urban mermaid

A Girl’s Thoughts on the Oldest Profession

2006-04-04T14:35:00.000-07:00

What makes some people amenable to things like sex work being legalized, homosexuality, and the concept that people have the right to do whatever kinky shit floats their boat? Why are other people walking around with brains that find these concepts so vulgar and threatening to their way of life that they go on anti-(insert name of abhorrent behavior here) crusades? Genetics vs. environment? I saw Trading Places, I know the argument. Could humans be born with a tolerance gene, and others with an I-Feel-Threatened-So-I-Must-Destroy-You-All gene? Thus far I have believed it was all environment; that the way you are raised and the things you are exposed to will determine your stance on that which is different from you. It is a demonstrated fact that people who have spent time around someone who is gay as a picnic basket will tend to have a more relaxed view of gay folks than a person who has only seen The Gays from afar, if at all. (Or so they think, but they just don’t know that their Uncle Joey, he of monster truck fame, loves to fuck the lithe young gas station attendant in town every Tuesday afternoon while his kids are at soccer practice.)

What has brought this on, you ask? Well, let me I tell you. Between doing a great number of actual work-like activities at the office (shocking, I know), I have been spending every available moment reading the blog archives of Belle de Jour, a London prostitute who has been writing about her life since 2003. Her blog, Diary of a London Call Girl, won a writing award, much to the dismay of those who consider themselves “real” writers (pompous fuckers, every one), and then she was offered a book deal. The results can be purchased here, if you so desire. I know I will need the book for my collection, because her blog is fantastic, and I am hooked. It will go on the shelf right next to I Was a Teenage Dominatrix.

I am fascinated by call girls, dominatrices, and the like. It has always been so and I cannot tell you why (genetic? Not!). I think they are wonderful, and that they do terribly important work. I’m serious! Imagine if their services suddenly stopped. Can you imagine the anger and pent-up emotion that would spew forth (pun intended) from much of the population and the horrid, horrid results? Perish the thought. There are certain services that need to be constantly provided to humanity, and it will always be so. And ladies, wouldn’t you rather find out that your man has been hiring a respectable call girl than find out he has been seeing his secretary and has fallen in love with the little minx? I sure as hell would. Of course, you don’t want the guy picking up streetwalkers, cuz of the disease factor and the legal/safety risks, but if you had to make the choice, wouldn’t you wanna know that he really truly was just getting sex? Maybe the professional is doing all the things you refused to do after you got the marriage license, like blow jobs and anal.

It happens all the time, right guys? Chicks do the “free introductory offer” thing. They pretend to love giving you blowjobs, then once they officially have you, the blowjob incident rate starts dropping like clothes off an overdressed whore in the Mississippi heat. (Just made that one up on the fly. Where’s my damn book deal, huh?! I am wicked talented, you bastards!) Because the truth is, not too many women LOVE blowing cock. Many do, and they do it for their own gratification, this I know. (If ya go gay, you will have all sorts of boys jump into the game for the love of blowing the almighty cock... just something to keep in mind) But by far, the majority of women pretend to love it in order to lure and hook the man they want. Then bye-bye blow me. So this is a place where the professional whore is helping you out most sincerely. She probably blows him, then happily takes it up the ass, then you get another month of not being bothered about such things. Everybody is happy. (Obviously there are dire consequences of such behavior that could dramatically affect a couple’s finances and whatnot, but that is realistic and boring, and therefore does not serve my current off-the-cuff bloggity mindset.)

This is the part where I admit things that might destroy me later when I try and do something respectable. But what the fuck; I will never go into politics. No, I was never a call girl. But many people, after seeing me in a corset and heels that put me at a lofty 6’5” and hearing how much I like weapons, would comment that I should be a dominatrix because I would make bank.

I heard that so many times that I seriously looked into it. My close friends know this already and are sick of hearing about it. I researched doms, talked to friends who had dated doms/call girls in the past, read blogs/web sites/books, asked many questions of a friend that used to run a dungeon, etc. I am a crazy good researcher and I learned a lot. I paid attention to the central themes.

First, the best doms said only get into this business for the love of the game, not for the money. Strike one: I was really only interested in the money, flexible hours, and a good reason to spend an obscene amount of money on custom corsets and sexy shoes. Besides, I would get off on making some big brute of a straight boy wail on my client while I watched; I tend to think clients would expect me to do the actual work. I just wanna fuck with their head is all it comes down to. I would wanna come up with all sorts of arcane shit that they would have to memorize and do, then punishments would be meted out based on how well they performed these ridiculously impractical tasks. Good times! Two, they said that if you went into the biz, you had to make peace with the fact that at some point, the police will harass you, and maybe even arrest you. Strike two: I conduct myself in a way designed to keep me out of the clutches of the police because I am have an irrational fear of being arrested or prosecuted or being hauled into court for any reason. (1/2009 update: In NYC, all sorts of doms are being arrested and prosecuted, which supports my point.) Three, the doms said to realize that being in the business changes you. Your personal relationships change, your view of men certainly changes, and you become more immersed in that world. Strike three: That don’t sound too good to the me, so I am saying no, thank you. I will just buy a corset now and then, and occasionally dream about how I might of made $400-600 an hour for being really hella mean to some squidly little CEO who makes more in a month than most people make in a lifetime.

I remember telling the ex-dungeon-master that I didn’t think I fit the personality type of a dom, because I don't usually like men who want me to be the dominant one in bed. My friend totally laughs, and says that is exactly the personality of the doms he has known: Bossy out of bed, passive in it. Interesting. At best, I am moody and particular, and at worst I can be a very controlling, bossy bitch. But still it was not enough to convince me. I genuinely like men and enjoy their company, and did not want my view of them to shift in a way that might negatively impact my intimate relationships.

(On the extremely rare chance that a dom might actually read my blog (not likely, since I only have three loyal non-dom readers), please post comments with your views and feel free to tell me I am thoroughly misguided. Or just offer me a job at $400 an hour.)

Tangents are my specialty, for feck’s sake, cuz I started this rant somewhere else entirely, didn’t I? Intolerance and rigidity, and genes versus environment. Right. People baffle me, and occasionally make me want to bludgeon them or run them through with one of my lovely titanium arrows. Previous rants in this blog have covered off on the fact that the most uptight, conservative Republican wanks have the most serious inclinations to kink and dirty, crazy sexual perversions. It is documented. These are the sorts of things that many call girls won’t even participate in. And these are the people who are most often on crusades against the very industries that serve their kink, because it pleases the constituency. They better be careful, because Thailand is cracking down on sex tourism, and these wanks will have no place left to go to rape 9-year-old Asian boys while sucking off a goat. Oh, people really piss me off.

