According to this handy test, I officially became old in August of 1997, at the age of 29. Right when music started to suck.

This song is so awesome it almost makes me forgive the 80's for happening. Almost.

Oh, what a night
You know, I didn't even know her name
But I was never gonna be the same
What a lady, what a night*

I've been reading a lot of debate lately on whether or not no-strings-attached sex is even possible, at least as far as women are concerned. These arguments annoy me, because they seem to assume that "strings" always mean the same thing to everyone.

For women, there is the assumption that "strings" always mean a relationship of some kind, while for men, "no strings" means absolutley no emotional connection at all. Both assumptions are false. You simply cannot have sex with someone without forming an emotional bond on some level, unless you're a sociopath. But making a connection doesn't mean a lifetime commitment; it just means acknowledging to yourself that you shared something valuable with another person. And sometimes, that acknowledgment is all that is needed.

For she was there and gone
Without one regret
But she continues on
Like the words of a song
I could not forget
I could not forget**

For me, "strings" does not mean an engagement ring. It doesn't mean a long term commitment. It doesn't even mean having to call me the next day.

I'll tell you what my strings are: That you remember me fondly, even if you can't remember my name. That you do not speak disrespectfully of me to others. That you know I shared a gift with you, for even though I may have initally selected you for my pleasure, once the dance begins your pleasure becomes an equally important part of the equation, for one is not possible without the other.

Ten years have gone by,
Since I looked in her eye,
But the memory lingers,
I got back in my mind,
To the very first time,
And feel the touch of her fingers***

And maybe, just maybe, years from now when you're sitting at an all-night diner at three in the morning and wondering where inspiration had flown to, I will be the one you think of when you suddenly grab a pencil and start scribbling out a song.

*Frankie Valli, "December 1963"
**Neil Diamon, "Desiree"
***Bobby Goldsboro, "Summer (The First Time)"

Wall Street bankers not as scary as 12-year-old girls. Well, duh.

69% of poll responders would live in a haunted house for less rent. Hell, I'd pay more to live in a real haunted house.

I want to preface this review by saying that I don't like Anne Rice. Something about the way she writes just makes me want to throw the book accross the room. I was not familiar with Mary Sue when I first tried to read the Vampire Chronicles, but as soon as I learned of her, my aversion to Anne Rice made perfect sense: every freaking character is a Mary Sue.

But I liked Exit to Eden, and I'm very glad I was able to control my book-throwing impulses while reading the first chapter, the part where Mary Sue Lisa says that she doesn't consider herself beautiful, then proceeds to describe in great detail how beautiful she is. Once you get past that part, the book is a blast.

I won't presume to say that I know what Ms. Rice was thinking when she wrote it, but my guess is it was something like: "You know, just once I'd like to read a book about S&M where nothing terrible happens and everybody goes home happy. That's it, I'm writing one!" And she did.

I have to hand it to her, this wonderful piece of trash truly broke the mold. S&M books can be so damn depressing. The authors of such classics as Venus in Furs and The Story of O always gave themselves away in the end, with the protagonist being punished for their deviant sexuality. Those oh-so-daring authors never could esacpe the overbearing moral code of their times.

Not so Ms. Rice. I can just imagine Anne gleefully saying "Fuck it!" while hammering out Exit to Eden on her 80's vintage typewriter. And we do have fun. Boy meets Girl, Girl whips Boy, they live happily ever after, the end. (I admit, I don't know how Anne Rice's Sleeping Beauty series ended, I only got a third of the way through the first story before throwing the book accross the room.)

Exit to Eden is Anne Rice's attempt at creating a story set in the real world, with no vampires and whatnot, but it still requires pretty strenuous suspension of disbelief. Try not to think about the impossibilities of the plot, and just focus on the good healthy smut, with some unexpected psychological romance thrown in.

And then there was that awful, awful movie.

WHAT WERE THEY THINKING? Is it romance? Is it soft porn? Is it comedy? WHAT? I don't know! What I do know is:

1. Rosie O'Donnell in a leather corset is something I never want to see, hear about, or think about ever again.

2. Dan Aykroyd really should have known better.

3. Paul Mercurio has the most awesome ass in the universe.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

x-posted to 80s_snark

I've always been a little envious of people with a strong sense of cultural heritage, because I don't exactly have one. This is for two reasons: one is that I'm mixed-race and refuse to believe that one half of my makeup is more important than the other. And since my mother's people and my father's people have historically had nothing to do with each other, I can't exactly say they're close enough to be the same thing.

The other reason is, I come from two of the most boring groups of people on the planet. I don't mean boring in the everybody-already-knows-about-them sense; this is a complaint I often hear from people of English descent. No, my people are boring because nobody's heard of them, and the reason nobody's heard of them is because they haven't done a damn thing to make any kind of mark on history.

