We'll be at the years end soon so I thought I'd wrap up the last SSV of '09 with a song that resonated with me throughout the year.
Caleb Followhill's voice is killer on this - the guitar riffs and the chorus is pure lusty glee.
Enjoy
Saturday, December 26
Saturday, December 19
The Sexy Saturday Video is BACK!!!!
That's right...it's on ...again!
I figured a comeback should be big - GAGA BIG.
It's got Lingerie, Nudity, Vodka, and Murder - what more could you ask for?
I figured a comeback should be big - GAGA BIG.
It's got Lingerie, Nudity, Vodka, and Murder - what more could you ask for?
Monday, November 16
THE POLITICS 100TH POST - HOW IT ALL BEGAN
Before I came to Blogger the Politics and I used to be in New York. I introduced The Politics of Love at a little paper distributed in the Village. This was my very first column, seemed fitting for the
100th post to take it back to the beginning.
To say thank you for all the love you've given me over the past year, I'm giving away 7 (I like odd numbers) Politics Of Love Soundtrack CDs.
If you've stuck around long enough you know that I've dedicated several blogs to TPOL's favorite songs
http://politicsoflove.blogspot.com/2009/07/boy-you-looked-so-good-i-could-have.html
http://politicsoflove.blogspot.com/2009/05/hit-it-to-my-hot-spot.html
So if you want one make sure to mention it in the comment section, first seven to say "Hit It To My Hot Spot" ...well that's what I'm gonna do. :) (2 responses already so they're only 5 left!)
It all started when my uncle made me miss that eight o’clock train into Manhattan. There are only six blocks in between our apartment and the train station and he drove every one of those six at a NASCAR speed of ten miles an hour. Frustrated, I got out, slammed the car door and ran up the steps of the station to the platform in the hopes that the train would arrive late. I made it to the top step just in time to see the train rush by with my friend sitting in the last car, waiting for me as she does every day on the eight o’clock train. Now, not only did I have no one to talk to, gone was the chance of catching the connecting train at Thirty-Fourth Street, eliminating any chance of getting to work on time.
Dropping my duffel to the ground in exhaustion, I sat on it, conjuring up horrible tortures for my uncle in my head, impatiently awaiting the next train. At seven past eight, the A train to Manhattan pulled in, the doors open and I stepped in. Crowded as usual I stood by the doors. Three stops in, I looked around and spied an acquaintance of mine. With an hour ride ahead of me I decide to fight the sway of the train, go over and talk to him.
“Hi! Long time no see,” I said. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking “fate” made me miss that eight o’clock train. Previously grinding my teeth into sand over my uncle’s habitual lateness, now sainthood came to mind, this being the guy I’ve liked for years.
“Hey,” he responded and looked away.
Nervously, I tried again. “So, how have things been?”
Well, I guess those were the magic words because one thing led to another and we’re talking the politics; how he was on this campaign to get his old love back. He was completely gone over this girl. Previously, on several occasions, I’d planned to ask for his number, so of course at that moment I’m thinking, “this is the JACKPOT.” But once he started talking about this reconciliation he had in mind, I was slowly brainwashed into becoming a goner for the cause. He started speaking about his pain, the kind that gnaws at your stomach and makes like hunger. Then he started preaching about a remedy. He kept saying to me:
“If I want to make the pain go away, make the hunger shut its screaming mouth. What do I do? Who can bring about a release for the pain? I have to get her back and this time, things will be different.”
He kept asking me what I thought about his campaign promises (let me interject an -ism here). He and I have never been what you’d call tight - mostly “Hi” and “Goodbye”, a few group dinners, maybe a wedding or two. Now he’s got me all wrapped up in his notes; all the high and low’s he’s pitching me. By this time, I’d forgotten how adorable he was because I’m all siked up to hear more about the cause.
‘How do you plan to get her back? What can I do? Where do I sign up? Will there be buttons’? I asked.
I’m caught up in the politics of love.
In my head, I hear, “Oh, you’re fighting the good fight now!” The reality is, I came here for MY cause and now I’m on the verge of campaigning for HIS. Just moments ago I was ready to get up on my own platform, ready to pull him into my debate. I was ready to speak. Can’t you hear it now?
“This is what I stand for! This is what I can do for you! Vote me!”
I’d wait ‘till the crowd went wild or - in my case – until he gave me his number. But, like I said, it’s all politics, love is. ‘Cause once I approached my targeted audience with politician-like finesse, he started interrupting, preaching about his own stance.
Enwrapped in the silken words, my cause is now forged with his 'tomorrow is a brand new day' promises, complete with cheesy campaign songs. I was trapped - his Shatner like beam had been fired and now glued me to the distant planet. I was spaced out on sensation - excuse the pun.
Meanwhile, he’s still spinning his tale. “I really love this girl. There are days when I can smell her perfume in the streets on women passing by and I immediately think of her. I wonder what she’s doing and I wonder if she’s thinking of me.”
God, I thought, ‘How far away is she again?’
“Are you listening to me?” he says.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I spaced for a minute. Go on,” I reply.
“You’d love her; she looks like Katie Holmes from that show. You know, Dawson Creek. Only prettier.”
Dang Dawson’s Creek! I knew that show’s constant love mishaps and magazine good looks would leak out of TV-land and ruin me someday. I mean, how could that much drama and American Eagle clothing be good for anyone? Are all the kids on the Creek looking that great-- merely coincidence? Hardly. It’s politics, I tell you; the politicking of love.
Thirty minutes later, he’s romanced himself! Hell, he captivated me; it’s like he was the juicy chapter of your cheesy dime store harlequin novel. Words so smooth they hit you like ice but slip right off. He’s the guy that inspires the sympathy vote, rallying the nation towards a better cause, screaming at our consciences:
“It’s better to give than receive.”
“Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country!”
It bothers me that no one else on the train seems to notice his gushing displays. While he's ending his speech his arms are flailing and he’s flashing those pearly whites.
Well, he gets off three stops before mine and as we parted, I found myself hugging him “Congratulations,” I say while patting him on the back. The subway doors close, I sat in one of the plastic seats facing the window with my head down spinning out of control. What did I just do? Reflecting back on the past hour I knew that if he actually used that speech, he’d be sure to win her back. Hell, I’d cast my vote for him and don’t candidates usually vote for themselves?
It was getting chilly on the train so I pulled my sweater out of the duffel and put it on slowly. Dazed by my loss I concentrated on slipping the holes over the fabric-covered buttons.
“How about you dear?” a voice from behind said.
“Huh?”,
“How about you, would you like a button?” Turning around, it was a lady dressed in a red scoop neck top with blue jeans handing out campaign buttons for the presidential candidates.
“How would you like to support a man who cares about your needs?” she asked as she started to pin a button picturing a smiling candidate on my duffel.
“No, thanks,” I said. Pulling back my duffel before she finished, I walked towards the doors. Still bent over my chair staring at me, she looked confused and I yelled back with one foot out the door, “Sorry, but I’m through with Politics!”
100th post to take it back to the beginning.
To say thank you for all the love you've given me over the past year, I'm giving away 7 (I like odd numbers) Politics Of Love Soundtrack CDs.
If you've stuck around long enough you know that I've dedicated several blogs to TPOL's favorite songs
http://politicsoflove.blogspot.com/2009/07/boy-you-looked-so-good-i-could-have.html
http://politicsoflove.blogspot.com/2009/05/hit-it-to-my-hot-spot.html
So if you want one make sure to mention it in the comment section, first seven to say "Hit It To My Hot Spot" ...well that's what I'm gonna do. :) (2 responses already so they're only 5 left!)
It all started when my uncle made me miss that eight o’clock train into Manhattan. There are only six blocks in between our apartment and the train station and he drove every one of those six at a NASCAR speed of ten miles an hour. Frustrated, I got out, slammed the car door and ran up the steps of the station to the platform in the hopes that the train would arrive late. I made it to the top step just in time to see the train rush by with my friend sitting in the last car, waiting for me as she does every day on the eight o’clock train. Now, not only did I have no one to talk to, gone was the chance of catching the connecting train at Thirty-Fourth Street, eliminating any chance of getting to work on time.
Dropping my duffel to the ground in exhaustion, I sat on it, conjuring up horrible tortures for my uncle in my head, impatiently awaiting the next train. At seven past eight, the A train to Manhattan pulled in, the doors open and I stepped in. Crowded as usual I stood by the doors. Three stops in, I looked around and spied an acquaintance of mine. With an hour ride ahead of me I decide to fight the sway of the train, go over and talk to him.
“Hi! Long time no see,” I said. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking “fate” made me miss that eight o’clock train. Previously grinding my teeth into sand over my uncle’s habitual lateness, now sainthood came to mind, this being the guy I’ve liked for years.
“Hey,” he responded and looked away.
Nervously, I tried again. “So, how have things been?”
Well, I guess those were the magic words because one thing led to another and we’re talking the politics; how he was on this campaign to get his old love back. He was completely gone over this girl. Previously, on several occasions, I’d planned to ask for his number, so of course at that moment I’m thinking, “this is the JACKPOT.” But once he started talking about this reconciliation he had in mind, I was slowly brainwashed into becoming a goner for the cause. He started speaking about his pain, the kind that gnaws at your stomach and makes like hunger. Then he started preaching about a remedy. He kept saying to me:
“If I want to make the pain go away, make the hunger shut its screaming mouth. What do I do? Who can bring about a release for the pain? I have to get her back and this time, things will be different.”
He kept asking me what I thought about his campaign promises (let me interject an -ism here). He and I have never been what you’d call tight - mostly “Hi” and “Goodbye”, a few group dinners, maybe a wedding or two. Now he’s got me all wrapped up in his notes; all the high and low’s he’s pitching me. By this time, I’d forgotten how adorable he was because I’m all siked up to hear more about the cause.
‘How do you plan to get her back? What can I do? Where do I sign up? Will there be buttons’? I asked.
I’m caught up in the politics of love.
In my head, I hear, “Oh, you’re fighting the good fight now!” The reality is, I came here for MY cause and now I’m on the verge of campaigning for HIS. Just moments ago I was ready to get up on my own platform, ready to pull him into my debate. I was ready to speak. Can’t you hear it now?
“This is what I stand for! This is what I can do for you! Vote me!”
I’d wait ‘till the crowd went wild or - in my case – until he gave me his number. But, like I said, it’s all politics, love is. ‘Cause once I approached my targeted audience with politician-like finesse, he started interrupting, preaching about his own stance.
Enwrapped in the silken words, my cause is now forged with his 'tomorrow is a brand new day' promises, complete with cheesy campaign songs. I was trapped - his Shatner like beam had been fired and now glued me to the distant planet. I was spaced out on sensation - excuse the pun.
Meanwhile, he’s still spinning his tale. “I really love this girl. There are days when I can smell her perfume in the streets on women passing by and I immediately think of her. I wonder what she’s doing and I wonder if she’s thinking of me.”
God, I thought, ‘How far away is she again?’
“Are you listening to me?” he says.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I spaced for a minute. Go on,” I reply.
“You’d love her; she looks like Katie Holmes from that show. You know, Dawson Creek. Only prettier.”
Dang Dawson’s Creek! I knew that show’s constant love mishaps and magazine good looks would leak out of TV-land and ruin me someday. I mean, how could that much drama and American Eagle clothing be good for anyone? Are all the kids on the Creek looking that great-- merely coincidence? Hardly. It’s politics, I tell you; the politicking of love.
Thirty minutes later, he’s romanced himself! Hell, he captivated me; it’s like he was the juicy chapter of your cheesy dime store harlequin novel. Words so smooth they hit you like ice but slip right off. He’s the guy that inspires the sympathy vote, rallying the nation towards a better cause, screaming at our consciences:
“It’s better to give than receive.”
“Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country!”
It bothers me that no one else on the train seems to notice his gushing displays. While he's ending his speech his arms are flailing and he’s flashing those pearly whites.
Well, he gets off three stops before mine and as we parted, I found myself hugging him “Congratulations,” I say while patting him on the back. The subway doors close, I sat in one of the plastic seats facing the window with my head down spinning out of control. What did I just do? Reflecting back on the past hour I knew that if he actually used that speech, he’d be sure to win her back. Hell, I’d cast my vote for him and don’t candidates usually vote for themselves?
It was getting chilly on the train so I pulled my sweater out of the duffel and put it on slowly. Dazed by my loss I concentrated on slipping the holes over the fabric-covered buttons.
“How about you dear?” a voice from behind said.
“Huh?”,
“How about you, would you like a button?” Turning around, it was a lady dressed in a red scoop neck top with blue jeans handing out campaign buttons for the presidential candidates.
