Sex, Death, Rock-n-Roll- and It’s Eternity In There


I never really made it a point to contemplate the paradox of sex and death.  Perhaps someone ten years (and more, sadly) removed from the enjoyment of carnal pleasure isn’t qualified to comment, but I still live, breathe and dream. I have desires whether I can act on them or not.

The French have a way of making things that can sound vulgar in English a little more mysterious and exotic. A ménage a trois doesn’t sound as bad as a threesome, even though it means exactly the same thing.  So while calling an orgasm la petite mort (the little death) can seem a bit melodramatic and bordering on morbid, it is certainly apropos.


These things usually hit me when I least expect it, if not in unbidden memories, then in dreams.

Old Dr. Freud would be having a heyday with my dreams.  The things I find myself embroiled in (in dreams, that is) that would leave me shocked and mortified in the waking world are beyond the pale.  Which may be why they are safely relegated to dreams. The things I imagine are just too impossible for reality, and I will not attempt to chronicle them here.

dream after dream

Yes, Dream. After Dream (the Journey album) is awesome.  My dreams are just bizarre.  And rated X.

Many years ago, Stephen King wrote a short story called The Jaunt. It was about a scientist who discovered a virtually cost-free way to teleport people through time and space.  The only problem is that living things would die shortly after being “jaunted”- unless they were put under anesthetic.  At the end of the story, the man telling the story to his children awakes in horror as his son went through the Jaunt awake- and the son had aged by decades and decades and gone quite mad, before he dropped dead.

Before the son dropped dead his last words were, “It’s eternity in there.”

Of course The Jaunt’s version of eternity isn’t a positive one, so it’s probably not the best illustration of that moment where time stands still and the universe is simply two, but it’s a similar concept.  There is a dimension beyond time, for good or ill.

bennyhill cupid

When I was growing up I was given the impression that sex was The Ultimate Sin and the only thing worse than utilitarian procreational-only married sex is murder. It didn’t help that Mom is old-school Catholic (and I mean pre-Vatican II) and Dad is more or less a lapsed Regular Baptist. Both of their traditions will drill it in your head that you are better off dead than to have sex and enjoy it.


Yes, Christians are hypocrites, just like everyone else.

Good “Christian soldiers” are allowed to have sex only if they are married to each other, the lights are out, the only position is man-on-top missionary style, they only do it because they’re trying to make a baby, and they aren’t allowed to enjoy it.


We did what?  For that? Why?

Since I never really had a desire to go out and kill people, (at least not a desire to kill anyone that overrides my fear of arrest and inevitable incarceration) then for me, sex was the only “mortal sin” that had any allure to it.  And it had a LOT of allure to it when I was younger.  I freely admit it. I just had a really hard time finding suitable, complicit males.  That was probably a blessing in disguise, and nature’s way of chlorinating the gene pool to some extent.

ride with hitler

I’m not into carpooling, because I’d rather “ride with Hitler” than with the friendly neighborhood serial killer. I like having my car all to myself.

My son doesn’t get the sex=mortal sin concept because I made a conscious effort not to represent it to him that way.  My mother may have given me the “dirty duty” speech, but I didn’t pass that along, except for comedic effect, when he was much, much older.

The more a parent makes a “forbidden fruit” sound absolutely vile and horrible, the more likely the offspring are to run right out and try it to see if it’s as horrible as Mom and Dad contend.  As much as possible, I tried to give him the rational approach to life, as in yes, sex is good, but with certain boundaries.  Such as “try not to bang ex-strippers,” “wrap that rascal,” and “avoid venereal diseases.”


So where did they get it?  The dance hall?

There is good reason for caution in the pursuit of all things amorous. The 1980s taught us that the anti-sex crowd had a point: sex with the wrong partner can kill you.


I guess once they give you AIDS, retribution is sort of pointless.

For centuries humanity has known the fear and shame of venereal diseases, and the possibility of a lifetime of pain or even an untimely death for a moment of pleasure are quite real.

