Not-So-Final Thoughts on the Passing of Michael Jackson

I know I’m about three or four days late, but I have something to say about the passing of pop music’s most infamous performer.

I, like many, was stunned by the sudden revelation that the eccentric recluse was dead. I, like many, didn’t know how truly physically ill he was. I was immediately struck by the outpour of anguish and grief. People flocked to his rented LA home and wept and prayed and sobbed like he was family. Fans and fellow celebrities gushed to CNN and NBC about how the world had suffered a great and terrible loss, and about how they were shocked and horrified and in the throes of great sorrow. Millions flocked to Facebook and Twitter and claimed that they would have twins in his honor and name them “Michael” and “Jackson” – even if they were girls.

I understood the shock, for it’s almost always surprising when a celebrity – even a bizarre one with a tainted past – falls ill and dies mere hours afterwards. What bothered me the most at the time was how, in a matter of minutes, the media and public seemed to forget that, for the past 15 or so years, they’d wanted nothing to do with Michael Jackson.

Sure, mourners wanted to honor his enormous and immeasurable contribution to music. It’s very true that without MJ, there would be no JT (or at least not the JT we know and love). Still, it seemed slightly inappropriate that people would speak of a great loss when some of those same mourners had perhaps thought – maybe even just once – that the shattered, troubled soul that was Michael Jackson just wasn’t worth saving.

People had good reason to dislike him.

Once, he was a musical powerhouse, dancing and singing and producing hit after hit after hit. A phenomenally talented child, he evolved into a legendary pop star as a young man, releasing some of the most popular albums ever made. People forgave him his bejeweled jackets and outlandish possessions (he owned a monkey at one point). They dressed as him for Halloween and learned the Thriller dance and the moonwalk. Then, things started getting…weird.

He kissed his then-wife Lisa Marie Presley on stage and made people uncomfortable. His hair caught fire during a Pepsi promo and he screamed like a woman (that was a little big funny). He built the ostentatious and notorious Neverland Ranch. This ranch was a wildly expensive fantasy-land filled with roller coasters and candy and Peter Pan paraphernalia. It was just as much a present for himself as it was for the many children who came to visit. Oh, and who could forget the shocking physical transformation that turned a young black man into a white, practically faceless wax statue? It was stranger than any book or movie – and it was accompanied by allegations of child sexual abuse.

Interestingly enough, the other reaction to the news of Jackson’s death was gleeful indifference. Some people proclaimed that his death was a blessing, for he was nothing more than a child molester who managed to pay off his accusers. Though Jackson’s reputation will always be coloured by the terrible accusations – and his admitted conduct with children will always be known as inappropriate – no one will ever truly know if Jackson molested the two boys whose families pressed charges. While many can rightfully argue that Jackson had no right to sleep and bathe with children who were not his own, it cannot be said with certainly if his conduct was consciously criminal.

That said, where were those nearest and dearest to Jackson when his life turned – both literally and figuratively – into a circus? The media – who lamented his passing – was there through every step of Jackson’s bizarre journey into absolute madness, constantly documenting his unexplainable behavior. He was a joke, a spectacle, and a town fool. The world laughed at his public gaffes, and why wouldn’t it? Everything he did was ridiculous.

“Did you hear Michael Jackson came out to greet reporters wearing a surgical mask before dangling a baby over a balcony?”

“Yeah. He’s fucked up.”

The once wildly revered pop star blew his massive fortune on garish sculptures and paintings, and commissioned numerous wax statues of himself. I suspect Jackson spent a lot of time worshipping the person he once was and would never be again.

Now people are wondering who is to blame for his sudden death. Was it the doctor who prescribed too many painkillers? The media who made fun of him for amputating his own face?

No, perhaps the blame lies with those closest to him. Maybe it belongs to his abusive father and stupid mother, who treated him like a commodity and not a child. Maybe it belongs to the producers who treated a talented little boy like a full-grown adult and denied him genuine and necessary lessons in growth. Jackson seemingly grew up believing he was special (and he was), and he never learned that one cannot live on fantasy alone. People are fickle, and they can stop loving you. Money doesn’t grow on Peter Pan fairy-trees, what goes out must come in. Perhaps the media and public should turn an accusing eye on Jackson’s close friends and family who, throughout the years, never tried hard enough to get him the help he so desperately needed.

It seems that when Jackson realized that the world wasn’t filled with talking trees and friendly chimps and an endless supply of money, he was hit hard. He didn’t turn to drugs and sex and alcohol in the traditional rockstar way, he just went batshit crazy. He lost his mind and befriended various children, sequestering himself in his own private Disney world where every day was filled with ice cream and dinosaurs and hot air balloons.

