Wuh iwhh my teesh ball oub?

The title is a loose transcription of my attempt to say aloud "What if my teeth fall out?" with my lips curled over my teeth, kinda like the elderly characters appear to be doing in The Simpsons.

See, Sunday night I dreamt that my teeth fell out. I know I've seen this in dream interpretation dictionaries before. But upon waking up 7am Monday morning--heart pounding and my tongue running over my molars and cuspids to confirm their solid, pearly presence--I couldn't remember what it signified. I did promise myself that I'd choose a local dentist soon so that I could schedule my overdue bi-annual checkup.

At the tail-end of morning rush hour I drove across the Bay Bridge (local traffic is NOTHING compared to even the downtimes of LA traffic) to the East Bay to meet up with my friends Calvin and Brant. We planned to drive up to Harbin Hot Springs for a day of "naturist" relaxation in the mineral baths. I parked in front of their house, we loaded up the car with bathrobes, towels and water bottles, and, Calvin at the wheel, we headed north.

While we listened to a CD of their scintillating grooves (they are in a talented local hip-hop band), I mentioned that I'd "had the craziest dream last night! Would you believe, my teeth fell out!"

Calvin glanced at me and said, "You know that's a really common dream, and it means that you're going through a change in your life. The teeth you lose symbolize part of yourself that you're shedding, to make room for personal growth in a different direction."

I thought of how traumatized I had felt in the dream, from discovering the vivid nasty rot marks on the teeth as they lay dead in my hand, to the feeling of hopelessness as I tried to stick my lower left bicuspid back into place in vain, to looking in the mirror with horror at the unsightly gaps in my trademark, sunshiny grin.

"That would make sense," I said. "After all, I just moved here. Maybe I'm leaving my Southern California self behind to make room for my Northern California self." Personal change doesn't seem so traumatic on the surface, but maybe my subconsious was dealing with it in a much different way than my optimistic, conscious self seemed to be doing?

Calvin and Brant, neither of them big fans of So-Cal (as is common around here), gave me some enthusiastic "Yeeeaah!"'s and that was that.

Yesterday I mentioned the dream to my friend Rick (also a talented musician, a singer-songwriter-guitarist), who had come over to have dinner and watch La Dolce Vita with me (I felt much more at home here after discovering the local artsy video rental store, Le Video). He lit up and said, "that's a classic Jungian dream!" He squinted his eyes, scratched his head, and finally told me that he couldn't remember exactly what it meant; "Something about a feeling of hopelessness."

I told him about Calvin's comments in the car on the way to Harbin, and my reflections on it, and he shrugged. "Look it up," he said.

So I did. Evidently, there has been a lot of attention given to tooth-dreams. Some interpretations are relatively pragmatic: teeth-falling-out dreams are the body's way of informing you that gum disease is creeping in (YIKES). Others are mystical and ominously portentious: your children will die (this according to Tractate Brachot of the Babylonion Talmud (whatever that is).

My favorite interpretations are those that delve into the psyche. For example, the online dream dictionary says that teeth falling out in my dream could indicate a feeling of powerlessness or sexual impotence (!), or perhaps the need to assert myself more, to have a higher regard for my own opinion. Hmmm... do I regard the opinions of others as more valid than my own? Could be. I'm not very opinionated, and maybe it's because I don't think my opinion is worth much in the grand scheme of things. So, to draw a conclusion under the auspices of this interpretation, my teeth fell out in my dream and therefore I need to be more opinionated. Yes! Beware the new, more opinionated MJ, blogging about Bush and Condie!

I couldn't find any Jungian interpretations right off, but the Jung-tinged people seem to agree that tooth-falling-out has to do with anxiety related to life changes. Pretty close to my friend Calvin's idea, I'd say.

Freud's ideas on teeth-loss dreams generally had to do with beginning a new stage of life (the general consensus thus far), fear of castration (sure, I think about this every day of my life! haha), fear of getting older or losing sexual attractiveness (never!) or guilt of masturbation (definitely does not apply here. I'm proud of my prowess in this department, thank you very much).

