Friday, February 29, 2008

Sadie Hawkins Day



(the above image was found on The Trademark Blog and is of Al Capp's Sadie Hawkins, who we think bears a remarkable likeness to Alice the Goon)




Sadie Hawkins Day.
The phrase itself has such a nostalgic tang, such a sweetly arcane feel, like variety shows, Ring Dings and being sure that God loves you. If you’ve forgotten the custom, Sadie Hawkins Day was the annual turnabout when - GASP!! - the girls got to ask the boys out on dates, often to a Sadie Hawkins Dance. It just happens to be today.
Now, of course, we grown girls have shellacked ourselves into such a state of sophistication we don’t need such contrivances. We do what we please without a backward glance, all Samantha Jones confidence, clacking heels and raw sexual power. Right?
Riiiiiiiiight.
We may not all be Samantha, but our culture has come far enough that Sadie Hawkins does seem like a charming antique. Women do routinely ask men out. Plus, the delightfully-named GaySocialities.com, brings up something folks in early 20th century never considered: “I'm not sure how this plays into gay relationships, maybe the 'bottom' should ask out the 'top' - I don't know!”
Good point. What does the lifting of social restrictions mean in an era when we’re only as restricted as our insecurities make us? Who you gonna ask to the big dance that you normally would be afraid to ask?
Answer: Just ask somebody.
Anybody. Anybody you’d like to go out with. How about that guy right there? How about that woman you met at the bar and never called? Whether it’s someone your friends just introduced you to or that crush you’ve been nursing for “two years, seven months, three days...” like Laura Linney in “Love Actually,” just ask. Get it over with. If you don’t do it today, vow to do it this week.
The world is so much better off when you’re happy.* You’re happy when you get what you need.
You get what you need, sometimes, if you ask.

* (and safe - thank you Jamie Lynn Spears for the reminder)



Next: Part 2 : It Didn’t Work, Big Mouth...Now What?
or
Handling Rejection

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Drippy Tip #1: It's what you don't say....



So I’m chatting with my friend Amy Tencats who kind-of works in a tea shop and I ask about the Oscars. Amy wasn’t into it: “I was doing my needlepoint so it was on as background. At midnight I watched some porn, made myself sleepy, and went to bed.”

It’s official. “Making myself sleepy,” is the latest...and all-time greatest....euphemism for masturbation ever invented. Try to use it in a sentence this week, like "If I knew you were going to be 20 minutes late I could have made myself sleepy before you got here."
Thank you, Amy!!!!


(the gorgeous photo, Red Hot Chillis, is by Susana Millman Photography, found it on her site at http://www.mamarazi.com/)

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Kiss Unpantsed


Every once in awhile you strike pop cultural gold - the media version of finding a $20 bill left in a neglected pocket. The nugget I lucked into last week was the Paul Lynde Halloween Special, with guest stars Pinky Tuscadero and KISS! There was even an uncredited cameo by Donny and Marie. It was as a 70’s fan’s wet dream.
Shoving aside the chance to muse on Paul Lynde’s fabulousness and WTF ever happened to Pinky Tuscadero, we, like any cool kids would, skipped ahead to KISS. You know how sometimes you go on YouTube, find a favorite childhood show and discover that whatever you loved actually sucked? Not so here. The historical documents bare out the KISS charisma in this, their first prime time appearance, with Gene Simmons leading the pack.
Not in my wildest fancies would I ever have thought I’d be allegedly seeing the Max Factor demon a few days later...or 32 years later...in a sex tape. By now it’s been all over the web that there’s a tape of Simmons caught in the act with a model.
Okay....when presented with the opportunity to view the thing, I thought “Hell, yes. This is the equivalent of Helen Thomas going to a White House Press conference, right?” This is the kind of stuff I write about. It’s important for me to watch it." So I watched it.
And then I felt like a bit of an idiot. Not because I was spending my short life watching strangers have sex...nothing wrong with that. Not because to other people my age, “important” means, say, buying a house or getting tenure and to me it means Gene Simmons without pants. And not because it all happened to the tune of “I Wanna Know What Love Is,” by Foreigner.
The reason I felt like an idiot was because, if this alleged encounter of Simmons was taped and distributed without his knowledge or consent - and TMZ says “...the tape was shot without Simmons' permission or knowledge -- and may well be illegal.....” - it was meant to be private. And if it was me - if it was my moment of no-pants intimacy people were suddenly goggling at, I would be pi-ii-iii-ii-iiised, pissed with at least five syllables. It’s one thing if a celeb...or a nobody, for that matter... means to be in a sex tape. It’s another if the thing is leaked. Then it gets the same vibe as everything else you could term “leakage.”
On 2/21/-8 TMZ wrote that Simmons’ lawyers are ordering a cease and desist on the video from webmastercentral.com citing copyright infringement: “Apparently, Gene got wind of the tape a few years back and bought the rights.” We always knew he was the smartest person in the world who ever wore bat wings.
So, yeah, I saw it, but I’m not judging it. It doesn’t seem fair. And it’s too easy to be snarky about something like this. It’s not like taking candy from a baby...it’s like taking candy from a statue. There’s no game in it.
And besides....this is Gene Simmons. From Kiss. He is a pop cultural legend without whose contributions we’d have had to listen to a helluva lot more Donny and Marie than most of you could stomach. I know it’s out of fashion, but how about a little respect?

