Worship occurs in such small, convenient moments. Making life small is power. It becomes something we conquer, but it has conquered us because we are now the servent to the object it. Owning things weighs one down. Clutter is the sign of carelessness. But treasures require a butler, a maid, an entire staff of servent a to attend.

This is also an indicator of the normal. What we make small are things in our daily lives. We do so in order to create panoramas of our experiences. Which is a ritual designed to help us make sense of our experiences.

No matter how titillating these dollhouse pieces seem to those who consider themselves vanilla and normal and inexperienced, these things are extremely normal.

Now we can afford time to ruminate. Time to play with our bondage dolls and reenact or enact our experiences and fantasies.

And who is the ultimate miniature: the miniature that becomes every fantasy to everyone? The most pliable, changeable, most charged miniature which rules out totem world: Barbie.

Everyone enjoys seeing Barbie tied up and spanked, or doing the spanking. All she has needed is her own dollhouse.

I have a tender history with Planned Parenthood.  I wrote a show for a Planned Parenthood fundraiser in Texas and the president of the PP chapter pulled it at the last minute because of the content.  It mentioned abortion and BDSM.  I took all of my subject matter from their website, which is wonderfully thorough and informative.  

To say the least, I was pissed.  But in time I have calmed down.  I support PP.  I have let my anger go, though  I know I won't forget.  I suppose that's not fair, but oh well.

In celebration of National Kink Month, they have published the above video to explain to teens how to explore BDSM safely.  Bravo.

Using the same philosophy which prompts them to provide condoms and abortions, PP approaches this believing that people are going to make their own choices about how to live their lives, which is their right.  PP simply wants to help them make these choices in an informed, healthy way.  Teens, especially, will make bold choices in their lives regardless of (and in spite of) what authority figures tell them.  We were all like that.  It's what being a teenager is all about.

Lord Ristretto and I have been watching dinosaur documentaries lately.  He, like most children of the Jurassic Park generation, fell in love with dinosaurs and became a passionate dinosaur enthusiast.  

The documentary has wonderful scenes of dinosaurs eating ferns and drinking water and roaring at one another.  And, surprisingly, they show some scenes of dinosaurs having sex.

No, they aren't having sex.  Humans have sex.  Nor are they fucking.  Humans fuck.  The dinosaurs are copulating.  They are engaging in a basic instinctive activity that is no different than their eating and shitting (which they showed as well).  It is all very clinical, unemotional and unerotic.  I was shocked.

Which is a long time coming.  After all, I've seen other animals mate, and I've known animals do it without the connection that humans have.  But for some reason, the lack of lust suddenly astounded me.  I spun in an existential hurricane, questioning whether lust exists at all.  Are we just fooling ourselves?  Are we fools to make sex mean something?  Or are we broken, placing so much meaning and art and time and energy into sex and denying the easier, more comfortable emptiness of "mating"?  Why do we fuck and have sex and bang and bump uglies and all the other euphemisms we have?  Why do we have so many and what do each mean?  How does the act change between them?  

The dinosaurs were around for MILLIONS of years before us.  MILLIONS and MILLIONS of years of nothing but EMPTY MATING RITUALS.  The dinosaurs weren't wearing mini skirts, cheating on their wives, sniffing their girlfriend's panties, sending dick pics to their classmates.  They were inserting penises into vaginas and laying eggs or wiggling their young into the sea.  (And if the young became a liability, abandon them or eat them.)

This lasted a short time.  I mused through the credits and then turned to Lord Ristretto and said it was time for him to take his pants off.

In the end, I'm in the same position as the dinosaurs.  They had their mating rituals and I have mine.  I can't change my ways no more than they could theirs.  And it's pointless to waste my time spiraling into a philosophical maelstrom when I could be sucking dick instead.

The entire story is above.  Click on the image to get to subreddit and read the very latest comments.  

I don't have the video, but the evil people who do, Gawker, have it available HERE.  I haven't seen it.  It's apparently over thirty minutes long.  But I included the above link so that everyone may read the description of the tape.  The description is probably better than viewing the tape itself.  The author appreciates the absurdity and stark humanity of the act.  That Hulk Hogan having sex isn't simply a man having sex: he can't be divorced from his wrestling character and be simply a man getting his dick wet.  

When I heard about the tape, I went searching gleefully through Ecosia (browse with them and plant a tree!) to find it.  Lord Ristretto and myself are wrestling fans, he much more than me.  When I asked if he wanted to see it, his response was something like, "Fuck no."  I laughed and said I wanted to see it because "I like watching car wrecks."  

I can't help but feel guilty.  It is spying, an invasion of privacy, and, apparently in this case, filmed without Hogan's consent.  He isn't a sexy young superstar who had taken naked pics on her phone and then had them splashed over the internet by hackers.  Both are violations, yes, but he wasn't at all complicit in the film's creation.  This doesn't make him more of a victim than, say, Jennifer Lawrence or Kate Upton.  It makes it that much sadder.  

