Every Season of "In Bed With Susie Bright," 52 Episodes in 1 Audiobook!
« November 2005 | Main | January 2006 »
More than sex, drugs, or race, he was always talking to death. —A bit with the Devil, God Herself, funeral arrangements, and his own eulogy.
I can just see him dancing into heaven:
"When I was in Africa, this voice came to me and said, "Richard, what do you see?"
I said, I see all types of people."
The voice said, "But do you see any niggers?"
I said, "No."
It said, "Do you know why? 'Cause there aren't any."
In Bed, #229 Bitching with Andi Zeisler
My interview this week is with Andi Zeisler, co-founder and editorial director of Bitch, a quarterly magazine dedicated to the "Feminist Response to Pop Culture."
Andi and I talk about the proliferation of porn culture, why the "feminist" part of her magazine offends more people than the "bitch" title, and what's up with those new Dove cosmetic ads for firming up cellulite, that feature all the nude wholesome babes in white underwear.
I don't know if anyone believes that a cream is going to do anything about the dimples on their ass, but Dove's ads have been eye candy because they feature women with large natural breasts, significant butts, and womanly thighs.
None of these women are dumpy or bumpy in the least.. you'd kill to have their PhotoShopped tone and glow. These really are the same kind of women, who with high heels and a different make-up set, would pose for Playboy centerfolds.
You know that movie critic show that Roger Ebert does with his "new" sidekick, Richard Roeper? Well, Roeper writes for the Chicago Sun-Times, and he was nauseated by Dove's ads:
"The raw truth is, I find these Dove ads a little unsettling. If I want to see plump gals baring too much skin, I'll go to Taste of Chicago, OK? I'll walk down Michigan Avenue or go to Navy Pier. When we're talking women in their underwear on billboards outside my living room windows, give me the fantasy babes, please.
If that makes me sound superficial, shallow and sexist—well yes, I'm a man."
Well no, actually, the first description that comes to me isn't "man." It's more like "unconscious twit who has given me way more information about his sexual fantasies than I'd like." He actually thinks his masturbation fantasies speak for the male masses. He's parading his ignorance. It's as if he's never seen a porn magazine before, or had a conversation with other men about who's hot. If he did, he would understand that his taste is just one more card in the infinite catalog.
I was fascinated by Dove's campaign, because first of all, the photos are porno catnip to many who view it, and yet Dove acts like they're making a political statement where eroticism doesn't play a part. Furthermore, as Andi pointed out, it's selling a product that's supposed to make you look skinnier, which is hilarious if their promotion is about accepting yourself as you are. Don't use our cream! Dump in the toilet! Let your freaky butt fly! Rub Richard Roeper's face in it!
Speaking of miracle cures, who originated the term, "Detroit Face-Lift?"? That's where you rub Preparation H under your eyes to temporarily eliminate the bags. Love saying it— never tried it.
At the end of our show, I asked Andi to stick around and help me answer a letter from the "Try This at Home" mailbag in which a man asks why his female coworkers aren't more upset that the boss is sleeping with the employees.
After our interview, I took Andi and her husband to go get high on the secret hot fudge at Saturn Cafe, and she interviewed me for BITCH. I know how to have my way with these interview subjects! I think they're including me in their January issue... I'll let you know.
Would you like a free coupon for two of my In Bed Shows on Audible? Email me, and I'll send you one! I have a box of these coupons, and I'm handing them out right and left until they're gone!
Mark Morford has done it again!
Jesus Bans "Christian" Group
In an astonishing but not completely unexpected announcement, Jesus H. Christ, vice president and CFO of All That Is Inc., appeared today on a large tortilla at a roadside taco stand in Zacatecas, Mexico, to announce that, effective immediately, the pseudo-Christian group "Focus on the Family," led by Dr. James Dobson and best known for its blazing hatred of gays and its fear of glimpsing the human female nipple during nationally televised sporting events, is effectively banned from His Divine Beneficence.
"What happened was, the heavens and all spirits of goodness, along with Buddha and Shiva and Allah and Kali and a few others, well, we were having some margaritas and playing poker and tossing around recent headlines, when Allah chimed in that this Focus on the Family group— a real scab on my big toe for years, I gotta tell you— well, they just decided to yank all their accounts from a bank over the bank's support of gay rights," said Jesus, dressed in black Diesel jeans, Hugo Boss motorcycle boots and a snug tank top featuring a large OM symbol across the chest.