I know my three loyal readers (bless you, every one) are a bunch of open-minded buggers, so I feel safe in positing a happy little fantasy world: imagine a place where prostitution, in all its flavors, is legal, taxed, and secure. Sex workers have health insurance, get tested all the time like porn stars do, and they have real government protection so they are safe as they work, and they have law enforcement agencies that will actively prosecute anyone who messes with them. This industry includes every last option you could think of: trannies, and gay-as-a-picnic-basket menfolk, lezzies of all sorts, some fattie boom booms (thank you Ali G, for that one), and everything else. The whole farm animal thing is still up in the air, and I will have to get back to you on that one. (Stop worryin' the sheep, lad!) Oh, I get the warm fuzzies just thinking about it. There is always a small percentage of the population that genuinely enjoys this sort of work, so there would never be a problem finding workers. It’s when the industry operates fully underground that people can easily be forced into it, manipulated, etc. As Belle de Jour said, “I think what consenting adults want to do should be their business, and the way to crack down on traffickers, pimps and abusers is not to put the girls out of sight of the public.”

So I have read about one year’s worth of Belle’s blog (midway through 2004 now), and am so enjoying her and her lovely ways, and I highly recommend that you do the same. Sure, the details of client interactions are titillating and enjoyable, but this woman is just funny, well-read, and quick on her stiletto-clad feet. When she won the writing award in 2004, people began assuming it was all a ruse, and that it was written by some well-known writer who was in it for a book deal. Whatever, fuckwits. Maybe you just cannot accept that a smart, sassy woman is a good writer AND able to make her way through the world of sex work in a happy, unapologetic way. For everyone accusing this chick of lying, there are credible people who assert that she is genuine. Both sides claim to have solid evidence supporting their opinion. Here is one article about that debate. I choose to believe that she is real because that is what makes me happy, and because there is a feel to the blog that is extremely genuine to me. My intuition has never failed me when it comes to judging people, so I am gonna go with that feeling. Her responses to her detractors are great, making for a very amusing read.

What if we isolated the Intolerance Gene? We could alter it by pumping constant, low voltage into it (the way they treat Parkinson’s), and maybe that would turn these folks into happy-go-lucky sensualists who think everyone is groovy and why can’t we all just get along? What a thought. But it would not play out that way, of course. The Intolerant Ones would lobby Congress and the fuckwit we call a president to promote the reverse brain procedure, so that us tolerant, loose morals types would be forced to get lobotomies to remove the offending bit of brain. Bugger. The bastards win again, even in this hypothetical world of mine. Not even my daydreams escape the evil and cynical RealityScope™ treatment.

In the meantime, I will eat cake, and have sex, and rail against the stupid, uptight system we call the U.S. of A., and write wordy blogs for my three dedicated readers. Your loyalty is appreciated. No, I will not give you blow jobs. I’m too busy applying for a patent of my fabulously glorious technique.

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Addition 12pm, 4.5.06: Read all of Belle's blog, and must report that the US editors of her book made her take out all sorts of references that make it a general twat-fest (not in a good way), and therefore, a purchase of the UK version is advised. She was made to remove her reference to Spinal Tap (noises of shock, indignation, and general disapointment). And the Simpsons! WTF? Makes no sense. She was pissed. And even worse, they made her take out cool shit, like referring to anal sex as A-Levels. Anyone familiar with the British educational system? Doy! This is why we Americans have ridiculous reputations abroad: One, we like to invade other people's countries, steal their resources while insulting their culture, and two, there are those among us that ruin everything by being prudish, incredibely stupid, and basically, just acting like American wankers. Bloody hell.

Other blogs my smut-minded readers might enjoy as much as I do: Jet Set Lara, Postmodern Courtesan, and the classic porn-ish Fleshbot.

And yes, I think Belle de Jour is a real person. So there.

Irish Car Bombs at the Uptown

2005-12-16T12:30:00.000-08:00

Irish Car Bombs. The kind you drink, dumbass. 2/3 pint of Guinness, and you drop in a shot glass that is half full of Jameson Whiskey, half Bailey’s Irish Cream. Sounds disgusting, tastes divine. You drink it in one long draught as fast as you can, which is, unfortunately, way too easy. I downed one last night, and am proud to say that I did not lose in a drinking game that I myself suggested.

Okay, so I decide to check out Oakland’s newest bar and club, the Uptown (Telegraph between 19th and 20th). This place is the shit. A big, gorgeous bar, and a whole separate room for bands, dancing, whatever. Even a huge outdoor smoking/lounging area. The main room is outfitted with the most amazing old bar and accoutrements you could ever wish for. Huge carved wood edifice against the back wall, about twelve feet high. Brass lion’s heads hold the bar rail in place. Big arched mirrors all over. Fresh flower arrangements. Soft lighting, red velvet curtains, well, you get the picture. They did things right, and it shows. Just opened three months ago, and they have the best damned neon sign I have ever seen. It’s the upper part of a guitar (the neck, frets and headstock), with “UPTOWN” spelled vertically down the neck. There is no way to drive past it and not notice. Talked to the owner for awhile, and it turns out that all of the wooden bar fixtures came from the Old Spaghetti Factory that used to be in Jack London Square. At least something good came of that place, cuz god knows that no good food ever came out of their kitchens. Lawd have mercy, they are a big step below Olive Garden, and that ain’t Italian food either. So the Uptown has this great vibe. It’s classy, but you could walk in scruffy, talk too loud, and they would still be nice to you in a genuine, nonjudgmental way. There was a weird mix of people there last night, which is always a good sign. A bar has to appeal to lots of groups of people if it is going to earn its keep. It’s a crazy nice space for bands to perform, that’s for sure (rock, blues, and jazz). Old rock posters on the walls. The live music room is painted black. Seriously old school. I like it. The fact that the bar sits across from the gorgeous, much beloved old Fox Theater is a big selling point. Last night the Fox’s neon was a’flashin’ and the Uptown sign was a’glowin’ and I couldn’t help but feel festive in the cold winter air.

All right, so I meet a friend there, we hang out, have a good time, laugh a lot. We see the guy next to us having an Irish car bomb with the bartender. We all get to talking, and this guy happily buys us a couple of bombs. Well, of course I can’t just drink the drink, cuz I’m a spaz. I challenge my buddy to see who can slam it first. Well, dear reader, it was Game On. Shot glasses dropped, Guinness foamed, and gullets opened wide. I have a talent for drinking very fast, and I held my own. But dangit if those pint glasses didn’t hit the bar at exactly the same instant! My friend was, quite frankly, surprised that he did not win. But he took it well, and a tie was agreed upon.

It is criminal that an Irish Car Bomb is so fucking tasty. Criminal. Dangerous. Diabolical. And oh so delicious. Mother’s milk for the thirsty soul. I wanted about three more, all in quick succession, but bloody hell, I had to drive. I drank not one more, sadly. But I sense more of those wicked concoctions in my future, and yes, I’ll be swinging by the Uptown to get ‘em.

