Susie Bright's Journal

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Marriage With Benefits: If It Plays in New York...

Every year New York magazine publishes a "SEX" issue, a lasting cultural artifact of what the "smart set" in Manhattan have to say about their libidos.

Many readers, especially west of the Hudson, say to themselves, "If this is the smart set, god help us." The cutting edge of Upper East Side eroticism is a wee bit more conservative than what might be taking place in California, for instance, or even parts of Brooklyn.

Nevertheless, I read it every year, even if it makes me want to scream.

This year there's a cover story called, "Marriage with Benefits," — the new vocabulary for non-monogamous couples who fuck other people with their wedding bands on.

There's also a story about the current crop of female sex columnists, which gave me pause about what it means to be a sex expert these days.

But back to "The New Monogamy"— here's a story about young lovers who are re-inventing open relationships— they create rules of trust to guide their affairs! Take note, you clueless old polyamourous duffers.

The "rules" are all things you've heard of before, like: "We only do threesomes," "We only fuck around out of town," or "We do condoms with everyone outside of our marriage."

Their true innovation is their nicknames for everything:

Above-the-waist rule
An agreement that any touching above the beltline is fair game.

Body-fluid monogamy
When a couple forgoes the latex with each other but requires it for all outside sexual activity.

Fifty-mile rule
You don't sleep with anyone who lives in your city.

Party bisexual
A woman or a man who engages in same-sex sex-play after multiple martinis.

Trinogamous
To be in a committed threesome

The story keeps on the light side by avoiding the inevitable question, "What happens when your partner breaks one of the rules?" Now that's a story I'd like to read, or write— better yet, edit.

I have my own original slang to add to the New York collection: "Busyogamous." It means you are a major slut in principle, but are too tired and overwhelmed to do anything about it—  I would think is a major problem in New York!

The sex columnist story, The Vagina Dialogs, concerns a crop of New Yorkers who all write sex columns, including one of my pals, Rachel Kramer Bussel. (I was glad to see Rachel wearing her Fuck-Me-Fluevogs in the feature photograph!)

The story, by Amy Sohn, made me reminisce how much the definition of "sex columnist" has changed since I found myself the same occupation in the 80s. 

Back then, sex columns only appeared in randy men's mags. It was esoteric information. You had The Playboy Adviser, which i still love to this day for segueing seamlessly from advice about cunnilingus techniques to Louisiana Flip recipes and stereo hookups. Then you had Happy Hooker Xaviera Hollander at Penthouse.

In the early 80s, a sex educator named Isadora Alman, an alumni of San Francisco Sex Information, started a column in the San Francisco Bay Guardian. It was audacious for its time, because Isadora did not promote herself as either a doctor or a hooker, but rather as  a well-informed, sex-positive woman who was open to kind discussion of every erotic situation. 

Alman encouraged alternative sex and erotic identities of all kinds. She never pathologized a cross-dresser or issued warnings to swingers. it was more like, "Mazeltov!" This was before sex advice got snarky.

In '84, I started a column called "Toys For Us" for a my new magazine, On Our Backs. I started out like a Dear-Abby-turned-dyke-pornographer, with the usual tips and tricks.

I'd never written a column before. It sounded more like a diary than a formal sex column. It was more fun to tell a story that way.

My column grew popular in ways I didn't expect.  I got asked to write a column for Penthouse Forum, and quit my day job at the vibrator store. Then, Salon invited me for their launch. 

About a year later, Salon hired another young woman to write a second sex column, named Courtney Weaver.

I was puzzled by Weaver's debut. Courtney didn't suggest she was an expert or particularly knowledgeable about sex in any way. She was simply a young woman who was willing to dish about her dating life, embarrassing flukes and all. It wasn't pedagogical in the least. it also was not leftwing, not X-rated, or spawned from the old hippie counter-culture. Not one bit.

If you were over 40, it was like listening to a teenager pontificate about sex for an hour— fascinating, but whack. For Courtney's peers, it was a chance to empathize with her qualms about dilemmas like fucking an ex at a Xmas office party. Inquiring minds want to know!