"Tooth dreams are open to many interpretations and have been handled successfully by very few of the modern dream interpreters," said dream interpreter Artemidorus in the 2nd Century AD. The Vedas and texts from 2000 years BC also mention tooth dreams. AND, years later, Freud, Jung, and all the modern dream people agree that dreams symbols all mean different things to different people. So I digress. But I will go see the dentist soon.

San Francisco!!!!

Hello Blogland! Thank you guys so much for the sweet comments on my last post, wondering where I've been. Well, I'm here...

Recently I wrote a long-ish letter to a friend about what I've been up to here in my new home city, and he suggested that, since I've been too lazy to post a blog lately, I could use the letter as a blog post. I thought that was a fine idea! So, pretend I'm actually writing to you and here you go!
----------------------
11-27-2005

Hey you!

Yes indeed I'm still alive and definitely kicking. I haven't been posting any new blogs, though, well first because I just now got my computer set up and second of all... um, I guess I'm just lazy? Blogging just escalates in to one big time-sucker, you know? And I have new life to set up here!

After five weeks on the road, I finally got into SF about a couple weeks ago. It has been quite a wild time here so far, which is countrary to what I was hoping would be the case. I'm telling myself that it's a temporary, "hey, look, I'm in SF!" phase and that I'll settle into a more docile, domestic routine soon, because staying at parties until sun-up is something that I'd rather have as a fondly remembered, rarely relived part of my past--not a mainstay of my present reality. I do appreciate that everyone's friendly enough to welcome the new girl in town, though. That's cool.

This morning I collapsed into my own bed finally around 10:45am, knowing full well that my mom was coming over at noon to make Christmas cookies with me. Well, yes indeed the doorbell rang a little after 12, and I answered it in what must have been a pretty darn funny-looking state: day-old-eye-makeup, half-pj's/half-last-night's clothes, cracked voice, etc. Mom--in addition to my dad and sister Suzanne-- came on in, Dad with some take-home work he set up in a backroom and Mom/Suzanne toting grocery bags of ingredients into the kitchen. They were laughing at me, I know it!! Hehe.

I managed to rally a bit, thanks to strong instant coffee, go-team type motivational thoughts, and the always amazing combo of Christmas music and Christmas smells emanating from the kitchen. But I felt myself majorly fading by the time I got to the oatmeal chocolate chip dough. All the other cookies are made nicely, but that dough is still in the fridge waiting to be manifested.

So yeah, it has been really, really nice to be close to my family, and to be able to see my grandmother (who lives in the flat above me) every day, my parents/siblings a couple times a week. I have been pretty good about getting up and jogging every weekday morning, too, so that's a step in the right direction. At night during the week, if I don't go to bed nice and early, I go out and hear live music. So far I've been exploring what the area has in the way of bluegrass/country/singer-songwriter type stuff. Check out hickswithsticks.com -- you can see that there's actually a super cool scene here! And the bonus is that, because it's not hipster rock-n-roll, most of the shows are free (!!) and have been a great way of scoping obscure, quirky dives. The same core set tend to frequent the shows, and people come up to me and say things like, "hey weren't you at the ___ show last Tuesday?" I like that :-)

What else can I report? The weather has been unseasonably BEAUTIFUL, and being able to see the Golden Gate Brige/SF Bay clearly during my daily jog has been awesome!!!! Crab season officially started today, so I look forward to frequest trips down to Fisherman's Wharf for some fresh cracked dungeness. My favorite bookstore in the whole wide world, Green Apple Books, is right down the street, and I've already been there, let's see, five times in the thirteen days I've been in town. I got a book about making curtains, for my new bedrooom and perhaps even the living room. My unemployment checks start coming in next week, and I'm brainstorming ways I can convince the government that, yes I sure am looking for work! --so that the money will keep coming. It's bullshit, though. I'm not looking for work yet. I'm going to keep this amazing pace of life as long as I can!

In a couple weeks (Dec 9-12) I'm going to LA to pick up my easel and some paintings I've started (I left them at a friend's place during my trip, and he was in China when I came back through so I haven't been able to paint). So then I'll be actively building my portfolio, and a Web site, I hope, will follow soon thereafter. Eventually I'll be looking for part-time work too, probably some sort of contract administration, so that I can pay the bills when unemployment gets old. I'm sure portrait painting won't be lucrative, at least for the first few years, though if I'm lucky I'll be able to do it for a living eventually.

