Susie Bright's Journal

Going Off The Rails

The train conductor on the Pacific Surfliner  takes my ticket and asks me if I’d like a glass of Chardonnay or Cabernet.

I'm sinking into my gigantic seat, like Chairy on Pee Wee's Playhouse, and I can’t quite catch what he's said, because Anthony, the Club Car barman, is on the PA system, singing one of his original compositions: “It’s a Beautiful Saturday for a Train Ride.”

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I say, wondering if this journey could pleasantly escalate to a full-on Karaoke marathon.

I am soaking wet from the Santa Barbara seashore and couldn't be happier. You see, we had a half hour layover at the S.B. station, and I took advantage of its two-block proximity to the beach to take a dip in my underwear. Welcome to Amtrak! You can board your sumptuous passenger car wet, salty, and a little delirious— no questions asked.

The Surfliner track runs right along the ocean, closer than any highway, and occasionally we duck in between the Ventura Beach fairground, the Ferris Wheel, towering palms, or massive red rock canyons.

I don’t know what to next, I'm so unaccustomed to this freedom of movement. I’m riding the Surfliner to the glamorous Union Station in Los Angeles, where I'll transfer to the SouthWest Chief line which will take me across the desert, at sunset, to Santa Fe.

If you have been riding planes in America for the last 50 years... as I have... or if you've perhaps been reduced to gasolining your way through  the inter-states and toll roads... you have no idea the luxury of the train. You simply cannot duplicate the rail experience in a first class airline seat, or any automobile, however swank.

I have no seat belt on. I am in an enormous padded throne built for someone who could be twice my weight and height. I brought my hand-sewing with a needle, scissors, and thread. I’m typing on my computer, which is plugged into the adjacent wall. I’m drinking free coffee, free Chardonnay; I’m messaging on my iPhone while the gentleman behind me is saying "I love you," to someone on his. I have an enormous table spread out with all my snacks... which I brought on. I could go to the club car and have Anthony whip me up a gin and tonic and a panini. But I brought on my own Brie and rosemary marcona almonds.

Needless to say, there is no “terrorist shakedown” when I arrive at the train station. It’s as civilized as a 1950s tarmac, only more mellow, and with the aesthetics of a Hollywood romance.

That reason alone— to be treated like a human being—  is why I decided to try taking the train for my present voyage. I have come SO close, SO CLOSE, to throttling numerous TSA agents, clawing their eyes out with my bare hands when I see them harassing some 80 year old in a wheelchair or a single dad with two infants. It's a miracle I haven't lost my inhibitions and been shipped to Gitmo. I have to take two Valium to take a plane anywhere today, thanks to Homeland Hypocrisy.

What am I trading, by switching from air to rail? Speed. But it's not as much as you think.

Because the airlines have shut down so many routes, I simply cannot get a flight from San Francisco to Albuquerque that progresses in any sort of efficient manner. There is no way to avoid a massive, hideous layover, where again I would be subjected to numerous constitutional violations and bodily insults. I can fly faster to London, England than I can to Albuquerque, or many short-distance U.S. locations.

But let’s go back to my railroad revelry. Yes, I bought a business class ticket, that’s why I got the wine and pillows. But the price difference wasn't a deterrent, it's the deal of the century. Should I shut my mouth before I ruin everything?

The Surfliner track runs right along the ocean, closer than any highway, and occasionally we duck in between the Ventura Beach fairground, the Ferris Wheel, towering palms, or massive red rock canyons.

At first I thought the whole process was daunting. I drove to the train station the morning of my departure wondering how many hours I needed for "pre-boarding." Hell, as it turned out, fifteen minutes would have done it. But since I was early, they gave me this big long free parking pass, even longer than I needed, “in case you wander off somewhere,” as the station agent told me.

It's all about to change, the rails. You can feel it. I look around me, and sure, there’s the traditional old train population: the fat, the families with multiple kids, the old folks, the drinkers, the smokers, the folks in wheelchairs. The inconvenienced never looked so hip. They probably view newbies like me with suspicion... are we going to make things better, or destroy a wonderful little secret?

But the folks like me are in great evidence. People who decided that an extra day of travel was well worth the marvelous journey. After all, I’m on VACATION.

The bus ride part of the trip was actually... great. The bathroom was better than any Mile High Club WC. I’m not kidding. You could actually move around in it. I had so much room. Back in my seat, I talked on the phone and spread out and took a snooze and monopolized the two seats the whole time without troubling anyone. I took pictures of the vintage-ear train stations like I was on assignment from National Geographic.

I started getting seduced by the rails last winter, when I took the short hop from Boston to Maine. The ride was stunning. Beautiful. It was so distracting I left my phone on the train. and when I called the next day, the guy at the station actually picked up the phone and said, "Yeah, it’s here, come on down."

Then, a month later, I took the short tun from Seattle to Portland. Breathtaking. The idea that this is a commuter route blew my mind. I want a job in the area just to take this train every day. The Seattle station was a wreck, which the station agents made witty remarks about... does the train workers union allow humor and intelligence?... but the Portland station was like a little turn of the century piece of steampunk come to life.

My mermaid hair is starting to dry; we're getting close to the Simi Valley station. I call my friend Tony Lovett as we draw closer to Los Angeles, to ask him where I should eat when I get to Union Station.

Tony is an expert of all LA's nooks and crannies, and he tells me to run over to Phillipe's, a block away, and get the double-dip lamb roast sandwich with blue cheese and cole slaw on the side. Turns out he's a veteran rail rider.  He also tells me that I was going to love my overnight sleeper car, speeding across the Southwest desert.

Wait til you go to bed. The train, the tracks, the clickety-clack...it's like a massive steel lullabye. Look for a guy in the dining car with a middle initial that stands for "nothing."

Hmmm... Anthony is singing again. I wonder what his middle initial is. I have to run down to the club car and see him in person. I want to make a request.

Photo Credit: Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint in North by Northwest. Yes, my trip is this cool.

Susie's Maiden Voyage in a ZipCar

"I'm as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken—"

Well, I'm not quite that drunk, because I have just stepped out from behind the wheel of my maiden voyage in a ZipCar.

The whole experience was so exhilarating, I'm already scheming for my next Zip-Date: I want a gleaming convertible in San Francisco, and I will not be deterred!

ZipCar is a "car-sharing" operation where you sign up for a membership and gain access to a fleet of autos parked all around your town—  or any town they operate in, for that matter.

Within minutes, days, or weeks notice, you reserve your date with whatever vehicle you choose, be it Tacoma Truck, Prius, or MiniCooper.

You show up at one of the Zippy parking spots with your magic membership card, and wave it like a wand in front of the windshield. It opens up and you drive away!

The car is new. You don't pay for gas, insurance, or anything to do with the car's upkeep. The parking spot is always waiting for you. There is no maddening car rental counter to suffer through; it's all DIY. You save beaucoup bucks by not operating your own vehicle, and obviously, your "carbon footprint" becomes much more dainty.

Okay, that's the Greenish explanation. But I am here to tell you of the psychological effect!