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Booty Calls



Queen stuck up for us first. Then we had Spinal Tap and Sir Mix-a-Lot. Now we ladies of generous booty have DJ Mix and DJ Eloh in the Ivory Coast. These guys have started a big-ass craze for big asses in that country with their hit Bobaraba. According to this BBC story that means “means "big bottom" in the local Djoula language.” (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7233565.stm)

Finally! A trend I don’t need to spend any money on!! You could have your company picnic on my back porch.
Some women in Ivory Coast don’t feel that way though - now they want to make their bottoms bigger. The BBC says “some women are now going in search of a "bobaraba" and the dance, says the story’s subhead, “has spawned a black market in treatments claiming to increase one's bottom size.” The story describes an injection and a cream sold in a market outside Abidjan with packaging that says “B-12” but doesn’t disclose the ingredients. A local gynecologist is quoted as saying "The health ministry hasn't authorised this and doctors don't know what's in there, so there are risks."
Alas - I guess women everywhere are susceptible to cultural whim. Thankfully, reporter John James writes that most women he spoke to “preferred to avoid the treatments,” including one who said "Me? I prefer to be natural so you can know your true value.”
Words to live by. And the song ain’t bad either. Check it out on the link to the the right: Bobaraba.
Not sure how to pronounce it - maybe do three shots and try to say “Barbarella”?

Artwork: Her Adorable Derriere with Tattoos, by Nina Kuriloff, whose lovely paintings I found on line. :)

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Clean and Dirty





Snore Play: Initiating sex just to get your partner to stop snoring.
Gore Play: Sucking up to a hot greenie by acting like you're much more passionate about global warming and plastic bags than you really are.
More-More-Moreplay: Using 70’s porn and porn-related soundtracks to set the mood.

Alright, that’s enough of that. No more Kazurinsky-isms. I only thought of them because of an article on “Choreplay,” as in this story from The Ottowa Citizen (exerpted):

Want a roll in the hay? Think 'choreplay'
An online survey maintains that the link between a husband's domestic contributions and his wife's emotional health can prove much more beneficial than buying flowers, reports Misty Harris.
Misty Harris, The Ottawa Citizen
Published: Saturday, February 16, 2008
Watching a man perform housework can be as potent an aphrodisiac as oysters and George Clooney movies.
In a poll of 1,300 moms, Parenting Magazine found fully 15 per cent were wooed into the mood by "choreplay" -- that is, seeing their partner pitch in around the house. In simplest terms, women give kisses to men who do dishes.
"I think most men aren't aware of how powerful these efforts can be," says Joy Davidson, a New York-based sex therapist.


