‘Avatar’ as Military Porn February 8, 2010

A space ship, a lab with fish tanks, and Sigourney Weaver in a lab coat.  Smoking a cigarette, because she is an honorary male after all.  And then —- I had to run to the restroom because my 3-D glasses made me nauseous.

I returned to my seat after a woozy lobby stroll.  The guns and ships gave way to dinosaur porn.   Even the monsters appeared metal-plated, like the panther and armor-coated wild dogs. Triceratops had a battering ram for a head.

I took off the 3-D glasses, hoping to settle my stomach.   I realized that our seats were too close to the screen.  I sipped the sweet bottled stuff  purchased at the concession stand.  Coming atop the Twizzlers in my tummy, it made things worse.

Lo!  The gunships were back and they mesmerized me.  That asshole commander sipping his mug of coffee while the military might of the RDA incinerated a tree.  A TREE: the finest termite control that taxpayer money can buy.  I related to the female helicopter pilot saying, “I didn’t sign up for this shit” and deserting her post.

The main character, Jake was unsympathetic and I wished that he would die, bum legs or no.  He was tolerable in the second half of the film after a fierce and lovely female taught him to ‘become a man.’  Of the two of them, she was obviously the better man.

Jake stated the real theme of the movie at the Tree of Souls:  “We killed our mother.”  Riding under all the copters and gunships is Gaia theory.  Gaia believes that our Earth is a living organism, an interconnected web of life.  It is similar to the tree root network shown in the movie.  Avatar dumbed it down, but the message is that we are murdering the tree of life, and the fingerprints of the United States military-industrial complex are everywhere.

My friend suggested that the U.S. Military funded ‘Avatar’ because of the firepower on display.  Red-blooded American men everywhere surely long for one of those walking robot punchers, called an AMP Suit.  This year’s Christmas toys are already in the bag:  buy now, beat the lines.

Put on your 3-D glasses and sit far away from the screen.

Thy Neighbor’s Sex February 4, 2010

Eight minutes, that’s how long it takes for my straight neighbor couple to have sex.  I’m not sitting with a stopwatch, it’s just…eight minutes.  I can’t help overhearing them making love in our old apartment building.  If the noise bugs me, I know that it will be all over in…eight minutes.

Eight minutes!  As a dyke I don’t mean to brag about the sex that I have, I’m not trying to judge.  It’s only that if our sex ended in eight minutes, I would clomp out the door in my clogs, never to return.  That’s why I don’t covet my neighbors’ sex.

My neighbors resemble the ‘Love Is’ cartoon couple.  She has hair down to her ass, which I find nasty.  Maybe that’s why their lovemaking is short, because the hair gets in the way.  If I were her I would put it up in a bun before slipping into bed.  “Don’t worry honey, my hair won’t bother us tonight.”

My lesbian training tunes me into the woman’s pleasure:  Does she like this?  Does she want to climax, and if so, what will get her there.  Maybe that is why lesbian sex tends to last longer, we hang in there and do whatever it takes to trip the sometimes elusive female orgasm. Nothing wrong with a “quickie” — now and then.

It’s clear that their sex ends when –boom — the husband has his orgasm, or his erection ends.  He does not try to satisfy his wife after he cums.  How Old World is that, ending sex as soon as the husband spurts.  Afterward, he probably rolls over and goes to sleep.

So I naturally listen for the wife’s response.  I could be out in left field, but to me she sounds like she’s faking it.  If she is faking her orgasm, that means that she isn’t cumming, at least not during sex with her husband.  And that would be a shame.  In 2010 no woman anywhere should feel the need to fake an orgasm for Pete’s sake.

In the lesbian world it is not uncommon to make love for hours, even 24 hour lovemaking is not unheard of.  For me, eight minutes is sad.  I wonder at the state of their marriage with such a dried-up love life.  How many other straight couples suffer from the same malady?  Ultimately though, I don’t care because I’m plugged into the good sex juice.

Love Is…Sapphic

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Top Ten Lesbian Turn-Ons February 2, 2010

1. Dogs
2. Cats
3. Bare-chested Gay Men
4. Bears
5. Campfires, tents, sleeping bags
6. Chocolate
7. Reading in bed
8. Massage
9. Lindsay Lohan
10. The sound of clipping nails

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Sketchy Startup January 31, 2010

The internet startup office was tiny, but the CEO interviewed me in a conference room down the hall.   His name was Ali, he was married and appeared to be a fine specimen of middle-aged manhood.

