The Filth

So, I told my friend I was reading the Filth, and he said, "Oh, I was working on that book! I'm convinced that Grant Morrison was tripping the entire time he was writing it, and even the artist couldn't figure out what it was about!"

Me, with my wacky history of dream interpretation and oh, yeah, acid tripping, decided to take that as a challenge.

On the surface of this comic, if you can find one, is a plot line about Ned Slade, a retired member of "The Hand" --a supersecret paramilitary group that wanks the world off when it needs it, and wipes the world's ass when it needs that too--who must come back to work to deal with supreme "anti-persons" who call themselves Tex Porneau and Spartacus Hughes. But Ned seems confused about who he is--one subplot is that there is a second Ned--and almost completely ineffectual. His ass is constantly saved by a hot chic with a green afro, and an angry Soviet chimpanzee.

A lot of characters and details come and go, and do not seem important to the story as a whole, but the important fragments of this dream are:

The Ultra-Humanitarian sequence: one of the superhero characters flies off the 2 dimensional page, and finds his sexuality
The Dimension of Vile Shit and Porn that ages you to the point of death sequence.
LaPen that rules all
Slade's love of the cat
Slade's job to wipe the world's ass, and simply maintain a very low "Status Q" status quo for the world, and not make it a better place.

Okay, from this evidence--and my own experience in comics-- I maintain that "The Filth" is about the comic book business, and Morrison's urge to grow artistically out of it. The reason I believe this is that the comics biz has an enforced low status quo, writers are frequently forced to clean up story lines generated by editorial staff meetings, and that shooting this low and becoming a hack (at one point plots come automatically from both LaPen and a character that channels plots) puts our main character at risk of growing old before his time (in the vile shit dimension). The only things that make him feel human and above this shit are in the framework outside the Ned Slade/Hand reality: the love of the cat, and the capability to create something to improve mankind (which Slade never actually does).

I felt Filthy after reading it. And during reading it. Did its job. I need a shower.

Harmless

When I was about 12 years old, after I had gotten over my crush on obviously gay, muscular calendar boys, and my painful puppy love of Alan Alda (I had written a heartfelt fan letter, and had gotten only his autograph STAMPED on postcard bearing his face in return), I had my first crush on a slim, fortyish man with small, gold-rimmed glasses, and a receding hair line. He was the financial analyst that the local news interviewed at about 6:40 am. My heart was throbbing.

My mom, seeing me trying to climb into the to the kitchen table’s tv screen says, “Him? He looks harmless.”

Not even knowing what a hard-on was at the time, I did not know what she was talking about.

Now, as experienced as I am, I still do not know what she was talking about. I mean, if harmless means that these people are not going to try to date rape you, you’d think they’d be snapped up in seconds, and never single. Ever. But we all know the truth.

There is a horrifying myth that nice guys whose foreheads are large, and not sloping, who did not have to go to college to evolve opposable thumbs, are “good” and don’t like sex. And if they do, they’re somehow pervier than the primitive screwheads who are out and about playing grab-ass. (Compare in your mind Paul Rubens aka Pee Wee Herman at a porn movie theater vs. that asshole who just spent 241G’s at Scores.)

I want to fill all the chics in the world out there on something: AAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL guys like sex. Every single one. Wants. To. Stick. His. Cock. Into. Something. Hot. And. Wet. I am serious. Young, old, fat, skinny, toned, geeky, narcissistic, rich, poor. The president? Yes. The homeless guy? Yes.

The really smart financial analyst in the suit and glasses? Yes. And I really have to take a moment to sing the praises of being in bed with a smart and nice guy. First of all, all guys think about sex much of the time. Smart guys have much more going on up there than dumb ones, and so I actually think that they are able to think about sex, and manage everything else they have to get by during the day at the same time, where as dumber ones can only think about one thing at a time. Got that? Okay. So smart guys think about sex more, really, can come up with more creative ideas of how they want to fuck, more fantasies, etc., etc. Which doesn’t have to be sick and fetishy. Just interesting.

The other thing about these guys being nice is that they think about pleasing you in bed. Fan…tas…tic… Smart guys can really eat pussy. And finger fuck you to high heaven. And pretty much do whatever you want in bed. They have, as I like to think, the engineering.

The only thing these guys slip-up on is a tendency to over-think the situation—that situation of actually getting a girl into bed for all the fun stuff. I think this is where the “harmless” myth comes from. They can feel the urge to drag a girl home by the hair as well as any man, but they worry about saying something that sounds sleazy or stupid or boorish. I say, just say it. Go for it. I mean, the poor girl is probably waiting for you. Or just start touching her and see what she does. Really. Just blow the harmless myth to smithereens.