Okay, on one hand I can see this. Having a partner take some time to do something helpful is heart-warming; that such warmth might seep down into the nether regions doesn’t seem that surprising. It’s happened to me. Maybe some women - self included - are just so damn surprised and grateful when anyone does something nice for them that they’d fall in love with a waitress who’d refill their coffee without asking. Hell, I’d French kiss you right now if you’d get the laundry out of the dryer for me.

Showering your sweetheart with kisses because he cleaned the kitchen is one thing. That’s lovely. On the other hand, there’s this (same story, further down):

The number of women aroused by choreplay is apparently large enough to support a book and calendar series depicting fantasy images of men performing housework (Porn for Women) and childcare (Porn for New Moms, out next month).

Yeesh.
I checked out “Porn for Women - 30 Postcards” on Amazon.com (due out in March)and found it pretty much as fatuous as I thought it might be - moderately attractive guys doing things like folding laundry and saying sycophantic lines like “Breakfast’s on the table. I’ll have your outfits ready in five minutes.”
So....is that what other women really want in a man - a 50’s wife? A bowl of oatmeal in a button-down who can’t wait to spit shine their melon baller? I don't know why I'm taking this concept so personally when its clearly meant as harmless fun...I guess reducing the wild magic of sex to an extended Erma Bombeck joke just gives me hives. I know that it’s become vogue to describe non-sexual things as porn, i.e., home design magazines are “house porn,” clothing catalogs that include “shoe porn.” But toadying men doing housework being descried as “Porn for Women,” just feels as neutering as a pair of “Mom Jeans,” and makes me wonder how far we’ve really come out of the 50’s.
Finally, maybe I’m just a big perv but when I think of porn for women I think of....I don’t know....porn?

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Right Foot Blue (x 3)







Fell in love with Victoria and Vancouver, B.C. on my first trip there. The area has some of the most beautiful people and scenery I’ve ever encountered, and the food was dazzlingly good. The local salmon sushi was the best fish I’ve ever had and will remain so until they start making fish out of candy.

Between my old friends and our new favorite food being B.C. based, this story about what’s turning up on the beaches was a little bit disturbing (this is part of the story from Canada.com):

Third right foot washes up on B.C. coast
RCMP puzzled by strange findings
Canwest News Service
Published: Friday, February 15, 2008
VICTORIA - Three severed feet have washed ashore on B.C.'s Gulf Islands in the past six months -- all right feet, all in sneakers --in an increasingly bizarre mystery for police.
The latest foot was found last Friday on Valdes Island, a small community between Vancouver Island and the mainland.
RCMP say they are not sure whether foul play is involved and are trying to match any missing person cases to the severed extremity.
Two other right feet, both in size 12 men's sneakers, washed ashore on nearby Gabriola and Jedidiah islands last August. RCMP collected DNA from the remains but could not match them to anyone in police databases.

So, remember when you’re in B.C., there’s .6 miles to a kilometer, just over one yard per meter and three feet to a beach.

Friday, February 15, 2008

C Ya!


Waking up today to headlines like “Jane Fonda Uses Vulgar Slang on `Today' (The Associated Press) and “NBC says sorry for Jane Fonda C-word 'slip' (The Times Online UK) I thought “OMG - did Jane Fonda have a cat fight with Meredith Vieira?”
While some of you take 10 minutes to muse on that image with the bathroom door locked, here the gist of what actually happened, as read on E! Online’s The Hum:

“This morning, Jane Fonda shocked the good folks who tune into the Today show by dropping the C-word when talking about her starring role in a 10th anniversary performance of The Vagina Monologues.
Despite host Meredith Vieira's blushing, Fonda succeeded in acting like nothing ever happened.”

Thanks ladies! You just gave me an excuse to post a link to a story I did on the Vagina Monologs for the Orlando Weekly in 2001 that I just loved. Any story that starts with:
“The human vagina has more nooks and crannies than a Thomas’ English Muffin,” is a story worth revisiting.
DOUBLE BONUS AND EXTRA PLAYER: Popeye is mentioned. :)
Anyway, the link is on the link list on the right of the screen, and is called "Having their Say."

