How to Curse in Norwegian

Funniest language lesson ever:

Nice Girls (and Mean Girls) Finish Last

This is an excellent story by Tana Geneva of alternet.org about why the workplace doesn't seem to reward women the way it does men:

http://www.alternet.org/workplace/112128/in_the_office%2C_nice_girls_finish_last/?page=2>In the Office, Nice Girls Finish Last

 Plenty to learn from here. Wish I could say it's surprising that hard work and talent don't count for much, but here in Wonderland, nothing surprises me anymore. 

The Cleaner

OK - this is my first step away from my usual pop-culture / sex / humor sensibilities and into something more serious. The piece is called "The Cleaner" and was the cover story of the Orlando Weekly this week. It's about crime scene cleaners - not exactly holiday-upbeat - a bit dark and grisly, in fact (not hard to deduce from the subject matter, huh) but I'm really proud of the result. Hope you enjoy it (and if you do, don't be shy to comment on their website!)

The Cleaner

2-Minute Zombie

http://www.orlandosentinel.com/video/?slug=orl-wn-zombie101207

I know copying & pasting a url is a pain, but for some reason I can't get this page to link...I promise, though it's worth it.
It's a two-minute film of a two-hour zombie make-up job done on my by Barry Andrson, head of the art department for Ripley Entertainment and make-up artist on movies like Day of the Dead and Hairspray. It's really cool - totally worth a cut-and-paste.

Sexiest Psychos in Cinema / Why Scary is Sexy

I was so overwhelmed when my first video blog got  3,497 hits on YouTube  (so far…and thanks to being picked up by alternet.org) – pretty great incentive to do another one, just in time for Halloween!

This one is on the 5 Hottest Psychos in Cinema with a special 2-minute bonus track on the physiological and psychological reasons why scary can turn people on (this is my favorite bit - short & sweet).

Thank you so much to Jim DeSantis for all his hard work, patience and AWESOME editing and titles! (check out his Movie Brain Rot podcast under “Alice Loves…”) Jim, You Rock!
And I hope everyone likes watching these as much as we enjoyed making 'em. :)
Xoxo
LL

Remember "Separated at Birth"?

They look a little alike...just sayin'...

A lot of belly for your buck

This week I had the luxury of doing a story on Orlando Belly Dance for the Orlando Weekly:  

http://www.orlandoweekly.com/artsculture/story.asp?id=12691

It's really hard to write well about something you really love - you never feel like you quite do it justice. I feel very much this way about dancing, but this profile of Suspira is the closest I've ever come to getting the words right (thanks to her help).

  I've had such great luck with dance teachers, starting with Azuri Zanaar, whose generosity and talent were an inestimable gift;  without her I'd never have had the daring to step on a stage. I've also studied with Vanessa, Bhirgha Gypsikelt and Belle Abbas, all of whom have made the dance their own in a brilliant and influential way. Now I'm studying with Suspira, who, like Azuri, is an inspiring mix of comfort and provocation - she always makes me feel like I'm good enough to be better. 

Anyway, there is a tradition in dance of honoring your teachers - I hope I've done that, here, on stage and in class.

Wow, that was kind of serious. Isn't this where someone should say "Bring on the dancing girls?" 

The 105 Year-Old Virgin

         Clara Meadmore was a quite a dish in her younger days. Certainly there were a few young men - and probably a few young women – who’d have liked to hook up with her.

         Well, tough tittie for them. Clara is still a virgin at the age of 105 and doesn’t feel like she’s missed anything. A BBC news story on her 105^th birthday, http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/cornwall/7663662.stm>Celibacy the Key to Long Life

says that when she was younger sex meant marriage and she never wanted to marry.

         “I have just never been interested in sex. I imagine there is a lot of hassle involved and I have always been busy doing other things.”

         You go, Clara!

         No, I mean it. In giving the finger to getting the finger (or anything else) Clara showed a lot of personal style. It’s all about authenticity, and in bucking the tiresome mandate of marriage and kids and all socio-sexual expectations, Clara showed some balls – and having them is more important than seeing them. Just because I write a lot about sex and relationships doesn’t mean I think everyone needs to be getting it on 24/7….or ever…it’s all about doing things your own way.

         And I’m sure she’s onto something with the “better things to do” motif. I often think that if I wasn’t besieged by hormones I could have been a gazillionaire and had my own cartoon, arts foundation and ape preserve by now. In the time we spend jockeying for, having and recovering from sex and relationships we could have found life on other planets. And had sex with it.

         On the other hand, the subhead of the BBC story says that Clara attributes her long life span to celibacy. If that’s the case, and I have to leave the earth little earlier for all the amazing times I’ve had, well, I have three words to say: I’ll get packing. In fact, it’s kind of fun to consider this idea and rate various escapades: ‘Yep, that was worth a day…oh, that was worth 6 months!…oh, I want some time back for that one...” You should try it. But only alone or with your friends. If you play this game with your partner and you assign vastly different time values or accidentally say “Remember that time we did it in the airplane bathroom?” and it turns out is wasn’t them, well Bob Eubanks isn’t going to be there to help you. As ever, play wisely.

         (Speaking of, I hope it’s obvious that when I say there is sex that’s worth dying a little younger for I’m not implying there’s sex that’s worth risking your life for – this is by no means and endorsement of unsafe sex. This should be apparent, but in 17 years as a writer I’ve discovered that I can say, “Flowers are pretty!” and there will be one reader who interprets that as “Hail, Satan!” so I thought I better clarify).

         I certainly do appreciate Clara’s spunk (insert own spunk funny here). Her story, however, has also made me reflect that I’ve had some experiences that were worth an awful lot, (even losing years, though, as Denis Leary famously said about smoking, they’re the years on the end so who cares?) Hopefully they won’t come to mind when someone at this year’s Thanksgiving celebration says ‘So, what are you thankful for this year?”

Sarah Palin and Newspapers

Sarah Palin can’t name a single newspaper

I like this because it reminds me of when cats try to be very sneaky by crouching behind a blade of grass in the backyard, convinced that you couldn't possibly spot them there.

I know print is dead and I know it's tough to speak on the fly, but the fact that Sarah Palin couldn't even come up with the name of a single newspaper - The New York Times? The Hooterville World Guardian? Anything? - is troubling. Even "I watch the news on TV and the web," would have been good or "Why, I often watch CBS news, Katie Couric...of CBS news!" that would have showed a little charm and savvy (that's what you would have done, I know). To come up totally snake eyes on this, though, is comical...or would be...if it wasn't so goddamn serious.