My skills were a great match for the position and my confidence soared.  He showed me the product, which I discussed intelligently.  We seemed to be simpatico, and I felt my pulse throb:  this may be the one, the end of  sitting around my apartment, ransacking craigslist.

A third of the way into the interview, Ali dropped a bomb, the first of several.  His accented voice told me that he recently let his marketing person go.  Not so bad, I thought, companies have turnover but shortly he said that his technical guy, and the accounting person had also ditched the company.

Breathing shallowly, I recalled glimpsing Ali through his office window, alone in a cubicle.  A one-man startup. My stomach flipped as I pictured myself sharing the mini office with him, four days a week, eight hours a day.  My job daydream shattered right there.  I pasted a smile on my lips — for me the interview was over.

My enthusiasm waning, Ali increased his ardor.  About 45 minutes into the interview, he made the fatal mistake.  He asked me how little money I would accept per hour.  My reply: he hadn’t offered me the job, so it was premature to talk salary.  Ali didn’t care about my feelings, he wanted an answer.  He asked me again, how little would I accept, wording the question differently.   I demurred.

His eyes narrowed, nothing mattered now but getting an answer.  He had lost sight of the interview objective.  I’d already answered the question twice, now he was going to put on screws.  For the third time, how little would I accept per hour?  Torn between pity and anger, I fought the rising desire to dash for the door in my interview pumps.

Each time I avoided the question it fed Ali’s  need for an answer.  He leaned his elbows on the conference table, his pupils pinpoints.  He needed me, and I felt the need to get away before he water-boarded me to get the answer he wanted: “$13 an hour, Sir!”

I gathered my things.  He didn’t stop asking.  I put on my coat and picked up my bag.  He stopped only when he saw me head for the door.  I thought for a moment that he would stop me.  He shook my hand and told me to e-mail him.  I smiled and nodded blankly, no way would I.

I’ll never understand why he told me that his entire staff left, but I am glad that he did.  I wouldn’t last five minutes with a boss who didn’t listen to me and value my work.  Ignoring my unique skills and experience, he  reduced me to a commodity like shopping for paper clips on-line. The other lesson is to avoid startup companies with inadequate cash flow.

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Make Your Prop. 8 Wedding a Special Day January 28, 2010

Proposition 8, a new provision to the California Constitution, reads:

Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California.

— Wikipedia

Your gay wedding is a special day for you, your loved one, relatives and friends.  You’ve chosen the flowers, the rings, the wedding finery. Now here’s how to make it official in the State of California.

First, lay in a supply of handguns, rocket-propelled grenades, and shoulder-launched missiles.  I’ll explain how to use them later.  Your wedding needs to be scheduled on a weekday during the County Clerk’s office hours.   Plan carefully! Your wedding may result in injury, mutilation, imprisonment, death and/or a hefty fine.

You should invite all of your friends who own trucks, SUVs, Escalades, and Humvees.  These should be outfitted with gun mounts on the hood, and an anti-tank guided missile system on the back.

Invite many guests, you will need them to replace those felled by return fire from your local police and sheriff.  Instruct your guests that wedding wear should be something that allows them to run, climb, and lay down covering fire.  Discourage female guests from wearing gowns and high heels.  Instead they are to wear khaki and camo.

On the wedding day, it is best to exchange rings, vows, and have a ‘traditional’ though not official, wedding before you head off to the courthouse.  This prevents later disappointment in case the brides or grooms die during the official ceremony firefight. Drill your wedding guests into a mean combat unit ahead of time.

You prepared the Armored Vehicles (AVs) the day before by mounting guns and missile launchers.  The AV’s were disguised with painted well-wishes such as “Just Married” and the weapons covered with white daisies.  Now the AV’s caravan to the courthouse and fan out around the entrance, flattening any obstacles like fire hydrants and signs.

Upon arrival, elite wedding guest weapons handlers unwrap the Grenade Rifle Entry Munition M-100 system (GREM).  We highly recommend the GREM, which can blast a door in from half a football field away.  You never know who or what awaits you behind the courthouse door.  Aim the GREM at the door and command the guests to insert their pre-issued earplugs that match the wedding color scheme.