It wasn't as sexually frank as the old sexperts... and it didn't need to be. The Gen Y appetite  for "sex" advice that was more concerned with status anxiety than orgasm.

Courtney's column broke the mold. Although you still have feminist radical smartypants writers like Rachel and Tristan Taormino, (how did she not get in the NY story?) they are the disappearing minority.

The more mainstream sex columnist of today is like Jessica Cutler or Stephanie Klein, who are masters of self-gossip. They haveno interest in "sex-ed" or helping anyone out... it's more like a lovely narcissist with wet panties.

Amy Sohn asks Jessica, "How many lovers do you have currently?"

Jessica answers, "Seven."

"Do they know about each other?"

"Well, they will after this article comes out!"

I like chick candor. But I think the soft flesh is missing from a great deal of the current crop of most-hyped writers.  It's like that book "How To Make Love Like a Porn Star" which doesn't once discuss making love. There's no there there.

These publishing decisions are made by media executives who look at the success of "Sex and The City," and say, "Ah yes! What we need is more chatty, acquisitive, materialistic celebration of the most shallow and superficial elements of sex in our culture."  Bring it on, indeed.

You may read the latest sexgirl's exclamations of exhibitionism (ohmigod i walked down the street without my Victoria's Secret thong and my boss would die if he knew!)  but we never get to hear about the breeze that caresses her cunt, or the intimate risks of trading shopping for sex.

I'll never get sick of a terrific young femme writer, especially when she tackles her desires. But meanwhile, there's about five zillion other types of people we have not heard from. Like straight men, for instance. Or married people. Or women who are having a hell of time masturbating. Or Mommy's.

Someday Gidget is going to grow up. I swear I'm going to publish a new magazine, called "Worn Out Slut." The slogan will be: Je ne Regrette Rien. I have a feeling we're going to be the next wave. I wonder if I can get Dan Savage to write something.

(Top Photo: Phillip Toldeano, Bottom photo: Christopher Griffith, both from NY mag)

Your Golden Ticket to Self-Gratification

In Bed with Susie Bright #227: The Trouble with Masturbation

Welcome to the United States of Hysterica. In today's show I introduce you to Senator Sam Brownback, and his amazing arguments against porn in the latest Senate subcommittee to investigate the nefarious subject of sexual arousal among civilians.

In the past, porn was condemned by the feds because it was run by the Mafia. Or that it was degrading to women. Morally deficient. Or that it inspired otherwise normal men to become rapists. But that is all so passé!

The current GOP approach to erotic excoriation is more more basic. You see, watching porn leads to masturbation, which is the source vexation. Jilling off, according to Brownback's witnesses, causes a neurological reaction that makes your brain go haywire and makes you stop wanting sex with your spouse. "People watch a movie, read a book, listen to music, but they masturbate to pornography," one of the experts explained. "In that difference, you have a different stimulation to the brain."

I wonder what Brownback thinks of my latest guilty pleasure... and I really have kept it secret until now. I have sat alone in a room, all day, watching an entire DVD season of of that plastic surgeon soap opera, Nip/Tuck. Talk about pornography!  I scream and squeal so much during my marathon viewings that the neighbors must think I've organized an orgy and neglected to invite them. Interestingly, I still want to have sex with my old man.

The whole series is... sordid. Tawdry. Very, very Jackie Susann. There's a character that gets a Real Latex Doll made out of her vagina. 

Finally, in my  mailbag,  I answer a letter from a devoted husband who reports that although his wife has multiple orgasms, she seems to have lost almost all interest in sex. How can that be? (Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions and feedback about the show to me, at susie at audible dot com).

One last item... some of you have told me that you have friends who you think would love my show on Audible, but you can't quite get them to jump through the technical hoop to make it happen. They have iTunes but they've never opened the app. They love radio but they're afraid of digital anything. They think if it's really that good, it will eventually end up on NPR. Sadly, no! The FCC ain't gonna let that happen.

