As Advertised

...shoulder length or longer/ here baby, there mama/ everywhere daddy daddy....


I catch myself vocalizing in the shower.

The other day, the woman in the stall next to mine was so enthusiastically vocal in her, uh, activities that I had to stifle my snickers with excessive flushing.

But here I am, vocalizing, a low hmmmmmmmmmmm of pleasure.

It's silky in my palm, satiny as I fold it in my hair, and the scent is delightful.

I really like my new conditioner.

The shampoo not so much; it has an acrid fragrance that burns my nostrils, and the suds sting my eyes.

Sun kisses my cheeks, breeze ruffles my hair from the hasty braid snaking down my spine. The Questing Sniff holds his leash in his mouth and trots smartly along the sidewalk.

A swarthy man in a delivery truck and a couple of teenagers in a borrowed sedan slow down to vocalize in my general direction. I check behind me: nobody.

Hello? I'm wearing yoga pants and ballet flats, here. And the dog's not wearing anything particularly eye-catching, either.

Must be spring fever. Or maybe my new conditioner.

(Hair; lyrics, James Rado & Gerome Ragni music, Galt MacDermot)

Noir, Anyone?

...I have to turn my head until my darkness goes....

It was a hot night. It was a dirty night. It was a hot and dirty night in the hot and dirty city. Smog like the greasy fog from a rented machine crawled in under the door and laid on the floor like a cheap whore as smoke from the ashtray slithered down the wall to mate with it. And then she walked in.

She was the kind of woman who had a saxaphone soundrack when she walked. Everything about her screamed sex and expensive. Expensive damn sex and she hadn't even opened her mouth. Sometimes that's the best kind.

She had legs that went all the way up and just kept going. She was a hot tamale, spiced just the way I like 'em, and dripping with cheese. She made me want to howl at the moon, only there was no moon, not tonight.

It was a moonless night in the hot and dirty city, and the saxaphones stopped playing long enough for her to speak.

"I need a man," she said.

Well, I'm a man. "Since you're here, I guess it's not just any man you need, but me," I drawled casually. She made me feel like a man, just by standing there smelling like a woman.

She stepped out of the doorway, and the saxaphones started again. She sashayed over to my desk, and oozed herself onto it, one handsome, grip-worthy hip at a time, dangling a red shoe off the end of an even redder toenail.

"You've got to help me. I'm in a terrible jam," she said, her breath whispering past ripe cherry lips.

The back of my neck started to prickle, just like it always does when there's trouble on the prowl. This broad spelled trouble with a capital T, no doubt about it.

I knew it. And took the job anyway.

(Paint It Black; The Rolling Stones)

Chik Lit

...I WOULDN’T KNOW A SPIRITUAL RELATIONSHIP/ IF I TRIPPED OVER IT AND BROKE MY NOSE AND/ MY FOOT AND MY HEART AND MY HANDS/ ALL REACH OUT TO YOU AND SAY/ HI THERE....

"I guess what made him so good was that he paid attention."

"To what he was doing?"

"To everything. Not just in bed, either. He'd listen, and I'd feel like I was the only person in the universe. He'd pick my hand up and touch my fingers one by one. He'd examine my earrings, which at first I thought was just an excuse to breathe on my neck- which, don't get me wrong, was hot- but then sometimes he wouldn't, you know? And he remembered stuff.

"Yeah. What kind of stuff?"

"All sorts of stuff. Like, that I liked limes but not lemons. Which dress I wore to somebody's dinner party. My sister's birthday. How much ice I like in my drinks."

"So you were charged before you even turned down the sheets."

"Yes, exactly. And then, most men go right for the nooks and crannies, but-"

"The three Ns- neck, nipples, nest."

"Right, right, and once in awhile you get one who likes ears or elbows or something, but he, he lingered. All over. Stroked the outside of my thigh, massaged my feet, good Christ, he kissed my ankle. My ankle. Nobody ever kissed my ankle. He touched everywhere. Back of my knee, tops of my arms, waist, wrist, navel..."

"Did he..."

"Yes. He licked my navel. Sucked on it. Bit it."

"God."