It all started when a certain unlicensed, uninsured someone, who shall remain nameless, totaled our old Toyota van in the driveway.

The Previa wasn't put into "Park" at the conclusion of its illegal journey— and so it drifted down the driveway, headless, until it was stopped by our gnarled orange tree rather than careening out into traffic. The door was badly bashed, and the cost of even minimal repairs exceeded the value of the car. We had to let her go.

Now here's the thing. Our home has a massive solar array— I could light up a small planet. If I had an electric car, I would just plug in the bastard and we would never pay for a drop of fuel again.

But those type of cars aren't going to be commercially available, at a price I can afford, for another year or two. I've never read the "Auto" section the news before in my life, but now I drop anything for updates on the Chevy Volt, the plugin Prius, or the VW Diesel-Hybrid. "Yoo Hoo, Mr. Auto Mogul, I am READY for you!"

We have one other car we share in our household. Much to our relief, relying on one pony has worked out pretty well. We all started biking more— a lot more. I can now pedal up the big hill to my house and daydream instead of crying and gasping for air. I lost weight. The plummet in our gas bill... well, you can imagine... was astounding. It was fun to drop the insurance and say adieu to all the crap of a second car.

How very noble and wholesome.

But every once in a while, we hit a snag. One of us has to go out of town for a few days, and it's tough to  leave the other one car-less. I live in a semi-rural town with abysmal public transportation. What else is new in America? There is no such thing, in my village, as hailing a cab. To get to a train to San Francisco, I have to take a bus that runs on what's politely called a "limited schedule." The 40-minute trip to the San Jose train station can take three hours.

Then I read in the local paper that ZipCar has an outpost in our town, thanks to a collaboration with the UC Santa Cruz. In fact, one of the things that sold me on the deal, is that if I reserve a local ZipCar, I can park in any of the 'A'-Lot spaces on campus, which is such a rare thrill that I feel like reserving a few Zip hours to park all over school and sneer at the meter maids who bankrupted me at this same campus when I was an undergrad.

You can reserve ZipCar dates over the phone, but the geeky thrills are on their Web site, or your mobile browser. You feel like you're shopping for shoes at Zappos. You tell it what time and day you want to begin your trip, and it shows how many, and which kind, of cars are available, with a map of locations. I checked a whole bunch of times, from "right this minute" to weeks in advance, and there was always a few choices close by. Always.

They charge you by the hour, which is an novel way to look at driving costs. Zip publishes numerous cost comparisons— as this is their main selling point— and you always come out ahead, way ahead, by sharing rather than shouldering the burden of single-owner maintenance.

Plus, no matter how many times the ZipCar flacks re-do their cost-savings examples, the price of gas goes up another dime by the time they post to their site. No wonder they're signing up new members like there's no tomorrow.

For my first reservation, I picked out the car by color— Tango Red!— and got all dressed up to go meet my beau.

It was a brand new car. A Honda Element. With roof racks. I'm going to put my canoe on it next time.

Do you know how often I drive new cars? Never. I called up some friends in the Valley who didn't know what I was babbling about. "Do you want me to pick you up in my NEW TANGO RED and go for a joy ride?" 

I got into the driver's seat and cackled at the full gas tank. There is even a gas credit card in the sun-visor, in case I go hog wild. I can fill up the tank at any service station on Zipcar's tab.

It was a little unfamiliar to check the mirrors and set the seat before I got underway. I'm so sheltered I've never even driven a Honda before. The most shocking aspect, truthfully, is that I couldn't trash the car and leave all my snot rags and coffee cups behind me. Cleaning out the vehicle before I tucked it back into its stable was the most mindful I've ever been in the auto-care department.

Yes, there are rules, lots of little Golden Auxiliaries. You cannot invite your big hairy mutt to share the front seat. You can't stay out late without telling anyone and screw the next driver out of their reservation. You can't smoke hash. I realize that any of these limitations could be the last straw!

But I am still in the Euphoria Stage. I love to look at the fleets in dozens of other cities, and imagine showing up in London, or Vancouver, and reserving my mount.

I walked home from my Zippy Parking Spot at the end of my three-hour tour. I live a few blocks away, a five minute walk, and I wondered if that aspect would exasperate me. But the walk home was actually delightful, part of the whole dating atmosphere. We stopped for chocolate cake at the Nickelodeon. The smell of jasmine and ginger flowers along Lincoln St. were especially fragrant.

I said, "I feel so smug, I think I might explode." I kicked a eucalyptus nut in my path and watched it bounce up ahead of me like a skipping stone. Ha! Life is good!

  Zipcar did not pay me to write this; although they should, after this tongue bath! But believe me, as I continue my grand car-sharing experiment, I will tell ALL, including any disillusionments or shocks. I'm sure you have a million questions, as I did, and their web site anticipates all of them, so go check it out. As a new member, they encourage me to hand out $25 driving credits to my friends, so please enjoy!

The Oakland Peach Goes to Paris

From Susie, Easter Sunday in France:

I just received a rather amazing letter of advice concerning my first visit to Paris.

It is written by the notorious femme —known as The Oakland Peach— who has given me permission to print her billet in its entirety:

Dear Susie,

The best thing about Paris is that the tourist stuff is actually cool, so you can't go wrong.

I was a local for over a year, and I did the Red Bus thing four times! Twice on my own!  I can't remember what it is called, but it's the red double decker bus, it costs 25 euros for a 3-day pass, it cycles every ninety minutes or so, and you can get on and off all day. 

It goes to all the most lovely places. Once I got on when I was depressed and lonely, and spent the day just looking around at how fucking lucky I was to be miserable in such a beautiful place. Sometimes you just wanna look.

The other, most awesome touristy thing that I did every time someone visited, and a whopping 5 times on my own was the Bateau Mouche.  It's the long boat that you pick up at Pont Neuf and it rides you up and down the Seine.

But the catch here is that you MUST do this at night. Last boat goes around midnight. Of course, it's a great view of the sites, but the best part is that they shine these huge lights off the sides of the boat to light up the Quay's, and it catches all the randy twenty-somethings having sex on the lower bankments of the Isles.

One balmy summer night I saw a whopping five couples in various stages of flagrante! Awesome! You're pretty much guaranteed a sighting of at least one slight little French girl in a full skirt discreetly straddling her dirty-looking Italian boyfriend, but you're just as likely to see actual flesh.

I do like to look.

Another good looking place is the Pont des Artes, the wooden foot bridge that spans between Carrefour de Louvre and the Academie. Again, night-time is the best. It's a foot bridge with a great history, and you can just sit and sit and sit.

I used to like to contemplate the rumour that the Lady Nestle, the original inhabitant of the building that is now the Academie, used to avail herself of her male servants sexually. While that might sound like a reasonably good gig, supposedly if they didn't please her, she would toss them out her window into le fleuve! The bank wasn't so far away back then, because they built it up there for the road. Evidently a few lived to tell the tale.