Paul Newman

 

    At 80 my mother could still talk about Errol Flynn with the same grin she surely did when she was a teenager and saw him for the first time. She had unabashed crushes on a variety of movie stars and was as smitten with movies in general as she was with anyone in them. Thanks to her I became film literate, being taught at a young age the joy of Bogart, Taylor and Hitchcock. And at the head of the pack there was Paul Newman, whose blue eyes could always make her grin her Errol-Flynn-grin.

    She was right, of course. Paul Newman had a relaxed class that shone through so many of his performances - he seemed like a guy you wanted to know and a guy you could look up to as well. Everything he did he did with the kind of ease that only comes from the hard work and devotion to craft.

    I don’t know how many times my mom and I watched “The Sting,” and “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” together; the Robert Redford/Paul Newman pairing in the 70’s was very much like the Brad Pitt/George Clooney pairing of today and my mom was charmed with both of them and with Newman’s wife, Joanne Woodward, who matched his talent and earthiness. Thanks to my mom I got to know great films like “Cool Hand Luke,” “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” and “Slap Shot,” which some might not see as in the same league, but which remains one of my all time favorite movies since my mom took me to see it in 1977.

    Paul Newman passed away yesterday, a sad, sad loss for the world which needs examples of class and commitment to quality more than ever. I’m glad I got to know his work and more grateful all the time that my mom loved to take me to the movies.

AP: Paul Newman, actor who personified cool, dies

 

  

Slap shot photo, above, film screenrush.uk.com

GQ photo, top, from seniorcitizen.com

My First Video Blog!!!!

Jesus, I am so proud of this! It's the first one, ya know, so I know it's not perfect - but I'm hoping it's going to end up like the Simpsons - just a little thing at first, then bigger, then generally acknowledged as awesome, then huge, then stellar, with merchandising and syndication and a devoted core of millions who look at the earliest episodes and think "Why did we think THAT was so cool?"

But for now it is - it's supercool! My most twitter-pated thanks to Jim DeSantis of Movie Brain Rot
for being such a huge help and for shooting and putting this together, Brian Quain of Before You Submit
for talking me into doing video in the first place and Fairvilla Megastore for loaning us the adorable cheerleader outfit! Fairvilla Megastore
They have the BEST costumes, for Halloween - or for down-and-dirty/sweet-and-flirty fun every other day of the year (and we hope they'll let us film there sometime!)

Anyway, these are my Top 5 Most Sexually Educational scenes in film (non-porn) and TV - we did this because it's September and that means back-to-school month and we all need a little sex Ed - contrary to what the abstinence-only crowd thinks. Actually, ESPECIALLY because of what the abstinence-only crowd think!
Anyway, please leave some good comments for us on YouTube and here on Alice. See you soon!!!! xoxoxo LL

Best Commercial Ever

BEST COMMERCIAL EVER

Had the TV on without noticing it the other day until this phrase caught my ear: “….the most sophisticated piece of technology you’ve ever peed on.”

It turned out to be a Clear Blue Easy commercial and though I hope I never ever ever need their fine product (again), if I do, they have my business for life. Best Ad Ever. Here it is on YouTube:

Clear Blue Funny

After this you’d think that Clear Blue Easy couldn’t be any cooler, but they can: in 1997 no less a legend than David Lynch did an ad for the company:

Clear Blue David Lynch

Finally, this is one of the best SNL parodies ever,and less of a parody than some of the shmlatzier pregnancy test commercials would lead us to believe:

SNL EPT

My best tip for remembering birth control is simply to spend time in a supermarket, public library or anywhere else at least one set of kids is running one or both parents ragged. Nothing like a tantrum to remind you "Oh! Gotta buy condoms!"

I Want to Believe

I have to get it out of the way: if anyone knows any sex addicts who look like David Duchovny, please feel free to introduce me.

The “X-Files” actor checked himself into a rehab center for sex addiction yesterday and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who thinks that a straight man who looks like that and can’t get enough sex is the best support for the existence of God than anything any church folk have come up with in thousands of years of trying. And dammit…I want to believe.

Shallow? Yes, I admit it. And I understand how some people, and by extension their loved ones, can be very adversely affected by something like this. I do wonder, though, how easy sexual addiction is to define, especially when our definitions of sex and intimacy seem to be changing. For an excellent look at some of these issues, check out Rachel Kramer Bussell’s 2007 essay in The Huffington Post
Am I a Sex Addict? Are you? ).

Joking aside, I at Alice the Goon spent many happy hours watching of the X-Files (I really was more interested in the chupacabra and the ghosts than I was in Mulder’s face) and hope Mr. Duchovny finds whatever he’s looking for in rehab.

And I get how anyone could wonder if they’re addicted to sex. My own preoccupation with it has made me wonder whether I belong at a meeting as well, especially in 2003 when I was writing about Eric Benet’s (Halle Berry’s ex) sex addiction for In Touch Weekly and thought what a great place a sex addict meeting would be to meet men.

Certainly I’ve been unhealthily hooked on some people over the years – I think most of us have had human habits we found painful to break. But as for sex itself, I’ve decided I’m not an addict – I just dig it. Our attractions, our interests, our changes of heart are endlessly interesting and I just keep writing about it, like a Trekkie who knows he’ll never command the Enterprise but eventually does quit his job at Office Max and open a comics shop. Letting your passion shape you without controlling you – maybe it’s the difference between an addiction and a job.

(This image came from the David Duchovny Picture Gallery on geocities.com)

Before You Submit

I at Alice the Goon am excited to announce that I’ve hooked up with Before You Submit, a brilliantly innovative consulting company helping independent filmmakers make the best films – and get into the best festivals they possibly can. You put your heart, soul and life savings into a film, you’re totally committed to bringing your ideas to life – you don’t want to make something people are going to wind up skewering ala MST3K. Before You Submit is kind of like a transition phase between film school and real life, those critiques and suggestions you used to get from your professors and fellow students that would have helped so much before you coughed up all those festival entry fees.
I’ll be joining BYS as a writer and Sex in Cinema expert and hopefully soon we’ll even have some video blog footage to put up. Keep checking them out at:

The website: Before You Submit

And the blog: Before You Submit BlogSpot




See you there!

Review: Midnight Meat Train

Unless you live in a haunted, abandoned summer camp on Dead Teenager Lake, your home is too comfortable for viewing horror movies. The minute you go get your Pop Secret out of the microwave you’ve diluted all the tension some screenwriter worked for years to try to achieve. The best place to see horror is in a theater.

For that and several other reasons I was sad about Lionsgate’s decision to cripple the theatrical release of “Midnight Meat Train,” the best horror film I’ve seen awhile. Evidently trying to distance itself from a genre it’s helped in the past, Lionsgate (American Psycho, The Grudge, Hostel, Saw) gave ‘Meat Train’ a limited release. It was the equivalent of only wearing your good jewelry out into the backyard.