"He totally mapped me, found all the spots that make my knees buckle. My collarbone. Who knew? God. My collarbone."

There is a brief silence.

"Not just the first time, either."

"You're killing me. Every time?"

"Except when we both wanted it hard and fast and sweaty. Those times, we didn't even bother getting undressed all the way."

"Shut up already. What happened to to him?"

"He got married and is now insanely happy."

"What a waste."


This, obviously, is fiction.

(To Whom It May Concern Me; Guare/MacDermot, from Two Gentlemen of Verona)

Spring Media

...lipstick cherry all over the lens as she's falling/ in miles of sharp blue water coming in ....

This is the nicest Spring I can remember. Usually, we have rain, wind, clouds, cold, nice day, rain wind cold cloudy, breezy, rainy, brisk, nice day, chilly cloudy, rain rain rain rain, Summer.

I pull the top off, and let the car sing to me, wind whistling a lovely minor note around my sideview mirrors. A mist of spraypainted buds adorns dark branches.

For a dollar, I buy Christopher Durang's BETTY'S SUMMER VACATION at Daedalus Books. It's very funny, darkly so. I forgot I liked Christopher Durang. It's also onstage, if you'd like to have a look.

Darkly funny also, (though most of the humor is not deliberate) is Sin City. It is spectacularly dreadful. If I hadn't had to listen to it, I might have enjoyed it more. Yes, graphic novel. Yes, stylistic choice. Yes, bluescreen. Yes, taken unadulterated from the books. Yes, gorgeous. No, really, really incredibly gorgeous. I loved looking at it. Especially the sequence starring a red Cadillac convertible with white leather bench seats. I had to adjust my damp panties. It was the dialogue that made me laugh while simultaneously making me want to slit my wrists. Yes, that bad. "It was like a bad Mickey Spillane novel," he says. Which implies that Mickey Spillane novels are good. Somebody please explain to me why I hated this, and love Death Race 2000.

Improving is CSI: Miami, which is starting to create some interesting shots and fiddle with camera angles, and has finally achieved the proper level of color saturation. Those of you who remember Miami Vice will know what I'm talking about.

Citypaper reviews my new favorite book, Blink. I wish Malcolm Gladwell could write faster, but he does such extensive research, I'm not sure how he could.

I guess I'll just hope he lives a long, long time.

(Girls On Film; Duran Duran)

In Transit

...playing games with the faces/ she said the man in the gaberdine suit was a spy....

Ugly people must be encouraged to ride the bus, in order to avoid defiling chic upscale airports with their downtrodden blue-collar lumpishness.

Or perhaps it is the riding of the bus that makes them ugly.

In any case, no beautiful people disembark.

The Travel Plaza, little noted for esthetic harmony, is the least lovely of my frequent haunts. Still, it carries pleasant memories and the fragrance of dogwood blossoms on sunwarmed afternoon breeze.

Then YoungEv steps off the bus, and the world is suddenly more gorgeous than a moment ago.

(America; Simon & Garfunkle)

Naked Blogging

...who reads this, anyway? -- Cory

I really must remember to put on clothes before I come to the library.....

Do the citizens of this country suffer from a disorder? Is the American Spirit an illusion? Check out this story.

Once upon a time, a little girl watched 'Family Affair' (a title which currently has icky overtones, but then was innocuous) and said to her family, "Don't call me Julie. My name is Buffy," and literally would not answer to anything else. That little girl grew up, and after a stint as a stripper, a few trips to Japan, and a gig as the back end of SlinkyDog, can now be seen swirling high above the crowd.

Did anyone wonder what had become of the delicious diablo cody? She's back, blogging again (though without tantalizing naked pictures)right here.

I ride, topless, through my neighborhood, salsa wailing from my speakers, a gringa greaser wannabee. I don't understand one word in three, but I'm certain the kids aren't picking up filthy language from the lyrics.

And, in response to the irreverent query, I'm not sure, but I suspect mostly people who are hoping for a description of today's underwear.

Bashful the Dwarf, marked Thursday, size 5T.



Oh, did you want mine?

I'm naked, remember?

Stylistic Variance

...you were up to your old tricks in Chapters Four Five and Six....