I did all of the walks with "Paris Walks." The Marais walk is particularly good. They are in the morning so it's a great way to start your day.

Anyway, enough of the tourist stuff, here is the stuff I want you to eat in honor of me.

Look for the ice cream ads for Magnum bars. Easy to spot, they feature a lovely gal in bed performing oral sex on what looks like a chocolate version of those America Bombs you used to be able to get from ice cream trucks. I used to get such a giggle from these ads. I feel all erotic about ice cream too.

Finally I tried one, and OMG the chocolates and pastries and macaroons can all go to L'Enfer! This is the best damn treat in the world.  t's a carmel ice cream bomb, covered by a layer of salty carmel sandwiched between two layers of dark, not too sweet chocolate.

The Ferris Wheel in the Tuilleries is likely up by now, with an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower twinkling. And you can get a Magnum there. My vote for best place to blow an ice cream bar. Please please think of me when you do.

Fuck Deux Magots, I'm a Cafe Flore girl. Order the hot chocolate, (avec chantilly, natch)  and prepare yourself. They melt chocolate bars in a double boiler, then add heavy cream, then bring the little metal pot they did all this in right out so you can pour it in your little cup. Go around 11 PM, and you'll catch Karl Lagerfield walking in with some of the skinniest people you will ever see alive and in person!  Sit out front. Yeah, the famous people go upstairs, but they have European lungs. You have Santa Cruz lungs. You can't handle it upstairs.

Now about the shopping.....it won't fit, and you can't afford it, for the most part. But here is my by far best tip for bringing back some fabulous outfit from Paris. The Les Halles underground mall H&M third floor. It's their version of the "Women's" department, meaning XL isn't a size 8. It's pretty much the only place in Paris I found anything to fit my lush, full-figured curves! But here is the thing about H&M.

They have different things in every city. I assure you, they are taking the pulse of the French chick on the street (its pretty much the only place they shop, too), and you won't see any of that back here. AND YOU'LL BE ABLE TO AFFORD IT!

Now about the dressing....you will never get that nonchalant, 'I didn't try', dirty luxury fabulousness that the French girls do. You will never unravel the secrets of the neck scarf. Don't try. Because they love characters. If you can't be preternaturally chic, be acharacter. You will see one in every nabe, on every walk...  Dandy old men in threepiece suits and a pocket watch... German ladies in vaguely African head scarfs and flowing handmade scarf-dress things... Italians in all denim outfits so tight you'd think it would give them an embolism... Artistic types in exquisitely hand detailed Russian coats... Glorious short kimonos over skin tight jeans and sky high heels.

Do this, wear your handmade dresses that show off that magnificent cleavage.  Proudly bounce your clean, asymmetrical hair and flash your clear skin. Walk tall (and you will indeed be a head taller than the tallest Gallic fella). Wear your kooky earth shoes with brightly colored tights. Say, "Tout les choses ici est SI GENIAL!" And they will love you for it.

Once I figured this out, and got comfortable with being looked at, it changed everything for me there. The French frown is as much a facial tick as our involuntary smile. This is their secret, and it doesn't take much to get them to spill it.  THEY FUCKING LOVE AMERICAN WOMEN. We smile, we laugh, we talk loud enough to be heard, we're in a good mood, we like to hug, we have cute little accents, we LUV! their home... You are gonna charm the pants off of
them!

And go to Shakespeare and Co. on the Quai St. Michel. They know you there, I'll bet. You might even be able to do an impromptu reading.

So here is a little walking tour of my fabulous old neighborhood. Start out early evening at the point where the Tuileries meets the grounds of the Louvre. (I think technically it's Rue Lemonnier, but I knew it as the Terrace du Tuileries).

There are some great chubby girl statues in mid-tumble that look like 3d Boteros. Walk across Pont Royal to the left bank, take a left then an immediate right onto Rue de Beaune. There are some crazy rich people antique stores with art-furniture like you couldn't imagine! Look for the teeny tiny vintage clothing and stuff boutique.

Walk two short blocks to Rue de Verneuil. Left on Verneuil. Two blocks up you will pass Serge Gainsbourg's house on your right. It's covered in graffiti. One "big trash" day there was a pile of old furniture outside. I found a bunch of tins in a desk, full of vaguely pornographic poloroids, and pictures of little skinny girls on the beach. I probably could have sold this stash, but whatever.

Also on the right is a design bookstore, of which there are a hell of a lot in Paris. This is a particularly quiet and airy one, though, and Karl Lagerfield hangs out here too.

Take a right on Rue Saints Peres and marvel at the store that sells chandeliers to Versailles like palaces in Saudi Arabia. Go on3 block and take a left on Rue Jacob, probably the cutest little street in Paris: Turkish rug dealers, an AMAZING Afghan/Persian/Asian import shop, very "south of France" fabric stores, unique antiques, another design bookstore, a couple of fine linen stores, anyway, you'll see.

Keep wandering down until the Rue ends. Now you are on Rue de Seine. To the left are little galleries (Friday evenings are the openings) to the Right is a fantastic restaurant called "Fish". It's run by New Zealanders and it is, for my money, the best affordable seafood in town. If it's dinnertime, eat there (unless it's market night, see below). They own a sandwich shop across the street that is the only place where you will find the California style gourmet sandwich (roasted eggplant with red pepper coulis and arugula on fresh foccacia).

But save your drinking for the Cafe de la Presse, right on the corner of Rue de Buci.This place is full of hunky young North African guys who work in the multimedia industry andthey are dying to buy you a drink. This is the top of the Carrefour de Buci area. Wander around in that market area. It's particularly
bustling at night. Several times I was walking home around 2 AM and they were dancing in the street out in front of Cafe de la Presse.

Tuesday evenings they have a full on farmers market with huge woks full of seafood paella, and charcuterie makers that tempt the staunchest vegan, fruit so sweet like you've never had, enormous wheels of peasant bread the size of 18-wheeler tires. (They will cut these peasant breadsfor you. Juste une petite tranche, si'l vous plaît)!  All of that is right out in front of Le Champion, the "French Safeway," which makes it extra funny.

Anyway, you take it from there. You're just a few blocks away from either Mabillon or Odeon Metro, if you get tired, but with the coffee, you won't.

Oh yeah, one quick tip about coffee. I'm not a big latte person, (called Cafe Creme there) but I do like to have a little hot milk in my coffee. Order Cafe Noisette. No, they don't put hazelnut in it, it refers to the color. Make it a double. They're little, and you'll need the caffeine.

Okay, I'll stop.

Profites-bien, et dis-moi toutes quand tu reviens!

Trés bon sejour!

La Pêche d'Oakland

This is the quick note I wrote her back tonight:

Dearest Peachy-Pie,

Sacre Bleu!

I just read your letter out-loud to Jon and we are speechless at your savoir faire. We just spent our first full day out and about, and I assasinated my feet. I mean they are DEAD. I limped home from the Place Monge. 

Mais, je ne regrette rien!

We just returned from this crazy party a world-class boho theatrical inspiration named Jim Haynes throws every Sunday for anyone who rings him up and wants to come.

