Dad has cancer.

I generally only post about things that I really, really, like or things that make me happy. Dad having been diagnosed with cancer doesn't fall into either category. That said, you really need to see what my brilliant and hysterically funny sister has to say about it. I figure, talking about my brilliant and hysterically funny sister counts as an entry that satisfies my admittedly high standards.

So, why are you still here? Click on my sister's link!

How I Learned About Sex

For those of you who missed it, here's my submission for Blaise's How I Learned series:

I got my first lesson about sex in the normal, decent way that everyone of my generation did. I found my dad's stash of Playboy magazines. Dad also had some copies of Penthouse and Hustler but I liked Playboy. I remember particularly Miss June of 1978. She was naive yet wise, playful yet serious, profound yet kittenish. I wanted to be just like her. Unfortunately, I knew even at the age of 9 years old that I'd never be kittenish. Still, the magazines had cartoons and racy jokes that even a 9 year-old could appreciate. I didn't really understand why people didn't keep Playboy out in the living room like National Geographic or Southern Living. Why was it necessary to hide it under your socks at the back of a drawer in your closet where any 9 year old minding his own business was sure to find it?

One of the cable movie channels used to show "shorts" between movies. They hadn't yet figured out that they could stick advertising between films. Usually, there were music videos or little animated features but sometimes they had something called "Aerobicize". From what I could tell, “Aerobicize” had very little to do with exercise or with health. It mostly consisted of scantily clad women rapidly gyrating (or bucking if they happened to be on all fours) to music which sounded kind of Middle Eastern/Techo. You'd recognize it right away if you go into a gay bar after-after hours. There was also a whisky voiced woman who would urge the ladies in the video to "work it out" and "and have fun with it". These were all indications that "Aerobicize" was really about sex but the biggest flag that was the way the women were directed to make drowsy eye contact with the camera and to pant through their heavily lipsticked and pouty, o-shaped mouths.

From these videos, I concluded that sex was an exhausting and repetitive enterprise that involved a lot of sweating and the distinct possibility of injury. As I did not excel in sports, I figured sex was something I could deal with the same way I dealt with gym class. I'd simply throw up and claim that I had a stomach virus.

One of these movie channels had a movie called THE BEASTMASTER in heavy rotation that starred Marc Singer and Tanya Roberts. At the time (and to this day), I was a big fan of Ray Harryhausen. He made movies like 1,000,000 YEARS BC and JASON AND THE ARGONAUTS. Now, Harryhausen didn't really have anything to do with this movie but it was still in the whole "sword and sandals" fantasy vein so, for me, THE BEASTMASTER was "must-see TV" before anybody'd come up with the expression.

The big draw for this movie was Tanya Roberts. She'd recently been in Playboy and was the latest woman to be cast as one of CHARLIE'S ANGELS. Her credentials as a sex symbol were attributed to her athletic body, aquamarine eyes and a profound Bronx accent. She was alright, I suppose, but to me the real sex symbol was Marc Singer. 6'2'', blonde, oiled up and in a loin cloth. Also, he could talk to animals which I thought was a particularly sensitive characteristic.

But none of the guys wanted to talk about Marc Singer. Among my peers, it was all about Tanya Roberts. Now, I'd already realized that I preferred the fellas but it had never occurred to me that I was in any way a minority or that dude on dude action might be considered by others to be "icky". It followed that even if I found a guy I might want to do the slap and tickle with, it was unlikely that the he would feel the same way about me.

At about the same time came the unholy trinity of horror movies: HALLOWEEN in 1978, FRIDAY THE 13TH in 1980, and NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET in 1984. That's roughly between 9 years old and 15 for me. The clear message in all of these movies was, "if you are a teenager and you have sex, somebody is going to kill you." Another message was, "Unless you are Jamie Lee Curtis, Kevin Bacon, or Johnny Depp, doing horror movies is a career-ender."

But the main message in these movies wasn't just "if you have sex, somebody is going to kill you." It was "if you have sex, somebody is going to kill you in the most horrible and unexpected way imaginable". You might be bludgeoned to death, hacked at with a machete, or, in Kevin Bacon's case, get a hunting arrow shoved through your neck. That's a pretty terrifying thing for an 11 year old with an emerging sex drive to deal with.

It seemed that the only news in the early 80's dealing with gayness was about AIDS. The big story that I remember was about a guy who had to go back through his sexual history and call everyone he'd had sex with and let them know that they might be infected. This guy said that he'd be calling over a thousand people. A thousand!

I'd already dealt with the fact that sex could get you killed with the whole slasher-movie thing, but I hadn't counted on the possibility that a special someone from my past, someone I'd shared my body with might call me sometime in the future to tell me that I was one on a list of over a thousand people. I'd have been shattered. Most teenagers have a pretty egocentric view of the world but when I was 15, I actually worked out a mathematical theorem which proved that I was the center of the universe.

Obviously, I also learned a few lessons from practical biology. That is, nocturnal emission and masturbation. I won't go into detail except to say that it was my opinion that sex often required a change of sheets and a shower. I could only imagine the mess two dudes would make.

So, to sum up what I'd gleaned about sex during my formative years: Sex was shameful, exhausting, unlikely, deadly, potentially ego crushing, and messy. It seemed I'd learned a lot about sex over the years and, frankly, I didn't see very much to recommend it.

So, the obvious question is, "How did I get over my fear of having sex?" Well, I had sex! There was this beautiful, blue-eyed, Italian oil painting of a boy who was sweet, smart, funny, and head over heels in love with me so, I had sex!

