Susie Bright's Journal

R.U. Sirius: The Harsh Buzz of Senator Biden

Democratic Vice Presidential candidate Joe Biden is arguably the most extreme drug warrior in the United States Senate since at least 1982.

This story is by R.U. Sirius, from Don't Tase Me, Bro!

Biden coined the mega-authoritarian phrase "drug czar" to describe the head of the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy.

He is the man most responsible for pushing the "Rave Act" through Congress— possibly the most absurd and potentially repressive piece of legislation the Congress has passed in recent years— and that's saying something!

Biden's act was originally titled "Reducing Americans' Vulnerability to Ecstasy."

(LOL -susie)

The bill was introduced in 2002 during the great Ecstasy (aka MDMA) panic of the early 2000s. More people die from bad reactions to normal doses of aspirin than from MDMA every year.

It was reintroduced in 2003. That year, another version of the law, titled "The Illicit Drug Anti-Proliferation Act" was added to the "Amber Act," an emotionally-fraught piece of legislation that created a national system for responding to child abduction, and which very few congresspeople dared vote against. 

The "rave act" part of this legislation, signed into law by President George W. Bush, makes the sponsor of any public event legally responsible for any illegal drug exchanges or use that occurs at their event. 

The initial bill actually singled out raves as the likely enforcement target, but that language was changed as clearly prejudicial. In the words of a missive from the Drug Policy Alliance, which organized the opposition to this law, "Because of its broad language, the proposed law would... subject people to twenty years in federal prison if guests smoked marijuana at their barbecue."

The recent sponsor of the recent South Dakota 68th annual Jackpine Gypsies MC Rally— where John McCain was third-billed behind Kellie Pickler and Kid Rock— and where the smell of marijuana smoke wafted through the air, would be up for 20 years in an iron cage under the Rave Act.

A month after Biden's act was signed into law, DEA agents in Montana used it to intimidate the owners of a venue into canceling a benefit to raise money for Students for Sensible Drug Policy and the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws.

It is unclear whether this law has been used since that time, but every time the hosts of a private party, musical event— or Republican Party rally— doesn't do everything within their  power to make sure that absolutely nobody in attendance uses or exchanges any plants or chemicals that are currently illegal, they are liable for a punishment far more severe than the sentence  meted out to the user, or even the dealer, of an illicit substance.

Biden also wrote the law against shipping drug "paraphernalia" through the mail— that's the one that put Tommy Chong in jail.

Regarding medical marijuana for pain management, in 2007 Biden said, "There's got to be a better answer than marijuana."

Of course, as every educated, informed person knows, the opiate drugs currently used for the management of intense pain are addictive, substantially harmful to health, and often fatal. The off-prescription use of these narcotics is the biggest drug problem today, particularly among young people. Marijuana has few health counter-indications and there has never been a fatality from smoking or eating it.

There may be some recent signs of moderation in Biden's lifelong drug war fanaticism. In 2007, Biden introduced a bill to end the discrepancies between the punishment for possession of powdered and crack cocaine, effectively reducing the draconian sentences for possession and/or sale of small amounts of crack.

And while campaigning in the recent Presidential primaries, Biden said he would end federal raids on medical marijuana patients (Of course, G.W. Bush said the same thing during the 2000 election campaign... and Bill Clinton told Rolling Stone we should decriminalize marijuana as he was leaving office).

It's interesting to note that earlier in the campaign, Senator Jim Webb of Virginia, a stalwart advocate of drug reform, was much discussed as the leading contender to become Obama's VP pick. Webb withdrew his name from consideration for that spot and has since commented on valuing his freedom to speak his mind.

Obama's positions on drug reform have been a moving target. Most famously, in 2004, Senator Obama said, "I think the war on drugs has been a failure, and I think we need to rethink and decriminalize our marijuana laws." He went on to say that he opposed "legalizing" marijuana.

For the most part, Candidate Obama has been silent on the drug war, although he recently suggested that an extra DEA office would be just what the doctor ordered for New Orleans.