This beautifully shot movie by the lusciously disturbing Clive Barker has just the right amount of scary/bloody scenes to keep the viewer’s hunger in high gear. It’s gory. I’ve seen gorier, but it’s gory. It’s Clive Barker, for god’s sake. If Clive Barker had written “Steel Magnolias” Julia Roberts would have come back from hell in a rubber suit and bisecected the Hee Haw Junior League with a meat hook and a paint scraper and it would have all made sense. This is why we love Clive Barker.

‘Meat Train’ is about Leon (Bradley Cooper), a photographer who’s starving for his big break. He’s promised by a high-end gallery owner (Brooke Shields), that if he gets some really gritty images of city life he can be part of a group show. After capturing the image of a mysterious man in a suit during a violent incident in the subway, Leon starts prowling the tunnels at night, obsessed with his artistic mission and, increasingly, with the mysterious man. Where this leads to I can’t say lest I wreck the ending, but I’ll tell ya, this is the first time I’ve ever glad my town doesn’t have a subway.

Vinnie Jones in the role of the man in the suit was positively inspired casting – his chiseled, superhero bearing, robotic sense of purpose and the fog of silent solitude he travels in make him as irresistible as a second potato chip. He is the most magnetizing character in the film but on a different level, Leslie Bibb, as Leon’s girlfriend, nearly stole the show, not because she did such a great job – though she did fine – but because her resemblance to Jessica Lange is so uncanny it’s hard to concentrate when she’s on the screen.

‘Meat Train’ isn’t perfect – some of the sensible-girlfriend-lectures-reckless-boyfriend scenes ring a bit stale and there are occasional elements of comic book obviousness, but that’s part of the fun of horror. Bottom line: the stylish photography, attractive freakishness of Jones’ character and thoroughly creepy story mean that Barker and this movie deserved better than they e. There are plenty of movies that deliver more blood with less art. Hopefully next time Lionsgate has a creepy little jewel like this – and a far shinier one than Hostel or The Grudge – it won’t just wear it to let the dog out.

Kawaski let's the good times roll

If you collect anything, there comes a point when your friends will start contributing to your stash. My friends have collected dragonflies, butterflies, cowgirls, poodles, R2-D2, cows and cats and every time I see something germane to their various menageries (or corrals or space ships) I feel compelled to get it for them.
My most observant friends, I’m proud to say, have started sending me penis imagery, the coolest and most exotic coming from my friend Hilary – natch – who passes along this awesome treatise on “Kawasaki’s annual fertility festival” from the WordPress blog Tokyo Times.

Japan’s Fertility Festival

Those of us who have been celebrating the wang and its wonders in our own way for a long time have got to love this public acknolwedgement. If it’s possible to lobby to have this festival take place in one’s own town, like they do with the Olympics, then I’d like to put Orlando’s Eola Park up as a potential host to the scrotum poles, penis pops and whatever else this wonderfully elemental fete has to offer the public. We could have it during Gay Days! – and it will tarnish our family-friendly image once and for all. If there’s one thing that can overshadow the Mouse it’s The Acanconda.

Art & Porn: Interview with Taschen editor Dian Hanson

After reviewing The Big Penis Book back in June, I was really intereted in talking to writer/editor Dian Hanson who seemed to me to have one of the more intriguing careers I've ever read about. Thanks to alternet.org, who said "Yes!" to a profile on her I got to have a great conversation with her a few weeks ago. The story is below:


Art & Porn: An Interview with Dian Hanson


Hope you enjoy!

She's Not a Hot Mess - She's Just Hot

When I say things like “God, I love Pamela Anderson!” I feel like some old school feminist in the world just winced and held her hand to her forehead, like Harry Potter with his famous evil-sensing scar. I grew up with the bra-burning, hairy-legged, HERstory feminism of the 70’s and between that and the portrayals in mainstream culture, I grew up with a film of “beauty and brains don’t mix” that still clouds my perceptions, even though I know it’s just as much a prejudice as any other. It’s unfair and untrue, but there’s still a glitch in my bain which, when it sees statuesque blonde and does not think “scholar.” And if I’m that way I know a lot of other people have it a lot worse.

That’s why I love Pamela Anderson and moreover, I love her new show on E! “Pam: Girl on the Loose.” This 21st century siren ends her show with a broadcast from her bathtub, a sweet and sultry burlesque move for the digital age and she comes off throughout the show as smart, practical, creative, hard-working, unaffected and lovable. She bleaches her own hair. She blithely gets rid of Baywatch memorabilia in a charity estate sale in a fine example of material detachment. She has a nice, normal relationship with her mom. She’s not a hot mess – she’s just hot.

Maybe the fact that this is such a refreshing change says more about the nature of the current crop of stars than it does about Pamela, or bombshells for that matter. Our expectation have been systematically lowered by the Paris-Britney-Winehouse level BS that one is impressed if a young beauty is even sentient, much less vibrant and interesting, someone you’d want to have a vodka cran with.

Pamela Anderson comes off like that, a sister you’d want to hang with and learn a few things from, things like a) being a success doesn’t mean being a snob-and-a-half, b) you can use and enjoy your looks but they’re not everything and c) no freaking kidding – a Walt Whitman quote they used to was shown during her estate sale to benefit PETA: “This is what you shall do…love the earth and the sun and the animals. Despise riches….stand up for the stupid and crazy…and your very flesh shall be a great poem.”

A nice sentiment. And Pamela Anderson is, I think, one fabulous couplet.

How to Stop Worrying and Love the Bombshells

This is a copy of an Orlando Sentinel column that I wrote in February 2007, shortly after Anna Nicole's death, about smart bombshells who upend the stereotypical image of the gorgeous dumb girl. I love them and I love this piece - I'm putting it up because it goes with the review of Pamela Anderson's new show which is the post above this one. Enjoy!

Liz Langley
Even in a skimpy outfit, you can have a head on your shoulders
Published February 23, 2007


When Anna Nicole died, the rush to turn her into a cautionary tale was so fast it actually blew my hair a little. Glamorous and sad, sexy and doomed, the inevitable comparisons were made to Monroe and Mansfield. Fair enough: They were all juicy blondes who died too young.

But I think there's a vague odor of something else there, an undercurrent of our Puritan heritage that wants to be very certain that if you're sexy and you flaunt it, are proud of it, you're going to meet a horrible end.

That's not fair, and it's definitely not true.