Jim's apartment was packed with locals, swingers, southern belles, Texas poets, Canadian homeschoolers, queens, Hillary Clinton insiders dying to gossip, beatniks, teenagers, literate dirty old men, expats, visitors from all over. Lamb stew and make it sloppy, baby. Jim once ran an Amsterdam newspaper called SUCK in the '60s. That's what made me take a chance.

You are so sweet to me to tell me "what to wear," and what to be proud of. It's true, I always feel like La Elefantine when I am here. Although Jeanne D'Arc looks like a Amazon, I must say. I must visit this H&M branch you speak of; whatta score.

We went to Musee D'Orsee today, but first, since it was Easter, we started with mass at Notre Dame. PANDEMONIOM. Thousands of visitors moving like a giant herd, a Catholic stampede. Cameras popping everywhere, thousands of votives burning bright, the light pouring in from every stained-glass wall.

The monsigneur was screaming about materialism and money-worship. Some people were on their knees, rapt, and others were freely spending at the gift shop. And the singing! There is nothing like singing in a real cathedral.

Jon got to see me do a real "Hail Mary "over my candle.

We declined to go to the Louvre, because the line was insane... and impressive to me, nearly all French in the queue. Everyone comes out for their national treasures on a holiday. I listened to ten-years-olds at d'Orsee discuss Cezanne like he was their personal property .

I'm glad to hear you recommend the tour bus so I won't feel so dorky. Since my feet are like swollen balloons, the chauffeur sounds good.

We shopped on Rue Mouffetard, and I cooked supper in our kitchen. A butter lettuce salad with new potatoes marinated in balsamic vinaigre de figue and handpressed olive oil, with fresh raspberries, avocado, and sharp parmesan. And bread. Pain. Pain. Incroyable.

I can't wait to find the Magnum ice cream bar. I lost two of my belongings things today (losing things is my bete noire) and the only thing that plucked me out of utter self-hate was a crepe d'Anane and then a crepe de Nuttella.

I have to tell you about a funny ad splashed all over the subway. It features a no-nonsense  blonde, barking at you: "Do you want to learn 'Wall Street English' in 20 Days? We guarantee it!" 

(It says this in French, of course).

Well, this advertisement obviously came out before The Crash.

I could teach these people "Wall Street English" in twenty seconds; it would go like this— "Hit That Fuckin' Clown!"

LOVE YOU, la lutte continue,

Susie

Photo: Susie and her best friend, Joan of Arc, at The Pantheon. Then, "L'aire" by Malliol.

I Love Paris in the Springtime

Me and my baby are going to Paris this week, to celebrate our 50th birthdays— and coincidentally, the 20th anniversary of when we first became friends and lovers.

I haven't been to France in sixteen years. I was always a dreamy Francophile, but one day, when I was a brand-new mom, walking down Valencia Street on a cold San Francisco day, an artist friend of mine, Spain, stopped me by the laundry-mat and asked if I knew anyone who'd like to swap their home for a few months with an ex of his, living in Southern France.

"Yeah, sure— me!" I cracked. I was glum that day because I had just lost my job, and had no idea what to do next.

Off I went, with six-month-old Aretha in tow. I had never used my French language skills outside of a high school classroom. "Où est la bibliothèque?" was about my speed.

I ended up making some of the best friends of my life in this little village, in the Valley Herault. It's near where they had all those McDonald's riots. Lots of organic, grape, and pot farming. Very much like California's Mendocino County in its climate and beauty.  It also was a place where many leftwing and hippie Parisians had fled to, to form land communes, in the early '70s. They were called "soixante-huit-ieres" or "babacoux"—  I'm probably spelling that wrong, but that's what it sounded like.

The communes had the usual utopian-decay problems, but some of those folks actually got seriously into organic farming and rural life.

I also discovered this area had been a respite and refuge for many San Francisco artists and bohemians, from the Zap comix veterans, to the founders of COYOTE, the first hookers' rights organization. Margo St. James had a beautiful place there, where we'd eat her famous stews and sit out in the garden. Aline Crumb can talk the birds out of the trees in perfect French.

I learned a lot about the country living there, staying in a stone fort from the 11th century. C'est froid! But it was paradise, compared to my house-swapper, who got my pad in San Francisco, across the street from a freeway entrance and a 24-hour drug-dealing gas station. Interestingly, she survived a teenage burglar at my house, and I got my car smashed and broken into by teenage boys in Montpelier. But how could I complain when I had just spent the day at a public beach covered with pink flamingos, wearing nothing, kids running around everywhere, being served steaming hot sweet mint tea?

I remember when I first took Aretha to the creche, (nursery school), and met a young girl, Doudoune, who offered to babysit for me. She spoke a little English, because her sister had emigrated to New York. She was so enamored of all things Americaine that she even saved the Coke can her sister had left behind on her last trip.

When she told me she was Algerian, and hinted at the issues that raised for her family, I said, "Really? How does anyone know you're Algerian, or Muslim? You look like everyone else here..."  She stared at me like I was daft— which I was— but it just goes to show how hard it is to understand other culture's prejudices when you didn't grow up with them. I had a lover there who was a light-skinned child of an African-American father and Parisian mother. He was stopped in his car, or on foot, almost EVERY day for being "Arab," and when the police would realize that he was actually half-Baptist-Yankee, they would become amused, apologetic— and act like profiling was the furthest thing from their minds.

I also had a little "Michael-Moore-Sicko-style" experience too, in my Fort. I got sick with pneumonia, and was vomiting up blood, when my neighbors sent for the doctor. He came to my bedroom to diagnose and treat me. I didn't understand a thing he said, but he fixed me up good. He then asked a nurse in the village to come see me every day, and help me with Aretha, until I got better. This took a few weeks.

I kept worrying that someone was going to send me a bill for some ungodly amount, but it never came. I thought I had gotten away with something special, but now I realize it was just routine. Meanwhile, here I am turning 50 in the U.S., and I can now no longer afford health insurance for myself without moving into a pup tent.

I brought together a lot of new friends during my stay in France, people who normally would never socialize. But because I was a visitor, oblivious to the "social divisions," I got away with it! I had a Pancake Party one morning, which brought everyone to my apartment out of sheer curiosity about American Johnny Cakes. Yes, they were a hit, especially since I had brought in Canadian maple syrup.

With all these adventures,  I never spent more than a few hours in Paris, changing trains or going to the airport. So this is really my first time in the most beautiful city in the world.

Have you been? What would you inspire me to do, if you only had one thing to suggest?

I don't know anyone there, except the folks whose apartment we're house-sitting, and obviously, they're not around.

I am busy worrying about what to wear, and finding the ideal, fashionable pair of walking shoes. I made two skirts. I am practicing my manners and irregular verbs. By the time we arrive, the dollar should be worth about two cents, so I should really practice my busking!  Perhaps the Parisians would like to hear me sing this:

Photo: A postcard my Uncle Bud sent my mother from Paris when he served in the Air Force during WWII.