Using the GREM you’ll have no trouble entering the courthouse unimpeded.  The wedding guests follow pre-planned orders and enter in formation.  Ignore the approaching sound of wailing sirens.   If the Clerk is alive, threaten her until she gives you the certificate that you came for.  If she fell victim to the GREM, make staff rifle through the drawers and give you a marriage certificate.  Make sure that it is signed by a County official!

Once you have the certificate, order the wedding guests to draw their pistols and cover the wedding couple’s exit, and have guests withdraw in formation.  If law enforcement has arrived, the guests should lay down covering fire while the wedding couple leaps into the AV and peels off, launching missiles as it retreats.  If the police gun down one or both of the wedding couple, trained wedding guest medics should retrieve the newlyweds to an AV as soon as battlefield conditions permit.

Wedding guests should retreat to the AV’s as feasible, and follow the preassigned escape plan.  Do not leave any wedding guest behind!  This is rude and potentially fatal.  Each AV should follow its unique evasion plan to the secret Wedding Reception location.

Upon arrival, guests may change into wedding attire, tuxes, gowns and heels so long as they retain a fully loaded pistol upon their person at all times.  If the bride or groom or both have been injured or killed, the guests should make arrangements for medical attention that is waiting on-site, or dispose of the bodies.  In case both brides or grooms have perished, the guests may use the Reception as a wake, funeral and reconaissance point for their new life on the lam.

Planning is the key to a successful gay wedding under Prop. 8, we cannot emphasize this enough.  Planning, training, skill, courage and of course, love!  No wedding would be complete without all of these.  We wish you luck on your California gay wedding.  Write and tell us about it, if you make it.

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American Standard January 26, 2010

Automation has swirled into the public restroom in the form of electronic toilets.  Nothing is grosser than opening a stall door to find an un-flushed mess in the bowl.  I am all for clean, all for tidy, and the way that auto-flush toilets defeat the non-flushers  out there.  Gone are ceramic toilet tanks, replaced by the electric eye on the wall, beady and red blinking.  1984 came and went, but we’ve Big Brother in the loo.

One technological advance is “Power Flush.”  These toilets roar and force the water down with a boost.  While they are loud as a jet engine, they are effective.  I would hate to see one of these Power Flushers malfunction, and become a Poo Power Shooter.  Once I saw a public toilet become a fountain, they had to close the restroom before it flooded.

Advances in flush technology bring 21st Century ideas to public convenience.  Why push the handle, when a computer can do it!  Most people gladly give up privacy to have the computer watch you relieve yourself .  Outsmarting non-flushers by treating us all like  non-flushers? Not overkill; it’s progress.

I recently entered a public restroom stall, and the toilet flushed itself upon arrival, as if in salute.  “Welcome!  I am at your service,” the commode seemed to greet me.  The next thing you know, toilets will talk to us.  What will they say?  “I think you should see a doctor,” or “I never get a vacation.”

As I conducted my business, the toilet flushed several times.  Either the device was overprogrammed or I moved around a lot.  The power flush feels surgical and unnatural, and it wastes water.  Elimination should be  pleasant. The power flush says that as advanced people we wish to have no sight nor smell of our waste.  Since we can’t tolerate it, the waste is whisked from us, a foreign object to be removed.

Fastening my belt, I twisted around to see the electric eye blinking rapidly.  The commode flushed again, eager to push me out and rid itself of any trace of me.  “Go, already!”  The toilet said, or was it in my mind.  I pushed the door open and listened for the flush.  The toilet was silent, sullen.  Now that I was leaving, it wanted me back.

I flipped the door back and forth a few times to see if I could make it flush.  It did not.  When you can’t get a toilet to do your bidding, it’s time to realize:  the toilet is in charge.  It’s viewing you, it’s on a timer.  The toilet conforms to the habits of the average bathroom-goer, and that is not you.   The toilet is right; you are wrong.  Obey.

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Femme To You January 23, 2010

Many have tried and failed to define ‘femme.’ For you heteros, a femme is generally a lesbian who identifies as feminine, as opposed to masculine, butch or androgynous. It is easier to define a femme by what she isn’t than by what she is. Femme is like pornography; you know it when you see it.