So to all my East Bay homies: Please to be frequenting the gorgeous Uptown, where the drinks are big and well-mixed, the bartenders are smiley, the owner (Bobby) is happy to chat with ya, and there’s lots of pretty details to look at as you pound bad-ass drinks with scary names. Prices aren’t too bad either. Plus, they are just a block from Van Cleef’s so you can wander down there if you feel the need for kitsch and close quarters.

Geek Fu: Watching Star Wars with a Pro

2005-10-24T21:46:00.000-07:00

Somehow I got it stuck in my craw that I needed to see the original Star Wars, cuz I had not watched the whole thing since I was a kid. When it finally showed up from Netflix, I knew exactly who I had to call. The Star Wars Junkie, the Man Who Knows His [Star Wars] Shit, my Local Font of Star Wars Goodness, The Geek Who Owns Star Wars Monopoly: Lawr-, er, I mean, Darth Law. Yeah Darth Law. That’s it. Darth showed up at my house with proof of his Geek Fu; he had a pristine in-the-box Princess Leia doll with the slave girl costume. Yeah, baby! We were off to a good start. I resisted the urge to take her out of the box and see what her punani looked like under the skimpy costume. Prolly nothing there, like with other dollies. Disturbing, really. I used to make GI Joe hump my Princess Leia doll. Really, I did. He had a Kung Fu Grip that she was rather fond of. Allrighty then, moving on.

Watching a movie with a complete freak of a fan is a great thing, cuz you get all the cool behind-the-scenes crap without having to endure the entire director commentary version of the DVD. I learned a lot from the Master (Darth Law, not Lucas). But little did I know that I did NOT get the original Star Wars movie from Netflix, but I got the Lucasified original, with all sorts of animated creatures added and a couple new scenes. Bastard. Why? Why? It was like a bad mash-up, where the DJ just does not get it right, and the result is painful and slightly retarded. The high-end digital effects and new creature skin textures were all wrong when they appeared so close to the deliciously hokey bar scene. Bad Lucas! No touchy! No more yanky my wanky!

Okay, so anyway. Watching continued, with occasional pauses and explanations. I had forgotten just how handy R2D2 was. Talk about the right tool for the right job! After he put out a fire with a hidden fire extinguisher, I was like, “Dang, R2D2 got everything. He got a flame thrower in there too?” And Darth Law is all, “Well, whatever you need, R2’s got it. He’s got the George Foreman grill in there, and he makes a mean funnel cake.” I almost pissed myself I was laughing so hard. I mean, funnel cake? Oh, and I bet there is a Hello Kitty vibrator hidden under there for Leia’s personal use. Every girl needs a working droid! Oh, good times.

Just like the first time I saw it, I got all amped up during the flight scenes where the X-wings go into the Death Star to knock that shit out. That kind of stuff gets me going. The Pod race in Episode One almost gave me an aneurism it was so exciting in that driver’s seat kind of way. It’s that frustrated part of me that never got to fly helicopters or jets.

My second kvetch: in the big final scene I felt cheated when Princess Leia placed the medals around the necks of Luke and Han Solo. Just as she was getting to the nice cleavage-reveal spot of the lean forward, her bosom dipped down below camera level. Blast! (Ohmigod, did anyone else used to watch the old Captain and Mrs. Muir TV show???) So unfair. Lucas cheated us out of the cleavage reveal. I remember how after that movie came out, lots of chicks were wearing those big chunky necklaces made of metal, like a bunch of pieces strung together. And dare I say that Leia’s big metal hip belt, worn low, was perhaps the start of the 80s low/big belt craze? Just a thought, but I may be talking out my arse, which happens a lot.

Okay, so anyway, Darth Law makes one fatal error that night. He tells me about a site that has all sorts of Star Wars film shorts that are hella good. The next day I started watching films and suddenly I was all geeked up. Bad. I still am. If I weren’t so excited about it I would be mightily embarrassed. This site, Atom Films, has all of the SW fan films, and they have a competition every year that Lucas gets involved in. Some of these films are so impressive. People went to some trouble, and it shows. So now I share my list of faves thus far, and hope that you will partake of the goodness that is STAR WARS!

Star Wars Gangsta Rap is top of the list for making people laugh hella loud. “It’s not the North or the South Side…It’s the DARK SIDE!” And “Why you gotta be a Vader Hater???”

Do you love Napoleon Dynamite as much as I do? Then please to be watching Anikin Dynamite. Anikin has skills: light saber skills, levitation skills… He spent three hours doing the shading on Padma’s upper lip, but she is not impressed. I will admit to having watched this five times now.

Anyone ever watched The Crocodile Hunter? Then you gotta see Boba Fett as The Jedi Hunter. Crikey, that Jedi is a feisty fella! Two of this film’s best bits are great cross-over moments, with a line of my fave Princess Bride dialogue.

Remember the annoying little blue guy who hovered in the air and worked young Anikin half to death in SW Episode One? Yeah, Wattoo. If you knew that, then YOUR Geek Fu is stronger than mine, Grasshopper. Well, it’s not surprising that Wattoo has his own commercial, with all the used car tackiness one would expect; selling used speeders, aircraft from discontinued sci-fi series, and whatnot. Crazy Wattoo will not be undersold!

Next up is the Sith Apprentice. You think Trump is tough? Imagine sitting across the table from the scary-ass Emperor. This one starts out a bit slow, but Jar Jar gets killed pretty quickly, which made my day (Jar Jar? WTF was Lucas thinking?), and then it has some hilarious cross-reference dialogue that Vader does not really appreciate.

Now for you creative types, please to be looking at Bamboo Bush, which is exceptionally wonderful and hard to explain. Imagine Japanese wood block designs of bamboo, flowers, etc. Okay, now shape them into Star Wars ships and stuff, and animate them as moving 3D objects to great music. Keep it black and white. Act out some of the best scenes in the original Star Wars, and impress all your friends. I know it sounds boring, but really, this is the shit.

Oh man, the fun never ends. There are so many SW films, that you could easily waste a month on them. Then there are all of the non-SW films on that site! Another two months maybe. But will some of you please watch these SW films so you will understand all of my new jokes? Please? I’ll give you a dollar! Now if you will excuse me, I gotta go watch the SW Gangsta Rap again.

P.S. For those of you who loved the Princess Bride, word on boing boing is that a musical is in the works. I’m not a big fan of musicals, because dang, they’re hella gay. But I bet it would translate well. There is a long tradition of sword fighting on stage, no?

The Date From Hell

2005-10-11T23:30:00.000-07:00

The worst date on record. Blind date at that. This was many, many years ago, but it seems like it was yesterday cuz it was so bloody awful. I recount it now for your amusement because I love you so, sweet reader. Enough time has passed that I can now see the humor, but telling it still sends a shudder through me.