And it was fun. And I was good at it. And I wasn't ashamed or exhausted. And I liked that it was messy. And I didn't die and my ego didn't take a hit. In fact, I'd never felt better about myself. I'd never felt better about anything, ever! It was awesome!
And, if everything I'd learned about sex was wrong, well, it sure opens an amazing can of worms. Doesn't it?

How Does Your Garden Grow, Mary?

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. I've been busy. I hate that excuse for not doing what you say (even though I never actually said that I'd do anything, it was implied) you're going to do, but there it is. I have a new job that takes me all the way out to Slidell AND I lost the free internet I was hijacking at my house so...here we are.

I knitted some socks (photo and post to follow soon) during the extended cold snap that we call winter and immediately following the last frost, I planted a summer garden. It's pretty much a bunch of herbs (not that herb), a couple of tomatos and a bell pepper. Not only am I too broke to buy tomatos and bell peppers from the grocery store, I just hate the way hot-house vegetables taste. Furthermore, I refuse to go to Whole Foods or one of those farmer's markets. Those places stink of dirty hippie and self-righteousness.

On an entirely different note, come hear me talk about sex!

My advice? Ham it up.

This book is awful. It's sentimental, overwrought, gimmiky, and bad. For all these reasons, I love it. I mean, come on! The lives, loves, jealousies, and history of a whole town told through the voices of the dead. And they do it in verse!

My sister turned me on to it when she was in Competitive Speech and Debate in high school. Her impression of the kids competing at the meets was wickedly accurate. "Um, yeah...is this room 210, Poetry?!? Oh my god! Sorry!" (It's way funnier to hear her do it than to read it).

Her favorite (and mine) was "Archibald Higbie" from Spoon River Anthology.

"I LOATHED you Spoon River," she would begin, hitting the "LOATHED" as hard as the all caps indicated. She'd start reading that poem with a level of emotional bile so operatic, you'd think she'd have nowhere to go with it. But you don't know my sister. She took that poem up, and up, and up to heights of melodrama that are usually the sole province of gothy gutterpunks who smoke clove cigarettes and glare at you for not understanding them.

And when she finished, satisfied that I was weak from laughter-my eyes scrunched up and watery, she'd take a deep, exhausted bow and blow kisses to an imaginary balcony. She'd graciously receive her well-deserved ovation of one.

When my overburdened RSS feed informed me that Project Gutenberg had added Spoon River to their catalog, I pulled up "Archibald Higbie". I read that poem aloud with every over-acting fiber of my being and, let me tell you, it is cathartic. Pull it up, my friends. Try it yourself. You won't regret it. I'll even make it easy on you. Just head here.

Goodbye, Zelda

Yeah, I met her. I'd walked into the coffee shop around the corner from my apartment and the barista says to me, "Hey, it's that lady from Poltergeist!" By the way, I think I'd rather be called a "coffee jockey" or "java jerk" over anything as pretentious-sounding as "barista".

Anyway, living in the French Quarter gives you a bit of immunity from being starstruck. After all, my immediate neighbors were an '80's sitcom/Lifetime Network legend and her nearly-as-famous husband. Still, the chance to meet the little lady who sang "Here Comes The Bride, Big Fat And Wide" in Sixteen Candles was pretty irresistible.

She was sitting at a little table next to a window. The table opposite hers was free so I sat down and pulled out a script I was working on (How clever and subtle was I?). She looked up, saw the script and said, "Excuse me, are you an actor?"

"Why yes I am!" says I.

She was funny, gossipy, interesting, and a little dirty. She told me that she always imagined that Tangina's fantasy job was to be a dealer in Vegas. I liked her a lot. We hung out for a few days while she was in town. We exchanged phone calls and birthday cards for a few years but, as sometimes happens with long-distance friendships, we eventually lost touch.

I'm not coming up with a "point" or "moral of the story" here. I just thought I should say something about Zelda. Maybe, wish her well...

So, my friend Sturtle gave me a shout-out. And it's awesome 'cause he's so cool and smart and funny and stuff, but it's also scary 'cause people actually read his blog. Not just regular people, either. Really, really, highbrow, A-list, know-what-they're-talking-about, type people read his blog. People I really admire and respect read his blog. People with opinions read his blog.

(Did ya notice how I put the word "opinions" in italics? I did it to indicate that I mean "opinions" beyond the garden variety, "I think Brussels Sprouts are yucky," or "Glen Beck is a sphincter-face!".)

Now, I feel like I ought to make it interesting and thoughtful but all I can think of is "here's a picture of my house from when I was a kid! It's pink!"

Morning Time

This morning, I discovered that I like the color blue, polka dots, and swirly shapes. Hm.

My House Smells Like Dog

These are the hounds. From left to right: Cosmo, Ocho, Nelson, and not on the couch, Goober. Ocho and Nelson are a lot bigger than they look in this picture because they're all curled up against the cold.

My house smells like dog. It smells like a mixture of wet dog, dirty dog, just washed dog, dog slobber, dog fart, dog toys, chewy bones, dog food, and oh-so-faintly of dog piddle. We successfully navigated potty training a long time ago but unless you strip the floors and repaint the room, you never really get the smell out.

No matter how thoroughly we clean and deodorize, that "dog smell" hangs around. Here's the thing: I LOVE the way my house smells.

The Turban

For years, I'd hoped someone would bring back the turban. It looks like it's going to be me.

I caught a friend (occasionally NSFW) of mine doing this with his scarf while we were rehearsing a show. I'm totally stealing the idea.

Myrna Loy

For those of you who don't know who Myrna Loy is, please watch The Thin Man series. Due respect to Mr. Powell, the movies would have been nothing without her. I'm biased, of course, because Myrna Loy was my favorite type of woman. She was the type of gal that would sparkle whether you took her to an opera house or a beer hall. God bless the broad.