Susie Bright's Journal

Sometimes You Eat the Bear, Sometimes the Bear Eats You

The first thing I thought when I heard a foxy female governor from Alaska was anointed as the McCain's running mate was:

"Wow, they didn't have single man on their short list who didn't have a freakazoid, wide-stance, hooker-party sex scandal on his rap sheet— they HAD to pick a woman."

But I was so naive. Sarah Palin has enough scandals of her own, sexual and otherwise, to make a sailor blush.

I feel a bit sorry for her, as I do for all the photogenic "spokesmodels" that the GOP specializes in recruiting for jobs that they prefer to be handled by professionals behind the scenes. The neo-cons have no respect for government; it's just a business they've enjoyed deregulating. They put up the the most useful idiots on the ballot that they can launder, and smirk at every sucker they take in. After all, Karl Rove's an atheist who's made a career out of manipulating the religion vote!

For all the squawking about Sarah Barracuda's lack of experience, I am certain Palin is smarter than George W. was at any age, and she can READ better than he ever will, on or off a teleprompter. She earned a bachelor's degree at the University of Idaho that she made the grades for, all by herself— without anyone pulling a string. She can shoot a grizzly between the eyes at 100 yards, and is a lot better "close in" that Dick Cheney will ever be.  Let's face it, Palin's an L-Word fantasy writ large, and the perfect example of why butch straight women set hearts aflutter no matter where they appear.

But despite her fantastic hide-your-own-caribou upbringing, there is one way that Sarah Palin betrayed her classic Alaskan heritage and that is by being such a two-faced prig.

I only spent one youthful summer working in the 49th State— but the impression I left with is that Alaskans care about whether you pull your own weight, and mind your own beeswax. That's it. How you spend your personal time, and what you believe in, is entirely up to you.

Like everyone else in Alaska, Sarah Palin had "premarital sex." Like every other Alaskan of my generation, she smoked weed. She lived close to nature and was familiar with the unsentimental cycle of life, death, and birth. She works hard and plays hard. It's no joke that there's nothing much to do in those months of darkness besides fuck, hunt, fish, smoke, and drink. Her teenagers are apparently following in their parents' footsteps... they too, are having sex, and now one of them, Bristol, is said to be pregnant, for the first time. (Her boyfriend says on his MySpace page: "I don't want kids.)"

No one would give a whit about any of the Palin peccadilloes if Sarah hadn't made such a spectacle of herself campaigning as a pro-lifer, gay-hater, abstinence-monger, Creationist-dork. Where does she get off mandating public policy that tells anyone how to live their life?

Sarah's been under the Crony Club impression that's there's one set of rules for stupid voters, and another life of privacy and privileges for the elite. Is it so hard to imagine that Sarah also has family members who are gay, or who've had an abortion? When she was earning her B.S. at Idaho State, I bet she had the sense not to stuff Genesis fairy tales down everyone's throats in Biology class. I can guarantee her family doesn't preach abstinence around the Moose Stew.

A number of people spent the weekend wondering if young Bristol is already a mother, of the mysterious "Trig" who she holds so devotedly to her chest. The idea that mom Sarah might've faked a pregnancy to cover up the family's shame is a real Alaskan Gothic. It's parallel to a doping scandal. Politicians have to "dope up" their family history to make the impossible seem believable. Of course normal flesh and blood family members are going wreak havoc, especially the teenagers. Of course any candidate's life will fail the Leave It To Beaver test. 

It's obnoxious on every side. The way the Democrats spin Obama's home life makes my eyes clench shut. I don't want to know! I don't care if they're crabby or delightful or close-knit or estranged or cute or ugly... SHUT UP already.

I only care about one thing, and that's the politics the candidate is fronting. I expect them to be held accountable to the will of the people— and that's not a profile you'll find in a tabloid magazine. We're the only country in the world that makes our presidential election candidates into a beauty contest. Did "Miss Wasilla" say that she longed for Whirled Peas when she accepted her Miss Congeniality crown? I don't think so.

Why doesn't she just take a big breath of icy Northern Air and tell the truth: Sarah Palin got picked for this job like a two-bit player at a casting call. What McKook doesn't understand is this: Barracuda is an ambitious Sourdough ballhandler who isn't going to let anybody's brats— nor the GOP— stand in her way.

My Teeny Tiny Tasty Super Bowl Party

If you were surprised by the big TV ratings for past Sunday's Super Bowl game, let me introduce you to one of the surprising fans: me. I barely know the rules of the game, but I am a total sucker for anything political, poignant, or scandalous about big league sports.