He loved green turtles and hawk-bills with their elegance and speed and their great value and he had a friendly contempt for the huge, stupid loggerheads, yellow in their armour-plating, strange in their lovemaking, and happily eating the Portugese men-of-war with their eyes shut.

He had no mysticism about turtles although he had gone in turtle boats for many years. He was sorry for them all, even the great trunk backs that were as long as the skiff and weighed a ton. Most people are heartless about turtles because a turtle's heart will beat for hours after he has been cut up and butchered. But the old man thought, I have such a heart too and my feet and hands are like theirs.

The Old Man and the Sea; Ernest Hemmingway

In the prose story The Tragical History of Titus Andronicus, the Goths are said to have invaded Italy under their king, "Tottilius."

Actually, there was a king of the Ostrogoths, of nearly that name, who fought in Italy. He was Totila, who ruled from 541 to 552.

Here is what happened. Although the Germanic tribes had settled the Western provinces of the Roman Empire, the Easter provinces remained intact and were ruled from Constantinople. In 527 Justininan became Roman Emperor in Constantinople, and was determined to reconquer the West. In 535 he sent his great general, Belisarius, to Italy, and with that began a twenty-year (not a mere ten-year) war of Roman and Goth, in which the Romans were eventually victorious.

Belisarius won initial victories, but the Goths rallied when Totila became king. Belisarius was recalled and replaced with another general, Narses (a eunuch, the only one of importance in military hisstory), who finally defeated Totila in 552 and completed the conquest of Italy in 556. In the Tragical History Titus Andronicus was a governor of Greece and came from Greece to rescue Italy, and that fits too.

Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare; Isaac Asimov

They're more concerned with mainatining their precious power base and promising the moon to get reelected. I'm sick to death of their endless, stupid committee hearings. Sick to death of their lack of guts in standing for unpopular issues, and spending the nation into bankruptcy. The two-party system has become a stagnant swamp of fraud and criminal promises. As with communism, the great experiment in democracy is withering from corruption. Who cares a damn if the oceans die? Well, by God, I do.

Saharah; Clive Cussler

So many times you have expected the worst and life has delivered your expectations flawlessly. Do you see, within these examples, the depth of your power in directing your scenes? Emotional healing does not mean dwelling upon the would; it means looking at the world through unwounded eyes.

Messages From Your Angels; Doreen Virtue

I grew up among slow talkers, men, in particular, who dropped words a few at a time like beans in a hill, and when I got to Minneapolis, where people took a Lake Wobegon comma to mean the end of the story, I couldn't speak a whole sentence in company and was considered not too bright, so I enrolled in a speech course taught by Orville Sand, the founder of reflexive relaxology, a self-hypnotic technique that enabled a person to speak up to three hundred words per minute. It was hard to understand him. He'd be rattling on about relaxology one moment and then he was into photography, his father, the Baltimore Orioles, wheat germ, birth and death, central heating, the orgasm- which was satisfying for him, but which left me in the dust, so I quit, having only gotten up to about eighty-five. And after a few weeks, I was back to about ten or eleven.

Lake Wobegon Days; Garrison Keillor

For all our so-called submarines, it'll be ten thousand centuries before we set foot on the real bottom of the sunken lands, in the fairy kingdoms there, and know real terror. Think of it, it's still the year 300,000 before Christ down there. While we've paraded around with trumpets, lopping off each other's countries and heads, they have been living beneath the sea twelve miles deep and cold in a time as old as the beard of a comet.

The Foghorn; Ray Bradbury

"Hey, look," said Higby, "Old Whaleboat."

The man approaching was Ron Ziegler, the President's Press Secretary, whose Signal Corps code name was "Whaleboat," a name which drove the Californian up the wall. Almost his first act in the White House had been to call the Signal Corps and demand that he be issued a more suitable designation. To the delight of the White House staff, I had quietly instructed the Signal Corps to stand firm. It was a private joke we played on Ron, whose constant preoccupation with his "image" always amused us.

The Ends of Power; H. R. Haldeman

(Everyday I Write The Book; Elvis Costello)

Wheel, Spinning.

...what a pity you don't understand....