I Am Ms. Wet T-Shirt 2007— Already

When next you pass me on the street, please accord me the respect I so richly deserve: I am the newly-crowned winner of the Ms. 2007 Wet T-Shirt Contest.

"Ha!" you say, "the year has barely begun!"— but just because we held the competition in the first half hour of January does not void its integrity. My tits rule the waves.

The contest was held at the otherwise-tragic event known as Phyllis Christopher's going-away party in San Francisco. Phyllis was one of the legendary On Our Backs staff members, a brilliant erotic photographer, and just one those gals from Buffalo who is a constant delight and inspiration. Her departure to England is forced, due to the relentless hypocrisy of the United States immigration "service." England will welcome Phyllis along with her British wife Helen, but the US has stymied their pleas for years.

When I first got Phyllis's invitation, she promised a Roman Orgy room, monkey dancing, a baby pool full of Jello, high-stakes poker, karaoke smack-down, and even a secret room for shy people like herself who might get overwhelmed by it all.

I wrote her right back and boasted that I would swamp the t-shirt contest.

Since my crown, many have questioned my strategy, or wondered how I pulled it off in the first place. Their doubts are legitimate! Despite all my pre-party conceit, as I stood trembling beneath the dwarf chocolate fountain, and surveyed the other contestants, my heart skipped a beat.

The first girl on our homemade stage— essentially a large box crammed into the back of a Victorian flat living room— was a champion arm-wrestler with perfect skin and perkiness that could not be disputed. She was gorgeous— and 18 years younger than me.

Our silver-throated emcee, "The Pam-inator" Russell, put the needle down on The Stripper, and the crowd (90% female) went wild.

The second competitor was earning applause before she even hit the carpet. Annika— her real name— is over six feet tall,  and her breasts are popularly known as "The Blessings" throughout the greater Bay Area.

"My god, what am I doing to do?" I clutched my erstwhile coach, Pussy Tourette backup singer Christina Vickory.

Christina is a stunning creature herself, and I was fortunate that she wasn't entering the contest and crushing all my hopes. But she rolled her eyes at my self-doubt. "It's simple," she said, whispering in my ear over the din. "Work the judges."

Judges? I didn't even know who they were! Christina pointed them out to me: Roxxie and Sally, who were laid out on the floor in front of the stage, staring right up at the celestial nipples.

Roxxie is the founding editor of GirlJock— I had her number! I didn't know as much about Sal, but she'd just performed a killer Steve Perry imitation during the Karaoke blowout, and I surmised she could succumb to femme wiles and manipulations just as well as Roxxie. I was inspired.

"I need a bottle!" I yelled, charging down the hallway to grab my tshirt.

Now, as every bosomy woman knows, a wet tshirt contest is a bit of a contradiction for us. We don't look good in a man's crew-neck tshirt... in fact, you might say it's the worst look for anyone over a B-cup. Thank goodness I had one of my dad's old-school V-neck numbers, which was worn down to a tissue.

I was outfitted in fishnet stockings, four-inch-high black ankle boots, and a leather miniskirt that my daughter had stolen from my closet years ago. I clamped on a wiglet (all hail the wiglet!)  that made my ponytail appear to descend to my ass. For accessories, I wore my 80s Stormy Leather gauntlet glove, and my genuine 70s Playboy Bunny Club necklace.

Someone handed me a sports cup— "No, no, a champagne bottle!"

Others were urging me into the shower, but I knew better. An actress has to have a prop, and if I was going to wet myself, I wanted the very best.

Phyllis, the genius, handed me an empty Magnum, and I filled it to the brim with cold water. I motioned to Pam, before she began my introduction, and told her to tell the crowd that I was freshly released from Vaginal Rejuvenation surgery. The music started up again.

At that point, it's a bit of a blur. I recall holding the bottle over my head like a trophy, and cascading the ice water down my head, wiglet, and tits. I took a long swig and spewed it, geyser-style, all over the screaming audience (I learned that from my 1st-grade Red Cross Swimming instructor!)

I was channeling Flashdance; I had everything going except a brass pole. I realized, in a stripper-nano-second, that there's not much time you can kill pinching your nipples or cuddling your boobs. The secret is to simply be sexy, and let your tits do whatever they would normally do. And never, ever, lose eye-contact with the judges!

The song was hitting its cymbal climax when I stage-dived off the platform, right on top of Sally and Roxxie, and crushed them with my now-soaked chest. I threw in a threatening look at that point. If you can't seduce the authorities, intimidate them!

The crowd was apoplectic. I tried to do the splits and nearly killed myself. I crawled off the stage feigning slinky-ness, to cover my injury.

Cameras were flashing everywhere— and yet, as you will note, so far I have not received a single document of the event. (Party photogs, please contact me!)

But maybe it's all for the best. I believed I was hot, and a realistic appraisal might traumatize me.

When some of the other contestants looked downcast in defeat, I told them, "The lesson here is that making a fool of yourself is the recipe for sexual success." That, plus old age and cunning.

I won $100, collected in a hat, and a box of homemade chocolate brownies, all of which I shared with my gorgeous colleagues. The other contestants included a masseuse, a real estate broker, and an Ivy League physicist who has sworn me to secrecy. I've gained new hope in the scientific community just from meeting her, though.

I've told my friends that my prize is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, but a few people who don't know me well  have looked askance. They assume I enter wet tshirt contests all the time— that I'm not a virgin. You are so wrong!

Yes, I've attended thousands of strip shows and even helped produced a few hundred of them. I've written as eloquently as I could about erotic dancers and sexual performance. But when have you seen me on stage, peeling it off? Never.

It's true I've been photographed, by professionals like Phyllis, with lighting and makeup that would make anyone look like Tempest Storm in her glory. That's how I found out about wiglets!

But the thing is, I've never had much physical confidence; I've never led with my body. I envy athletes and actors who have the grace to pull it off. I was the kind of kid who was picked last for every team; I ran the wrong way around the bases. Even when I finally did sport a fetching physique, I was the last person to realize it.

My nerdiness has protected me in many respects, but like so many Marion Librarian's, I always daydreamed what it would be like to be a hunk, uninhibited, the star of the runway! Phyllis's party was my big chance, because I knew my pals would cheer me on, out of sisterhood or hilarity, if nothing else.

What do I intend to do with my crown?

Well, of course, I expect there will be a press exposé that reveals my making-out with other girls, forgetting my underwear, and drinking too many chocolatinis.  I'm only too happy to admit it all, so Donald Pimp can just save his fucking second chances for himself.

In truth, I plan a solemn campaign to fight for erotic literacy throughout the land, and stand up for the values that made these tits worth fighting for. As Sophia Loren has proven so well, girls who wear glasses and décolletage are not to be trifled with!

Top photo, by Jill Posener for Stormy Leather. Middle photo, Phyllis's book cover of me for Sexual Reality. And bottom is La Loren from Two Women, of course!

Burning Man In Two Places At Once Without Being Anywhere At All

One day when my daughter was seven, I picked her up from After-School Rec, and one of the other parents came up to me and said, "I bought your soul at Burning Man."