Well, I have a new idea. I have some "golden tickets" from Audible. They are little cards with a unique number on each one. Your friend goes to the Audible web site, types in the secret number, and they get two free books or shows— anything they want. It  doesn't have to be my show, although I'd be thrilled if they tried it! The entry page is very gentle and leads them through the download process. There are no strings attached, they don't have to give their credit card or anything.

It really is a freebie, with the explicit hope that your friend will be so bowled over that they will come back and subscribe to something. My dream is that they will become addicted to "In Bed" and won't be able to function like a normal human being ever again.  See, I told you it was upfront!

These cards don't work for anyone who already has an Audible account. And they only work once. But I would love to send you one, or two, or three— if you have that many friends who you think you could seduce!  Just email me and tell me your snail mail address. I'll pop them in the mail to  you. If you get any follow up feedback about what they think, I'd be v. interested to hear about it.

Treats for the Over-Indulged

I finally updated my music, film, and book  reviews on the sidebars of this blog... I was bursting at the seams. I hope you'll enjoy reading all the categories: Books on Sex, Theoretical Sex, Up All Night Reading, Books I Gave My Daughter, Music, and Movies!

You'll see what shocking good graphic novels my daughter is addicted to, and my latest obsessions in opera, rude blues, and anti-Xmas music.

I've walked out of three movie theaters this past weekend (Jarhead, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, and Derailed) so I felt like I needed to rehab with about a dozen old movies that restored my faith in cinema again. I started with Steve McQueen's Bullitt. I love movies like that— that are, on one hand, nothing but a great detective story, but on the other hand, represent tour de force filmmaking.

Jarhead, the book, meant so much to me. I read it out loud to my lover on a road trip. I gave it at least a half dozen people as a gift. I wrote to the author, Tony Swafford, and paraphrasing one of the minor characters in his marine saga, I opened my fan letter with: Hi. My name is Susie, I drop acid, and I like to fuck. His book was so funny, so poignant, so influenced by my OTHER favorite war novel, Dispatches, that I was in love.

If you had taken me to Jarhead the movie, and not told me the title, I wouldn't have recognized the story. I was  heartbroken. Jake Gyllenhaal, naked is not enough, not by a long stretch. It was all macho tantrums and gratuitous explosions, with no soul,  no writing genius, no insight, which was the basis of the original text.  What a bad trip!

Seen any awesome movies lately? Or books that I could bury myself in, over Xmas? Also, what's your most magical Christmas tune? I already have Mr. Hanky, the Xmas Poo, so you have to do better than that.

Butterball Baby

Why do we only eat stuffing once a year? Everyone says it's their favorite part of Thanksgiving, and yet we starve ourselves.

It's bread pudding, and that gives you a clue right there. I love bread. I love pudding. Pour on the butter and let's have a party.

I make two stuffings, one traditional and one for the vegetarians, although that's a bit of a joke because the carnivores eat all the veggie dressing too.

I used to buy loaves of bread and dry them out before cutting them into cubes by hand, but I decided that is not where the labor-intensive hours count. Instead, I support buying unseasoned bread crumbs ahead of time. The key is UNseasoned. Seasoning is an area where you can make your homemade stuffing shine.

Buy fresh herbs. Actually, if you live near me, come over and get some for free, because I have enough parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme to sink a dingy off of  Plymouth Rock.

Just cooking up  fresh herbs in butter and garlic is enough to set the whole day right. Saute them with your onion, your celery, and if you want my other secret, diced fennel bulb. YUM. You can even skip the celery entirely if you want.

My famous star of the stuffing comes next:  I chop up oysters and saute them... more butter, please!  I love the taste of shellfish in poultry dressing. Of course you have the sizzling ground sausage mixed in there as  as well... pork, shellfish, and turkey flavors cannot be beat!  Sometimes I add baby shrimp, too.

I'm big on nutmeats. Pecans. I have a Cajun feel for stuffing. If I could come up with 'gator meat to throw in, I bet it would be heaven.  Brazil nuts, or pine nuts work alright too, but remember this is NOT a candy bar. Peanuts and almonds are not your friend in the stuffing department.