Femme is indefinable, ineffable and irresistible — a waft of perfume, and not the cheap kind. Femme is also tough, willing to sacrifice her own safety to protect her butch lover. Mostly, femme is invisible. A friend who ought to know better says that femmes are no different from straight women.

Femme is to straight as sushi is to fish sticks. Femme is femininity condensed, distilled to an essence. Society at large is immune to the femme essence because they have no training to detect it. Nor is anyone encouraged to recognize the power of femininity. At most, Joe Schmo points to Marilyn Monroe as having femme qualities.

Straight femmes do exist, Monroe being among the most famous. Audrey Hepburn springs to mind as being femme. To me, Madonna is femme but that may open a can of worms. Femme implies not just femininity, but strength, even power. The femme understands that her femininity is a source of power and strength, and is willing to use it on behalf of herself and those she cares for.

Femmes enjoy greater femininity as a gift of the Gods. It is not for lack of effort that most women are not highly feminine. The reality is that most dykes and straight women do not care about femininity, unless like celebrities, their livelihood depends on it. Most women are not particularly feminine; femmes are, and they know it.

Femme can be intoxicating, or obnoxious in the hands of a power-hungry diva. Many butch women seek out femmes for the gentle fierceness that a femme exudes. Femmes are prized by those who value or even worship femininity. High femininity is a treasure that cannot be faked.

If you are femme, you know it. Friends comment to you, and men give you looks when you couldn’t care less about attracting them. It’s not about dressing girly or wearing a tiara. I know femmes who wear jeans and boots, and transgendered femmes. You don’t have to look like a Hollywood star; most of them are not femme.

Femme is a gift, an extra dose of hormones or that special something that makes a femme turn heads whenever she enters a room. Femme is real, and femmes are among us. See if you can spot a femme in the crowd, on the train, inside Nordstrom Rack. That’s her in the lingerie department, buying a lace teddy for her butch. Or for her hot, independent femme self.

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Pandora, Advertised January 21, 2010

Pandora charges me $.99 if I listen more than 40 hours a month, and I call b.s.   It used to be unlimited listening.  Now they want me to subscribe to Pandora One ($36 a year), is that like Air Force One?  Nope, I’ll pay a dollar if I go over the limit.  Now, listening 1.3 hours a day makes me a “heavy listener” subject to the charge.

Pandora began the 40-hour listening limit mid-2009, after a barrage of  e-mail from CEO and Founder Tim Westergren, pleading that Pandora imposed charges to survive radio royalty hikes.  I thought, “Shucks, I don’t listen to Pandora much.”  Turns out I’m hooked.  I have a station for every mood; for every temp job I create a Pandora theme station.  Now I get a warning when I hit 34 hours of listening per month.

In January 2009 Pandora started the buzz-kill airing of 15-second ads between songs.  Westergren said in an 2009 interview that Pandora would air one 15-second advertisement every two hours.  Hey Tim, I can recite  by heart the ad for “Men of a Certain Age,” the TNT series that debuted on December 7, 2009.

I listened to tons of holiday music on Pandora those November weeks, and every four songs it seemed, there was Ray Romano’s middle-aged angst:

“Are we really the men we thought we’d be?  No, we’re just…Men of a Certain Age.  And that’s okay…because I’m medicated.”

I laughed at the punch line — the first time.  Fifty listens later, I began to despise the character saying the lines, the actor, even the fledgling show itself.  And I’m not alone.  “Unhappy_customer” posted on Pandora’s blog:

“I have heard the ad for the TNT show ‘Men of a Certain Age’ so many times I can’t stand it anymore. I hear it at least once an hour for 9 hours a day, 5 days a week.  I can tell you that I would never, ever watch that show because it would remind me of this torture.   Is there any way to stop it?”

A tiny picture of ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch followed the words.  Pandora’s response was corporate salesmanship:  To avoid the ads, all you have to do is — upgrade to Pandora One, which has no ads.  Squeeeeeek, the trap door closes.  Only Munch can hear you screaming.

The ‘Men of a Certain Age’ campaign extended beyond Pandora spots, to an interactive ‘Prom Station’ geared towards Boomer listeners of that certain age.  The seed artists on the Prom Station are Loverboy, Simple Minds, Bon Jovi, Journey and Chicago.

