Susie Bright's Journal

Teddie Boy: Love is Real & Not Fade Away

Well, this project really has been the best thing to come out an unmitigated disaster. I made so many new exceptional friends today, who joined the Ted Haggard Betting Pool.

Birthdays seem to be a popular choice for placing five dollars down, along with anytime in June— everyone thinks Ted's going to be a June bride!

I love it when Dan Savage lances the Ted-boil, but even before he drew his sword, his brother Bill had already written me with his marker.  I love families who take risks together.

The relentless scourgers at TowelRoad published our darling Cowboy portrait with their alert. TowelRoad is going to be one of those places who hears it first when Haggard so much as scratches his ass.

A fine impeachment site, 2PoliticalJunkies, contemplated the geographic possibilities of highway rest stops Ted might frequent.

Largehearted Boy is just as generous as his handle, and he's scheming to come up with our very own bet-on-Ted jingle... but it might be hard to beat Buddy Holly:

I wanna tell you how it's gonna be
You're gonna give your love to me
I'm gonna love you all night and day
Love is love and not fade away

Your love for me has got to be real
You gotta notice just how I feel
Love is real and not fade away
Well love is real and not fade away

(I don't mean to be blasphemous, but the all-time, lay-down-and-die version of this song is  onTrout Fishing in America's "Truth is Stranger than Fishin'" album).

This afternoon I talked to folks at LYRIC, and they are psyched about our little proposition! If you ever despair about the Big Snore of mainstream gay politics, go VISIT THEM. Talk about making a difference.

Also, thanks to Miss Sheila, I found out about youth groups in Colorado, who I want to tell you about:

Colorado Springs: Inside Out

These people are such heroes. The last time I spoke at Colorado Springs university I had to be SNUCK IN, because they were (rightfully) afraid there would be a KKK-like reaction on the part of anti-gay zealots on campus.

Denver: Rainbow Alley

Rainbow Alley serves a lot of kids who come up on the bus from Castle Rock and the Springs, even just for the night to be around other people who can help a body stay sane, or share a laugh with.

Of course, there were the cranks. Someone asked if the game was rigged. Yeah, I'm sitting here fanning myself with the handful of $5 bills I'm planning to abscond with to Fiji. —After I seduce Ted on St. Paddy's Day with my strap-on. Anyway! 

Someone else demanded to know what I'll do if Ted dies in a dramatic fashion before the jig is up. Well, that would  be tragic. If it comes to that, if Ted gets run over by jealous lover, then the whole thing is off. I'll ask everyone who participated to consider donating to a gay youth group in his memory.

So how are we doing? Well, as of my last email check, we had about 40 people with $260 in markers.

Interestingly, I've had 6,000 hits in ten hours on BetOnTed today. Just imagine if six thousand people "bet" or donated half a sawbuck... that would be $30,000.00.

If you were thinking that the big philanthropists were going to empty their pockets, I'm sorry, but they rarely make a visitation! It's up to the rest of us. A group of wonderful people could make an awfully big difference with the cost of a couple cups of coffee.  Am I making you cry yet?

Don't cry, join the Very Special People's Club and send me your date with Ted's Destiny!:  Link.

What dates did I bet on, myself? I decided to spread it all around. I picked the 25th of every month of the year. March 25 is my birthday; that got me started. I wanted to be  crafty and figure out what days are best for media exposés, but I pooped out. Laurie is laughing because this is the first time I've ever made accounting entries in an Excel document. Yes, that's our little black book!  If I win, I'm going to give it all to LYRIC— but I do want to be taken out for an enormous slice of chocolate cake.

I need to go eat something.

Photo: Another wonderful member from LYRIC's World Headquarters! They have a MySpace page too.

Ted Haggard Betting Pool

How much would you bet that Reverend Ted Haggard falls off the wagon in the very near future?

I'm serious. I know he just got a big check to shut up and leave town, but you know what he likes to spend his money on! Tick-tock, gentlemen.

This guy has crusaded against gay people for years— including while he was going down on a hooker named Mike. He had President Bush's little pink ear while his community equated homosexuals with murderers and thieves. He told his wife he was going on spiritual writing retreats while he was getting laid in Boys Town, dreaming about twinkie-orgies and scoring meth. His sex worker couldn't take it anymore when the Good Reverend started campaigning against gay marriage for the Colorado state ballot, and came forward to spill the beans.