I like raisins. I like capers. I like to throw everything in but the kitchen sink as long as I think it will harmonize.

I always buy a separate package of giblets and livers to cook, just for the stuffing. You can't get enough of that stoned turkey flavor.

I learned a great lesson from a Cauldron cooking class I took at Mariquita Farm:  the most flavorful part of any bird comes from the gelatinous body parts. That's why chicken feet are the quintessential flavor orgasm of any hen. More than anything you can do to enhance your chicken stock, it's the feet that make it POP.

During class, we cooked in an enormous witch-size iron cauldron, so I cleaned about 100 chicken feet. Nasty things they are, especially for a sheltered city girl like me!  They made me think, "so this is what dinosaur toes must have looked like."

But the flavor of the broth was off the hook. I don't blame you if you use canned broth, but if you're determined to make homemade stock, get some of those feet from the butcher. Just a handful will make you a shaman in the kitchen.

What do you like in your stuffing? Are you a purist, or surrealist when it comes to additions?

I hope you are taking a slow weekend with family and friends, whether you're munching on bird or Sushi or Cadbury bars! I'm very thankful for all your support and good words this year, and I look forward to more of the same!

Some mad satire for you:

"Pardoned Turkey" to be He Held at Guantanamo

Scenes from a Bush Thanksgiving

That Boy They Couldn't Forget

Every era has its beauty— the sex symbol who takes lust and awe and squeezes just a little bit tighter than anyone else would have dared.

Because beauty is so ephemeral, many of our most-admired sex symbols have only become "legends" through savvy marketing,  rather than through their native merits.

Take Bettie Page, for example— she was always extraordinary, but it was only after decades of cult worship, that she ascended to the Pantheon.

Male beauties have the hardest time making a mark in American pop culture, because their value is measured largely through teenage girls. James Dean may be the only American masculine beauty icon who "crossed over"— as much a legend to gay audiences as he is to straight ones, desirable to every genderation.

I'd like to nominate a new godhead. You may not know Peter Berlin's name, but you know his face and body as surely as you have walked down the street and a hot summer's day and had your head turned by a young man who looked like he was made for sexual worship.

If you lived in San Francisco in the 70s, you must have seen Peter, on a daily basis, roaming the streets in the most eyepopping outfits ever designed for the male body. He MADE those clothes. These were jeans tailored for his cock, his ass, and ripped to perfection. The leather jacket hung on his V-frame like Superman's cape thrown over his shoulder. He had long, shaggy, angel-blond hair, and a face that could might bring almost anyone to their knees.

I thought Peter was a cartoon the first I saw him— Jessica Rabbit. When he opened up his mouth and the German accent came out, I was shocked, because it made him human. My first impression was that he was the most outlandish male hooker I'd ever seen in my life. But I was quickly schooled.  I learned from my betters that Berlin was the creator of two unique porn films, his own portfolio, and that he invented, stitched, and lit every aspect of his sexual persona. Mapplethorpe shot him. Warhol filmed him. But no one could craft Peter as well as Peter himself.

Everyone complains about narcissism, but really, how many times do we see it produced on a grand scale? Peter Berlin is the Greta Garbo of the Castro, the ne plus ultra of homoeroticism. He is Tom of Finland come to life.

He was so successful in his self-design that although the straight world remained  ignorant of his name, they have been as influenced by his image as they were by disco, leather, and every other 70s gay popcult invention. Before there was Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, Berlin was the progenitor of the young, the hung, and hot.

Producers Jim Tushinski and Lawrence Helman have made a documentary, That Man, about Peter Berlin, that inspires my review. In addition to their biographical feature, they have also re-released his most famous movie, That Boy.

That Man, as you might guess, is largely being discussed among gay men, including people like John Waters who practically weep at the mention of Peter's name. However, I would recommend the movie to anyone who takes an interest in sex symbols, and the archetypes of masculine eroticism. It's a revelation from start to finish.