“How would you like to support a man who cares about your needs?” she asked as she started to pin a button picturing a smiling candidate on my duffel.
“No, thanks,” I said. Pulling back my duffel before she finished, I walked towards the doors. Still bent over my chair staring at me, she looked confused and I yelled back with one foot out the door, “Sorry, but I’m through with Politics!”
Saturday, November 14
Sexy Saturday Video - 99th Post
Today is dank and grey in Philly.
And that's got me feeling pretty moody which is why I chose this video.
DJ Shadow's 'Six Days' is complicated downplayed sexiness with it's interlaced sulky beats.
My new project has kept me from updating as often as I'd like, but the next post will be my 100th!
And to say thank you for all the love you've given me over the past year, I'm gonna be giving away 7 (I like odd numbers) Politics Of Love Soundtrack CDs.
If you've stuck around long enough you know that I've dedicated several blogs to TPOL's favorite songs
http://bit.ly/9FkSk
http://bit.ly/osCRb
So if you want one make sure to mention it in the comment section between today's post and the 100th coming on Monday! The first seven to say "Hit It To My Hot Spot" ...well that's what I'm gonna do. :)
And that's got me feeling pretty moody which is why I chose this video.
DJ Shadow's 'Six Days' is complicated downplayed sexiness with it's interlaced sulky beats.
My new project has kept me from updating as often as I'd like, but the next post will be my 100th!
And to say thank you for all the love you've given me over the past year, I'm gonna be giving away 7 (I like odd numbers) Politics Of Love Soundtrack CDs.
If you've stuck around long enough you know that I've dedicated several blogs to TPOL's favorite songs
http://bit.ly/9FkSk
http://bit.ly/osCRb
So if you want one make sure to mention it in the comment section between today's post and the 100th coming on Monday! The first seven to say "Hit It To My Hot Spot" ...well that's what I'm gonna do. :)
Saturday, October 31
Sexy Saturday Video
Yes, it's a little unconventional but after all, it is Halloween.
So I feel more than comfortable admitting that quirky and dark beats start my blood a boiling. With the exception of Smashing Pumpkins 'Eye', this song was my favorite cut off the David Lynch soundtrack for 'Lost Highway'. With a Gothic Reznor, a killer drum solo and a video that plays homage to Edward Gorey's 'The Gashlycrumb Tinies' - I give you my Sexy Halloween Treat.
BOO!
So I feel more than comfortable admitting that quirky and dark beats start my blood a boiling. With the exception of Smashing Pumpkins 'Eye', this song was my favorite cut off the David Lynch soundtrack for 'Lost Highway'. With a Gothic Reznor, a killer drum solo and a video that plays homage to Edward Gorey's 'The Gashlycrumb Tinies' - I give you my Sexy Halloween Treat.
BOO!
Friday, October 30
Black Leather Lust
It's almost midnight and I can't stop looking at them...
So many other things I could be doing like finishing up 'Psycho', it's coming on TCM and I've never seen it all the way thru.
I still have a half finished beer that needs finishing.
But they keep calling me, they want me to put them on again. And so I will.
Cause they're just that hot,
Cause they make me wanna do bad things,
Cause they make my legs look so sexy I can't stop touching them,
Cause I think they want someone to feel me up
So I'm gonna take the dress out the back of the closet - you know the one right? The one you buy cause it looks so good on you but you never wear cause it's too hot for an ordinary go out and now you're just a little apprehensive about showing that much skin. yeah, the goth spot is open till four and I'm in the mood for a little NIN and alot of lusting leering (cause that's all that ever really happens).
They'll go perfect with my new crop and I can already see it sitting on the bar next to my drink - the sight of which should start some interesting conversations.
I gotta do something, they're itching to go out. And I'm sure the night will end the same way; a little buzzed and a tumble into bed with a slight grin. What more could I ask for? A little trouble maybe?
No matter what happens I've got my alibi all ready "The shoes made me do it".
Tuesday, October 27
Love The Wrong Way
An old friend got married this weekend and I for my toast I would have loved to have told an old story about how his new married status should be the cure for his habit of loving the wrong way. But on second glance the story seemed too crazy for wedding banter; no need to scare his new bride. I'm really happy he's hitched now, cause I thought I'd wind up turning him into the authority's sooner or later.
A couple of friends and I were out in Manhattan having dinner and dancing the night before my good friend Elle was coming to visit. After a couple of shots of Jack I found myself on the bad end of a allergic reaction. The itching started on my face, I tried splashing water on it, but in less than five mins it was out of control. I felt like peeling my skin back and just raking it. It was like a forest fire - it quickly spread from my face to my toes. I was a frenzy of scratching and clawing as we piled into the car, debating whether or not to go to the emergency room. I was starting to lose my cool cause the itching was turning into a painful burning sensation and I could feel my face starting to swell up. No one would let me look at myself in the mirror and I could hear panicked whispers from the back seat. Next thing I knew, I couldn't see and my face felt like it weighed a ton. Thank god for that 24 pharmacy. Whatever the pharmacist gave my friends knocked me out in nano seconds.
All I remember after that was waking up in bed twice during the night as one of my girlfriends continued to give me the medicine the pharmacist said would control the reaction and get rid of the hives.
I looked like Frankenstein after a bad night on the town, the pharmacist had said it'd probably take a day or so for all the swelling to go down. Under a haze of drugs I vaguely remember Fran offering to pick up my friend Elle from the airport the next day - which was cool with me, I had no desire to go out scaring the townsfolk. One of my girlfriends drove me home to Philly where I immediately got right back into bed.
All Fran was supposed to do was entertain Elle in New York for a day or two until I recovered. A day later I phone him up to tell him I was better and that he could bring her to Philly. He tells me that she's enjoying her visit so much that she's decided to stay an extra day. No biggie I thought, she was going to be staying with me for almost a month, she might as well enjoy herself.
The next day came and went, so I called to see how she was...
"Can I speak to Elle, Francois?"
"Sorry, she's out shopping."
Two more days past, so I called again.
"Fran, it's almost been a week now. Did she change her mind about coming to Philly? Has she said anything to you? Can I speak with her?"
"I'd really hate to wake her up. She's sleeping, she's exhausted, we've been out sightseeing all day. I'll tell her you called when she gets up."
An entire week passes and now I'm concerned. The phone call starts to go the same way the rest did until I hear his bedroom door opening and then her voice in the background.
"Fran, is that her? Are you talking to her Francois? Let me have the phone!"
There's what sounds like a struggle for the receiver and then, after an entire week of hunting her down she's on the phone with me - and she's angry.
"I can't believe you, if you didn't want me to visit you should have just said something. I came all the way from London to hang out and you stick me here!"
"What are you talking about Elle," I say. "I've been waiting for you all week, I thought you wanted to stay in New York awhile longer.
"Who told you that?"
"Fran did."
"Fran, did you tell her that I didn't want to come to Philly. Fran?! Well did you? Get your coat on Fran, we're leaving for Philly right now. Aren't we Fran, leaving for Philly?!"
I could tell from the way she said it that she wasn't asking. And when she arrived on my doorstep with a devastated and embarrassed looking Francois I got the most incredible story.
I lie to you not, Fran had been holding her hostage.
Let me explain.
Her flight arrived on Monday. Fran picked her up from the airport and immediately took her back to the apartment. He told her about my being in bed for a couple of days. Elle had been concerned and wanted to call me right away but Fran had told her this wasn't a good idea and that I'd surely call her as soon as I felt better.
Tuesday
Apparently, she hadn't done any of this so called sightseeing that he'd mentioned. Instead Fran had gotten up for work early and left her sleeping. It wasn't until she decided to go out for some fresh air that she discovered he'd locked her in the apartment. When confronted, he swore it was a mistake.
Meanwhile whenever I'd call he'd tell me that Elle was too busy having fun to come to Philly and then turn around an tell Elle that I was still sick and couldn't entertain company.
Wednesday
To make up for 'accidentally' locking her in he took her out to see some sights, only she had to see it out of the car window - no getting out. "There's a shortage of parking in NY, best to do it this way." At one point she needed to get some money exchanged so Fran stopped her by an American Express. Well, Fran has sleep apnea so when she got back to the car he was out cold. "I swear, she said, I screamed freedom and started running around looking for a payphone so I could call you. He'd been watching me like a hawk since Monday - it was getting creepy." But alas Elle has never really gotten the hang of using American pay phones. When she realized she couldn't understand how to dial out, tears ensued and feeling defeated she walked back to the car.
Thursday
When I called, Fran said they wouldn't be coming to Philly because he'd arranged wine tastings at some Long Island Vineyards. "You know how long a drive that is," he'd said. "By the time we're done I'll be to tired to drive her to your house." Seems like only Fran thinks they had a good time. According to Elle there was no winetasting, instead he took her to his job for lunch and introduced her to his staff. They sat in the cafeteria as he tried to insinuate with odd body language that she was his girlfriend. Later that evening he did take her out to Long Island for dinner where she proceeded to cry and ask repeatedly what was going on, wanting to know why I hadn't called her. Fran told her he didn't know why I wasn't calling but that he was determined to make her visit a good one, because it was becoming obvious that I wasn't committed to that purpose.
Friday
Well Friday was Fran's day of reckoning....Elle had started to suspect that something was wrong. Fran's house phone had been restricted from making long distance calls and when she tried to sneak and use his cell she found it locked. "Can't I just take a train to Philadelphia? she asked. He told her I'd asked that he not let her come to Philly just yet. "Couldn't we leave the apartment for a while and hang with some of your friends? she asked. "I don't have friends." he replied. And that's when I called. Elle was listening at his bedroom door and could hear my loud voice on the other line.
Next thing I know it's early Saturday - two in the morning and Elle walks through my door and collapses in my arms crying...he freaking made her cry. At the time I was still confused and didn't understand what was going on. All I know is Fran didn't even stick around, he came in, used the bathroom and hit the road. Needless, to say I was horrified when she told me what happened. She'd genuinely started to believe that I'd invited her to come all the way from England only to change my mind about letting her stay with me.
That morning we called British Airways and cancelled the reservations Elle had managed to make to return home that Sunday. She figured she was going to wait for him to go to sleep - grab her bags and make a run for it.
Yup, that's what happened. Only thing Fran ever said about the incident was that he just wanted her to like him, and he'd thought getting her to spend some time with him would help accomplish that. I always wondered if I'm really allergic to Jack or did I have an allergic reaction because Fran gave me the Jack . Needless to say I never taken a chance on either after that.
A couple of friends and I were out in Manhattan having dinner and dancing the night before my good friend Elle was coming to visit. After a couple of shots of Jack I found myself on the bad end of a allergic reaction. The itching started on my face, I tried splashing water on it, but in less than five mins it was out of control. I felt like peeling my skin back and just raking it. It was like a forest fire - it quickly spread from my face to my toes. I was a frenzy of scratching and clawing as we piled into the car, debating whether or not to go to the emergency room. I was starting to lose my cool cause the itching was turning into a painful burning sensation and I could feel my face starting to swell up. No one would let me look at myself in the mirror and I could hear panicked whispers from the back seat. Next thing I knew, I couldn't see and my face felt like it weighed a ton. Thank god for that 24 pharmacy. Whatever the pharmacist gave my friends knocked me out in nano seconds.
All I remember after that was waking up in bed twice during the night as one of my girlfriends continued to give me the medicine the pharmacist said would control the reaction and get rid of the hives.
I looked like Frankenstein after a bad night on the town, the pharmacist had said it'd probably take a day or so for all the swelling to go down. Under a haze of drugs I vaguely remember Fran offering to pick up my friend Elle from the airport the next day - which was cool with me, I had no desire to go out scaring the townsfolk. One of my girlfriends drove me home to Philly where I immediately got right back into bed.
All Fran was supposed to do was entertain Elle in New York for a day or two until I recovered. A day later I phone him up to tell him I was better and that he could bring her to Philly. He tells me that she's enjoying her visit so much that she's decided to stay an extra day. No biggie I thought, she was going to be staying with me for almost a month, she might as well enjoy herself.
The next day came and went, so I called to see how she was...
"Can I speak to Elle, Francois?"
"Sorry, she's out shopping."
Two more days past, so I called again.
"Fran, it's almost been a week now. Did she change her mind about coming to Philly? Has she said anything to you? Can I speak with her?"
"I'd really hate to wake her up. She's sleeping, she's exhausted, we've been out sightseeing all day. I'll tell her you called when she gets up."
An entire week passes and now I'm concerned. The phone call starts to go the same way the rest did until I hear his bedroom door opening and then her voice in the background.
"Fran, is that her? Are you talking to her Francois? Let me have the phone!"
There's what sounds like a struggle for the receiver and then, after an entire week of hunting her down she's on the phone with me - and she's angry.
