Susie Bright's Journal

Flogging 'Til It Hurts

I have a new "flog," I mean "Plog," on Amazon.com. It's a special diary that any author can run on their book pages on Amazon's site, and it's kinda like crawling into every reader's lap!

The best part of the "Plog" is that any Amazonian can write to me right there on the spot, and I can reply. I've encouraged all who see it to: "ask me anything."

Of course, since it's such a public site, people won't probably ask me as sexually candid questions as they would here, which is a shame. I would love to talk about sex on the same pages that I'm griping about my iPod battery! It's like talking dirty in the aisles of Target, another thing I like to do.

Like many authors who're trying this, I'm wondering how an Amazon blog should be different from what I post here. I feel a little giddy that I get to "meet" every single person who looks up or buys one of my works on Amazon. Or what about the people who just troll by to write reviews that amount to "you suck!"? Finally, I can confront them!

Speaking of new blogs, I started a Susie space on "myspace" just to watch it die... actually, just to see what fumes come up, like a science experiment. I really don't get "how" you do myspace. I don't know how to post music, or hot graphics, and I answered the profile questions honestly, which I now see is a faux pas. Clearly, I am a myspace duffer.

However, the first message I got was from a nice woman named Buttercup, who I immediately made my "friend." Is it appropriate to be so impulslve?

I get so nervous about these "internet friend" things. Have I ever mentioned that "J.T. Leroy" hounded me to join Friendster, which amounted to an avalanche of spam which has never, ever abated? Needless to say, I didn't make anything resembling an actual F-R-I-E-N-D on that site at all, it was just another one of JT's time drains.

Today I got my second message from myspace, from a guy who told, not asked, me to meet him at a local beach so he could "stuff his cock in my cunt." Of course I dropped everything to fulfill his needs. How do I block turdwads like that?

All this fooling around on other people's sites made me miss home. I  sat down and wrote about twenty new music, movie, and book reviews for my own site here, which you can read on the pink sidebars. ENJOY!

The WetSpots Come From Behind

Forget the Oscars. Kirby Ferguson and The Wet Spots have made the best short film of the year, the best musical, the best ass bandit, and the best date movie ever.... all rolled into one.

It's called "Do You Take It?"

I'll take ten! Who are these Canadians? Something has happened in Toronto while I had my back turned.

I dare you to watch this music video without subsequently crooning all day:

"You're beautiful and curvy, but unless you're kinda pervy, there's no way you and me are going to last..."  Can these kids harmonize or what?

Some of you have wondered lately,"Susie is watching videos all day instead of blogging properly; what is her problem?" Well, it's Kirby's fault. He sent me one email about his no-budget productions on GoodieBag TV, these porno and culture-clash satires, and I couldn't get enough. I would also recommend "Co-Eds With Colds," especially if you've been ODing on flu and sinus medicine lately...

Link to "Do You Take It?" if you have trouble seeing it here.

The Case of the Missing G-Spot

In 1984, I has plenty to say about the G-spot. My On Our Backs partner, Debi Sundahl, had come home one day from her sex-show shift at the Mitchell Brothers' theater and announced, "Lori Parker found my G-spot— WATCH THIS!" 

She proceeded to demonstrate how her work-wife Lori had fucked her brains out in the Ultra Room and made her drench the floor.

This week's radio show: In Bed with Susie Bright 238: The Grafenberg Files

I was impressed.

The same week, Beverly Whipple had published a book called "The G-Spot," in which she quietly took a moment in her acknowledgments to thank a group of Miami lesbians for their invaluable research assistance.

It's no accident that lesbians were the fore-mothers of the g-spot renaissance. That squishy spot behind your vaginal walls is easiest to find, and fondle, with your hands.

Around the same time,  Suzanne Gage and the Feminist Women's Health Centers published a book, which showed a  picture of what the whole clitoris looked like— not just the little glans we see on the outside— but the whole body of the clit, which is hidden from our view, if not our touch.

The earth shifted under our pelvic floors. Women who had always said, "It's not in my head, I really do get off from penetration," had an explanation. Women who ejaculated had a new understanding that indeed, they were not pissing the floor, but rather coming their own little bucket.

