Resolve

This morning, around 3ish, a nightmare had me flailing around like an epileptic gorilla. The "flailing" was about an inability to move or breath, and my subsequent upset. The "gorilla" part is an aesthetic judgment, based on my refusal to wear clothes to bed, and my hairiness. Those two things, combined, created quite a spectacle. I'm not sure where Nancy was, but for her sake I hope she wasn't in bed next to me. Poor woman.

Time for some New Year's Resolutions. The first one is easy, and may be implemented early. It's an obvious one, and the importance of it will be indicated via italics.

Wear clothes to bed.

That little pearl will help keep the bloom on the rose between Nancy and I. It will also make it less necessary to brush the crumbs off the bed before I climb in every night. When one is buck naked in bed, every microscopic speck and fleck grinds against your body. Where do they come from? I don't know. I just don't know. Life is a horror show. But pajamas will help keep rogue crumbs from tormenting me.

The next resolution may kill me. Fix the washing machine. The belt or the Johnson Rod or G-clamp or something is blown on that thing, and the result isn't pretty. Something magical happens in a washing machine. A level of cleanliness is achieved that no amount of sink-scrubbing or rock-beating can achieve.

The dryer works. I'm proud to say that I fixed it with a screwdriver, a file, and a lack of respect for the power of a 220 volt outlet.

Yeah.

Fremont Street Cats

The first major Nor'easter of the winter moved in last night, and is slowly pulling back up the coast to the Gulf of Maine and beyond. I've always enjoyed a snowstorm, particularly one as windy as this one. The coast took a major hit, with flooding in Salem, Revere and all the way down past Boston to the Cape. The damage in Winthrop did not look inconsequential. The waves at high tide must have been quite a sight.

At 5:30 this morning, I woke up, pulled my clothes on and promptly fed the dog. Little Annie. How I love her. Then I look out over the back stoop and couldn't see anything, with the snow caught in the screen. On went my shoes and out I went. A snow dune was pressed against the back door, and I shoveled it away, making a space for the feral cats in the neighborhood to find the fresh bowls of water and food that I will put out.

The wind is strong, with gusts up to 50 miles per hour, and snow is still coming down. The fresh pack revealed not a single cat print, or evidence of life of any kind. They're out there, huddled under stoops and cars. When they are able, they'll find food at my back door. For now, they are hiding from that merciless wind.

Why are there so many out there? A black cat come by frequently for food and attention. He is beautiful. There is a gray cat, and two tabby cats who also visit. I think of them often when the weather is like this, and the lack of consistency in human compassion disturbs me. Many people apparently see pet ownership as something very different from how I see it.

As soon as a dog or cat is welcomed into your home, he or she is bound to you. If it suffers in the cold, it's the owners fault. If it goes hungry, fights with other cats, has kittens...all the owners fault. I imagine that these people think of themselves as good, and caring, and loving to animals. How do they edit out this act of neglect?

Your Creamy, Fragrant Personality

French cheeses. You may not know this, or you may, but an analysis of your taste in moldy, salty, sticky, hard and soft expensive French cheeses can be very revealing. Personality and intelligence tests are all over the Internet, and with varying degrees of success they provide an objective assessment of who you are, really. These personality assessments are generally inaccurate. One has to turn to fromage to really unravel the mysteries of the eating and pooping machine that is you. Or rather, cut the rind off the fermier clacbitou of your mind and reveal the fragrant curd within. The funk of your personality.

Or something.

This unconventional method of assessing personality types, which can also predict the possibility of mental illness, was born in a humble cheese shop, Fromagerie Laurent Dubois, at 2 Rue de Tourmel in Paris. It was there that the proprieter, Monsieur Jean-Luc Sebastian, had an epiphany. While listening to an American tourist complain about the aroma of a Pont l'Eveque soft cheese, Jean-Luc thought to himself, "What a jerk, he's got all the personality of Roquefort!" It amused him to note the parallels. The cheese and the man smelled terrible, each could cause a listeria infection, both are nutty, have a pale, bumpy complexion, and both could compel a pregnant a woman to miscarry (Roquefort was banned in New Zealand and Australia for this fetal risk). The cheese and the man were both repulsive. Remarquable!

If not for a chance meeting with a world-renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Jean-Claude Antieri, this discovery would have led to nothing. According to Antieri, they met at the La Motte-Picquet-Grenelle Metro Station near Monsieur Sebastian's Fromagerie. In a recent interview with both Antieri and Sebastian, the cover story of In Cheese Times, Antieri recalls, "I was sitting just inside the doors of the first car when Jean-Luc entered the train. It was crowded, so he couldn't sit down. Instead, he stood right in front of me, holding the strap." It was then that the cheese hit the fan, so to speak. "A horrible smell filled the Metro car, and it was clearly coming from Jean-Luc." This irritated Dr. Antieri, who quipped,"What did you do, shit yourself? You should change that diaper, you rotten conichon!"This led to a rather nasty kerfuffle. When Jean-Luc shoved a copy of La Monde up Dr. Antieri's nose, the fight was over. The 39 year old cheese-maker had the muscles of a man who lifted big balls of cheese his whole life. It also helped that Dr. Antieri was 89 years old.