So there's the scoop! Have a great night!

MJ

On the road

Greetings from my friend's extended stay hotel in Taunton, a small town just outside of Boston, MA!

It's been a fabulous trip so far. The leaves are changing here out East, brilliant reds and oranges and yellows nestled amidst the pervasive dark greens, creating very desirable driving conditions in spite of the gloomy, drizzly weather.

Of note so far:

- Before I left I had a chat with Boat Boy about what he expects from me. He felt put on the spot but gave me a dignified response just the same. Basically, he informed me that I am his rebound from a recent, relatively long-term relationship. Ouch, but I'm over it. I'm just glad to have opened that particular line of communication so that no one gets hurt due to not being on the same page. We still talk a few times a week, but I've put the guards up. Keeping it even below "fling" status.

- In Boulder, CO I crashed with the guy to whom I lost my virginity over six years ago during an impromptu backpacking trip in the Smoky Mountains. He cooked me a mean Italian dinner (stuffed chicken parmesan in a petite syrah reduction and mushroomed fetuccini alfredo). I helped out by cutting mushrooms, grating the Reggiano, and stirring the Alfredo sauce until it was time to pour it.

- In Armada, MI, a small town just outside of Romeo, a slightly less small but still small town outside of Detroit, I went on a haunted hayride with my old roommate Bob, five of his younger siblings and one of his brothers' girlfriends. That was so fun! Half the monsters had really scary skeleton masks and chainsaws, and mostly they ran around the wagon shouting "You're all gonna DIIIIIEE!" Evidently they didn't divvy up the "scary phrase" allotments prior to going on duty.

- In Syracuse, NY I stayed at a hostel for $21. The curfew was 10pm and I had to be out of there by 9am. Ha! Have you ever heard of such an uptight HOSTEL?? There went my night out in Syracuse! It was probably a good thing, though, because I've caught a bit of a cold and have been trying to sleep more, especially after driving through the night the first couple of days. Anyway, I ate a pot cookie that I got for my birthday back in June (yeah, I know, I save my drug use for strange occasions) and zoned out to some music, then called my friend who gave it to me and had a stoned conversation that I don't remember at the moment.

- I was absolutely charmed by the Normal Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge (the classic town of "Norman Rockwell Christmas" fame). As an aspiring portrait artist, I'm very inspired by Rockwell's ability to capture personalities and moods, even going so far as to tell a complete story with a single image.

That was yesterday. Today after my morning jog and shower I'm going to don my black turtleneck and tweed, drive into Boston, and sit in coffee shops with Ivy Leaguers and write postcards. I've got a scholarly book with me -- The History of God by Karen Armstrong: maybe I'll take that, too, so I can fit in with the high-fallutin' literati.

The next couple weeks are up in the air, as far as scheduling. I'm staying flexible. It's great to be able to have a trip like this.

I hope you're all doing well.

Lapsus Linguae

I've been unbelievably focused on moving lately. Blogging has barely been on my radar. Sorry for the apparent absence, people, but it's only going to get worse. Monday I embark on a roadtrip across the country, and instead of returning to Los Angeles, I will be returning to San Francisco, my new home! I'll probably finish the trip sometime in late October or early November. Exciting times await. Meanwhile, life is hectic. The cleaning and organizing has been sucky as hell, but the good part is about to start.... yeah!

For the time being, I'll tell you a quick story from college that came to mind while in the throes of recent exhaustion.

It was my freshman year at the University of Michigan. I was finding my own identity. One huge discovery was that I could use great big words around people without coming across as pretentious. I had gone to high school in Kentucky, where being "down home" is all the rage, and hence the employment of a rather basic lexicon (including regional slang) often is necessary for sociability in most circles.

Not that I was popular in high school--indeed I was an über nerd (I managed to get the Vice Presidency of the Student Council--but only because my first name is a popular drug pseudonym and I capitalized on that convenient little blessing in my campaign)--but I think I tended to frown on using the really great, big, rich words unless writing an English paper. I was already over six feet tall and a pretty serious athlete, so there was no need to be more intimidating than I already was.