I know dude is tall and plays basketball. That’s about it. Okay, great. I’m 6’2” so it’s rare to be the actual shorty in the room. The shortest shorty, if you will. Well, he walks into the place and has to duck to get in the door. He is 7’ tall. 10” above me. Holy fucking crap. Now if he were Shaq, that 10” difference would not have been so shocking, but he was more in the Larry Bird category. You know, those tall-ass dudes that look like someone stretched their bodies on a rack till they got thinner and longer and thinner and longer. Standing up, their shoulders are so damn high up its painful to even think about it. Altitude changes for feck’s sake. I am not really sure how I could even put my arms around his neck, to be honest. Nothing fit together in the proper places, if you see what I mean.

And horror of horrors he has a stuffed animal in his hand. Oh god, I wanna bolt from the room. Somehow that powerful Mother-instilled training keeps my big white ass cemented in the chair with a painfully polite smile plastered to my face. He is giving me the little teddy bear. Oh. My. God. He collapses his crazy tall praying mantis body down into the chair, and happily tells me that he wrote a poem for me. Oh. My. God. People, my absolute worstest idea of a man is one who gives a girl cute little stuffed animals and bad poems. Mother’s training vs. an urge to hurl. He read me his poem. It was long. Somehow I was present enuf to gather that he thought we were gonna be hella special, really meaningful-like, and that he couldn’t wait to get on with the future with me. Geez, talk about a boner kill. Although there was no boner present, at least not on my end. Oh! But wait! It gets better! Truly!

Next came the interview. He basically interviewed me for the wifey position. Swear to fucking god. His primary concern was whether or not I could cook really well. The question was, could I throw down?! For real do.’ Oh, gentle reader, I was in such hell. He kept asking me these inappropriate questions, then staring at me keenly with an expectant look on his face. What the fuck? This was new territory. Aside from achieving the surprising feat of remaining in my seat (thank you for that, Mother), I had no idea how to react. My only true response was to bolt, or to at least duck, cover, and hold, and preferably duck into a bar at the other end of the street. But there I was, making nice with Mister-Stretch-Soon-To-Be-Husband-Stuffed-Animal-Bad- Poetry-Man. And, oh yes, there was something making it worse. I knew the bartender and he was watching this heinous scenario play out. How great to have him act as witness! All we needed was a Justice of the Peace, for feck’s sake. Jeez, I think I was even wearing a creamy white kind of sweatery thing, so at least I was dressed appropriately. Again, probably my Mother’s influence at a subconscious level. At this stage there was a loud buzzing in my head, so I am not totally sure of all that he said. I think he asked how often I cleaned house. Yeah, I know.

THEN… yes there’s more. I had to suffer through it in person, so the least you can do is grin and bear it. Stay with me here. Next dude is telling me the saddest thing ever: all of his immediate family had died in a car crash a few years prior. I have no idea how to respond to this. Holy crap, what can you say when you hear something like that, a thing which requires great compassion and understanding, but you are in a state of shock from teddy bear fluff and bad poetry foof and cooking question crap? And remember, there was that loud buzzing in my head, so clarity was not really an option. I am sure that I murmured something fairly understanding and articulate because, as we know, my Mother raised me right. Now, in retrospect, I understand that I was actually being interviewed for the position of HIS Mother. Although I doubt he was very clear about that fact. Oh man, it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.

So I can’t even feel bad date contempt for him because…well…he suffered this horrible tragic loss and was obviously emotionally scarred at a very deep level and needed saving and help and surely I was the woman with solid child-bearing hips and great cooking skills who loved fluff-n-puff little bears and sweet little icky poems about ever-lasting love and togetherness and of course I was that one who could pull him from the wreckage that was his life and make him feel better and erase all those years of pain and loss. Apparently, I was his savior. Finally, my life purpose had been revealed to me.

But I was having none of it. Bless him in his quest, but I was scared out of my mind and officially feeling panicky as I tried to figure out how to escape. The truth is that I have no idea how I made my exit. Next thing I know, I am in my car, breathing heavily cuz I ran, and I have the little bear and poem in my hand. Oh god, does it never end, I thought to myself and I shifted into gear and got the hell out of Dodge. Of course now, I wished I had saved that awful poem, just as a relic of my almost-savior status.

Dreadful. Truly. And that is the story of my worst date ever. But I will see you and raise you the worst-ever sex story because it is just too deliciously awful not to mention. And it is real. This one isn’t mine though, it’s Johnny Boy’s. You may remember Johnny, sweet Johnny, the baddest lesbian boi on the planet. JB, as we’ll call her, was fucking this chick for the first time. We’ll call this chick TA, for reasons which will soon because quite apparent. Okay, so fucking is happening in that hottie girl-on-girl action kind of way, cuz everyone knows JB got some skills. JB begins fisting this girl. Well. You know how most people moan, or do a sexy whimper, or call your name when they get going? This TA chick starts singing Tori Amos. Swear to fucking god. Now that is one hell of a boner kill, ladies and gentleman. I don’t care if you are a butch daddy or the straightest hetero bloke around; a Tori Amos song trumpeted during the hottest part of sex will knock any thrill to the ground and pound it into the carpet till it disappears into a pitiful little puff of smoke. Tori Amos song. I kid you not. I could not even make this up! And now let me tell you why I love Johnny Boy. What does s/he do when bitch starts singing that crap? Stops dead in her tracks, yanks her fist out of that girly’s nether regions, and leaves. Yes, leaves. She just kissed TA on the cheek and walked out. Without a word. Now that is one smart kid there, folks. Because where can it go from there? Will she move on to Indigo Girls when you strap one on and fuck her in the ass? Tracy Chapman while you spank her? Oh, it’s all bad. Johnny Boy did the right thing by just bolting with her hand still wet. Exit, stage left!

See? I told you it was good. I have made Johnny tell me that story a few times, cuz it makes me just chortle with glee, especially since there are very explicit hand gestures that accompany the telling. Truth is always stranger than fiction, right? Right.

I am gonna start collecting these kind of stories. Delicious, every one. Painful, but delicious.

Fall Back

2005-10-09T01:47:00.000-07:00

It happened about ten days ago. Maybe two weeks. The feel of the air shifted, the breeze changed its personality, and I stopped walking and breathed deep. Fall is here. How is it so distinct? East Coast people laugh at the West Coast folks when they discuss the seasons. Rarely obvious to the extremists, California weather can be soft around the edges. Here it is all about subtleties. But it is so distinct when you pay attention. And that same day I stopped in my tracks as I walked down the street, realizing Fall had arrived, Miss M called me and said New York had gone cold. That the wind had picked up and everything felt like Fall. Same day, different coasts. Subtle. Funny.

