The Sex Column

...Which is an appropriately Freudian title.

How can I put this delicately? I, uh...got a...thang goin' on with, um...somebody, and I find my thoughts drifting southward in a zipperly direction. However, after a protracted period of self imposed semi-celibate contemplation, my thoughts are of a decidedly different and more complex flavor than they were before. At least I think they are. Here then, are some poorly organized thoughts of a crotchal bent:

Sex is viewed by people as many things: passionate, sacred, icky, predatory, sinful, magical, joyous, and many more. However, I've never heard it described, at least in any public forum, the way (one way) I like to think of it. I like to think of it as two (or more I suppose) people getting together and fiddling with their genitals in childlike, innocent fun. Joyous after a fashion, but with a mischievous giggle and feeling of "secret play time". When viewed like that, it takes away the prejudices and assumptions that can make sex so emotionally turbulent. It puts it on your terms and your terms only. It opens up possibilities of acceptable behavior that were unattainable before: You can be monogamous or polyamorous, gay or straight or bi or any combination you want, intimately emotional or coldly mercenary, deeply in love or just friends, penetrative or nonpenetrative. Since it's a just a fun game between your and your partner's inner children, the "rules" are whatever you make them. I like that view.

(this thought is courtesy of my friend Kim) All people look good naked. Hard to grok that, I know, but it's true. Clothing binds people into shapes to which their bodies are not naturally inclined. Without the restrictions of clothing, the body returns to it's natural shape and the innate beauty of even the "ugliest" people comes through. Not everybody is gorgeous naked, but everybody's natural beauty shows itself when nude.

I don't believe in "foreplay". Not in the sense that I'm one of those guys that just wants to stick it in; I leave that to the religious fundamentalists and repressed homosexuals. No, I mean that the term "foreplay" implies that everything you do prior to sticking the dick in the hole is just prep for sticking the dick in the hole and that sticking the dick in the hole is the inevitable result. It could be that my opinion on this subject comes from having dated and slept with a number of lesbians, but if you are doing something, you should be doing that as well as you can, not just using it to get to the next activity. Think about it this way: If foreplay exists, then no lesbian ever has sex. Sex is not just penetration. It's a whole spectrum of activities from kissing to fisting, all of which, if done well, can be ends in themselves not just build-up to coitus.

One reasons for promiscuity? The sneaking suspicion that this will the last time you have sex, because you can never figure out what exactly you did to get into this situation in the first place.

Why is cocksucker an insult? There are certainly worse things you could do to somebody. It's actually a pretty nice thing to do. The kind of thing you hope somebody will do on your birthday. Really, if you're a polite person, you'll say thank you afterwards. I separate my exes into good exes and bad exes. On the list of bad ones, not a cocksucker in the bunch. On the good list, cocksuckers each and every one of them. Now I'm not saying that's what makes them good or bad exes. It's just that cocksucking and decency seem to go hand in hand. What can I say, I'm a romantic.

Advice for men: Do you want more head? I have a solution. You may say "ewwww" but bear with me. Get out there and suck some dick yourself. This works for two reasons. First, you then have ammunition to refute anything your mate says about it if she starts offering excuses that aren't actually true. For example: It's gross. Gross? Hardly. It's like sucking a thumb (or if he's big, an elbow). Second, it gives you an insight into what she's going through and may redefine your demands, expectations and boundaries. For example, I came to the conclusion that I don't like to swallow or have jiz in my mouth, so therefore I don't expect anybody else to. The rest of it though? The rest of it is the least they can do.

While I usually defer to the broad variety of humans' personal tastes, there seems something very wrong about not wanting to perform oral sex at least in some form. An indication that something else is wrong. Maybe my drive to do it is exaggerated (my mouth is watering just writing about it), but it seems to me the most natural reaction to arrousal is "get my face down there!". Nearly as natural as the humping instinct. Not liking oral sex is as weird to me as not liking chocolate.