This game had it all. Black head coaches, one mentor, one protegee. Of course they weren't make a big deal of it, but it was a big deal. The linguistics alone were worth following.

Then we had a dude named Tank who got to play with a special court order cause he can't stop stocking weapons of mass destruction in his apartment. Plus everyone's still talking about how the  NFL essentially uses their players to be concussion dolls until they turn into brain-deformed "retirees" who off themselves rather than endure life in a deranged stupor.

Finally, there was Chicago itself. I was rooting for the Bears, as I will root for any team that hasn't had a win in decades. As I explained to my daughter, when the 49ers first won in the 80s, San Francisco exploded into a lubricated sea of love. I've never seen anything like it again until  Gavin Newsom rang the bells for gay marriage on Valentines Day.

The day Dwight Caught Joe, that very moment, I was sitting in a flat on Potrero Hill, the bedrock of the city, and you could hear a roar that came up from Market Street on one side and Hunter's Point on the other. It shook the window glass.

I walked out into the street, and it was as if EVERYONE walked out on cue. You could kiss ANYONE. I got on the MUNI bus just to ride the hottest parties. You heard about how the whole nation of Denmark is on a permanent high because of a big game they finally won fifteen years ago? Such is the disposition of the underdog who finally gets a break.

I don't have cable service, or even a television in the house, but we remembered we had a miniature set in the garage, so we dragged it out of hibernation. We biked to Radio Shack to pick up an eight dollar antenna.

Thank god for the Salinas CBS signal, one of the few stations we could receive. If you're a native English speaker, you're presumed to have cable. But if Spanish is your first language, all the Telemundo-style stations are beaming loud and clear with nothing but a VHF bunny ears propped on the table.

I find that if you haven't watched TV with your lover in a long time, it's... sexy. Surreal. We had to sit in each other's laps to view the tiny screen. Super Bowl Sex was in the air. We practiced our wardrobe malfunctions.

When it comes to anything happening on the field, I'm a screamer. "Shut him the fuck down!" I kept wailing at the Bears defense. I could sack Peyton Manning with the side of my clit; what was their excuse?

Then we had the Bears QB problem child, Rex Grossman. I knew the local press had picked him apart like dime bag, but I was wiling to give him a fair shake. Until that moment, in the second half, when he was sacked twice in— what was it?— two minutes? Throwing passes up in the sky like it was Balloon Day at the Big Game?

The camera showed us a close-up of Rex walking back to the sidelines, and holy shit—  "He's got a pouty face!"  I screamed that too. Biggest professional day of his life, and he's sulking. My heart sank.

Back in the holy days, when the 49ers were losing, but still had six minutes left, you would raise your glass and sigh, "Oh darling, let's ENJOY Joe Montana scoring two touchdowns now, shall we? Let's go for a little drive! —All the time in the world!"

This, however, was your garden-variety soaking. I started using my laptop to tune into Indianapolis live barroom coverage so I could at least enjoy  the sounds of the Rock Bottom getting their binky on. Even the priests were sashaying in Colts vestments.

One question though: Peyton Manning is obviously talented and conventionally good-looking, but he has zero sex appeal. What is the problem? This whole Bowl was short on that kind of charisma; I had to provide all the tingles myself.

The special note to my teeny tiny Super Bowl party was the food.

I know how to make a chili for people who hate chili. —A chili for vegetarians that the meat-lovers will demand for seconds. —A chili you can make in minutes but will make everything believe you toiled for hours. You can cook it as picanté as you like, but I know how to take all the heat out of it, and still make people feel rambunctious. And... my guacamole is the best.

These are not idle boasts. Here is my recipe, rudely adapted from Molly Katzen's Still Life with Menu, for Black Chili with Pineapple Salsa, Susie Guacamole, and Crazy Cuke Sauce: Link.

It's good for any winter day you wanna feel like a winner!

Why Soccer is So "Beautiful"

A month before the start of the World Cup, Iran's chief sports minister vowed to crack down on athletes who looked effeminate. Apparently, he likes losing.

Take the flamboyance out of futbol, and you have nothing. The game is all about artistry and passion and, dare we say it, unbridled eroticism. A culture that can't reconcile those qualities with masculinity will always have a hard time at the World Cup.