I had no idea Berlin was still alive. Much to my amazement, he has outlived virtually everyone he ever cared about, and carries on a life of creative and philosophical determination matched by few. His take on the 70s, AIDS, drugs, and being the only one of his peers left standing is unsentimental and unrepentant. By the end, I saw that the most bracing part of Peter's beauty, so clear in his old age, is ramrod dignity. You don't  see that very often in a pair of tight white pants.

 

 

George Bush: Death of a GirlyMan

Our current president has always suffered from short pants. Even to his supporters, he's been Daddy's boy: the little millionaire who never did a thing to earn it. Previous occupation: team cheerleader, drunken frat president,  artful draft-dodger. The Twinkie with the most toys wins, even if the election needs a little goosing.

None of those descriptions scream "presidential," but at the same time, they do not disturb W.'s gender identification. He has never been portrayed— the way Arnold would put it— as a "girlyman."

But the tutu has turned. Something is in the air. It all started with the company the president keeps.

The tabloids, the blogs, and even the MSM are saying that George W. Bush is only talking to four people  now, four women. They are his mother, his wife, Condoleeza Rice, and Karen Hughes.

Since Brent Scowcroft was interviewed in The New Yorker, and revealed that Bush Senior is disappointed in his son, W. and Daddy aren't talking. The prodigal son doesn't seem happy with any of the father figures in his life: Rove, Rummy, or Cheney.

In every story about W.'s retreat to a reassuring female nest, there's been an air of sissy-bait about it. Nothing explicit, mind you— just the feeling that when all those Hair-On-Their-Chest Bush fans read such material, their stomach must turn. Their guy in the White House looks like Little Lord Fauntleroy, with long curls, a lollipop, and one hand on the apron strings. His ratings may be in the toilet, but this is different: his masculinity is being impugned.

Many opponents of George Bush over the years have felt the sting of being "queer-baited." It's classic Rovian attack strategy: when all else fails, accuse your opponent of being gay. The mere whisper of such a scandal triggers a wave of homophobia that then can be neatly worked into the ballot box. Exhibit A: John Kerry. Exhibit B: The French.

The success of damning someone to hell because they elicit gender anxiety has proved to be far more scalding than once-preferred red- or race-baiting. The "fag" or "dyke" accusation is the ultimate stink bomb that blows away all reason, and turns the what-me? apathetic into the foaming-at-the-mouth activist.

But can success spoil Tab Hunter? Apparently so. The Fundie wing of the GOP has been so pathological with their gay-baiting tactics that they are now turning it on themselves, an army of closet cases and cojones contestants.

They smeared Harriet Miers, a perfectly good right-wing nutjob, for being a lesbian, because she isn't married and doesn't know how to apply a mascara wand.

Now, their pincers trembling, they are prepared to take on the Biggest Mama's Boy of All.

They say... he only talks to "girls." They say... he's afraid to be a man. They say.. he's nothing more than a spokes-model. In the vernacular of the teenage skateboarders I hear across my street, "That Is So Gay."

This queer frame job is the prelude to hanging the whole war fiasco on Petite Georgette. What a sap. One day he's getting personal messages from God to invade Iraq, and on the next spin, he's a stupid little pansy who got us into this mess. No one wants to get near this chick.

Donald Rumsfeld is the latest to let Bush know that "he's just not that into you." Rummy called a reporter out of the blue to say that he always had his doubts about "the Iraq thing." What gall— he makes Judas look like an amateur.

I wish we lived in a country where female counsel was admired, where women's experience and sexuality were respected. I'm crazy enough to dream of a national policy that isn't based on whose dick is the biggest.

Yet I know that's too much to ask in Bush's America. ShortPants is going to go down swinging, calling everyone else a coward and a pussy before they can fix the same can to his tail. I don't think he'll make it.

What a glorious distraction. The war profiteers, the corporate rapes, the erosion of all privacy and decency— it all pales compared to who can call who a fag first, and make it stick. 

 

Here Comes Santa Susie

I have two new audio shows up at Audible. Yes, you can listen to them as podcasts! Yes, you can listen to free samples of each show!  Yes, all I want for Xmas is for you to subscribe! 