In my experience in order for a person to be good in bed, they have to be at least good looking enough to have had some experience but not so good looking that they never had to try. The very good looking can be surprisingly lame in bed.

They say that men think about sex every ten minutes or thereabouts. This is insultingly absurd. There is no way to measure that. Once you start thinking about how often you think about something, you think about it all the time. It's a myth designed to propagate the false image that men are nothing but stupid and carnal. Some of us are quite smart and sweet. No really.

Jeez, I keep thinking of new sex thoughts. I think I'm going to have to make this a multi-parter.

"Captain Liberty: Why do you always hide behind sex?"
"Bat Manuel: I can't help it. It's so big."
- The Tick

Things I Don't Understand - Part 3

What's the deal with gay men and Judy Garland? I've asked, I've read, I've researched, and I can't seem to find an answer that couldn't easily be applied to numerous other stars, some of them even more appropriate. The standard response is the she had a rough life and still maintained her poise and dignity, or something to that effect. 1) That's not specific. The same thing could be said about a million other people. 2) It's not true. She hit stardom at an early age, had all the sex, drugs, and booze anybody could ever want, never had to deal with crippling poverty, and as far as poise and dignity goes, check out her later Christmas specials where she's about as sane and sober as a naked toothless Margot Kidder. Is it just about "Somewhere over the Rainbow" where Dorothy's lamenting how she feels hopelessly out of place in Kansas? Once again, not specific. Hell, that could describe Superman (a much better gay icon in my mind). Could they possibly be confusing her with Frances Farmer? Now there's a model for dealing with oppression and calamity within the Hollywood shit-twister; keep fighting and mouthing off until they lobotomize you. Much better than drinking yourself to death for no particular reason.

Why won't people shut up about Snakes on a Plane? Why am I even mentioning it? What the hell's wrong with me?

Women have internal genitalia and therefore less room to spare internally. And yet, they tend to have slightly larger bladders than men. Why is that?

Why aren't all bicycle "girl bikes"? All boys at some point slip and rack themselves on the cross bar. It's as inevitable as dawn. If the bikes that don't have the crossbars ride just fine, and the crossbars inevitably cause the horror of intense nut pain in half the population, why have the crossbars on any bikes? Some sort of rite of passage?

Who thought the Pointer Sisters were sexy, what were they smoking, and where can I get some? I've done a thing or two in my life but I've never been THAT high. Rod Stewart too.

Why is the music played in gay dance clubs structured the way it is? Supposedly the purpose of the music and dancing is to get all horned up in preparation for the hot man-sex. So why does it lack a peak (ie orgasm)? Why is it most often repetitive and rather even-keel? Why does it not follow the pattern of the male sexual response which you could visualize as pear-shaped (building wider and wider until it hits a certain critical mass and then rapidly receding)? Gay disco music actually imitates the female sexual response pattern which is a series of long plateaus (at least according to Susie Bright). You'd think that subliminal injection of the female sexual pattern would inspire a big ol' softy in the man zone. Apparently just the opposite though. How does that work?

Why don't we have solar panels on every available flat surface in cities? Seems an obvious power source to me. High office buildings, lots of surface area, not being used for any other purpose, come on it's a natural! And while we're at it, it's 2006. Where's my flying car?

Are there fundamentalist Christians that have actually read the bible cover to cover? And if so, how do they justify the numerous contradictions?

"I believe that deep down humans are good and worthy beings". That's what I often think. But when you really get down to it, I know that 80% of people aren't worth the paper their printed on. Most people don't even have the intelligence to recognize that as a metaphor and would probably think I actually believe people are printed on paper. I know this, and cynically act out of this lack of faith in humanity on a minute to minute basis. But still, on the surface of my mind, this naive and indefatigable faith in the innate greatness of humanity floats like a non-degradable styrofoam cup in a puddle. I assume, that no one is really evil and no one acts out of malice, only ignorance which isn't their fault. That all of us have the same potential for intelligence and that most just don't know how to apply it or think that they can. So on to what I don't understand: I have an unshakeable faith in something that I know is not true. What kinda whackjob am I?