It makes me realize that Fall is where most of my heart lives, as far as seasons go. There is a soft longing that accompanies the season. A longing that is so hard to identify, so hard to place. But it is always present, and the deeper into Fall we go, the stronger it gets. It’s that sweet melancholy that only creative people understand fully. Its part of the artistic temperament and non-creative folks will never grasp how deep it goes. They think they do, but then will say things like, “well, just snap out of it,” or “think about something else and you will feel better.” Yes, certainly. Thank you for playing.

Fall is when Nature understands me best, when we are in sync with each other.

The melancholia can be so nurturing to the creative impulse; becoming the dark and lovely fertile place where the ideas filter up from. Or it can just as easily shut you down a little at a time till you realize you are thinking too much, that you may be leaning to the depressive end of the scale, making nice with your bed and pillows a few too many hours of the day.

Fall is when I question myself more, but it is also when more of my puzzle pieces fit into place. It’s when I listen to The Shins or Turin Brakes, and it fits. Fall is right now, and the introspection is tenfold. You may have already noticed. But I am on Day Four of being stuck in my apartment cuz of a sprained knee. Before then, work was too busy, I was tired of it, and wished things would slow down for a minute so I just THINK for a damn minute. Well. Are we capable of manufacturing our circumstances so quickly and distinctly? I wonder. I had been thinking more of a little getaway. Some quiet moment in a place where the ocean meets the land and there is a whole lot of sky. But instead I am here, gimping about on the same little circuit, scared of the four flights of stairs that must be dealt with to exit the building.

Me and this knee go way back. We started our distrusting relationship one afternoon when forced to play a rather vicious game of co-ed football for PE. Dreaded PE. The bane of the bookworm’s existence. Being tackled by two big guys, one of whom pushes your knee backwards, is not the way to develop a loving relationship with a knee. I hadn’t realized that you could be young and strong and be injured so quickly and badly. So I deal with the consequences now and then, in the here and now. I am the only thirty-something I know who has had an orthopedist seriously talk to them about knee replacement. I ignore him. I try not to feel older than I am. Sometimes it works. Fucking mandatory PE and goddamn stupid-ass football.

Breathe.

So although I am indoors, Fall seems more intimate because me and these introspective Fall-ish thoughts keep bumping up against each other in this one-bedroom apartment, usually as we both round the corner at the same time. He and I keep the same hours. He is partial to the Persian tea with cardamom that I so treasure. He nods knowingly when I bathe just before going to bed, knowing how it makes one sleep more deeply. Fall is a quiet fellow; the sort that puts a heavy throw blanket over his legs while he reads, even though he is not an old man. (He just likes the cozy feel of it.) He keeps an eye on me as a trusted therapist might: quiet but observant, giving warm smiles at opportune moments. He is smart and quirky in that academic way that makes discussions deep and long lasting.

We get along, me and Fall. We go way back. I always know when he comes to town, and he is always happy to see me. I pick him up at the airport, give him a cup of Persian tea, and ask him how his time away was. He inquires as to my thoughts, asks if I have been lost in those thoughts since his plane touched down. I smile knowingly at him over the rim of my glass. Me and Fall, we understand each other. We get along just fine.

Fun With The Coochie Pop

2005-09-25T21:46:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-21T22:32:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-20T15:46:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-13T15:02:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-08T15:34:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-02T17:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Batman & Isaac Newton in Freefall

2005-08-31T14:02:00.000-07:00

We have returned to a state of GEEK DEFCON-1. Assume the comic book debating position.

I have a gripe. Small and inconsequential, but I will blog about it, nonetheless. Last week I was reading Batman: Year One. Loved it. Thought it was great, even though in the first chapter Bruce Wayne's character starts out so flat and boring. But it picks up and Police Commissioner Gordon's character development was awesome throughout; a definite bonus for this particular series.

What keeps bugging me is this one frame where Batman defies the rules of gravity. It goes a little something like this: Kidnappers are on the run with Commissioner Gordon's baby. The shit hits the fan on a bridge that spans the river (seems to be a theme this week), when Batman and Gordon both catch up with the kidnappers. In the broohaha that ensues, Criminal #1 loses his grip on the baby and the kid starts to drop towards the river below. But babies cannot die on Baman's watch, can they? No sirree, Bob. We then see Batman diving down towards the baby from above. Batman catches up to the falling baby and grabs him in the nick of time. Whew, that was a close one. Smiles all around.

But wait a minute. Thanks to Sir Isaac Newton, we know that all solid objects fall at the same rate, irregardless of their weight. He dropped wooden balls and iron balls (another theme this week, eh?) off of the Tower or Pisa to show the local "scientists," a rather generous term for them, that all of the balls landed at the same time. Now of course you are thinking that gravitational analysis and other laws of physics cannot or should not be applied to comic books, but I would disagree, especially since we are talking about Batman here. Batman is a superhero with no superpowers beyond his strength, fighting skills, wicked bad technology, and his fierce determination to make things right. His comic books tend to be a bit more rooted in a gritty, evil, urban reality than other characters' stories are. When he faces failure, it is almost always based on his own limitations and the limitations of the world around him; a world that he cannot alter as Superman would. He works within the normal laws of the universe, and has to fight hard because of it.

Wow, my own GEEK-O-METER is beeping wildly at me, with readings off the fucking charts. But I will forge ahead anyway, unabashedly arguing about subjects that normal people have no interest in. Subjects that they in fact have great disdain and scorn for. But I will not be beaten down by The Man. Especially because The Man does not read comix, which makes him a loser.

So with all of this in mind, how would Batman make himself fall faster than the Gordon baby? Granted, he was in full dive position with his cape behind him. Definitely no drag there. If he had shot out one of his grappling hooks to wrap around the infant, it would be believable. But babies tend to be soft creatures, and grappling hooks tend to be hard, spikey creatures. Bad combo. "Here's your baby, Gordon. A little bloody and mangled, but definitely alive! And he's still got one good eye. Who's your Daddy?!"

I think the reason for the discord is that Batman is always grouped with the other Superheroes, when he is fact just a human. Extraordinary human, yes, but he is not from another planet, he has had no exposure to nuclear radiation (the kind that makes you crazy strong, not the kind that melts your skin off and kills you slowly), he is not from an ancient race of immortal warriors with nice tits and shiny hair, and he is not half Merman with underwater breathing abilities and a talent for handling jetskis and bossing about giant sharks. He's just Batman, yo. He's just a guy who wishes that the world was so peachy keen that his caped avenger services were not necessary. Then he could commit his time to finding a good therapist (dude needs to work through some serious issues), to weightlifting, maybe a little Jeet Kune Do, collecting rare Burt Bacharach albums, and to haunting Goth clubs, where his black costumes and pessimistic outlook would be much appreciated and revered. You know it's true. He would be the hit of the Goth Ball; he would be everyone's Black Death Darling. And damn, Batman would get no end of Goth pussy. Or dick. Whatever mood he's in, I guess. But I would bet big money on the fact that if Batman plays with the guys, he is a total top, and prone to giving lots of bossy orders. "Where's my beer, bitch? Good, now suck my dick. And no, I ain't taking the costume off for you. My therapist says I am still too vulnerable to reveal myself, so feck off and start sucking. Watch the teeth! Last time you left marks that Alfred noticed."