Looking on the bright side, it's possible that a stalwart drug warrior like Biden would have the credibility necessary to start winding down the excesses of the drug war (the "Nixon Goes to China" theory that only conservatives can get away with introducing certain types of reforms).

But the most disheartening thing about Obama's selection of Biden for Vice President isn't the selection itself, but the fact that Biden's history as a drug war fanatic doesn't even warrant mention... on CNN, MSNBC (including Keith Olbermann), or even on the first day's coverage at Huffington Post.

The reality is that 11 million pot smokers— and the many other mostly responsible users of recreational drugs that don't happen to be on the approved list— just don't count at all as far as the American political mainstream is concerned.

Story by R. U. Sirius (c) 2008 from Don't Tase Me Bro!

Photo:by the remarkable Etchsketchist, who will do an EtchASketch portrait for YOU, of anything you like, for a mere $10 clams! I feel like sending him my whole scrapbook!

Over the course of this election season, I'm going to be looking for stories you don't "see every day."

Obviously, I'm desperate for a regime change, happy to pull the lever for the Big O.

But I'm also completely left flat by the mainstream media coverage, and am rather estranged from all the God Bless America rigamarole. Please send me any tips you may have for off-the-radar election coverage... Susie

Jon Bailiff's 50th Birthday!

Today is my baby's birthday! Fifty candles is quite a bonfire.

Of course, I had to whip up a little "Jonny Too Good" Playlist:

The Late John Garfield Blues
John Prine

Happy Birthday, Mister President
Marilyn Monroe
(Sung to President John F. K.!)

Did You Hear John Hurt?
Dave Van Ronk

Joe Louis And John Henry Blues
Sonny Boy Williamson

Big Bad John
Big Jim Wheeler & Wheels of Fire

Johnny B. Goode
Chuck Berry

Johnny Too Bad
Bunny Wailer

John Barleycorn (Must Die)
Traffic

John the Revelator
Blind Willie Johnson

Roll On John
Mike Seeger

Frankie and Johnny
Moses Rascoe

Johnny Cash - String Cheese Incident
Pack Of Dogs

Johnny B. Goode
Jimi Hendrix

John Wesley Harding
Bob Dylan

Frankie and Johnny Where Lovers
Benny Goodman

Did You Hear John Hurt?
Tom Paxton

Catfish John
Old & In The Way

Johnny Can't Dance
Beausoleil

John Henry
Moses Rascoe

Hey, Johnny Park!
Foo Fighters

It's Johnny's Birthday
George Harrison

Handsome Johnny
Richie Havens

John Henry
Bill Monroe

Johnny Hit And Run Paulene
 X

Blowjobs Among the Blossoms: The Floating World Revisited

Sex and mystery go together like sushi and wasabi— and Japan is a particular focus of Western erotic curiosity and yearning.

This story and photography are by Donna George Storey, recalling her recent return trip to Japan, and her life there looking at "the floating world."

I wrote about this curiosity in “Ukiyo,” my short story about an evening in Japan’s floating world that appeared in Best American Erotica 2006. 

I so enjoyed peeking through an ever-naughtier series of sliding screens in that story, I extended my search into a semi-autobiographical novel, Amorous Woman, about an America woman’s journey through Japan’s sexual landscape, first as a horny housewife, then a bar hostess, a mistress, and finally, a prostitute. 

I recently had the good fortune to return to Japan to revisit some of my favorite locales from the story and the novel. One misty April evening after sunset, I headed to the entertainment district of Gion.

As I crossed the Kamo River, I saw a small, but familiar silhouette in the far-off window of an exclusive restaurant— a genuine geisha party. 

I was glad to see that even in the twenty-first century, traditional culture still thrives in the old capital.

Since I first lived in Kyoto more than twenty years ago, a new service for tourists has sprung up and is reportedly quite popular. For about $200, anyone can be a maiko (apprentice geisha) for a few hours.

Foreigners, too, can plop down their yen and be done up in a kimono, a wig and white face— professional photos included. During the daytime, I’d seen many of these temporary maiko roaming the streets.