My father's people were peaceful and sedate, so peaceful and sedate, in fact, that very little is known about them. It is theorized that they were seafarers, but they also did some farming. They were frequently overrun by invading armies, and fought back with varying degrees of success. They bred some very nice horses and cattle, but other than that, had no impact on the world whatsoever.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, my mother's people were living similarly unremarkable lives, which consisted of fishing and farming. Like my father's people, they were often invaded by their neighbors. Unlike my father's people, they did not fight back, they just said "yeah, whatever" and went back to what they were doing. Ironically, the only significant cultural contribution my mother's people made to the world was a popular martial art.

Eventually, of course, fate and twentieth-century travel conspired to allow these two different-yet-strangely-similar bloodlines to meet and create... me.

Me, a person of no amibtion and very little desire to make any kind of difference in the world. An apathetic, lazy person who follows a foolproof way of dealing with authority figures: Just do whatever they say, it makes no difference in the end. A person too easily influenced by stronger wills than her own; whose reaction to injustice is "yeah, whatever."

For years I thought I was just a typical Pisces. But as I learned about my parents' people, I realized that the situation is more serious than I imagined. If there is such a thing as racial memory, I am screwed.

So I've decided to take a bold step. Years ago, I divorced my family. Now, I'm divorcing my ancestors. I'm forging a completely new heritage for myself, one that begins today. I'm claiming a new ancestry, not a physical one, but a metaphysical one.

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by swords, spicy foods, cowboy boots, black cats, bellydancing, Ancient Greece, tapestries,pine trees, bright colors, horses, bonfires, Ancient Egypt, feathers, leather, witches, caftans, long hair, eagles, English ballads, incense, candles, Native Americans, and pretty much anything to do with Medieval Europe. These things all must have meant a great deal to me at one time, because I still
love them today.

I'm not talking about reincarnation here, what I'm talking about is something more like the Trill Symbiants from Star Trek. Only instead of a small wormlike creature, I think these symbiants are spectral. They float around, looking for infants destined to have unhappy childhoods, and plant themselves in the child's consciousness, bringing with them the comfort and wisdom of generations. They start out as Invisible Friends, then eventually become Spirit Guides.

My first Invisible Friend was an eagle. He used to be a king, but somehow ended up with an eagle's body. I think he stayed with me from the time I was five, until I was about eight.

I have a lot of admiration for people who create their own realities, provided, of course, that they do not attempt to impose their version of reality on others. I would never force mine on anyone, but anyone who wishes to voluntarily adopt it is welcome to. Cultural Appropriation is not a crime in my universe, in fact is is encouraged.

For My People (and I know there are more of me out there somewhere) are the psychic scavengers, the spiritual dumpster divers, the culturally homeless, gypsies, tramps and theives. We sneak through time and space, always under the radar, stealing everything that isn't nailed down, then proudly displaying our trophies in the Cosmic Court of Miracles.

But I have to be careful. The last time I attempted to create my own reality, the results were disastrous.

1999

"Look at that couple," says M. "Over by the door." We are having dinner at our favorite French restaurant.

Since M and I are both avid people-watchers, I know the drill. I count to seven slowly, then casually glance in the direction that he has indicated.

The woman is in her forties, the man is in his twenties. It is unlikely that they are related; the woman has dark, Gaellic features and is dressed in a distinctly French style. The man is fair, and dressed like an American college student. They are deep in conversation.

I look back at M. "What about them?" I ask.

"They're lovers," he explains. "The boy gets taken out to expensive restaurants like this one, the lady gets sex. He benefits from her experience and learns about life. She gets to feel young again."

"Oh," I say, trying not to sound judgemental.

"There's nothing wrong with it," M assures me. "It's a fair arrangement."

I say nothing more, but after we pay the bill, I take another look at the May/December couple, then take M's hand.

"I could never be Her," I whisper to him.

2009

I look at M as he sleeps, his 63-year old body nearly destroyed by alcohol. We haven't had sex in months. I don't even want to any more.

How did this happen? I used to only like older men. Now all I can see is young men everywhere. I used to be submissive. Now I want to dominate completely. Did I just reach a point when I became sick of submitting, sick of letting other people control my life, and now I'm overcompensating?

Was it the alcohol? The emotional abuse? The chronic unemployment? Or was it something that would have happened anyway, a psycho-sexual sea change in my mind that clicked on when I reached the age of 40?

I have become Her. And I don't know what to do about it.

I'm feeling an inexplicable urge to go see The Vampire's Assistant.

HALP

My short story, The Cure for Sexual Harassment, now on Literotica.com.

"The 80's are the decade that ruined everything for everybody." --Rob Zombie

I'm going to have this inscribed on my tombstone. I'm serious.

The goddamned EDD has me in a homicidal rage at the moment, so I am attempting to relax by watching my bootleg copy of The Island.

I first encountered this treasure while I was at art school. I arrived at my dorm room one day after class, and found my roommate watching a movie on TV.

"What is this?" I asked.

"It's called The Island," she replied.

"What's it about?"