"I can't believe you, if you didn't want me to visit you should have just said something. I came all the way from London to hang out and you stick me here!"
"What are you talking about Elle," I say. "I've been waiting for you all week, I thought you wanted to stay in New York awhile longer.
"Who told you that?"
"Fran did."
"Fran, did you tell her that I didn't want to come to Philly. Fran?! Well did you? Get your coat on Fran, we're leaving for Philly right now. Aren't we Fran, leaving for Philly?!"
I could tell from the way she said it that she wasn't asking. And when she arrived on my doorstep with a devastated and embarrassed looking Francois I got the most incredible story.
I lie to you not, Fran had been holding her hostage.
Let me explain.
Her flight arrived on Monday. Fran picked her up from the airport and immediately took her back to the apartment. He told her about my being in bed for a couple of days. Elle had been concerned and wanted to call me right away but Fran had told her this wasn't a good idea and that I'd surely call her as soon as I felt better.
Tuesday
Apparently, she hadn't done any of this so called sightseeing that he'd mentioned. Instead Fran had gotten up for work early and left her sleeping. It wasn't until she decided to go out for some fresh air that she discovered he'd locked her in the apartment. When confronted, he swore it was a mistake.
Meanwhile whenever I'd call he'd tell me that Elle was too busy having fun to come to Philly and then turn around an tell Elle that I was still sick and couldn't entertain company.
Wednesday
To make up for 'accidentally' locking her in he took her out to see some sights, only she had to see it out of the car window - no getting out. "There's a shortage of parking in NY, best to do it this way." At one point she needed to get some money exchanged so Fran stopped her by an American Express. Well, Fran has sleep apnea so when she got back to the car he was out cold. "I swear, she said, I screamed freedom and started running around looking for a payphone so I could call you. He'd been watching me like a hawk since Monday - it was getting creepy." But alas Elle has never really gotten the hang of using American pay phones. When she realized she couldn't understand how to dial out, tears ensued and feeling defeated she walked back to the car.
Thursday
When I called, Fran said they wouldn't be coming to Philly because he'd arranged wine tastings at some Long Island Vineyards. "You know how long a drive that is," he'd said. "By the time we're done I'll be to tired to drive her to your house." Seems like only Fran thinks they had a good time. According to Elle there was no winetasting, instead he took her to his job for lunch and introduced her to his staff. They sat in the cafeteria as he tried to insinuate with odd body language that she was his girlfriend. Later that evening he did take her out to Long Island for dinner where she proceeded to cry and ask repeatedly what was going on, wanting to know why I hadn't called her. Fran told her he didn't know why I wasn't calling but that he was determined to make her visit a good one, because it was becoming obvious that I wasn't committed to that purpose.
Friday
Well Friday was Fran's day of reckoning....Elle had started to suspect that something was wrong. Fran's house phone had been restricted from making long distance calls and when she tried to sneak and use his cell she found it locked. "Can't I just take a train to Philadelphia? she asked. He told her I'd asked that he not let her come to Philly just yet. "Couldn't we leave the apartment for a while and hang with some of your friends? she asked. "I don't have friends." he replied. And that's when I called. Elle was listening at his bedroom door and could hear my loud voice on the other line.
Next thing I know it's early Saturday - two in the morning and Elle walks through my door and collapses in my arms crying...he freaking made her cry. At the time I was still confused and didn't understand what was going on. All I know is Fran didn't even stick around, he came in, used the bathroom and hit the road. Needless, to say I was horrified when she told me what happened. She'd genuinely started to believe that I'd invited her to come all the way from England only to change my mind about letting her stay with me.
That morning we called British Airways and cancelled the reservations Elle had managed to make to return home that Sunday. She figured she was going to wait for him to go to sleep - grab her bags and make a run for it.
Yup, that's what happened. Only thing Fran ever said about the incident was that he just wanted her to like him, and he'd thought getting her to spend some time with him would help accomplish that. I always wondered if I'm really allergic to Jack or did I have an allergic reaction because Fran gave me the Jack . Needless to say I never taken a chance on either after that.
Saturday, October 24
Sexy Saturday Video
Today a Sexy Cover Song.
I make no bones about loving me some Elvis Costello - the man has some deep thoughts. You match the power of his lyrics with the voice and emotion of Fiona Apple and BOOM it explodes!
I make no bones about loving me some Elvis Costello - the man has some deep thoughts. You match the power of his lyrics with the voice and emotion of Fiona Apple and BOOM it explodes!
Tuesday, October 20
Reform Me
I’m a holy girl looking for an unholy man. It’s not that I don’t want them to be religious it’s just that I only seem to be attracted to heathens. In the beginning I want to reform them to make myself feel more spiritual but then after I do, I run into the annoying problem of having a man that’s not remotely interested in helping me fall off the path every once in a while into Dirty Land. And then I’m disappointed – then I’m bored.
See, catching them while they’re already holy could mean a lifetime of missionary and a fear of bondage. Plus, if they have the ‘no sex before marriage’ rule that’ll mean I’m not supposed to see the goods before the’ I do’s’. I have nightmares of being stuck with a man with a less than appealing package – and that fear can only be assuaged by a test drive. So now I’m back to the so-called ‘unholy’ guy because the last thing I want to do is corrupt the mind of a guy I might be sitting next to during the next service. Especially if we don’t work out cause then he’ll go and tell everyone that I’m a heathen – and I don’t want to be the heathen. At least not until I’m having one of those certain moments in which I am not myself but instead the someone I need to be at the moment. ;)
Plus I’m sure there’s a bigger punishment for touching a holy hot guy than there is for touching the hot guy who’s already touching other people. Right? We’re all flawed; I just want the universe to give me one guy that’s perfectly flawed. Therein lies the dilemma, I want the impossible. I want to be in a Merchant Ivory movie – corseted and restrained in emotion and the next I’d prefer to peruse the shelves for the perfect crop while being served absinthe. The more spiritual part of me wonders if that makes me dirty, inquisitive, experimental or merely imperfect. Hmm…I think I’ve just found great adjectives to describe my dream guy.
Ok, this is going to have to be a ‘to be continued’ post – I’m going to ponder this some more as the half raspberry gin, little bit of grapefruit is starting to kick in.
See, catching them while they’re already holy could mean a lifetime of missionary and a fear of bondage. Plus, if they have the ‘no sex before marriage’ rule that’ll mean I’m not supposed to see the goods before the’ I do’s’. I have nightmares of being stuck with a man with a less than appealing package – and that fear can only be assuaged by a test drive. So now I’m back to the so-called ‘unholy’ guy because the last thing I want to do is corrupt the mind of a guy I might be sitting next to during the next service. Especially if we don’t work out cause then he’ll go and tell everyone that I’m a heathen – and I don’t want to be the heathen. At least not until I’m having one of those certain moments in which I am not myself but instead the someone I need to be at the moment. ;)
Plus I’m sure there’s a bigger punishment for touching a holy hot guy than there is for touching the hot guy who’s already touching other people. Right? We’re all flawed; I just want the universe to give me one guy that’s perfectly flawed. Therein lies the dilemma, I want the impossible. I want to be in a Merchant Ivory movie – corseted and restrained in emotion and the next I’d prefer to peruse the shelves for the perfect crop while being served absinthe. The more spiritual part of me wonders if that makes me dirty, inquisitive, experimental or merely imperfect. Hmm…I think I’ve just found great adjectives to describe my dream guy.
Ok, this is going to have to be a ‘to be continued’ post – I’m going to ponder this some more as the half raspberry gin, little bit of grapefruit is starting to kick in.
Saturday, October 10
Sexy Saturday Video
I don't care what you think,
Annie's red hair + her stance + a man's suit + the crop = Sexy.
I remember the 1st time I saw this and thinking "Can women really be this cool?" Hell yeah!
Annie's red hair + her stance + a man's suit + the crop = Sexy.
I remember the 1st time I saw this and thinking "Can women really be this cool?" Hell yeah!
Wednesday, October 7
US Pole Dancing Championship 2009
I shall be back with regular post tomorrow.
But until then, watch and be amazed.
Who do I talk to get tickets to this?!
But until then, watch and be amazed.
Who do I talk to get tickets to this?!
Saturday, October 3
Sexy Saturday Video
You knew we had to do Madonna sooner or later.
Sexy cowboys and dirty knees and genius choreography - who knew that could be so steamy? Madge did. And that's why she's still the Queen.
Sexy cowboys and dirty knees and genius choreography - who knew that could be so steamy? Madge did. And that's why she's still the Queen.
Friday, October 2
Modern Day Dorothy's
A friend of mine has informed me that she is revamping her wardrobe, because as she so eloquently puts it, "According to a new study, men seem to think that women who are fashion forward hold money and material possessions in high esteem -an attitude which forces love and spirituality to be runner-ups in a relationship." The article went on to categorize how men view a women's viable relationship worth based on their clothing choices. Since she's tired of being 'out' of a relationship she's looking to spice up her wardrobe with choices that convey, 'safe, stability,' and I suppose overall weakness in personality.
The day after our conversation, I watched a man step off a bus; his look was polished, immaculate and very stylish…immediately I thought that this was a man who took pride in his appearance and perhaps other aspects of his life as well. But of course, I couldn’t read his life story with crystal ball divination. The sane part of me realizes that outward appearances cannot serve as the sole judge of character. But was another woman watching him at the same time thinking, "Is he vain because he dresses nicely? If we were in a relationship, would he care less about our future or more about his next outfit?" Who knows? I just know that to say anything to credit or the discredit of his character based on clothing choice would be a guesstimation.
While these were my friend's thoughts on the matter (not to mention that twisted survey from the magazine that thinks they know what men are thinking), I have to admit that some people still assess me based on my wardrobe, using choice key words that start to morph into adjectives to describe my personality instead of my style. "different, flaky, unique, spacey, other-worldly." I do sometimes refer to myself as an 'odd bird and I suppose I repeat it because that's what people have been telling me. Yet, I feel incredibly normal. So is it perhaps that what the men from the article really want is conformity? Are they threatened by women women who choose to express themselves through clothing? As I type this; the thought sounds silly, but what else could it be?
My friend then suggests that I experiment by dressing differently for a month to see if people's attitudes or comments toward me altered any. Could I change my single status with the power of new clothes? I went home to contemplate it but instead switched on the television and the Wizard of Oz came on (70th Anniversary ya know).
And because I tend to get carried away with things, my mind ran with the realization of how brave Dorothy was. There she was, a girl leading men on a journey for their own personal freedoms. A different sort of girl in a strange world. Off down a road in search of a brain, a heart, and some courage. I started thinking of celebrating these essentials on a grander scale. I could be a Modern Day Dorothy in a weird Wizard of Oz reconstruction.
I can picture my inner Dorothy:
This is the Dorothy dizzy with the realization that she’s in OZ. This Dorothy doesn’t want to go home; she enjoys discovering what life is like in strange little places like this. So she looks and plays the part: ruby red lips, panties of gingham underneath her low rider knee length khakis, a green tin of Altoids in her cargo pocket -- ‘don’t want to offend the little people’, she thinks, as she takes them and pops them into her mouth two at a time; they fizzle and dissolve on her tongue. There's no group singing cause she’s come equipped with her Ipod. Earphones get pulled over her head as tiny speakers sit casually in her ears. She presses play and the music beats rhythms that speak to her like brain waves. She looks down at the yellow brick road shaking her head - "heels don’t really work well with brick." she thinks. "Oh well, can’t let a few cracks stop you."
Does she dare set her own boundaries? Does she, dear?
You see, for this Dorothy, every boundary she crosses, every rope she unties from herself makes her feel more complete, like the women she has always admired. Unbounded, she walks taller, laughs lighter. One would imagine that releasing such a force would cause her eschew a less cautious approach and stomp through life’s moments, but she tiptoe’s slowly, absorbing every ping and pang of emotion. She’s the girl who would pause in the middle of the yellow brick road and pick out her wedgie. She cares naught for who saw it, or what would be said about her - and that only says more about her. The road to Oz is laced with insecurities, ready to grab hold of the imagination to weld against one’s courage, one’s will. And this Dorothy is sick of the adherence to social stigmas that don’t allow one to be human.
Briefly, I thought about how easy it would be to be so-called normal and fit into the mold – to morph into what other people perhaps might want to see me as. It can become increasingly difficult to stay true to oneself and not allow other judgments of you take root and grow. I have faith that the more women come to terms and embrace their own selves including the imperfections and flaws without picking at and obsessing over them will make others unafraid to expose their own. The inner you should never be costumed by someone else – celebrate it.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, to hell with that article.
Saturday, September 26
Sexy Saturday Video
Talk about Animal Attraction...