Don't feel sorry for Mr. Haggard's privacy. Ted has now accepted a large "undisclosed amount" from his church elders in exchange for signing a confidentiality agreement and leaving town, after taking a three-week "cure" that wouldn't get rid of a cough, let alone a lifelong sexual preference for men.

Yes, it's high time to announce: The Ted Haggard Betting Pool.

We don't believe Ted's commitment to the straight and narrow is going to last, and we're willing to put money on it.

All pool proceeds will be split 50/50 between the winner(s), and LYRIC, the "young, loud, and proud" San Francisco youth group dedicated building LGBTQQ community and inspiring social change.

LYRIC is a role model for anyone who ever knew they were sexually "different" when they were young, and didn't want to be alone or afraid anymore. Ted could learn a lot from them!

How do you play?  It's easy:

Pick Your Date

Pick any date(s) on the calendar between now and February 6, 2008. (That's the anniversary of Pastor Ted's announcement that he was "100% het" and that his "dark and repulsive" life was behind him).

You can pick as many dates as you want, a separate bet for each one.

Multiple players can pick the same date.

Place Your Bets

Send an email to [email protected] with:

the date(s) you pick,
your email address,
your city & state, and,
the dollar amount you'd like to place on your picks.

There is a five dollar per-date minimum.

Send no money now... We'll settle up when Ted cracks, or the contest ends in one year.

You can do it!— you can spare five bucks for the thrill and good cause of a lifetime! Just imagine the bragging rights if you win.

It's a Win/Win/...Win  Situation!

If Ted slips before February 6, 2008, 50% of winnings will go to LYRIC, and the other 50% will be awarded to the winning date-holder.

If more than one person holds the winning date, that 50% will be split among them.

If Ted is not caught screwing up or violating his vows in one year, than all the monies will go to LYRIC. A good cause will triumph whether Ted is sneaky or not!

If Ted cracks on a date NOT chosen by anyone, again, all proceeds go to LYRIC.

Tell Everyone You Know

The more people who know about our game, the closer watch we'll have on Ted.

Give them this address: http://BetOnTed.com, which will take them to this post and any updates!

If you wanna make "Bet On Ted" buttons, tshirts, or spinoffs of any kind, please do pile on. What should our theme song be? Here's an idea!

TedWatch: Keep Your Eyes Peeled

For all we know, Haggard might be having adulterous, meth-fueled, "gay" sex right now. But we need evidence! We need the date that something "comes out."

Any of the following events, reported in a credible publishing source, on a specific day, will be counted as a WINNING indictment of Ted's self-delusion:

• Ted's Gay Lover— a new one— steps forward with confession

• Ted busted on sex charge

• Ted divorce filed

• Ted drug arrest

• Ted commits adultery

• Ted comes out

I'll make it even sweeter. If Ted does COME OUT, apologizes, and makes amends, we'll all be delighted. Just imagine how many lives he could influence with his honesty, and even save... Redemption could be big. If that happens, I'll toss another $100 into the LYRIC pot!

Mesdames et Messiers, Place Your Bets!  Please feel free to comment and announce your bets in the comments below, but for your "official" entry, be sure to mail me.

UPDATE 2/12:

Some savvy miss named "jbenet" at Majority Report has placed her bet on... today!

Linkfilter has kindly speculated on my own personal relationship with Jesus... awww.

Letter-D's LiveJournal has a good one I never heard before:

Q: What denomination is Ted Haggard?
A: Crystal Methodist

UPDATE 2/11, Midnight:

Mega-Traffic from Josh Marshall's Talking Points Memo: Hit Me, Baby!

The Zero Boss has placed his evil stake on September 11.

RavenouslySearching is putting it all on the hottest week of summer.. great choice.

Peter Throckmorton of Jane's Guide has lovingly picked out he and his lover's birthdays... sweet!

This game was dreamed up by Laurie Mann and Susie Bright, who've created a contest  as a way to have fun, expose hypocrisy, and promote sexual clarity and self-knowledge. There is no other agenda, scheme, or weirdness to our plans. Names and email addresses collected will be kept strictly private to run the pool, and then digitally shredded at its conclusion. ...Laurie's already picked New Year's Eve, and I'm all over any stressed-filled holiday! Photo: Owen Booth's beautiful gay cowboy doll. Caption by yours truly.

