Happy Easter!

I have taken it upon myself to explain the meaning behind Easter - for those of you who don't know that Bible all that well, this is how it goes:

Today is the day that Jesus rode a hot air balloon into space one million years ago.  Days before his adventure, Jesus was killed after getting into a bar brawl with a motor cycle club called the Hell's Angels.  Jesus was talking to one of the Hell's Angel's old ladies and that really pissed some people off.  So, the

President of the MC punched Jesus  in the face until his face fell off.  The MC then took Jesus' body to a lake, strapped cement blocks to his feet and dumped it.

Then out of nowhere, a large rabbit, who could walk on water, ran into the lake and picked Jesus' body out of the water.  To the rabbit's surprise, Jesus was still alive.  So, the rabbit took Jesus back to the bunny trail and nursed him back to life with chocolate eggs.  There was one problem, Jesus still didn't have a face.  So, the town of rabbits all pitched in and bought Jesus a new face.  But, because the rabbits loved joking around, they hid Jesus' new face behind a tree and made him hunt for it.

2 days later, the Wizard of Oz and Glenda, the good witch, showed up in a hot air balloon.  The entire lollypop guild and the town of bunnies were so excited about the visit that they offered Jesus up for a sacrifice.  But, in true crazy rabbit  fashion, this was just a joke and everyone had a good laugh. 

Oz then gave Jesus his hot air balloon and told him to "have a good time".   So, Jesus entered space into the balloons GPS and off he went.  The rabbits, the guild, Oz and Glenda all waved goodbye to Jesus and that was the last anyone saw of him.

Some scientists thinks that he is living on one of Jupiter's moons, some think that he left the Milky Way all together.  I personally think that he is back on Earth, living in Montana and is working as a river guide.

And that, my friends, is the story of Easter.

picture taken from sodahead.com

CAR TROUBLE

By Lisa Harmon

Sunday was the day from hell, but I won't bore you with the details, let's jump right into me electrocuting my car.

The new phone charger didn't light up when I put it in my car's lighter. I saw a piece of paper in there (I think). I used a tire gauge that was conveniently located in my glove compartment to get the paper out. That's when I electrocuted my car. Spark, flash, paper burned, wisp of smoke, electrocuted car. They can't put you in jail if it was an accident, right?

No radio, no clock, and no horn. No big deal. I've just got to get home. I turn east on 58^th street.  In the right lane there's a car that is on fire. Not smoking. Burning. Large flames and clouds of toxic black smoke. That is what I could see from the back of the block.

 

 

Everyone is in the backed up in left lane, what with the fire and all in the right lane. Finally I'm halfway up the block and there's only one car left in front of me. I'm waiting for him to drive and he panics. He's sitting there, not taking either option – straight up the left lane (the light was green) or left turn into a pedestrian plaza that went through to 59th street. He just froze. And I'm right behind him with nowhere to go, black chemical smoke engulfing my car.

I'm furiously banging on my horn that doesn't work. I roll down my window (manually, thank you very much – my car is old) and I yell - “LET'S GO!” That did the trick and we both got out of there.

When I got home, I told the Super how I had an awful day and how I ACCIDENTALLY electrocuted my car, and he said he'd take a look at it. I was pleasantly surprised that it was fixable!  He was able to fix it! I had only blown a fuse.

He said “Lisa, it was very simple. I looked at the owner's manual and it said there was a tool in the glove box to change the fuse. I used the tool, changed the fuse, and everything works.”

I was incredulous. I said “You mean to tell me that you read the manual, followed the instructions, and it worked and everything is fixed? I CAN'T believe that!”

The Super said, it was the simplest thing to do. He said that's what I should have done. I should have approached the problem asking myself “What's the simplest way to fix this?” I said “I did, I asked you.”

Have a Good Friday!

By Samantha DeRose

Well, Easter is upon us and I'm reminded of one thing.  The Rowe-Manse Emporium.  Yes.  That's right.  Every knick-knack, fad gadget, gourmet food, lingerie, perfume, lottery ticket purchasing person in the Northeast would flock to The Rowe-Manse Emporium, the specialty department store, this time of year to find the perfect holiday-time  treat.  Jelly Belly Jelly Beans, Peeps, Cheese shaped like Ducks, Chicks, & Baby Lambs, chocolate bunnies, Kosher for Passover items, you name it.  The Rowe-Manse Emporium had it.