Hungry Like the Wolf had one of the most primal makeout sessions.
Tame for 2009, but for the 80's it was HOT HOT HOT!
Simon Lebon rising from the Amazon waters seen later baring the marks of a lusty jungle love. Mmmmm. Nice.
Hungry Like the Wolf had one of the most primal makeout sessions.
Tame for 2009, but for the 80's it was HOT HOT HOT!
Simon Lebon rising from the Amazon waters seen later baring the marks of a lusty jungle love. Mmmmm. Nice.
Saturday, September 19
Sexy Saturday Video
This week I'm taking it back to Classic Sexy.
Every man wished he was Robert Palmer
and every woman searched for the perfect spandex dress and that dangerous shade of red lipstick.
Every man wished he was Robert Palmer
and every woman searched for the perfect spandex dress and that dangerous shade of red lipstick.
Friday, September 18
Video Blog: Are you saying there aren't loads of Whores in America?
Witness the confrontation when the girls and I argue down a male friend. We were on holiday and had just come from dinner (too much wine) when from nowhere he starts foolishly trying to explain why America has more whores than England. It's a classic battle we now refer to as Camp US vs. Camp UK.
Wednesday, September 16
When Will The Gods Stop Smiting Me With Crushes?
God dang it, I’m so tired of crushing. It should be relegated to the teen years – not allowed to infect you past the age of twenty-five.
I don’t care how lovely it sounded when MJ sang it, I want the butterflies to get the heck out of my stomach and find someone else to sneak up on and give them the dry heave. Because that’s what it really is, we dress it up by saying ‘they gave me butterflies’ when what you really mean is ‘I saw them and suddenly needed to hurl’.
The intensity is too much, I don’t want it to keep making me obsess about what I look like before a date – heck I don’t even want it to make me agree to a date per say. It would be perfection if we were simply hanging out, having a beer, watching the game – no pressure, no assumptions. And then somewhere during a commercial break maybe we’d have a moment. Just a moment, I don’t need fireworks that soon in the game. I just want it to be relaxed instead of the typical ‘we’ve forced this’ situation that ultimately leads to agonizing silences and long awkward glances worthy of being a scene from Scanners. Because if this is us just hanging out I will finally be able to eat a full meal on this ‘date per say’.
Now don’t take that to mean I’m one of those women who doesn’t want a guy to know that I like food – it’s those afore mentioned crushing butterflies occupying the space in my stomach that’s allotted for the food. Now if I could have those few simple requests fulfilled and it’s getting more intense between us, that’s ok, because at least at this point I’ll have had the time to acclimate my crushing to a more sane level of maturity. I can miss you without wondering where you are every second of the day; I can smile at you when I see you instead of whipping out the Kool-Aid grin.
Yet I’m remiss to understand why Mother Nature insists on my needing the stomach bender to tell me he’s The One, or Mr. Right Now? I mean, if that’s supposed to be the barometer of meeting Mr. Right then mine is broke cause it dings off every time Mr. Cutie, Mr. Artistic, or Mr. Great Conversation happens by. That just shouldn't’t be. Not that I’m thinking that something is terribly off; just that the syndrome I believed to be mainly a problem of the male species is now my plight. I just love men; all sorts of men to be exact. I used to roll my eyes every time I’d hear some guy giving an interview and saying “I just love all women.” I’d be thinking, yeah that’s just your way of saying; “I just want to keep bonking chicks without ever committing to just one.” Now I’m begging my body to give me a break – “Body, I’ve been out of high school for a long time now – in case you haven’t noticed – I’m too old for this crap.”
What shall I chalk it up to?
Maybe it’s just my hormones making up for all the lost time. I virtually spent my high school and college years in the library reading about what happens when two people like one another instead of actually putting that knowledge to test. And now I’m paying for it – I now write books about complicated relationship situations, yet it’s quite clear that in real life I can’t excel in writing myself out of them.
Monday, September 14
SHOWING SOME GUEST POST LOVE!!
Calling People Names is a blog I never forget to read.
The crazy chick who writes it is honest to a fault and hilarious to boot. I love how her posts seem as if it were a conversation she'd had in her head but accidently said aloud.
The crazy chick who writes it is honest to a fault and hilarious to boot. I love how her posts seem as if it were a conversation she'd had in her head but accidently said aloud.
I have been trying to get her to guest post for awhile now, so without further ado...
Bad Timing's Bitch
Bad Timing's Bitch
This post is, of course, weeks over due. Deadlines have never been my strong suit...not with school, not with work, and certainly not in my personal life. I think it’s fair to say that time, in general, is a problem for me.
Oh, I know the basics. Don’t start gossiping around behind my back with the other bloggers, “She can’t tell time” or “I’ll bet she only reads digital clocks!”
Well fuck you guys! I don’t have to squint at the little lines on a digital. I have severely handicapped eyeballs, ok!
What I meant was...I’m one of those people that have the timing of a prisoner reaching for a bar of soap in the communal shower. It’s SO off it’s sometimes painful. Then again, there could be a happy ending...if you’re into that sort of thing. No judgment.
Bad Timing is like a man. My lifelong stalker man. (Other than Fisher Price. Keep up people, keep up.)
He made his first appearance when I was seven. Nick was my then boyfriend because we hit each other on the playground, and those are the rules.
Once I believed Nick and I were a sure thing, I decided to seal our union with a kiss. Unfortunately, he was very afraid of girl cooties. Ben told him they were transferred directly from the lips on a girl’s face and not her vagina like his older brother Gil tried to make him believe...because everyone knows that girl’s don’t have two sets of lips. (I picked on him about this mercilessly for the rest of his life.)
Ben pointed to a rash near his slobbery pie hole to prove his claim. I was quite upset, since I knew the real reason for his supposed cootie rash. It wasn’t the poor accused Tracy, but rather his habit of licking his lips and the surrounding area over and over again. My Aunt slapped him in the back of the head for it daily. Either way, Nick was having none of my Bonnie Bell shellacked goodness after that.
Being a resourceful kid, I made a plan.
After school we would all go to the cafeteria and wait our turn to get on the buses. There was a short flight of stairs between the main hall and the cafeteria entrance and we ran up them together everyday. I decided that I would plant one on him then. I figured he’d be less likely to see it coming since we’d be moving fast. (Yes, I used to RUN. “Used to” being the operative words.)
But Nick must have heard the talk around the playground, because he deftly avoided my puckered embrace three days in a row. Each time we ran up the steps and I made a dive for him, he danced out of the way and I was left with empty air.
On the fourth day I was determined to tackle him like an NFL pro. Eyes. On. The. Prize.
As I launched myself at him, I knew this was it. This time I would make contact. And I did....
With the wall.
I was SO close, but he moved just in time. I’d put so much force behind the attempted tackle that I flew past his retreating backpack and slammed face first into the wall.
There was blood, yes. And tears, yes. But I learned more from that experience than “let them come to you”.
I learned that Bad Timing can screw you in the asshole anytime he wants. And Bad Timing....really likes my asshole.
During the rest of my school years he showed up here and there:
Once in 6th grade he left a mysteriously colored wad of toilet paper on the girl’s bathroom floor for me to step in, and then gleefully pulled the fire alarm.
He showed up again in the 9th grade and brought my period with him...a week early. Bad Timing was no slouch. He knew that was every young girl’s worst nightmare.
But I’m thinking his most memorable school appearance was in 11th grade. He made me drink an entire Mt. Dew just so I’d have to ask for the bathroom pass. And find my Frinemy, Loren, with her bushy ponytail bobbing up and down between my boyfriend’s thighs in the “closed off” corner of the bathroom.
Of course with a performance like that he had to go out with a bang and have me suspended for three days, for hitting her in the back of the head with my World History book, when I was supposed to sing a solo in the chorus show. Suspension meant no singing which meant no public adoration...and I was pretty disappointed about that.
I did find out a few years later that Bad Timing felt pretty rotten about that one and redeemed his self by ensuring Loren was in the wrong place at the (say it with me!) wrong TIME...and contracted the gift that keeps on giving. Not hugs. Herpes. (That could be a button...)
But once I became an adult, he got a little tired of crowded room wedgies and bean burrito madness and moved on to the juicy stuff.
See, Bad Timing is a bit of a pervert. He was quite euphoric when I became involved with anyone in a sexual way. Not only that, but nudity of any kind seemed to trigger his attack mode.
Like...when the UPS man caught me streaking across the yard. Or when I called Tony by his brother’s name in bed....which was just a big misunderstanding really. Or when I was accosted in a very small shower by an extremely large naked stranger...and what came up was definitely BAD TIMING.
Our list of run-ins could go on and on. But there was one job, a little over four years ago, that Bad Timing failed at so miserably that he’s been redoubling his efforts ever since.
He thought he’d change my schedule at work, get me closer to the boss...then I’d get a bun in the oven and man! Wouldn’t that just be off?
But it wasn’t. It was just right...and so was she.
Only now, I afraid he’s taking his frustration out on The Kid.
Just the other day she said “Shitfaced” in front of The Grandmother’s church biddies...and I could see Bad Timing written ALL over that one.
Just goes to show you, everything comes full circle.
Now you'll have to excuse me. He's gone and turned me in for writing nasty things about him and now I'm being given a PILE of work to do...right before knocking off time. Sigh.
Over and out.
*A big thanks to the lovely and witty Politics Chick for letting me guest post on one of my favorite blogs. I hope she'll be returning the favor soon. (Hint, Hint...off your lazy bum!)
Oh, I know the basics. Don’t start gossiping around behind my back with the other bloggers, “She can’t tell time” or “I’ll bet she only reads digital clocks!”
Well fuck you guys! I don’t have to squint at the little lines on a digital. I have severely handicapped eyeballs, ok!
What I meant was...I’m one of those people that have the timing of a prisoner reaching for a bar of soap in the communal shower. It’s SO off it’s sometimes painful. Then again, there could be a happy ending...if you’re into that sort of thing. No judgment.
Bad Timing is like a man. My lifelong stalker man. (Other than Fisher Price. Keep up people, keep up.)
He made his first appearance when I was seven. Nick was my then boyfriend because we hit each other on the playground, and those are the rules.
Once I believed Nick and I were a sure thing, I decided to seal our union with a kiss. Unfortunately, he was very afraid of girl cooties. Ben told him they were transferred directly from the lips on a girl’s face and not her vagina like his older brother Gil tried to make him believe...because everyone knows that girl’s don’t have two sets of lips. (I picked on him about this mercilessly for the rest of his life.)
Ben pointed to a rash near his slobbery pie hole to prove his claim. I was quite upset, since I knew the real reason for his supposed cootie rash. It wasn’t the poor accused Tracy, but rather his habit of licking his lips and the surrounding area over and over again. My Aunt slapped him in the back of the head for it daily. Either way, Nick was having none of my Bonnie Bell shellacked goodness after that.
Being a resourceful kid, I made a plan.
After school we would all go to the cafeteria and wait our turn to get on the buses. There was a short flight of stairs between the main hall and the cafeteria entrance and we ran up them together everyday. I decided that I would plant one on him then. I figured he’d be less likely to see it coming since we’d be moving fast. (Yes, I used to RUN. “Used to” being the operative words.)
But Nick must have heard the talk around the playground, because he deftly avoided my puckered embrace three days in a row. Each time we ran up the steps and I made a dive for him, he danced out of the way and I was left with empty air.
On the fourth day I was determined to tackle him like an NFL pro. Eyes. On. The. Prize.
As I launched myself at him, I knew this was it. This time I would make contact. And I did....
With the wall.
I was SO close, but he moved just in time. I’d put so much force behind the attempted tackle that I flew past his retreating backpack and slammed face first into the wall.
There was blood, yes. And tears, yes. But I learned more from that experience than “let them come to you”.
I learned that Bad Timing can screw you in the asshole anytime he wants. And Bad Timing....really likes my asshole.
During the rest of my school years he showed up here and there:
Once in 6th grade he left a mysteriously colored wad of toilet paper on the girl’s bathroom floor for me to step in, and then gleefully pulled the fire alarm.
He showed up again in the 9th grade and brought my period with him...a week early. Bad Timing was no slouch. He knew that was every young girl’s worst nightmare.
But I’m thinking his most memorable school appearance was in 11th grade. He made me drink an entire Mt. Dew just so I’d have to ask for the bathroom pass. And find my Frinemy, Loren, with her bushy ponytail bobbing up and down between my boyfriend’s thighs in the “closed off” corner of the bathroom.
Of course with a performance like that he had to go out with a bang and have me suspended for three days, for hitting her in the back of the head with my World History book, when I was supposed to sing a solo in the chorus show. Suspension meant no singing which meant no public adoration...and I was pretty disappointed about that.