They fool you at first, but look closer and you’ll see the make up is uneven, the long-sleeved kimonos wrinkled and faded. The final giveaway: they’ll stop and smile for a picture.

The real maiko is found after dark, hurrying down the streets as if late for her next party. —Or is it to avoid the foreigners snapping away with their cameras? 

Still, the genuine version has a grace and splendor that can’t be faked. 

The exquisite dinner I describe in Ukiyo takes place in a 300-year-old restaurant by the river called Chimoto, but my Japanese hosts on this night had chosen a twenty-first century example of Gion’s finest cuisine. This new place suggested the long arm of Alice Waters with a menu highlighting local sakes and deconstructed sushi. 

However, on a trip to the restroom, I passed a gray-haired businessman waxing eloquent to his forty-something companion, an elegant lady in kimono who was leaning forward in rapt attention. I realized I was observing an off-duty mama-san with her danna or patron. She was showing far too much interest to be his wife. Some things in Kyoto have indeed not changed in centuries.

Later, as I wandered the narrow streets strung with lanterns to celebrate the annual geisha cherry blossom dances, I passed a discreet sign for a love hotel, or couple’s hotel as they are now called thanks to a 1985 change to the "Law Regulating Businesses Affecting Public Morals," that discouraged the whimsical Cinderella castles and Moorish palaces of old.

This more subdued rent-by-the-hour hideaway was called To iu wake de, which means “for that reason”— you’ll note the rates for a short “rest” or an overnight stay. 

I later asked several Japanese friends why a love hotel would have such a name.  I guessed it might suggest the excuses an errant husband or dutiful twenty-something daughter would give for coming home late. 

My friends weren’t sure, but one pointed me to the hotel’s web site (the link is now dead, alas) which confirmed that Japanese women are having more say in fashions in the booming short-stay lodging business. The hotel’s self-proclaimed raison d’etre is for the reason of fostering warm and intimate relations between couples— surely the purpose for the vending machine selling sex toys in the lobby? 

Another nostalgic sight was The Banana Room, a modern-day version of the pink salons of my story, but without the yakuza hawkers. Those permed, pinkie-less fellows were chased from the streets by a newer law intended to bring dignity to the streets. Now patrons can ascend the stairs in serenity— but be warned, the advertised eighty dollars for thirty minutes probably gets your banana nothing but a drink and conversation. 

Other services are certainly negotiable for an extra fee, and for those of you who don't read Japanese, this establishment advertises itself as an "honest" place. Extras are decided and paid for in advance so there are no nasty surprises or surcharges, and you can count on a traditional warm towel to get your banana nice and tidy afterwards!

Forgoing the pleasures of The Banana Room, I stopped in at a convenience store on my way back to my hotel. Here is where I used to stock up on pornographic comics, my favorite resource to study Japanese language and culture. In the old days, I could leaf through a dozen selections to pick the most interesting, but now the dirty magazines are all bound up in plastic ties. 

Of necessity, I settled on the April issue of a magazine with a drawing of a pretty woman in a bikini lounging back, legs spread invitingly— yet another paper door to open. The stories inside did not disappoint as cultural research, including an appropriately seasonal focus on transgressive sex in the park during cherry-blossom viewing parties.

In this example, we see the comic-book heroine protesting that her lover shouldn’t fondle her naked breasts because someone from one of the carousing night picnics might wander by and catch them. But soon enough she gets carried away by spring fever and gives him a blowjob under the canopy of flowers.

In Japan, the social context defines everything, including the pronoun you use to refer to yourself. Sex flourishes in its specially designated spaces— entertainment districts, love hotels, the mysterious shadows at the top of The Banana Room’s red stairway. Sometimes we can slip inside and experience these pleasures for ourselves, but there always seems to be another sliding door beyond that, hinting at new and even more alluring secrets.   

The erotic urge is more about yearning than satisfaction, no matter what country you visit. It was appropriate that I left Gion with nothing but my photos and my memories— not quite satisfied, but richer with ideas for new stories to come. 

Donna George Storey is the author of the new novel Amorous Woman (Neon/Orion).  Her story “Ukiyo” appeared in Best American Erotica 2006. 