I started my career at TRME when I was a wee child of, hmm, I guess four years old when my father placed me in an advertisement* for the World's Largest Chocolate Bunny sold where?  You guessed it. Only at The Rowe-Manse Emporium.  "Samantha couldn't believe her eyes.  A bunny like this doesn't happen along every day," read the ad.  I still have it somewhere, laminated but  I'm not going to fumble around my attic for it because, well, have you seen my attic?  Oh, wait.  I just went next door to my parents' house and guess who had it?  God bless 'em, my mom and dad.*

The awesome part of the ad was that it made me famous the first year that it ran.  I was in kindergarten.  After that, the store kept running the ad year after year, and let's just say that by the time I was in Junior High and was mercilessly tortured for pretty much just breathing, the ad gave my tormentors more fodder when one kind soul found it in the paper, ripped it out, and brought it to school for Christopher Columbus Junior High's section 7-8 to view. (This person is a facebook friend of mine.  Why?  I have no idea.)  Who knew?  But that's beside the point.

Seems that my whole family and all of my friends were employed by The RME at one point or another. *My father, a freelance graphic designer and commercial artist, provided The Emporium with advertising for 30+ years (* you'll be happy to know that, while I was at their house this morning, my parents pulled out all of the ads in which my father utilized his "free models", aka his children, throughout the years.  Seriously.  You should have seen them an hour ago.  To my horror - truly, parents have a very distorted version of what their children look like because I was downright bizarre looking - they reminisced, "Oh, Art, look at this one!" and "Sandy, weren't they just adorable?").   My Aunt Linda worked at the store before moving to Connecticut.  My sister worked the penny candy register and gourmet cheese department through high school.  My best friend, Marygrace, (you all know her very well by now) spent quality time working the register in the Men's Department.  But my brother and I had THE most glamorous jobs OF THEM ALL!  Wait for it.  Wait for it...

Kids under 6 don't read this next part.

My brother was the department store Easter Bunny every Easter (in addition to working as a stock boy and as a cashier amidst the holiday frenzy).  I could never understand why he would come home so PISSED after working as the jolly EB.  How AWESOME OF A JOB IS THAT, getting paid to spread love and springtime Easter joy to all, thought I, a child of 12 waiting with bated breath for a real job of my own!

He'd come home muttering like an insane person about jelly beans, screaming kids, sweating under the enormous bunny head that, inside, rose to temperatures one might find in Arizona or on the sun.  I'd laugh and laugh and laugh at him, mocking him, making countless Big Bunny jokes...until...

That is NOT my brother, as I could not find the photo - which does exist somewhere- but you get the idea

I turned 16 years old and became the store's department store holiday reindeer.  Yes.  Rodney the Reindeer, a Hallmark promotional item in 1986.  And Rowe-Manse Emporium had the real, life-sized deal, waving at patrons of the store every weekend (Rodney was paid $50/weekend),  from Thanksgiving until Christmas.  Only my costume was larger, bulkier, and much, much warmer inside than my brother's Big Bunny suit.  And my brother was oh, so pleased.  Seems that I had had my comeuppance.

Oh, how he'd relish in my stories of screaming brats kicking me in the shins because they realized that I was not a real reindeer once they spied my Sperry Top Sider shoes.  "THAT'S NOT A REAL REINDEER!  IT'S WEARING SHOES!"  BAM!  A shot to the shins. And let me tell you.  Those little f*&^ers wore some pointy shoes!

Furthermore, Rodney wasn't allowed to speak, therefore, no one knew that it was 16-year-old girl under the brown fleece, stuffed body and GI-NORMOUS head.  Just so happens that one fine afternoon, an older, trampier female employee with adult onset acne (which I have now) approached Rodney and said in a seductive tone, "Well, hellooo theerrree, Rodneeeeey.  Wanna know a secret?  I've never made it with a reindeer."

THAT'S IT!  I finally had to break character and replied in my 16-year old, near heat-stroke, girl voice, "Well, don't count on this reindeer to help you out, lady."  Shut that tramp right up.

My brother had a month's worth of laughter at my expense.  And I learned a lesson:

Be kind to the bunny at the mall.  People, you just have no idea!

Happy Spring, everyone!

PS, I'm involved in a creative writing project & writing a longer version of the Rodney experience.  I'll post it when it's complete.

