower shops back in the day, so I know my shit. Let’s say that you have decided that the tall yellow-red tulips are a good match for your sassy Sheila. Get two dozen of them. Really. Lots. Get nothing else. When wrapped properly, this will stun her into submission and you won’t even have to come up with any clever lines, except “These totally reminded me of you so I had to get them for you.” Oh man, I can hear the bedsprings singing already! There are times when it’s okay to get more than one type of flower, but be REALLY, REALLY careful, because you are a straight man, and evolution has done things to your brain that might make you wanna combine the two types of flowers in the shop that should never, ever meet up in the same bouquet. I’ve seen it happen. Men choosing long stem red roses (30" long) and short-stemmed fluffy pastel things (7” long) to go with them. Horrid. And how is she supposed to put them in the same vase? Whack off half of the roses? That is a waste of money and time, my friend. Resist.

6. Make sure the flowers are wrapped nicely. The ideal? Pretty color tissue paper around the bouquet, then a large piece of clear cellophane around that. Tell them to use their best ribbon to tie around the stems, to leave it really long, and choose a color that is an exact match to the flowers (no brainer), or in a color that is a nice compliment (a trickier thing for some of you). For those of you that are really advanced, ask if they have a bunch of raffia to wrap around it instead of ribbon. That’s the stuff that looks kind of like straw. Lots of strands of it in a knot or a bow, ends hanging down, is really high-rent. We are talking Martha here, so make the Domestic Dom happy and ask for the raffia. Is you say “that straw kind of stuff” most florists know what you mean.

7. You are now at the register, and likely having sticker shock. Just take a deep breath and pass the kind florist your credit card. Remember the key thing here: Pussy. Or, for you more noble fellows, her undying love (which is closely intertwined with pussy and its relative availability to you and your willy). Think of it this way: buy your girly really nice flowers a few times a year, and make it count. Choose well, spend some money, and reap the rewards. How much? Well, $40-65 will get you a really nice bouquet. And $70-125 will work miracles. But that higher category can also apply to arrangements, which always cost more. The high rollers easily spend $200-400 on an arrangement. Yes, really. It happens all the time.

8. The last advice I will give you is to transport your new purchase with a bit of care. I’ve seen men walking along with giant, expensive bouquets hanging down, smacking against their leg, which bruises and breaks the flowers and destoys the wrapping before you have even presented them. Cradle the bouquet in one arm. Not like a fairy princess prom queen! Just casually keep them in the crook of one arm while you carry your stuff with the other hand. Doing this keeps the flowers visible, which will win you many appreciative stares from all sorts of nearby womenfolk, as they brazenly covet your girl’s gorgeous flowers and perhaps, you. If you feel too rainbow flag with the crook of the arm dealio, then just keep them in your hand, in front of you. When you have to set them down, do it gingerly, in a spot where they won’t roll around. You just spent all that money, why fuck it up early on (i.e., before you get laid)? Don’t buy the flowers till the last minute, especially if it is hot, so they won’t get all wilted and sad.

9. Oh well, there is one more bit, where I save you gobs of money and grief. Do not ever buy flowers on Valentine’s Day unless you absolutely have to. That is the biggest profit day of the year for florists, and the mark-up on flowers around that holiday is 200-400%. I kid you not. Some of you already know I ain’t lying here. It is highway robbery. Think ahead just a wee bit and get something else. Like what? Focus on the romance factor, rather than the flowers. Plan a picnic, where you show up with all sorts of great food that you got at the old world Italian deli near your house, and hand her one fucking gorgeous rose, just loose, not wrapped. Make sure it smells good (remember the bury the face in the crotch thing? Right.) and is a fine specimen. Or buy her a really gorgeous, leather-bound blank book, if she likes to write or draw, and maybe even get her initials carved/engraved on the cover (bonus points: put a few bits of dried lavender between the pages so it smells sweet when you give it to her). No need to wrap it, just tie a big ribbon around it. Or if you wanna be more traditional, find a really good chocolatier in your area (like Recchiuti, Scharffen Berger, even See’s if you gotta), which mean someone who makes chocolates by hand, and pick out a box that has something in it just for her, like raspberry chocolate, or truffles, etc. Always do the hand-picked thing, because it is much more special. Make the chocolate people wrap it up all pretty.

