I can’t belive I forgot about this lovely page. Nothing better to do on Friday nights than play dress-up with your dolls. (No, that’s not a drug reference. Well, right now it’s not, anyway.)
Being the NAMBLA fan that I am (though not technically a chicken hawk), I just had to fire off a response to this irritating piece of drivel:
Dear Philip Guichard:
Thank you for your delightful article entitled “I Hate Older Men.” I thought it was extremely insightful for someone of your few years.
I particularly enjoyed your argument that man/boy relationships are inherently imbalanced. I have, indeed, found this to be true, but for slightly different reasons.
As a young lad growing up in the wilds of Mississippi, I was consistently drawn to older men–not because there were no boys my age who wished to knock the proverbial boots (there were quite a few, and quite a lot of hay in which to roll, too), but because these boys were lousy fucks. I got good head, good ass, and learned quite a bit of sexual technique from men three times my own age.
When I grew older, therefore, it seemed a matter of course that I would eventually have some sort of relationship with an older man. And I did. But in the end I found these relationships just as disappointing as the ones I’d had with boys my own age. The men’s considerable sexual prowess was entirely counteracted by their inevitable conservatism (these things happen as one ages) and, ultimately, vastly different life experiences.
So, I believe what I’m asking here is that you call a spade a spade: you’re simply not sexually attracted to older men. Point made. There’s no need to carry the argument any further and invalidate every man/boy relationship on the planet simply because you prefer to fuck your cohorts. In fact, given the chance to chat you up for ten minutes, I’m sure older men would find you to be very much like the article which you’ve chosen to share with the world: vapid, insipid, and terrifyingly limited in scope.
Cheers,
Richard
Did I take that too personally or what? What’s your take?
[NB: Due to the devastating coffee famine that has recently hit St. Roch Avenue, Richard has asked Lucy Pevensie to provide this morning’s blog.]
Hullo, there!
It’s me, Lucy! I’m so glad to see all of you. It’s been ever so long!
I’m currently hidden away at the back of a closet at my Aunt Alberta and Uncle Harold’s. Edmund and I have been sent here for a fortnight while mum and dad and Susan go on holiday in America. It’s not too dreadful, really, except for our tarsome cousin Eustace. He’s always creeping about with his nose in everything. The other day, Edmund and I were having a jolly good time under the bedclothes when Eustace came in and bloody spoiled everything. Luckily, Edmund’s very skilled at taking on boys and gave him a good wallop to the noggin. Eustace fell over and hit one of Aunt Alberta’s favorite ceramic badgers, and now he’s on the outs with her! Huzzah! Bully for Edmund!
Sitting here right now, I can hear Eustace going through my dresser drawers. Blast! He’s got quite a thing for my underclothes, I do say. Edmund thinks that’s quite alright–in fact he rather likes it when Eustace prances about in my knickers. (Sometimes the two of them together can be more dreadful than anything.) Edmund will oft-times encourage Eustace in his tomfoolery, strewing my clothes across the bedchamber and forcing Eustace to dress up in them, after which follows an interminable wrestling match. With all the roughhousing, it’s a bit of a stumper why Aunt Alberta hasn’t locked us in our room and fed us naught but suet pudding.
Well, I do believe I must be off. I don’t really want to cross paths with Cousin E., but I’m afraid I’ve no choice. Edmund seems to think Aslan will be coming for us soon and he said he wants to play another round of physician with Eustace and me before we shove off. Cheers, then!
Your faithful servant,
Lucy Pevensie
P.S. Richard has just told me he intends to post this on the world-wide inter-thingummy. How exciting! Ta!
This, on the other hand….
Um, okay, I know the site’s called Ugly People and all, but, well, is it just me or it there something oddly fascinating about this one? Like if Sissy Spacek were a little more ethereal? Maybe?
Or maybe not. Jonno has always said I have weird tastes–except, of course, for my choice in boyfiends.
My ass hurts. (No, you filthy-minded harridan, it has nothing to do with that.)
Okay, at the request of David Byrne, I have officially stopped making sense.
Bloggity blog blog blog. This salad is really delicious boyfriend. You’re aces in the kitchen! Blog Blog.
[ Which reminds me: I started getting wise to the teaching racket in about fifth grade. My teacher and her husband were best friends with my aunt and uncle, and they spent nearly every weekend camping and canoeing together, so I knew she couldn’t possibly have time to read my homework. One day in the middle of this essay on Mississippi history (zzzzzz), I wrote out a couple of verses of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and it came back with an “A.” It was kinda like learning the truth about Santa Claus, but more liberating.