Speaking of Santa, this reminds me of the year that I played Santa Claus at a Good Vibrations holiday party. It was the store manager's idea, and I was dubious: how would the guests accept a "girl" in the role of St. Nick?

I was so naive.

All night long, people crawled into my lap and confided their dearest wishes to me. Serious confessions and long-held yearnings. In each case, I told them how proud I was of them, and that they deserved everything they asked for. I told them that even though they had been naughty, I knew deep down inside they were the best little boy, girl, or enfant terrible in the world.

I don't know where all these words came from; I hadn't planned on being a therapist or the Wonderful Mommy/Daddy. I honestly had been more worried about my red latex and white ermine fur outfit. But when the Santa magic clicked on, I couldn't stop the rush. Later that night I realized that my knees had given out, but what a injury to cherish. I still occasionally meet people from that night who look at me like I really am a bowlful of jelly!

The Erotic Eucharist, Episode 226

The story of my first communion. In the Catholic Church. Really. Then, in my Try This at Home mailbag, I answer a letter from a friend whose older lover thinks she's "too wet" during sex. I don't think so!!!

GI Porn, Episode 225

(Click on the "Browse Past Shows" tab)

This week, I take a long look at one of the porn sites targeted by the new White House campaign against porn:  NowThat'sFuckedUp.com. NTFU features lots of homemade erotic shots, but what's  controversial are the pictures posted by G.I.'s serving in Iraq. However, it isn't the  gruesome stuff isn't what the Feds are after, it's all that semen! And blow jobs! And mooning the camera! Then, in my Try This at Home mailbag, I try to help a listener put the pieces back together after the perfect three-way blows up. Ouch.

Don't forget, you can always email your confidential questions and feedback about the show to  me, and I will eagerly answer them!

Santa Babe drawing by Bill Presing.

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

Santa Cruz in the Dog House

Are you ready for your morning fiber of small-town politics?

Well, you're about to get a stomach-full!  Below is a letter I wrote this morning to my city council, county board of supervisors, the local newspapers, and the State Dept. of Parks and Recreation.

I live in Santa Cruz, which is known for its surfing, university, produce farms, natural beauty— and toxic real estate prices.  (I have lots to say about all those topics, too).

But today, I'm in full battle-mode about a locals' issue close to my heart: our special park by the sea, called Lighthouse Field, that up 'til now, has had "leash-free" dog walking hours from dawn to 10 am, and 4 pm to dusk. It's the last six hours of civilization left in this town!

Read on:

Dear Bigshots Who Could Do Something About This,

There is  one hour of my day that has always been the sweet spot. It's about to get the ax.

That hour is our family’s daily dog walk at Lighthouse Field and Its Beach. It is the single most civilized, wholesome, social space in the entire town. It is a unique social climate in this town, a model for decent behavior.

And now it’s being closed down. No more off-leash walks. People who bring their dogs at 6 AM on November 15 are to be given citations. Dog-walkers are now criminals who have been charged with ruining a community asset. How could such a short-sighted decision be allowed to stand?

We all know the ugly social and economic issues this city is up against. The future has looked so dark lately. The “dog walk hours”  at the Field have been one of the few bright spots in the midst of our troubles, an oasis of cooperation and generosity.

Every day for five years, our family has been part of the Lighthouse Field dog crowd,  in all kinds of weather. We come at dawn or at dusk. We pick up the poop, we talk about the weather, and the changing seasons. We call each other by our dog’s names: I’d be Mrs. Cody, to many who know me there.

The decision to close the park to the ones who enjoy it the most, is unconsciousably cruel. There are many folks for whom this is their only exercise and social connection to our community. What are we supposed to do now? 

Dogs familiar with the park cannot simply be “put on a leash,” to follow the new rules.  They won’t understand, and will assume they’re being punished. Frankly, that’s exactly how it feels to me.

Before my family adopted a puppy, I was afraid of dogs. I was the type who emitted the “fear” smell that dogs pick up on so quickly. I’d never been to Lighthouse Field, or anywhere where a dog might be around, on leash or not.