Black Glitterati Here I Come by Rhonda Hansome

When we left off last week:  During my expensive one-on-one session with the Casting Director at the top of my “To Meet, Impress, And Star In Her Next Project” list, my thoughts wandered in my head like an unleashed puppy in a brisket boutique.     

Even with random bouts of severe childhood asthma I’d never missed a day of school or assignment from kindergarten to 8^th grade.  I had been not just a girl scout but my troop leader. 

 “Always be prepared”, was more than a motto, for me it was a way of life.  So why today was I not prepared for my appointment with this woman, Twinkie Byrd who on IMDb has 33 films listed after her designation, Casting Director?  Do I present a 2 minute monologue, dazzle her in a-be-myself interview or ace a cold reading for my few minutes with Twinkie?  Yes, Twinkie is her name – google her!  I was flummoxed by her cool, commanding beauty and distracted by the silence that consumed the tiny studio in which we sat. She finally stopped marking my resume which under her pen began to look like a Basquiat reproduction.

Hold up, hold up!  Did she just ask me where I saw myself?  “In the scene when a Fellini movie gets really weird?” would have escaped my lips if I’d not been preoccupied with a fulminating stroll down memory 

(If /Then) lane.

               

If after yet another 2^nd (or 3^rd!) meeting regarding collaborating with a writer, I finally mentioned a Letter Of Agreement and got a baffled expression in response or if one more person (who asked me to direct her project) said, “Oh, I’ve never paid a director before.”  I was going to; well really Passion (not just another one of seven voices in my head, but a fully functioning physical manifestation of a theater director diva with her own business cards, curriculum vitae and website: www.DirectedByPassion.com) Passion was going to throw that AUDELCO Board of Directors Outstanding Pioneer Award out the window.  Wait, that can’t happen because I never actually got the physical Outstanding Pioneer Award!  Outstanding is great!  Award is great!  Was it the word pioneer that made the accolade sound like I was an ancient theatrical Harriet Tubman?  

  

Yes, like TV adds 10 pounds, the honor of pioneer adds three decades.  But leave it to my lack of daddy love to compel my accepting the tribute, mostly to get a long coveted football size crystal like gewgaw engraved with my name.  I stuffed my ambivalent feelings about the AUDELCO Award in my rococo emotional armoire, already filled with conflicting sentiments, regrets and unanswered questions about my father; like who is he, why did he abandon me, and how 40 years later do I finally get the court appointed child support from a man who’s been dead and buried for more than a decade? 

I navigated the twinkling staircase on the stage of Harlem’s premiere performance space, Aaron Davis Hall (now Harlem Stage) in front of hundreds in the audience to receive my award.  No one actually mentioned to me or to the fashionably attired thespian filled auditorium, what I’d done to achieve the status of Outstanding Pioneer.  Most of these theater folk didn’t even know I did stand-up comedy, and here I was on stage overwhelmed by the (long desired and yet now surprisingly) vague recognition Passion was finally receiving from her theater community.  More importantly, that jewel faceted award, that I had viewed with envy in the home or office of a black glitterati, would be concrete confirmation of my stellar sensibilities as a director.  

Little did I know, the ceremonial object I got on stage was purely ceremonial.  With applause resounding, I exited to the wings and the glittering bauble was snatched from my hands by a harried assistant stage manager.  In a surreal flash I went from being overcome with gratitude to WTF???  Stunned and empty handed I somehow found my way home with no engraved gem like AUDELCO Award,  no plaque, not even a paper certificate saying the honor had been bestowed.  Twinkie’s repeated question brought my attention back to the present and our interview.  “Where do I see myself?”  Empty handed, on the sidelines, in the dust watching erstwhile comedy pals

                             

get guffaws and applause on TV.

To be continued…

You Want A Piece of Me?

You Want A Piece of Me? 

 

Over a year ago, I was invited to a Facebook group concerned with racial equality by someone I knew when I was a teenager.  Though we had parted ways way back then, it wasn’t due to disliking each other.  So over time in this group, we’ve all been experiencing each other in an intellectual, often heated, way regarding government, racial harmony and disharmony, the election, and all kinds of matters like that.  Sometimes, I just need to post something like this:

In the spirit of racial equality, these can be equally problematic.

People were amused.  The man who invited me there was quite tickled.  One woman said she was stunned that I posted it.  I responded by saying I was glad I still surprise.  But the longer I thought about it, I felt like it was the same old story.  If people meet one in an intellectual setting, it often shocks them that it isn’t all one is.  Yet no one is just one thing.  We are complex beings.

