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, "Oh What a Night"
**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.

I do not believe that a crisis can save a relationship. Crises may cause two people put aside their differences temporarily and work together to fix the problem, but once the crisis is resolved, it's time to face the original problems.

While all this legal crap was going on, the IRS chose that moment to start garnishing my paychecks. I don't know why they call it "garnishing" when "annihilating" is a more accurate description. In the middle of getting my case together, we had to drop everything and engage in a flurry of phone calls and faxes, between M and the local IRS office, the local IRS office and the payroll office of my company, the payroll office and me. In the end, I got my paychecks back but the IRS cleaned us out of the money we had been saving to live off of once I'm unemployed again.

Of course, I was furious with M, since it was his brilliant thinking that got us into this mess to begin with. Then again, I'm the dumbass who agreed to it.

The IRS gave us until June 30th to file tax returns for the past six years. M said he would take care of it, since I'm working 60 hours a week and he's basically doing nothing. That was back in May. It is now June 10th, and he still hasn't touched the taxes.

Again, I'm just going to let him screw it up. It will make leaving easier.

Meanwhile, I have no idea how the police investigation is going, or what kind of revenge I can expect from The Roach when he finds out I did not cooperate in his plan to make me the fall guy for his con game.

Badass Attorney had mentioned suing both Incompetent Attorney and Stupid National Bank, but we haven't heard from her since my day in court. It's kind of a mixed blessing, because she hasn't demanded her fee, either.

M is now receiving Social Security. That, along with my unemployment checks once this movie wraps, will be just enough to cover our monthly expenses. That isn't taking into account emergencies, or what the IRS will demand from us.

We shall see.

So, now that that's over, I can go back to writing about bad movies and old music videos and stuff.

One of M's friends is a badass attorney. Unfortunately, she is not able to practice law in the state of California. The reasons behind this make for a story even crazier than mine, but I won't go into it because it would take too long, and I respect her privacy. But it's pretty amazing, and would make a great TV show. One of these days I'll see if I can get her permission to pitch it.

Although she can't practice law in California, she can still work as a badass paralegal.

M and I went to see her, bringing the court file with us. We told her the whole story. She was pleased to hear that we had filed a police report.

"That will show the bank that you are the victim of identity theft, and not just some debt dodger," she said. "And this is a case of identity theft; regardless of how your signature ended up on the contract. He may have forged it, or he may have gotten you drunk and tricked you into signing it. Either way, it was done without your full consent, and you certainly didn't benefit from this fraud in any way."

She started grilling me. "Did anyone from this bank ever call you to confirm this signature?"

"No," I answered.

"Did anyone ask to see your drivers license?"

"No."

"Did you ever go into a bank and speak to anyone?"

"No. And that would have been impossible anyway, because Stupid National Bank doesn't even have any branches in California. We checked."

"Then this person who approved this loan was lying," said Badass Attorney triumphantly "because it says right here over his signature that he personally witnessed your signature. The bank had no business granting this loan to the Roach. This is gross negligence."

We went over all the Notices of Service. The first three had been sent to the Roach's apartment, and of course, he had not told me about them. After that, everything was sent to an address on Island Street in Santa Monica.

"This doesn't make sense," I said "because my real address was right here on the loan agreement all along. The Roach must have gotten it off my drivers license. Come to think of it, that's probably also where he got my social security number, and how he copied my signature."

"The bank's lawyer was extremely careless," said Badass Attorney. "Either that, or he was deliberately trying to hide this from you. So it looks like the bank got a default judgment against you, then their lawyer suddenly found your real address and sent this Notice of Examination."

I looked at the Proof of Service. "But this says I was served at eight p.m. on the night of March 17th. I'm pretty sure I was working overtime that night, and wasn't home until nine. My paycheck stub says I did some overtime that week, but it doesn't say which days."

"Can you find out?"

"I will, as soon as I can get back to work."

"This Service of Process Agent was clearly lying," asked Badass Attorney. "Look at the physical description he gives here. It doesn't sound anything like you."

"I was home all evening," M put in "and nobody came to the door, or rang at the front gate."

"No way is this judgment going to stand," said Badass Attorney. "We'll file a Motion to Vacate, you'll present it in court, and the judge will have no choice but to dismiss this case."

I became very alarmed. "I have to represent myself?"