Life is not a horror movie, where only virgins live to overact another day. I was raised with '70s feminism and traditional thinking, which both suggested that if you liked tight clothes and red lipstick, you were a twit or a tramp, and only shallow people put tons of emphasis on their looks. Then I grew up and realized that liberation is simply about making your own choices. It is entirely possible to care for both Shakespeare and stilettos. The only shallow thing is thinking you have to be limited (except by other people's limited thinking).

So to cleanse the palate of this attitude that sexiness must end badly, here are some sirens who aren't remembered as tragic figures. These aren't women whose careers I followed, but whom I admired, remembered or just now rediscovered and Web-searched, though I know there are many more. Buckle up: serious curves ahead.

Charo. Alternately Maria Rosario Pilar Martinez Molina Baeza or just The Cuchi-Cuchi Girl, she learned to play the guitar in a convent, studied with Andres Segovia and has made an incredible career out of seeming as if she can't speak English very well. Actually, she's fluent in four languages and is still looking great at 65.

Brigitte Bardot. "Rated to be one of the most sexually active people on the face of the earth," according to celebritywonder .com, Bardot, 72, has been so successful at switching gears that her name is now more synonymous with animal-rights activism instead of her animal magnetism. She's still controversial, but not just as a siren anymore.

Sophia Loren. An Oscar-winning actress, author of several books, Loren has worked on behalf of various charities, still acts and still wows the world at 72. She was married for 50 years to producer Carlo Ponti until his death in January.

Betty Grable. She defined " pinup girl," was the highest paid female star in the U.S. in 1947 and enjoyed a 44-year career. Grable, 57, died from lung cancer in 1973 and left an estate in debt -- a sad end but not the morality-tale type, unless the moral is "Yeah, you might want to quit smoking."

Tina Turner. She of the legendary legs is still doing movies and TV appearances at the age of 67 and, long after ditching her bad marriage, has become the dignified definition of "survivor."

Jill St. John. A legendary beauty with an IQ of 162, this Bond girl, who is now 66, is purported to have had a fling with Henry Kissinger. In the '80s, she veered off the acting path to write cookbooks and become a food columnist but still does occasional parts (i.e., the yada-yada episode on Seinfeld) and is married to Robert Wagner (a k a No. 2 in the Austin Powers movies).

Barbi Benton. She's was Hef's girlfriend but the sexiest girl-next-door ever was never made Playmate of the Month. Benton, 57, did, however, have an interesting career in country music and eventually dropped the Hollywood thing to become an interior decorator, not a statistic.

Raquel Welch. Even as a cavewoman (One Million Years B.C., 1966) or a transgendered sexual revolutionary in one of the (famously) worst movies ever made (Myra Breckinridge, 1970) she was impossibly gorgeous and a talented actress. And at 66, she still is. Extra points for having married a man who is 15 years younger than herself (so says imdb.com, where most of this stuff came from).

Pam Grier. A '70s action-film star with measurements of 38-22-36, Grier was diagnosed with cancer in 1988 and given 18 months to live. She battled it out, and at 57, she is still stunning and still working (The L Word, 2007).

Cassandra Peterson. "My name's Elvira but you can call me tonight." The person who should probably get the credit for the trend of adults wanting to wear sexy costumes on Halloween, Peterson, 57, is still out there looking hauntingly good.

That's not a bad Top Ten, and actually I think Jayne Mansfield belongs on the list, too. Toward the end her career flagged, true, but Mansfield -- a k a Mariska Hargitay's mom -- died in a car accident, not from self-destruction.

So yes, while there is a lot of tragedy among screen sirens and sex symbols (and Britney seems determined to be one of the disasters -- baldness is the only way anyone could see her as an egghead at this point), there's also a lot of success, happiness and life-goes-on. It's not just what's in the skimpy outfit that matters, it's what's in the heart and head, which is true of anyone in any job. Astronauts can self-destruct just like starlets, many of whom have stellar careers that aren't sealed with a tsk.

Hardcore Hendrix

A little while ago I reviewed the Jimi Hendrix sex tape for the Orlando Weekly – I’d said I wasn’t quite convinced that it was Hendrix, but honestly – and I said this in the review – how the hell would I know? It’s a pretty hot video anyway, and a day before my review came out this news hit the web (this is excerpted from showbizspy.com):

Porn Company Boss Claims Victory In Hendrix Sex Tape Battle
By WENN, July 9 2008
The bosses of a DVD porn company are claiming victory in their battle over the authenticity of a JIMI HENDRIX sex romp, claiming the rock legend's estate has failed to prove the star of the raunchy footage isn't the late guitar great.
Vivid Entertainment released Jimi Hendrix: The Sex Tape on DVD in May (08) and company bosses were immediately challenged over the authenticity of the footage.
The controversial video depicted a man having sex with two women, and Vivid insisted the star was Hendrix.
Vivid co-chairman Steven Hirsch even offered Experience Hendrix, LLC officials $100,000 (GBP50,000) if they could prove the man in the video wasn't the rock star.
Sixty days after the offer, the Hendrix estate has failed to come up with verifiable proof that Hendrix is not the star of Jimi Hendrix: The Sex Tape

Despite my flawed-but-typical skepticism the review is worth reading – link below – hope you enjoy it!

Hardcore!

Wimpynomics

Hunter Thompson said “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro,” and things have never been weirder than they are now. That means that in some sense, those of us who never caught on to traditional lifestyles are in a better position than most. We freelancers don’t have to worry about losing our 9-5 jobs since we never had them to begin with. Having spent our whole lives confidently saying “I can do that!” when someone offered a paid gig – and then scrambling to figure out how to do it –we are, in some ways, better prepared for the current economic Wonderland, where nothing makes sense. Sense wasn’t something we trafficked in to begin with. The going is weird and the weird are ready.

That doesn’t mean we’re not feeling the pinch and one of the places I feel it most - and like it least - is not being able to support my fellow freelancers as much as I’d like, to take their classes, buy their art, books and music, support their businesses. On the ten-mile long list of why I want money, after “champagne for breakfast,” is so I can hand wads of it to my friends to support their talent, because they so, so deserve it.

This could put me back in the poor house before you can say MC Hammer because I have lots of talented friends and one of the most talented is Chas Martin. Chas donated the tag line for Alice the Goon, is one of the funniest people and best writers I know, a great DJ, editor, voice actor, teacher and computer genius (see? Weird and pro). Chas would never ask for it, but I would love to be able to give him a stack of bills as thick as “The Stand” in exchange for doing my website, because he deserves that and more, but it’s not something I can do right now. So this is what came out of my brilliant mouth when I had him on the phone the other day:

“I can’t afford to pay you now,” I told him, “but when I have more money…well, I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a URL today.”
“Wimpynomics,” he said, “Don’t worry. Everybody’s doing Wimpynomics now.”