Photos: Donna George Storey. From top; Geisha tea, glimpse of a private party, fake Maiko, real Maiko, Love Hotel sign, The door to the Banana Room, hlowjob manga, and cherry blossum manga.

Those Unforgettable Lesbian Love Songs

Lesbian Pop historian Rabdrake has posted a remarkable contribution to the rarefied world of lesbian erotic music and video: The G2G Love Song List.

All the songs are by female vocalists singing love songs to other women—  "Not friendship love, but undisguised sensuality, an open expression of same-sex attraction."

Every tune links to a video featuring the likes of Patti Smith, Lisa Lopes, Janet Jackson, Ani DiFranco, Laura Nyro, Melissa Ethridge, The Butchies, Katy Perry, Joan Jett, Amy Winehouse, and Marlene Dietrich.

It's interesting to look at that group of names, isn't it? Some are outspoken dyke activists, some are "it-ain't-no-big-thing" bisexuals, while others are persistent closet cases who nevertheless make these videos which reveal their true affections.

My personal favorites are Amy's "Valerie," Marlene Dietrich's montage, and the concert clip above from Sarah Jane Morris.

I was always interested in "straight" pop songs that crossed over into the once-dynamic lesbian bar scene. It often had to do with a play on words, like "Me and Mrs. Jones."

"I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You)," with Aretha Franklin wringing it out wet, has to be at the top of that list. I just had another little gasp listening to Allison Crowe's cover of the same.

Rabdrake is the researcher behind the story of "Emmie," Pop music's first lesbian love song, composed by Laura Nyro, who wrote it for her lover, Maria Desiderio.

The reason Nyro must've been so secretive about her lover wasn't because they were gay in a not-so-friendly time— but because they were 13 and 18 when they met and fell in love. That's when Nyro wrote "Emmie."

Later, she wrote "Desiree," another devotion to her partner. Both women died, still together, in middle age, of ovarian cancer, just a few years apart. It reminds me of the rose and the green briar in the lyrics of "Barb'ry Allen:"

They grew and grew to the steeple top
Till they could grow no higher
And there they twined in a true love's knot
Red rose around green briar

 I wish we knew more of their story.

Andy Griffin: Bring Your Own Beer, Guns, & Drugs

August 18th was my birthday. I took a break from writing about food and farming to engage in a little sentimental reflection.

This story is by Andy Griffin, my friend, a fellow author, and the organic farmer who provides all the veggies I eat!

I’m thinking about the old black and white movie, The Wild One, with the very young Marlon Brando, who plays “Johnny,” the leader of a motorcycle gang that terrorizes a small California town.

The costume designers were the real stars, since so many of their notions about how to look "cool" were taken up by actual bikers of the times.

The movie is loosely based on an incident in Hollister, July 4th, 1947, when several thousand motorcycle riders, led by the Boozefighters motorcycle club, went on a rampage for several days and trashed the town.

Castroville has an Artichoke Festival, Watsonville has a Strawberry Festival, Gilroy has a Garlic Festival, and Greenfield even has a Broccoli Festival.

But Hollister, where I farm, has an annual biker rally that celebrates the attempted rapes, drunken assaults, and broken windows from times past.

During the rally, the air around our farm is alive with the sound of Harleys. The streets in Hollister swarm with insurance brokers, accountants, dentists, and software engineers that like to dress up in leather and play at being Marlon Brando playing “Johnny,” who played at being Sonny Barger. I call them “The Mild Ones.”

It can get loud as they roar up and down San Felipe Road in packs, but for a day or two out of the year I don’t mind. The weekend warriors are kind of cute— and then vrooooom, they’re gone.

The real outlaw bikers aren’t so cute.

I remember when I was a kid in 1975, growing up in Carmel Valley, a biker named “Wino Joe” from The Gypsy Jokers MC, bought a trailer on a small lot along the south side of Carmel Valley Road where it runs along Paloma Creek, a few miles before the junction with Arroyo Seco Road.