Pandora’s visual sidebar featured three ‘Men of a Certain Age’ stars inside of a half-full beer glass.  Get it?  The glass is half full, or — you know the rest.

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Sources:

http://dailygeek.pressdemocrat.com/default.asp?item=2318782

Goofus and Gallant: Commuter Edition January 17, 2010

1. On the train platform Goofus shouts into a cell phone.  Gallant finishes his conversation and stands as far from Goofus as he can.
2. Goofus rests his feet on the seat across from him.  Gallant gracefully crosses one leg over the other, and examines his nails.
3. Goofus coughs without covering his mouth.  Gallant pulls out a hanky, and coughs daintily into it.
4. Goofus blocks the train door with his bicycle, and strikes an athletic pose.  Gallant cuts a disgusted gaze at Goofus, and returns to reading Oprah’s Big Book of Happiness.
5. Goofus finds a seat and flops down, sitting with legs open, and cracks his knuckles.  Gallant, seated across from Goofus, stares with disdain, and avoids gazing at Goofus’ spandex-coated package.
6. On the platform, Goofus narrowly misses running Gallant down with his bicycle.  Gallant sputters and shouts, “Pig!” in Goofus’s direction.
7. Goofus takes his bicycle on the escalator in violation of the rules.  Gallant takes the elevator to street level.
8. Goofus does not see Gallant lurking at the station exit.  His eyes widen as Gallant enters his peripheral vision and directs a sream of profanity at Goofus.
9. Goofus mounts his bicycle in a hurry, but not before Gallant shoves him.  Goofus pedals as fast as he can away from the station and Gallant.  “Crazy faggot,” he mutters under his breath.
10. Gallant smiles as Goofus speeds away.  “Crazy breeder,” he shakes his head, and proceeds to purchase a buttery croissant from a nearby bakery.

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Femme Fantasy Wedding January 12, 2010

Proposition 8 (or the California Marriage Protection Act) was a ballot proposition passed in the November 2008 state elections. The measure added a new provision to the California Constitution. The new section reads:

Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California.

By restricting the definition of marriage to opposite-sex couples, the proposition overturned the California Supreme Court’s ruling that same-sex couples have a constitutional right to marry.  — Wikipedia

Why do straight people in California go blank when I tell them that Proposition 8 has made it illegal for me to marry?  Or worse, they want to argue when they don’t have a clue.  Citizens of California have a virulent case of denial.

Prop 8 took away my fantasy wedding.  Though I dream of the Supreme Court overturning Prop 8, I might not have a chance to marry in this lifetime.   So let me tell you — sit down this will take awhile– I will tell you about my fantasy wedding (one of them anyway).

Elephants – there have to be elephants.  The wedding is in the key of India with Native American, Leather and Russian notes.    My beloved boi and I ride separate elephants under the sumptuously decorated tent, like Teatro Zinzanni but bigger.  We undulate towards each other with our elephant bodies from opposing ends of the tent, and stop in the middle.

It is midnight. The attendants, dressed in gold and raspberry jester suits and Maharaja slippers, help us dismount from the elephants,, and lead them away.  My face is veiled; hys is not.  Hy smiles at me, I hide behind my veil and pretend I don’t see.  My face if hy could see it, would be serious with plum lipstick.

My dress is gold and so is my veil.  The dress is gold lace that brushes the floor, and hugs my curves.  The neckline plunges in front and in back.  I carry a small, simple bunch of white violets, which also circle my head around the veil.  My sandals too are gold with a comfortable heel.

My boi wears black leather pants and vest, worn over a white blouson-sleeve shirt with open lace-up ties at the chest.  Hys boots and leathers are immaculately polished and shined.  Hy also wears black leather gloves, and hys hair gleams with a fresh buzz cut.

Next, we mount side-by-side thrones on a platform, where young boys and maidens offer us trays of nuts and delicacies, and champagne.  We clink our flute glasses, and as if on cue, all of the humans disappear, except for us.  The elephants reappear, they are painted with colorful chalk designs and flowers.  Behind them, a corps de ballet of storks lines up and assumes position.  The lights dim, and music swells.  The elephants and storks delight us with an amusing, yet stately waltz.

That is a piece of my femme fantasy wedding, that I can’t have because of Prop 8.  To be continued….

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