Susie Bright's Journal

I'm a Finalist in Something I Don't Understand

I'm flattered. I'm stunned. I'm... confused.

My blog is a finalist in the "Best LGBT Blog" category at the fancy-pantsy 2007 WebBlog Awards.

Vote for Susie Bright's Journal and feel the rose petals swirl at your feet!

I'm excited like a kid in a school play to get noticed at all. I want to win, and sob about "Whirled Peas" just like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality.

But the category selection took me by surprise. LGBT? Really? I'm such a fucking hasbian. Of course I'm bisexual, but so is most of the blogosphere. On the other hand, if I'd been nominated in the "Best Heterosexual" category, I would've filed a protest.

There's the kicker. There is no "Heterosexual" category; that would sound absurd.

I looked at the other nominees in the LGBT section, and they all seem to be politically-minded writers who never fail to point out sexual hypocrisy when then see it. They're activists, who blog about Genarlow Wilson (a guy who had sex with a girl!) as much as they write about Larry Craig (man on man denial)!

The Weblog Awards don't offer categories like porn, sex— or what I would've fit in the best: sexual politics with frequent lapses.

I suspect a lot of the other category finalists, and non-starters, are already mounting protests. There's a contingent of fashion bloggers who are ready to burn the place down because they didn't get a category at all. And what does "Best Religious" mean?  Is all of Canada and Europe supposed to be content with one category for furriners?

Nevertheless, the Awards are a marketing gimmick I shall not completely ignore. The fun part of the action is that as  people go to vote for their girl, they discover other blogs they weren't aware of before.

If this journal gets a bunch of votes, we'll undoubtedly attract a few more delicious people, of thrilling sexual persuasion, who shall join our merry band. I shall polish my dildo.

So, as they say, Vote for Pedro! I'm an underdog in this race.

(By the way, if you want to read the best satire about these awards, check out Jon Swift, who most righteously deserves winning the "Funniest" category).

Here's how it works:

The winner will be chosen based on the number of votes cast, like "American Idol."

You can vote once a day (brew coffee, tie shoelaces, vote!).

Whenever you vote, you get to see the totals so far in all the competition.

Voting ends on Thursday, November 8, 2007, which happens to be the third year anniversary of my blog. That means you have six more tries to push that button, baby!

The last surreal twist: they are announcing the winner at a shindig in... Vegas. I shall remain here in the redwoods, savoring my kinky solitude.

VOTE HERE! Vote often! Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay!

The PrudeHacker Toolkit

Would you like to:

a) read this blog anywhere, without being blocked?

b) read this blog on your mobile phone?

c) read this blog without images, so you can load it fast, on a dialup modem?

d) swing on a star?

Finally, I have the ways and means.

Too Filthy Not to Mention

I have three tips for today:

1.
Are you a serious scholar of bad movies, ephemeral pornography, and Grade-Z celebutards?

Why then, you must already be a subscriber to Cinema Sewer.

Narrated by Robin Bougie in graphic novel format, no sleazy detail is left unmasticated...

2.
Here's a blog that gets me where I live: Porn Perspectives: "Examining the interplay between pornography, feminism, economics, and technology." Much food for thought on a regular basis!

3.
Finally, this is truly weird... I was visiting an old, beloved friend from high school, who isn't much of an Internet junkie. I asked him if he'd ever Google'd himself, as he's a busy political activist and I figured there ought to be lots of juicy stuff to look at.

"Let's see if there's any funny photos of you!" I suggested, and clicked on the images search.

Lo, and behold, one of the uglier mug shots we discovered was linked back to a bizarre hate-list, where some dude has made an annotated index of everyone he believes is "a useless idiot kike" dedicated to destroying Israel, and elevating a mongrel race that he can barely bring himself to call "Arabs."

You can't even call this guy "Zionist," he's in a class by himself— like a Jewish Rev. Fred Phelps.

Not only is he dedicated to punishing "self-hating" Jews he describes as traitors— and if you don't tow his line 24 hours a day, you qualify— but he is also obsessed with the notion that every feminist Jew is maniacal bulldyke who needs to be horsewhipped.

He is also foaming on the subject of Richard Gere, whom he depicts in a nude photo, hung like a horse, and described as a "beady-eyed Buddhist."

As we scrolled through the alphabet, looking at hundreds of venomous entries— alternately gasping and laughing— I realized that ALL my friends were on this list. And the ones I don't know, I want to be my friends!