I fell out.
It never occurred to me before, but he’s right: that’s the perfect name for how it works and how it’s always worked. The world runs on Wimpynomics. Credit card debt is entirely the result of Wimpynomics. Budget deficit…Wimpynomics. For so long we thought we were the image of the jet set, but we were really a dumpy, mustachioed Popeye character getting our hamburgers on the promise of Tuesday, giving other people hamburgers on THEIR promise of Tuesday….and some how Tuesday never comes. You notice…Wimpy never said which Tuesday.

I could go on and on about it – about emotional and spiritual Wimpynomics, creative Wimpynomics, about the Wimpynomics we do with our health, but I just had to give that Chas conversation to you right now because I haven’t laughed so hard since the Smell-o-scope episode of Futurama and that was in 199frickin9.

So there you have it. Thanks, Chas, for keeping it in the Popeye family.
Chas’ Crusty Old Wave show - Chas' Crusty Old Wave!! - and his blog are on the list of Alice Loves, so pay him a visit. Hell, send him a check. I’ll gladly do it Tuesday but I don’t have it today.

(Picture of Wimpy came from Monmouth College Classics Department Homepage on Eponymy.)

Brideshead Revisited Revisited

I just reviewed "Brideshead Revisited" for the Orlando Weekly - charming movie, and if you're really anglophilic, charming book and 1981 TV mini-series, too. Check out the review at:

http://www.orlandoweekly.com/film/story.asp?id=12528

Or click the link below.
I apologize for always having the cut-and-paste version of web pages in here but I have yet to figure out how to put a link directly into the text on blogger. If anyone knows, let me know!

Brideshead photo came from the Orlando Weekly

New Twist on Elvis

We’re aware there are plenty of people who are into the whole pain/pleasure thing, but instead of going out and buying bondage gear, from now on they can just go to YouTube and watch this supremely horrible clip from the Elvis movie “Easy Come, Easy Go,” It’s of the King trying – and failing – to do yoga.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Tw2THK8jk


You can watch it or just have someone step on your palm in with a stiletto. Same difference.

But it had one redeeming factor: I knew there was a reason I loved Elvis. He can’t do yoga either. I’m as big of a klutz on the mat as he is in this video….maybe the two of us should have removed our pointy black boots and Catwoman outfits before trying the lotus, but whatever. I’ve accepted that there are some people who want inner peace and some people, like me, who just prefer inner conflict.

Elvis is the star of this show, poor thing, but not everyone might recognize the yoga teacher – that’s Elsa Lanchester the marvelous British actress who played the Bride of Frankenstein in 1935. I bet she wishes they hadn’t asked her to talk in this flick, either.

Thanks to Sally for sending us this clip. The Elvis Pic came from Elvis and the Martial Arts on tripod.com. Bride of Frankenstein picture came from the SUPER FUN blog out of Toronto, Sue Darroch and Matthew Didier’s Paranormal Blog, which you can, and shoudl, check out at http://seminars.torontoghosts.org/blog/

Summer Love, LIterary Style

THe Orlando Weekly's summer reading issue came out last week with two reviews by yours truly, Silver Springs: The Underwater Photography of Bruce Mozert by Gary Monroe and The Fortuneteller's Lay by Lara Dien. Monroe's collection of Mozert's gorgeous photos from Florida's bygone era and Dien's sizzline erotica are both excellent literary choices for the hottest, wettest summer we've had in an age. Check out the reviews, and more importantly, check out the books:
http://www.orlandoweekly.com/features/story.asp?id=12508

Silver Springs photo from Orlando Weekly; Lara Dien cover photo from Wild Rose Press

GTS navigation

Our friend David was recently inspired to invent an acronym that he wants to make part of the lexicon and Goon wants to help. It's GTS and it stands for "Google That Shit." This is what you say to anyone who doubts that you know what you know, i.e.,

"Laurence Fishburne was never on Pee Week's Playhouse."

"Yes he was. GTS."

Or you could say it when you're stuck with a question you don't know.

"So did they ever identify that hideous dino-chicken-turtle-golum thing that washed up in Montauk?"

"What am I, Fox Mulder? GTS, fergodsake."

GTS is the digital age version of "Look it up," since nobody knows how to do that with books anymore but that's 75% of what people are doing all the time on line (the other 25% is reading Goon). Why remember facts when you can GTS and have all that brain space left over for sexual fantasies and revenge fantasies (for when the sexual fantasies fail)?
Anyway, we like it. Use it. It'll be in the Urban Dictionary one day. Then you can GTS.


Image of hideous dino-chicken-turtle-golum thing, that might be good if you Shake n Bake it, came off Unexplained-Mysteries.com

Review: The Big Penis Book / Peacock Room Tonight!

Hi Everyone!

I'm so happy and so pleased to be in the Orlando Weekly again and can't think of anything better for a comeback assignment than a review of The Big Penis Book by Taschen Publishing.

Review: The Big Penis Book!

I had so much fun writing this that I want to share it with the world, so come see me at The Peacock Room
TONIGHT 6-13-08
I'll bring the book so you can see it - you'll want one, of course, and it should soon be available locally at Fairvilla Megastore.
This is not just about that, though - I'm so happy to be doing some work for the OWeekly again and can't think of a more fun assignment to have started with.
:)

Sub Text

Not long ago I got an interesting proposition via the web: "You seem like an open-minded woman," said this gentleman, whom' I had never met. "Would you be in the market for a slave?"
I've never been asked a question like this before and it rang a little strangely in my ears, like George Carlin's "Hand me that piano." But I surprised myself by thinking..."You know what? Maybe I am." It would be nice, I thought, to have a guy do what I say....but then I realized it would even be nice to have a guy do what HE says he's going to do, never mind listening to me. Follow-through, by both men and women, has come to be more scarce than self-service gas stations. It's a sad commentary, but if it takes a leather corset to get someone to act right I have three words to say: Lace. Me Up.
Admittedly, though, I was nervous about contacting my new lapdog. This was a big, leather-booted step into a brave new world for me and I adapt as well as the beetle (IOW: unchanged for 300 million years). Besides, I'm not used to pushing people around. Under all this flash, brassy pink icing, I"m really just a cupcake.
"Go ahead! You could use someone to wash your car," said one friend, who I guess thinks I have a dirty car.
"Go ahead!" said another, "It will be the most empowering thing you ever do."
"Go ahead," said the rest, "if it doesn't work out at least you can write about."
Three guesses why I'm writing about it.