It reminded me of a college boyfriend who met me during the summer when I was partying.  When the next semester began, he knew I was going nuts to get a certain book that was hard to find.  He told me it probably wouldn’t count for a huge part of the grade, or something like that.  I said that if the professor wanted us to read it, I felt there may be something in there that I’m supposed to know.  He looked shocked and said, “What a serious student you are!”  I was surprised that he was surprised.  I lived on a top-floor walk-up apartment, often ate cream cheese sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and had to be my own parents basically.  No one was bringing me meals or doing my laundry.  I wasn’t able to join clubs in college or be in plays, as I had to run to jobs to get by.  I was in college on purpose, not because others expected me to go or because I had nothing else to do.  I needed to know things.  I guess someone meeting me getting drunk at a party made it hard to imagine I was hungry for knowledge that could help me make sense of what I had lived to that point.

Recently, a woman I like a lot wrote and directed a staged reading of a play she is working on.  I did what I could to help promote it, I attended it, and I participated in the audience discussion session.  Later, when some of us were in the lobby, she, two other women, and I were talking about it all.  I knew she had been anxious about the large cast getting it together and about audience attending.  So I said, “I’m so glad your cast did a good job and that the room was pretty full in terms of audience turnout.  And you look really nice in makeup.”  Apparently that was a big no-no to the other two women.  They looked away and shook their heads like I had said and your pussy smells great too or something like that. 

So for all of those who think I am such a feminist and so judgmental and blah blah blah, let me make this clear.  I did not trade in my physical self for my intellect.  I did not trade in my intellect to be sexy and appealing to men who need women to be or at least play stupid.  I own my intellectual self, my emotional self, my sexuality, my physical appeal, and my spirituality… which means I am intelligent and do not hide it or boast about it but try to use it for good, I cry and rejoice and feel really happy and really sad, I laugh big, I get horny and wish more physically appealing available men were grown and not stuck in 7^th grade about these matters,  I enjoy being pretty and sexy and love not having to be either as I enjoy the freedom to look crappy too, and I feel connected to most beings in spite of the disconnected society in which I live.  I am equally offended by atheists who laugh at the faith others have as I am by religious folks who expect everyone to agree with and be ruled by their beliefs.  I have been called “extreme” regarding teaching issues by a woman who is married to another woman.  She didn’t call me “extreme” when I argued with a religious colleague for the gay woman’s right to marry.  Everyone likes my sensitive, humane, and strong beliefs when it supports them. 



As some of you may imagine since I am who I am and my students are adults, not only do I welcome their whole selves when they come to class, I respond with my whole self as well.  So my students feel free to tell me things that other teachers may frown upon.  What I get as a result is a much deeper relationship and the truth.  I’d rather hear an honest “I was hung over” than a bullshit “My aunt died” because I can work with the truth.  My students are human beings to me just like friends or family are.  So I don’t do things to them or talk at them, but rather with them.  I give them the respect I’d want.  Everyone is a human being as worthy as any other human being is not a new concept to me.  My mother instilled my sense of humanity, and not by lecture or research or any nauseating middle class pretense of political correctness.  (Don’t take offense if it doesn’t apply to you.)

So yes, I am a feminist, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to look good.  (I like when men and streets and gardens and my apartment look good too.)  Being a feminist doesn’t mean I won’t acknowledge a friend looking fancier than her everyday look.  However, I do think the amount of national attention on Michelle Obama’s bangs is symptomatic of something that needs further examination. 



I don’t yearn to be a stereotype of any kind just to have company.  I yearn to be the best human being I can be given the cards I was dealt in life. 

And yes, if this woman were someone I know, I’d tell her, “Damn, you look good!”

I was mainly raised by my grandmother.  Her focus on looks was more than average.  Though I disagreed with her much of the time on this and other issues, you didn’t grow up female in my grandma’s house without a sense of vanity.  Though she passed some years ago, I can still hear her disapproval when I go outside without lipstick. 