Fuck, this is the longest blog entry ever. If you are still reading, then I know you are committed to impressing the ladies, and my money is on your willy getting the most play. I do love you menfolk, and I hate to see you stumbling around blind in this realm. You just need to have a road map, some rules, and some common sense. Like if you are trying to woo a woman for a first/second date, don’t buy the red roses. Those are the big serious guns that speak of deep romantic love and passion and you ain’t there yet. Again, most florists know this shit, and they can be very helpful.

I will leave you with a comment about the power of sending flowers to your chick at her office. You score big, big, mondo points with that one, because it is public statement, and all of her coworkers will fuss and fluff about the flowers for a good long while, thereby doing your work for you. It like a free exponential increase in flower goodwill for you. (Brother is getting laid!) But remember that this is only true if you drop some serious change and send the nice flowers. The $30 FTD special of mums, carnations, and baby’s breath (see item #2 above) is weak. Just weak. Employ cheating tricks. Call the receptionist of your girly’s office anonymously and say, which florist near you delivers the most gorgeous arrangements to your office? Then call that florist. Or to save money and have more options, go get the flowers yourself, then pay a friend or some kid to walk them in to the reception desk for you. That allows you to give a bouquet rather than an arrangement (more flowers, less $$ for labor and vases).

Try sending a dozen stems of the best white lilies (see photo above), each stem with four or five big flowers on it, with gorgeous pink satin ribbon everywhere. Oh yeah. Brother is getting laid! And yeah, you’re welcome, Sugar.

Requiem for the City I Never Met: New Orleans

I have many life-long obssessions with places, people, things that I cannot explain: Ancient Egypt, Santorini (Greece), Malta, pirates, all-black towns where white people never entered the picture, the song Amazing Grace, cemeteries, Marie LaVeau (the VooDoo Queen), and New Orleans. There are more, but New Orleans has always held a prominent place on the list. I am an easy mark for any book set in New Orleans. Anne Rice fed that fire, stories of Marie LaVeau fed that fire, and photos of the old cemeteries and houses fed that fire. I have been in love with the town for as long as I can remember, have dreamed of that place, have seen myself there. Two days before the hurricane I was thinking that it would be an ideal place to meet a friend who lives far away; to meet in the middle, and to finally, oh finally see this city of my heart that I had never met. I wasted so much time. And now it is gone.

No matter what gets restored, the fact is that New Orleans has been disappeared by a monstrous storm with a perky little Yuppie name. Why couldn't it have been Hurricane Otto? Or Gertrude? Maybe Vlad. Something to imply a bit more force and destruction. Katrina sells you Girl Scout cookies that you don't really want. Vlad lays waste to your favorite city, scattering its beloved citizens to the four winds, not caring.

I realize now that I had this strange, foolish notion that New Orleans was protected by a divinity of its own making. New Orleans is where traveling saints and imported dieties of old came together to dance around the same fire. To embrace and support their fervent worshippers as they collapsed in a moment of spiritual ectasy, caught up in the heat, the night, the flames, and the power. The power of the Orishas who are so personal in nature that they will call your name in the quietest moments of your life and punish you just a little if you don't respond. The power of New Orleans also flowed from the potent, sad-faced Catholic Saints who wore two sets of robes at all times: the original cloaks of their native lands and the new garments draped over them by warm, brown-skinned people in need. People in need of safety who depended on melding the saintly names and faces to the fiery hearts and stories of their ancient gods and goddesses; tried and true spirit beings brought here on ships in the darkest hours of humankind. Also swimming in this thick soup were the people of vodoun, led by Damballah and people like Marie LaVeau, the VooDoo Queen of New Orleans. What is her spirit saying now, as she sees her children chased from their homes, sees her beloved town drowned?