I wrote a story called "G-Spot Jitters" for OOB. We ran features galore on the subject, and Debi made her own video, "How to Female Ejaculate."

Meanwhile, doctors and researchers continued to debate the g-spot's  existence, a debate which was laughable to its gushing accolytes. We were learning "the clitoral truth," as Rebecca Chalker puts it.

BUT! Just when it all seemed so rosy (like a VH1 Behind the Scenes) I found myself disenchanted by the g-spot overkill.

Not every woman embraced her "G," or found it to be all that. Not every woman would or coud ejaculate, or even wanted to.

I didn't. Since when did it become a requirment? I didn't expect every woman to gush and squirt from the press of a "button" anymore than I would expect every woman to adore cunnilingus, or anal sex, or nipple-sucking. We're not dolls; this is real life.

To my dismay, I began to meet a new generation of women who felt like something was wrong with them because they didn't have magical g-spot vaginal orgasms— that they were deformed, broken, or incapable. It was the same old myth of the vaginal orgasm  again, with G'ed-up dressing.

The feminine quicksand of self-doubt—not again!

Men don't typically do this to themselves. When a man overhears that some OTHER guy likes his balls fondled, does he freak out if he doesn't find the same tickle to be a turn-on? Of course not! The average Joe trusts his cock and trusts what he likes. This is the confidence so many women miss, not some g-spot geography lesson.

If a woman likes the way she becomes aroused, if she's pleased with her orgasm, then why would she tie yourself in knots about something that mildly, if at all, raises her flag?

Women who have the most anxiety about G-spots are the ones who have difficult with any kind of orgasm, or who feel embarrassed about the way they do get off.

Hey, if you come, you did it right! No G-spot method on earth is going to change that. Why, oh why,  won't women dig their clits the way most men dig their cocks? I rend my garments over this.

I finally stopped blabbing about the "G"  because I  wanted to focus on women coming, period, rather than  being obsessed with doubts that they didn't have the right body for pleasure.

But today, I'm breaking my silence campaign. My friend Anne Semans at Babeland showed me their new website, The Gspot Center.  I think it's the best, most helpful, well-designed G-spot info I've ever seen.

If I had to pinpoint the Gspot Center message that struck my sponge, it's this one thing: If you aren't turned on in the first place, rubbing your g-spot will feel no better than scratching your head.

Anyone can reach inside with a curled finger or dildo, and find the little fleshy mound anterior to their pubic bone. There it sits!  But if you'rerubbing it in the absence of arousal, NOTHING will happen. You will yawn.

The way to find g-spot pleasure,  is to get raring hot in your familiar fashion. Play with your tenderest spot, and the fantasy that you love. Get yourself to the point where you could come any minute.

Now reach in and rub that g-place.... HELLO!  It's a whole new feeling, isn't it? You press on that enlarged little bean now, and it really feels good. If you're still playing with the outside of your clit, you'll start to feel like you're alternating between these two delicious ends. Yum. And it  doesn't matter where you go from there, because the fact is, you'll be coming soon, depending on how long you tease yourself.

Now, what about partners and intercourse? Lots of people are fixed on that possibility. A man can rub and press his penis against the "G," but you have to get in the right position.... and "Missionary" ain't it. If I was new to it all, I'd master the masturbation mode, and then you'll know exactly how you like it.

I like some of these new G-toys! Anne was so kind to send me some samples. I don't care whether they vibrate or not—what I like is how they have that acute angle that curls around and up so nicely...

I tried this one called the Orchid that has earned a permanent throne in my toybox. Remember though!— I didn't just insert it and start screaming... I was aroused, and then I woke up the dormouse. That's the way it works.

By the way, I still don't flood the room. I will never be a featured presentation in the Ultra Room, quelle domage. I would have gone the extra mile for Lori Parker, but she was one of the sweetest who's no longer with us...  a woman who taught so many other women what going stark-crazy-sex-mad was all about.

P.S. In my mailbag on this week's show, I  answer a letter from a man who is wondering about getting a Prince Albert piercing— is his foreskin going to get in the way. Inquiring minds...

In Bed with Susie Bright 238: The Grafenberg Files

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, requests for golden freebie tickets, and feedback about the show to [email protected] (Episode 238, February 24, 2006).