I did find out a few years later that Bad Timing felt pretty rotten about that one and redeemed his self by ensuring Loren was in the wrong place at the (say it with me!) wrong TIME...and contracted the gift that keeps on giving. Not hugs. Herpes. (That could be a button...)
But once I became an adult, he got a little tired of crowded room wedgies and bean burrito madness and moved on to the juicy stuff.
See, Bad Timing is a bit of a pervert. He was quite euphoric when I became involved with anyone in a sexual way. Not only that, but nudity of any kind seemed to trigger his attack mode.
Like...when the UPS man caught me streaking across the yard. Or when I called Tony by his brother’s name in bed....which was just a big misunderstanding really. Or when I was accosted in a very small shower by an extremely large naked stranger...and what came up was definitely BAD TIMING.
Our list of run-ins could go on and on. But there was one job, a little over four years ago, that Bad Timing failed at so miserably that he’s been redoubling his efforts ever since.
He thought he’d change my schedule at work, get me closer to the boss...then I’d get a bun in the oven and man! Wouldn’t that just be off?
But it wasn’t. It was just right...and so was she.
Only now, I afraid he’s taking his frustration out on The Kid.
Just the other day she said “Shitfaced” in front of The Grandmother’s church biddies...and I could see Bad Timing written ALL over that one.
Just goes to show you, everything comes full circle.
Now you'll have to excuse me. He's gone and turned me in for writing nasty things about him and now I'm being given a PILE of work to do...right before knocking off time. Sigh.
Over and out.
*A big thanks to the lovely and witty Politics Chick for letting me guest post on one of my favorite blogs. I hope she'll be returning the favor soon. (Hint, Hint...off your lazy bum!)
Saturday, September 12
Sexy Saturday Video
I know, I know
I've been incredibly selfish with this month's SSV's.
So I'm going to indulge myself this one last time and then give you
the goods from now on.
I'm a sucker for cute Desi guys - Raghav is no exception.
You can usually find me in the front row his of New York shows trynna make eye contact. Sigh...
Raghav if you're reading this, "Tum mere sath bahar jana hogi?"
Ok, back to reality...watch it...I command you.
I've been incredibly selfish with this month's SSV's.
So I'm going to indulge myself this one last time and then give you
the goods from now on.
I'm a sucker for cute Desi guys - Raghav is no exception.
You can usually find me in the front row his of New York shows trynna make eye contact. Sigh...
Raghav if you're reading this, "Tum mere sath bahar jana hogi?"
Ok, back to reality...watch it...I command you.
Friday, September 11
Paris - The Lover in my Life
I’m sighing every few seconds today because I’m feeling incredibly lonely.
Oh, it’s not everyday of course just when the weather so-so and something triggers it.
When I feel like this I want to be in Paris
I know…who wants to be in Paris alone.
But I’m a bit of a masochist.
When I’m there Paris is my lover – I’m not sure I want to share her with someone else.
I love that when I arrive it' early in the a.m. and she’s already bustling and moving about without a care that I’ve come. Whenever I arrive, she always encased in fog as if she too is unhappy.
For the first few hours I find that I’m not as excited to see her as I was just hours ago on the plane. In thought; in theory; she was a much better lay.
I grumble a bit wondering what made me come this far. I hem and haw wondering if I really feel like seeing her. I unpack and then do something insanely American like finding a Starbucks to nurse my caffeine addiction. But in all actuality I'm really frightened to step into my favorite cafe and use my bad french. I'm afraid they'll know right off the bat that I don't belong in this breathtaking city and toss me out. So I walk back to my hotel room and drink the espresso on the balcony as the sky clears up.
But by the afternoon she starts coaxing me out to come to our favorite spot.
I get upset with myself thinking, “Why not? You didn’t come all this way to sit in a room watching Law & Order in French. She's clever, she knows as soon as I start walking down the streets I'll start to remember how she made me feel last time and I'll be hooked. So I get dressed up and meet her on the Seine a block away from the Eiffel Tower an hour before nightfall.
The sun starts to set and she lifts up her skirt to show me all the wonders of her beauty and I gasp. How could I have been so dense as to have forgotten how glorious our past encounters were? For some reason I feel like if I were kissing someone else at that moment I’d miss these moments – her window boxes,
her soft music wafting out of cafe doors, her pink lights which would be lost on me if I was absorbed in the taste of another lover.
Sigh, I wonder….
Oh, it’s not everyday of course just when the weather so-so and something triggers it.
When I feel like this I want to be in Paris
I know…who wants to be in Paris alone.
But I’m a bit of a masochist.
When I’m there Paris is my lover – I’m not sure I want to share her with someone else.
I love that when I arrive it' early in the a.m. and she’s already bustling and moving about without a care that I’ve come. Whenever I arrive, she always encased in fog as if she too is unhappy.
For the first few hours I find that I’m not as excited to see her as I was just hours ago on the plane. In thought; in theory; she was a much better lay.
I grumble a bit wondering what made me come this far. I hem and haw wondering if I really feel like seeing her. I unpack and then do something insanely American like finding a Starbucks to nurse my caffeine addiction. But in all actuality I'm really frightened to step into my favorite cafe and use my bad french. I'm afraid they'll know right off the bat that I don't belong in this breathtaking city and toss me out. So I walk back to my hotel room and drink the espresso on the balcony as the sky clears up.
But by the afternoon she starts coaxing me out to come to our favorite spot.
I get upset with myself thinking, “Why not? You didn’t come all this way to sit in a room watching Law & Order in French. She's clever, she knows as soon as I start walking down the streets I'll start to remember how she made me feel last time and I'll be hooked. So I get dressed up and meet her on the Seine a block away from the Eiffel Tower an hour before nightfall.
The sun starts to set and she lifts up her skirt to show me all the wonders of her beauty and I gasp. How could I have been so dense as to have forgotten how glorious our past encounters were? For some reason I feel like if I were kissing someone else at that moment I’d miss these moments – her window boxes,
her soft music wafting out of cafe doors, her pink lights which would be lost on me if I was absorbed in the taste of another lover.
Sigh, I wonder….
Monday, September 7
All I need to know about MEN I Learned through Rock & Roll
Music is an art form and Art imitates life. There are prevalent artistic gender divisions in the performance roles of music. Of course if you also view the lyrical content of an individual’s songs as works of art, then we can look into Ethno-esthetics, which tells us that culturally we set definitions of what art is. In our creative endeavors we strive to express our ideals, our thoughts. But some are fed up with such music that carries/or lyrics filled with heavy artistic values…blah, blah, blah.
If you were looking for me to go on about art with ideology, you didn’t luck out here.
I will, however, give you a little insight into the types of boys out there roaming the streets; the type of boys I happen to find pretty tasty. Using musical genres, musician appearances, and lyrical content to support my own theoretical causes, I will be completely biased by basing all my information on the guys in Rock & Roll that I worship and adore. Think of it as a guideline for all you newbie’s out there who never thought to go after this genre of men because you just didn’t understand them. I love seeing that, actually-the girl in the record store dressed up in a conservative outfit coupled with the matching strand of pearls lustfully glancing over her stack of CD’s at the guy with the spiky hair, black polished fingernails, and black boots. Ok, I’m starting to wander into my fantasyland… so without further ado: All I need to know about men I learned through Rock & Roll.
Bob Dylan taught me that men could be poets. Even if the guy is scraggly and can’t really sing that great, he’s the kind of poet that creates a niche for himself. He is generally found in chic coffee houses. Never seen without his knapsack which always seems to be slung around his chest. Catching the poet is almost like trying to find the lost city. He and his thoughts are very ephemeral, coasting from reality to dreamland; if you do fall in love with the poet get ready to lose your heart when you become second place for his current cause. Instead of flowers and chocolate, the poet will always instead shower you with words.
The Stones taught me that men could be sluttish. Oh yes, these are the types of boys we all want, but know they aren’t very good for us at all. But the leather pants and the vintage t-shirts just do something to us - don’t they girls? They prove that it’s just not as simple as saying the right words; you have to back them up. Slutty boys have actions to prove that they stay true to their slutty ways. The best thing about this type of boy is the ride they take you on and the fact that they can get away with wearing more jewelry than you do. Relationship wise – I wouldn’t go looking for them to stay true to any contractual notions of love.
Bowie taught me that guys can be ambiguous. Okay, the "hero or homo" thing is very tricky – you never can be quite sure what team he’s batting for without straight out asking. But if he’s anything like David Bowie, than you’re probably thinking, "I’ve never seen makeup on a guy look sexy till now." And if it’s your team, he is sure to be the perfect unisex persuasion of gleeful orgasmic lusting.
Elvis Costello taught me that you men can be offbeat, irreverent, yet still be classic and hip. The Costello’s you will find are usually your close friends…like Molly Ringwald’s ‘Ducky’ in ‘Pretty in Pink’. Oh, they don’t really seem to care about much except for being different and their biggest dream is still to blow the little town’s that they’re stuck in wide open, but the only thing they really want to blow is the lid off of is their secret longing for you. The Costello’s are quick on the wit and even sharper on the sarcasm. But admit it - you love their black-framed intellectual style glasses because you know that someone behind the frames lurks a Superman just dying for you to lose sight of the goodie-goodie Clark Kent image and be all-strong and all-cool, all the time. I’ve discovered that the Costello’s have the charm to finesse; there’s nothing sexier than Costello making women think that they are the flirts and that he means business when it comes down to the romancing. Who could forget Everyday I Write The Book: Don’t tell me you don’t know what love is/When you’re old enough to know better/When you find strange hands in your sweater/When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote/I’m a man with a mission in two or three editions…"
Lenny Kravitz taught me that a man can defy any definition of appeal and character. This type of man is the oxymoron; the indefinable sort that will constantly continue to puzzle and amaze. You cannot put this man into a box – he is unwilling to be tied down to any preconceived notion. This urban metro-sexual tends to challenge your mind and willpower. While exhibiting rebel characteristics, he still fiercely loyal ‘till the music in your relationship ends. Best part about this guy is that he is a bit of all the above mentioned, and that is the optimum goal.
Whether or not all this crap I have spewed out proves to be of use to you remains to be seen. All I can say is that I put all men into these five categories – or at least I’m only attracted to men with these characteristics. If you don’t agree with any of this…whatever; you can let me know that to, but I can tell you what my response will be…
"Lump it…" I’ll never be your beast of burden.
If you were looking for me to go on about art with ideology, you didn’t luck out here.
I will, however, give you a little insight into the types of boys out there roaming the streets; the type of boys I happen to find pretty tasty. Using musical genres, musician appearances, and lyrical content to support my own theoretical causes, I will be completely biased by basing all my information on the guys in Rock & Roll that I worship and adore. Think of it as a guideline for all you newbie’s out there who never thought to go after this genre of men because you just didn’t understand them. I love seeing that, actually-the girl in the record store dressed up in a conservative outfit coupled with the matching strand of pearls lustfully glancing over her stack of CD’s at the guy with the spiky hair, black polished fingernails, and black boots. Ok, I’m starting to wander into my fantasyland… so without further ado: All I need to know about men I learned through Rock & Roll.
Bob Dylan taught me that men could be poets. Even if the guy is scraggly and can’t really sing that great, he’s the kind of poet that creates a niche for himself. He is generally found in chic coffee houses. Never seen without his knapsack which always seems to be slung around his chest. Catching the poet is almost like trying to find the lost city. He and his thoughts are very ephemeral, coasting from reality to dreamland; if you do fall in love with the poet get ready to lose your heart when you become second place for his current cause. Instead of flowers and chocolate, the poet will always instead shower you with words.
The Stones taught me that men could be sluttish. Oh yes, these are the types of boys we all want, but know they aren’t very good for us at all. But the leather pants and the vintage t-shirts just do something to us - don’t they girls? They prove that it’s just not as simple as saying the right words; you have to back them up. Slutty boys have actions to prove that they stay true to their slutty ways. The best thing about this type of boy is the ride they take you on and the fact that they can get away with wearing more jewelry than you do. Relationship wise – I wouldn’t go looking for them to stay true to any contractual notions of love.
Bowie taught me that guys can be ambiguous. Okay, the "hero or homo" thing is very tricky – you never can be quite sure what team he’s batting for without straight out asking. But if he’s anything like David Bowie, than you’re probably thinking, "I’ve never seen makeup on a guy look sexy till now." And if it’s your team, he is sure to be the perfect unisex persuasion of gleeful orgasmic lusting.
