Tie a Pink Ribbon round Wall Street

Cancer is contagious. I don't mean like hugging. I mean like the pink matter spreading in my brain.

Those pink ribbons. First on postage stamps, then milk cartons, then paperclip packaging and potato chip bags. Those logos are making me loco! Even pink-ribboned stuffed puppies in the supermarket. They're targeting all the places women go. But women already know! We're just out doing our business, shopping for dinner, shopping for school supplies, trying to relax and not think about the "C" word!

Remember those scarlet fever blankets? They're planting an epidemic of worried women. Worry causes stress, and stress causes cancer. I know all about brain plasticity and new neural pathways. We're all being branded with a loopy pink fissure, but do we want it there? I just want to buy my carton of yogurt without thinking about getting cancer! I want to keep it gray and ignorant in there!

I have too much awareness already (TMA!). I don't have enough cash to match all that awareness! Because let's get real. Those logo-makers don't want your mind, they want your money. Well, I'm in favor of research funding. So how about we plant the logos where the dough is, and let all of us middle-aged hypochondriacs off the hook? It's bad enough having to do your breast exams without being reminded of it every time you buy a new pen.

How about they imprint pink breast cancer logos on corporate water coolers? How about private breast cancer jets? Let's hang pink ribbons from Alice Walton's dining room chandelier. Let's tie a hundred pink ribbons round the old Corinthian columns of Wall Street!

Lost in Logan

A chirpy gal in the ceiling kept telling me all the things I would find lost in Logan: books! beer! dining! It sounded like a fun place to be lost in. It took me a couple hours to realize she was saying “Boston.”

The thing that was lost was my 22” by 14” by 9” carry-on roller, color burgundy, not actually "lost" but confiscated by the sheriff as suspicious baggage at Delta Gate A3, a suitcase standing upright like a sentry by my empty seat.

In my head I practiced saying, "I had to go to the women’s room, I was only gone for a minute, I was tired from travel, I was distracted, I was looking for chocolate but all the shops were closed." But, really, I was tired of dragging my 2 pieces of luggage around, tired of waiting around, I wanted to walk unencumbered, swing my arms, I wanted to have a beer, I wanted to test fate, I wanted a run-in with the TSA.

People have always warned me about kidnappers and thieves, but I have never believed in these as threats. The only thieves I have encountered have been the authority figures warning me about them, and then posing as imposters to teach me a lesson.

Many years ago, my husband and I stayed with my parents for a month while we were in between apartments. We had a cute little in-law unit, on the back side of their sunken house, in a posh community, at the top of a hill. To get to our unit you had to go down a little stone staircase, hidden behind bushes; you wouldn't even know it was there, and nobody walked by. One afternoon I came home from work and my desktop was gone. It was so bizarre that I just stood there, confused. Then my mother appeared like a stern shadow.

"You forgot to lock the side-door," she said. "Huh?" I said. She said, "This is what could have happened. You're lucky it wasn't stolen."

Then she made me follow her to recover the booty. We carried back the CPU, the monitor, the printer, the keyboard. In those days, everything was bigger; it was all quite cumbersome. Then we had to hook back up all the cables and wires and plugs; neither of us was very handy. Boy, did she teach me a lesson!

Years even before that, I'd gone on a solo backpacking trip to Europe. Everyone warned me about the pick-pockets of Rome: "Put your traveler's checks and passport in a pouch, under your shirt!" But I was really wowed by the Colosseum. I mean, Wow. I wandered around like a cinematographer, lost in beauty. Until some guy with a big, bulky, expensive camera ran up to me, yelling; he wouldn't let me ignore him. Oh, it was my Canon! Those Italian guys are so sweet.

When I got off the bus in Vermont I told my lover, "You've probably noticed that I don't have any luggage." He said, "I thought there was something different about you. I wondered if you'd cut your hair." I'd come on a red-eye, so I wore pajamas for two days. I was in my jammies, plus a flannel shirt, as we sat in the tea house with our monk. He was talking about letting go of attachments. It's true, I did feel lighter--a part of me wanted to forgo the hassle of retrieving my baggage, but I also wanted a cute dress to wear out to dinner tomorrow.

So the sheriff at Sacramento International had grabbed my bag and locked it up 30 minutes before I could board my plane to Boston. Everybody shrugged. It was late, the sheriff took off, the door was locked. I'd have to call in the morning.

Over and over, I heard safety announcements about "Unintended Baggage." Which made me think of an unwanted pregnancy.