This led to an odd conversation. It was revealed to Antieri that nobody had shit their pants, that the smell of feces that permeated the Metro car was a slice of a small, fragrant cheese that Jean-Luc had in his pocket, the dreaded Epoisses. Strictly speaking, Jean-Luc had broken the law by taking the cheese onto the Metro, where it is banned because of the smell. The potent odor is that powerful and, well, shit-like.

These two became unlikely friends, and one day they got to talking over a bottle of Santa Margherita pinot grigio, and the rest is history. The Personnalité comme Mûrs Fromage Evaluation was born! 2 and a half years later, the cheese/personality assessment test was published in Cosmopolitan Magazine, under the title, "Are you a sexy enough cheese for your man-cracker?"

Who are you, if not an expensive cheese that smells like feet? Your mysteries are revealed through a series of questions. Your answers are translated into a cheese that best fits it, and then analyzed. Perhaps a sample question would help you see the wisdom and elegance of using obscure cheeses in this fashion. The following is question 252:

At the pet store, you witness a mother gerbil eating her tiny, pink babies and are disturbed. Your find yourself thinking...

A. Ah, Nature!
B. I'm going to be sick. Right here.
C. I hate nature.
D. I'm definitely not getting a gerbil.

Answer carefully.

I have taken the test (which has over 600 questions like that one) and the result was uncanny. My score is represented as "Brie-Le Venaco-Ewe-8." That translates to, "You linger in the mind and heart like the aftertaste of a Selles-Sur-Cher. Some people like you, but most avoid you like the plague. If you're not homeless and insane now, you will be eventually. There is a 54% chance that you will be known as the 'crazy cat guy' by neighbors, and an 84% chance that you're a boob. And like the sharp smell of apples from a Camembert Affine au Cidre de la Maison, you stink on ice."

How did you answer the test question above? It's only one question, but if you answered...

A-You're leaning towards a Brie de Meaux, which has a thick rind and creamy texture. Thus, You're defensive and hard to get to know, but if one takes the time, your anti-social personality disorder will shine!

B- Bleu de Bresse, a pulverized blue cheese covered in patches of blue mold. Thus, You are constantly afraid, suffer from an anxiety disorder, and hate yourself. If you're a woman, you may have a yeast infection

C- Bûcheron, which has a firm but creamy texture, and has a taste that resembles burnt hair and a lanolin nipple cream used by nursing mothers. Thus, you're a misanthrope, and possibly a pedophile with a tendency to get Nancy Sinatra tunes stuck in your head.

D- Kasseri, a salty,tangy, hard white cheese. If you chose this, you are as gay as Barney Frank.

It's that easy! Look for the complete test in Cosmo and find something out about yourself, you may be surprised. Send in your results, and until then, Bon appetite!

Nancy and Darren and The Airing of Grievances

Christmas is an unkind holiday. If you happen to have a big family gathering planned, with Aunt Sophie's green bean casserole and Uncle Pete's blank stare, that is a hell of merely one variety. Perhaps you've decided to ignore Christmas, and go with Festivus instead. Wise move, but it's still not going to be pretty. I know because Nancy and I went with Festivus this year. A metal pole, from floor to ceiling, sits in the living room, next to the coffee table. Awkward spot, but there aren't many places to put what is basically a stripper pole.

Festivus Day is planned out as follows:

8am - Breakfast of Nebulous Guilt. Nancy and I will eat breakfast silently, except for polite conversation. We will look to our food, around the room, and at Annie and the cats. Occasionally, we will look at each other and smile wanly. We won't talk about that thing we did. Heaven's no, not that. Anything but that.

1pm - The Polishing of the Pole. The Festivus pole is cleaned with a little bit of Murphy's Oil Soap and then polished with Nevr-Dull metal polish. Brownies are made and eaten.

2pm - Quiet time.

3pm - The Movie of Tension and Fear. Time to watch a movie that only one of us really wants to see, with the other person feigning interest and growing more and more resentful. Original plans to watch The Godfather parts 1 and 2 were scrapped when Nancy threatened me with a screwdriver. Instead, we settled on something neither of us care to see, Terminator: Salvation. I'll be resented, though, as I like the rest of the movies in the series.

6pm- The Bitterly Disputed Chinese Food Order. This is when we spend an hour arguing about what to get. I'll insist on steamed Peking ravioli while Nancy will want to get something remotely healthy, like pea pods. What we will settle on has yet to be decided. It's better for the argument that way. More in keeping with Festivus. More organic.

7pm - The Airing of Grievances. Over dinner, we'll flip a coin to decide who will start. Nancy will most likely focus on the way I do laundry. That I don't hang clothes immediately coming out of the dryer, which makes them wrinkly again. I'll probably complain about the way Nancy writes epithets on my body when I'm asleep. For example, this morning I stumbled into the bathroom to pee, only to find the words, "World's Smallest Pecker" written in lipstick on my thigh, with an arrow pointed at, well, the world's smallest penis. That's not nice.