Dangerous Games With Competent People

The last thing you want when you’re going to see your boyfriend’s hooker is a helpful man.  But this man is determined to help you. He has the look  - you know the look – he has the look of a helpful man.

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. You’re standing in the lobby of a surprisingly nice high-rise in a suburb of DC, typing numbers into a security pad, waiting for a woman to come on the line and tell you her apartment number. Her instructions were quite specific. In her email, she attached a zip file with directions to this building, the sort of painfully clear directions that make you understand this is a woman who is accustomed to telling people how to find her.

The money is in a plain white envelope inside your purse. She has included instructions about this in the zip file too: “I never discuss payment in person, nor do I wish to see cash. Please place the envelope discreetly on the table as you enter.” 

It strikes you as strange that a woman with such delicate sensibilities that she cannot bear the sight of money would be prepared to repeatedly bury her face in the genitals of strangers, but your boyfriend has described her as “nice,” and perhaps this is what he means...

Kim Wright,  from "Dangerous Games With Competent People," BAE 2007

The Best American Erotica 2007 is out at last, just in time for our International Day of Lust and Longing. I've got a red arrow with your name on it, and some stories that will tie you in knots.

For example, the excerpt above, from "Dangerous Games With Competent People," is written by Kim Wright, the best authorial surprise I've had in a long time. She's been a full-time writer all her life, specializing in food, wine, and travel. But I have other plans for her, now...

SB: Do you think sexually adventurous people tend toward the gourmet in their eating habits as well? Are "slow foodies" better lovers? Do you find that anything about your food/travel writing that influences you when you approach a sexual scene or story?

KW: The line between cunnilingus and foie gras is a very fine one indeed.  Absolutely, foodies tend to be much more sexual, more sensual, and more adventurous than your average person.  Chefs are legendarily horny— probably the horniest profession out there with the possible exception of politicians. And the inverse works too... people who are sexually experimental tend to have broad appetites in other areas as well.

When I first started my career in culinary journalism, an older mentor suggested that I use sexual imagery to describe food. "If you're subtle, they'll never notice it," she told me, "but something about the writing will hit them on a deeper level." She was right.

Then I started using travel-writing imagery when describing sex— the body of your lover as a foreign country, as a continent you're landing on. Works just as well.

I don't know about the slow food people being better lovers. I'm from the South and can vouch for the barbecue guys.

When I first approached you, you made me laugh by saying "Most of the important things that have ever happened to me have happened in restaurants or in bed." Do tell!

I've met all my significant lovers in restaurants.

I used to think that the perfect way to seduce a lover was to get to know them slowly, to build a base of friendship, to give it some time.... Develop a rapport with them out of bed before you moved it to the sexual. The whole put-the-cold-pot-on-the-hot-stove school of thought.

Of course I thought that. Everyone was telling me that was how it should work, including a string of therapists and well-meaning friends.

In reality, the times I've gotten to know a man gradually have always ended in disaster. I have no explanation to offer for this, but each time in my life I played by the rules and let friendship slowly turn to love it's ended in a ghastly way. Ghastly as in "restraining order." 

Because of that I've developed this profound fear of nice men. I think they're so repressed that they're dangerous. But those times I've met a lover in a bar or restaurant and we were immediately sexual, those relationships are all either still going or they ended great. Honest.

My all-time three best relationships have one thing in common: I slept with the man the day I met him. Maybe that's why I've developed my penchant for writing sexually charged scenes in restaurants. Partly it's the food-writer thing, but also, these scenarios have worked out well for me in real life.

If I meet a man and he's really out there with his sexuality it helps me relax. I trust him more. If he's drinking Barolo and sucking the marrow out of a veal bone, and saying stuff like, "I've got a car in the parking deck, how about it?"— I promise you it won't be long until my kids are referring to him as an "uncle." Hell, he'll probably end up as a pall bearer at my funeral.

Photo: "I was the slut of all time!" — so said La Taylor in the movie she won her first Academy Award: Butterfield 8

Hold The Diapers— I'm Pedaling As Fast As I Can

A friend of mine got in a pickle lately, and I advised her to give my old Well friend and legal genius Mike Godwin a call.

Mike said to her, "Hey, it could be worse— you could be stalked by an astronaut in diapers with a BB gun."

So true! Really, all of life's challenges shrink like hemorrhoids by comparison.

I'd like to venture an opinion about Captain Nowak. Everyone says, "She's crazy!" But what kind of crazy? She's too old for adult onset schizophrenia. I have another (entirely unproven) theory: she's strung out on amphetamines.