Elvis Costello taught me that you men can be offbeat, irreverent, yet still be classic and hip. The Costello’s you will find are usually your close friends…like Molly Ringwald’s ‘Ducky’ in ‘Pretty in Pink’. Oh, they don’t really seem to care about much except for being different and their biggest dream is still to blow the little town’s that they’re stuck in wide open, but the only thing they really want to blow is the lid off of is their secret longing for you. The Costello’s are quick on the wit and even sharper on the sarcasm. But admit it - you love their black-framed intellectual style glasses because you know that someone behind the frames lurks a Superman just dying for you to lose sight of the goodie-goodie Clark Kent image and be all-strong and all-cool, all the time. I’ve discovered that the Costello’s have the charm to finesse; there’s nothing sexier than Costello making women think that they are the flirts and that he means business when it comes down to the romancing. Who could forget Everyday I Write The Book: Don’t tell me you don’t know what love is/When you’re old enough to know better/When you find strange hands in your sweater/When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote/I’m a man with a mission in two or three editions…"
Lenny Kravitz taught me that a man can defy any definition of appeal and character. This type of man is the oxymoron; the indefinable sort that will constantly continue to puzzle and amaze. You cannot put this man into a box – he is unwilling to be tied down to any preconceived notion. This urban metro-sexual tends to challenge your mind and willpower. While exhibiting rebel characteristics, he still fiercely loyal ‘till the music in your relationship ends. Best part about this guy is that he is a bit of all the above mentioned, and that is the optimum goal.
Whether or not all this crap I have spewed out proves to be of use to you remains to be seen. All I can say is that I put all men into these five categories – or at least I’m only attracted to men with these characteristics. If you don’t agree with any of this…whatever; you can let me know that to, but I can tell you what my response will be…
"Lump it…" I’ll never be your beast of burden.
Saturday, September 5
Sexy Saturday Video
We're going International this Saturday.
This is Tarkan, Turkey's biggest Pop Artist.
Look at those eyes. In this video, you literally spend 3 mins just watching him bare chested, drink water and eat fruit.
And this is why I love him in spite of the eyeliner. Gone with the sensitive stuff - at 1:20 of the video he turns into the "I will stick my tongue down your throat and lift my shirt up to show you my rock hard abs" Tarkan that I've grown to love over the years. He's so known for his sexy dancing that finger cymbals were actually sold with his cd's in Turkey.
God Bless Turkey.
This is Tarkan, Turkey's biggest Pop Artist.
Look at those eyes. In this video, you literally spend 3 mins just watching him bare chested, drink water and eat fruit.
And this is why I love him in spite of the eyeliner. Gone with the sensitive stuff - at 1:20 of the video he turns into the "I will stick my tongue down your throat and lift my shirt up to show you my rock hard abs" Tarkan that I've grown to love over the years. He's so known for his sexy dancing that finger cymbals were actually sold with his cd's in Turkey.
God Bless Turkey.
Tuesday, September 1
My Overactive Imagination and Her Kid
We all have them - just some more than others. I’ve got a double dose, a couple of scoops on my cone. I believe it’s the geyser where most of my problems shoot up from. See, for the better part of my life I’ve carried an Overactive Imagination. As of late, she ran away, got knocked up and came home giving birth to a healthy bundle of Assumption.
Assumption always assumes and suspects without hard evidence to backup her theories, which is precisely why I’m sick of her. I constantly have to reprimand her, “Why Assumption? Why assume when you can just ask?”
“Why?" she responds. "Because it’s not as much fun to ask.", she says. “Asking provides you no torture, no sleepless nights and, most of all, no intrigue.”
Ah, I see. Asking would be the smart thing to do and Assumption isn’t interested in sanity. Often prone to flights of fancy, she stews in her own juices every so often stirring the ingredients together to make sure she’s brewed the right amount of brouhaha and stupidity.
Just the other weekend I ran into a close friend of mine at a party (ok, another crush, but this time it was mutual). Everyone was dancing, talking and having a ball in general. Out of the blue, Assumption whispered in my ear, “Doesn’t he seem different tonight”.
“No,” I replied, “Now leave me alone.”
Of course Assumption can’t do that - persistent little bugger.
“Come on look at the signs,” she stabbed, badgering me relentlessly. I figured why not just listen to her, perhaps then she’ll go away.
“See, tonight he’s not funny enough, not talkative as usual. He’s being quite moody. Notice how he’s particularly distancing himself from YOU.” With that word she made this annoying sound effect in my ear, you know the one where the word echo’s as if it had been yelled into a long corridor - “Distancing himself from yoooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou…”
During the entire night the thought hadn’t crossed my mind - until now, this singular moment. Alarms were sounded and the ticker tape in my brain started spitting out obvious reasons to why he was ignoring me… earlier when he arrived I made eye contact but chose not to say hello immediately; obviously he thought I was slighting him. Never checked my breath before I spoke, it must have blown him away. Maybe my dress was too tight and now he thinks I’m a hussy.
Suddenly my brain worked on the same principles as an Etch-a-sketch. Assumption is shaking it, giggling as she erases years of hard earned emotional maturity and is drawing a jungle gym.
“A Jungle gym?” you say.
Yes, a Jungle Gym, where she’s swinging and leaping out of control like a crazed monkey until finally, in steps her mother, Overactive Imagination to stop her. That didn’t quite help.
The two of them occupying the same space was too much for me to handle. Assumption doesn’t want to go, she’s throwing a tantrum, kicking out common sense, rationalization and my motor skills (I have to claim this because the party was taped and it is my excuse on why I look so bad dancing on camera).
Overactive Imagination finally takes hold of her and starts dragging her out. Assumption isn’t satisfied though, she hasn’t done enough damage - having to have the last word as brats often do.
Loudly I hear her jesting words again, “distancing himself from yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou.”
From within me came the sound of fuses busting, engines overheating, hoses disconnecting leaking fluids everywhere. I’m running on steam and I need to be cooled off. My eyes’ search finding him once again, only, something’s horribly wrong. Blinking twice I look again but there’s no mistaking it, he’s starting to morph into this Uber-model. Now I’m angered that he’s dancing with other people, smiling and chatting and toasting, all of which is what a party consists of. But understand there’s this steam train racing in my head, wheels moving faster, faster, past the speed of light - so fast in fact that common sense didn’t have a chance jump on. My heart does flips, I mean, I liked him before, but now it’s different. He is buried treasure that I’ve long searched for, a diamond in the rough, needle in the haystack, sun and the stars, alpha and omega.
I HAVE LOST IT, replaying back every conversation that we’ve ever had, judging every pause, every hesitation.
Did they mean anything?
Were they signs of us going wrong?
With every supposed mistake I become uglier and he gets better looking.
I remember plans that I made and broke, some without apologies - Boom! six-pack for him, dry frizzy hair for me.
Recalling times when I laughed funny, or talked too loud. God I must have seemed like an idiot -
Crooked teeth for me, a smile so white you need shades for him.
At this moment I’m sure that I have always been a creature and that he took pity on me. Tonight was the night he couldn’t take it anymore. I am an unkind, unattractive and thoughtless human being. He hates me, and-who cares! I never liked him much anyway. Who needs him!
Making my way over to him thinking I’m going to clobber him for making me feel so bad, I hear…“You wanna dance?”
“What?”
“Do you want to dance?” he repeats. It’s him, and he’s asking me to dance.
“Yeah, sure” I say.
Ten seconds into the music and I swear he says laughingly, “You seem a little off tonight, what’s the matter, am I not paying you enough attention?” he says as he pecks me on the cheek. Laughing, I toss my head back as he turns me in a spin. “No. You must be imagining that,” said convincingly as we pause to have our picture taken. Getting back into step I think of nothing but the dance letting my movement blend with his.
I’m pretty sure you’ve had plenty of days like this. Absolutely nothing was wrong but you’re Imagination creates something and goes wild with it. Although this was a very extreme case, I think I got a hold of some bad food or something. Lesson to be learned-as women we tend to over think situations. We can be so abstract in our behavior – a living Picasso stuck in a painting – our minds lost in blocks of paint, one eye near the bottom of the canvas near the title “Woman Lost”. Hung on the wall examined and analyzed by all, all the while, just hoping to overhear the definition to this disease, to be released from the madness. Meanwhile the guy isn’t even on the same page; he doesn’t even have a clue what’s swirling around in that pretty head of yours. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing that they’re such simple creatures – if they only knew.
Assumption always assumes and suspects without hard evidence to backup her theories, which is precisely why I’m sick of her. I constantly have to reprimand her, “Why Assumption? Why assume when you can just ask?”
“Why?" she responds. "Because it’s not as much fun to ask.", she says. “Asking provides you no torture, no sleepless nights and, most of all, no intrigue.”
Ah, I see. Asking would be the smart thing to do and Assumption isn’t interested in sanity. Often prone to flights of fancy, she stews in her own juices every so often stirring the ingredients together to make sure she’s brewed the right amount of brouhaha and stupidity.
Just the other weekend I ran into a close friend of mine at a party (ok, another crush, but this time it was mutual). Everyone was dancing, talking and having a ball in general. Out of the blue, Assumption whispered in my ear, “Doesn’t he seem different tonight”.
“No,” I replied, “Now leave me alone.”
Of course Assumption can’t do that - persistent little bugger.
“Come on look at the signs,” she stabbed, badgering me relentlessly. I figured why not just listen to her, perhaps then she’ll go away.
“See, tonight he’s not funny enough, not talkative as usual. He’s being quite moody. Notice how he’s particularly distancing himself from YOU.” With that word she made this annoying sound effect in my ear, you know the one where the word echo’s as if it had been yelled into a long corridor - “Distancing himself from yoooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou…”
During the entire night the thought hadn’t crossed my mind - until now, this singular moment. Alarms were sounded and the ticker tape in my brain started spitting out obvious reasons to why he was ignoring me… earlier when he arrived I made eye contact but chose not to say hello immediately; obviously he thought I was slighting him. Never checked my breath before I spoke, it must have blown him away. Maybe my dress was too tight and now he thinks I’m a hussy.
Suddenly my brain worked on the same principles as an Etch-a-sketch. Assumption is shaking it, giggling as she erases years of hard earned emotional maturity and is drawing a jungle gym.
“A Jungle gym?” you say.
Yes, a Jungle Gym, where she’s swinging and leaping out of control like a crazed monkey until finally, in steps her mother, Overactive Imagination to stop her. That didn’t quite help.
The two of them occupying the same space was too much for me to handle. Assumption doesn’t want to go, she’s throwing a tantrum, kicking out common sense, rationalization and my motor skills (I have to claim this because the party was taped and it is my excuse on why I look so bad dancing on camera).
Overactive Imagination finally takes hold of her and starts dragging her out. Assumption isn’t satisfied though, she hasn’t done enough damage - having to have the last word as brats often do.
Loudly I hear her jesting words again, “distancing himself from yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou.”
From within me came the sound of fuses busting, engines overheating, hoses disconnecting leaking fluids everywhere. I’m running on steam and I need to be cooled off. My eyes’ search finding him once again, only, something’s horribly wrong. Blinking twice I look again but there’s no mistaking it, he’s starting to morph into this Uber-model. Now I’m angered that he’s dancing with other people, smiling and chatting and toasting, all of which is what a party consists of. But understand there’s this steam train racing in my head, wheels moving faster, faster, past the speed of light - so fast in fact that common sense didn’t have a chance jump on. My heart does flips, I mean, I liked him before, but now it’s different. He is buried treasure that I’ve long searched for, a diamond in the rough, needle in the haystack, sun and the stars, alpha and omega.
I HAVE LOST IT, replaying back every conversation that we’ve ever had, judging every pause, every hesitation.
Did they mean anything?
Were they signs of us going wrong?
With every supposed mistake I become uglier and he gets better looking.
I remember plans that I made and broke, some without apologies - Boom! six-pack for him, dry frizzy hair for me.
Recalling times when I laughed funny, or talked too loud. God I must have seemed like an idiot -
Crooked teeth for me, a smile so white you need shades for him.
At this moment I’m sure that I have always been a creature and that he took pity on me. Tonight was the night he couldn’t take it anymore. I am an unkind, unattractive and thoughtless human being. He hates me, and-who cares! I never liked him much anyway. Who needs him!
Making my way over to him thinking I’m going to clobber him for making me feel so bad, I hear…“You wanna dance?”
“What?”
“Do you want to dance?” he repeats. It’s him, and he’s asking me to dance.
“Yeah, sure” I say.
Ten seconds into the music and I swear he says laughingly, “You seem a little off tonight, what’s the matter, am I not paying you enough attention?” he says as he pecks me on the cheek. Laughing, I toss my head back as he turns me in a spin. “No. You must be imagining that,” said convincingly as we pause to have our picture taken. Getting back into step I think of nothing but the dance letting my movement blend with his.
