The very excellent theme of this here special issue, which was chosen by my really great editors, who are really very great, is that of death and dying. But if you ask me, death and dying are really a downer! Boo!
My objections duly disclosed, when I think of death, I think of everyone's favorite corpse: Mr. Harold Ezell. "Will," said I to my really smart and handsome editor, "we will be including in this here special issue our in-casket snapshot (taken by fearless photographer Jack Gould at great threat of harm to his cultured self) of the late INS chief who said, 'Illegal aliens shouldn't be deported; they should be deep fried,' won't we?" And yes, that's exactly how I talk. But Will said no! He said Harold Ezell didn't die this year, and that this issue was for this year's dead. So I said, "Well, but shouldn't we have like a dead people Hall of Fame, and it could be, like, him and Nixon? And some other dead people? And that way we can run that picture, which was taken in a spectacular moment of fearlessness, and Jack almost got his ass kicked by a bunch of big, beefy goons? It could be as famous as that in-casket picture of Lenin, where he looks just like Michael Jackson!" And Will still said no!
So I had to do some other thinking to come up with an idea for this here very-special column because I didn't want to go to run around nightclubs with my ass hanging out this week! I'm tired! I wanted to take my little buttercup of a son and go a-wassailing! Which is pronounced, "Woss'-uhl," not "wuh-sale'." You're welcome!
Well, I got to thinking, and I thought, "What is my very favorite kind of death?" What kind of death is even better than drowning, or being speared in the guts, or, as in Lethal Weapon 4, being speared in the guts while drowning and being choked with a big chain? So at the risk of coming off all Sex In the County on yer fine, firm--and might I say, very high and saucy?--asses, I would like to take the rest of this here extranifty column to ruminate on my very favorite kind of death: the Little Death. Really, the other forms of death don't even come close.
(I hate to sound like Anka Radakovich or--God forbid--Candace Bushnell. I mean, are they orphans? Don't they have parents or kindly old matching-leisure-suit-sporting friends of parents who don't want to read about their humptastic sexy lives? But when duty calls, and that duty is some yummy, happy sex talk, well, I have never been one to shirk, except for sometimes.)
Now, the Little Death means "orgasm" but sounds way better. It's a term the French came up with (properly, "le petit morte") one day when they weren't creating rich, delicious sauces to disguise the fact that they were too busy voulez vous couchaying to discover refrigeration for their rotting meat. And no, that's not a spectacularly gross euphemism for syphilis, at which the French are also quite talented. I'm talking about actual rotting meat.
It's been a good year for the Little Death, if you read Salon, which, face it, you stopped doing once they started charging for all their stories but the gossip (which seems to be recycled verbatim from the previous day's New York Post Page Six anyway). Yes, according to the free parts of Salon, peeps in New York City started sexing it up the moment the World Trade Center hit the pavement. Like this: "Oh! The world is ending! Sex me! Sex me!" I ask you: Is that any way to behave? Well, sure it is! But while people in New York were getting their ya-yas out, there was no concomitant up-sexing here on the Left Coast, unless you are my little brother, in which case you are inflicting yourself on the ladies (properly, "bizzatches") like you're Typhoid Mary. (The former "Cakeboy," recently turned 19, now goes by the name "Daddy." Twice. In six months. Do you see what happens when you don't get sex-ed, Reverend Robert Schuller?) But enough about us!
Let's take a long, penetrating look at some of the meatiest markets in our parts. Let's take, say, Club Rubber. Now, Club Rubber is full of fine ladies in thigh boots and G-strings, but even though they're all porn stars and strippers, they're still not having sex with you. It may look like an orgy, but it's really as sex-free as a Shaker meeting in there, if Shaker meetings had glowsticks and Eand maybe some girls making out. But making out is not sex, even when it's girl-on-girl. No, it isn't!
Or let's take the Pierce Street Annex. (Please!) If there's sex in Costa Mesa's venerable booty bar, it only comes courtesy of everyone's favorite odorless, colorless, tasteless drink-lively-upper, the great and powerful Rohypnol.
I would like to take this opportunity to state my position. I am in favor of more sex. More sex for you and for me, but not for you and me together. Come on, people! Even my mom has noticed that my generation is totally unable to connect romantically on any level--even on the level of anonymous, slathered-up goo-swapping. If you don't count my little brother.
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We're hermetically sealed and sanitized for our protection because we're so traumatized by our parents' divorces. Oh, and AIDS. I would also like to take this opportunity to blame the Internet. Just because.
So stop it already. Have the sex. Make the love. Pant and sweat and thrust and scream! Or if you have children who wake up easily (probably the effluvia of that time in your life when you actually had sex), then pant and sweat and thrust and just kind of whimper, which isn't at all the same thing. Make it your New Year's resolution. Once, my resolution was to go to more parties, and I totally did! Resolutions are fully realizable, if you don't resolve anything stupid or hard like going to the gym or quitting smoking.
We are worms' meat, Mercutio. Eat the worm.
CommieGirl99@hotmail.com. Thank you!