I'm not sure what that says about the U.S. and its early departure, but I do know that watching the World Cup feels intoxicatingly different from following traditional American sports. I particularly love the operatic deathbed scenes that accompany even minor injuries, with none of the shame that boys here are taught to feel if they flinch when a fastball clips them viciously on the elbow. In futbol, stoicism hurts; it won't elicit a yellow card of sympathy. Drama queens get all the breaks.

So says Gwen Knapp, sportswriter for the SF Chronicle, in what has got to be the most penetrating sports story of the year for the mainstream press. Read the whole thing here— what a great think piece!

I don't watch team sports, but yet— I know who all the most gorgeous soccer players are— because as Knapp suggests, their image, drama, and sex appeal travels far off the field into everyone's consciousness. I can't think of an NFL star with that kind of appeal since Broadway Joe!

Thanks to Greta Christina for the tip!

My Secret Wipeout

I don't know why I've hidden this for so long... but with the nights getting longer, I feel confessional.

I'm a surf-porn aficionado. Yes, I'm talking about those movies with the soul-crashing waves and those beautiful men... sometimes women. It's a vicarious thrill that few can match. And yes, I have the choice stuff.

First of all, you should understand that I don't surf. I'm a surf widow, in fact. So when I tell you these movies are good, it's coming from an erotic, artistic viewpoint. I can't tell you shit about the surfing.

Remember how people used to put on a slow Elvis record to create a little atmosphere? Well, you can just throw the King in the can. The sexiest backdrop to any make-out-room has got to be "Joel Tudor: Longer," by JBrother. You'll get the idea as soon as you see the web site. it's  one long-playing trompe-de-foreplay.  I have people in New York who've never surfed a day in their lives begging me for copies of this DVD. Now you know where to find it yourself!

What makes it sexy? Well, the music is incredible, the cinematography is like living through a dream, and Joel himself is one of the most graceful creatures on earth. And then there's that amazing water, in every arc and color. Aqua-erotica, indeed.

Joel Tudor is all about mellow. On the other hand, sometimes you want to fuck and scream and pull someone's hair— that's when you want to throw down and watch "Monster Mavericks". Do not accept any lame imitation! There are tons of Mavericks movies on the scene and they are all NOTHING compared to this one.

"Monster Mavericks" was made by Mark Matovich, who obviously loves music. He created a punk/grunge soundtrack of insane caliber. It's like "Cobain Goes Surfing." Couple the sounds with the terrifying descriptions of Mavericks' break, and it's like listening to the darkest Edgar Allen Poe. Finally, you have the rides... complete death thrills. Psychotic Wipeouts. One Petit Mort after another. It's devastating, and for the dry observer at home, a total rush.

Women, you ask? Well, there's many to watch, and my favorite from the lusting point-of-view, is Keala Kennelly. There is no movie to do her justice, or any of the other female surfers, from an homage point of view. The mainstream surf photographers don't seem to know how to eroticize women athletes, or they're afraid to.

The (male) surf-shooters have the old-school notion that "sexy" photos are supposed to be nudie shots, and of course these female competitors would kill them if they reduced them to that. This is one of the most macho sports there is; it makes bullfighting look ladylike.

But does Joel Tudor have to drop his trunks to be devastating? Of course not.  It's these women's sheer performance that turns me on— I want to be SLAMMED by these Amazons, not tickled with them.  Keala gets the closest to that, in her charisma; so if you dig her, check out her scenes in "Step Into Liquid," — the movie is a bit corny, but the footage is fantastic.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Lesbian Cheerleader

In all the legends, all the mythology, no one has recorded their existence before. More elusive than the beast of Loch Ness, more prized than the Sphinx.

Finally, caught on camera, we see them— the Lesbian Cheerleaders. The angry sirens finally showed their faces, albeit in a pitiable meltdown. They did not go gently. The bruise the blond butch gave that straight woman who crossed her is a shiner for the ages. They fought the sheriff; they went down slammin'. Those TopCats sure are tough.

Do you have any idea how many "lesbian cheerleader porn sites" there are? I gave up flipping the Google pages. Not one of those women is a real cheerleader; none of them are  out-of-the-closet lesbians making a serious declaration. There are no "Goddammit, I'm a real dyke and a genuine cheerleader" forums. No esoteric little support groups. Nada.

And yet.... from the field, we see it differently. Professional cheerleaders are serious athletes and dancers. Their reputation has withered to their sex appeal, but the physical demands they make upon themselves have never been more rigorous.