A Penis Called Stalin

One morning Aloisius Weinberg woke up and discovered a mustache on the end of his penis. It was thick and black but neatly groomed, and it lay just below the very tip, as if the orifice of his urethra were a single nostril. A mustache on a penis being something that Weinberg, despite a full and exciting life, had never so much as imagined, let alone seen, he did not know what to do.

From "Stalin's Mustache, by Will Heinrich, Best American Erotica 2006

For thirty minutes or more he stood mesmerized by it, naked before a full-length mirror. It was undeniably fascinating; he felt drawn to it. But there was also, to his eye, something threatening about the little black rectangle, and he did not want to touch it. Omitting, therefore, his usual Sunday morning bath, he slipped on a pair of pants and went out to buy some bialys.

Standing in line at Kossar's he made the acquaintance of a beautiful young Vassar girl who had just finished her creative writing thesis on Henry Miller and pre-post-feminist pornography. She had curly dark hair and breasts like wineskins.

Though they had never met before, and though Weinberg had not spoken a word nor made any gesture more than a small epileptic bobble that might have been mistaken for a nod, the girl greeted him effusively, asked him how he was, and immediately put two hands on his ass.

"Fine, thank you," Weinberg said.

Before he knew it they were on the floor of the Vassar girl's dead grandmother's rent-controlled apartment, Weinberg with three black socks in his mouth, making love like animals. They spent all afternoon in an orgy of groping, fondling, fucking, and whitefish, and she never once mentioned her schoolwork. It was too good to be true.

Finally at seven o'clock, when Weinberg's oily face had begun to itch, and after the girl's dead grandmother's fourteen cats had been mewling for their dinner for six hours, the girl took the black socks out of Weinberg's mouth, wiped the chopped onions off his underpants, and showed him the door.

"That was fantastic," she said. "Don't call me."

Only when he had returned home and after he had poured himself a cup of coffee and lit three cigarettes did Weinberg remember the mustache. Had it been a hallucination? Was it still there? If so, why had the Vassar girl said nothing about it? Had she seen a penis mustache before?

"Well," Weinberg said to himself, "if anyone has ever seen a penis mustache, it's bound to be a Vassar girl." Chuckling over this pithy truth, Weinberg dismissed his early-morning vision and went into the kitchen to begin washing a large pile of dirty dishes...

 

Susie Talks To Will:

Your story plays with the idea of being insatiable. Why do you think that's such a reliable erotic button? People dream of unquenchable lust, yet few would want to be saddled with it.

I think because it's too hard to find someone who inspires genuine desire— we imagine that being indiscriminately insatiable would make everyone seem attractive, at least for a little while. 

Also I guess we all tend to feel insatiable before we're sated— when our eyes are bigger than our equipment.

Your hero's penis becomes notorious. But men's cocks rarely do.. it's usually some starlet's tits. Porn stars with famous dicks, like Ron Jeremy, are treated like jokes, even though they are presumably envied.  Why do you think this is? Will we ever see the dignity and power of a Casanova again?

That’s because we're only supposed to desire money, and what money can buy, and they haven't finished objectifying the male body yet. 

God knows the people at Calvin Klein Underwear are doing their best, but the objectification of the female body had a big head start.

On the other hand, haven't you ever seen a car commercial? People all over the world can pick Mr. Daimler's cock out of a lineup.

How did you begin writing erotica?

I don't think I have.  I am delighted to be in this anthology; but to be frank, I would classify my story as humor, not erotica, because I think that its sexual content serves the joke, and not the other way around.

Can you say something about the real-life incident that inspired you to name your character's penis after the Soviet dictator?

I'm afraid it wouldn't be discreet— but suffice it to say that Stalin had a lot of blood on his head.

Will Heinrich's Blog

Drawing of Stalin by Picasso, 1953.

Let the (Naked Ice Dancing) Healing Begin

We've been through so much in the recent Winter Olympics, especially those brutal falls on the ice rink. On at least one occasion, the culprit seemed to be a wardrobe malfunction, that caused the skater to get snagged on her skirt and lose control.