I’m pretty sure you’ve had plenty of days like this. Absolutely nothing was wrong but you’re Imagination creates something and goes wild with it. Although this was a very extreme case, I think I got a hold of some bad food or something. Lesson to be learned-as women we tend to over think situations. We can be so abstract in our behavior – a living Picasso stuck in a painting – our minds lost in blocks of paint, one eye near the bottom of the canvas near the title “Woman Lost”. Hung on the wall examined and analyzed by all, all the while, just hoping to overhear the definition to this disease, to be released from the madness. Meanwhile the guy isn’t even on the same page; he doesn’t even have a clue what’s swirling around in that pretty head of yours. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing that they’re such simple creatures – if they only knew.
Saturday, August 29
Sexy Saturday Video
I'm going back to a classic this Saturday, it's before we ladies knew whose sex George really wanted.
Thursday, August 27
He Said, She Said
How do you perceive the behavior of the opposite sex when it comes to dating & relationships?
He Said:
"The point of dating and relationships is to find a person with whom you have that extraordinary connection. The problem I find is, once you find them, what do you do from there?
Much like two experienced fencers facing each other for the first time, dating has become a series of feints and fakes. Truth doesn’t really enter into relationships until months later, and it’s only then that we find out that our beloved is a rabbit-boiling-in-a-pot-lunatic. The biggest problem with relationships is that we’re simply not honest with each other.
For men, when we first meet a woman, its’ a great deal like a nearsighted catcher trying to read the pitcher’s signals. We won’t get a lot to go on form her, not for a while. Whatever we do will be discussed with her omnipresent friend at length, at a later date in the worst light possible, so the heat is on. We say something at dinner. She looks at her friend, and purses her lips. This will cost us dearly, we realize with horror, and so we spend the entire night reading their silent signals, wondering if the pitcher will throw the curve ball or the high heat. She is not going to voice her displeasure here, but, by God, it will be voiced. By women bringing lots of disagreeable friends with them, they put men through a gauntlet of criticism. The relationship is no longer you and her, it’s you and her and her good friends that thinks you’re head is too big and her good friend who thinks your gear is fake and her friend who can’t stand you, because you remind her of her ex.
Let’s say we find someone, and we’re immediately interested. If we’re too eager and we let the wrong woman know, they use us until we’re completely spent, like a sea bass with a hook in it’s mouth. So, we learn to suppress our feelings for some time until we realize what sort of person this is, and can we trust her with our feelings? That leads us to restraining ourselves constantly, much like the Victorian era gentleman…
“Pass the butter, dear” Evan said. I love you, he thought. Your eyes twinkling like twin stars, you skin like sandy Sao Paulo beaches…
“Lovely day isn’t it,” he said instead.
“Quite.” She said.
For men, we’re not being real at all. We date people we really don’t want to be with because we’re bored and there’s nothing better to do that night. Or we do what she wants for an evening, because we don’t feel like arguing about it, not because we particularly like her. Relationships fall through, things happen, so like an experienced traveler, we always have a contingency plan if things go wrong, and her name is Dana or Michelle. We go through pains to perpetuate an image, because more and more women simply care about male stereotype instead of the actual individual. Some women care less about who you are then if you have Timberland's and a throwback jersey. I know a great deal of friends with unpaid bills, but a closet full of designer clothes, because in the end, it’s your image that’s important.
In the end, men and women spend the majority of their time trying to convince the opposite sex that they are what they are really not, and when they hook up based on that illusion, no good can come of that.
In view of that, I’m making the only resolution that counts – a personal one. I will be honest. I will stop playing games. If you ask me, you will know what our relationship is, I won’t feed you crap. If I’m feeling you, I’m man enough to tell you and if you can’t handle it, I probably shouldn’t be with you anyway, because you’ll keep playing the same game that I won’t play anymore. I won’t string along multiple women at the same time, insisting that we’re just friends, but doing the things with them that are more than friendly. I will be honest.”
She Said:
Can I respond back to him?
Ok, you’re right, you are going to discussed at length with our friends. Doing it to find fault with your every move, contrary to popular opinion, isn’t the optimum goal. Believe it or not, some women want to find things to love about you. I think that you’ve been burned too often, in fact, often enough to have altered your perception.
I say this because you mentioned that “by women bringing lots of disagreeable friends with them, they put men through a gauntlet of criticism”. You didn’t say “if women bring,” or “when women”, but “by women” – as if this is the only thing we do, “bring disagreeable friends”. That’s just not so, and it makes me wonder who you’ve been out with lately. In all fairness let me say…no, a woman’s friend shouldn’t dog you unnecessarily, that’s just uncalled for. But understand that ladies protect one another, and therefore, do appear in groups sometimes. It’s the way it’s always been done and will continue until the girl you have the extraordinary connection with the “disagreeable” friends decides that she wants you no matter what her girlfriends say.
But if you’re out with someone whose friends are looking at you head, cracking at your gear and comparing them to their former flame …you aint’ with the right girls.
This exposed nerve of yours is pulsing and while not unfounded, it is surely not a widespread problem.
BTW, if you’re not feeling her and your man enough to tell her and she can’t handle it be man enough to accept it without attacking her integrity or her friends by assuming it’s a game they’re running on you. She may have been damaged from a previous relationship, or maybe she just wasn’t feeling you – and that’s not playing a game, that’s just being real…isn’t that honest enough?
Your resolution is an admiral one. Your take on the need we sometimes have to be someone other than ourselves in relationships is sadly true. I just ask that you don’t allow your past experiences to color your new ones.
Tuesday, August 25
Dear European Hottie at MOMA,
Can it really be considered stalking if I was overcome in the museum by the beauty of your movable art? Yes, that's what I'm referring to you as. Yes, you...the tall blonde, black t'd, washed out red jean, Converse wearing, cute tiny goatee sporting hottie that I 'bumped into' continually throughout MOMA. You were just an annoying blur in my camera when you walked in the compass in hand exhibit...
but I couldn't help but watch the intensity of your art gaze.
Or the way you pondered model like over at the cutouts of Betty Ford news articles by that obscure crap artist.
Oh, but when you bent over to take pictures of it with your cell phone ....drool. I wanted to know you, I wanted to be so familiar that I could walk over and hug you from behind and gently tug on your ear with my teeth and ask if you what you could possibly see in that piece.
You probably don't remember but we smiled at one another two floors later, I think we both recognized that we, in fact had been crossing paths the entire afternoon. I forgive you for walking past the 'Wyeth'
without so much as a second glance in support of taking pics of the ancient aircraft because the view from behind was lovely...
I hope you're a regular, if I ever see you again I'm going to jump you - or maybe something less crazy like asking you "Do you come here often?" "Who are your favorite artists?" Perhaps even ask you out for coffee - unless I see you go into the architecture wing...in that case I'll wait for you outside in some other unassuming stalker like fashion.
but I couldn't help but watch the intensity of your art gaze.
Or the way you pondered model like over at the cutouts of Betty Ford news articles by that obscure crap artist.
Oh, but when you bent over to take pictures of it with your cell phone ....drool. I wanted to know you, I wanted to be so familiar that I could walk over and hug you from behind and gently tug on your ear with my teeth and ask if you what you could possibly see in that piece.
You probably don't remember but we smiled at one another two floors later, I think we both recognized that we, in fact had been crossing paths the entire afternoon. I forgive you for walking past the 'Wyeth'
without so much as a second glance in support of taking pics of the ancient aircraft because the view from behind was lovely...
I hope you're a regular, if I ever see you again I'm going to jump you - or maybe something less crazy like asking you "Do you come here often?" "Who are your favorite artists?" Perhaps even ask you out for coffee - unless I see you go into the architecture wing...in that case I'll wait for you outside in some other unassuming stalker like fashion.
Saturday, August 22
Sexy Saturday Video
I’m a sucker for Funky House music, come Thursday I scroll through my Ipod looking for my Dance List and this is the first song that plays.
I take a warm shower, jump into a white tee and panties and strut up and down the hallway, pausing every so often to really get into the groove with the banister (wooden guy) remembering that year when this was the top song in the clubs - come Friday night it would play and how things got wild making you feel alive and happy. Video’s not so bad either.
I take a warm shower, jump into a white tee and panties and strut up and down the hallway, pausing every so often to really get into the groove with the banister (wooden guy) remembering that year when this was the top song in the clubs - come Friday night it would play and how things got wild making you feel alive and happy. Video’s not so bad either.
Thursday, August 20
Complicated Relationship Flicks
I've decided to get a head start on the weekend - I'm anxious to de stress, settle in and watch a few of my favorite movies. They're all about complicated relationships; somehow it's more entertaining to watch them unfold on tv and not in my fricking life. So I'm going to cocoon myself in for awhile along with chocolate, ice cream, and pie. But not before I leave you with my must-sees - they make me laugh, cry, sigh (no, it's not the most proud of female thing I do), curse and not surprisingly a few of them turn me on.
Love Me If You Dare
Sex and Lucia
When Harry Met Sally
Vicky Christina Barcelona
Love Me If You Dare
Sex and Lucia
When Harry Met Sally
Vicky Christina Barcelona
Tuesday, August 18
The Code of Honor
"Oh, you're killing me SadGirl. You with your emails about your cheating best friend. That subject is touchy and I hate to get preachy. But I did promise you I would discuss it, So here you are - stop harassing me - you've won, I'm fessing up to how I feel about it. "The Code of Honor is protocol, a set of rules that is understood between friends when it comes to love and relationships; boundaries not crossed in order to preserve the friendship. It in a whole is too expansive to cover all at once, but for now let’s start with the basics:
Thou shall not covet thy friend’s current or past lovers.
It’s one simple commandment yet it’s become a fad to ignore it and be selfish on a whim for ones own desires and wants. This behavior is quite contagious, it seems. What happened to not getting “too close” and respecting the friendship? What is so hard to understand about this commandment? Just because it wasn’t engraved on tablets and carried down the mountain by Moses doesn’t mean it isn’t a sin. From the onset of any friendship, this is a HUGE no-no. You risk damaging a relationship with the one person who probably means the most to you. Once that happens, you might as well hold onto any apologies because they’re always a day late and a dollar short.
Still trying to comprehend all this? Have I confused you with the thou and thy? For the record, that means YOU. Now, there are two parts of that commandment I want to dissect. Count it off aloud: One, two. Now lift up your hand and use your fingers – uno, dos.
The first principle covers coveting a friend’s current lover.
There’s not much to say about this other than: If anyone who thinks it ok to break this one, you are a scumbag. Even if you’re just “thinking” about doing it, in theory, you’ve already put it into practice. In essence it is the equivalent to walking up to your friend, slapping them in the face, prying their mouth open, taking out their piece of candy, putting it in your mouth and running away. Sounds like an exaggeration you say? But tell me, how can one describe stealing from a heart?
Not entirely without shame, is the person who got involved with the stealer. They too share the blame, on the basis that they should have known better than to jump from one friend to another. It’s no different than dating someone and then moving on to his brother or sister. Coveting the current lover is a bold statement to your friend that your happiness means more than theirs.
Secondly, there’s coveting a friend’s past lover. In case anyone claims confusion as to the term and or definition of “past lover”, it does not mean someone they had a one-night stand with. Nor does the past have a time limit; the past is all involving, all including. Unfortunately, people waste time trying desperately to use this as an excuse. So, if you were thinking of using it, let me just say, it’s lame, unbelievable, and will more than likely get you some well-deserved physical therapy sessions. But if you still feign mental retardation as your choice, this select group is usually referred to as ‘the ex’.
Surely somewhere, some naive person is reading this justifying his actions. “You are so wrong PC girl,” I can hear them saying, “My friend wouldn’t mind; they would want me too be happy, no matter who it was.” To which I reply, “Your crap runneth over. "
They could have broken up five years ago; she could have cheated on him, he could have left her for someone else. Hell, he could have tried to run her over with his car and she had a restraining order put out on him. But you’d better not touch them! Friends only remember that person as their own. Their lips kissed, they shared the inside joke, the favorite song, etc… In their mind, that person holds a place reserved for past loves and you cannot interfere with that. It’s the tried and true time travel mantra: matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time.
No matter how big my soapbox gets, people will constantly try to make what’s wrong right again. “I know they used to be involved with my friend, but I’m in love. I deserve some happiness too.” I’m sure you do, just not there. Nice try, but we ain’t buying it. But perhaps I can interest you in some crap that doesn’t stink.
And for you select group of people that will try to do it on the sneak tip: It may work for a while, but when it blows up, duck. For anyone I know, trying this, doing this, wondering about breaking the “Code”, the muffled voice you hear on your machine saying, "I know you know I know you know I know." - That’s me.