Thursday, February 14, 2008

The Lone Shtup State



One of Goon’s good friends in Texas writes to share this heart-warming VDay news:

Court overturns Texas ban on sex toys
Federal appeals court says law violates constitutional right to privacy.
  By Steven Kreytak
AMERICAN-STATESMAN STAFF
Thursday, February 14, 2008

 A federal appeals court has struck down a Texas law that makes it a crime to promote or sell sex toys.
  "Whatever one might think or believe about the use of these devices," said an opinion written by Justice Thomas M. Reavley of the 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in New Orleans, "government interference with their personal and private use violates the Constitution."
Under Texas law it is illegal to sell, advertise, give or lend obscene devices, defined as a device used primarily for sexual stimulation. Anyone in possession of six or more sexual devices is considered to be promoting them.

The story goes on, but you get the idea.
 
Six or more? Good thing I don’t live in Texas. When I open my closets those things fall out all over the place, like a goddamn Lucy sketch. They block the TV and I can’t reach the dials on the stove anymore, but that's okay...they're useful. I find that Edible Underwear is perfect for getting stubborn lids off salsa jars and a long enough dildo (I recommend either “The Javelin” or “Everybody Limbo!”) I never have to get up to turn flip a light switch. Clapper schmapper.

Anyway, Alice is happy that the fine people of Texas can enjoy their sex toys - or as we call them, relaxatives - in peace.

Happy VDay, Alisk!



(This is my first real post on Alice the Goon...as the tireless spirit of love, I felt she was best born on Valentine's Day)


     Necrophilia. It can leave a bad taste in your mouth. Let's talk
about it later.
    Actually, that's the great thing about necrophilia. You can
always put it off. It's not like your date has to go to work.
   We'll start with something much nicer: a big glass of icy cold
white wine, big enough for a whole kingdom of Sea Monkeys to live in
comfortably without ever running into their neighbors. That's me
holding the glass, about 5'4", tight dress, on the brink of a bender
that will make The Lost Weekend look like a Von Trapp Christmas. I'm
about to drink that house white at a chocolate-milk rate instead of an
unassming-little chardonnay rate, knowing that I'll get a hangover
that can pass for meningitis. I don't care. I'm that sad.

     I had known for awhile that a particular relationship I was in
was unsatisfying and no matter how hard I tried nothing would change.
The sadness came from suddenly accepting it.
     My subconscious knew it had been dead for a long time, had
hissed "Get out!" like the Amityville House. But fear and ego made me
deaf to intuition. This thing was a spiritual rice cake when I craved
fireworks, sunflowers and Handel's Messiah. Still, I caressed,
cajoled, sweet-talked, and danced; the relationship just sat there,
feeling more dormant than ever.
      Well, as Alvy Singer told Annie Hall "A relationship...is like
a shark. it has to constantly move forward or it dies.. And I think what we’ve got on our hands...is a dead shark.”
     Necrophilia. It ain't for pussies. I finally realized that, no
matter how good my bait was, a floating fish couldn't take it. Then I
got good and smashed.

     I bring this up on Valentine's Day because it's a day that makes
people sad and envious, thinking others have something great that they
themselves don't have. And half the time what might be envying is a
dead shark. Or something just as fishy.
     So, singletons - fuck the pity parties. Don't feel sorry for
yourself - feel sorry for people who have reservations at a restaurant
but bigger reservations about who they're going with, who aren't
celebrating a night out so much as enduring it, or who are in
something, like I was, that looks great but feels desolate. And if
you're in a relationship, job or mindset like that, get out. Rigor
mortis is catching. Your reward could be the real thing.
      Happily ever after surely exists - but it's the exception.
Don't make yourself miserable by treating it like the rule.
     Now, let's drink to Valentines Day.  I'm sure you'll understand
if I go easy on the wine.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Isn't she lovely?



This is a good image of Alice with Sweet Pea, which I found on Mezo Direct, a site that sells great looking action figures (including stuff from Popeye, Family Guy and Animal House!).

What's not to love about her? :)