Mourning fans have extended their condolences to Jackson’s family, but perhaps they don’t deserve the sympathy – his selfish and mercenary parents certainly don’t. During his lifetime Jackson failed a lot of people, but a lot of people failed him too. Fame hasn’t always been kind to children, and few emerge from the bright lights of Hollywood indulgence unscathed. When Jackson went from being eccentric to blatantly mentally ill, those closest to him should, perhaps, have done more. Maybe they did try, but really, we’ll never know.

It’s odd that some people are saying that his death is a tragedy. The last two decades of his life have been a tragedy, and this is merely a sad ending to what had already become a very sad story.

Some are calling for the blood of Jackson’s live-in physician, who many believe to have been responsible for his untimely death. Maybe – and this will sound like a terrible thing to say – Jackson’s doctor was merely being merciful. This world didn’t have much to offer Jackson anymore, and maybe he (Jackson) knew that. Now, he’s free to enjoy the ice cream, dinosaurs and hot air balloons elsewhere. No one will point and laugh at his weird nose ever again.

Birds of Paradise

I’m watching Planet Earth on Blu-ray.  The picture is exceptional and the sound superb.  My dog thinks there are actual sharks in the living room – he’s been trying to catch them for the past 10 minutes.

I just saw a segment on birds of paradise.  If you’re not familiar with the animals, I can’t think of a way to describe them.  They’re tropical birds that have upside down umbrellas for wings, and they lift these elaborate hula skirt-type things up to their chins to tap dance for potential mates.  Not only do they sing and dance, they clean!  Upon waking, they immediately tidy their dwellings, going so far as to sand their branchy bachelor pads with bits of bark (I’m not kidding).  When a curious girl comes looking for a possible baby-daddy, they turn their wings into superhero capes and do a jig that would take most people two years to learn.  

These bizarre birds turn into tiny dancing batmans with makeshift fedoras to impress females.  They bob and jiggle and thrust and gyrate and beat-box with their feet.  Their wings somehow develop glowing blue eyes to add a fantastical sci-fi element to the mating ritual.  

It makes me wonder if women were ever meant to chase men.  If male birds do choreographed hip-hop dances to impress females (sometimes to no avail), perhaps human women should request a bombastic song and dance routine on every first date. Something with spunk and colour and style, something that hints at how incredible sex will be.  

I think people would like dating more if they took the lessons of these birds to heart.  Even a failed connection would provide some entertainment, and a spurned man would have at least gotten a vigorous work-out in.  

Everyone would win, I say.  

“His personality wasn’t great, but those magical green eyes that popped up on his chest while he danced the charleston…that was something!”

I Wanna Make it Wit’chu!

This is not a conservative post, though it will seem that way at first. 

A few days ago (or perhaps a few weeks ago, I can’t be sure) my brother, normally a fan of horrendous death metal (horrendous to me, at least), started singing the praises of Lil’ Wayne.  I wasn’t totally surprised, as he’s been partial to hip-hop before.  His description of the music?  

“It’s jokes.”

Being too lazy to download Pop Bottles myself, I listened to it on his computer.  It’s not an exceptional song, but it contains an outstanding line(s).

 “Okay, start with straight shots and then pop bottles,
Pour it on the models,
Shut up bitch, swallow,
If you can’t swallow,
Shut up bitch, gargle.”

The visual of someone gargling anything (and in this case, Mr. Wayne may be referring to semen) is off-putting in and of itself.  Gargling isn’t a particularly sexy act, for it neither looks nor sounds pleasant.  It’s usually done to rid one’s mouth of unwanted bacteria.

However, hearing that line got me thinking about other unpleasant – and by “unpleasant” I mean “decidedly unsexy” – lyrics in hip-hop and pop songs. 

Look, here, at this erotic collection of steamy words penned by Oscar winning musical geniuses 3-6 Mafia:

“Slob on my knob Like corn on the cob,
Check in with me and do your job,

 Lay on the bed and give me head,
Don’t have to ask don’t have to beg

 Juicy is my name, sex is my game
Let’s call the boys, let’s run a train

 Squeeze on my nuts, lick on my
butt.”

I don’t think a eating corn on the cob – an activity done during casual dinners and my family’s annual Father’s Day BBQ – is an adequate comparison to a blowjob.  Mainly because most civilized people don’t “slob” on their corn, but rather bite it with vigor and enthusiasm (something that shouldn’t be done during oral sex). 

The rest of the chorus compliments the crass and laughably bad first line.  Run a train?  Isn’t that illegal in most instances?  Is this a consensual train-running?  Or a Showgirl’s style train-running? Regardless, it’s not “hot.”