This is a (subversive) dating site come true. If you a single progressive mensch, (or mensch-ette), I recommend using all the email links Mr. LoveBunny provides, and finding your dream date. Forget J-Date; these are the best references ever... When lunatics hand you lemons, make lemonade!

I only wish there was a list like this for renegade Irish Catholics.

My Little Tantrum About All This New-Fangled Horsepucky

Hear ye, hear ye:  This blog does not work properly on the Internet Explorer browser.

However, Firefox and Safari work beautifully, and they're free!

Those of you who've tried to read my posts on IE are already saying: "Duh."

I'm sorry it's been such a mess. (Hear my broken-down sobbing...) 

I'm trying my darndest to make my blog compatible in every fashion, for every version of everything, but it's a Sisyphean task.

Lately, it seems more difficult than ever to make sure all the latest doo-dads I install on my site are compatible with older systems and browsers. The videos, the audio, the big pictures, the javascript.... they're all delicious, but you have to have the bandwidth and the latest browsers to keep up with it.

What I do know is, in the meantime, you can "make the bad man go away" by using the latest version of Firefox or Safari. It's an Instant Remedy, and you can do it on your end, instead of waiting for me to crack up getting to the source of all my validation errors.

Firefox and Safari work on Mac and Windows and god knows what else. People far more expert than I would urge you to make the switch.

Apparently Safari and Firefox are much "better for you" than IE, because they are resistant to spyware and viruses—whereas IE sounds like a piece of cheesecloth. If you upgrade and switch browsers, you'll likely be impressed for many reasons, including being able to read, see, and hear my blog again.

Another sad note of progress: 

I just turned on the CAPTCHA system for my comments section, which means that when you post a comment, you'll have to type in a series of letters that help validate that you are a person and not a machine.

It's not difficult in the least— it's just a pain, another little inconvenience.

Why have I been brought so low? Because I have been spending an hour a day cleaning spam out of my blog comments. It's enraging, not to mention a stupendous waste of time.

Please know that I value all your very human and valuable comments; I treasure them. If this new system doesn't help with the spam hassle, I'll disconnect it and try something else.

And now back to your regularly scheduled program....

Photo: John Everett, and his grandpa's car, Louisville, KY

8 Things I Had No Intention of Talking About

I've been tagged like a flamingo in a fruit fight.

Well, PZ must've known I was sticky for the taking.

Here are the rules:

    1.    We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
    2.    Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
    3.    People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight  things and post these rules.
    4.    At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
    5.    Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and  to read your blog.

My 8:

I spent two hours making labels on my Brother P-touch Label Maker this afternoon, and I became so besotted it with it that I took it into the toilet with me so I wouldn't have to stop for one moment.

I get a rush listening to Formula One engines. I have a whole CD of them: audio loops of thunderous high-pitched wail. I put the CD into my dorky Prius sedan, and quietly drive up to a stoplight. ...Unroll my window and put on my shades. I make sure some guy in a muscle car is idling right next to me. Then I turn the volume knob all the way up, wait for the light to barely turn green, and press PLAY.

I'm editing a book about organic farming, and there's a chapter in which intrepid field workers aerate the soil with a box of handy whirling battery-operated dildos.

I can take a broom in both hands and step over it and wind it behind my body and over my head without ever breaking my grip. I was born that way.

I just found my roach clip from the summer of '76 stuck in a vaccination record drawer.

If I could live anywhere right now, it would be Vancouver.

I used to go target shooting, and I really enjoyed it. The only reason I don't now is because I haven't owned a gun in twenty-something years, and I'm not neighbors with anyone these days who would invite me to jump in the car for a few rounds. I'm in an odd spot, of being in favor of gun control for all the usual reasons— but I'd also  relish firing a dozen different guns and getting euphoric over bulls-eyes. Don't let Ted Nugent get his hands on me.

I just had a chocolate cake tonight, at the UCSC Farm dinner, where the frosting was a ganache made with cocoa, sugar, and avocado, and it was so good I'm still screaming. You would never guess it was avocado. Here's a recipe that sounds close. I may lay down the gun, but you'll never get this bowl of pudding out of my hands.

OK, now who shall I put in my sights?

• Chelsea Girl
• Doug Henwood
• Bitch PhD
• Greta Christina
• Avedon Carol
• Ampersand
• Lucy Kemnitzer
• Bitchy Jones

Illustration: "The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it would twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed."