Isn't obvious that ice skating would make more sense in the nude? Not to mention even more incredibly beautiful than it already is? I have proof:

Naked Ice Dancer
Video sent by stevanhogg

This story is one of our Top-10 most popular posts!

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Thank you so much... Susie

My Handiwork in "Bound"

 

I've found a digital clip of my "sex choreography" in the movie Bound from a French fan!

I have no idea who "Nemesis the Unicorn" is, but this footage was originally censorred in the US Theatrical version. It's now thankfully is in its original form on the DVD. Don't ever bother watching a U.S. VHS edition, because it is significantly altered.

I wrote a story about how I came to meet Andy and Larry Wachowski, and work on their script, which will give you the fingertip-by-fingertip details!

This particular scene you're looking at was painstakingly shot; it took more time than any part of the film, including all the criminal violence stutns. This bedroom scene isn't improvised— this wasn't Jennifer and Gina just "going for it."

But they were so patient at taking our direction, that it looks seamless and just as authentic as I hoped for.

You can also listen to us talk about all this in the "directors' commentary" feature of the DVD. Our dialogue was one of the first director's commentaries every recorded— originally for a LaserDisc, if you can remember those brief days!

By now, post-Matrix, fans know the W.'s penchant for technology. They were keen to produce special features for a LaserDisk, because it had barely been done at the time.

The actors—Jen, Gina, and Joey— weren't  sure they wanted to be part of the commentary, so in the beginning, you only hear me, Andy, Larry, and the film's editor talking.

The actors arrived sequentially late, each according to their billing at the time: first Joey, then Gina, and finally Jennifer. All appeared as if by accident. Each one ordered an even more outrageous food/drink order, as if they knew what the other one had ordered previously, and had to top it. Call me sheltered, but I had never seen this kind of glam-pecking-order in action. Larry and Andy kept to American beer. If I'd known I could order caviar, creamcheese, and champagne, I would have been happy to out-diva everyone.

Bound is memorable erotica because of the script, because of our life experiences and dedication to getting this right. We are not nearly as cute as J. and G., nor could we take direction half as well, but in this case, it's the writing magic and storyboard design that makes the sparks fly. I based this sex scene on my own lesbian life at the time, and an old unheralded porn movie (3AM) by Robert McCallum that starred real dyke lovers and gave me some great ideas that I figured we could (barely) make R-rated.

Are You a Marryin' Fool?

Did you see the marriage and sex quiz in the NYTimes? Try the test yourself, and then come back here… no peeking ahead! 

After you’ve been pleasantly or unconvincingly surprised, what do you think? I'm sure we all have more to say than the quiz allowed!

“Women are more eager to marry than men.”

FALSE says the Times

I knew this wasn't the case— but if women believed that marriage meant the gift of a spouse who made a home for them, a “helpmate” who nurtured them, who made a social life possible, a mother who took care of their children, and a nurseful listener who was charming in uncharming situations— if that was the case, then women propose on bended knee faster than you can say “diary-of-a-mad-housewife.”

Lesbians are EXTREMELY eager to get married; they’re the marrying-est fools on the planet— and they hold tremendous expectations for each other’s support. Who doesn’t want a loving wife, after all? Everyone should have one. They’re getting rarer every minute.

(Note to self: I am spoiled rotten).

“Men are threatened by smart, accomplished women, yadda yadda, and would prefer a young sheltered blond.”

FALSE says the Times

This question was phrased so provocatively that I figured it must be a trap. But the media loves to whip up women with these kind of headlines: “Men hate college educated broads and are leaving them in the dust!”

A more interesting question would be, if plenty of older women had economic clout, would they be more inclined to make fools of themselves over young lovers? I would. I think older women are just as touched by youth and beauty as old men are, we just are supposed to keep it to ourselves.

“Americans have become much more tolerant of all sexual activity.”

FALSE, BUT...

This was my favorite surprise.The statistics show that while we are indeed more tolerant of all kinds of adult consensual relations, we are much more united in our disapproval of incest, adultery, and rape.

The sense that those violations “just don’t count,” or should be kept under the family secret rug, is no longer the consensus.

The sin freaks keep pushing the homosexual/abortion/SMkink alarm buttons, but that’s not where mass condemnation lies.