We have just left the most forgettable movie in the world. Ever. Is he taking me home now? I think he's taking me home now. We pass a carnival.

Oh, Mickey, can we stop, please?

"Why?"

I want to ride the ferris wheel.

"Really? Why?"

I just do. Please, Mickey.

We stop.

"Are you sure?"

Yes, I'm sure.

"Don't you think we're a little old for this?"

I tug his reluctant, pudgy hand towards the ticket booth. Games on the midway ding and jangle. Fragrance of sweet carmel corn and funnel cake hangs above damp grass and green leaves. We climb aboard. The wheel turns, squeaking only enough for charm. The whirr of the engine is smooth, and we ascend in short hops. I look at Mickey. So what if he's round and solid instead of dashing and dangerous? He'll hold down a steady job, retire with a gold watch, play catch with his kids in the yard. Husband material.

We reach the top of the wheel. Mickey does not attempt to kiss me. I gaze, enraptured, over twinkling lights, frothy treetops. I feel him looking at me, and glance sideways. He's puzzled at my delight. I shiver a little in the night breeze. He does not put his arm around me. The ride ends. We exit the rocking car.

"You liked that?"

Didn't you?

"Not really, no."

It's 1982. Mickey is husband material.

But not for me.

(Hey, Mickey; Toni Basil)

Tanline, Ho!

...it's not very cherry, it's an oldie but a goodie....

A seagull screams above the parking lot. As sun licks my naked arms and legs, I'm transported to the beach, buying eggs and juice to bring back to the efficiency, because twelve dollars a person for breakfast is simply too much.

What's the temperature? I don't even care. The top comes off, and despite the mucho grande nalgas (less mucho than a month ago, mind) I slither into the bikini to roast.

Mmmm. Bring it on.

(Surf City; Jan and Dean)

Ye Mighty

...look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair...

Day

Pull into Park, open the battered case. Familiar powdery smell and white curls waft out, filling the dark interior. I slick on white for the first time this year (three reasons a performer doesn't go full time? January, February, March) and contemplate the next few hours.

The agency was no help at all; the client little more.

"You'll just roam around inside Levering Hall during the lunch rush, doing your thing. Something to brighten the students' day."

So no one's expecting me, and will be surprised by a random mime for no particular reason?

"That's about it, yes."

Lovely.

I indulge in the tiny fantasy that one of these students will recognize me from Faire, be pleased to see Mimi. I permit myself to anticipate phoning my teacher, mentor, friend, who writes speeches for the President of the college. We could have lunch or coffee when I finish, even a five-minute chat. Something.

I spend three hours encouraging people to change the shapes of their faces, with curling mouths and crinkled eyes. Expression + gesture + timing = comedy. Sometimes. I am mostly successful, but it is work, amusing these overly serious StudyMeisters. It is work.

My shift over, I phone The Professor: out of his office. (I am little surprised to hear his voice on my answering machine when I return home.) I exit in full regalia, in full character. Someone has chalked a crude hopscotch on the dignified red brick walk. I engage, and at finish, sketch a quick bow to the sound that greets me from rooftop workmen: applause.

Thank you very much.

Night

At the bar, I banter casually with the tender, who is confused but earnest, which I find engaging. He's not sure if it's a proton or a neutron that's missing from either a hydrogen atom or an oxygen one, but it causes a, a...

Free radical?

That's it! He hands over the two dollar coffee and four dollar beer.

Back at the table, Primarily Decorative is out of her depth. Political "Us vs. Them" rhetoric flies fast and furious. Instead, I focus on c., making time with the chick on the other side of the table, who's grooving on him anyway, so this should be easy. If he wants it. He's getting her number. The tender appears at our table, ostensibly to clear empties and bring refills, which no one needs. Now he's talking about the difference between partially and completely hydrogenated fats, and asking if I live around here. No. At a crucial moment, I am distracted by c., who has made his way to the other side of the table and asks, "Are you doing anything tomorrow?" The tender fades.

I have missed all the good stuff, I think, and leave feeling fairly worthless.

"No use being pretty with THAT crowd," he remarks, unlocking the car door.

No. Too bad it's all I've got.

Ozymandias; Percy Bysshe Shelley