Wino came up to Jimmy Bell’s corral and introduced himself, and he was neighborly. For a housewarming party he posted invitations on every phone pole from Tassajara Road to Greenfield inviting “one and all” to join him for his first April Fools ‘Fool-around,’ BYOBGD.

That would be short for: “Bring Your Own Beer, Guns, & Drugs.”

Wino explained the whole concept to us. The attraction was going to a game of Blind Man’s Bluff played nude after sundown, and whoever was “it” got to ride around the property in the dark on an ATV 110, one of those now-outlawed motorized all terrain trikes with balloon tires that tended to roll over if you turned too quick.

Here’s the kicker: Whoever was “it,” got to try and “tag” the other nude contestants by discharging a double-barreled shotgun loaded with rock-salt. If you’re high enough, this can be a lot of fun.

I wanted to go, but my stick-in-the-mud old man said no. Jimmy drove past, and he said the Monterey Sheriff’s squad cars were lined up along Carmel Valley Road late into the night with their flashing red lights throwing a festive sparkle over the broken beer bottles and aluminum Coors cans that were scattered all over the ground.

The cops weren’t able to kill the joy because it was Wino’s private party, it was on private land, and besides, he’d taken care to invite all the neighbors. Back then, in Arroyo Seco, “Okie” still meant white-trash from Oklahoma and didn’t refer to a tannic Chardonnay with vanilla notes that’s spent too much time on French oak. Nobody cared all that much about the commotion.

Two of Wino’s guests that night, Buddy and Candy, enjoyed themselves immensely, and decided to buy their own place in the country. Candy had lots of money; and issues— she was bizarrely rumored to be the illegitimate daughter of Chicago Boss Richard Daley!

Candy bought the old Melen Ranch that lay in between the Hastings Reserve, where I lived, and the Tregea Ranch, up Martin Road, so we got to be neighbors.

Buddy was a knuckle-head who liked to beat the solutions out any problems he encountered in life. He was too much the loose cannon to ever make the cut for an esteemed outfit like the Hells Angels, but Buddy rode with them when he wasn’t in jail or occupied with his own “1% motorcycle club,” The Losers, who were based out of Seaside and Marina.

Buddy had a half-wit, hare-lipped, half-brother named Darrell who was just smart enough to keep balanced on his chopper when he rode with The Losers. It was when he wasn’t riding that Darrell ran into trouble. He fell off his bike into bed with Candy one night, by mistake, and then Buddy came into the room and found the two of them trysted in a knot, so he beat Darrell half to death.

Candy ran off into the night, made her way through the weeds and brush over the hill to Hastings, and showed up on our doorstep sobbing that Buddy was going to kill her too. She begged my father to save her. (Bear in mind that this is same party-pooper father of mine that hadn’t let me to play naked blind man’s bluff with Wino Joe a year earlier.)

Dad suggested that maybe he ought to call the cops, but Candy said, “Oh, no! Boo-hoo-hoo! Because then they might arrest Buddy!”

Buddy was the kind of guy you had to take seriously when he made death threats. He looked like Marlon’s Johnny could only wish to look like– a real Hun, with red eyes, blurry tattoos, long Jesus hair, a forked beard, and greasy jeans held up by a motorcycle chain.

The cops arrested Buddy anyway, not because he beat up his brother and threatened his wife’s life, but because an unrelated assault Buddy perpetrated against a well-digger who’d “looked” at Candy.

During Buddy’s incarceration, Candy got lonely so she started screwing around with some Hells Angels. The Angels brought a 50-caliber machine gun out to the Ranch and had fun shooting it at ancient old oak trees and deer, old pick-up trucks in the dump, and so on. For a while our little canyon sounded like the Beqaa Valley in Lebanon.

Then Buddy got out of the slammer and came home to Candy. He had a big party to celebrate his freedom, but he got too twisted and crashed his bike on one of the few straight stretches upper Carmel Valley Road has to offer, and died.

Some people are simply allergic to money. If Candy had been poor white trash, instead of a slumming rich girl, Buddy would have had to steal for a living and he’d probably still be alive today, fat and sassy in Soledad, with an active social life in the Aryan Brotherhood. Oh well.