A Number of Unrelated Thoughts

Part 1 : Confession
I don't believe in hell as such, but I have thought of a scenario in which a hell-like situation could be experienced. Dying, physiologically speaking, is a gradual process. There is the possibility that the part of your brain that experiences the passage of time could die before your memories. You would then be trapped perceptually in a subjective eternity, with the memories of all the evil, thoughtless, or just plain embarrassing things you've done in your life replaying over and over in an infinite loop. In light of this, I need to get something off my chest, in the hope it will stop haunting me. Back in the 90's I made a mean-spirited and politically naive statement on a protest sign about Newt Gingrich when he came to town. It was based on nothing more than a knee-jerk dislike of republicans, and a desire to impress a girl with my confident political extremity. The sign said "Newt is the modern Hitler". That was a dumb thing to write, it was not true, and every time I see Newt in the news, I cringe at how lame I was. Hell, I'd take Newt any day over the Bush and Cheney super-villain team up. But then, Hunter S. Thompson, near the end, said he'd rather have Nixon than Bush, so make of that what you will.

Part 2 : Artist = Superhero
Superheroes are (among many other parallels) a great model for the life of an artist. This may seem a little over blown, but hear me out. We have a skill or skills, that most people do not have. Some of us are born with it (Superman), some get it through intense training (Batman), some are given it through nepotism (Green Lantern), and some through a series of circumstances (Plastic Man). Some people are envious and admiring of our skills (The Fantastic Four and The Justice League), and some people consider us freaks and sinners (The X-Men and The Doom Patrol). Some artists manage to make a living at their art through sponsorship or government grants (The Avengers), where some artists have to have a day job in order to survive (Spider-Man). The majority of artists are unable to do it professionally. This unfortunate majority are sometimes motivated by fun, but more often are motivated by a sense of duty and destiny ("With great power comes great responsibility." = "I make art because I have to."), and are more often than not, completely misunderstood by the people at their day job. The non-artist and non-superhero can go to their job, do their work, and go home; the artist/hero has to do the same except at the end of the work day, they are driven (often against their will) to fill another, more difficult and taxing, role. We have all the same needs as other people (food, shelter, clothing, love, friendship, security), but we also have another psychological need that is as real as the others: Superman doesn't save the world because it's fun; he does it because the world needs him to.

Part 3 Dogs, Cats, and Vocabulary
There is no way to say who is smarter, dogs or cats. There are too many variations in types of intelligence. Personally, I think it's dogs, but I understand all the arguments to the contrary. One things that people bring up is vocabulary. Cat people say that cats have a larger vocabulary. Oddly dog people say the same thing about dogs. After being rather confused by this contradiction, I did some research on the subject and found out a solution that is very telling about the psychology of cat people vs. dog people. Cats have a larger spoken vocabulary, and a smaller understood vocabulary. Dogs have a smaller spoken vocabulary, but a larger understood vocabulary. That is why cats can make a more complex series of sounds to indicate their needs, but stare at you as if you were a lava lamp when you try to tell them something. It also explains why your dog can understand very complex instructions or messages, but can't express themselves beyond a few barks or whines. So this, then, is very telling about the psychology of cat people and dog people. In general, cat people consider speaking to be the more important part of communication, whereas dog people consider listening to be more important. I've tried to express this to cat people, but they just don't listen.

Truth! - Part 3

The following statements are true. If you question their veracity, the terrorists win:

Most people are just pretending to be adults.

Language is a fluid and evolving structure. It is good that it should be so. Grammar, correct pronunciation, and knowing the official definitions of words or phrases, however, serve one vital function that should not be forgotten. Most educators don't know what that function is which is why these rules seem arbitrary. The function they serve is to make sure that people aren't talking without thinking about what they say. When you stop thinking about what you say and why you say it, you become susceptible to lies, misunderstandings, propaganda, coercion, and myriad varieties of verbal sleight of hand. You become less aware and therefore less human.