Bike Ride to Hell

A recent and brilliant Op-Ed in the L.A. Times by Linda Williamson gets my head spinning about the new absurdities of child-predator panics.

Yes, students are now being banned from riding their bicycles to school, to protect them from marauding bands of molestors. Fat chance!

In Bed with Susie Bright 290: Let Kids Outdoors

Then, on the second half of my show, I confess my online blogwriter-crush on MonMouth— a London male escort:

...I wrote yesterday that most of my dates are exciting—

Well, blue skies bring tears. Having just posted the entry, I proceeded to last night's date. The best thing about it was my regular minicab driver who showed me baby pictures on his mobile as we drove to Hammersmith. It was all downhill after that.

I showed up on time, rang the doorbell as instructed, and was greeted by a po-faced maid. A maid! I was surprised she'd let the staff show the rentboy in, but what the hell.

"You M.?" she asked, sneering. I told her that I was, and she conducted me upstairs to madam's room. Suite, more like it. No sign of madam.

"Sit down," the maid said. At this point I had begun to feel like a plumber called in to unclog a particularly stubborn drain.

This turned out to be an accurate premonition.

Madam waltzed in, wearing a pale-pink silk robe, her face fully made up. She was pale and plump, the precise opposite of Thursday night's date, in her 50s probably, and nowhere near as articulate. First thing she says: "Stand up, let me see what I get."

Pro that I am, I stood up, unbuttoned my jacket. "Good," she snaps. "I'm expected somewhere at [time] and I expect to be bored. I need oral, and a good shagging. Can you handle that?"

"Yes," I said, a bit unenthusiastically.

"No touching the face. Just had my makeup done."

The idea of ruining her paint-job by splattering her face with my cum made things just about interesting enough to proceed. She sat down on a couch and opened the robe. Nothing on underneath. I undressed slowly while she stroked herself, then knelt down and worked her pussy over with tongue and fingers hoping that if she'd come often enough like this she wouldn't hold out for the shagging.

No such luck. I only managed a hard-on by concentrating on the memory of Thursday night, and my Asian date's luscious lips sliding over the head of my cock while I stroked her generously proportioned ass, two fingers in her pussy. Madam Pink, by contrast, really made me feel I was at work - even her moans of pleasure (I assume) came out in a tone she could have used to summon the maid.

She came, for the second time, and we were finished at 10 minutes under schedule. She began to dress immediately, in panties and bra while I pulled my clothes on. I didn't even count the roll of bills she handed me, just pocketed it, smiled, nodded politely and left.

I had my regular cabbie pick me up. Waiting for him at a bus stop, I found out she'd paid me almost double what we agreed. Every penny of that felt richly earned. The new dad at the wheel got a sizeable tip too.

Jeff Gannon, take note. Actually, everyone can take a bloody note. You may spend hours reading this fellow's diaries; Monmouth is such a great raconteur. And he talks about all sorts of things— his relationship and  negotiations with  his wife, his day job at "Saltmine Inc.,"  his doubts and wonderings about what all this amounts to.

Here's the link to my entire show: Link

Finally, in the Try This at Home mailbag— an In Bed first!— I read a personal ad on the air from one of our listeners, and ask for likely suitors to step forward.

My photo above is especially interesting today: It's a still from "The Bicycle Ride," an  animation short by David Normal, which is a fanciful depiction of Dr. Albert Hofmann's discovery of LSD. This cartoon was debuted at the "LSD Symposium" held in honor of Albert Hofmann's 100th birthday in Basel, Switzerland.

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, personal-ad pitches, feedback about the show, and requests for Susie's free-show Girly Cards by dropping a line to susie@audible.com (Episode 290, April 20, 2007)

Twitter Unleashes My Essentials

I just started a Twitter account. Why? I don't know. Liz told me about it.

I could answer their perennial question, "What are you doing?" with something memorable this morning:

follow susiebright at http://twitter.com

I like the art of the shortest short story. Is Twitter the ultimate Hemingway legacy? "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

I also love these classics:

Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so.
- Joss Whedon

Longed for him. Got him. Shit.
- Margaret Atwood

Juicy offer. Must decline. Still paralysed.
- Richard Ford

Dad called: DNA back: he isn't.
- Helen Fielding

With bloody hands, I say good-bye.
- Frank Miller

I am still way too chatty, but I shall work on cutting myself to the core. After I finish mopping up.