I don't know whether it's meth, Ritalin, or Reverend Ted's crack pipe, but Nowak's delusions, paranoia— and most of all, her changing appearance— made me think: speed kills.

The drug's utility would be an attractor in her profession, where, as her superiors described, she was "a vibrant, hardworking, energetic person who did her job very well."

Mother of three, married for almost twenty years, separated just weeks ago. Her friends and family say she was perpetually cheery, always "disciplined." The stress in these kind of jobs to be more vibrant, always perfect... you can imagine the pressure if things didn't go just right, and you had access to a performance enhancer. Mother's Little Helper gets her through her busy day.

It was Nowak's booking photo that gave me pause. I'd like to see her smile or scream, so we could see the dental situation. She's lost weight from her previous photos, her hair looks to be falling out— and her skin, even for a mug shot, is like parchment. And, of course, she drove all those hundreds of miles in Depends so she wouldn't have to stop for anything.

People talk all the time about meth epidemics in their hometowns, but no one ever points it out when it hits the prestige or celebrity circuit. I was in a neighborhood café not long ago when I overheard the waitress bitching about her ex-husband to the chef: "Oh yeah, he's gotten it all taken care of, with his mom... His mom does his laundry, his mom takes care of his kids, his mom scores his meth."

It's exactly that ubiquitous. Speed is driving everyone crazy, and it's more of a middle-class and rat-race epidemic than anyone likes to admit.

Meanwhile, diapers are making headlines this week. Dan Savage's column split my sides open with his answer to the loving wife of a diaper-baby-man. The missus wrote Dan to say that despite her devoted practice to peg and fill all her husband's infantilist whims, he was now withholding all vanilla sex from her— the one thing she needs to get off, every blue moon or so!

Dan replied:

Does your "baby girl" realize what he's got in you? The world is crawling—literally crawling—with adult babies who are alone and single and miserable and always will be. While the internet has made it possible for adult babies to find each other more easily, a shared interest in nappies and nurseries doesn't guarantee compatibility. Plus, female adult babies are scarcer than folks who can read "my husband whines and cries and pretends to be a baby during sex" without hurling. Your husband should be doing everything in his power to keep you happy.

My advice: Take that break. Cut the little brat off—no more baby games until he can successfully wrap his bonnet around this: Your pleasure matters as much as his does. Then tell him that although he may not be interested in regular sex, he better learn to fake it convincingly. And finally, tell him that his continued failure to meet your vanilla needs is gonna get his diapered ass divorced, leaving him single and shit out of luck, sex-partner-wise, for the rest of his adult infancy.

Putting the gun down and the diapers aside, I have to ask— what is it about us mortal dingbats that we always have to fuck things up when we hold paradise in our hands?

Photo: No slander is intended to lovely Marta (Yvonne Craig), starring in Star Trek as a green Orion Slave Girl. She's as sane as they get.

Ted Haggard's Second Coming

Colorado evangelical superstar Ted Haggard has emerged after three brutal weeks of rehab to announce he is now "completely heterosexual."

That was some mud-pack, Ted! ...And mean ole' James Dobson had said it would take years of toil and prayer— shame on him. You really showed 'em all, Teddy, and we'd like to raise our crack pipe to you right now!

My Teeny Tiny Tasty Super Bowl Party

If you were surprised by the big TV ratings for past Sunday's Super Bowl game, let me introduce you to one of the surprising fans: me. I barely know the rules of the game, but I am a total sucker for anything political, poignant, or scandalous about big league sports.

This game had it all. Black head coaches, one mentor, one protegee. Of course they weren't make a big deal of it, but it was a big deal. The linguistics alone were worth following.

Then we had a dude named Tank who got to play with a special court order cause he can't stop stocking weapons of mass destruction in his apartment. Plus everyone's still talking about how the  NFL essentially uses their players to be concussion dolls until they turn into brain-deformed "retirees" who off themselves rather than endure life in a deranged stupor.

Finally, there was Chicago itself. I was rooting for the Bears, as I will root for any team that hasn't had a win in decades. As I explained to my daughter, when the 49ers first won in the 80s, San Francisco exploded into a lubricated sea of love. I've never seen anything like it again until  Gavin Newsom rang the bells for gay marriage on Valentines Day.