Candy never got cold at night. She took up with the Angels again, and married one right away. This was at exactly the same time as the government was preparing for a maxi-trial against the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club, and even Sonny Barger, the club president, was indicted.

My father’s friend, Jim Farlinger, a Monterey Presbyterian Church organist and the owner of Farlinger’s Funeral Home in Monterey, had the honor of officiating over the burial ceremony that sent Buddy on his final ride off to Valhalla.

Candy wanted an open casket ceremony, so on a foggy afternoon, with the smell of eucalyptus leaves and Harley exhaust mingling in the sea-salt air of the cemetery down behind Dennis The Menace Park in Monterey. Losers, Gypsies, and Angels gathered together to give their last respects to a fallen brother. They lined up and filed past the coffin, dropping in mementos and items that Buddy would need in his afterlife; knives, hash pipes, bongs, baggies of weed, speed, coke and tabs of blotter acid.

“And,” Mr. Farlinger said,” lots and lots of guns.”

Once you’re dead and buried, it just about takes an act of Congress, plus the permission of your spouse, for officers of the state to exhume your body. The government wanted to prove that the Hells Angels MC was a criminal organization that enforced control over its share of the drug trade by murder, but their Federal maxi trial of over thirty senior club officials ran into trouble in part because they had no murder weapons to introduce as evidence.

If the Feds had asked, Candy, who was already married to the mob, certainly wasn’t going to give them permission to dig her Buddy up and claw through his bones for the evidence they needed to put her new squeeze away. Instead, Candy put the Melen Ranch up as collateral for a truly huge bail bond, and in the end, most, if not all, of the Angels flew the coop. The Melen Ranch was sold, and sold again, and now the land is part of the Hastings Reserve.

My peripheral contact with the Wild Ones wasn’t quite over. When I was in college I worked for several years setting up stages and unloading trucks for rock & roll concert promoters around the Sacramento area.

We did a Waylon Jennings/Hank Williams Jr. concert, for Charlie Magoo Presents, which was owned and operated by the Rodeo Chapter of the Hells Angels, from down by Vallejo.

I was dispatched early to meet the caterer’s van and un-load it. There was Tule fog down to the ground that morning. As I waited in the parking lot, lost in a total white-out, waiting for the van, I heard the rumble of two Harley’s circling, trying to find the arena.

When by accident, we finally almost collided, I got a chance to meet my bosses for the day. “Tiny” was a 6'4", 300-pound gentleman— and his sidekick “Dump Truck” was so big he made Tiny look like one of Snow White’s seven dwarfs.

Dump Truck had ridden all the way up from Rodeo in the fog wearing nothing but his colors, open at the front to give his beer gut room to breath. Nowadays it seems like every soccer mom has a unicorn tattooed on her ankle, but Dump Truck had a death’s-head tattooed on his chest the size of a garbage can lid and it was impressive.

The van arrived, and we unloaded all the party supplies– case after case of Jack Daniels. The meeting of the minds that occurred later in the day was when Waylon’s Band and the Hank Williams band got tangled up with the Angels— and a Ford Econoline’s worth of whiskey. It was something to behold and a party to remember. But that’s another story. So much for life in Lake Wobegon.

Story reprinted from The LadyBug Letter, by Andy Griffin (c) 2008.

Photos: Top; Sonny Barger leading  Angels Rally in 60s, Bottom; Graydon G. Griffin, circa 1963, of Andy Griffin, age four.

The Internal Clitoris— What a Woman's Cock Really Looks Like

If you told a man that his "penis" was nothing more than the head of his cock— his "glans"— he would laugh in your face.

If he pitied you, he might tell you that there was an important aspect to the penis called the shaft, also the frenulum, and perhaps a foreskin. His scrotum and balls are part of the essential package as well.

Women's anatomy education, on the other hand, has been a giant exercise in vacancy. Until recent times, we've been schooled that the clitoris— the female analog to the penis— is nothing more than the small glans one can see on the outside of the vulva.

Start laughing.