Before long I grew a pair and texted the guy. He texted back immediately - I almost fell off my new stilettos. Most of the time when you call people and it's not about money you're lucky if they reply before you get Alzheimer's and forget who they are and why you called. Maybe, I thought, this is my destiny.
We chatted for awhile - nothing too hair-raising, but I was getting getting comfortable with the whole idea. Very comfortable. Enthusiastic. Excited. About 20 minutes in I got this (paraphrased):.
"Can I talk to you online? I'm in jail and we're not supposed to use cell phones."
Get it? Cell phones!!
The problem was he was serious.
"No," I said, "No, you can't."
Jail is a deal-breaker for me, deal-breaker being the adult word for "cooties." Unless you're a political prisoner, like Neslon Mandela or Joan of Arc, it's kind of a turn-off. I never even found out why he was in jail. I didn't care.
"I understand," he said and that that. I was worried I might have a stalker on my hands, but he never contacted me again. This jailbird submissive respected my wishes, which is more than I can say for many.

I wondered briefly what curse I must be under that i couldn't even make something work with a submissive, who, by definition, should have been primed to please. But on reflection I felt worse for him. He should have been in a submissive's paradise, after all, ordered around and bullied to his heart's content. So why bother responding to me?
The answer could be as simple as "Cuz you're a woman," but I think it just underscores the fact that everyone is hungry for something, even the people you think oughta be rolling in it. You have no idea what it is that other people want. Most of the time we're just too busy filling our own holes to notice where other people are empty.
So, I had a micro-adventure and didn't get stalked. That, in 2008, passes for happily ever after.

Review: Rock 'n Roll High School

Since I had waxed so poetic about seeing "The Road Warrior," at Enzian's last Cult Classic night two weeks ago and since my BFF is the biggest Ramone's fan ever, only death would have excused my absence from "Rock and Roll High School," and it would have had to have been my own. Good thing I wanted to go.
Three years ago at Enzian I'd seen "End of the Century: The Story of the Ramones," an illuminating documentary that showed just what a hard-ass Johnny was, how sensitive Joey was and played segments from Dee Dee's cripplingly bad rap video as Dee Dee King. Dee Dee King is the kind of person Dee Dee Ramone beating the shit out of in happier, simpler times.
"Rock 'n Roll High School" is a whole other ball game, a teensploitation flick with the usual 30-ish-looking-actors playing high school kids, the evil authority figure (played by the born-to-be-a-dominatrix Mary Woronov), the goofy teacher (which the late) Paul Bartel did so beautifully he could have easily been a character on "The Office") and the youthful-rebeliion-about-pointless-crap winning out at the end. The Ramones are the featured attraction of and while I have as much allegiance to them as anyone who was young and somewhat alert in the 80's, I have to say that the real star of the movie is P.J. Soles.
P.J. Soles ("Carrie," "Halloween," "Stripes") was a 70's / early 80's standout - you can't say "She was the Cameron Diaz of her day," because she had that one-of-the-boys quality, but she wasn't that glamourous. You can't say "She was the Jennifer Anniston of her day," because she had that girl-next-door thing but she wasn't that famous. She was charmingly pretty in a bright-eyed and wholesome way - but with a suggestion of happy kink about her - the kind of girl who would roll her eyes a sexual innuendo but who you suspect would be a tigress behind closed doors. Maybe she was the Rose McGowen of her day. That's the allure of P.J.
P..J is the life and soul of Rock 'n Roll High School as Riff Randell, the rebel DJ queen of her class, determined not just to go see her heroes, the Ramones and bring them the song she's written for them, but to get her whole class into the show as well. Of course there's a lot of teen-love-quandrangle intrigue, though a lot less sex than movies like "Porky's" and "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Vincent Van Patten plays gorgeous bore in love with Riff and a shockingly young Clint Howard is the profiteering matchmater who plans to set him up with her.
Riff, however, only has eyes for Joey Ramone. "He's so tall and handsome," or maybe it was good-looking, but whatever it is, P.J. says it with the dreamy conviction of true love which made members of the audience LOL with ironic abandon. She should win a retroactive Teensploitation Oscar for this moment alone.
Don't get me wrong. I love Joey. Everyone loves Joey. I have been part of seances held by people who wanted to talk to Joey after his passing. But first of all, I'm not sure most people have ever seen his face and those who have will admit that he's no Viggo Mortenson. He might not even have been a Clint Howard. Anyway, appearing entirely convinced that Joey Ramone was Cary Grant, PJ Soles deserves a statuette.
If Joey's charisma didn't lie in his looks....well, it didn't lie in his eloquence, either. The few lines Joey does have when he finally meets his biggest fan are handed over with such a mush-mouth delivery that, I'm told by fans that they had to rewind the VHS half a dozen times before understanding what he says.
Nontheless, Joey was Joey and he had enough charisma to be a huge part of making that legendary band what it was and it was fun to see them being completely out of place in a teensploitation film. If Rock 'n Roll High School didn't have the script, the cast or the inspired look at teen issues that its peers did, one thing it has, was born to have, is the best soundtrack of any teensploitation movie ever made.

Check Enzian's calendar at www.enzian.org for the next Cult Classic

Image of PJ Soles from Classic-Horror.net

Movie Review: The Road Warrior

In 1981 Mel Gibson was not associated with Jesus or “sugar tits” because no one knew who he was and gas prices hit a high of $1.35 (”which, in today's dollars, comes out to $3.10.” according to CNN Money.com.) This was the year of “Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior.”

Enzian Theater couldn’t have picked a better Cult Classic for our fuel-flummoxed time than this movie. Set in a bleak future where global warming clearly has a chokehold on the planet (though it’s never mentioned), gasoline is so scarce that nobody can get hold of it except the gangs. And when they get it where do they go? To terrorize people and steal their gas.

See what happens when you don’t listen to Al Gore and invest in alternative fuel technologies? You end up getting hunted by homoerotic bikers in the dessert. Now go buy a Prius (and get me one while you’re up).

This was my first viewing of Road Warrior, which is largely about one of those bad-ass gangs trying to get a gas reserve away from a group of new wave hippies aided by Mel Gibson - did you catch that? The hippie-ish commune-dwellers are the guardians of the fossil fuel in this movie. Evidently riding your stupid bike everywhere doesn’t sound so great when it’s really hot and you’re getting shot at by guys with crossbows. So the good guys defend the fuel with their lives. You can tell they are the good guys because they wear lighter colors, honor their agreements and harbor a feral child, a little boy in a big Jessica Hahn wig who throws the meanest boomerang the world has ever seen.

The evil marauders, conversely, are conspicuous due to their bondage wear: leashes, leather masks and harnesses give their tribe the look of either a biker camp or the Mr. Australia Leather competition. The gangs’ leader is a prime example: from the neck brace up he’s Halloween’s Jason; from the neck down he’s kind of like King Leonidis from The 300, the most homoerotic film since “Harald and Koomar go to the Broadway Baths.”