"Really?"  I looked him over. He had long yellow hair, and groovester glasses. Younger than me, but not by much.

"Yeah, it's a rock with your name on it— they had a whole tent of used and dead souls for sale."

I didn't know what to say. His kid poured KoolAid on my shoe.

"So I have your soul now," he repeated.

I am one of a cult of people who've had intense personal experiences with Burning Man without ever attending the event.

I've wanted to. I sat up last night with some friends, BM veterans, and watched the live cam of the Man going up in flames and fireworks. The heat dervishes swirled in 300-foot-tall cyclones of dust. It was exciting.

My other personal story about Burning Man is that I was once invited to attend in grand style by a man I thought was a prankster. 

I refused him, and now I'm sorry.

It was one of the first BM's at Black Rock. An unfamiliar man called me late at night and half-giggled, half-whispered, that he wanted to helicopter me into the desert, drop me onto an Indian Elephant with the whole parasol bit, and then have a hundred naked harem girls dancing beneath me, as the great mammoth made an entrance onto the playa.

God, that would have been fun. But I didn't believe him, and hung up.

I have had the occasional unfortunate experience, as an editor of underground media, to be contacted by "investors" who say they want to "help" — but then when they fly you out to Datona Beach, things get "unhelpful" because you don't want to fuck them, their husband in bad drag, and their German Shepard, while they stagger around with their gun and cocaine collection... Anyway!  I've grown self-protective. I thought this guy was another chain-yanker.

There is the rare "investor" who is the opposite of a chain-yanker. One time Warren Hinckle called me to do a story, and I said, "Fuck it, Warren, you took my last story and never published it, and then you sold it to some Russian and I never got a penny and I found out about it months later from somebody falling off a barstool!"

He replied, without stopping, "If I sent over a big bag full of cash right now, would it make it better?"

I paused. "Yes, actually, it really would."

And twenty minutes later a bike messenger showed up at my door with a brown lunch bag containing $700 in small bills.

Maybe that Burning Man late-night caller was just as real, and I missed the parade!

You Get the Timothy Leary You Deserve

Shortly before his death, Timothy Leary was asked about Richard Nixon calling him “the most dangerous man in America.” 

“It’s true,” Leary replied. “I have America surrounded.” 

—Which is why Higgs titled his biography, I Have America Surrounded: The Life of Timothy Leary.

The Legacy of Timothy Leary by Paul Krassner 

“There is one thing people should know about Leary,” says British writer John Higgs. “He was fucking funny!”

PK: How do you view the negative media depictions of Leary that have come out this past year?

JH:  I find them very revealing.  —Not in what they're saying, of course, but in what they are ignoring. 

Most of the mud that has been slung at Leary is perfectly true, but you can be factually accurate and wildly misleading at the same time.  For instance, if someone asked me to describe Winston Churchill, I could say he was a mentally ill drunk who lost the 1945 UK General Election. 

And I'd be factually correct, but that wouldn't mean I was being fair, or that I'd nailed the essence of the man. 

With Leary, for everyone with a complaint against him, there are countless people who credit him with enriching their lives on a very profound level, and I don't understand the desire to ignore this.

Ultimately, you can't hope to understand why he did what he did if you refuse to look at the ideas that drove him. Leary was too complicated a figure to dismiss as either a saint or a moron, as many people try to. He's probably the best example of the “trickster” archetype that the 20th Century produced, and his ambiguity is key to understanding him. 

The crux of his philosophy was the extent to which the reality that appears to be external to us is actually a model constructed by our own minds, a model that we are responsible for and which in certain circumstances can change. This is a frightening and unsettling idea, but it is also liberating. 

The implication is that if you hear someone describe Leary as a saint or as a moron, then they are not really telling you anything about Tim, but revealing something about themselves. 

Leary used to say, “You get the Timothy Leary you deserve.” He was being willfully antagonistic here, I think.  It would perhaps be fairer to say that you get the Timothy Leary you want. The upshot of all this, of course, is that it is only right and fitting that we hear so many wildly different opinions about him. Perversely, it validates his ideas.

PK: How do you think history will remember him?

JH: With increasing interest. We all know that Leary was instrumental in millions of people deciding to take LSD in the ’60s and ’70s. 

The big question, however, is how deeply did the impact on this affect our current, 21st Century western culture? It's a huge question, and one we've hardly begun to answer.

A lot has been written about the impact of psychedelics on music, for example, but very little on its impact on the rest of our society, on subjects as diverse as chaos mathematics, religion, molecular biology, post-modernism or politics.

Happily, people are now starting to look at these questions. John Markoff's recent book, What the Dormouse Said, which looks at the impact of ’60s thought on the emergence of the PC industry, is a good example of this.

As the years pass, I think we're going to slowly get a better perspective on the impact of this historically unprecedented mass psychedelic use, and with that a better appreciation of Leary's impact on us all. William Burroughs said that Leary's impact would not be fully understood for a hundred years.  I can't bring myself to disagree with this, but it is no reason not to venture a few steps further down that road now.

(c) Paul Krassner, first published in High Times.

The Awestruck Skeptic

Blogger Greta Christina has just lost her temper with notion that "God is in the details," as lovely as that may sound from a lyrical perspective.

It is entirely possible to be a skeptic, an agnostic, and/or an atheist— regarding all metaphysical beliefs, not just deities or organized religions— and still lead a rich, satisfying life, full of creativity and connection and love.

More to the point, it is possible to be a skeptic, an agnostic, and/or an atheist, and still experience awestruck wonder at the mysterious majesty of the universe, and a feeling of transcendent oneness with it.

I agree with her, deeply— and would perhaps even worship Greta for writing it, if it didn't violate our deeply-evolved precepts.  Enjoy some good thought-provocation with this one!

Ladies' Top Ten Sex Drugs

At my SheShamans workshop, I asked:

"What's your favorite drug with sex?"

Here's the answers I got, in order of popularity... take this as an anecdotal survey from a beautiful summer night!

1.    Pot
2.    Ecstacy
3.    Mushrooms 
4.    2C-B
5.    San Pedro
6.    2C-T
7.    Foxy Methoxy
8.    Candy Flip (MOMA into LSD)
9.    Marijuana and a single shot of espresso  (also got the biggest laugh)
10.  GHB and marijuana

      
You'll notice all my links are from The Erowid Vault, which as they say, "documents the complex relationship between humans and psychoactives." Be prepared to spend hours getting the kind of science/medicine education you never got in high school!

Another excellent resource is MAPS,  the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies.  They're a non-profit research and educational organization who assists scientists to design, fund, obtain approval for and report on studies into the risks and benefits of MDMA, psychedelic drugs and marijuana. They have up-to-the-minute news, politics, and research that should be at everyone's fingertips!

The First Psychedelic Wives Club

My workshop at SheShamans on women, sex, and psychedelics was defined by a generation gap.

About half the women at the conference were first-generation acid queens, dyed-in-the-cannabis originals.