"J-Dog," as he is known to his friends, was referring, of course, to the recent story about how the militant, Colorado-based "Christian" group has just pulled all its accounts from Wells Fargo Bank after learning that the bank had donated a small sum of money to gay rights causes...
The Christ, apparently, had had enough.
"This is what I realized: Rampant homophobia, ignorance of sex, derision of women's rights, a decided love of tepid dogmatic sameness at the expense of the luminosity and uniqueness of the individual human soul— it was all just too much," Jesus said, this time appearing as a curiously shaped oil stain on a freeway underpass in Saragossa, Spain. "Then the bank thing happened and it was the straw that broke the Mary's back."
It was, apparently, the right response. "Totally in the moment," said Buddha, nodding in agreement. "It's about time," Vishnu sighed, painting his nails beet red and lighting some Nag Champa incense. "It's decisive and it sends a message," agreed Kali, counting her poker winnings. "You guys have any hummus?" Allah muttered, rifling through Christ's well-stocked fridge and not really paying attention.
"A slight ban is definitely in order," Christ continued, calmly, now appearing in a pile of instant mashed potatoes in a truck stop in Bowling Green, Ky., where his visage appeared to be weeping, but which Jesus said was merely caused by all the onions he'd been chopping to make his famed "Holy Christ!" hot salsa for the Seraphim Christmas office party.
"Nothing serious, just maybe three, four thousand years wherein these Focus on the Family nutballs and especially this hateful Dobson fellow shall receive only sporadic blessings and deferred prayer responses and will have to go all the way to the back of the line, behind Dick Cheney and Tim LaHaye and Mel Gibson, to await salvation."
"Hell, I still love them all. Even Dobson," the One added, flashing his trademark dazzling, compassionate grin. "I just don't like them very much."
When the news reached Focus on the Family's Colorado Springs headquarters, stunned members were seen running into walls and bashing their foreheads with large Bibles and ramming their Toyota Corollas and Ford pickups into each other and muttering incoherent lines from "Passion of the Christ" and popping Prozac like M&M's.
"Where are the Ken dolls! Someone get to the dungeon and make sure my Ken doll collection is safe!" screamed James Dobson himself, emerging from a secret room in a fuchsia leotard and launching into a bizarre rant no one could quite understand. Reporters seeking comment could only look at each other in stunned silence, wishing they could be in a bar somewhere...
read the rest here.
Mark, incredibly, has only satirized the tip of the iceberg as far as the insane threats the fundie groups have been making this "holiday" season.
The most stunning betrayal is what's happened at Ford Motor Company, who've been having secret meetings with the "American Family Association" about how to screw gay people into the ground. The top execs involved are former Bush appointees!
The depth of the story and subsequent lame cover-up are detailed at John Aravois' AmericaBlog. John has published ALL the dirt, plus the Ford bigwig's email addresses and phone numbers at the top of their page. I was happy to send them all a personal "holiday" message!
JeezLouise, my cousin is gay and works for Ford, as an engineer. They have thousands of gay employees and family members in their workforce. I can hardly imagine how they're taking this.
What's especially creepy to me, is that when the AFA threatens to "boycott" a business, their leverage is laughable. The AFA has been boycotting Disneyland, Kraft Food, Proctor and Gamble, and a dozen other venerable corporations, all of whom have watched their profits amble along as usual! Kraft actually wrote AFA a letter telling them to fuck off— which makes me wanna go buy some "individually wrapped slices" of orange cheese right this minute!
In Ford's case though, their top people facilitated this bigot-scheme. They never argued— they collaborated, enthusiastically. When confronted with their skulduggery, they lied. Their public statements are bone-chilling mendacity and condescension.
I think they've underestimated the internal repercussions... their Volvo and Jaguar divisions are having a meltdown, since they really do not give one ball bearing about red state buying loyalty. Their company gay caucus (yes, they have one) is ready to go postal.
In my letter to Ford, I wrote:
Jesus Wept! Your deal with the AFA blows my mind.
If you don't have any shame, I would at least expect you to have some self-interest in mind.
And what about your own work force and dealerships? They feel completely sold out by this.