The biker who hates Mel Gibson the most (and he never even saw The Passion of That One Guy) is a burley bastard in assless chaps, a Manic Panic mowhawk and more feathers than Phyllis Diller. His most striking accessory, though, is what appears to be his glam-rock rent boy, a glum blonde who shadows him everywhere. It seems pretty clear they’re an item, though it’s never stated, interesting, because 1981 also saw the debut of “Love, Sidney,” a sitcom notorious for having the first gay lead but never identifying him as gay. So it wasn’t a time of “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” - more a time of “Don’t tell but hint like you’re playing Olympic-level Charades.”

No doubt about it - between the crimped hair, stylish leather, the homoerotica and the dumpster-chic that prefigured grunge by 10 years and Kevin Federline by 25, this was one fashion-forward movie and I’m not the only one who noticed. Entertainment Weekly said that “film fashion would never be the same” after this; nor would our vision of the future. In the Logan’s Run / Sleeper / Jetsons vision of the 60’s and early 70’s, the future was spic-and-span, silver and white, sleek and shiny. Then along comes Alien (1979) and the Mad Max films. In a flash the future turned gritty, grotty, dirty, shabby, haphazard, mismatched, aggressive and dangerous no matter how young you were. The world of tomorrow was suddenly ugly and so was everyone in it.

And the coolest thing? After all that vision, progression and creative outerwear the whole damn movie is really about car chases.

But they’re great car chases! I don’t even like that kind of thing and when I left I wished I was driving a couple of Hummers glued together instead of my little Honda, just so I could feel butch. This is pre-CGI, too - you can watch the crashes, the guys getting squished between cars and sliding under trucks and think “how did they do that?” With CGI you know how they did it: they moved a mouse. With the Road Warrior it’s fun to wonder.

Anyway, if you’ve never seen it - or if you have and need a re-view - this is a perfect to watch the The Road Warrior and see how much wit, flair and cultural impact an action picture can have. And if our gas situation is ever going to get bad enough to involve crossbows.


Enzian is doing great with their Cult Classics and I think I know why - people are so broke these days they’re leery of spending money on new movies. With the Cult Classics a) they’re only $5 and b) people already know the movie is good and c) it's really, really fun to see old stuff, especially if it's new to you, on a big screen. So they’re ponying up like crazy. The theater has even extended the Cult Classics to twice a month. Next week - that’s June 3 - they’re showing Rock and Roll High School which means we’re probably in for another lesson in the history of style. C’mon -who didn’t learn something from the those Ramone’s haircuts? Where do you think Toni Tenille got the idea?

Swing Away

Some writers like putting words in combinations they’re sure no one has ever heard before. George Carlin is famous for stuff like “Hand me that piano.” Douglas Adams remarked that no language has produced the phrase “As beautiful as an airport.”

My new favorite unlikely set of words is “ornamental testicles.”

Testicles are many things to many people but on their list of their attributes “ornamental” would limp in at last place, or maybe next to last, just before “steely.” Some people think that penises are ugly - I think they’re quite strikingly beautiful. They are, however, like the cute guy who always arrives at the party trailed by his funny- looking sidekick - think Ricky Ricardo and Fred Mertz. I love men, some more frequently or avidly than others. I think they’re spectacular. But balls are only ornamental like a garnish is ornamental: the main reason anyone swallows up that sprig of endive is because it happens to be right next to the steak.

Balls are reproductively functional. They are euphemistically invaluable. They are a point of vulnerability as crucial as the exhaust port on the Death Star. But the only thing they should ever be found hanging off in an ornamental fashion is a man.

Which brings us to the latest in homegrown Florida idiocy: guys hanging replicas of balls from their trucks and other guys taking the legislative time to try to ban them.

Yes, there are things called Truck Nutz, plastic or metal replicas of testicles, with which some people, presumably blind ones, decorate their vehicles with in a festive manner. In the many stories I’ve read about this dumb phenomenon, not one addressed the obvious question: why? Who could think that a faux nut sack dangling off their bumper is attractive, alluring, instructive, witty, intriguing, suggestive, declarative, funny, pithy, challenging or ornamental? The only conclusion I can come up with is that these guys just love handling nuts that aren’t their own and will find any excuse to do so.

Not everyone loves decorative cobblers, though. In fact, Sen. Carey Baker, (R-Eustis) tried to get them off road, proposing a $60 fine for motorists who festoon their vehicles thus. Baker’s provision was attached to a highway safety bill but, as of May 1, the AP described the balls as being “snipped form legislation.”

And despite the fact that I think truck nuts are the ugliest thing this side of a gum disease pamphlet I’m glad they won’t be banned. Freedom of expression cannot be limited to the expressions we find tasteful and if some people think ersatz nads will perk up their ride, let ‘em have at it. As someone on NPR said this week, “Vive Vas Deferens.”

Besides, this particular freedom of expression might as well be a neon sign that says “Dork,” and such labels are helpful to the rest of us. Gotta love a set of balls that gives you a little extra kick.

(this photo came from a very funny post about Truck Nutz on Rabidmoderate.com)

A broad abroad

I’m very psyched to announce that I was interviewed by First City, New Dehli about Best Sex Writing 2008. First City is not on-line yet but am hoping to get a copy mailed to me so I can share the story. In the meantime, I’m just thrilled to be international. :)

Trussed Me

“The uncertain and frenetic nature of modern life has lead to the increasing popularity of mild bondage. When you’re tied to the bed at least you know where you’re going t be for the next few minutes.”
---- PJ O’Rourke, “Modern Manners”


There are four of us crammed in this photo booth, a fabulous party favor where you can get Happy Snaps of you and your fellow guests for fond and shameful memories of how tanked you were at a fancy event. The thing isn’t really built for more than two, so it’s a snug fit. A little less clothing and a can of butter-flavored Crisco and we’d have the start of a Penthouse letter.

Outside the curtain some drunk is shouting “Bondage! Bondage!” Luckily my last nerve is drowning in Peroni or this would be getting on it. How does she figure that crowding is bondage? I’m tempted to correct her and decide to let it pass, little knowing that one someone in the booth knows far more about it than I do. In fact, this guy probably knows more about knots than the Royal Navy.

Tony Cane-Honeysett is the director of “Mondo Bondo,” a spiffy new documentary about bondage - who does it, how they do it, and mostly why they do it. He was also a really good sport about my friend Brian and I butting into his photos at the final party of the Florida Film Festival. I had been looking forward to meeting Tony, partly because his name is so perfectly British that I wanted to see if P.G. Wodehouse made him up, and partly because “Mondo Bondo” had gotten wall-to-wall raves.