Women have a big, big, clitoral body— but it's nearly all on the inside, instead of the outdoor plumbing that's viewed so easily on men.

The reason you hear so much about the "g-spot," and controversies over whether women are excited by internal anal or vaginal pressure, is because those areas are all means to massage, and stimulate, the internal clitoral body. The g-spot isn't some extra accessory; it's just one of many inches on the clitoral map.

Remember: the whole clit, and nothing but.

Of course, the female clitoral glans is the super-sensitive part, just like a man's. But in the same way that men like to have their entire penises taken into account when they're aroused, women are favored by attention to their entire clitorises.

When I present this information in public, I am hampered by my lack of rendering skills. Now, finally, I have the genius of Betty "Quick Draw" Dodson to show you what's it's all about.

The next time someone asks you, "Where's the clitoris? What does it look like? How do you know where to find it?" — you simply come over here, and press play.

I posted an alternate version of this video before; but I like this one better... and it's a great way to launch Betty's new site, that she's put together with Carlin Ross. They have a whole slew of new videos, so check it out!

The Most Expensive Birth Control in the World

If you're planning to have penis/vagina intercourse in Ireland, bring an extra suitcase of Euros.... you will pay through the nose to protect yourself.

Other destinations are more curious. Why is Houston the cheapest place in America to score a rubber? Does this have an Enron tie-in?

This brilliant research and intriguing chart is brought to you by the mad hatters at Environmental Graffiti.

Click on the graphic so you can see all the details enlarged!

Listen to an excerpt

Listen to the whole show: LINK

$2 a show, for a year; why not? LINK
 

I get into every kind plumbing on my podcast this week. You see, I was advised at my last doctor's visit that I should have the disagreeable procedure known as a colonoscopy.

After years of patiently helping people get over their anal phobias, this was ONE STEP TOO FAR for me— deliberately making myself sick so I can "evacuate" for twenty four hours? That's my idea of torture. I already intestinal amoebas in the 80s.

Then, relief arrived: I read a copy of Miami Herald columnist Dave Barry's classic essay:  A Journey Into My Colon— and Yours.

...I left Dr. Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called ''MoviPrep,'' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven.

I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America's enemies.

I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.

Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons.)

Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes— and here I am being kind— like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.

The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, ''a loose watery bowel movement may result.'' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.

I had to read aloud the whole story on my show, because this is how I want to be laughing when they stick the tube 17,000 feet* up my butt—  as measured by the throughly scientific Mr. Barry.

Finally, in my Try This at Home mailbag, a listener asks me: which side of the family do we inherit our genitals from? Your labia might be from the paternal side, your balls from the maternal.

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions and feedback about the show to [email protected] (Episode 353, August 15, 2008).

Sex Addiction: The Big Con

Susie Bright Interviews Sexologist Leonore Tiefer
Sexual Addiction: The Big Scam

Download this free sample of In Bed with Susie Bright!

Here's the iTunes link.

Sexual theorist and therapist Dr. Leonore Tiefer is the leading challenger of the standard medical practice of using Viagra and other Big Pharm "miracle pills" to deal with women's sexual issues.

Susie and Leonore discuss the differences between sexual addiction, compulsion, and obsession— and why the hype about "Sex Addicts" is off the wall, and more than a little dangerous.

I never wanted to let Leonore out of the studio... she's the feminist therapist you dream of...

If you like this sample and want to hear more, you can subscribe (for $2 a show) to my weekly show at Audible.com. I'm offering a 12-episode season on iTunes to give new listeners a taste!

Photo: The memorable front cover of Leonore's book, Sex is Not a Natural Act.

Susie Goes to the State Capitol to Break Up the Budget Impasse!

Well, hell, I tried! ;-)

Here's the real story: During an auction to support my hometown public radio station, KUSP, I went into a bidding frenzy to win a date to spend the day with the Assemblyman for our district, John Laird— who is, with much wailing and gnashing among his constituents—  being termed out this year.

John and I have been involved in California State politics as gay rights activists since the Brigg's Initiative 1978, a watershed moment in our state, when people finally took a stand against the most draconian of the haters.