At FedEx, a woman said, "I apologize that you lost your luggage." Then a new person answered at Lost and Found in Logan. I was all haggled out and resigned to shell out $100 for shipping. But this nice, sensible woman suggested, "Why don't I just put your suitcase on the CapeAir flight to Lebanon?" Free of charge, no lectures, and a quick drive over the Connecticut. Yeah! She wasn't afraid of the bomb in my bag!

I Know You're Gay, But What Am I?

When did you first realize you were AROMANTIC? HOMORANTIC? BI-ASEXUAL?

OK--When did you first realize you were HETERO-CURIOUS? Okay, I was one-and-a-half years old, and my mom was babysitting. This kid had the most curious thing attached to his belly, it flopped around like a big earthworm. Then my mom hid it away with the diaper. Hey, where did that wiggle-wiggle thing go?

When did you realize you didn't like DUDES? I was riding around on my red tricycle and one of those boy-persons came into view. I stopped and covered my eyes with both hands. Yuck!

When did you first realize you were ASEXUAL? When I first heard about sex. You do what with what? Icky, icky, icky!

Describe some early EXPLORATORY PLAY. In the bathtub, I would open a square wet wash cloth and see if I could cover everything from my nipples to between my legs. This was a standard-sized wash cloth, to give you an idea of how small I was.

What was your first SEXUAL EXPERIENCE? The first time I got caught being naughty was in a dark closet with my sister. We had taken off our panties and were giggling with titillation. A warm wave rushed through my body. "I'm never going to wear panties again!" I announced. (We even went to bed with our panties on.) At this point the closet door whipped open--the jig was up!

Who was your first CRUSH? Suzanne Pedulla, in second or third grade. She was lanky and insouciant, with sarcastic, chocolatey eyes. I didn't think about kissing her or getting married to her--I just wanted her to come to my slumber party. I didn't think about kissing or getting married to anybody! Except maybe David Cassidy. No, what I really wanted to do was comb his hair. Me and Suzanne Pedulla would lean against the brick wall of our school and sing, I think I love you, I think I love you!

Did you ever like BOYS? They pulled out their weiners and peed in my backyard. And made those squirty fart noises with their armpits. Gross, gross!

Whom did you have EROTIC DREAMS about? There was this boy in my fourth grade class, Karl Schmidt. He was short, blond, and quiet, and the side-kick of Ernie Segundo, a tall, dark, and flabby kid. I thought of them as Barney Rubble and Fred Flintstone. In real life, I felt absolutely zero for Karl, and absolute revulsion for loudmouth Ernie. But I had some dream where I kissed Karl or went out with him or something. I woke up absolutely horrified! It was torture seeing him in class the next day. I was afraid the dream might show.

Whom did you feel SEXUAL ATTRACTION toward as a child? Nobody, because I didn't know what sexual attraction was. I had no visual or linguistic examples. In those days, it was easier to protect children from adult content on TV or in the movies.

How did you feel when you FIRST KISSED A BOY? Nothing much. Our lips touched. It was fifth grade and his name was Jimmy McClay. We had the same blond-moppy haircut and striped shirt.

Looking back, what were some symptoms of GENDER IDENTITY DISORDER? I didn't want to get my period. When I was twelve I discovered some rust-colored smudge on my sheets. I couldn't believe it was blood (it wasn't red) and I didn't tell my mom. This went on for some days until I couldn't deny it.

Like an airline stewardess, my mother gave a belt-and-pad demonstration. I refused to learn. Those pink plastic buckles and straps were not part of my identity. I did not want to grow up and become a woman. I did not want to wear a bra or wear a girdle.

Were these FEELINGS ENDURING? Yes, as I grew older I did not want to accept my gender role. I did not want to be a housewife. I did not want to do the dishes. I did not want to make the beds. I wanted to make more money than a woman. I wanted to sow some wild oats.

As a girl, I did not want to grow up and BECOME A WOMAN. And now, I do not want to grow older and BECOME AN OLD WOMAN. I do not want to get wrinkled tits or gray pussy hair. Yuck! It's JUST NOT ME.

So now you have my entire childhood SEXUAL HISTORY. Could you have classified the sexual adult that I would become?

My personal ads list myself as a soft-kinky, bi-friendly librarian type who favors big boots, short skirts, and a lanky TD&H guy who likes to play games.