Hearing that line reminded me of a popular Lil’ John (the rapper who always screams YEEEEEAHHHH) song that contained the line:

“Til’ the sweat drops down my balls.”

Sweaty balls.  Nice.

It would seem that some sexually suggestive lyrics fail at being both sexy and suggestive.  They instead opt to be crass, overt, and – as my brother said – “jokes.”  Perhaps this is done purposely, but regardless, it seems unnecessary. 

I enjoy a sexually-charged song, and I don’t shy away from explicit content.  In fact, I often embrace it.  Sex can be reduced to something raw and animalistic in a musical context.  It need not be constantly presented as something elegant and softly romantic.  However, it doesn’t have to be made into something inherently dirty, either.  The lyrics don’t have to allude to spit and sweat, nor do they need to include lewd metaphors that only vaguely apply to the acts being discussed.

Artists have the freedom to be explicit, but some can’t – and don’t – pull it off well.  When did subtlety become overrated?  When did creativity fall to the wayside?  When did songs about sex turn into songs about gargling and eating corn? 

A sexy song is, I believe, only sexy if you can imagine yourself having sex to it.  Corn on the cob has never been an aphrodisiac for me, nor has the word “slob.”  “Slob” is something that comes out a dog’s mouth when he’s chewing a dentabone.  Ball sweat has never whipped me into a sensual frenzy.  To be fair, I’m sure the term “pussy sweat” would make most men recoil in disgust.  You don’t need to be flowery in your descriptions of natural bodily functions, but you can try to be tasteful. 

People have lost touch with sexiness.  Justin Timberlake, I fear, has not brought it back (though he’s right in claiming that it left). 

People took the ball of openness and artistic freedom and ran too far out of bounds with it.  They didn’t appreciate the power and privilege, and infused their lyrical creations with juvenile and obscene descriptions of generally desirable erotic activities. 

In layman’s terms:  Some of these contemporary boundary-pushing “poets” have ruined sex for me (and others, I’d imagine).  Nothing quashes desire faster than a overt referral to gurgling or slobbering.

Now, to be fair and gender-inclusive, male rappers aren’t solely responsible for destroying and defacing human sexuality.

Kia asked men to lick:

“My neck,

My back,

My pussy,

and my crack.”

She lost at me at, “crack.”  An unsexy word, to be sure.  It kind of, I don’t know, takes the mystique out of things.

A few short years ago, songs by Genuwine and LL Cool J were considered relatively raunchy.  They were overtly suggestive, yes, but raunchy?  Not really – at least, not by today’s disgraceful standards.

“Pony” and “Doin’ It” are probably still on people’s Sex Songs playlists.  They have a certain thrust-friendly rhythm to them, and the lyrics serve to compliment the beat.  Granted, “Pony” contains some giggle-worthy lyrics.  However, because it makes an effort to be edgy and raw (not repulsive), it can get away with silly lines like:

“You’re hor-nay, lets doooo it.”

And:

“My saddle, is waiting,

Come and, jump on it.”

The difference between hot songs and repugnant ones? 

Intent.

Do you want to arouse, or shock and horrify?  If your goal is to come up with the dirtiest, most pornographic metaphor, your intent is to elicit gasps and raised eyebrows (accompanied by covered mouths).  Writing about sweat and slobber is akin to writing about diarrhea – daring, but not necessarily commendable.  Honesty is not always the best policy.  Being realistic about your exploitative (and perhaps misogynistic) view of sex doesn’t do listeners any favours. 

It signifies the creation of one more song that makes people think – for two to three minutes – that sex just isn’t all that sexy. 

 

Random Thoughts About Nothing

I’m at work, and I should be working.  However, I hate my job. 

I’ve been saying that for awhile now, and I stand strongly behind my convictions.  Still, I haven’t much right to complain, for I’ve done little to improve my situation.  I stay here because it’s comfortable, structured, and financially-appealing.  I have my evenings and weekends to myself – which, I confess, is important to me.  I like to spend my nights socializing, or sitting.  I should be setting aside a few nights a week for some researching/writing.  However, I’m lazy.  Sloth is my Achilles Heel and Kryptonite.  I’d come up with other literary and pop culture references, but I can’t think of any at the moment.

Maybe I should go back to school; perhaps take a college journalism course.  That way I’d be guaranteed a work placement, and I could go from there. 

Then I’d have no money, and would have to put my dream of moving out on hold.  Again.

I don’t understand why some people drink so much water. 

Seriously, some people go through three or four bottles a day.  Does the body need that much?  Perhaps I’m strange, for I rarely get thirsty or feel the need to hydrate. 