But my young daughter was an animal-lover, and had gone to great lengths to prove that she was ready to raise a dog. I decided to get educated, and address my phobia.

What I learned about dog was a revelation. Phrases like “puppy love” and “man’s most loyal companion” took on new significance. I saw that dogs offer something to humans that we don’t consistently give each other: unconditional faithfulness and affection, desire to do good, and putting the group’s interest above all.  I'm saying this as a die-hard cat person who finds these traits remarkable in human beings, let alone animals.

These characterisitics seem to be the opposite of the city and state’s recent decision, where bureaucracy and insensitivity rule the roost, letting the bitter chips fall where they may.  A handful of well-financed litigants paved the way for this decision, and their agenda is the pinnacle of bullying. The quality of people’s lives has been hurt in a way that won’t go unnoticed, or unpaid for.

What have been the objections to the leash-free hours at the Field?

Of course we hear about abused and neglected animals who are dangerous to themselves and others. The pit bull in Live Oak who’s trying to kill the mailman, or the monstrosity in the San Francisco apartment complex. They’re the headline grabbers— and you’ll notice they’re not part of our park. 

Dangerous animals aren’t the kind of pets that get taken for nice walks at Lighthouse Field!  People who chain their dog up all day at their meth lab aren’t taking a stroll at Its beach with an extra bottle of water, and cookie treats! "

My dog has never been in a fight at the Field, in five years of daily visits. The worst thing I’ve witnessed was minor orneriness, between people, not dogs, over the disposition of a chewed tennis ball.

The people who oppose leash-free hours are a mystery to me. I never see them in the park. I don’t see them enjoying it during the “non-dog” hours. They certainly don’t come out in the cold or rainy weather. Are they afraid of dogs, as I once was? Are they misanthropes who have adjacent homes and want a view with “no people” in it? I get the feeling they dislike people more than dogs. Without the dogs, they know they’ll get rid of the people. The park is otherwise barren.

The environmental concerns have always been a nonstarter. The butterflies? Well, the first thing you need to know about butterflies is that they are attracted to feces. They would probably like it better if the dog owners of Lighthouse Field weren’t so dedicated to cleaning up things with our plastic bags.

The other flora and fauna? The gophers seem to thrive despite the desperate attempts of the dogs to catch them. It is a city park, not a long-lost wilderness.

The other regular guests to the park? Now that you’ve gotten rid of those goody-two-shoes dog walkers, your main population will be the beer drinkers and pot-tokers— who, up ‘til now, have been on THEIR best behavior because the dog-people created such straighten-up-and-fly-right peer pressure. You take Lassie and Rin Tin Tin out of the equation, and with it, goes the wholesomeness.

Where do we take our dogs who’ve been accustomed to off-leash exercise? What’s the alternative?  Without decent exercise, these animals turn on themselves:  they chew holes in their fur, worry themselves with bad habits, can’t settle down at home. It makes the family miserable. I have a 80 lb. mutt, not a teacup poodle. He’s a teacup Newfoundland. 

This decision is hurting so many people and animals who “never hurt anyone” and only brought social courtesy and comradeship to this city. What cold winter are you looking forward to with an empty Lighthouse Field?  Why is the City determined to cannibalize this rare good spirit?

Many of us recently turned out at the Lighthouse to mourn the death of Dan Houston, the beloved city Parks and Rec. ranger who knew every dog and visitor to the Field.

I remember looking at the mourners, and thinking, “I’ve never seen these folks except for our walks; I’ve never seen them without their dogs.” I know very few of them by name, and yet I could have hugged any one of them.  We have a kinship and history that is remarkable, and to think it is being destroyed by this Scrooge-like executive order is nothing less than a human sacrifice. What does it take to turn this awful decision  around and make it right again?

Susie Bright

Photos, from top to bottom: Cody as a puppy; Aretha, Susie, & Cody in front of mural in Pt. Townsend; Ducky Doolittle & Cody; Cody and Xiao Bond, International Meow of Mystery; and Cody and I in the Field.