At college, especially in the honors program, there was plenty of encouragement to go ahead and act intelligent. The more supercilious among us were even hero figures in a weird way. So I went ahead and experimented with using big words in daily speech. It wasn't really a conscious effort, but hindsight is always 20-20 when it comes to periods of personal change. And not only was it not entirely conscious, but it wasn't always successful.

It was right around winter midterms. I had been severely sleep-deprived--I'd just topped off midterm stress by taking on an internship at the local public television station. Earlier that day I had gone into the station for training on the Avid edit bays, and I actually fell asleep as I was being trained! With one-on-one training! That was embarrassing.

I felt that there must have been something wrong with me, for throughout high school I'd pulled regular all-nighters (being a twice-a-day swimmer with a hefty courseload was great preparation for the juggernaut of study required in college) and somehow always managed to stay awake during interpersonal conversations.

I met a few hall-mates for lunch in the dorm cafeteria, as usual. We went through line, sat down, etc. Intending to tell my lunch friends about the embarrassment of having fallen asleep during my training session at the TV station, I looked up from my lunch and opened with,

"So I think I might be a necrophiliac."

I meant "narcoleptic" but didn't realize my mistake until a good five seconds into the alarmed silence that ensued.

Somehow my friendship with those people survives today.

I feel pretty...

The fling, or "Boat Boy" as he is affectionately known among my circle of friends due to his residence aboard his yacht, has become something very, very interesting. We have had an amazing time together, and I have been reminded what it is like to feel inspired and beautiful in the eyes of an attentive, caring man. Who knows how long it's going to last, but I sure am enjoying what we've got at the moment.

These days it's utterly uncool to be a woman who needs a principal man in her life in order to feel worthy. A woman must, in order to capture the respect of her peers, be unshakeably self-confident. Woman as Macchiavellian(-ienne) heroine--self-sufficient, sexually confident and even blasé, free from "attachment issues," pretty much masculinized in all respects except appearance, where she must remain as feminine as possible--is the neurotic examplar of modern society's ideal female (at least in the societies I have had the occasion to voyeurize).

However, I'll be damned if the process of falling in love--and the accompanying feeling of beauty--doesn't lift a woman above any self-empowered heights achieved by modern, self-confident sensibilities. I'm not talking about flying high in the Orgasm(s) bestowed by a true lover, either. While fantasmagoric, the feeling of New Love's beauty is more than sexual.

For example: looking in the mirror becomes a pleasurable experience, above vanity. Even if he's not in the room with her, a woman falling in love sees her reflection through her man's eyes as well as her own. There's no checking of the hair, no self-conscious touching of blemishes, no sucking in of the gut. New Love is all-forgiving and frames truth as beauty, just as classical portraiture captures a mundane moment such as a woman looking into a mirror, memorializing it as a timeless, treasured occurrence.

I will even venture to say that the woman who realizes her need (yes, need) for a principal man in her life is a very fortunate woman indeed. She realizes that the beauty of love can transcend simple self-confidence, no matter how vehemently the self-help gurus preach "loving yourself" as paramount. She will not take New Love for granted as a simple ego-stroke such as those that come about with overly earnest one-night-stands or gushing suitors. She will not judge herself for feeling a warm need for the object of her desire.

She will smile rather than grimace as she succumbs to the beathtaking reality shift that can ensue from the wholeness experienced in union with a lover. Self-love may be the greatest (and, for some, most difficult) single love indeed, but a budding romance reminds even the most self-confident woman that love is ever so much more majestic when it's blissfully shared.

I'm sure something similar goes for men.

Now, I realize that every single person who reads this blog is going to snicker, but I don't care. These lyrics sum up my point better (definitely more succinctly) than I tried to do.

People
Barbra Streisand (yeah, that's right, Barbra Streisand)

People
People who need people
are the luckiest people in the world.

We're children, needing other children,
and yet letting a grown-up pride
hide all the need inside--
acting more like children than children.