I came across an article that said that a sedentary lifestyle (which is what mine is, to be sure) can cause a spontaneous pulmonary embolism (a potentially fatal blood clot in the lung).  I sit far too often, which puts me at risk.  I could have one of those bad boys tomorrow.  Or not, because of my age – I hope. 

Still, that leads to me to my next idea.

A friend has asked me to try out kickboxing with her.  I’m intrigued, and interested.  I could use the exercise, because I don’t get much sitting at a computer all day.  However, I’m afraid of athletic activities, and cheoreography is my mortal enemy.  I’m not a graceful woman.  I’m clumsy and awkward, no to mention stiff and slow.  I’d die if left to my own devices in the wild, and I’d come in last place in a race (that rhymed).  I can’t lift boxes or open jars.  I avoid running - jogging, even – at all costs.  I like to walk – saunter really – from place to place.  I like to gesticulate in a sitting position, perched on a chair or couch.  I exercise my voice (obnoxiously, perhaps).  I neglect my body.

I’d like to change that, but I fear public humiliation and shame.

Still, a little trail kickboxing lesson won’t hurt…

Speaking of exercise, I should walk my dog more – but he hates walking.  He’s a strange and vile beast, albeit an adorable one.  That, my friends, is why we keep him…

Lesbians make excellent writers.  That’s a blanket statement, but it’s flattering.  Are flattering blanket statements acceptable?  All blanket statements should probably be treated with scorn and annoyance, for allowing some would imply a weakness for unsubstantiated flattery.  Such a predilection is undignified, though understandable.

Still, I’ve found myself enthralled by creative projects created by lesbian writers.  They’re engaging, intelligent and in my opinion, fairly well-rounded.

The L Word?

Great show.

Sarah Waters?

Excellent author.

I’m not gay, but I seem to like a good gay story-line (or two or three).  I also like a good gay advice columnist (Dan Savage).

Every time I have nightmares, they always involve me being somehow unable to dial a phone.  I hit the wrong numbers over and over, panicing more and more as I continuosly fail at an astoundingly easy task.

Does anyone else have this problem? Or, at the very least, a passible analysis to offer?

I suppose I should get back to my tracking.

For now, I bid you adieu.  May I return with something of importance to say at a later date. 

Casual Sex Makes People Kill Themselves

Heath Ledger’s possible cause of death.

I like to stop by CWFA every once in awhile.  I like to see what topics have those ladies so concerned.  What, I wonder, is plaguing the steadfast souls of the devout women of America today?

Sometimes their pet issues are valid ones, such as sex trafficking.  Few people actively and consistently work to raise awareness of the plight of foreign (and sometimes local) women forced into prostitution.  That’s a serious issue that I (and hopefully many others) can get behind. 

However, most of the women’s (and one man’s) concerns are frivolous and petty.  The website consistently attempts to wage war on things it cannot (and should not) defeat – birth control, Planned Parenthood, homosexuality, anal sex, etc.  However, social politics are often complex, and vehemently defended by those who devote themselves to them. 

When you have a pet issue, you’ll promote it any cost. 

For CWFA, one of those pet issues is pre-marital sex.  It ruins lives, they argue.  It contributes not only to societal decay, but to disease, depression and, well, failure at life.  It’s something spoken about with sad eyes and pursed lips.  A ”sad shame” - much like poverty. 

Apparently, one writer theorizes, it may have been one of the many straws that broke the camel’s back and led to Heath Ledger’s shocking and sudden death.  Heath was obviously depressed because he was unmarried and sexually active.  His heart, too fragile to withstand the horrid strain of giving his body to women outside of the matrimonial boudoir, withered away to nothing. 

If only – if only! – he’d said “no” to sex and “yes” to traditional, conservative family values.  As if the only time one’s heart can be broken is if he/she engages in pre-marital sex with his/her partner.  As if no one has ever been hurt - deeply and irreversibly – by platonic friends, relatives and non-sexual romantic partners.  As if depression isn’t about a great hopelessness or sadness caused by a vast number of factors. 

Mental illness is not directly related to sexual activity, though irresponsible or unsafe sex can become a symptom. 

Oh, if only every broken man or woman had just kept their pants on.  If only they drank less and went to church more. 

Depression and anxiety can plague even the purest of virgins.  They can manifest themselves in God-fearing, sermon-attending folk with nice spouses and beautiful children.  They affect the wealthy, the successful and the beautiful.  Broken relationships – be they sexual or non-sexual – damage people.  Abandonment hurts, regardless of how much sex was involved. 

Depression is bigger than sex.  It is bigger than personal politics.