What GETS ME HOT? In this order:

1. Being topless on a sunny beach

2. Alcohol

3. Being topless in a hot tub

4. Quentin Tarantino movies

I don't know if you'd'a known this when I was six years old. Really, now!

"As if I didn't know my own head"

A Review of Wishful Drinking

Here's how Carrie Fisher hooks you in. She's really funny. She gives you the juicy stuff up front--electroshock, pills popped, Hollywood inbreeding, a dead guy, gay, in her bed--all in the form of finely-tuned one-liners.

So you could be in the basement of a bookstore in New Hampshire, say, waiting for a guy to pick you up on his way back from the hardware store, and you see Wishful Drinking among Harlequins, and it's better than reading about country barn restoration or the art of making maple syrup.

So there you are, cracking up out loud, alone on an antique fiddleback chair, thinking, I wish I had a best friend who was this funny! Maybe if I bring her book home, I can pretend for a day!

You sit with Carrie on a blanket in the field, shooting the breeze, laughing with abandon, until the shade comes in and the mosquitoes come out. This is the hardest part of the day, especially as it is only 3:00 p.m. But today it's easier, because you're still only on p. 99. Today you don't think about starting a beer, and it's a good thing, cuz you're plum out--you gave up beer yesterday as a way to lose a few pounds.

Now you're inside and the chapter is entitled "Sadness Squared." But do you take heed? No. You and Carrie curl up in a dark corner and bond. You are craving chocolate.

So this is how it happens. She hooks you with her humor, then gives you a mood wash, and before you know it, you're in the middle of a fight.

By the time my guy comes in from the woods, I've had a three-hour soak. Maybe I'm just a regular California gal who's weaning herself of sun, and friends, and coffee. I've never been diagnosed with anything--or at least anything they would tell me. Once, when I was 13, I overheard a doctor ask my mother if I was "high-strung," but he was an asshole. When my mother was out of the examining room he told me that I could be beautiful if I let him give me a nose job.

By this time we're in the country kitchen, carmelizing onions, me feeling so peppy and punchy I can't see the danger coming. I know enough to avoid serious discussions while low on blood sugar, but this wasn't personal. It was theoretical! philosophical! This was my question: Without actual chemical confirmation, how could you know whether you were bipolar, or merely had a mood disorder, or were highly creative? Huh? Huh? This conversation followed us to the fireplace.

Where I proceeded to entertain my lover with witticisms from Wishful Drinking. He saw a picture of Princess Lea and made a comment about how fun it must have been filming Star Wars. "How would you know?!" I challenged, my voice rising. "You have no idea what it's like to be an insecure 19-year-old girl who thinks she's fat, working with a sadistic director and a bunch of macho men!"

My guy is smart enough to know when to bow out and feign sleep on the couch. I finished the book by the fireplace and then went to bed, wishing I had some sleeping pills.

In the morning I woke up, and my first thought was, "Hey, I'm not Carrie Fisher!" My guy was back in bed with me. "I'm done with the book," I said. "I'm normal again." Not only is my lover a great singer-songwriter; now he knows what it's like to be Paul Simon. "Thank god," he said.

How to be a Pop Star

A Review of Faithfull

Be seventeen, blonde, big boobs. Be at a great party. Be willing.

Pose like a wallflower and spout non sequiturs when spoken to. Have sense enough to know who the big boys are. Be the last to leave.

Blow all your money on great clothes. Blow all your money on blow. Look great with his coat.

For thirty years live life as a movie. Think "Weekend at Bernie's" with Bernie played by Marianne. Come out of your coma with a mystique rather than a reputation.

It only took me a chapter to see how I'd blown my chance. At seventeen I had all the same stuff, but let's face it, I'd never be at the same party with Michael Stype, Jello Biafra, and Prince.

So I spent my youth teaching school and raising kids, and Marianne spent hers on smack. But she's lived to write about it, and she's not looking too bad. Still got most of her stuff, and she's got a generation on me.

I've got a great hat, and a hot set of go-go boots. Nowadays it's not so hard to run into Jello.

Please Don't Stop!

A Review of Slicklight by Matt Dean

First there was Snowcrash, now there's Slicklight. Or, should I say, first there was smack, then snow, then slick. And it's lit the streets of this salty harbor town.

Slick is easy: no snorting, no shooting up, just a drop under the tongue.

It's a mysterious futuristic drug--a psychedelic X, and it's great for sex, if you like to fuck for four thousand years with an 18-foot cast iron pipe. Yikes!