I only hope you make a full-out apology and turn around in your tracks. The AFA is a paper tiger. The backlash you're facing is a thousand times worse than any "boycott" they could raise.
What scares me is to wonder if you did this, not to protect your profit margin, but because you might be "true believers" in this kind of prejudice. If so, it's horrifying. Life on this earth is too short for such bigotry and ignorance.
Feel free to use my template!
I was one of those people who was blasé about Brokeback Mountain, and now I'm not.
Have I been whipped into cinematic interest by mere movie lust? No... once again, I am spurred into action from losing my temper!
On my own, I could have waited for this movie to come out on DVD. I would have flopped down with pleasure on my own crumb-strewn sofa, vibrator at my side. Really, what good are theaters anymore?
I remember going to a movie house in Amsterdam once, where they had a gorgeous art deco lounge in the lobby, and a full bar, that served you espresso and fine chocolate and hashish cigarettes. We sat there for hours discussing some movie I don't even remember. The ambiance was irresistible.
A typical American movie house today is a place you can't wait to exit. Nowadays, I only go to the theater to make a political point, which is exactly my scheme for BBM.
What has my panties in a twist? For one, in Newsweek's story on the film, a unnamed Hollywood "producer" says that Jake Gyllenhaal is committing career suicide by playing a man in love with a man— that his core teenage girl audience will desert him.
This jackass has obviously never come face-to-face with a pajama party in his entire life. Teenage girls love handsome young gay lovers— even more than handsome young gay lovers do. James Dean... Sal Mineo... Sigh. The Heath and Jake sandwich fantasy is already a TigerBeat swoonfest for the ages.
I hope this movie exposes, once and for all, that there are just as many woman hot for men in a tight embrace, as there are men mooning over lesbian fantasies.
Many critics I've read suggest that straight women will be sympathetic to BBM because they're a bunch of old softies, with tender hearts. They don't seem to understand that while tender is fine, for female fans, this movie is arousing. It's not charity, it's lust and romance with a bullet.
Why is it such a common fantasy, to lose yourself in depictions of the opposite sex having at it?
The first clue is: "Where do you put yourself in the dream?" When I ask straight men about their lesbian fantasies, I always say, "Are you watching, do you interrupt, or are you one of the women?" It changes the fantasy completely, depending on where you place yourself in relation to it.
Some men identify with one, or both, of the female lovers, imagining what they might be feeling. —Soft on soft. —Women being sexually aggressive and taking the lead.
For women setting their eyes on male lovers, it's the opposite fantasy: hard on hard. It's like two big cats together— all that strength, nerve, and competition, pressed into bed. We get to live vicariously through something that doesn't come so straight-forward for us. We get to see strong men come undone. It's intoxicating.
I'm talking in great butch-femme swashes of color, but that's how most erotic icons work— florid.
I think that "Mr. Old Hollywood Producer" doesn't want to consider female lust, and that is the reason he's such a dinosaur.
Let's turn to my next catalyst: All those fundie "family" organizations who've taken a stand against "immoral" movies. Temptation to Puke, and all that.
Salon reports that for BBM, the prudes have decided to give it the silent treatment— with the less said, the better. The spokes-MAN for Concerned Women For America (gak) said: "This is something that could be, and should be, ignored."
You might think the puritans have decided for once to take the high road and a turned cheek. You would be wrong.
The reason they're hiding from this film is because they are afraid of being tarred by even the slightest association. — A film where men kiss and fuck, for god's sake! It makes their tummies upset. They cannot figure out how to utter the words "gay cowboy" without turning five shades of red. These groups are most comfortable bashing in everyone's head from a rhetorical distance. Intimacy makes them squirm.
The nature of their homophobic psychosis is Br'er Rabbit's nightmare: the more they hit the tar faggot, the more it sticks on them— all the frantic clawing at themselves is to no avail. If one is seen discussing Brokeback today, their brother will accuse them of going bareback tomorrow. They cannot stop biting their own tail.
The way the fundies will spin it, they'll try to act "casual" while they're trembling inside. They'll scoff that only yuppie chicks with lace hankies are going to see this thing, the weak sisters. They'll "girly-fy" it, that is, make it irrelevant. The Boys have More Important Things to Do, like.. um... see the big lion in Narnia.