Yes, it’s a terrible shame that severe sadness (and perhaps associated excess) caused the death of a young, promising actor with a blooming career and two-year old daughter.  What’s a worse shame is using a tragedy to push a puritanical political agenda.  The death of a troubled man is just that – the death of a troubled man.  It is probably not the result of indiscriminate fornication or a “liberal” lifestyle. 

A lot of people live liberally, and not all of them are found dead in their friend’s apartments before the age of 30.  A lot of people have various sexual partners, and find happiness still.  A lot of people have few to no sexual partners, and experience crippling sadness and depression. 

Hopelessness transcends personal politics. 

No one will ever know exactly what killed Heath Ledger.  Perhaps it was a broken heart.  Perhaps the break-up of his relationship with his fiance left him devastated.  However, that relationship was anything but “casual.”  I’m sure that, upon learning that his girlfriend was leaving him, Heath’s first thought wasn’t, “I feel so cheap and used because we had sex several times before marriage.”

Broken emotional bonds can be devastating.  Broken hearts are hard – impossible, at times – to deal with.  Like any physical injury, they require healing. 

However, there are most likely many contributing factors to Ledger’s reliance on prescription drugs.  It’s simplistic and disrespectful to throw “pre-marital sex” into the mix.  These concerned ladies – like most of us - did not know Ledger.  They cannot know what pain he endured, emotional or otherwise.  It was unwise, callous and irresponsible to atttibute his untimely demise to something as vague and personal as sexual choice.  It was merely a way to say, “see, see – sex kills talented people with great potential!”

I can’t say I’m surprised.  Forcing their politics into stranger’s personal lives is what conservative think-tanks like them do best. 

Naked Pictures? Oh Boy!

I’d like to think that, if I were someone’s prospective employer, I’d accept that he or she has, like everyone else, a life beyond the office.  That life probably includes drinking and sex.  Most lives do – with some exceptions, of course.

 One must conduct him/herself with decorum while at work, but outside of it?  Activity that isn’t dangerous or illegal is none of my concern.  As an employer, you must ensure that your employees are meeting your company’s standards.  That’s the extent of your duties. 

I’m perplexed by the warnings I’ve received pertaining to my relatively quiet and generally obscure online playgrounds – namely this blog and my Facebook account.  I’ve heard tell several rumours that potential future bosses are probably Googling my name, looking for evidence of untoward behaviour that would make me a poor candidate for a job.  I’d understand them wanting to ensure that I’m not affiliated with a White Power or Neo-Nazi organization.  If they want to make sure that I don’t operate a website dedicated to illegal sexual proclivities – child molestation, bestiality, necrophilia – I get that, too. 

However, if someone were to stumble across a picture of me sitting on someone’s lap with a drink in my hand, I’d take issue with him or her deeming me an undesirable employee.  Most people – many of whom are employed – have engaged in informal behaviour, some of it less than austere (to say the least). 

But my opinion aside, the fact remains that employers can seek out background information not present on a job candidate’s resume and make a ”to hire/not to hire” decision based on their research.  While I may think it’s unwise to screen workers using Facebook, it happens.  Since that fact is clear – and out in the open – people must guard their privacy appropriately. 

If someone is passed over for a job due to scandalous Facebook/Myspace/Livejournal, etc photos, that person cannot blame the website on which his or her pictures were discovered.  All of the websites have “Friends Only” options that hide page content from casual surfers.  If you aren’t friends with your boss on Facebook, he or she cannot see your Cancun vacation pictures.  Nor can they see the people you’ve dated or hooked-up with (not that it’s their business or concern to begin with). 

If you want to blog and share pictures with your friends, take care to manage your privacy settings accordingly.  Don’t shriek that “Stalkbook” lost you your job.  Privacy settings – bless ‘em – were invented so you could casually socialize with people you know/trust.  If you choose to make your profiles public, you’ve chosen to subject yourself to unexpected (and perhaps unwanted) scrutiny by anonymous third-parties. 

Let me reiterate – I’d hire you despite your party pictures.  In fact, I might hire you because of them.  However, I’m not hiring anyone, so my principles matter very little in the grand scheme of things. 

Now, what to do when there are nude pictures of you kicking around cyberspace?  That’s a difficult subject to contend with, as there are ethical concerns associated with it.  Is it unfair to punish someone if the pictures were originally entrusted to another person who took advantage of said trust? Is it ethical to dismiss someone’s contributions to a company over photos taken outside (hopefully) of the workplace? 

Can you no longer trust an employee to work diligently and efficiently now that you’ve seen her nipples? Is a member of your team suddenly less helpful and intelligent because you’ve witnessed his (perhaps impressive or not-so-impressive) erection?

Nude photos are (for some people) a source of great shame and embarrassment.  The fact that anyone they pass on the street may have masturbated to (or laughed uproariously at) pictures of them is punishment enough – especially if the photos were distributed without his or her knowledge or consent (which is sometimes the case).