11pm - Feats of Strength. This is the first time Nancy and I will fight each other. I'm nervous, despite my clear weight advantage. Imagine Yoda fighting Emperor Palpatine, with the speed and the hopping and the ferocity. My strategy will be to bear hug her, but it won't be easy. Nancy is one tough monkey. We also have various things around the apartment to lift, if challenged to do so; A steamer trunk full of old car batteries, an old sewing machine still screwed into a table, an old picture-tube television, that sort of thing. Again, Nancy is not to be underestimated. After what she did to that Jehovah's Witness in Duluth, I'll never make that mistake again. Neither will that Jehovah's Witness. Poor bastard.

Midnight - Make-Up Sex Caroling. Nancy and I love each other with a white-hot intensity. We argue hard, and we make-up hard. We're passionate, crazy people. So we plan on making love loudly, with the hope of spreading Festivus cheer throughout the neighborhood. At least until the police arrive.

What have you got planned?

Women and Anal Sex

People may be surprised to know that I wrote for a college newspaper, "Puck." The masthead for Puck read, "What fools these mortals be!" from A Midsummer Nights Dream. If you don't recall, Puck is a trickster, and jester for the King of the Fairies, Elton John. Ha! Just kidding, the Fairy King is Oberon. Puck is jerk, screwing with people left and right, although he is doing the bidding of his master, who is also a bit of a jerk. That doesn't get Puck off the hook, though. Ever since World War II, the "I was only following orders" defense just won't work.

Between 1994 and 1996, I wrote a sex advice column, like Dan Savage, except I didn't make fun of fat people like he does all the time. When writing a sex column it is wise to make a good first impression. That's good advice generally. So how do you make a good first impression in a sex advice column? Well, you have to write about anal sex, early and often. It helps to prove that you're not a prude, and that you got your freak on at some point. Albeit minor freakiness.

I'm bipolar, and people like me are get addicted to anything that makes us feel better, including sex. Methinks I've had an above average number of partners, particularly way back when I used cocaine. Sex was like saying hello at those parties. And after a breakdown, there isn't a lot to do when locked in a psychiatric ward, so there were some encounters there.

My first experience with anal sex was with an ex-girlfriend who wanted to fuck me with a strap-on dildo. The scene went like this...

Woman: Let's try something different.
Me: Like what, make homemade candles?
Woman: No, anal sex.
Me: No way. Nope. Why would I want to have sex with your bum when the greatest place in the world is inches away. Vagina trumps anus by...a lot.
Woman: I mean me in you, with my strap-on.
Me: That's not sweetening the deal, lovey.
Woman: Come on, for me.
Me: Oh, ok...sure.

Then we did it.

After I was released from the hospital with an inflatable ring to sit on, I made myself a promise. No more of that. But I did one more time, this time as the top. It wasn't fun there, either. But those experiences gave me some cred that I could use in my sex advice column for Puck. The title of that column was, That Thing You Think About: Sex-Master Advice. No kidding.

As I mentioned before, the first article had to be about anal sex, to show how open-minded and progressive I was. This is basically how my first article went:

Dear Sex-Master, My boyfriend insists that I will enjoy anal sex. I'm a virgin, and committed to remaining one until marriage (I'm afraid of it hurting). We do everything but intercourse, like blowjobs, and he goes down on me. Recently, he talked me into anal sex. It hurt like hell, and there was even a little blood. Why do men enjoy this? Is it me? Thanks in advance for the advice. Signed, Redbum.

Dear Redbum, Your boyfriend doesn't need to play with your asshole, since he is an asshole himself. Many men push for anal sex with their girlfriends, and insist that they are not gay. But avoiding a lovely, moist vagina to get to a tight, dry anus indicates to me that he'd be happier with a Friend of Dorothy. You've decided to avoid intercourse until marriage. Anal sex without a condom is dangerous, and he needs to back off if you don't want to have it. You mention that you're afraid of vaginal sex, that it will hurt and bleed when the hymen is broken. In my experience, this was never very painful for my partners. And friends of mine say it's not bad. However, to help allay your fears, try spreading your legs wide open and feeling inside for the hymen, which can be small and partially attached. You may not even have one, as it is often lost in childhood during play, like falling off a bike or on your bum. A detached hymen is even possible from just riding a bike or horse. Hymens come in all shapes and sizes, so get to know your little gatekeeper. In rare cases, the hymen can be removed by a gynecologist if it is large and firmly attached. Most of the time, though, the erect penis will hit the hymen, tear it, and give you a bit of a jolt and maybe a little blood, but that's it. A friend of mine was so concerned about this that she used her dildo to crack her maidenhead, as it were. Nothing wrong with that! I hope you've found this helpful, my friend. And never let a man pressure you into anything you are not comfortable with. That's a sign of big trouble. And always use a condom.

That was my advice. One of the first articles I'd ever written! I'm so proud. Every so often, I'll dig another article up from Puck and post it. I think the advice I gave was sound.