The day Dwight Caught Joe, that very moment, I was sitting in a flat on Potrero Hill, the bedrock of the city, and you could hear a roar that came up from Market Street on one side and Hunter's Point on the other. It shook the window glass.

I walked out into the street, and it was as if EVERYONE walked out on cue. You could kiss ANYONE. I got on the MUNI bus just to ride the hottest parties. You heard about how the whole nation of Denmark is on a permanent high because of a big game they finally won fifteen years ago? Such is the disposition of the underdog who finally gets a break.

I don't have cable service, or even a television in the house, but we remembered we had a miniature set in the garage, so we dragged it out of hibernation. We biked to Radio Shack to pick up an eight dollar antenna.

Thank god for the Salinas CBS signal, one of the few stations we could receive. If you're a native English speaker, you're presumed to have cable. But if Spanish is your first language, all the Telemundo-style stations are beaming loud and clear with nothing but a VHF bunny ears propped on the table.

I find that if you haven't watched TV with your lover in a long time, it's... sexy. Surreal. We had to sit in each other's laps to view the tiny screen. Super Bowl Sex was in the air. We practiced our wardrobe malfunctions.

When it comes to anything happening on the field, I'm a screamer. "Shut him the fuck down!" I kept wailing at the Bears defense. I could sack Peyton Manning with the side of my clit; what was their excuse?

Then we had the Bears QB problem child, Rex Grossman. I knew the local press had picked him apart like dime bag, but I was wiling to give him a fair shake. Until that moment, in the second half, when he was sacked twice in— what was it?— two minutes? Throwing passes up in the sky like it was Balloon Day at the Big Game?

The camera showed us a close-up of Rex walking back to the sidelines, and holy shit—  "He's got a pouty face!"  I screamed that too. Biggest professional day of his life, and he's sulking. My heart sank.

Back in the holy days, when the 49ers were losing, but still had six minutes left, you would raise your glass and sigh, "Oh darling, let's ENJOY Joe Montana scoring two touchdowns now, shall we? Let's go for a little drive! —All the time in the world!"

This, however, was your garden-variety soaking. I started using my laptop to tune into Indianapolis live barroom coverage so I could at least enjoy  the sounds of the Rock Bottom getting their binky on. Even the priests were sashaying in Colts vestments.

One question though: Peyton Manning is obviously talented and conventionally good-looking, but he has zero sex appeal. What is the problem? This whole Bowl was short on that kind of charisma; I had to provide all the tingles myself.

The special note to my teeny tiny Super Bowl party was the food.

I know how to make a chili for people who hate chili. —A chili for vegetarians that the meat-lovers will demand for seconds. —A chili you can make in minutes but will make everything believe you toiled for hours. You can cook it as picanté as you like, but I know how to take all the heat out of it, and still make people feel rambunctious. And... my guacamole is the best.

These are not idle boasts. Here is my recipe, rudely adapted from Molly Katzen's Still Life with Menu, for Black Chili with Pineapple Salsa, Susie Guacamole, and Crazy Cuke Sauce: Link.

It's good for any winter day you wanna feel like a winner!

Premature Bisexual Ejaculation Valentine

I just read Cory Silverberg's excellent story on Big Pharma's rush to "cure premature ejaculation"—  and couldn't help but pile on with my own reframing.

While the drug companies scramble to offer pills, creams, and sprays to label and fix perceived sexual "dysfunction," I feel like they're turning sex ed into a wig shop. In this latest obsession, the proper question to be asked is, "Premature for whom?"

Listen to an excerpt (3:57):

Listen to the whole show: Link

 

In the second half of my show, a few of my female listeners responded to last week's sex survey question with some surprising answers. Bisexual women who spoke to the dilemma, "What do you actually want when you say you want sex?" had distinct marks between their male and female wishes... and no, I don't just mean pussy versus cock. There was a difference between how they wanted to be see or be seen, and the conundrum of how to flatter a feminine ego or a masculine one. You sure can get in trouble either way.

How would you weigh in? I always want to cut the pie into even finer slices. Putting aside the perfectly valid "every individual is unique in bed" argument for a moment, I feel different with a new woman lover if I perceive her as butch or femme, experienced or naive. And yes, that is different from how I'll see a man who might also be bopping up and down the same spectrum.

I probably feel more prepared for contradictions NOW than I ever did when I was a less experienced lover. Also, I'll cop to the belief that everyone wants to be babied in bed, no matter how much they might try to hide it. Is that obvious? — or the cockeyed result of being a apron-tied mother for too long?