They're required to look like angels, but work out like Decathlon contenders.  They are the incarnation of the All-American Girl, albeit in Vegas showgirl bikinis. They must inspire hysterical sexual fantasy, yet remain entirely chaste. It's a great place to work if you're adept at keeping secrets and abuse to yourself. 

And now we have Reneé, and Angela, NFL pros, caught in the glare of their mug photos. They committed the unpardonable female sin of tying up the women's john in an overcrowded Tampa bar. The impatient ladies in line revolted: "Goddammit, we've got to tinkle and those dykes are GETTING IT ON in the stall."

There was an ambush. Someone called the police— "Officer, this is Florida, and homosexuals are using our toilets." The dykes came out swinging—  the younger one, underage,  gave a registered nurse a perfect black eye.  The dark-haired older one, (also a RN!) tussled with the police. The sheriff announced they were almost too drunk to stand up, and the mug shots show the beginnings of a hangover. I've always wondered— how can you  be too drunk to stand, yet have deadly  aim with your fists?

The frenzy began immediately:  the TV spit in all directions, the Panthers' official web site crashed; ESPN never had a bigger story. Pictures were demanded and dissected.

Most of the web comments came from horny men who  couldn't believe they'd found the mother lode, the actual article of the lesbian cheerleader. They had no concerns about the girls' career... one man said, "if they make a video where they fist each other's mayonnaise jars like there's no tomorrow, they'll be set." He apparently has no idea how little porn models are paid, regardless of their ephemeral fame.

A  more realistic assessment appeared in the forums at the Charlotte Observer, where the porndogs were interrupted by citizens who fumed that these girls had shamed North Carolina, that they were disgusting perverts who made the South look bad, and that they couldn't be driven out of town on a rail fast enough.

As cruel as they are, these sentiments are exactly what Reneé and Angela face in their future, far more than mayonnaise jars full of cash.  They can either get a little money and infamous disgrace, as stupid drunk lesbo bimbos— or they can disappear, change their names, and find different careers from what they trained for all their lives.

There's little chance that they will appear on Ellen DeGenere's daytime TV show to talk about how proud they are to be gay— and how now that they're in a 12-step program to quit drinking, they can reveal how the shame of one's sexuality can practically kill you.

There have always been serious lesbians in the "beautiful girl" professions: modeling, acting, beauty pageants, sexy sports. The strippers and call girls are part of it, too. They are cultivatated to look like Barbies, and the butchest ones regard it as pure drag.

They feel estranged from political dykes, who they know regard them as traitors. Their argument is: "Fuck you, I'm independent, I make my own money, and men can kiss my ass." They regard themselves as hustlers of exceptional toughness, both physically and mentally. They really are the ultimate separatists. Your typical lesbian cheerleader couldn't care less about men, or straight people, or anyone outside their carny-like insider world.

I should say, that I don't know these two women, and fact-wise, I don't have any more idea than you whether they are homosexual, bisexual, or drunksexual. They may even be libeled by their accusers. My thoughts here are a speculation on nothing but damning appearances. The reason I may sound plausible is because, underneath it all, we know that women like this are suppressed beyond good reason, and at some point, it's going to blow up.  The miracle is that it hasn't erupted so publicly before.

I was once in love with a cheerleader. And she loved me. I was the brunette and she was the blond. She tried to show me how to throw a baton, but I was useless at it. The nature of our relationship was secret, and I was terrible at that, too.  The only thing I am good at, is becoming infatuated with girls who have long swinging hair on the outside, but James-Dean-on-destruct appetites under that shiny crown.

I read Reneé as a butch in drag. Here's her motto from her Panthers bio: "Pain is weakness leaving the body." Her deepest loyalties lie with her family and her three dogs. When that straight bitch outside the barroom stall insulted her girlfriend, Reneé clocked her but good. Oh my god, I'm in love.

Angela is older by six years. She knows her new lover is a pistol, who pulls on all her maternal strings. At the same time, that child-demon offers the perfect escape from the good-girl grind.

The pressure will be on our lovebirds to disassociate, to deny anything happened, to put on the mask. But in my dreams,  they would defy all that they've been scorned with.

What I love about Angela and Reneé, is that unlike every fake lez cheerleader porno, they did their "sex act" in the women's room— for themselves, oblivious to everyone else. That's what I cherish, that they got it on for their own self-interest, as opposed to the panting crowd, the GGW camera, the titillation machine.

Reneé might do some Bounty Hunter makeover, like the famous Domino, or the drummer from  the Runaways. Those are her butch ancestors, although it would be nice to leave the drug abuse behind.