It was amazing to see how their work has developed over the years— as artists, cultivators, historians, and caretakers. Many of these women are the backbone of their local hospice movements, medical marijuana co-ops, spiritual and therapy communities. Behind that brownie recipe is the hand that rocks the world.

The other half of the crowd were the younger generation, who had an entirely different gateway into psychedelics. Their soundtrack is 21st century. MDMA and its derivatives were more likely their entrée to psychoactive experience, rather than Owsley's finest.

These young women may have missed the "Mr. Natural" windowpane, but one of the advantages of skipping the 60's is that they avoided the hangover that came along with it.

The younger women had such a fresh attitude about the possibilities of drug research, policy-making, and even the interpretation of what a "drug experience" is, in the first place. They were also geeks... much of their counter-culture is informed by virtual community.Their tribalism is very much alive.

Sexually, some distinct differences came up, and they took me by surprise.

It started when I confided to my conference bunk-mate, "Jenny," that I barely knew who any of the other speakers were.

I would point at a name on the program, and say, "Who is she? I looked up her book on Amazon, and yeah, it's intriguing, but it's obscure! Why does everyone talk about her— and her— and her— in such hushed tones?"

Jenny laughed at me. She explained that many these women I'd never heard of were the longterm companions, widows, and in some cases, discarded wives of the heaviest hitters in 60s iconography. It was like a First Wives Club, Acid-style.

These women have been invisible to me. Even though these folks were the vanguard of their social revolution 40 years ago, they were also the sort of people who married, had children, and stayed together for years— the wife toiling anonymously in the background, doing every fucking thing you can imagine, while her charismatic husband took center stage. Very old-fashioned! These wives were scholars, researchers, herbalists, plant whisperers, scientists, and massive trippers themselves— but above all, they were caretakers.

In their later years, some of their famous husbands had mid-life crises, and left their longtime partners for younger women.

"It's that thing men do that makes them feel better," Jenny said— rather generously, I thought.

So the second half of life begins. These women are speaking up in their own names for the first time. But it's hard on one's resumé. Who wants to be known as "Some Famous Dude's Ex-Old-Lady Who Gave Him Everything She Had"?

Among their peers, though, these women are famous for their knowledge, perseverance, and strength.

To give you an example, let me talk about the Leary family story:

Tim had a lot of women, a lot of children, and a couple wives. The history books talk about his most daring escapade, foiling the The Man, and  being sprung out of a California state prison by Black Panthers who whisked him away to Algeria.

But among this crowd, there is only one person responsible for getting Leary out of the clink, and that was Ro, Timothy's ex-wife, Rosemary. She  ended up being in political exile far longer than her husband because of the risks she took. The respect this woman engendered among her tribe, particularly the women, is enormous, and yet she remains a mysterious footnote in the mainstream history books.

So now you've got the background.

Here's the interesting sex twist: Some of the older acid-orginal couples are still together, of course. They have endured as lovers despite various affairs. A few of these women confided to me that their continuing psychedelic connection  reaffirms their intimacy as soul-mates and erotic partners.

One of the women brought it up to me so casually. She's in her 60s, with five grown children. We lay naked by the pool, in the candlelight, listening to crickets. She just said, "Psychedelics can really help older couples."

I had to keep digging from there.

I gathered one story, and then the next. Relationships are profoundly affected by mutual trips. A hallmark of tripping is that you lose your ego. Status-conscious trappings melt away, like a comical tangent. You notions of "what is beautiful" expand without boundaries. You look into your partner's weathered face, and see your life flash before your eyes.

Of course you can be fifty years old, look into your darling's eyes DEAD SOBER, and still be madly in love. It happens all the time.

And, if you have serious problems, all the pretty colored pills in the world aren't going to help you. A few moments of bliss won't keep the denial at bay.

But tripping together does add the "wow" factor, the childlike awe at your existence as a couple, as lovers bonded for life. If you are close to begin with, they make you closer And, because psychedelics are not the kind of drugs that make you "forget," you remember these emotions long after the trip is over, and daily life resumes.

I get advice queries, where  a couple will ask me, "Susie, we never do it anymore. My wife (or husband) never wants to have sex, and won't talk about it. I'm lonely, horny, and I can't go on!"

I can't hand them a line or two that's going to solve their dilemma with a snap of my fingers.  I advise therapy. I try to figure out, from the clues in their letter, some helpful insights.

But after my workshop, I have to admit that I giggled at the thought of replying: "Here, take these two Ecstasy's and call me in the morning. —That frigid wife you keep ranting about? She's going to spill her guts. —Your cold, stoic husband is going to turn into a touchy-feely love muffin. Every touch is going to melt your heart. You'll look into each others eyes and have an orgasm."

Now, of course I'm not quite that blithe. And the funny part about tripping is that you may start out thinking you're going to bond with your beloved, and end up communing with an ant on the sidewalk.

But therapists, psychiatric researchers, and healers of all kinds are profoundly interested in psychoactive experiences— they always have been— because they so vividly give us a glimpse of what it's like to be empathetic, to be aware and sensual in the moment, to flood one's body with creativity and compassion.

Some will say that you ought to be able to create those moments for yourself, au naturel, through meditation, right livelihood, or earnest practice.

But why does it have to be an either/or decision? If these plants or this chemistry were de-criminalized, why couldn't you do both? Be educated, instead of terrorized? Enjoy a vacation without leaving your living room? Enhance your consciousness as you see fit?

There is nothing  behind our national drug policy besides elitism, prudery, racism, and a profound desire to control people's lives in every intimate aspect. What if we pulled the rug out from under it?

I have another mischievous daydream.  I imagine magazines like Oprah, or Men's Health, urging their readers, "Get close to your honey tonight! Forget the plastic surgery— take these magic beans instead! Have that deep talk and endless pleasure you've always longed for!"

What a farce. None of these magazines will ever hawk a drug that isn't  produced by Big Pharma at big prices.

But the other crazy notion is that the beauty industry would ever drop their stipulation that attraction is predicated on superficial values.

It doesn't take a magic bean to realize that the reason lovers stay together in old age is because of their deep connection— realized without creams, fashion, or scalpels. If you want to be in love forever, you really do have to deal with the love part— which resists all topical treatments.

Photo: Rosemary Sarah Woodruff (Leary), 1935-2002, portrait from Afghanistan, 1971.

Psychedelic Chicks Come Home to Roost

I recently attended a conference — the first ever, on the topic of women and psychedelic drugs.

I led a workshop about drugs and sex, although I don't know if "led" is quite the right word. I consider myself a cosmic neophyte!

I asked the participants to answer a couple anonymous questions on index cards:

What was your first psychedelic sexual experience?

What was your last?

What's your favorite drug when it comes to sex?

I'll be posting their replies this week.

Here's my first podcast on the subject, where I blurt out all my first impressions:

In Bed with Susie Bright 256: Psychedelic Sex

Altogether at  She Shamans, we had about a hundred participants, and maybe a dozen women in my workshop. Hardly enough to do a grand survey, but it was the first time I have ever had a chance to talk openly to women about sex and psychedelics.