However, there are many instances where people have freely distributed photos or videos of themselves lounging around naked or performing sexual acts. 

What’s unfortunate is that, should these materials be found, people can lose the respect of their employers and co-workers, thus requiring a change of occupation.  If society were more open-minded about sex and nudity (not simultaneously averse to and obsessed with it), perhaps a naughty picture/video could be laughed about and – eventually – forgotten. 

However, in North America, a scandalous image could bury you personally and economically.  Or make you famous.  Or infamous, rather.  Regardless, it wouldn’t be the most desirable kind of fame, for few people would take you seriously (and no one dare argue that the media takes Paris Hilton seriously, she’s one of the biggest – and yes, richest – running jokes in contemporary pop culture).  

So what’s the best way to deal with less-than-appropriate photographs? 

Think about them before you take them – because seriously, someone might find them.  In a perfect world, their discovery wouldn’t be a huge deal.  In an imperfect world, well…you know how it is. 

Me?  If I felt compelled to do something salacious and immortalize it on film, I’d do it right.  No grainy images of me bent over a guard-rail.  No unflattering angles amplifying “problem” – re: fat – areas.  No tangled hair, no smeared make-up, no unsightly expressions.  And most of all – no poor lighting.

I’d go for something deliberately artsy (so I could decry people’s ignorance of fine art and the beauty of the unclothed human body).  The pictures would have to be black and white, or perhaps sepia-toned.  I’d look like I was freeing my mind and spirit, and indulging in the joys of creating subversive material meant not to shock, but rather engage and enlighten. 

People wouldn’t say, “Wow, look at that pale whore with a cock in her mouth.”

They’d say, “Wow, look at that daring couple with great taste in decor and a genuine, tangible passion for one another.”

They’d be titillated, yet enthralled.  Scandalized, yet impressed.  Aroused, but thoughtful. 

Should the masses disapprove of my taste in erotic art, I’d call them out on their closed-mindedness.  I’d discuss the unnecessary and oppressive taboos surrounding sex and nudity – taboos that damage sexual expression rather than refine it.  I’d claim that I was re-conceptualizing pornography, and infusing it with dignity and grace.

I’m 3/4 serious, here. 

If you’re going to do it, do it right.  Do it with class, and sensual ambiance. 

“There’s a feeling I get, when I look to the west…”

That title has no real relevance to this post, I just heard Stairway to Heaven in the car today.  It’s not a song I often hear while driving, mostly because it’s old.  It’s classic, yes, but it doesn’t get a great deal of airplay.

It seems to me that current rock music, though occasionally soulful in its own right, is lacking the abstract passion of the songs of decades past.  It’s not all bad, nor is it all shallow, but it’s not as…prolific, dare I say?  It doesn’t contain as many long guitar solos and abstract allusions to metaphors you’d find in romantic era poetry. 

 I have no idea what Stairway to Heaven is about.  I don’t know what feeling I should get  when I look to the west.  I don’t know why there’s a lady standing on the road that I’m supposed to wind down on.  I don’t need to know to appreciate the song - and it’s a song I appreciate on more than an auditory level.  I’m a fan of most catchy beats, but they don’t hold any long-term fascination for me.   Stairway does, and I wasn’t even alive in the 70s. 

I suppose this entry’s title is relevant  . 

When I started this blog, I promised myself that I’d try to write once a week.  However, I’m not one to talk about my day.  Trust me, you don’t want to hear about it.  Almost every blog turns into an essay, albeit an “I” essay.  One occassionally laced with tasteful profanity – yes, profanity can be tasteful. 

One thing I’ve noticed is that most of this site’s hits come from people sifting through entries with sex tags.  I don’t judge, I do the same thing.  If I see a tag that says “anal sex”, I click – even though I’m not all that interested in rectal intercourse myself. 

So on an inappropriately sexual/mildly political/deeply controversial note, allow me talk about drunk sex - or rather sex had while a woman is drunk.

Some friends bought me The Guide to Getting it On for my birthday.  It’s a book about, yes, getting it on.  It’s long, intelligent, helpful, open-minded and appealing.  It touches on every subject associated with sexuality – kink, fetish, porn, biology, society, psychology and assault and abuse. 

Sexual assault and abuse are serious subjects.  They’ve been very real realities for an astounding number of people, male and female alike.  However, it would be unrealistic to say that adult men are at as great a risk of sexual battery and assault as adult women. 

The Guide is sympathetic towards victims, and rightfully so.  However, it declares women who have had sex under the influence of alcohol – willingly and enthusiastically – as much of victims as survivors of short and long-term sexual abuse.