"Of course. In cases like this, when all the facts are on your side, it makes more sense to do it that way. Cases are usually won or lost not because of facts, but because of procedure. Lawyers try to trip each other up on courtroom procedure all the time, and whoever does it better usually wins. But you're not a lawyer, so you're not expected to know procedure. Therefore, the other lawyer can't try any of those sneaky tricks."

"But I can't talk in front of a roomfull of people," I whined. Even as I said it I knew I was being ridiculous; the courtroom had been empty on the day we were there and would probably be empty again.

"You'll do fine," said Badass Attorney. "Just talk the way you're talking now. You sound angry."

For once in my life, the angry voice was actually going to come in handy.

When I went back to work the next day, the first thing I did was log on to SAP to check my hours from the week of March 17th. And there it was: On that very night I had worked overtime and clocked out at 8:30.

I excitedly called the payroll office and asked them to print out a copy of my electronic timecard.

Then for good measure, I went to see the production secretary. "Do you still have the dinner list for March 17th?"

He handed me a binder. "They're all in here."

I flipped back to the date in question. There was my name, indicating I had signed up for dinner, and a checkmark next to it, indicating that I had shown up. I made a copy of the list, then called M to tell him the good news. "There's at least fifteen other people on this list who know me personally, and can vouch that I was there."

"I'm getting a letter from the property manager saying that we've lived here for the last ten years," said M. "And they're also making us a copy of the ledger showing that we've been paying our rent all that time."

Meanwhile, Badass Attorney banged out a Motion to Vacate Judgment, and M filed it at the courthouse. The fee was over three hundred dollars.

Badass Attorney also got a letter from the managers at the Island Street address, saying that I had never lived there. In fact, the building hadn't even been completed until 2008, which meant that the notices were being served to a vacant lot.

Then there was nothing to do but wait. A few days after we filed the motion, the bank's lawyer filed an objection, saying that the statute of limitations had run out and it was too late for me to dispute the judgment.

"But since you were never served, the statute of limitations doesn't apply," said Badass Attorney. "And since your real address was on the loan agreement the whole time, he can't claim to have not had it."

We put together a script of sorts, so that I would be able to list all my pieces of evidence without forgetting anything or getting mixed up. I practiced it every night.

On the morning of my scheduled appearance, M drove me to the courthouse. "Stop worrying," he said. "You look like you're about to be shot."

"I feel like I'm about to be shot."

Badass Lawyer met us there. She wanted to watch. I was the second case taken that morning.

I felt like I was going to throw up as I approached the defense table. I fanned out all my evidence in the order that I would show them: the letter from our apartment manager, the letter from the managers of the Island Street apartment, my timecard, my drivers license, the police report.

The judge was announced, and we all stood up. The other lawyer introduced himself: "I'm Incompetent Attorney, representing Stupid National Bank."

In a very small voice I said, "I'm JM Kaye, in pro per."

The judge didn't waste any time. "I've read your motion," she said to me "and I'm inclined to grant it. It's obvious that you weren't properly served. Do you have proof that you've lived at your current address for the past ten years?"

"I have a letter from the managers," I replied, holding it out.

Nobody took it, so I set it at the edge of the table.

"Do you have a copy of your drivers license, showing that address?"

"Two copies, Your Honor." I held those out too. Again, nobody seemed to want them.

Incompetent Attorney started to say something about a state code. The judge cut him off. "That code does not apply, because no notice was given. Does the plaintiff have any further objections?"

"No, Your Honor," said Incompetent Attorney resignedly.

"Then this case is dismissed."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Incompetent Attorney grabbed his papers and was gone in a flash, while I stood there with all my guns loaded and nothing to shoot at.

After a moment, I gathered up my papers as well. I started to leave, then remembered that I was supposed to thank the judge as well. I mumbled a thank-you and went back into the audience to rejoin M and Badass Attorney.

"Congratulations," said M as we went out to the hall. "You won."

"But the bank could still come after me, couldn't they?"

"They could," said Badass Attorney "but they probably won't. Otherwise their lawyer would have served you with a new summons right here."

"Why did he run out like that?" I wondered.

"He's probably afraid that you were going to serve him," said Badass Attorney. "He knows he screwed up, big time. Him and the bank, both."

I started shivering uncontrollably. It was the same thing that always happens after an earthquake; all the adrenaline in my system has no place to go, so it burns itself off by shaking.

"It's all over now," said M.