Lovers are very special people--
they're the luckiest people in the world.
With one person, one very special person,
a feeling deep in your soul
says you were half now you're whole.
No more hunger and thirst--
But first be a person who needs people.

People who need people
are the luckiest people in the world
With one person, one very special person,
No more hunger and thirst--
But first be a person who needs people.

People who need people
Are the luckiest people in the world...

Bent. Slightly.

For all intents and purposes, I'm a straight woman.

However, as with most straight women, I have an inner lesbian. Like a frisky pocket pet, she pokes her little head out when duly enticed. Enticements include alcohol, sexy songs, and black and white images of Gabrielle Reese flexing in the buff, dappled with sand and seawater. And apparently chick-rock (with a little help from alcohol) brings her out as well.

My friend Owen gave me the hot tip that Sahara Hotnights were playing a free show at Spaceland in Silver Lake yesterday evening. Currently I'm checking off a mental list of "things to do before I leave LA," and seeing a show at Spaceland was on the list. So, especially since I love Sahara Hotnights, I made it a point to go with him.

In spite of the crowd we scored a table in the sweet spot of the club -- outside the eardrum-blast range of the speakers but in full, close-up view of the stage. We shot the shit awhile, watched the crowd (remarkably diverse for having assembled in a hipster mecca) and ordered Belvedere vodka-tinis. The martinis arrived, we carefully clinked the edges of our glasses together with brief eye contact for the sake of decorum (martini glasses are very tippy, you know -- gotta watch it when you cheers), and commenced sipping our clear, crisp, two-olive-garnished elixirs of vorpal alcoholic goodness.

Sahara Hotnights came out and, with a head-bang each and a solid slam! on the drum kit they instantly bossed the vibe. Owen and I stood up to watch and sort of dance around a little to the music.

I've never seen Sahara Hotnights live before. Man oh man -- they ROCKED. These four kickass little musician chicks had an un-fucking-stoppable stage presence. I was surprised at how girl-next-store the lead singer was (see picture). She even had her hair pulled back into one of those makeshift bun-ponytails that we girls wear to the grocery store when we don't have the time/energy to fool with our hair. But what a confident performer she was. Whooooo-ee.

By about the fourth song or so, I had gotten my drink down to just above the top olive, and the alcohol-induced lightness had begun to set in behind my brow. I took sharp notice of how a slick of perspiration had begun to shine on the lead singer's forehead. That gleam transfixed me.

One more sip, and it became mightily apparent that the entire exposed part of her upper body (she was wearing a black tank top) was slithy with a dew of sweat. I imagined licking it off of her, tasting its saltiness and feeling the peach-like firmness of the skin beneath it. I looked around me. The dominantly male audience seemed to be similarly entranced as well. It helped that she was showing no signs of slowing as she bounced rhythmically around the invisible axis that held her mouth close to the microphone, all while jerking her hands and fingers impressively against the strings of her guitar.

The top olive was vaguely breaking the surface of my drink. Another pull and it was exposed completely. The lead singer's eye makeup had started to run a little, and the sexiness of the sight made my slight dancing-in-place movements concentrate, almost inadvertently, into my hips. I stood there, butt bopping at each beat and seduced by the bleary combination of sweat and smeared eyeliner.

Suffice to say that it got worse as the rest of my drink disappeared into my burning belly.

When the show was over, Owen informed me that he had to be somewhere early in the morning and couldn't stick around. I thought back to when I had been in this keyed-up state on previous occasions, complete with visions of myself leering at the objects of my frenzied distorted lust and trying to chat them up, probably freaking them out to some extent, and I decided that it was time for me to go as well. Might as well not creep out Sahara Hotnights.

New way to show the love

Last night I went to Destination: Hawaii at the Hollywood Bowl. Super show: Hawaiian pop stars and professional hula dancers regaled us with hybrid modern/traditional performances. The crowd was so big it was like watching a bonfire-less luau on TV, but the crowd and vibe were great.