Even given the potential risks involved with sexual congress, I don’t think I can agree with the lights-out missionary-position sex-for-procreation-only crowd.  I do believe in caution in guarding one’s body as well as one’s heart and spirit, but not in total denial.

There is a certain distasteful and soul-killing element in the “friends with benefits” mentality, just as there is a distasteful and soul-killing element in the outright rejection of something that is a gift and a blessing in the proper context.

When the person and the moment is right, surrender to that universe of two.  Savor, enjoy, revel, and live, and thank God for that rare opportunity.

It’s eternity in there.

Don’t Wanna, Can’t Make Me, and Sweet Dreams are Made of These

moretheyexpectSo, for a brief sanity break, leave those who were raised by wolves to figure things out for themselves from time to time.

The zoo calls that “enrichment” time for the animals.  Let the bears dig their dinner out of a bucket instead of just putting it in front of them. It makes their lives more fun. Or at least, it makes it more fun for the humans to watch.

I strive to have high standards for myself, but I don’t really expect much from rest of the world.  I know that might sound arrogant, but should I expect anything from anyone, even if I spell it out clearly, odds are that they will disappoint.  The old axiom, “if you want it done right, do it yourself,” certainly does apply in my life, although I should re-word it a bit for the 21st century.

“If I want it done at all, I better do it.”

If I keep my standards low, then when someone actually does perform adequately or appropriately, I am pleasantly surprised.  It’s sort of a twisted way of looking at the glass as being half full.

Of course there are some things I could give a rat’s ass less whether they’re done or not, because they just don’t make an appearance on my priority list.


I’m not a sports fan.  I struggle to commit to regular workouts for my health’s sake.  I’m still trying to learn to enjoy exercise.  I appreciate being able to go to the Y and use the machines and the pool there, but the only person I compete against as far as fitness or athletic (in)ability is myself.

I will make time to work out, but I still don’t care to watch sports.  Especially next month when they will be clogging up TruTV with that March Madness basketball mess.  I know some people want to watch basketball, but why on the same channel that “World’s Dumbest” is on?  Why not cut a few of the late night pecker pump infomercials and have basketball on then?

I can’t say I am a huge fan of constantly dusting things either.  I don’t dust as often as I should, but dusting is one of those exercises in futility that I positively loathe.  Jerry is a constant smoker, which creates even more dust than what would be in a normal house.  That nasty nicotine encrusted film covers everything in the house.  If I get to it, I get to it, but it’s not one of my really compelling priorities.  I can dust the whole frigging house from top to bottom and the filmy sludge will return in less than a day.  To me that seems like an insane waste of time, which reminds me of poor Sisyphus.  We the unwilling, doing the impossible for the ungrateful.  Sometimes I think I have more in common with Sisyphus than I’d like to acknowledge.


I know I torqued Jerry off last night by not fixing him dinner, however, he has spent the last few days being particularly obnoxious.  Last night I did make a special trip to get him chocolate milk.  That favor was greeted with a tirade about how he had to get up and lock the door.  I was gone for five minutes, in broad daylight, and the door leading into the kitchen was locked.  The outside door was unlocked because it’s a little easier to only have to dig for one key- once you’re already in the foyer- when it’s cold and your hands are full.  But since His Nibs doesn’t do anything that might involve carrying in groceries or anything like that, he wouldn’t know.

It’s my own fault for being too nice.

Paradise_Garden_Wallpaper_pkuk6Here’s a lovely little slice of paradise.  Or it would be, if there were a pool and a pool boy.

The bad thing about me and utopian scenes is that I’m always the one who cues in on the one nasty thing in the picture.  For me the idyllic scene above becomes:


This would be the kind of dream I have.  Everything is perfect for a minute, and then there’s flaming porto johns, Richard Simmons, and flatulence-provoking taco references.