People are fed up with coercion or force, there’s no excuse or rationalization that anyone will accept any longer. It seems so obvious to us now, that we don’t realize that it wasn’t always so.

 

“Educated married women are opting out of their careers to stay at home with their kids.”

FALSE says the Times

Funny this myth should pop up in the Times, because they are one of the main players who made it up. They’re the ones who interviewed a bunch of women whose family fortunes run in the millions, and then reported a “trend” that these women are forsaking their Ivy league educations.

I have a feeling that very few women who graduated in my class of ‘81 from UC Santa Cruz are “making a choice” to stay home and make brownies. Not to mention my classmates from Cal State Long Beach, City College, or any of the other places I spent my student years.

If I could stop working… and I would just love to… I would definitely get out the Susie Homemaker oven and crank it up. I would sew every day. I would have dinner parties every week with themes and costumes. I would take my dog on three hour hikes in the morning. I would plan huge bacchanalian vacations; I'd be the Cruise Director. I would write long letters to old friends and seal them with my own candlewax. (Notice how I haven’t mentioned anything about tending small children for hours on end).

 

“Born Again Christians are just as likely to get divorced as secular Americans”

Oh So TRUE

My favorite detail in the Times' explanation is that Pentecostals are apparently divorcin’ fools, with the highest percentage of anyone getting split up. Why them, and not another denomination? My curiosity is piqued!

My Sexy Oscar

Roll out the pink carpet! From Good Night and Good Luck to Brokeback Mountain, I have a head full of gossip and comment on this year's Oscar nominations.

In Bed with Susie Bright 237: Susie's Nominees for Best Sex

In Good Night and Good Luck, my hat is off to the director for taking an entirely unsexy subject (Joe McCarthy) and infusing it with erotic atmosphere.

Smoking— everyone puffing away— never looked so good.That beautiful black and white celluloid gets me in the mood. Then there's those foundation garments. Foundation garments on Patricia Clarkson in particular. The music, with Dianne Reeves singing, was so seductive, I went directly to the music store after the movie theater, put the record on at home, and stripped. Where's my black satin garter belt?

But let’s move on to the meat of Oscar night: Brokeback.The success of this movie is sweet indeed. The film lived up to the hype because it was a first class act all the way.

For those of us on the team, the big question is, “When does the Director's Cut come out? —With the unexpurgated sex scenes? I am ready to endure every take.

For mainstream critics, the big surprise was that BB was a "woman’s movie," even more than a gay men's heartbeat. The not-so-secret secret that women find gay sex erotic is finally out of the bag for good.

Gay characters have traditionally been played for comic relief or pathos in Hollywood... not for sex appeal. This is the only truly arousing gay big-screen movie since Midnight Cowboy...  I certainly do not include Making Love.

The other MUST-see in the Oscar bag is in the "Best Documentary" category:  Murderball. This is a story about men who have spinal cord injuries and play an ruthless game of rugby from their Mad Max-styled wheelchairs, all the way to the Olympics.

It could've just been a great sports film, a brilliant "never give up" homage, but this movie went the extra mile by offering more candor about men's sex lives than any other movie this year— or most years for that matter.

Who are you rooting for, Oscar-wise? What are your favorite movies of the past year that didn't even get mentioned?

I end my audio show this week by answering a letter from a devout feminist who's fearing her  S/M fantasies and wonders if she's really losing her mind.  —Well, one can always hope!

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions and feedback about the show to [email protected] And if you'd like to hear In Bed for free for the first time, or turn a friend onto it, send me an email with the subject "Golden Ticket" to susie at audible dot com.

It's Only Rock 'N' Roll But I Spiked It

Whenever I see old girlfriends from high school, we often find ourselves in a storytelling game of "the most insane thing I ever did at a rock concert."

We attended a Los Angeles high school in the '70s that had to be in contention for "most girls who crashed Led Zep's suite at the Hyatt." When I first saw the movie, Almost Famous, I could have sworn Penny Lane was a composite of pages ripped from my girlfriend's old diaries.

What happened to our crew? My division migrated into radical lesbianism or socialist/anarchist divisions— where the sex and acid continued, but with a different milieu. Please raise your hand if you were a "wimmins music groupie"!