Finally, in my Try This at Home mailbag, I've announced a contest for In Bed subscribers: Describe the most outrageous kiss you've ever had, for whatever reason. Ten lucky respondents will receive free copies of the new Best American Erotica 2007. I need to get your shocking confession by February 9th!

You can send your Outrageous Kiss, as well as any feedback about the show, (plus your requests for free girly cards for your valentines) to [email protected] (Episode 280, February 5, 2007. And I do love Piglet so.

Somebody Really DOES Need a Spanking

This man has been trained within an inch of his life.

Molly We Hardly Knew Ye

I had a bit of a car crash yesterday when I heard on the radio that Molly Ivins had died. I careened into the curb, narrowly missing the most popular heroin-nodding spot in town, Foster's Freeze. 

Today I feel tearful, and have read many moving memorials. I liked John Nichols' tribute the best so far— but hell, even her arch nemesis, "Shrub" himself, sounded a little choked up. He will never meet a sharper tack to nail him to the wall.

I realize I'm upset at more than Molly's departure. I never dreamed when I began this blog that I would write so many heartfelt obituaries. Too many of my heroes are dying, especially outlaws, hell-raisers, and tough women who can read beads.

I remember as a child in the mid-60s feeling like all my inspirations were all being gunned down. True enough. Then, as I began puberty, there was the Janis/Jimi two-week nightmare, when I began to realize how things under your skin could destroy you. All these deaths were premature, the fresh skin of barely-grown disbelief.

Most of the beloved artists and activists who've passed away in recent years are dying from cancer. Let's not bullshit anymore about that. They're often choosing the check-out date themselves. The papers don't tell you the last bit, because of course it's still a crime to plan your own death, however reasonable an objective.

I don't mourn their youth, but I do feel the freefall into the gaping hole they left behind. It's a line of giant empty boots, a twig snapping where there used to be thunder.

What kind of women reporters do you hear about the most today? Let's see, there was the "big excitement" about Katie Couric, a TV broadcaster. I can't think of one original thought that woman has ever expressed. And who's the most famous woman in politics these days? Why, it's Hillary Clinton, the woman whom Molly Ivins pointed her finger at last year and said: Enough.

Some of our greatest radical thinkers have hung on to their publishing niche through staggering talent and and the tenacity of old age— no one had the nerve to push them off their perch. But with their departure, you won't see their publishers rushing to enlist a remarkable new voice. My god, Erma Bombeck would be too radical for them now.

The kind of female columnists we're seeing recruited around the country these days sound like this:

"Oh my god, I'm bad in bed and I can't figure out the tip! I'm late for my vaginal rejuvenation! I'm consulting a Child Whisperer and I've spilled my drink on my Choos!"

The syrup of feminine infantilism has never been so spread so thick.

I have an idea for the next great woman news columnist! She might take a little dusting off, but I've seen worse-looking corpses any evening at Foster's Freeze. My candidate, in fact, was a role model for Molly Ivins—  I bet you'll think you're reading Ivins when I quote a few of her best lines. They both share the same nickname, and an Irish wit that could bury you:

I am not afraid of the pen, or the scaffold, or the sword. I will tell the truth wherever I please.

Whatever your fight, don't be ladylike. 

I asked a man in prison once how he happened to be there, and he said he had stolen a pair of shoes. I told him if he had stolen a railroad, he would be a United States Senator.

I'm not a humanitarian, I'm a hell-raiser...my teachers treated me as a diamond in the rough, someone who needed smoothing.

I am Mother Jones. The Government can't take my life, and you can't take my arm— but you can take my suitcase.

—Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living.

One more thing: before I posted this tribute, I searched and listened to several recordings of Molly Ivins speaking on radio and TV. They were all good, but none of them held a candle to her pants-wetting critique of why the Texas State Legislature has a giant rubber dick up their ass. 

I posted the above link— That's Right You're Not From Texas, Sodomy Loves You Anyway— just last December. But if you missed it for some reason, you must see it now. It's from Dildo Diaries, an under-rated political documentary if there ever was one.

I think Molly's terminal diagnosis made her more frank in saying what she really felt about sex and hypocrisy— a wolfish sexpert she was, in wicked sheep's clothing! I'll miss her so much.

The beautiful invitation to Molly's "BBQ" is designed by MattoMoHundro, and you can see more of it here.