Now here would be my definition of a nightmare:

detroit 3It would be my luck that when I die I’ll end up in Detroit.

Greetings from Whine Country, The White Death Returneth, and I Finally Put Up the Decorations

No, this is NOT my house.   Not only is my house far more modest (this Griswoldian display is from my sister’s Cincinnati area suburb- where people consider my yearly income to be weekend pocket change) but Jerry does not permit me to do much in the way of decorating for Christmas.  Since he is terrified of fire I cannot have a live tree, outside lights, or anything that he perceives as remotely flammable.  This decree reeks of I don’t know what, especially after the legendary attempt at fireplace lighting with gasoline, but when you live in whine country, it’s easier and quieter to comply with irrational requests as far as reasonably possible.

I didn’t feel like putting up even my modest decorations this year.  My grandma died a year ago yesterday which was depressing enough, and I’m so damned broke it’s not funny, et cetera and so on. But something in the back of my head made me do it.  Grandma always enjoyed Christmas and always decorated lavishly until she wasn’t able to- and then I would go and do it for her.  Grandma would have been disappointed with me had I failed to at least put up the tree and the Nativity.   So the tree is up, the buzzard is in place (long story,) the Nativity is on the mantle and the wreath is in the window.  It was strangely comforting to put the stuff up. I’m glad I did as weird as that sounds.  I like Christmas decorations- especially when they are Griswoldian and tacky.

I would have been in the west end of Marion today trolling for tacky Christmas pictures except for the weather- there is a minor snowstorm coming through and I don’t want to be stuck up north or worse- trying to get through the White Death on the freeway.  So here I sit all broken hearted…the rest of the line is “paid my dime and only farted,” but a. I don’t have a dime, and b. even back in the day when the department stores had pay toilets, most of the chicks I knew simply slid under the stalls.  I’m in my bed but trapped under Lilo who is enjoying her REM sleep splayed across my chest.   That dog can sleep anywhere.  I have no idea where her dreams are taking her but she is the most dream-active of our dogs.  Her little head shakes and her legs move as if she’s running.  If she has a bad dream she wakes up and then she’s disoriented and clingy for awhile.  This dream doesn’t seem to be a bad one so I won’t disturb her if I can avoid it.  Let sleeping dogs lie- and dream.

Yes, look closely- Lilo is crosseyed.  I can also add bowlegged.  But she’s so sweet.  She’s being patient with Sheena which is amazing too.  Sheena is like a big awkward puppy right now but Lilo doesn’t seem to mind which is surprising me.

So whine country is fairly quiet at the moment- Jerry’s asleep which is nice.  I like that phrase, “whine country.”  If one doesn’t take account of the spelling of “whine” it could sound like I take high faluting vacations.  “I vacationed in whine country” sounds so much different that what it really is, as if I am hanging out with buff young studs and sampling the finest wines in the Napa Valley or something.  It really means I put up with Jerry’s incessant whining for a week straight instead of getting occasional breaks from it while I’m at work.   Going on vacation with Jerry is NO vacation for me! It’s even more work than when I’m at work.   The only way I get a real vacation is if I do what I did last June- I went on vacation to my sister’s in NC with Steve-o, while Jerry stayed home with the dogs.   Works for me, except I missed the dogs.

I have a hard time with the holidays for a number of reasons.  Mostly it’s hard because I never have the means to be as generous with others as I’d like.  This year I’ll be doing good to give cards.  Steve-o has always been cynical around the holidays even when he used to get all the useless crap that kids always want and then end up breaking, destroying or losing before New Year’s.  That’s what happened to the model airplane.  We still don’t know where that puppy ended up.  Probably on someone’s roof.

This was the only pic I could get of Steve-o last Christmas.  I’m so stinking proud of my illustrious offspring.  Perhaps it was fortuitous that he was an only child.

Now Lilo’s eyes are rolled back in her head and she’s snoring.  At least she’s not drooling.  Yet.