The Politics of Jerking Off

I am going to say right here and now that I have too much respect for my dates, and too much self-respect to make this journal a chronicle of my romantic adventures. But, when I learn something new about the human condition, I will share it in a general way, like I always do.
One thing I learned about, recently, is about men who bring up “jerking off” in polite conversation, i.e., “Today I was horny, so I jerked off; then I did the dishes and watched the World Series. What did you do today?”
It’s my opinion that I really didn’t need to hear about the first part. I really did not need to picture this guy masturbating. Not that he was a bad looking guy, but…I think that masturbation means different things to men and women. A guy likes to hear that women are touching themselves. It says to them, “these chics need me! They need my cock! I’ll be right there!”
But when a woman pictures a man masturbating, alone in his room, it’s a different story altogether. Even if she accepts that everyone masturbates, it still has some negative connotations:
First of all, she’s probably sure he was thinking of some model, bimbo, movie star, or high school sweetheart, so she may feel a little rejected. Even if she barely knows the guy, and that’s not the case, a veneer of dignity is removed: nothing spells unwanted like a guy jerking off in his room, surrounded by half-empty beer cans and cigarette ash. Remember, chics want guys that other chics want. That’s why there is such a thing as a wing-girl at a party.
There are good times to talk about masturbation, like while you are having mutual-masturbation fun with your gal; or she’s touching you, and you want to show her something different; you had a special fantasy about your girl you just had to; or an intense story from your youth. Otherwise, your fat wiener had better have something to do with your story, and it should be exciting, like, “So I was masturbating in the bedroom, and someone let the German Shepherd in, and he pushed the door open—I think it thought my dick was a hotdog…”

But what?

So, I broke up with the man a week ago, and I'm already starting to go out.

You might say, "If she loved that guy so much, how can she already be going out? Shouldn't there be a grieving period, or something? Shouldn't she be trying to heal, or learn who she is again, or whatever? Isn't this a little cold-blooded?"

I have been through this before. This breaking-up-with-the-one-I-love-because-we-are-on-different-paths thing, and I am going to tell you something: I don't believe in healing or closure, or any of that Oprah-esque bullshit. It took me ten years to "get over" M__, and really I'll never be over it. Nobody "gets over" anything or anyone. We just ingest it, and let the pain become part of us, we find ways not to feel it anymore.

I will never stop loving Drongo. The wound from this will never "go away." But I am not going to sit here and cry for the rest of my life. Just feel the pain, and keep going.Every damn day. One day, I'll be so used to it, I won't even notice...

Personals Adventure Pt. 1

God, are you a disgusting slut. No wonder you're a single mom!
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The only "path" you follow is being a slut flaunting her big tits!
You got your choice of guys every fucking day, you walking blowjob.

How about a blog about you SHUTTING THE FUCK UP!

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You deserve it, you little slut!
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These comments are from a nasty respondent to my “36DD seeks media-savvy, smart-alecky squeeze” ad. I tried to explain to him that in real life, this is what men would notice about me, that actually they are larger, but I didn’t want to freak anyone out, and I’m actually a normal girl, just endowed. I sent him a link to my blog, and went home.

I don’t use my computer at home on the weekdays, because I have a kid who likes to play with—aka break—it. So I came back to work the next day, and found his pic, and these “anonymous” comments on my blog. I guess he thought I had rejected his photo/info or whatever, and wanted revenge.

Of course his fear of rejection brought on his rejection. I only go out with nice guys. That's one reason I like personals: you can learn a lot about the interior of the person first...

I feel very bad for this person. He’s painfully alone. He thinks he’s not good enough—and the reason I say this is his “choice of guys” comment. I hope that he learns to feel better about himself, and finds the right person. He is good for someone out there…

Back on the Market

Split up with my guy on Saturday.

Basically, we were on the same or similar path for a while, and then we grew apart.

Ah, well. That is the way it goes.

On to the next adventure!

Office Love Pt. 3

M_ was about 6' tall, but his curly, bleached corporate mohawk/mullet put him about 6'3. I recognized him from around the office. I said I had tried to say hi when I saw him pass, but he said he probably hadn't noticed because he was running to the library to do cocaine.
The big "test" the first day was a "Bates Motel" towel in the bathroom. Having dried my hands on it, I came out of the bathroom to say that I had just made a Bates Motel shower curtain for my mom over the summer. At that moment I was designated a "keeper." And I was at their place every weekend.

We watched video from their huge collection. They tried to convince me to love Star Trek. It was basically a tv party all weekend long, peppered with sex games between me and my boyfriend. But M__ and I started talking and laughing. Our eyes locked more and more often. And while we both liked his roomie, we both quietly agreed he was a bit of a fool. Then he got tickets to see Dennis Leary on the same night as Star Trek 6 would open. He asked me to go, he said, so that there was no way anyone could convince to go see that dumb movie on opening night. I said I'd go with him, as friends.

But the magnetic pull was too strong. One night, our eyes locked once again. M__ sent his roomie out for cat food. Once his roomie was out the door, I stood next to his chair, and put my hands on his shoulders. He reached up, and touched my face. I leaned down and we kissed.

Two minutes later we were making decisions. I would have to tell his roomie it was over. He would have to get his roomie drunk. I would have to end it with my other boyfriends at work too. (I didn't mention them? They were nice guys, but not important to this story).

When the roomie came back, I took him to his room, and we sat cross-legged on his bed, facing each other. I said something like, "It's hard for me to tell you this, but me and M_ decided we want to be together."

And he said, "Oh, that's okay. We can share you. I'm open to that."

I was so shocked, I think my mind shut down for a second. I said, "No, I mean, we really like each other, and we really want to be together--just us."

M_ walked me to the train. I called my friend, Charles, and told him I was upset. Charles came over, and I cried on his shoulder, and asked himif I did the right thing. Charles took me by the shoulders, and said, "I am Spock of this situation, and you did the right thing."

M_ turned out to be the love of my life, and we were together for 2.5 years. It took me ten years and two ex-husbands to get over the guy. How did I know I was over him? Just a gut feeling that my travels were over, and like Odysseus I had made it home.