You know, that big pussycat's really supposed to be Jesus! With a big, furry mane and silky tail and warm wise eyes... hey c'mon now, don't go saying he's GAY!
Go to Dave Cullen's BBM site, if you want to become completely immersed.
Here's the original short story, if you'd like to read it...
Audible has a version to listen to, beautifully read...
For Paranoid, Petty-Conspiracy Aficionados Only:
I have a couple of puzzling things happening to my "name" in the blogosphere and in my mailbox, and they're driving me crazy. For those of you who don't mind obsessing along with me, perhaps you can shed some light on my problem. For the rest of you, please hold onto your sanity and ignore this!
1. What-Me? Splog
This journal does not attract pricey, copious, advertising. I don't get the traffic that would send large advertisers barreling over here. This is approximately the 4,000th most popular blog in the world— depending on the day and data machine.
So, why on EARTH is my name, "Susie Bright," being used in thousands of splogs? How can these jerks make money off of my name when I can't? If I was trying to sell snake oil and Ponzi schemes, the last name I would think of using on the billboard would be mine. I don't get it.
Also, is there anything one can do about splogs besides flag them to Blogger.com? I'm also sending the sploggy URLs to a self-reporting agency called SplogReporter. But it's kinda like picking up one dog turd on an infinite stretch of track.
2. German Autograph Hunters
Okay, this is really weird. I have been receiving—one or two a week— letters from Germany asking me for my autograph. They only want my signature, on separate pieces of paper. They request that no salutation or personal touch be added.
Sometimes they say, "I am a fan." Other times, they say nothing. One of them arrived with a dollar bill. Others only come with prepaid postage. They seem entirely robotic, and I haven't responded to any of them. I get the vibe they are a scam.
But why?
My autograph cannot possibly be worth more than pocket change. I sign books in person for my fans all the time. When I go to used bookstores, if I find a book of mine, it frequently will say something like, To Belinda, who likes her bottom spanked, Clits Up!, Susie Bright. I guess Belinda left all that behind her!
Needless to say, these autographed old books are not locked up in the special collections. They just aren't a big deal.
I had two books published in Germany, in 1992. At the time, I got some sweet letters from a couple of lesbians, and that was that. I also traveled to Hamburg in the 90s to give my "How to Read a Dirty Movie" show, and notably, one man in the audience had a heart attack. I did the same show in what was then a crumbling building in East Berlin, packed with punks and dykes. It was fun, and I was glad to have my little puff of smoke in the bohemia, but I never heard from any of those people again.
So what is going on? Is there some new trend in autograph-hunting or scamming I'm unaware of? Why is Germany the apex of it?
You better not shout, you better not cry—
You better not pout, I'm telling you why—
Paul Krassner is Coming to Town!
I seem to have come down with a touch of bird flu, but I am determined to get well by the time Paul comes to my hometown, on Thursday.
What can I say about Mr. K that you have not heard before? Paul never misses a trick. I think that should be his epitaph. He is one of America's gifts to satire. Mark Twain would have been his best friend. Lenny Bruce actually was. He is one of the last radical political observers with an epic sense of humor.
Paul just got back from that gigantic comedy fest in Las Vegas, and here is his report on all the best lines. God, I love Jon Stewart. I can't control my sexual fantasies about him; I might have to go on Oprah and get cured.
Below is the tail end of Paul's book tour, for his new book, One Hand Jerking. I'll see you in Capitola if you can make it— just don't french me, because that's how this thing spreads.
Tuesday, Dec. 6, Cody's in Berkeley, 7:30
Wednesday, Dec. 7, City Lights in San Francisco, 7 p.m.
Thursday, Dec. 8, Capitola Bookstore/Cafe, 7:30
In 1967, Paul Krassner published MAD artist Wally Wood’s
parody, "The Disneyland Memorial Orgy," as a center-spread for his satirical magazine, The Realist, and then
as a poster. You can still get the poster today, from Paul's web site.
Last night I went to Shar and Jackie's house, and they had paper stockings hung by the hearth, each with a handwritten list of someone's Xmas wish list.
I always feel shy to make such a wish list myself, but I love reading other people's, because now I have some new ideas about what would twirl their eggnog.
They have inspired me. I'm going to tell you what I really, really want:
1. Donations to my blog. I want to cover the blog bill, the broadband bill, the site storage bill, the computer repair guru bill, and all the other overhead that's over my head!
