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!”

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. :)

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!

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.

Or I could just throw on the ex's shirt and make the midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show and be a sexy Janet in black leather heels.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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?!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, Hint...off your lazy bum!)

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.

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….

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.

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.