That’s absurd.

If a woman consumes alcohol willingly, she’s made an adult decision.  If she chooses to leave with a man and proceed to have (or perhaps even initiate) sex with him, she’s made a choice, albeit one spurred on by imbibing potent liquids.  If her drink was drugged, or her protests to “just kiss/cuddle/sleep” etc were ignored, then yes, she was raped. 

However, if she consented to sex, she consented to sex.  Perhaps its sex she’ll regret, but her regret and embarrassment is less serious (and life-altering) than his potential imprisonment and life on a sex offender’s registry. 

Also, the book mentions that it’s a man’s – and only a man’s – responsibility to determine the extent of sexual activity when the woman has had more than one drink.  It is his duty, drunk or not, to err on the side of caution and refuse the woman’s advances.  This is a noble principle in theory.  However, in a situation where sex seems evident, it’s hard for some people (male and female, drunk and sober) to cease activity that is, in fact, consensual. 

And to be fair, some women get drunk in order to feel more comfortable initiating sex.  It’s common to consume at least a few drinks with a date/partner/fuck buddy/whathaveyou on any given evening.  Consuming some alcohol – even a lot of it – does not render most people immobile or unconscious (that said, no one has any right to initiate sex with someone who has blacked out).  It lowers ones inhibitions and leads to hasty decisions, yes, but it’s drank with those effects in mind. 

It is true that sleeping with a person far drunker than yourself could constitute you taking advantage of another’s altered state.  However, there is a difference between taking advantage of someone and brutally, maliciously assaulting them.  It’s not necessarily right and/or ethical to desire a woman simply because she’s drink and therefore more likely to engage in sexual activity.  But as long as that woman participates, willingly, in sexual intercourse, no legal recourse should follow the events of the evening. 

Yes, being used can leave one feeling vulnerable and upset, but these are feelings from which can gain some degree of wisdom.  But it’s not fair to have a man arrested for having sex with a conscious woman who said, “yes”, just as it would be unfair to prosecute a woman for having sex with an intoxicated but conscious man who said, “yes.” 

Just as you can’t blame a beer company for making you run naked through a suburban park at 2 am, you can’t blame a horny partner for your feelings of regret following a night of voluntary drinking and fucking. 

I’ve had sex while drunk.  I’ve had sex while very, very drunk.  I’ve felt compelled to do and say things during drunk sex that I might not do or say during sober sex.  However, I’d never dare accuse any of my partners of anything close to rape or sexual assault.  I’d expect actual rape/sexual assault victims to loathe me if I did.

Anyone can put down a bottle and go home at any time.  You know before you buy that drink exactly how you’re going to feel at the end of the night. 

Better to be the one experiencing a little morning-after embarrassment than two to 10 years in prison. 

“Kinky” Stats.

I don’t read magazines.  I used to, back when I craved light and superficial reading material and lacked Internet access.  Now, magazines are for dentists appointments and, I’ll admit it, bathroom breaks.

This past Saturday, however, I needed something mindless and glossy to entertain myself with during an extended hair appointment (I’ve never had one conclude at anything under the two hour mark).  Feeling indulgent, I picked up a Cosmo. 

I dislike Cosmopolitan magazine, I really do.  It’s a frivolous rag that replicates the same material every month under varying headlines.  It offers advice that is, at best, worthless.  At worst, dangerous.  Each and every article dedicated to helping readers enhance their sex life (Cosmo is a profoundly depressing read for the young, single, and involuntarily celibate crowd) simply advises women to grip a man’s testicles and pull them – hard –  away from his body right before he comes. 

I don’t know if that always goes over as well as Cosmo thinks it does.  Personally, unless asked, I’d never yank the boys in an unnatural direction to “enhance ‘our’ sexual experience.” 

You can’t provide “one size fits all” sex advice.  That’s why I loathe the “this position – and this position only – will get you off in 30 seconds” stories.  If there was a magical position that worked orgasmic wonders for every woman, no woman would ever have any need for a boring rag like Cosmo.  Yet it still flies off the shelves each and every month – and not for its insights on fashion and celebrities.

However, Cosmo headlines are cleverly salacious, and therefore intriguing.  I was intrigued by “The Shocking Thing 48% of Women do in Bed” headline. 

What was it? I wondered.

The article in question was a collection of “kinky” statistics that showcased the erotic proclivities of Cosmo readers.

Cosmois all about encouraging readers to be daring and sex-positive, so I expected to find a decent listing of illicit activities – all paired with percentages suggesting high participation rates, of course.  Imagine my surprise when the daring modern woman’s magazine showed that a mere 20-40% of readers engaged in mutual masturbation, bondage-play and anal sex. 

