Category: Life

I live in Long Beach, the biggest suburb of Los Angeles, unless you count San Diego.

Whenever you get in your car here, you are making a leap of faith. You are agreeing that a mutual desire on the part of you and all other drivers to survive the day is going to be adequate to keep the chaos on the roads from bringing a messy early end to your life. Because there is no way way in hell you can drive defensively enough to stay out of trouble if you don’t have the cooperation of pretty much everyone you run into encounter on the road. You’d have to stop every time you saw another car moving, so you’d get just about to the end of your driveway and that would be it for the day.

That would be OK with me – I could do about 75% of my job from home with a little planning. But I need food, so I have to go grocery shopping occasionally, and besides, The Man wouldn’t believe I was actually working if I didn’t show my pretty face around the office every day for eight hours or so. The notion that I must be involved in productive work just because they can see me couldn’t be farther from the truth, but hey – that’s what The Corporation wants to believe and who am I to say otherwise? Nobody, that’s who.

So I go out in my car and drive around places. A modest steel box with the power of 200 horses, hurtling down various streets and freeways within a few feet of other, usually bigger, steel boxes with even more horsepower, all of us assuming, hoping, sometimes praying, that all the rest of us will stay in our lanes, stop at the red lights and not try to merge into the exact same space that we are presently occupying.

Every now and then someone will execute a dangerous manuever right in front of me. I smile and offer a friendly gesture and a jaunty toot of my horn as I swerve violently to avoid disaster and the bloody mess that would ensue. Most of the time, these manuevers have some sort of reasoning behind them. Not smart thinking, exactly, but a clearly intended goal, like “Let’s make this left turn even though Jones is coming right at us and we will barely have time to get around the corner before he arrives – if he hits his brakes like right now.”

You see what I mean? Sure, it’s a stupid move and everyone could be killed, but at least you can see why the guy did it. Thus the friendly gesture.

But yesterday as I was driving home a woman drove her car out of a blind alley and despite my leaning on the horn and risking a head-on collision by pulling into the opposite lane, she just kept on coming and eventually there was nothing that could save us from bumping into each other.

Unlike in the example above, there didn’t seem to be any particular reason for her to do this. I would have been past her alley in another tenth of a second, and we both could have been on our ways. Oh, she could have stopped, if she’d been looking in front of her, where my bright red car was. In fact, for a second I thought she had stopped, in that way where you think the playground bully is only coming over to say hi, just before he punches you in the stomach and takes your lunch.

But instead of stopping, she just drove her car right into the side of my car and wrecked most of the right side of it. I know, you’re saying “My God, is Jones all right?” And yes, I’m fine. If you call paying my huge insurance deductible and renting a car for two weeks fine. Sure, I’m fine.

As my insurance agent said (because they all say this, don’t they?) “We can fix cars easily enough. People are a little harder.” And I suppose that’s true, but for about 24 hours I wished I were dead, instead of driving around in a wrecked car. I know what everybody’s thinking when they see me coming now: He was probably drunk. Pathetic loser. Look, he doesn’t even have the self-esteem to get his rattletrap repaired. Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to drive.

The shame. It makes me eager to spend all the rest of my money renting a nice new Chevy Lumina.

I was reading this story about how George W. Bush’s people are trying to book a hotel room in Austria for a summit meeting in June, but Mick Jagger’s already taken the room (because the Stones are playing there in June) and he won’t give it up. Of course I chuckled a bit, enjoying whatever frustration this might have cause The Decider in Chief.

But then I got to thinking, this room costs $5,000 per day! It’s reputed to be among the 100 best hotel rooms in the world, whatever that might mean. It has chandeliers and oil paintings. So what’s the President doing staying in a place like that? Is that right? I won’t even say how long I would have to work at my crummy job to make the amount of money Bush would spend on that room in one night (if he could book it, heh, heh…), but it seems to me that the head of a pluralistic democracy ought to be a little more careful with the taxpayers’ money. I mean, don’t you think?