Others stayed for the Laurel Canyon Rock God Hangover, which by the late 70s was  Lucifer-like.

In the "Fifteen Minutes," a new short story from my  Best American Erotica 2006, author Gwen Masters tells a story about a rock band's after-concert orgy that allows no sentimentality:

The blond glanced over at John when the men came out beside the stage. She gave him the once-over and started to look away, uninterested, until she saw the all-access pass around his neck. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. They were green, big and pretty. Her chest was a little on the small side but even perkier up close. She smelled like marijuana and perfume.

“Hello there,” she drawled with the slightest hint of a southern accent. John smiled and casually looped his arm around her shoulders. No need for pretense. He pointed up at Tom.

“You a natural blond?” John hollered into her ear.

“You’ll just have to take my word for it, since there’s no hair down there,” she hollered back, her voice barely audible over the screaming sax solo.

John nudged her toward Rick and she went obediently. John fell into step behind her and watched her ass move under the denim. Her legs were even longer than he thought. Coltish. She had a tattoo on the small of her back, a little butterfly spreading its wings.

Behind the stage the music was quiet enough that John didn’t have to yell. “Want to come back to the hotel?” he asked, straightforward.

“Depends. Do I get to see Tom?”

“Among others,” Rick promised. Blondie looked him up and down and smiled. Licked her lips.

“I just want an autograph,” she purred.

She didn’t balk about wanting to stick around to watch the encore. She simply nodded when he opened the door of the limousine, slid in with those long legs trailing. The door closed with a luxurious thump and immediately they were in motion, headed for the hotel. John reached for the bar and she caught his hand in mid-air.

“You weren’t on this tour last year. What do you do?” she asked, her eyes pinning him to the seat.

“I’m a manager.”

“Not the road manager. Publicity? Merchandising?”

“Equipment.”

She reached for the front of his jeans. She wasn’t too eager, but not too methodical either. Her mouth was soft and warm. John jerked when he felt the surprise of her tongue ring against his cock. It made him instantly hard.

“Nice,” he whispered. Her hair was silky smooth. She moved up and down on him, flicking that warm metal stud against his head when she pulled all the way up. John leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He thought about Blondie kneeling on the hotel bed, sucking his cock while she took one of the other guys up her cunt.

He didn’t bother to tell her he was going to come. He just grabbed her hair and held her steady while he shot off. When he felt her swallow, he knew he had picked the right one.

“You’re good,” he said as she sat up. She looked him in the eye and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Sat beside him in the seat and crossed those long legs, watched him zip back up. Leaned over to kiss his neck.

“That’s my thanks,” she told him, flipping his all-access pass on the lanyard.

“I want to fuck you last. After they have all had a go at you.”

Her eyes widened but she didn’t look surprised. “You like that, do you?”

“How many times have you done this?”

She thought for a moment, biting her full bottom lip. There was a lipstick smear on her teeth. “A whole band? Only once.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough.” She leaned over and flicked his ear with her tongue. Brought his hand up under her shirt, let him feel her up. “Can’t you tell?” ...

Your take on groupie sex was undeniably erotic— but the reader has to pay a price for getting off.  It's not like memoirs by plucky groupies who insist on their dignity and spirit of adventure, like Miss Pamela.

How does it feel to make your main female character so unsympathetic? Do you see her in need of rescue, or beyond repair, and simply getting what she wants at the moment?

I had to be unsympathetic toward her because of all she represents: she is the definition of how far our society is willing to go for a bit of what I like to call that "rock star shine".

Just how far is a person willing to go for a taste of that fame? In her case, she's willing to trade her dignity for a chance to bask in the remnants of the bright lights for a few hours. To her, it is a fair trade.

This story was written during the few weeks I spent on an ex-boyfriend's tour. Scenes like that were commonplace...the woman plucked from the crowd, the men who saw themselves as being invincible, the whole "what happens on the road stays on the road" mentality.

Being a part of that life is exhausting, not only physically, but emotionally as well. The bigger it gets, the more disconnected from reality it becomes. You start to realize people will do anything for their fifteen minutes. Anything at all.

The narrator-roadie, John, only gets off when everyone else has "gone first." What do you think those sloppy seconds are all about? Is it homoerotic, or a picture of how much he's a groupie too, or more his fantasy of wanting to be soiled?

