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.

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.

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


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.

I have been trying to get her to guest post for awhile now, so without further ado...

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, 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 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….

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.

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.

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?”


“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.