Drugs in general, and psychedelics in particular, bring up female issues that we never read about in scholoarly journals or hear debated at drug policy or entheogenic seminars. Our experiences in adolescence, with motherhood, and in menopause, all bring up extraordinarily different takes.

I started from the premise that there is a taboo for women to give in to intoxication and ecstasy, no matter how brief a sojourn.

When a man is high and horny, he's just another horny-high dude— but when a woman gives up her "responsibilities" to follow lust and outer consciousness, it's as if she has turned in her badge of virtue forever.

Even women who feel comfortable talking about their drug use, rarely feel comfortable talking about the sex they have,  or want, when they embark on a trip. When have I ever talked about women and drugs outside the dilemma of addiction? Never.

It's time to move beyond the image of the crack whore... in fact, that's what I wanted to call my workshop: "Beyond the Crack Whore." Move over, nympho junkie and drunken slut! There's a whole new psycho-naut pussycat who has something to say!

There are a number of positive questions and gateways psychoactive drugs can offer to women's sexual lives and intimate relationships. My head is still spinning from all that I heard— and that is only my sober assessment!  I'll try to share as many as I can in the coming week. Please do listen to the podcast if you can, so we can dig in even sooner.

At the close of my show, in my mailbag, I offer some advice to a very nervous late bloomer. Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, feedback about the show, and requests for Susie's "Girly Cards" to susie@susiebright.com. (Episode 256, July 14, 2006)

World's Longest Running Wet T-Shirt

It won't stop raining here. it's like the world's longest-running wet T-shirt contest, although I have to say every other item in the closet is drenched too. Umbrellas? I never met an umbrella I couldn't break inside of five minutes.

Best American Erotica 2007 is due in a week. I am: Not Ready.

I've neglected my time with you here terribly, but I promise to ship this big girl off soon, and dry myself off.

In the meantime, my summer plans have been shaping up.

I'm going to be speaking at the L.A. Times Book Festival at the end of April, and I hope I'll see a lot of old friends. I'm on a panel with Dennis Cooper and Karen Finley, called "Pushing the Envelope," although I hope we'll do more than that, with our combined word-shredding power.

Then in June, is SheShamans. Bring your 'shrooms and knitting.

In July, I'm attending a women's blog conference called BlogHer, that I think will be like going to blogging grad school. Any of you bloggers in babeland out there— please, please, meet me at the pool! It's in San Jose, CA, so I'll be driving over the hill.

I'm also giving workshop, on Blog Sex, of course, for Sunday. I'm also like to propose a unofficial workshop on blogging for authors and other "word artists," since I've decided I'm an expert on that, too.

LATimes Book Fest
Fiction— Pushing the Envelope
Susie Bright, Karen Finley, Dennis Cooper, and Craig Ferguson
Saturday, April 29th
12:00 PM
Franz 1178, U.C.L.A

SheShamans
June 23 - 25
Isis Oasis
Geyserville, CA

BlogHer Conference 06
July 28- 29
San Jose, CA

Oslo street art!

Mommy Was A Psychedelic Witch

Have you ever seen the popular refrigerator magnet that says, "Mom Took Acid?" I laughed the moment I saw it, and had to slap it on my freezer.

Some of my friends have asked, "What's the real story behind the punchline?"

It's a worthy question. Women's sexuality all on its own is a familiar taboo- but women, sex, and our relationship to entheogens is truly an unspoken story.

Let's break the ice!

This June, I'm going to a one-of-a-kind weekend gathering called SheShamans, and I want all my girlfriends on this blog to come too.

For my part, I'm doing a workshop on sexuality and the erotic from our first-hand altered experiences. How have menarche, motherhood, or menopause affected our relationship to "drugs and sex"? 

I'm using all the quotation marks because the topic is so loaded. One person's perfect crystal psychedelic moment is another person's bottomless pit. But there's everything in between, too.

This isn't going to be a rah-rah session— I have more to learn than I have to say. I'll lead a workshop and discussion about the female side of the altered erotic experience, and what I'm looking forward to is the candor, insight, and generousity that I've seen already with so many women I met at the Sacred Elixirs conference a few months ago.

The SheShamans weekend is bringing together some incredible women, and I hope you'll be sorely tempted to be part of it!

We have April to "sell tickets." and see if we can pull it off. It's happening in Mendocino County, in Northern California, and your admission pays for lodging at a beautiful retreat center, meals, and all the workshops and fun we're planning. 

If you wanna go, register now on the web page, don't sit around. We have until the end of April to make the down payment on the retreat center, and it would be good to breathe a sigh of relief-- and pleasure, that we can look forward to such a sweet occasion.

Fire circle? Check.
Dancing at all hours? Check.
Best sex talk you ever had? Check.
Ocelots? Apparently!

Attendees are invited to offer presentations, discussions, circles, you-name-it, as part of the scheduled sessions. Confirmed presenters include: Kathleen Harrison - Cynthia Palmer - Valerie Corral - Jane Straight - Linda Rosa Corazon - Karen Vogel - Macha Nightmare - Patricia Winters - Rev. Anne Zapf - Sandra Karpetas - Lou Montgomery - Adele Getty - Diane Darling.  See site for more...

And To All, A Good Night!

Graphic from The Cthulu Circus, of course. I'm taking a little respite for the next couple weeks, and I will see you again after the holidays. Rest well, and Have an Eloquent New Year.

Santa is a Mushroom Man

Merry, merry, meltdown!  Wal-mart is under the yulelog fire because one of its employees— a young visionary named Kirby— dared to argue with a Fundamentalist customer that the meaning of Christmas is more magical than she might think.

It all started in email. The lady's complaint is part of a now-annual Grinchy church campaign. The Christian Crusaders send mass mailings, to all the department stores and local newspapers, to bitch about how the slogan "Happy Holidays" defiles the true meaning of Christmas.

The retailers need to sell-sell-sell to everyone this season. They use the catch-all "Holiday" slogan to appeal to every religious and material interest.

Did temp worker Kirby insult Miss Bethlehem by explaining that Wal-Mart had a corporate directive to be inclusive of all faiths?

No, that would be old hat! Instead, Kirby took the time to reach out to this protester with a more careful explanation of winter rituals:

"The colors associated with Christmas red-and-white are actually a representation of the amanita muscaria mushroom," he wrote her. "Santa is borrowed from the Caucuses, mistletoe from the Celts, yule log from the Goths, the time from the Visigoth and the tree from the worship of Baal. It is a wide, wide world."

Kirby has been canned. The nameless female complainer has been elevated to a martyr. The Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights has called for a boycott of Wal-Mart, and the other fundies are piling on. Gosh, those labor-law violators just can't get a break!

I love Kirby. I think Kirby is Santy Claus! I'm going to go make a Buche Noel with a little red mushroom on top, right now!

St. Nick painting by James Bursenos

Eat Shit and Fly

I was queasy the first time I ate the body of Christ. I was only seven years old. I