Tony was charming and generous, eager to offer some words for me to pass on to the audience at the final screening, which he unfortunately could not attend. “Everybody has a kink...but that doesn’t mean you’re kinky,” he said, putting a twist on the film’s tagline. In other words, whatever you’re into that you think is weird, like bondage, chances are you’re not alone....and if a lot of other people are into it, how is it kinky? To have kinky you have to define normal....and good luck with that.

As for the film itself Tony’s comic instincts and genuine curiosity about people’s desire to be restricted makes a bright, well-paced adventure out of a subject that could have been seriously sandbagged by earnestness. Most subcultures feel misunderstood, which can often result in a defensive posture, but that’s lithely sidestepped; there can be a light-hearted look at the joy of getting tied up like a rodeo calf, and this is it.

But there’s also a layer of pathos when a bondage photographer Tony features in the film is suddenly stricken ill. The correlation between his mandatory treatments and the voluntary servitude he records create the sort of symmetry you couldn’t make up if you tried.

The film’s big question is “Why?” Why does anyone want to be tied, restricted, subjugated? To get the answer we follow bondage models, enthusiasts and gear providers, plus celebrated sexologist Carol Queen and the beautiful bondage sensai Midori. Tony even tries a few things himself: most intense is his attempt to wear a heavy leather mask which made my own claustrophobic heart race with terrible empathy.

So....why? Who would want to be bound?

The answer -as I see it - is most of us....but maybe not sexually.

The kind of bondage featured in this film is just the sexualization of submission....on other levels we all submit all the time. It’s the job wherein you’re told when to eat, where to sit, how to dress (in suffocating ties and rubbery pantyhose) and are subject to random criticism - the life of a bottom without the hot wardrobe. It’s the bad relationship some people never leave, obviously getting off on being emotionally shackled. As for humiliation I doubt anything happens in a public dungeon that’s more degrading watching some drunk girl in tears because Bret Michaels - some rock star who doesn’t know her - doesn’t love her. Submission is often our bread; humiliation is often our circus. That’s not kinky; that’s culture.

Submission can even be seen as having a spiritual element. What else is go-with-the-flow, ‘Let go, let God,’ “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans,” but admitting that in the end Kismet has the keys to the cuffs? This is not an abdication of responsibility. It’s acknowledging that you do the best you can - and then along comes a hurricane, a job loss, a new lover, a dead car, the son you never knew you had, the lover you never knew your partner had or one of the infinite number of surprises life pulls out of its ass just for you. Letting Fate take the wheel sometimes can allow you to just sit back and ride. In other words, relinquishing control can bring full emotional release.

So what’s the difference between giving over in any of these ways versus sexually? Mostly, as I see it, the cost of the outfits.

Anyway, Mondo Bondo obviously gave me a lot to think about and which proved equally enjoyable to bondage enthusiasts as well as the uninitiated. I’m hoping for midnight screenings in which the ushers will tie the patrons to the chairs.

Does that make me kinky?

(pic of Midori's book from Amazon.com)

Creating Value in the Dog

I at Alice the Goon apologize for the long hiatus. It was a result of the writer’s strike. I wasn’t paying myself what I was worth, and when I tried to talk to myself about it I acted like I was crazy. So I flipped myself off, called myself a fascist and left. Finally I gave in to my demands (“No more 2% milk!”) and am back on the job.

Besides, it was imperative that the strike be broken so I could tell you this story.
My friend Susan was at the dog park talking to me on the phone when she suddenly got very upset. Someone was yelling at their dog, she said, and it really got to her, to the point where she wondered if they might be crazy. So I passed on this advice from Paige:
When you see something like this happening, you go up to the person and lavish love and attention on the dog - say how cute he is, how sweet, how smart, how you’d love to have a dog like this, pet him, ask his age, etcetera. Paige’s friends at Earth Pets Natural Pet Market in Gainseville call this “creating value in the dog” - if the owner sees someone else valuing the animal they will shift perspective and value the animal, too.
This really happens. It’s the exact same principal as when you’re about to break up with a lover and then see someone else flirting with him or her; immediately you change your mind and decide to keep them. Whether it’s our covetous nature or outside perspective “creating value in the dog,” works.
Sometimes you are the dog. You have to create some value in yourself, make yourself seen as adorable (or whatever impression you’re inventing) before other people see it. I suppose it’s also called “marketing,” but whatever it is.....woof. Go on and do it.

(adorable dog provided by Katie Ball)

One more for the road

Alice’s good friend Rich in Brooklyn sends us this from Asylum.com:

Three-Way on the Freeway
Feb 27th 2008
By Tom Radler
You've heard of the "Mile-High Club?" How about the "60-mile-per-hour club"?
A naked man and two naked women were stopped in British Columbia last week for alleged sex acts while driving on the Trans-Canada Highway.
Apparently, the amorous trio was making a point of showing off to other motorists while getting it on in the car. After several complaints, a cop followed the fingered car home.
Police took one of the women to a mental hospital, and it's likely that the guy will be charged with "driving without due care and attention."
Questions Raised: How do you position three people for carnality in a standard car? Was a stick-shift involved and/or charged with anything?

I’m impressed that the writer went the extra mile to provide discussion questions and have three of my own:

a) Why not just pull over? I could see doing this in Florida, where the highway scenery is so fucking dull you’d do anything to relieve the boredom. But the BC is so lovely.....why would anyone want to miss it just to see dank or wobbly things that can’t possible be as pretty as Victoria?

b) “Police took one of the women to a mental hospital.”? Why? Was the sex so good it made her insane? Were the other people involved so unattractive that the cops thought “She must be crazy,” and hauled her off in the cookie wagon?
A story on The Province says she was “taken to Royal Jubilee Hospital under the Mental Health Act.” I have never read this Mental Health Act and wonder if it thoughtfully includes help for anyone kookoo enough to get penetrated at high rates of speed with a driver who is probably smashed on endorphins.

c) What kind of car would best accommodate a three-way?
The likely choice would be “Hummer,” “Winnebago,” or some other vehicle larger than a NY apartment so folks have room to maneuver.
I’m not so sure. I’m going to go the other way and say Mazda Miata (1992), BMW convertible (2002) and Karmen Ghia (1968). In these cramped spaces you might be forced into hitherto undiscovered positions and find they rock! Who’da thought a knee cap would fit there! That an elbow could taste so good! There’s a reason clowns are always so chipper when they get outta those cars. Honk honk!


(the clown car artwork came from the racing blog Full Throttle)

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

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/)

Kiss Unpantsed

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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. :)

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?