Babies and pets are viewed by grocery stores as roughly the same type of creature. You can tell by the way baby food and pet food are marketed, shelved, and sequestered within the store. One aisle each.

If it's made of plastic, you should not be able to call it a Tonka toy. If you can't beat the other kid in the sandbox to death with it, it's not Tonka.

Nerf used to make foam balls and nothing else. Now they primarily make guns. I think that's sad.

Most people don't put much value in missing somebody. It's just an inconvenience that will eventually pass. You shouldn't devalue the fact that you have someone to miss.

Stage magic foments cynicism. I would daresay all magicians and would-be magicians started doing magic because they wanted just that: to REALLY do magic. Then we learn tricks and find out that it's just about fooling people. Magic may look amazing to the audience, but from the back, where the magician is, it looks ridiculous, and frankly it's amazing to me that people fall for it. Every time I do some coin or card trick to distract a child or impress a drunk, part of me sighs at how sadly gullible people are. I never wanted to lie to people; I wanted magic.

The baseball cap needs to go away. If the brim is forward, you look boring. If it is backward, you look like a dork. If it's sideways or at any angle between 0 and 180 degrees, you look like a retard. So take 'em off boys. Cowboy hats too (except when worn in irony).

A sign that an aging lothario has finally hit a degree of maturity, is when he suddenly becomes attracted to people solely because they're decidedly unimpressed with his bullshit. Gaining a measure of maturity, while a good and desirable turn of events, nevertheless creates two difficulties: 1) He ceases to respect those that like him, because they're obviously stupid and 2) He becomes exclusively drawn to people who don't like him, because obviously those people are smart. Picture Fonzie at 50, driven to a life of desperate loneliness, because of this double bind. Sad, sad, sad.

You cannot defeat terrorism. Not because it's a superior opponent, but because it's not an opponent at all. It's a tactic. To be specific it's not even a tactic. It's a category of tactics. Attacking terrorism, in retaliation for a terroristic attack is like, in retaliation for Pearl Harbor, declaring war on air travel in general, and not questioning where the planes came from and why they attacked.

I have probably witnessed around 50 large fireworks displays in my life, but I can only picture about 5 specific types of fireworks. As of this moment, I've decided I'm sick of fireworks. Earthquakes? Now your talkin'.

People who sing along with their walkman or IPod or other earphone device should be whacked on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Hit them sharply on the nose and say in a firm voice, "No".

Cat callers, on the other hand, men that loudly extol the physical virtues of the woman that just walked by, as if they had never seen a woman before should be given an award. Since they are obviously not doing it for the woman's benefit or their own, but are in fact doing it to demonstrate their healthy libido to the people around them, they should get what they desire. Loudly stop everything and with great ceremony and adulation present them with a trophy celebrating the glory of their adequately functioning penis.

On the Death of my Grandmother

My grandmother died last week.

And for the record she did not pass away, pass on, cross over, or expire like a magazine subscription and she was not, god forbid, born into eternity. Like the sensible intelligent woman she was, she died. I had thought that I should eulogize her in some way, and I've been trying to think all week (away from a reliable computer) of what I would say. My perspective of her is somewhat narrow. People ask "Were you close?", and I don't really have a solid yes or no for that. As far back as I can remember, when Christmas would roll around, I would spend the weekend before at her house making candy for family and friends. That was my Christmas, even moreso than gifts and trees and Santa Claus. In that time she never judged or disparaged me, but accepted whatever I was wearing, wherever I was pierced, what color my hair was, and what I was doing with my life. Apart from Christmas though, I never saw her. I didn't call her or come visit. She rarely told me stories about her life, and looking back I realize I didn't know much about her apart from my candy-making relationship with her and that I liked her. So were we close? I guess you can judge that for yourself.