"Modern pirates."

I sat down to watch it with her. After about five minutes I decided it was stupid and went to the library. What my roommate neglected to tell me was that if I had just stuck around for five minutes more, I would have seen a younger, hotter Michael Caine as a chained sex slave.

I could have fucking killed my roommate.

The Island was released in 1980, which technically makes it an 80's film, even though most of the filming would have been done in 1979. It does look an awful lot like how I remember the 70's; all hot and decadent and brownish-colored.

After reading articles like this one, I learned that I am not the only one who thinks that The Island is a great unsung masterpiece. Actually, I suspect The Island was for boys what Xanadu was for girls, an early 80's coming-of-age moment when you realize that the adult world is both a lot scarier and a lot cooler than you thought it was going to be.

x-posted to 80s_snark

Tired, tired, tired. The Movie That Ate My Life is done, gone, finito, and I'm out of work again. No biggie this time, there's all kinds of freelance out there.

I fucking hate World of Warcraft. I used to have no opinion on it at all, but when I Google the phrase "How to make leather pants" and get PAGE AFTER PAGE OF DUMB WoW stuff, things have gone entirely too far.

Enthusiastic amateur production of my favorite song from my favorite musical:

Yeesh, I'm glad I don't work at the Worst Job anymore. Two Jackson family members lived there, and the place is probably swarming with media right now. I'm staying in Burbank until nine tonight, and hopefully the insanity on the Westside will have quieted down by the time I go home.

ETA: While I do have some sympathy for the family, most of my sympathy is reserved for the $10-per-hour wage slaves who are currently the only things standing between the family and the press hounds. They do not get paid enough for this shit, and I guarantee that they won't be thanked for it, either.

I usually avoid all things meme-ish, but since everybody and her aunt has apparently linked to this post, I'd might as well jump on the bandwagon. I considered posting my That Guy story over there, but it's already got 14 pages of comments, and this is going to be a bit long. Besides, it's more about me than That Guy.

My parents are two rather pathetic people who live in fear of life itself, and did their best to see to it that I grew up the same way. I was constantly blitzed with horror stories about all the terrible things waiting for me in the big bad world outside. I would like to say they were overprotective, but the fact is, they did a piss-poor job at protecting me, and a rather good job at scaring the pants off me.

One day when I was about twelve, my father dropped me and my dog off at a park that had a small river running through it. Although there were NO SWIMMING signs posted, everybody swam there anyway, because it was a nice place to swim.

I sat on a rock and watched my dog paddle around for a while. I noticed two guys in their early twenties, swimming. One of them started talking to me about my dog. The other one didn't have much to say, and stayed out of the conversation. I talked with the first guy about dogs, then I decided to take a swim myself. I was usually shy around strangers, but I was getting no danger vibes whatsoever.

I hadn't brought a bathing suit, but I was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, so swimming in my clothes was no big deal. Afterwards my clothes were dripping wet, of course, and I pulled my t-shirt as far away from my body as I could to wring it out. The guy I had been talking to offered to loan me his jacket, so I could wring everything out completely. I accepted. The jacket almost reached my knees, and made a very good cover-up while I took everything off, wrung it out, and put it back on again.

Still no danger vibes. There were other people around, and I wasn't worried.

Somehow the topic turned to either art or recycling, because the guy and I discovered we had a common hobby of making art objects out of trash. I told him about some of the things I had created.

At that point, he said: "When I was in prison, I made a---'scuse me, I probably shouldn't have said that."

I was curious to know why he had been in prison, but he seemed genuinely embarrassed, so I just asked: "What did you make?" And he went back to talking about trash sculpture.

Eventually my father showed up, and while he was civil to the two guys, he gave me holy hell in the car. Then we got home and he told my mother, who also gave me holy hell. I naturally didn't say anything about the guy being an ex-con, since I was in enough trouble as it was.

I began to get angry. For a long time I didn't know why, then I figured it out. I had gone out into the big, bad world, talked to a stranger, and came out unharmed. I had trusted my instincts, and my instincts had been absolutely correct. My parents were denigrating my instincts, because to them I was just a stupid kid who didn't know any better. They were invalidating the very same intuition that could have saved my life if I had sensed danger. But instincts and intuition meant nothing to them, what mattered to them was that I obey The Rules.

My perception began to change that day, it was the first time in my life that I really thought that my parents were wrong. I realized that, while there were still bad people out there, most people were decent. Even people who made mistakes and wound up in jail. It certainly didn't make me foolhardy or overly trusting; I'm still cautious. But I don't go around thinking that everybody is bad. I'm just careful because you never know when you're going to run into one of the bad people. When I think back on it, I realize that nearly every bad mistake I've made in life has been a result of me ignoring my inner voice.

To this day, I feel tremendously grateful to That Guy, NOT because he didn't rape me, but because without even knowing it, he taught me something. He taught me that my instincts would never betray me, and that even bad guys were capable of doing the right thing.