Oh man, it's good to be a simpleton, cuz I amuse myself to no end.

Currently I'm reading Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, so I am sure that next week will bring another Batman-related rant or rave. Same Bat time, same Bat channel!

Female Flyers, Big Balls

2005-08-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

Isn't it fun to find unexpected tidbits of information when you least expect it? I was just doing a stock photo search in the hopes of proving I wasn't crazy. I was telling a friend that I had seen a few movies set in Chicago that featured a huge river, spanned by bridges, surrounded by big buildings, and that they even dyed it green on St Patrick's Day (WTF?). She said the only water shown was the shores of Lake Michigan, and that I was smoking crack. Well, she didn't say that last part, but it sounds more dramatic for my story. So let's say she even said, "...you are smoking crack, beeyatch" and totally slapped me. Can you believe that shit? You see why I had to prove my point. Plus, I'm a Capricorn; we have issues with not being right. And with being pimp-slapped by high-falutin' aggro people. (Apologies to KsC, who is the most non-aggro person I know. But I bet she could slap hard if she wanted to.)

So anyway, I am looking at all these photos, trying to find this mythical green river of Chicago lore. I find it. Even the dyed green version. I am not crazy. At least not on the topic of the river. And I find this great old photo of a gorgeous black guy in an elborate uniform handing flowers up to a black, female aviator in the cockpit of an old taildragger plane. Think about the significance of the "black female aviator" part. Ever seen such a thing? Me either. I get all excited and started doing some research, which is my usual response to most new things (can't...talk....must....Google...).

Turns out her name was Bessie Coleman and she was the first black woman to get a flying license (1892-1926). She came from a very poor sharecropper family in Texas, and yet somehow she made her way to France in her 20s to attend a prestigous flight school there, since she could not find a flight instructor in the US who was willing to teach her to fly. Dumbasses. This girl was a talented flyer, and she also had a talent for PR and reinventing herself. Her goal was to create a flight school in the US specifically for training black pilots, but she died before that dream could be realized. The sweet part is that a guy named William Powell later established the Bessie Coleman Aero Club for African-American pilots in Los Angeles in 1929. And there are all these great things that now happen in her honor, like an annual fly-over above Chicago's Lincoln Cemetery, where she is buried. There was a black womens' flight club formed in 1977 dedicated to her legacy.

So impressive. This chick was flying tail draggers! Holy crap they are the hardest thing to fly. My old flight instructor used to do aerobatics in vintage bi-plane taildraggers, just like Bessie flew, and he said they were wicked fun, but very hard to fly. They are especially hard to handle on the ground, as the back end shilly shallies all about. When I was 15 or 16, I took flying lessons, with the goal of eventually getting my helicopter pilot's license. When I used to have a particularly good lesson, my instructor would do all sorts of crazy shit in the Cessna 182 that we flew, like loops and death spins. All this over the Los Angeles coast line. I was totally high on excitement. Love that shit. If it makes my stomach lurch, I am all over it like white on rice. Makes me giggle like a school girl. I never made it to my solo flight. I scheduled the flight, but then had some ear problems that required surgery, in order to avoid having my ear drums blow up during quick altitude drops (a regular occurence every lesson). Ouch. I woulda been wicked dead if they hadn't caught it in time. By the time that was cleared up, the deposit was due on art school, and that was the end of that. I figure when I retire it will be something to take up again. That is, if I can fit my big white ass in them little cockpits!

I'm sad to say that Bessie died very young. In 1926, she and her mechanic were on the first test flight of a new plane she had just purchased. The mechanic was at the controls when the plane malfunctioned, went into a spin, and Bessie fell out of the plane to her death. Damn. Makes you wanna wear your seat belt, don't it?

So often we go through our lives not knowing about the people who quietly made a way for us back in the day. Here's a toast to Bessie Coleman, fearless flyer with a set of big, shiny brass balls. C'mon, y'all, raise your glasses. And another drink in honor of meself, which sounds conceited, but it's simply about the fact that I somehow found the courage to fly planes as a teenager, even though I was scared shitless. Surprises me, even now. And one more toast to my Mother, who somehow scraped together the funds for my flight lessons at a time when money was so tight, because she saw how much it meant to me. Big Love from the Big Girl.

More info here on the lovely Bessie.

Ode to a Cemetery

2005-08-26T15:00:00.000-07:00

Oh how I love thee, Mountain View Cemetery. Let me count the ways.

My favorite place to hang, to exercise, to think, to chill, is a cemetery. Not just any cemetery. It's a huge, gorgeous, rolling hills, big trees kind of place that is so amazingly peaceful that it boggles the mind. When I tell new people that I go to a cemetery all the time, they think it's creepy and downright odd. Then I take them there, and they go, "Ohhhhhh..." They understand. This place is so beautiful and so full of lovely big monuments that it qualifies as the prettiest park in Oakland. I've gotten a few folks hooked on it.

I first learned of it in art school, which was right next door. Some students used to sneak on to the cemetery grounds at night to smoke weed, drink, and have Goth-ish sex on the front steps of the big crypts (it's the same as regular sex, but all the clothes that get removed by the participants are black). I did not have the cojones for that sort of thing, but I fell in love with the cemetery by day, and I am still coming here twenty years later. Constantly.

Ever heard of Frederick Law Olmsted? He was an amazing landscape architect who is mainly known for designing Central Park, Yosemite, and Stanford. He also designed Mountain View, and gave it a character that is rarely found in cemeteries. The part I love is that in its early years, the cemetery was used by young people for courting. It was one of the only places where they could meet each other unchaperoned, and they spent many hours "paying their respects" to their loved ones. That vibe still exists at Mountain View, because it is definitely a major make-out spot, expecially for the local baby dyke population. How sweet is that? I cannot claim to have done any smooching there, but the day is still young, no?

The cemetery is the final resting place for the architects Julia Morgan and Bernard Maybeck, the Crocker family (remember Crocker Bank?), "Borax" Smith (of Borax & 20 Mule Team fame), Henry Kaiser, and the Merritt family (everything in Oakland is called Merritt, I swear). Plus there are some folks who are not famous, but noteworthy. Like the first black sea captain. They found his grave recently when they restored an old section of the cemetery that was overgrown. That pleases me.