One thing though, that did occur to me was that the mourning process is not about the dead. It is about the living dealing with loss. Here then, in my usual short-attention-span, "toilet reading" style, are some observations, not about Grandma, but about things I was thinking during the week we buried her:

People under stress revert to habitual patterns. Some of the patterns are positive, some negative. These patterns reach farther and deeper, and I daresay more abstract than you would think. Gender roles are a big one. In dealing with the prep for the service, I, the only male in the house , was not to be trusted within the house. I, despite my degree in fine art, my lifelong commitment to intellectual, aesthetic and mystical pursuits, and the utter lack of calluses on my hands, was sent out to clean up the yard, just like when I was a kid.

"Bereavement" doesn't sound right. Since the verb form is "bereave", it sounds like the noun form should be "bereaf".

My sister, the reserved, buttoned-down, polite Mormon lady farts loudly and a lot.

Catholics and sheep farmers need to have some sort of conference on the real nature of sheep. Since Grandma was among other things a sheep farmer, the funeral service invoked much of the lamb and sheep and good shepherd imagery that you find in the bible. People that don't have much interaction with sheep apart from movies and seeing them cleaned up at the fair seem to have this idea that a sheep is a big cotton ball with hooves, as clean as a Q-Tip. There's a reason anthrax came originally from sheep: They're filthy, smelly, unsanitary animals. They are also stupid. They're smarter than turkeys, but just barely. I'd think Catholic sheep farmers would have a hard time feeling good about themselves.

Everyone has problems. In fact I'd go so far as to say everyone has at least one thing that they feel is completely unmanageable and daunting. One measure of someone's character, is their ability to temporarily suspend those problems out of respect for their fellow mourners. In other words, it is admirable and mature to remember that everyone at a funeral has lost someone, otherwise they wouldn't be there, and your sadness is no more or less important than anybody else's.

There is no good barbecue in Salem, Oregon. There is however some fine Mexican food.

It has been 25 years since I've seen a dead body. It was Grandma's husband, coincidentally dubbed "Grandpa". As I was just a kid at the time, I was more freaked out than philosophical. This time I got a good look and time to think about it. This is not a new idea, in fact it's quite cliche, but the reason I bring it up is that I knew this intellectually but not quite viscerally. Grandma was not home. There was no part of Grandma in the body I viewed. It was an empty Grandma suit.

Funerals and burials, being rituals of endings, should not be photographed or video taped. I 'd almost go so far as to say they shouldn't be remembered, but I'll stop short at "they shouldn't be dwelled on".

There's currently a drought in the Salem area and coming back to Seattle, I realize that I'm okay with mud. Mud is just fine. It's much better than dust.

I don't want to get old.

Morticians and funeral directors perform the same function, but are an entirely different species.

Up till dealing with the funeral and funeral prep, I had wanted to be cremated. This was primarily about not taking up space. I still don't want to take up space, but I've changed my mind about cremation. Having seen the morbid circus surrounding the empty Grandma suit, I've realized that I want to be disposed of in the most convenient and cheapest way possible, whatever that happens to be. I'm fine with a party in my honor, but don't fawn over my retired jersey. Just get rid of the body; it won't be me in any real sense. Oddly, my sister and cousins and I all seemed to agree on this point (maybe it's a generational thing), in a conversation not three feet from the casket. This conversation eventually devolved into thinking of funny things we could do with our corpses, something to freak out the mourners; that's just the kind of people we are. I'm sure Grandma would have appreciated that if she had actually been in the box.

Finally, while I will miss making candy with Grandma and Christmas will have to become something else, I'm not sad. Of all the authority figures in my life, parents, aunts, uncles, teachers, bosses, priests, directors, cops, elected officials, the only one I never learned to say "no" to was my Grandma. She was 92 years old, and was trapped in a broken down, dilapidated body, and despite the grace and dignity she exhibited, she was clearly not happy about it. She wanted out, and really, who wouldn't, and who am I to say no?