Angela, the femme, has a more difficult path, because she can't reinvent herself as easily at her age. She wants to be a mom, she wants to be trusted for her nurturing qualities, and only the other dyke femmes in the audience see that now. Those mean straight ladies with their bibles and sharp rulers in their hands want to see her damned as as whore and never let up. The discriminating porn fans see that she is not conventionally pretty, and have already sentenced her to the dog pound.

Angela said, on the Panthers' web site, that her motto is: "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." 

Her affair with Reneé took the wind out of her— but good. It remains to be seen how the future will measure up. I hope they will find it was worth every damn second.

It's Just a (Gay) Ball Game

Mark Morford of the SF Chronicle has a new editorial I like, called "Where are the Gay Pro Athletes?" 

Like many on the sidelines, he was provoked by basketball player Sheryl Swoopes' announcement that she is a lesbian.

Mark checked out the boys' side of the bench:

...We're looking at a grand total of well over 2,500 pro male athletes, all sharing locker rooms and showers and sweat and intimate moments and you really want to sit there and tell me at least a dozen of these guys aren't right now closeted homosexual? Bisexual? Something? Please. Get over it.

...Think about it. No male fan in his sticky armchair is right now saying, gul-dangit, my image of the WNBA is totally shattered, shattered, I tell you, my manhood's threatened and my Budweiser supply is endangered and what the hell is happening with the sports that define my beer-bellied soul? It just ain't happening.

But it does bring up the bigger, more sticky, fascinating issue of gay male pro athletes and why it's still such a viciously loaded topic and when it will finally be cracked. (It's inevitable, of course. Not if, but when. And, of course, who. And how soon thereafter he will be shot.)

These coming out announcements are strange ducks. If it weren't for homophobia, coming-out would be a NON-issue. You're gay and you eat crackers in bed? Well, that's your business, honey.

No straight celebs ever "come out" to ease prejudice— but maybe they should!  Imagine if heterosexual stars held press conferences like this:

I'm straight and I don't have orgasms, ever

I'm straight, I dig S/M, and everyone should chill out about it

I'm straight but really, if someone ties me up in fur cuffs, I don't care who you are

I'm straight but I like to read gay stories with my wife

I'm straight and poly and I think marriage is ridiculous

I'm straight and I like mutual masturbation better than anything

I'm straight, and I'm an incest survivor who was abused by this business

These stories are as likely to be true as Morford's queer speculations. But the star-making machine only valorizes stars as long as they stick to stereotypes of masculinity and femininity that no mere mortals would put up with.

I was also intrigued with Sheryl's statement that she was not "born gay." This declaration outraged people on both sides of the "gay rights" debate— while relieving others, like me.

The notion of being "born" a certain way, sexually, is a Puritanical bear trap. I hate to see anyone, particularly a liberal, fall into it. You are born... sexual. That's it. In the beginning, there is no difference to you between sex, hunger, being held, discovering light, coming to consciousness. 

And then some of us begin to identify what we like and don't like, our various discriminations. Some of them change through the years, others remain steadfast.

I enjoy talking to people about their first conscious inklings of their sexual character, because every story is so different, and it's such a big piece of our personal narrative. But I'd never want to brand their hide.

The only reason this "born gay" business became an issue is because of the anti-gay agenda of the Moral Majority, who made the false construction that if you weren't BORN queer, like a disability, then you didn't deserve "benefits." They popularized this crap in the late 1970s, not the beginning of time, as they would have you believe.  I refuse to accept their political delusions as a substitute  for accurate sex education, anymore than I buy the intelligent-hawhaw-design theories.

Check this out: I once traveled to a West Virginia former boys military school to give a talk on "How to Read a Dirty Movie." (How I go that invitation was a miracle... a closet case in the Student Union engineered it).

After my presentation, the president of the Young Republican Club took me out for burgers with some of the other students.

He asked me,"How much money do you get from the government every month?"

"Huh?" My mouth was full of fries.

"You know, the special benefits for gays!" He wasn't going to let me slip away!

"Well, you know, I only get half as much, because I'm bi."

It took him a couple more pickles to realize I was teasing him.  He was shocked to hear that this pay-for-gay program didn't exist, and I'm not sure that I convinced him.

"Well, I'm for equal rights, I'm just not for special rights," he said.

I wanted to deflower him, right on the spot. He had no idea what sex feels like, what desire means, or what being victimized looks like when you are an erotic target of people's fear and neuroses.