There is no getting around the fact that this cemetery is still active for new burials, and that entire section of the cemetery has a much more somber feel. The sections are very separate: the old part is on one side of the hill, the new is on the other. Those of us who enjoy the place as a park tend to avoid the new sections, as there is no way to ignore the fact that you are surrounded by people who are grieving their losses. In the very old, established sections, the spirits have moved on so long ago that the air is clear, so to speak, and one can remain light hearted.

I have taken so many photos in this place, shot so many people here, and have brought so may people here to take photos. My friend Johnny Boy took the photo above. It is the ultimate place to test a camera's meter because of all the mid-range greys in the stone statues and buildings. I always trot out a new camera there first, to make sure I know where it sits exposure-wise.

And before anyone comments on me smoking in the photo, lemme say that I smoke about one clove cigarette a month, if that. And no, they are not those harsh, nasty cloves you tried in high school. So if that makes me a smoker, well, allrighty then. But not really.

Batman and Wonder Woman at Odds

2005-08-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

Warning: This post puts us in a state of GEEK-DEFCON 1

(Maximum force readiness against topics that interest nerds, geeks, & the occasional art student). You have been warned, so gird your loins.

It's an age-old geek discussion. If (insert name of Super Hero #1 here) fought (insert name of Super Hero #2 here), who would win? One of my fave comics answers that question. Wonder Woman kicks Batman's ass. Of what do I speak? The Hiketeia, of course, once of the comic industry's great books (DC, 2002).

One day I was looking through online lists of Batman comics, hoping for some Alex Ross art. I see this cover and get all excited because it is wicked cool. Is that Wonder Woman's sexy boot squishing Batman's face into the pavement? Oh yes, it is. Two of my fave characters in one story. SOLD.

I guess a little synopsis is in order before I can continue to babble on excitedly. A young woman named Danielle comes to Wonder Woman and invokes an ancient bond of protection that WW grants her, called the Hiketeia. Little does WW know that Danielle has committed murder. The murder was righteous, and done on her sister's behalf, but it was murder, nonetheless. Well, Batman he no likey murderers, right? So he is after Danielle. So WW is forced into the awkward position of protecting her young ward from the likes of Batman, while the Fates watch hungrily, just hoping sombody eats hot death. The fight scenes are fucking awesome. They are pretty well matched, but the fact is that Diana has got powers that all of Bruce's technology can never give him. He's got brute strength, righteous anger, and way too much determination, so he does pretty well for a mere mortal. But damn, if WW doesn't just mess his shit up. It's not one easy fight though. It's several messy fights, some in the poring rain.

WW has this resigned, almost tired air to her as she tries to resolve the matter with the doggedly perservering Batman (oh how I love him, let me count the ways). She appreciates his position but is frustrated that he does not understand the binding power of the Hiketeia oath she has taken with Danielle. It's only the best illustrators who can show this sort of body language in their frames, and these guys accomplish it brilliantly (J.G. Jones & Wade von Grawbadger, and yes, that's a real name). Both the line drawings and the coloring are bloody brilliant, and I just cannot fawn enough over the cover. Where can I get a huge print of it for my wall?

Okay, this is where I publicly admit to a small but potent geeky fantasy. I wake up one day and I suddenly have amazing comic book illustrator drawing skills, and I am finally able to illustrate the Batman-Wonder Woman comic book porn I have long wanted to see. I mean, c'mon, who wouldn't love this shit? Back alley, moody lighting, and Batman has Wonder Woman bent over the hood of the Bat Mobile. He's pulling her hair, her head is back and we get to see the look on her face. Yeah, baby! An alley cat watches them from a nearby roof, natch. And these are Alex Ross-esque versions of our two heroes, so WW has got some serious curves, she's truly tall, and she got big, strong thighs with the Kung Fu grip (watch out, Bruce)! Batman is truly broad-shouldered, he's got lots of battle scars, his ears are tall and pointy, and that is one strong jaw showing through. Methinks another spread in this steamy comic has everyone in the same position, but Batman has flipped WW over. He's doing a nice number on her with his mouth, despite the mask. He has learned to work around it, you see. And it seems to me that the Lasso of Truth might just come in handy...

Wanna see more of The Hiketeia? Theirs, not mine. Mine is illegal for decency and copyright reasons.
http://www.dccomics.com/features/hiketeia/hiketeia.html

Elphaba Lives!

2005-07-22T14:39:00.000-07:00

The God of the Book Nerds smiled upon me, and an advance copy of Son of a Witch was placed in my hands. It is the sequel to Wicked by Gregory Maguire, and it focuses on Liir as he grows up. I almost wet myself with excitement. Neglected my life a bit because it was so very good and I couldn’t put it down, but finished it in three days. Unfortunate, but it tends to happen with the great books: I devour them too quickly. But now I am full of piss and vinegar to talk about it, and who can I talk to? Nobody, dangit!

Maguire is such a brilliant writer. Often in his books, a sentence will jump out at you because it is just so beautifully crafted and so very insightful. You have to take it in a few times, and let it roll around in your brain to appreciate it. I might just have to write to him and thank him for Son of a Witch. Yeah, it’s that good. Of course, you have to be ripe for a book. Lordy, am I ever ripe. Someone else might read it and think it is absolute shite. They are most likely a moron, a simpleton, or a Republican, but perhaps they are simply not ripe for that book at that moment. It’s just a theory.

The lovely thing about this series is the subtle and no-so-subtle social commentary. You can ignore it and enjoy the story, or you can appreciate it at that political level that is very apropos to our time and to the human condition in general, and the story gets even richer.

I wanna graffiti “Elphaba Lives!” all over town. And no, I am not giving away some juicy bit of plot line. It’s a metaphor, I assure you. A very green, sharp-toothed little metaphor.

Long live the good book!

You Are an Archery Geek and You Are Proud

2005-03-07T10:15:00.000-08:00

A warm, sunny glorious Sunday in San Francisco is the shiznit (almost as good as the warm Oakland you just came from). Especially when you’ve got a sweet recurve bow in one hand and a quiver full of titanium arrows in the other. Oh yes, life is hella good.

You walk out onto the field with your long fatigues skirt and black high-heeled combat boots, sportin’ your-lots-of-black-Johnny-Cash look, as Irish likes to say, and the breeze is lifting your hair. Everybody is smiling, and Irish himself comes running at ya with a big bear hug. The guy is strange and wonderful. Certifiable. He's an old hippy guy who never stops talking. Crazy hearty passionate about archery and all of the people he encounters. He and his buddy drag a ton of gear out to the field every weekend and just play bows and arrows with friends and strangers all day. Doesn’t get much better than that.