Ever since anal began sweeping the porn world several years ago, it’s become the new oral.  What once elicited gasps and shrieks and dropped-jaws is pretty low on the list of shocking sexual taboos.  Really, you need to reach pretty far to genuinely shock people these days. 

A penis in an asshole? Not that shocking.  It’s not even considered an exclusively ”gay” practice anymore.  It’s simply a new hole to play with.  Some like it, some don’t – much like any erotic activity.  Even if a sizable number of people haven’t made it a regular part of their coital repertoire, surely most have toyed with the possibility of incorporating that orifice into, at the very least, foreplay.

Cosmo, the magazine that encourages women to expand their sexual horizons, boasts of a very average, non-experimental reader demographic.  It looks like it’s mostly plain old missionary/cowgirl/doggy-style for fun, fearless Cosmo girls.

Other genuinely “alternative” publications actually ask their readers questions about traditionally “abnormal” sexual practises.  When I fill out surveys for The Stranger or Now, I’m asked if I’ve participated in activities that I probably wouldn’t even consider (or have never heard of). 

Not only does Cosmo fail at being a worthwhile read, it fails at being provocative and – by anyones standards – daring.  Call the world a sad and sordid place if you must (I’ll respectfully disagree with you), but assplay and handcuffs just aren’t shocking anymore.  That’s not to say people shouldn’t allot themselves time to consider whether or not anal sex or bondage are right for them, but the concepts themselves aren’t scandalous.

Cosmo certainly doesn’t represent a massive portion of women, but it does reach a hefty chunk of them.  Despite the fears of some conservative writers who work for sites like www.cwfa.org, it seems like today’s common grocery store “smut” magazine isn’t encouraging women to be all that deviant.

Lay your fears to rest concerned ladies, not every 20-something female is a serial-fellating, self-loathing trainwreck.  Some still like it on the bottom with the lights off, just the way God intended…or something.

Dickipedia, and Other Assorted Discourse

First off, here’s a website you all must see:

 http://dickipedia.org/index.php?title=Main_Page

It’s a small but poingnant listing of dicks, or rather men (and only men at this point, but that could change) who embody dickish qualities.  My favourite entry is probably Bill O’Reilly’s, mostly for its mention of his sexual fixation on loofahs (or “felafel’s”). 

Actually, if you’re not made too uncomfortable by transcripts of unwanted sexual advances made over the phone, search for Papa Bear on The Smoking Gun.  

The man who believes sexual immorality to be a scourge on America harasses female employees with awkward references to vibrators, “spectacular boobs”, and food inserted into incorrect orifices.

Actually, with the various outings of various “moral” persons, one is led to question whether a declaration of purity is an ironic way of saying, “I’m into shit you haven’t even heard of.”

On a less sexual/judgmental note, I have a confession to make.

I saw No Country for Old Men and did not enjoy it. 

Every once in awhile, a movie comes along that drives people wild – in a good way.  They declare it a masterpiece, a beautiful example of fine and intelligent cinema.  A profound display of artistry and brilliance.  No Country for Old Men is one of these films – and I did not like it.

Honestly, I thought it was boring.  I realize that the Coen brothers were going for understated and intense, and they succeeded.  The film is both of those things.  It’s also unbearably slow.  The more it meandered, the less I cared about the sluggish characters it trailed for two agonizing hours.  Watching the film was akin to be pulled, slowly, in a very old wagon attached to a very old horse clomping down a very long and narrow dirt road. 

The film contains clever (and in some cases, memorable) dialogue.  It feels natural, despite the fact that it was likely constructed carefully and diligently.  It’s the kind of dialogue that most (or perhaps all) screenwriters want to master.  It’s terse, laconic, and meaningful in a subtle kind of way.  It conveys, successfully, the fictitious thoughts of fictitious men who are vastly different from most fictitious action/western heroes and villains.  They’re hardened and eccentric people, but not pseudo-masculine like the Dirty Harry’s of old.

The preview had me at, “what’s the most you ever lost in a coin toss.”  Unfortunately, the movie itself lost me early on.

I will say this much, Javier Bardem’s performance is as good as his dancing is poor:

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qn4155/is_20050202/ai_n9504897

As far as entertainment goes, I highly recommend the unique rock/electronica music of Holy Fuck.  It’s all instrumental, and it’s all fabulous.  It’s sexy, in a soul-freeing kind of way.  It’s the kind of music that makes you want to embrace public nudity and celebrate the art of unpolished, spiritually-soothing-yet-wildly-awkward dancing.  It’s arousing in the same way a smart-but-kinda-ugly person is arousing.  I deeply love its soul.