My grandma was widowed in her early sixties.  Years later, I used to suggest she date.  Her reaction was typically, “What are you talking about?! What do I need a man for now?  At this age, they want a nursemaid.  I don’t want to be anyone’s nursemaid.”  I insisted that I wasn’t talking about marriage or about needing.  I’d suggest she enjoy a movie or dinner with a man.  Just dating.  I guess that was not something she considered.  When she grew up, you find a man to marry (not necessarily to enjoy), so you wouldn’t be an “old maid.”  You have sex only with that person so you don’t get considered a “whore.”  You have sex with that person whether you want to or not as your “wifely duty.”  I’m sometimes amazed at how many women didn’t kill themselves.  

I feel the need to include that my grandfather was a good man and crucial in my early life, but in some ways, I think I got to know him better than she did.  If we want a healthy society, forcing/pressuring people into certain lifestyles is not the way.  We enter the world whole and shouldn't be made to fall to pieces.

Anyway, when listening to this beautiful young woman with her beautiful voice, I thought of my grandma who also had a beautiful but I-don’t-think-nurtured singing voice, and I thought of how happily NOT married I am.  It lifted my mood, so I offer the same to you.

 

 

 

VACATION PART TWO – THIS TIME ITS PERSONAL!

By Lisa Harmon

When we left off last, dear reader(s), we had just finished part one of our vacation – an exciting trip to Daytona Beach for Bike Week.

But the fun was just beginning – because the second half of the vacation was on the horizon – the family part!

We were grumpy and tired after a grueling ride south.
 

Sunday was a birthday party for twin one-year olds.  We packed into my Mom's car with gifts, an address, and a GPS.  It was a long drive but you don't even notice in a Caddy after four days of nothing but the bike!
 

The party was in a private house in Miami. I didn't see much of the inside, but they had a huge property with an outdoor kitchen, and a beautiful swimming pool which included a rock water-slide. This is the kind of place I'm going to buy after my first three HBO specials, and I'll never have to travel again. I'll be swimming in the pool, my husband will be grilling burgers and I'll be living in my own private Idaho. This is my fantasy. To get everything I want on my own property so I can have fun without ever having to see another human being besides my husband ever again. Is that wrong?

The party was just like any old family party – the B.O. Boys off to the side, playing dominoes.  We've always called these old guys the B.O. Boys, ever since my Pops' weekly pinochle game when four of his buddies would come over and stink up our house with their cigars and armpits. You have to understand, these guys were not just old, they were old school, and they thought deodorant was for girls.  My grandmother would give them coffee and Entenmann's, and then she, and my brother and I would clear the hell out.  Thankfully for this party we were all seated outside.
 

The old ladies sat inside, with the air conditioning and the TV on.  We didn't see much of them.  I suspect they didn't want to be handed an energetic baby to hold.

We survived the party, with the dancing babies, and the bouncy castle we couldn't bounce in.  Not because we're too fat, because all the teenagers were hanging out in there looking at their phones.

The next day everyone came over to my Mom's.  After everyone left, the Super, my Mother and I all collapsed on the couch.

Luckily we got our second wind, and headed to the casino, because who needs all that heavy cash weighing them down?

Everyone ran over to the slots and started playing and I told myself it couldn't hurt to watch the blackjack table.

The dealer couldn't stop busting. Every hand, bust, bust, bust. Everyone at the table was racking up. I sat down. I started playing. I started winning. This girl could not stop busting. Even when she was giving me fours, twos and sixes up, I knew she would bust, and she did.  I left there up two and half times what I stared with!  It was totally worth that guy next to me chain-smoking Newports.  What's a little carcinogen when you're making good money?

The next day we went to the pool – still too cold to swim, but not too cold to sit there and read Enter Talking by Joan Rivers. Oh, ladies of she so funny, if you think we're having a hard time, please read this book! Back then ladies had to hide their smarts and their sense of humor. I never would have made it! Probably none of us would!

Finally it was time to go home. I took my Mother and her friend to lunch (goodbye Seminole casino winnings) and we headed to the airport.

When we got home the cats must have been too tired to yell at us, and we slept in our own, soft, comfortable, giant bed. And for once I was happy to be home.

Impatient Yearnings By Rhonda Hansome

When we left off last week:  I had only two minutes remaining in my five minute session alone with this noted black casting director.  I ignored the rambunctious voice in my head.  It was only Martha Baily Burnett’s histrionics about the $8.00 per minute I’d paid to see Twinkie, being more than many these days make an hour.  After successfully locking Martha in a rococo armoire, I took a very expensive moment to consider Twinkie’s arresting question.  Where do I see myself?  $4.00 worth of seconds later, I had nothing but rolling tumble weeds and the chirp of crickets to block the sound of Martha Bailey Burnett’s outsized clown shoes kicking the armoire door.  Nothing, zippo, goose egg, nada my recent all-purpose (too frequent) response to a major life question.  How can I answer Twinkie about the present when I’m preoccupied pondering questions from the past?  Like, why did I stop performing stand-up?  