(Briggs was a State Senator from Orange County who sponsored Proposition 6 to "Save Our Children from Homosexuals!" by posting photos of himself dandying a little blond girl in his lap—ha!— and screaming about how queers had to rooted out of the public school system. This was avant-garde at the time in rightwing circles).

Jon and I got personally acquainted years later, when I went out to vote at my polling place in Santa Cruz, which is a local evangelical church. I couldn't' concentrate on punching my card because I was surrounded by giant posters on the walls of The 10 Commandments and Promises of Eternal Damnation. This couldn't be kosher.

I called the Registrar's office after my vote to insist the church take down the "God Crap" during polling hours... and it was John who was manning the phones!  "I'm so thrilled you called about this, because when I say it, no one takes me seriously."

Ironic— all these years later, John is the most effective legislator in the Assembly, which, if you know how hard it is to get ANYTHING done in this state, is mouth-dropping. Whether it's walking your dog in the park, or sparing us from b.s. offshore oil drilling, or a water policy to save us from extinction, or anti-discrimination laws with teeth... you name it, John's been on it. 

And yes, he has a collector's pair of Ronnie and Nancy Bunny Slippers, which I put on and stomped all over his office.

My partner Jon (and yes, John's partner is also named John) took the train with me to the Capitol where we spent the day watching the whole place come apart over the tension at the state budget impasse:

Perata Tells Republican Senators to Write Budget Democrats Can Support, Saying "We Have No Freaking Idea Where You Want to Go"

We got to meet the incredibly cool and calm John Chiang, State Controller:

Schwarzenegger sues state controller over pay-cut order— John Chiang has refused to implement the governor's pay cut for state workers, ordered because of the budget impasse.

Our whole day was orchestrated and guided by Elaine Knight, Laird's scheduler, who is on the plane today to  kick ass working the Democratic Party convention in Denver. Elaine is the one who knows where the secret medfly is painted on the Governor's office ceiling, and how Jerry Brown revolutionized the staid tradition of the governor's portraits that hang throughout the capitol building.

More gossip on my Flickr page with big sizes of all the photos!

Hobo Bill's Last Ride

Today, in honor of my mom and dad's birthdays, (August 12th and 13th, respectively) here's a playlist I made while I was on the train to Santa Fe last week. There is nothing like the percussion of a locomotive to set your mind to music!

I learned a lot of these train songs from my relatives. My mom used to like to grab my hand and swing me around to the Chattanooga Choo Choo. My aunt Frannie used to work me up singing Rock Island Line, faster and faster and faster. My dad was the font of all Holy Modal Rounders recordings.

Enjoy! And if you have never heard Lord Buckley's "Train" Recitation, you are in for a treat. —You can play clips of each song at the bottom of the post.

1. The Train
Lord Buckley

2. All Down The Line (Exile on Main Street, only!)
The Rolling Stones

3. Baby Ride Easy
Carlene Carter

4. Blue Railroad Train
Jorma Kaukonen

5. Cannonball Rag
The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

6. Chattanooga Choo Choo
The Andrews Sisters

7. Choctaw Hayride
Alison Krauss and Union Station

8. Choo Choo Ch'Boogie
Clarence Gatemouth Brown

9. Rock Island Line
Devil In A Woodpile

10. Freight Train
Sonny Terry

11. Ghost Riders in the Sky
Mary McCaslin

12. Hear My Train A Comin'
Jimi Hendrix

13. Hobo Bill's Last Ride
Jimmie Rodgers

14. I'm Going To The West
Mike Seeger

15. I've Been Working on the Railroad
Pete Seeger

16. It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry
Bob Dylan

17. Last Train To Clarksville (Album Version)
The Monkees

18. Mystery Train
The Paul Butterfield Blues Band

19. Night Train
James Brown

20. Railroad Boy
Joan Baez

21. The Cuckoo
Holy Modal Rounders

22. So Many Roads, So Many Trains
Otis Rush

23. This Train
The Staple Singers

24. Two Trains
Allen Toussaint

25. Walkin' Down The Line
The Rising Sons