I've always seen John as being a complex man. He's trying to do the right thing, but he's in a job that is not conducive to normal life. He considers leaving the road, but in the end he chooses not to do so.

The fact that he stays, that he takes the "leftovers," that he sets up the groupie romp even while he despises what he is doing— is representative of someone caught in the world of his own making, with no way out.

He's punishing himself for feeding the machine. John is the self-loathing of the rock world, the part that no one ever really sees or wants to acknowledge. You can't see the darkness while the stage lights blind you.

What makes rock the ultimate "fucking music"?

Can you imagine rock 'n' roll without sex and drugs to complete the picture? No other genre has become synonymous with the guiltiest of pleasures. It is an unholy trinity that never changes.

The concert happens on the stage but the show doesn't really start until after the lights go down. The men are larger than life, unattainable, and because they are unattainable, they achieve god status in our fantasies.

They are flamboyant, they lead private lives that blow up in rehab and very public divorces, they make half-hearted apologies of some sort, and then do it all again. They convince us they are invincible.

There is such shock when a rock icon falls...but anyone who has seen that life backstage is shocked they make it as long as they do.

We forgive them of anything, as long as they bring us more of that entertainment. It should be all about the music, but the music becomes secondary to the exploits that are played out in the media.

 

Gwen Master's blog is always a good read. Top photo is of Gwen, and the one in the middle is the notorious Sable Starr.

That Dog Won't Hunt, But He Sure is Kinky

      

I'm a sucker for a mythic downfall. I cannot get enough of Gods falling from their thrones— and tumbling, like scarred dice, to the flames of ignobility.

And, I gotta say, it couldn't happen to a vicer guy. Dick Cheney makes Spiro Agnew look like Mother Teresa.

I wouldn't be entirely candid if I didn't admit I have also become fascinated by the conspiratorial and sexual-innuendo aspect of this disgrace.

Howard Dean gets the Ouija Board Medal for his remarkable prescience, only hours before the story broke, when he said on TV that Dick Cheney was just like Aaron Burr. And he said it without peanut butter in his mouth, too. Dean was referring to the report this week that Cheney "authorized" Libby to leak classified information. But clearly, Howard intuited more.

Yet the weirdest part is still to come. Fasten your gun clips, ladeez and gents!

Several years ago a woman named Cathy O'Brien published an "autobiography" in which she said she had been a victim of a sinister mind control game performed by the CIA, in which she was turned into the sex slave and torture victim of every major player in the White House.

I know, that probably happened to you, too!

In her torrid "confessions," Cathy described a scene that seems all too realistic after last weekend's revelations on the Armstrong Ranch!

Dick Cheney had an apparent addiction to the "thrill of the sport." He appeared obsessed with playing A Most Dangerous Game as a means of traumatizing mind control victims, as well as to satisfy his own perverse sexual kinks.

My introduction to the game occurred upon arrival at the hunting lodge near Greybull, Wyoming, and it physically and psychologically devastated me. I was sufficiently traumatized for Cheney's programming, as I stood naked in his hunting lodge office after being hunted down and caught.

Cheney was talking as he paced around me, "I could stuff you and mount you like a jackalope and call you a two-legged dear. Or I could stuff you with this (he unzipped his pants to reveal his oversized penis) right down your throat, and then mount you. Which do you prefer?"

AIYEEEEE! Mommy, make the bad man go away!

I keep hoping the White House Mob is going to stage an intervention with Cheney, the way The Sopranos crew did when "made man" Christopher Moltisanti became strung out on drugs, booze, violence, and denial.

Remember how gravel-voiced capo Paulie walked up to Chrissie, and grabs him by the scruff of his shirt?  "You're WEAK— you're OUT OF CONTROL— and you're an EMBARRASSMENT to the organization."

Tell it, sistah!

What is YOUR most far-out, perverse, psychic reading into this whole affair? As of this writing, my own colorful paranoia is that Dick Whittington has already expired, and they are just pretending he's still alive, or keeping him propped up, Terry Schiavo-style, while they spin their next story. Possible? Probable? Let's call Howard and have a seance!