2. Ads for my blog. I want ads from cool people, promoting wonderful things. I just wrote to Typepad telling Kanoodle to get the fucking penis enlargment pills off my site. I turned down an ad from a gentleman who says he has the "secret" to a perpetual hardon. SHUT IT! I want real people advertising real things. Your new book, movie, candy recipe. Therapy, car repair, hand massage. Something real. Thank you.
3. A laser printer. Can't afford Mr. Ink Jet anymore.
4. An Airport Express. (Wow, thank you, Santa! Is now up and running!)
5. An External Drive.
6. A Web Designer. Just an hour or two. Do me. (Multiple Santa's Called... I love you!)
7. A spot on Wait Wait Don't Tell Me.
8. Fabric. Italian. Or Not. Something You'd Want to Slip Thru Your Legs.
9. Donations. To turn the heat on. Or go solar. Something!
10. Revolution in My Lifetime. Whirled Peas or Die Trying. Baby Needs New Shoes.
What are you asking Santa for this year?
Human Upgrades Technology. What an amazing company. And I was thinking of making a few changes...
The CuntTongue
The PalmClit
The MultiNipple
More here. Click on "Products," then on "Lust." Then Look All Around. Can anyone guess what language the originating artist might speak? The site is graphically flawless, but the English translation is wacky.
In Bed with Susie Bright #228: Stripper Girls Seek The Lost Flock
In this edition:
I'm always on the lookout for sex worker websites that reach for a higher plane. Now I've found a doozy. JC's Girls are a trio of hotties-turned-missionaries who've made it their campaign to recruit unhappy lap dancers.
The three-babe ministry are posed so fetchingly in their Come-Hither-And-Read-My-Bible poses. I looked in vain at every photo on their site, hoping that I'd find an archive of pictures from their "sinner" days. My god, wait 'til you see their pastor. He looks like the type of guy who "stars" as Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar. And he has compassion for the ungodly plight of homosexuals... what a hunk!
(By the way, do you all know that porn mogul Paul Thomas played John the Baptist in the film version of JC Superstar? Or that he's the nephew of Sara Lee, the pastry magnate?)
JC's Girls offers an intriguing explanation of why their ministry looks so porn-star— but really isn't. They explain that the women they are trying to reach, wouldn't take them seriously if they looked dowdy. They explain that their business puts a premium on a certain kind of feminine beauty, and that their sisters would feel lost without that identity.
One of the girls explains that she was terrified to become a Christian, because she felt like she would have to give up her "looks," and then she would have nothing.
I believe her. Of course, I would think, as long as you're on the healing path, you would ultimately get to a place where you didn't have to use self-tanner, bleach, putty, and polish to be accepted into the Kingdom of Christ. But I couldn't find the number for the feminist support parish.
Another thing they promote is hot monogamy. Born Again Hot Flash: You don't have to give up great sex to be married. They're part of that Christian marriage manual ethic where you get to whoop it up with intercourse and oral sex— just no anal and no fantasizing. Or masturbation.
But fucking and sucking can indeed keep you quite busy, so we can't give them short shrift. The intriguing part to me is that they acknowledge, in their subtle way, that they care about having good sex, that their background as sexual people can't be denied, and so therefore they are thrilled to have a "faith" where they get to keep that aspect of themselves alive.
Their site design is high tech. Nothing amateur here. Each woman's face, skin, and hair are made up just like a showgirl's. They have gorgeous figures, which they show off by wearing close-fitting t-shirts and jeans. In other words, no ease in the cloth, but covered up. Their cleavage is the kind of cleavage you used to see in Children's Bible Stories.
Meanwhile, back at Satan's Ranch, in my Try This at Home mailbag, I critique two personal ads placed by a couple interested in swinging. They asked me to help them write the perfect ad. I love playing personals matchmaker, so I held nothing back!
Don't forget-- you can always send your confidential questions and feedback about the show to me: susie at audible dot com. I love my letters.
Do you want to try listening to a couple of my Audible shows for free? Send me an email, and I'll send you a couple of "golden tickets" that give you two Audible programs or books, gratis. You don't have give your credit card number or anything. This is for "audio virgins" only, though— it won't work if you're already an Audible listener!