****Side note: My new goal, inspired by the beautiful hula dancers, is to grow my hair down to my butt.****

My favorite single moment of the evening took place during the encore performance of a band-backed trio called Na Leo. They played a rather slow song, and made a comment that they appreciated the smattering of people in the audience who were waving around their open cell phones, screens aglow, like lighters. My date and I looked around, saw what they were talking about, and giggled.

After the band's comment, a good 75% of the audience took out their mobile phones/wireless devices, opened them (or turned them on), and waved them in the air in time with the music. We had pretty good seats, so when we turned around we got a fantastic view of what was happening. The nighttime amphitheatre, vast and full with a capacity crowd packed together up the hillside, was speckled with neon green, orange, and white mini-squares of light, swaying individually along with the music. It was a sight to behold.

I thought, "Only in L.A.!" However, I imagine this must happen elsewhere, too -- it seems that everyone owns mobile phones/wireless devices these days. Has anyone else witnessed this phenomenon?

The latest excitement

Whenever new people comment on my blog I, like most every other blogger I'm sure, click on their names and check out their profiles/blogs. Today I received a comment on yesterday's post from Alobar's Adventure.

Following his link, I discovered that Alobar (if that's his name) is a fellow Tom Robbins fan! Not only that, but he has a link on his blog to a TR fan site. Sweet. So I checked it out.

Oh my goodness. Evidently I have been unwittingly oblivious to some very big news:

Tom Robbins's new book came out on August 30!!!!!!!!!!

Wild Ducks Flying Backwards:The Short Writings of Tom Robbins is the title.

But not only that, but he's doing a tour. And not only is he doing a tour, but he's going to be in San Francisco. And not only is he going to be in San Francisco, but he's going to be in San Francisco the very weekend that I will be up in that city unloading a U-Haul into my new apartment!

His choice of bookstore sponsor (Booksmith on Haight) wouldn't have been my personal first (everyone knows I'm a Green Apple girl), but I'm sure it's going to be an amazing occasion. In a queer stroke of irony they are holding the actual event at the All Saints Church.

I wonder how he'll react when, as he accepts my book to bestow it with the holy skin oils of his brilliant hands--and an inscription/signature to boot--in my excitement I hurl my entire six-foot-three-inch Amazonian mass of woman across the repurposed church banquet table, tear off his shirt and start tonguing his bellybutton with fiery fury. I think he'll be cool with it, actually.

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

I close with a quote from Still Life With Woodpecker:

Who knows how to make love stay?

Tell love you are going to the Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if love stays, it can have half. It will stay.

Tell love you want a memento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a mustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.

Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning.

It was tough to choose that quote. TR is a notably quotable guy.

This sort of thing happens on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis

The occasional walk across the street to Starbucks (or, when I'm feeling especially decadent, the four-block walk to Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf) is a welcome respite from the office environment.

Today, the weather is bright and wonderful. I emerge from the ground floor glass doors of the Tower and squint involuntarily through my literally rose-colored sunglasses (see crappy cell-phone picture) at the harsh sunlight that soaks the external world sky to ground. Strolling out of the shadow of the Tower I welcome the instant, warm permeation of my own skin, and thus permeated I make my contented way on over to Starbucks.

Starbucks always is air-conditioned a little too strongly for my taste. Maybe such climate control is meant to encourage people to drink more of the delicious warm beverages served there.

There's no line. Yay!

Starbucks cashier (petite, long-haired, mildly-accented, cheerful Asian woman in her early thirties): "What can I get for you?"

Me: "Double tall soy latte, please." I was out late last night and need some serious caffeination.

Her (unflappably cheerful): "Ok... [tap tap tap] ... that will be $3.00 even, please."

I find my wallet in my purse and take out some money.

Her (in her cheerful Asian accent): "You're so tall!!" She mimes intimidation, cowering back, squatting a little and looking somewhere above me with her hands held up in a 'yikes! Godzirra!' sort of pose.

Me: "Yeeap!" I smile and hand her a fin.*

Her: "I feel like a baby!"

Me: "Oh... Hmmmm [with a smile]!" I don't even bother with the amenable ha-ha laughter. I'm not in the mood. Post-double tall soy latte, maybe, but right now it's just, smile and acknowledge the friendly attempt at pleasantries. She was cute and nice.