What could be better than filling arenas with laughter while opening for musical stars like Diana Ross, Anita Baker, James Brown and Aretha Franklin; 

                                                                                                    

working out new material on the main stage in Catskills resorts  

and Las Vegas casinos, the bonhomie of hilarious co-workers combined with free drinks?  Well, a lucrative three picture deal, my own hit TV show headed to syndication and never ending residuals or at least a string of financially rewarding failed pilots while I awaited lightning in a bottle.  I dreamed of being so successful that my comedy laurels would allow me to appear on any and every late night national talk show, promoting my latest movie, Broadway appearance or (tax sheltered) not-for –profit foundation, and never even crack a joke.  Perfectly styled and coiffed, I’d sit and reminisce with the host about our recent golf game (I don't golf but I can dream can't I?) , our early days in comedy clubs or my banner behavior of a comedy genius in full mental breakdown: running naked down Sunset Blvd. waving a gun.  

“NEVER GONNA HAPPEN!” screamed Impatient Yearnings, a strident voice (among the seven) in my head.  Impatient Yearnings don't fool around.  She'd soon stride into my long gathering fog of marital angst and with Amazon strength toss a three decade marriage out the door.  Anyway, with uncanny expertise, she took advantage of my (admittedly short sighted) professional frustrations and single handedly cast a seventeen year comedy career adrift.  With my Brooklyn College School of Performing Arts B.A. assisted by additional training (Lincoln Center Directors Lab, Women's Project Directors' Forum, SDC, Frank Silvera Writers Workshop Directors, etc) as a serious director, I jumped from the lion’s den of comedy into the shark tank, NYC theatre.  I cast my net Off- Broadway, umm, Off-Off- Broadway; OK - a community playhouse hidden in the Roy Wilkins recreation center in Jamaica, NY.  Who knew in spite of my extensive theatre experience, I’d spend the coming years competing with new to NY fledgling director wanna-be’s, for non- paying positions! Where do I see myself?  I see me choking Impatient Yearnings.

To be continued...

Clitoral Comments Collage

 

Last week's post (A Gift for Vagina Owners & Vagina Visitors) resulted in many interesting comments which I am sharing below, without names of course. It also resulted in much silence. We've got a long way to go, baby.

 

 

Dear Mindy,
A great She So Funny.  Into the light!  Of course!  And the video was wonderful.  Will forward...awesome.

Love to you,

……

(in a later email from the same writer)

and my vagina thanks you!

….

Mindy, you rock!  You speak up on behalf of all us vagina owners.  Here's to all us fierce vagina owners!

….

go girl!!!

….

AMAZING Article if I was female I would have cried.  But am a man, loved the gay bathroom story ending Aww! I wish you didn't attach that clip with the vagina drawing.  I mean it’s been awhile since you know...LOL Thanks for sharing

….

I bookmarked it on my phone for future ref   #VagTime:-)

….

my vagina is your best friend!

….

Thank you so much for the "education" Mindy!  I liked the way she drew it to "The Flight of the Bumblebee" music, and as she drew it, it seemed to start out as a caricature of a one eyed penguin, and then morphed into that wonderful bloom that we all know and love.  It's too bad that so many people have no idea where to get an instruction manual.....or listen.

….

Saints preserve us.  I am still recovering from reconstructed vagina.  Does male genitalia get equal time?  Please say no.  Don't take it wrong, but I'm not sure what the purpose of the video is.  Maybe some things are better not so specific?

….
I read your work. You write well.
I watched the video... you might be impressed that I knew all of that (thanks to my ex wife.. a medical student and model)... it was fun and cute!!
…..

8,000 nerve endings indeed!  Betty has been preaching for a long time.  Hopefully not mostly to the choir.  Thanks Mindy!

….

remind me never to tell you about certain nerve endings...

….

Well, Mindy- you certainly raised some stimulating conversation, lol!

….