They remind me to shoot Olympic style, so that the string rests against the tip of my nose. I gotta stop smiling cuz it’s lifting my sunglasses and messing up my target sighting. I am a dork. A happy archery dork of the old order who just drove an hour to spend the afternoon archering with my homies. The chick shooting next to me shares my name. We bond. She is good with the bow, and she has pretty, girly nails that are just a tiny bit long. They look good on the big butch bow. She questions each shot afterwards, trying to figure it all out and unravel why she is not an instant pro. No wonder we get along. An hour into archery, the newness of it all gives way to a relaxed joy and she is hooked. The bow has called her name in its quiet, careful voice, and she has said yes. And I got to watch. Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found thee!

I guess I can understand why Irish is out there time and time again, lugging out all that equipment for the gazillionth time. Dude now brings out a solar panel to power his mp3 player and speakers. The musical selections of the day are strange and diverse. There are several tracks that would make Michael Flatley happy. I snicker and try not to make too many Lord of the Dance jokes. I fail. There are instrumentals from The Matrix that have a bit more life to them, but they make me feel like I should be driving really fast in a really sporty car. Then we go to some strange hybrid Irish Chinese thing that confuses me. I wanna like it, but it’s still too Lord of the Dance for my industrial goth sensibilities. I wanna do an archery play list and have it going while I am out there. It would be all about Prodigy-esque beats, lots of good spaghetti western songs, plenty of industrial pounding, some of the more riled up Cocteau Twins stuff (from Treasure, methinks), the Libertines here and there, and lots of random shit that kicks ass. That’s what we need out on the field: ass-kickin’ music! Might piss off some of the local populace though. Irish is probably playing to the right level.

I laugh when Eryk the Viking shows up on the field right after I arrive. He is, in fact, not a Viking. But that’s how I think of him, so there ya go. The first time I met Eric, he shot for 5 minutes then managed to split his own arrow, both in the bulls eye, a la Robin Hood. He was pissed, cuz they were new arrows. I was amazed, cuz damn! This guy goes out and actually hunts wild boar and elk with his bow. Holy crap. He is a force to be reckoned with, but he always has this strange calm about him. Very reserved. Makes ya wanna tickle him till he giggles like a school girl. But I'll just let that idea go, cuz if I startle him he might shoot me. You have to be calm around people holding weapons. Learned that the hard way last year when I goosed a guy holding a taser.

In the field next door are the guys who fight in full armor with shields and ball-tipped pipes (aka swords). This one guy keeps getting whacked in the leg, so he has to go down to his knees as he keeps fighting, to simulate his seriously-bad-naw-it’s-only-a-flesh-wound injury. I keep seeing the theoretical blood spurting out onto the grass. But it seems a natural segue: sword-fighting geeks in field ..1, then the archery geeks in field ..2. Next should be the Dungeons and Dragons hard-core crew, drinking, carousing, and throwing their weird-ass dice all over the place as they explore yet another cavern of unknown evilness. Bad asses! Those D&D guys will fuck your shit up, punk ass bitches! I used to be one, so I should know. You talkin’ to me?!

But here I am, back in the world of responsible workingness. If there is a god I will be back on the range next Sunday. So say a little prayer to the gods of archering and whatnot. Light a stick of incense and put out some oranges for me, will ya?

Mongo Like Pretty Words

2005-03-02T15:30:00.000-08:00

Quotes that Mongo like:

You can be up to your boobies in white satin, with no sugar cane for miles, and still be livin' on a plantation. -Billy Holiday

Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple, learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen. -Steinbeck

You're pretty uptight for a naked chick. -Homer to Marge

I wouldn't recommend alcohol and drugs to anyone. But they have always worked for me. -Hunter S. Thompson

Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it's time to pause and reflect. -Mark Twain

There is only one religion, though there are a hundred versions of it. -George Bernard Shaw

The difference between the right word and almost the right word is the difference between lightning and lightning bug. -Mark Twain

The beauty of religious mania is that it has the power to explain everything. Once God (or Satan) is accepted as the first cause of everything which happens in the mortal world, nothing is left to chance...logic can be happily tossed out the window. -Stephen King

The metric system did not really catch on in the States, unless you count the increasing popularity of the nine-millimeter bullet. –Dave Barry

You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life. -Albert Camus

I have never let my schooling interfere with my education. -Mark Twain

He who kisses joy as it flies by, will live in eternity's sunrise. -William Blake

A Saturday night spent in a good crowded bar is like a whole century of history in microcosm. The evening divides itself up into eras and events. -Robert Girardi, from Madeleine's Ghost

After eating, dancing, and making love, a man should use the rest of his time to try to unravel what was behind the appearance of things, since the rambling universe wore a mask. You must know how to read the books of man and the book of the universe. -Grandfathers advice to Atapari, Little Boys Come From The Stars, by Emmanuel Dongala.

This seems crazy. Yes it is. But crazy is all you got. -Shallow Hal

As with many lonely children, his problem was not solitude itself but that he was never left free to enjoy it. -The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon

Bidden or not bidden, God is present. -Carl Jung

If you wish to improve, be content to look foolish and stupid. -Pictus, Greek philosopher.

They no kitty kitty, they no beach, they no car. -overheard on ferry dock

It is only after we accept the absurdity of the world that we can begin to write a manual of happiness. -Albert Camus

Each day befriend a single fear & the miscellaneous terrors of being human will never join together to form a morass of vague anxiety that rules your life from the shadows of the unconscious. We learn to fly not by becoming fearless but by the daily practice of courage. -Author Sam Keen, writing about his experiences learning the trapeze

I had to wonder if men were so blinded by beauty that they would feel privileged to live their lives with an actual demon, so long as it was a beautiful demon. -From Memoirs of a Geisha, by Arthur Golden

Turkish Proverb: Coffee should be strong as hell, black as death, and sweet as love.

I like nonsense - it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living. It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope... and that enables you to laugh at all of life's realities. -Dr Seuss

Said about Dean Martin: "Menefreghista: Italian for one who simply does not give a fuck."

Keep looking at the bandaged place. That's where the light enters you. -Rumi

As long as you're not afraid nobody can run your life for you. Remember that. Hell is being scared of things. Heaven is refusing to be scared. I mean that literally. . .Now you know my religion. -Boomer from "Skinny Leqs and All," by Tom Robbins

From Fight Club:
-How's that working out for you? What? Being clever? Great. Keep it up then.
-Why do guys like us know what a duvet is? Is this essential in the hunter/gatherer sense of the word? No.
-We are all part of the same compost heap.
-I am Jack's broken heart.
-Two sides? You're Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Jackass!
-Interesting. Where you going with this, Ikea Boy?

From Net of Jewels, by Ellen Gilchrist:
-I was getting deeply tragically bored and there is nothing in the world as dangerous as a bored Celt.

-The higher the intelligence the slower the rate of maturation.

-He was on his way to power and money and all the things fear swears will end fear. Fear lies, fear always breaks its promises. Fear feeds on fear and on the things we think will end it. Nothing can conquer fear but love.