There's a pause as she rummages around in the cash register for my change.

Her: [Hands me back my change] A worried look flashes across her face though her smile broadens as she says, "It's good, though!"

Me: [smile, nod] "Thanks!"

That happens a lot. People comment on my height, then all of a sudden realize that I might be self-conscious about it and assure me that it's an asset. On the one hand such behavior reaffirms my humanistic platform of beliefs about the world, but on the other sometimes I wish people wouldn't walk on eggshells so damn much.

One of the wisest things my ex-roommate Bob said to me was, "Offense is taken, not given."

Yeah! I say once you've put something out there, go with it! Another bit of wisdom that I think I remember from Kaelan's old blog is something along the lines of, "Live out loud, and fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

And there you go.

*"Fin" is an early Twentieth Century word for a $5 bill. I'm trying to bring this term, as well as "sawbuck"--a $10 bill, with a $20 being a "double sawbuck"--back into the mainstream. Help me out!

"Sexy Q&A" III

Two more of you asked for interviews, and I, being a giving soul and having that much fun making up these damn questions, figured I'd put my shoulder to the drawing (key)board and hook ya up. Have fun, and don't forget to post the rules on your blogs along with your answers!

Doug
1) Describe the best way to get it on in a VW bug (non-convertible).

2) You're a male character in a video game that has secret-code hidden sex (like Grand Theft Auto) that features you! In an ideal, fantasy world, what videogame would this be, what character are you, and which character would you choose as your virtual bangin' partner? Be sure to include a link to her photo!

3) Are you a member of the mile-high club? If not, do you aspire to be?

4) If you headed down to a remote beach at night with your wife for a little spontaneous frisky stuff, and you both forgot to bring a blanket, would you still go for it?

5) Your boss brings a woman (his wife or girlfriend, if he has one; if not, then a woman friend you've never seen before) into his office and shuts the door. Soon you hear a startling array of sounds that indicates that they are screwing animalistically behind that door. It lasts not quite a minute. A minute or two later she walks out, a huffy expression on her face. What's your bosses new nickname behind his back? Is there anyone in your office who would bring it up to him and use the caught-having-sex-at-work card for blackmail?

Ultra Toast Mosha God
1) What's your favorite song to fuck to? I'm not talking about "making love" here. No Bryan Adams or PM Dawn shit will apply. I'm talking about straight up, down and dirty, fucking. That's right. And please explain why that song does it for you.

2) Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton wore sealed vials of one another's blood on chains around their respective necks. Inspired, you present your girlfriend with a sealed vial on a chain, full of a meaningful substance, for her to wear around her neck. What's it filled with?

3) Make up new slang words/terms (or re-purpose existing, non-sexual words/terms) for: sexual intercourse; female sexual organ(s) of your choice; male sexual organ(s) of your choice; a fervent toe-sucking fetish

4) If you could relive a cinematic sex scene (non-porno-film based), what would it be?

5) You live next door to a hot, relatively hip woman in her early 30's. One evening you're pacing around inside your abode and, walking by the window, you happen to notice that she is in her bedroom starting to change clothes and has left the curtains open. She is looking right at you. You jump back and peek around the edge of the window. She has adopted a sultry, I'm-stripping-for-you look and has slowed the pace of her disrobing. She knows you're watching, and she likes it. What do you do? Do you watch? Do you make it known that you're watching? Do you get anyone else to come watch with you? Would you disrobe too, if bidden? Etc. etc.

Nature's pre-9/11 memos

Read this. It's from the October 2004 issue of NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC.

http://www3.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/0410/feature5/

Answers to BT3's Sexy Q's

It's an epidemic on my blog! The Sexy Q&A threatens to take over as a format!

I couldn't resist the chance to be interviewed by the bold BT3. Here are his questions and my answers to them.

1. A handsome B-grade actor in the declining phase of his career recites a few lines from one of his movies in an attempt to strike a horizontal pose with you later. You've seen the movie and recognise the lines. What do you say and do initially and upon his second wave of attack?