On an unrelated note, now that I think about it, that teacher strikes me as a bit of a loose woman. I bet she and my uncle et al. were the pot-smokin’, wife-swappin’ type. That’s kinda hot, huh? (My uncle’s pretty hunky.) I should ask my aunt one day….
There I go again: showing my thoroughly Southern penchant for incest. ]
Whee! A tech day! We just got a kick-ass G4 lab for the students, so in an effort to give each faculty member her own computer, I’ve spent the entire morning and the better part of the afternoon hooking up some very weird looking G3s that were made for about a day and a half back in 1998 (the top of the all-in-one unit looks like the small of someone’s back–if someone’s back happened to be perforated opaque plastic) and a few LCIIIs with some very old StyleWriters and DeskJets and whatever else I could find lying around the school’s computer graveyard. I’m not the world’s best when it comes to doing hardware things like that; in fact, it can get pretty damn irritating. But once I demonstrated the ability to hook up a mouse, suddenly everyone else around me became helpless.
I mean, yeah, I like feeling needed (if not loved), but having to run across campus to fix a paper jam isn’t the kinda love I need.
Another day of work and domesticity. But instead of speaking about that special frisson I get running in and out of Robert’s (pronounced RO-bears–tell ’em, Jay) in under 30 minutes with a two-week supply of groceries in my basket, I think I’ll post something else…
About two years after leaving Millsaps, I experienced a nagging concern: I’d had so many good times in college, what if I forgot them all? So for x-mas that year, I bought each of my college chums a pen and a fancy notebook and asked them to write down their favorite Millsaps stories. Of course, in the end no one bothered to send me a damn thing, and I had to rely solely on my own foggy recollections.
[I try to reconcile this urge to remember with my equally strong resentment of nostalgia, and all I can come up with is that writing something down isn’t quite the same as reliving it. Like, when the written word became a widespread phenomenon several centuries BC, Greek philosphers lamented the death of memory, their logic being that once a story is written down, there’s no reason to remember it anymore. Translation: with my past written down, I can leave it there, not get bogged down in it. I think. Or maybe I’m just full of it.]
Gradually I pieced together a sort of history, fraught with drugs and sexcapades and hooliganism. I hope soon to surprise my buddies with a nice, clean hard copy of it all. (If any of you are reading this–and I don’t think you are–stop now.)
So, this is one of the silliest pieces from that work, but I kinda like it because I was reading Gertrude and Alice at the time I wrote it and I felt like I was channelling that deco-lesbo-lit vibe. Anyway, enjoy. Don’t worry: it’s short.
Ann Is Not a Vet
(after Ms. Stein)
I had a tarantula. It’s name was Arachne. “How original,” you say. It died. I put it inside the refrigerator. Later I took it back. I wanted my money back. They would not give me my money back, they would only give me more doomed pets. I chose guinea pigs.
I had to leave. My roommate Frank had to leave. We both had to leave to go other places. Ann was not my roommate. She did not have to leave. Ann would stay in Jackson. Ann said she would come by my apartment to look after my pet guinea pigs. I forget what their names were, the guinea pigs.
I came back from where I had been and my pets were in the refrigerator again. They were wrapped in foil. Ann was not to be seen. I called Ann at her apartment. “Ann, my pets are in the refrigerator,” I said. She said, “I know.” “Why are my guinea pigs in the refrigerator?” I said. She said, “Because they are dead.” I had assumed that. I assumed I would not get another refund on pets. The shopgirl would think I was an abusive parent and would give me no more animals.
“How did they die?” “Well, you see, I got here one day and one of them was dead and the other one didn’t look too good so I called the vet and he said that it was probably just constipated and that I should give it some roughage, lettuce or something, so I do and then it has diarrhea, and so I call the vet again and he says that a little Pepto Bismol should fix things, so I go out and I buy a bottle of Pepto and I feed it to the hamster—”
“Guinea pig.”
“Whatever, and I feed it, and it must have been too late because it died. Sorry.”
I doubted that. I doubted that a doctor had said to feed a guinea pig Pepto Bismol. I made her take me to dinner. And I kept the bottle of Pepto until it was empty. Ann is not a vet.
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