Anyway, there are pundits who are mad at Sheryl, who are saying, "Poor dear, she just doesn't realize she was born gay, and we have to educate her and the public."

To which I say, BACK OFF. Swoopes may very well have loved and desired men in her life, and might do so again. She might be one of those Kinsey 5's.   It's not for anyone to dissect. In an ideal world, we'd be beyond caring. She has every "right" to get married, kiss in public, and plan her future with her chosen family. That's not special, that's normal. 

I personally think she is gorgeous and would like her to announce that she's MY girlfriend. We all have our little agendas!

Swoopes has done something a lot of guys in her Nikes must envy. She gets to embrace her family and public life without living a lie, sporting a beard, or acting profoundly unnatural— and this is a credit to her mental health. She'll live longer and wiser for it!

Danica Patrick is My Birthday Baby Superstar

Okay, guess who shares a birthday with IRL racing superstar Danica Patrick?  It’s March 25, which means she is psychic twins with Aretha Franklin, Simone Signoret, Gloria Steinem, and ME!

I haven’t had a crush in a long time, so discovering Danica Patrick, who turned pro when she was only fourteen years old,  is the adrenaline surge I craved. Can we drool for a minute together? She is so fucking cute. She will run you off the road, crying and choking on her fumes— and you will LOVE IT.

I want to be the girl with the cleavage who hands her the trophy and sobs uncontrollably.

Danica drives Toyota— and I drive a Toyota. I knew you’d be impressed.

Now what do I know about race car driving?  Not much, although I first ended up in the pit because of a movie, Heart Like a Wheel, about another champion woman race car driver, Shirley Muldowney.

Bonnie Bedelia— and this is where it gets really spooky— played the title role in the film, and she ALSO is born March 25th. Bedelia's portrayal of this gutsy, proto-feminist hellraiser, the fastest thing on wheels, who never apologized for either her speed or her sexuality, is one of my favorite performances of all time.  Don't you dare raise a daughter and not show her this movie.

The year Heart Like a Wheel came out, I put on my leathers and went with Honey Lee, my girlfriend, to the pit at the old Fremont racetrack to meet Shirley Muldowney. We were the only butch/femme couple there, and ironically, we fit right in.

Muldowney was at a table to meet fans parked next to her hot pink Formula 1 racer. I waited at the end of a long line of small children to get her autograph. Just as she was about to finish and turn away,  I cried out, "No, please stay, I'm not one of the parents— I'm your number one besotted female fan!"

Shirley turned and looked at me in my thigh-high leather boots, mini-skirt, and jean jacket, with Honey Lee smoking a Sherman a couple feet behind me.  She reached out and touched my breast pocket, which had a handmade brooch of an exotic modern dancer pinned to it— Martha-Graham-Meets-Diane-Di-Prima.

"I've never seen anything like that before," she said. —Her first words to me.

"Well, I would be honored if you would wear it," I said, tearing it off my coat.

"Let me give you one of mine," she said, and pulled one of her pins off her fuschia suit. She touched my cheek, and I'll never know quite what she was thinking behind her mirror shades. She got into a truck with a woman driver whose arm rested on the window ledge, flashing a diamond pinkie ring.

"Did you see that?" I turned to Honey Lee with my mouth hanging open and god knows what else.

"I certainly did."

The next race started, and I heard those engines for the first time. That deafening sound went straight to my clit.

Back to Ms. Patrick: The IRL is in heaven because they are sick of folks thinking that NASCAR is the only car game in town.  Danica's championship qualities are the first thing that's made people pay attention to them since Mario Andretti. Danica's a new breed, as well,  because she is the first of the female driver champions to let the media go wild with her image.

I'm including a bunch of photos of her here, for you to see the different takes on her persona. I  like the ones where you see that incredible stubborness in her eyes, and the set of her jaw. That's the look that makes me want to emulate her, and also makes me want to melt like butter at her feet.  I guess I could do both.

I also like the All-American pose she did for the IRL official sponsor shots, because I love the subversiveness of seeing women in those Wheaties-type Hero portraits. Her posture is blistering.

The cheesecake pix she did for FHM magazine are different. Of course I'm as keen as anyone to see her body— but why do they direct her to duck down her fierce chin and peer up at the camera in that doe-like pose? Why do men's titty magazines have to take every heroine and make her look like she's a wee thing who can't decide whether to pout or cry?

It's her competitors who are crying and don't know where to turn, baby! Take a picture of that! Until then, I'll just polish my pinkie ring and hope for the best.