This is not chick-lit, girls, it's dick-lit. Hot and heavy as lead.

Slicklight is the first chapter of a serial e-book for young dudes. The author, Matt Dean, is bringing in a new tide of literary genre, "Young Dude Serial E-rotica," or YDSE.

Dean, an ironic socio-political blogger and Lambda Literary Award finalist, best known for his novel The River in Winter, has switched gears from earnest yearnings to the cutting edge of slippery time. All the women who love the novels of Matt Dean, Armistead Maupin, and Stephen McCauley may be left longing. But young, queer and curious dudes of the 21st may already be reading Slicklight on their iPad and waiting for the next installment or the next train out of town.

The action moves fast; in fact, it gallops, rattles, and rolls. Nael's a frizzy-haired, super-cool chode who says stuff like, "This ain't my first rodeo." And Barnaby's a young, game, skin-head top who likes to use a belt. They're stuck in the brack-waters of some forlorn shipyard, but all is well is Nael's bed.

A quick word search, by the second screen, will bring up "pickup," "clench," "thrust," "fist," and "just large enough for a man to slide through sideways."

But it's not all briny nihilism; a flicker of Dean's romantic side comes out in Barnaby, like when he spies an extra pillow in the mechanic's shed, or finishes Nael's phrases like they're show tunes. They may tackle instead of hug, but it's because they have so much energy!

Like Dean's new readership, the ADD generation. So, we want the next installment already! We're ready. We can't wait. You can't stop writing. Don't fucking stop!

Aether Or ...

A Review of the Introduction to
Swami Panchadasi's Clairvoyance & Occult Powers

Fe Fi Fo Fum, I smell the hoax of an Englishmun!

Oprah's been had again.

It turns out that her new Oprah's Book Club selection of 2011, Clairvoyance & Occult Powers, is riddled with secrets, pseudonyms, and far-fetched fabrications. This could prove a new embarrassment for Oprah, after the very public flap with James Frey, her underdog darling of 2006, whose inspirational memoir, A Million Little Pieces, proved to be a fake.

In this latest miff, Oprah had been a big champion of the hardscrabble Hindu who overcame his hardships with a regimen of positive thinking. Panchadasi had self-risen to the status of Swami, and published two books before his discovery by Oprah. Everything might have gone along swimmingly had not Weiser Books decided to print a new edition, and hire an investigative journalist to write the Introduction.

The journalist, Clint Marsh, who had a mild curiosity of the occult, was apparently drawn in too deep after discovering a rack of dusty mystical occult pamphlets by Panchadasi and others at the Psychic Eye in San Francisco. He'd stopped in during his lunch break, and after returning to his cubicle, the Psychic Eye turned back into a deli, never to be seen in the City again. But the pamphlets remained in Marsh's pocket, and thenceforth, strange and inexplicable "coincidences" began to occur, and thus began his life-long investigation into aephemeral phenomena.

As he researched the pamphlets, some mystical and aethereal, some practical and austere, the consistencies unnerved Marsh until he uncovered a big hoax--the Hindu mystic Swami Panchadasi was none other than a pen name for William Walker Atkinson, a businessman from Baltimore, Maryland. It turns out that Atkinson published under several other pseudoynms, including Swami Bhakta Vishita, Baba Bharata, Theodore Sheldon ("Vim Culture"), Dr. Seuss ("Horton Hears a Who"), Dr. Bronner ("All-One-God-Faith-Magic-Soap") and Yogi Ramacharaka. Most surprising, Atkinson had managed the Yankees baseball team under the pseudoynm Yogi Berra for years without a leak. Yogi Berra is famous for the sayings, "It ain't over 'til it's over" and "I shall change our vibrations in an inning."

Clint Marsh asked me to write a review of his Introduction, and a fine one I had written, with highflung praises and highlighted phrases. The intro was so enticing it drew me in deeper, and by a strange coincidence, I found myself in the Psychic Eye bookshop picking up a copy of Paul Auster's "New York Trilogy," which Wikipedia describes as "meta-detective-fiction" and "mysteries about mysteries." The protagonist is a "writer become private investigator who descends into madness" as he investigates a character's identity. The trilogy "explores the layers of identity and reality."

And that night, in an eerie dream, a red dwarf said to me, in backward talk, "Retsua Luap si Hsram Tnilc." And thus, the mystery of the Introducer's identity was solved, and this time, the hoax is on Weiser Books.