Thanks for the artful biology lesson Mindy. I really enjoyed it. I hope we get to see you soon.
…..

your blogs are very ...human, and rich with humanity.  and that very coy, yet sly humor that you do so well.  i love this.….

….

WOW, now I totally understand why most intense orgasms have been clitoris to clitoris. I was confused because I literally felt like I was having a full blown erection. I always attributed it to having a large clitoris (a true gift...lol), but now I KNOW!!! Woohoo.

You and I are quite similar. If it needs to be said, IT NEEDS TO BE SAID. To hell w/what the oppressors might think. Yes there are consequences when you shout out THE EMPEROR IS NAKED and he has a tiny dick too!

Thanks for sharing in sooooo many ways. Love you!

US History 101

By Samantha DeRose

Conversations with a Significant Other Who is not From this Country, Part 1:

Non-Native-Born-American:  Hey, I just read an article about that Lincoln chap.

Native-Born-American:  Huh?

NNBA: That Abraham Lincoln chap.  Seems he was a bit of an ahhsshole.

NBA:  WHAT?!?!

NNBA:  Yes.  I just read an interview with Daniel Day Lewis who played him in the movie.  He said he was an ahhsshole and deserved what he got.

NBA:  Um, I've read quite a few biographies on Lincoln and I've never heard anything like that.

NNBA:  Well, that's not what it says in this ah-ticle.

NBA:  Give me that.  What are you reading?  YOU'RE READING THE ONION.  YOU REALIZE THIS IS A FAKE NEWS WEBSITE?

NNBA:  So he wasn't an ahhsshole?

NBA:  Do we have anything stronger than wine?

EXTREME LOVE

I SURVIVED BIKE WEEK!

By Lisa Harmon, Biker Comic

I survived Daytona Bike Week! With the Super! Just made it! Do you want to talk about drowning in testosterone? Yesterday the Super said to me, “You’re hard core.” That’s right, even he had to recognize. We really ride! We put seven hundred and sixty miles on that rented Harley. Five hundred was the round trip from Ft. Lauderdale to Ormond-By-The-Sea where our hotel was. We packed a week’s worth of activities into three days and we ate more pork sandwiches than is humanly possible.

We just did the two hundred and fifty mile return trip today. That’s why my blog is so late! I apologize.

The only thing that sustains you on a long motorcycle ride up 95 North is the modern retro-oasis known as Cracker Barrel. I’m pretty sure the whole reason I agreed to do the ride was so I could eat at Cracker Barrel and peruse all the stuff they have to buy there. I never buy anything at the store anyway, except sometimes some Buckeyes, but traveling with saddle bags means no extras and unpredictable weather means no chocolate! Damn!

Well we made it to Daytona, went to our hotel room and turned on the heat. No, that’s not a sexy euphemism. We turned the heat on, to eighty. Heat is an integral part of a motorcycle vacation in March in Daytona Beach. I have never attended a warm bike week, though I’ve heard tell of them. I don’t really believe it. We froze our asses off.

The next day the temperature dropped, but we rode the entire day. By 7:30 we were finishing dinner about twenty-five miles from our hotel and only six miles from an open mic. I wanted to do it and meet some local comics but when I found out that the mic wasn’t till nine o’clock, I cancelled. The thought of riding over thirty miles back at ten or eleven at night gave us chills on top of our chills.

Our room was right on the beach and we had beautiful views of the crazies wearing their bathing suits and swimming in the fifty degree weather. Our hotel was great, clean, and included free breakfast, and best of all lots and lots of HEAT.

Thankfully it warmed up the next day and I was ready for an iced coffee. Off to McDonald’s. Back in the day, it was near impossible to find iced coffee on vacation. If there were no Dunkin Donuts’ there were no iced coffees. Finally McDonald’s has it, and you can get good iced coffee anywhere. I mean, anyplace will make it for you - they’ll pour hot coffee over ice, but that tastes like crap. I got to McDonald’s and got my delicious iced coffee but more than that, I came away from McDonald’s with an answer to that age old question: Is the Shamrock Shake minty or just a vanilla shake with food coloring in it? Turns out, it is minty. I may have to order one someday but for now my curiosity is satisfied. I ask the hard-hitting questions my reader(s) want to know! You’re welcome.

The second half of our vacation starts now, the family half. If a week of bike fumes, macho jerks, freezing temperatures and deep-fried foods doesn’t get you, three days with family surely will. Stay tuned next week - for vacation, part two. This time its personal!