Intially: Not only do I recognize the lines, but they are from the classic scene that I recall from the movie so I clap my hands in delight! I get into character as his scene counterpart and, though I don't actually remember a single word from the scene myself, I improvise the dialogue best I can. When I fail miserably, I gradually morph into a different charater---a sort of shrill-voiced fairy godmother---and finish the scene that way, reminding him when all is said and done to be home before midnight or his Dodge Spyder will turn into a pumpkin. He takes this as a challenge.

Second wave: Famous people hitting on me with hopes of casual sex make me feel defensive of my virtue. However, my ego is being stroked full on, so I enjoy the attention--but stave off any serious advances. Since he's a declining B-Actor, he's probably getting progressively drunker as time wears on, so eventually I'll grow a little bored of the whole, bed-directed charade. After all, if I'm going to "strike a horizontal pose" without significant meaning attached to the act, I will initiate and set the terms (otherwise it's just free prostitution). And I can't see myself initiating with a desperate has-been looking to cash in sexually on his remaining notoriety.

As his insistance grows, I will introduce the B-Lister to an able-looking woman nearby (afterall, I don't want him to give up hope completely on nookie for the night) and flee the scene.


2. You're in the act of bobbing your head expertly on the man/woman of your choice when, unexpectedly, s/he breaks wind. What comes next?
Realizing that I just stumbled inadvertently into the realm of "classic, memorable moments," I stop, probably giggle a little before being able to stop myself, look my lucky receiver in the eye, say, "Oh, you're in for it now," then resume with even more zeal than before. Any embarrassment on their part will fade in 7 seconds.

Now, if it was done on purpose, depending on how well I knew the person, I'd probably stop, go to the kitchen, make myself a sandwich, help myself to the finest bottle of wine in sight, get dressed (if applicable), and leave. That's just disrespectful.

3. A very saucy young lady makes your acquaintance by offering you a bouquet of short-stemmed roses. She compliments you on several counts and invites you to spend the week with her in Tuscany at no expence. Your thoughts, if you will.
I'd like to say that I'm not suspicious, but, in fact, I'm very suspicious of such things. The above scenario has presented itself to me in the form of similar offers by members of the opposite sex. But somehow, jumping into an airplane with a stranger, man or woman, seems like not such a good idea in this day and age. I'd be paranoid that the jet would change course from the Tuscan destination and haul me off into an African jungle for a surprise initiation into the burgeoning white-sex-slave trade there.

I'm sure women are hired recruiters as well as men. And the drive not to give King Ziziwoowoo hummers at gunpoint for the rest of my days is strong in me--stronger than my thirst for experimental, global lesbian hedonism--so I'm not going to concern myself too much with overcoming my paranoia with regards to this particular realm.

Now, if said young lady were to send me pre-paid travel documents whose legitimacy I could obsess over, and I could give ample warning to a few friends in Italy that I'd be at such and such an address on such and such a day, then I would be 100% game to see what she had in mind.

4. A guy who is six inches shorter than you tells you out of the blue that he thinks you've got a great pair of 'fun bags.' He's very sure of himself, persistent and reasonably equipped to handle himself. He's also reasonably equipped. Whatcha gonna do?
Oh that? Being a 6'3" resident of one of the biggest, cheesiest pickup cities in the world, chock full of shorties who are confident for a living, I encounter such pugnacious little bastards on a regular basis. One who would comment about my "fun bags" is probably good for at least an hour or two of dance-monkey-dance entertainment at his own expense (indeed, he probably has more entertainingly audacious platitudes up that smarmy little sleeve), and rest assured, no matter how tall or short/rich or poor/equipped or unequipped he is, the guy that comments on MJ's "fun bags" will be eaten alive. He may not know what hit him, either, poor sap.


5. Man, woman, inanimate object or beast: Who or what is your ideal sexual partner and why?
In light of having had experiences with women and inanimate objects (unless you count my hulking ex, I've never tried beast and never want to), I declare with utmost certaintly that I prefer a man as a sexual partner. Especially one with whom I'm in love! The tenderness that springs forth and permeates such a physical union---as ancient in nature and intent as life itself--- inevitably is unparallelled by any notions of straight up fun experimentation and/or sexual gratification that drive experiences with women and toys.