Saturday, August 15
Sexy Saturday Video
Let me just say up front that if you don't enjoy this week's SSV then,
I'm sorry you don't get it...really I am.
I just don't what else to tell you.
I shouldn't have to convince you of its hotness.
The heat, the sticky sweat over that golden skin, the white sheets, the 'yeah I'm in your personal space but I'm gonna sing in my sexy ass voice right next to your ear cause I know that turns you on', the tongue dancing (3:40) that makes me wanna stick cold Popsicles down my panties.
Who the hell else emotes such strong sexuality while stroking a guitar? Lord, the man has me cussing. I'm gonna just shut up and finishing watching the video - you watch too.
I'm sorry you don't get it...really I am.
I just don't what else to tell you.
I shouldn't have to convince you of its hotness.
The heat, the sticky sweat over that golden skin, the white sheets, the 'yeah I'm in your personal space but I'm gonna sing in my sexy ass voice right next to your ear cause I know that turns you on', the tongue dancing (3:40) that makes me wanna stick cold Popsicles down my panties.
Who the hell else emotes such strong sexuality while stroking a guitar? Lord, the man has me cussing. I'm gonna just shut up and finishing watching the video - you watch too.
Wednesday, August 12
Playing Doctor With The Boys
I have recently discovered that several of my male friends think I look like a "bobblehead" – but only when I loose a certain amount of weight, and apparently only from certain angles. The choice vantage point in which to view all this seems to be from above. After laughing, I considered what was said…"whoa", I replied. "What are you saying? You think I got a big head?" In response, I was informed that it’s not my head that I should be concerned about-it’s my body. You’ve read it right here folks! My low-grade body is making my head look bad.
One particular male friend squawked about my eating habits…"you’re starving yourself", he says. He proceeds to remind me of certain diets I participated in the past years. I’m asked to refer back to photographs from a trip we took together in 2001. OK, I’ll be the first to admit it. I looked particularly small in those photographs. But in my defense, I’ve got a healthy bustline and we all know that when things get bigger, other things seem smaller – but no one complained about that feature.
Ok. I’m not hurt by these comments. On the contrary, I laughed. I laugh at the ‘above’ or ‘overhead angles’ that they’ve mentioned. Now when I question how one would achieve looking at someone from those angles, I am told that it’s just because they are so much taller than my 5’2 and a half. Yet I think it’s the search for a better cleavage angle that has brought on the "bobblehead" theory. But no, not them, nah, not my guy friends…they weren’t trying to get a mental booby snapshot; merely trying to help me achieve the perfect body, so that I’ll be pleased…seriously, this is what they actually said.
Quite soon afterwards, earlier remarks about my head were followed up with "It’s not that you’re out of shape, or too skinny - it’s that we think (there’s the comments of the peanut gallery again) that you should focus on toning up. Let it all be in a tight little package. We think you should tone up your booty so that it matches your bustline." Which confuses me, because I was under the belief that I indeed did have a great booty - so the "no booty" remark was argued. I guess I sort of won that argument – at least, I think I did. He agreed that maybe he was wrong and generously offered to ‘take a closer’ look the next time I wear pants. He even had a suggestion "perhaps you should wear tighter jeans". Ok, I admit…it’s not a big booty, which is to imply that you can’t let’s say… sit a drink on it. But it’s firm, though obviously not firm enough or plump enough for my critic’s.
Concurrently running on the same marquee are "Why don’t we do something new with your hair", and, "Are you shaping up those legs?"
But again, I draw your attention to this sorted discussion of my anatomy – I’m not suggesting an obsession with me; I am however pointing to the fact that certain men enjoy playing at Operation. I suggest maybe they lean towards a slight obsession to have eye candy in front of them at all times, no matter if you are the girlfriend or best friend. I think they believe it to be well concealed as ‘healthy concern’, a wanting for you to be at your best. Yet I think they think ahead, planning accordingly for such occasions as:
Dining out – no questions asked, just a general public assuming that he is "with" the girl, not merely friends with the girl. I would also gather to say that public outings with a good-looking gal pals enhances their attractiveness to other woman within the radius– women who always seem drawn to the guy in the room who is already attached. Women who’ll want him two-fold if his companion looks good – let us not forget the severe misplaced jealously we women tend to carry if she is more attractive than we are.
I’ve seen the nods my guy friends get from other guys when they’re accompanied by a cute girl friend. I can only assume that the mutual nods are a form of guy points added to a membership card. I figure it must translate into some sort of machismo currency. So how many punches do you need on your card before you can get that free sandwich?
But I have been reminded that sarcasm isn't necessary because I have merely been told that this is all for the betterment of me. For the love and concern of a friend. Again, Yes! I know you find that laughable, but really, that’s what they said. But get this - I’m gonna do it. I’m going to spend extra time in the gym and tone up – for me.
I’m also going to return that concern and loving-kindness they’ve been showing me. I’m going to turn their figurative Post-its into literal ones. Ones that I can stick onto any body part of theirs that I believe could use a little shaping up. So that the next time any cute girls see us out together I can smile at them knowingly – let those oh so naughty little thoughts transfer from me to her. So that she and I may go and find a good high place to perch in the hopes that we too may enjoy a "bobblehead" view.
One particular male friend squawked about my eating habits…"you’re starving yourself", he says. He proceeds to remind me of certain diets I participated in the past years. I’m asked to refer back to photographs from a trip we took together in 2001. OK, I’ll be the first to admit it. I looked particularly small in those photographs. But in my defense, I’ve got a healthy bustline and we all know that when things get bigger, other things seem smaller – but no one complained about that feature.
Ok. I’m not hurt by these comments. On the contrary, I laughed. I laugh at the ‘above’ or ‘overhead angles’ that they’ve mentioned. Now when I question how one would achieve looking at someone from those angles, I am told that it’s just because they are so much taller than my 5’2 and a half. Yet I think it’s the search for a better cleavage angle that has brought on the "bobblehead" theory. But no, not them, nah, not my guy friends…they weren’t trying to get a mental booby snapshot; merely trying to help me achieve the perfect body, so that I’ll be pleased…seriously, this is what they actually said.
Quite soon afterwards, earlier remarks about my head were followed up with "It’s not that you’re out of shape, or too skinny - it’s that we think (there’s the comments of the peanut gallery again) that you should focus on toning up. Let it all be in a tight little package. We think you should tone up your booty so that it matches your bustline." Which confuses me, because I was under the belief that I indeed did have a great booty - so the "no booty" remark was argued. I guess I sort of won that argument – at least, I think I did. He agreed that maybe he was wrong and generously offered to ‘take a closer’ look the next time I wear pants. He even had a suggestion "perhaps you should wear tighter jeans". Ok, I admit…it’s not a big booty, which is to imply that you can’t let’s say… sit a drink on it. But it’s firm, though obviously not firm enough or plump enough for my critic’s.
Concurrently running on the same marquee are "Why don’t we do something new with your hair", and, "Are you shaping up those legs?"
But again, I draw your attention to this sorted discussion of my anatomy – I’m not suggesting an obsession with me; I am however pointing to the fact that certain men enjoy playing at Operation. I suggest maybe they lean towards a slight obsession to have eye candy in front of them at all times, no matter if you are the girlfriend or best friend. I think they believe it to be well concealed as ‘healthy concern’, a wanting for you to be at your best. Yet I think they think ahead, planning accordingly for such occasions as:
Dining out – no questions asked, just a general public assuming that he is "with" the girl, not merely friends with the girl. I would also gather to say that public outings with a good-looking gal pals enhances their attractiveness to other woman within the radius– women who always seem drawn to the guy in the room who is already attached. Women who’ll want him two-fold if his companion looks good – let us not forget the severe misplaced jealously we women tend to carry if she is more attractive than we are.
I’ve seen the nods my guy friends get from other guys when they’re accompanied by a cute girl friend. I can only assume that the mutual nods are a form of guy points added to a membership card. I figure it must translate into some sort of machismo currency. So how many punches do you need on your card before you can get that free sandwich?
But I have been reminded that sarcasm isn't necessary because I have merely been told that this is all for the betterment of me. For the love and concern of a friend. Again, Yes! I know you find that laughable, but really, that’s what they said. But get this - I’m gonna do it. I’m going to spend extra time in the gym and tone up – for me.
I’m also going to return that concern and loving-kindness they’ve been showing me. I’m going to turn their figurative Post-its into literal ones. Ones that I can stick onto any body part of theirs that I believe could use a little shaping up. So that the next time any cute girls see us out together I can smile at them knowingly – let those oh so naughty little thoughts transfer from me to her. So that she and I may go and find a good high place to perch in the hopes that we too may enjoy a "bobblehead" view.
Getting It On With Jerrod
So many guys I haven't gotten around to playing with yet - Jerrod is one of them.
Oh, we flirt back and forth but there's been no pay-off until now.
It's Jerrod 100th post over at his insane blog 'The Yellow Factor'.
For the occasion he decided to award his favorite blogs with The Yellow Snowball...
He also said some lovely things about the Politics:
"Politics Of Love - Her blog is like the hang out you want to be seen at and the drink you want in your hand."
So while I decide what to gift him with ;) you should go over and check out the blog if you haven't already.
Oh, we flirt back and forth but there's been no pay-off until now.
It's Jerrod 100th post over at his insane blog 'The Yellow Factor'.
For the occasion he decided to award his favorite blogs with The Yellow Snowball...
He also said some lovely things about the Politics:
"Politics Of Love - Her blog is like the hang out you want to be seen at and the drink you want in your hand."
So while I decide what to gift him with ;) you should go over and check out the blog if you haven't already.
Monday, August 10
The Angst, The Idols, The Hughes
I would have never made it through high school and all the frustrating teen angst and lusting without John Hughes. God I loved these movies - No one wrote about teenage relationships better than Hughes. He might have been older but he remembered what the teenage years were like and wrote it out in perfection.
RIP John 1950-2009
RIP John 1950-2009
Saturday, August 8
Sexy Saturday Video
Oh, stop whining - I know you've had Shakira already (you wish) on the SSV.
But in this second helping, Shakira's not only gone all European disco on us,
but she's included a cage, half an outfit, and a nude bodysuit that gives the
illusion of...well you know.
I trust you'll be chanting "I want to go there..." soon enough.
Damn you, Shakira and your seductive flexing and bar grabbing.
But in this second helping, Shakira's not only gone all European disco on us,
but she's included a cage, half an outfit, and a nude bodysuit that gives the
illusion of...well you know.
I trust you'll be chanting "I want to go there..." soon enough.
Damn you, Shakira and your seductive flexing and bar grabbing.
Thursday, August 6
Politics Of Love in Paris Video Blog- French Girls Vs. American Girls
It starts getting really windy around 0:35 so here’s your translation…
Ted: there was this one girl I noticed on the Metro the entire way and I couldn’t stop looking at her…the girls here are unbelievable.
PC: Any difference between the French Girls and the American Girls?
Ted: I think French Girls…they don’t try to show off. I think that’s the biggest difference these girls are absolutely fantastic!
PC: they have a lot of confidence, don’t they?
Ted: Oh yeah…
Alex: They have this kind of attitude…they’re so laid back – real easy going, ya know? And…ah, it’s different. Like in the States people are really guarded, cold and conservative. Girls…people are a lot warmer here.
PC: Wow, not a lot of good things being said about American girls at all.
Ted: No, we don’t like American women
Alex: Where are you going from here?
PC: We’re going to go try and find some guys that actually like American girls
Alex: Sorry to disappoint.
Tuesday, August 4
Sex YOU Up
My Week is not complete unless I read Dan Savages's column. Now those unfamiliar with his wonderfully jacked up Sex Column 'Savage Love' should definitely check it out. There's nothing like reading about weird fetishes or being amazed that he has to explain to someone why they shouldn't use someone else's butt plug. Really? Someone really had to be told that?
The only thing about reading the column is that it's always placed between ads such as these...
You simply can not advertise any bigger that you are indeed reading something smutty and perverted. And let's face it, I am. Yet does that shame me into refraining from reading this until I get home? Nope. I've been inking up my hands in city newspaper call girl sections for years to read good old 'Savage Love'. Dan even has a weekly podcast so now I download him directly onto the pod and rock out to 'Savage Love' during my train ride to work. But there's still something about grabbing the paper and anxiously flipping to the back to look for the column that I love.
My brain now filled with all sorts of perversion, feels a bit smarter, better informed I dare say. So today instead of spreading my skewed version of advice I'm promoting someone else's. I'm sexing you up with Savage. Check it out - thank me later.
http://www.villagevoice.com/advice/view/SavageLove/2009-07-30
http://podcasts.thestranger.com/savagelove/
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