This is truly a car wreck, just as with Lawrence and Upton.  And we truly enjoy it.  It's not out of malice, I believe (and I want to believe).  It's because we love them.  I have no opinion about Pamela Anderson and have never had an interest in watching her leaked sex tape.  When I learned that Jennifer Lawrence's photos were leaked, I immediately searched for them while I was standing in the middle of Best Buy.  And we love Hogan.  Because he's the Hulkster, the inventor of Hulkamania, a wrestler who reveled in his absurdity and whose absurdity made him brilliant.  We can refuse to watch the video out of respect for his privacy, but we shouldn't be entirely condemned for watching it.  After all, we will always want the things we love, and as naked and raw and completely as possible.

What the fuck.  
What the fuck.
Again, what the fuck.
This was sent to me by a good friend of mine, with his own expressions of disbelief and confusion.  I don't have the context for this work, and I hesitate to find one.  It might be more interesting to approach this from a raw, ignorant point of view.

To begin with, this is extreme vagina dentata.  This doll forms the epitome of the threatening metaphor of a vagina: it becomes a monstrous beast that will consume not only a man's penis, but his entire body.  Why would a man submit to such a creature?  The simple (and silly sounding) answer is that she's cute.  Her face and smile are innocent, and she has the hint of a school girl about her.  She invokes other mythological creatures such as a gorgon, siren, or Scylla and Charybdis: monstrous female creatures who are extreme dangers to men.  

Why would men want to see such a creature manifested thus?  Is it the allure of danger coupled with desire?  Is it a statement that no matter what the logical, practical danger is, men will always be dominated by their penis? 

Perhaps there's another statement about women: not that women are monsters or are to blame for causing harm to men.  This is, after all, only a metaphor, not a medical diagram.  Perhaps this is an expression of the power of women.  That women have most of the power in a sexual exchange.  That this is more about control: that women are to be feared, not because of what they can withhold, but by what they can express: hunger, anger, and desire in terrible degrees.  

Most frighteningly, perhaps women don't need men at all.  

Lord Ristretto and I are in Las Vegas for a couple months, so he may participate/witness/attend the World Series of Poker, as well as play some games on the side.  I'm here because I practically grew up here, and Las Vegas is a second home.  "Sin" and all, garish neon and dirty streets, loud drunk people and slutty dressed women, I love it all.  I accept it all, and Las Vegas is a magical, brilliant, and the most theatrical place on earth.  

Last night we went to the fabulously colored Rio to check out the beginnings of the WSOP.  Entering from the parking garage, we were greeted with extremely sexy signs of the Rio's lush buffet and I oooed it, despite that we had just eaten.  Lord Ristretto laughed and pointed at the Chippendales' sign right next to it and made a comment that I was, of course, oooing that.

I glanced it at and then brushed it off with my hand and said, "Whatever."

I can accept that I'm a little bit of a lesbian; having dated women and having had girlfriends, I think, definitely qualify me for this label.

But do I have a thing for sexy food?  Maybe.  But back to Chippendales.

I looked up the show on the Rio website and found an fascinating list of "EXPERT TIPS":

I wonder how this would sound if the sex was different:  want to get on stage?  Make sure the girls know it!  Sounds a little rapey.

Get up close and personal with the girls in the Flirt Lounge after the show:  that sounds like prostitution, orgy, possibly drug use and, again, sounds a little rapey.  And the "Flirt Lounge" sounds like a condescending euphemism for bordello.

What makes this so different?  The sexist idea that men can handle themselves with women?  That men can't be raped?  That women can't possibly be out of control, that they can't overstep personal boundaries and degrade men if given the opportunity?

That essentially, women are harmless to men, that if a man gets raped it's because he allows it to happen.

Fuck that shit.  Take me to the buffet.

As I write this, I'm watching Planet of the Apes.  I adore these movies.  Watching them, I find myself convinced that this would happen, and, of course, I'm always on the side of the apes.  

I must admit: I have a crush on Caesar.  It was during this scene that I realized why:

When Caesar screams "No!" in the ape holding facility, and everything goes immediately silent, it's as if the silence sucks sound out of the air.  It's the first word he has spoken, and though he has known sign language throughout most of the movie, being able to speak draws Caesar into a different arena.  But I will not say he becomes human.  He is always an ape and that isn't something that should be apologized for, or excused as if its a handicap.  

I melted.

In the movie, Caesar's intelligence has changed him profoundly, not only giving him the ability to communicate and socialize with humans, but develop the abilities to use tools, plan out solutions to problems, and, ultimately, express compassion, morality, and made decisions which would be beneficial to his emotional and psychological well-being.  As a leader he is a smart tactician with incredible just judgement.

This is why I have a crush on Caesar: because he's an incredible creature with an incredible mind.  He is more interesting and compelling that most human male action heros in movies and on TV.  In fact, most male action characters are so uninteresting, so unemotional and so unintelligent, it's a wonder that they could be considered human at all.

The fact that he's an ape isn't something to forget, but embrace, because his ape-ness adds to his sexiness.  His ape-ness doesn't make him partly primitive: it categorizes him outside the realm of humanity.  And that is sexy.  Sexiness doesn't require humanity.


This blog is dedicated to Andy Serkis, who I feel never, ever, EVER gets appropriate credit and praise for his performances.