And there is a delicate sweetness that was achieved in New Orleans: that greate Creole juju. While certainly not free of problems, there somehow came to be an intertwining of cultures, colors, and creeds. People stretched out their creative wings and some amazing art forms resulted. Perhaps it is naive, but I somehow always felt that the many shades of skin colors in New Orleans represented an ideal, a snapshot of what we could become if we were to more truly embrace and accept each other. I've always said that the world needs to do a lot more loving and get more brown, because if we can accomplish that, the easy dividing lines of black and white will not hold so much sway with the masses and the hate-mongers will have a much harder time convincing people of their inherent differentness. It will be harder to develop the notion of "Other" when there's just "Us."

A friend forwarded me the article that Anne Rice wrote about New Orleans for the New York Times. It is the best thing that I have read in the days since Katrina struck. She is a true daughter of New Orleans, for good or bad, and she exhibits the feisty, eccentric, sensual, loving nature that is common to so many people in that city. She moved out of New Orleans last year after her husband died, finding herself weighed down by his familiar presence in their huge house, and by the costs of maintaining the giant antebellum house that her fans so adore. But the fact remains that Anne Rice is responsible for waking up thousands of readers to the hidden, lovely face of the Big Easy, and that will never change, no matter what her zipcode is. For this I am grateful.

It wasn't till yesterday that I figured out that I am depressed by this whole thing. Depressed and thoroughly angry at the federal government for their lack of, well, everything. I am heart-broken for the huge numbers of Americans that now have nothing, who experienced more than any person should have to see. I am desperately worried that once the media stops front-paging them, the rest of America will return to its usual apathetic state and begin the process of forgetting their continued plight. I am grieving for the city I will never meet.

All of this makes me feel selfish, self-centered. But perhaps acknowledging that will lessen it. I have researched the organizations helping survivors (both human and animal), and have made donations. I have cheered on my friend who loaded up his truck and a rented trailer with supplies for the victims. He is now in Texas, comforting people with the safety of big hugs given from his 6'6" frame. I do believe that people can make a difference with meditation, or prayer, or visualization - whatever you wanna call it. So I do a couple of those too. Reading the blogs of some of the folks displaced by the storm has made a difference.

And here I am, crying in my soup. Don't know whether to scratch my watch or wind my ass, as the old folks used to say.

*Photo above is by Michael Hibblen

Goddamn it, Dubya

I'm pissed. I am so appalled at the misery and pain that so many Americans are suffering in the New Orleans area right now. Why is it that we can mobilize so quickly to wage war on/in other countries whose resources we greedily lust after, and we can drop water and food for the residents of said countries, but we cannot get our own folks off of a roof for five days. Cannot get people any food or fresh water. We cannot save young girls from getting raped in their places that are supposed to "shelter" them. Fuck.

What is wrong with our government that they are being so slow-witted and limited in their response to this disaster? The Red Cross is organizing the biggest relief operation in their history, but we do not have enough National Guardsmen to keep law and order in the midst of this chaos. We are so daft. Even the NY Times has an article about how the disaster response seems to be less than deserved because the majority of those suffering are black and poor. Reading various articles on this topic, I was struck by how many made a point of mentioning that lots of residents chose not to leave. Like they were stubborn and just wouldn't do what was logical. Well, there is the fact that a vast portion in the poorest neighborhoods (some of the very hardest hit) did not have cars. So how would you evacuate your family, especially if you have very small children or infirm grandparents?

Earlier today I was going through the many photos on the Washington Post's site (certainly the best place for photos, and some of the best coverage, I think). I was sitting at my desk at work, and doing what I could to not fully start crying, seeing pictures of little kids crying for their family members who had died in front of them.

And it's all going to get worse before it gets better, considering how much water is still standing and how crazy insane so many people have gone. Does human nature have to always win out? Why do we always end up back at Lord of the Flies behavior?

Dammit. But I guess it just comes down to the fact that I will make my donation to The Red Cross, will say a prayer as best I can whenever I think of all these peole hurting so badly, and hope things normalize sooner than I think they will. The good news is that the Red Cross is getting record numbers of hits on their site, and donations to match. I trust them to do a hell of a lot more good on the ground than Dubya will. Bastard.