And as long as I was thinking deep thoughts, this is what I pondered next: Mick Jagger staying in a $5,000 hotel room. Huh. Seems pretty cool at first. But work with me here. Mick’s been in the band for over forty years. They had it rough for maybe two years before what we now call The British Invasion. After that he was rich beyond any possible dream of a postwar working class Brit, and the party has never stopped.

For a few years there must have been a sense of unreality as the fame and money flowed in. Like any young guy with sudden unbelievable good fortune, he (and his bandmates) no doubt committed some excesses, although I’m not sure I ever believed that story about Keith Richard detoxing by having all his blood drained and replaced at a secret Swiss clinic in the seventies. I won’t go into all my suspicions. Let’s just say they probably tried everything at least once during those early years.

But it must have gotten progressively more difficult to be thrilled as time went on. How much blow can you do, how many groupies can you have, how many pairs of handmade Italian boots can you wear, how many Maseratis can you trash? And now here’s Mick, 40-plus years on, routinely staying at the Imperial Hotel in Vienna for $5,000 a day.

I’ve always thought I’d like to know how it feels to have more money than I’d know what to do with, and don’t get me wrong here: I think Jagger is smart enough to keep himself amused, but I wonder if sometimes, after everyone’s left and he’s alone sipping cognac in that room by the flickering light of a crystal chandelier, he doesn’t think back to the hardscrabble days, going to art school, buying imported American R&B 45’s, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and talking the night away with his friends about blues and babes.

Do you ever think about stuff like that?

(Click here to read Part 1.)

Sometimes you set out to make love, but you end up fucking.

Driving back to my place I took a big chance and made a friendly – but obscene – suggestion to a woman I had known for only a few hours. At the time I thought my intentions were good, but now I realize that she should have told me off, or smacked me good, or both. Maybe she let me get away with it because I was driving at the time. But I regret now, all these miles down the road, that I spoke to her like she was a whore.

I remember that she blushed, but that’s all I remember about the rest of the ride home, because my heart was pounding and my breath was short and I was sort of terrified about what was to come. It had taken most of my courage to make the play that I had made, and maybe Claudia was acting, but she hadn’t turned me down cold, hadn’t laughed at me. Still, I had used up most of my bravery, and now I had the feeling I imagine one gets before jumping out of an airplane: You have put yourself in this scary position, many have gone before, but the immediate future is hidden, there is real danger and no turning back.

When we got back to the house, her porno friends were there and everyone was deep in preparation to attend the awards show that evening. I was forced to meet everybody. I didn’t want to. It was three guys and I was jealous of all of them, though they were pleasant enough. Who was doing Claudia, I wondered. Probably all of them, simultaneously. She was easy and casual with them, just one of the boys. They knew her better than I did, and I was suddenly the outsider.

I hustled Claudia off to my room as soon as I could, but the spell was broken. We made out on the bed for a few minutes, of course, but it was rote, me staking my claim with mouth and hands and thighs. We didn’t know each other at all, and we made no real connection. I wondered if we ever would, or could. Eventually, all I had left to keep her there was the offer of a private place to get herself ready, and to make good on the offer I had to leave her alone.

I had a gig that night, but her event was scheduled to start hours before mine, so I hung out with the guys downstairs while Claudia Skye made herself even more desirable than she had been in her t-shirt, just that morning. It turned out none of them were doing her, and none of them much cared one way or the other. They were technical types, an editor, a cameraman and a hanger-on who must have done something, but I never found out what. None of them, including Claudia, were nominated for an award. I made conversation with them, though I wanted to dislike them because they routinely filmed Claudia – my Claudia – doing nasty things, and because it was their efforts that enabled the industry that paid her to do nasty things for the camera. I wanted to dislike them, but they were just a bunch of guys. They had some technical skills and they were using them to earn a living. You don’t set out to edit porno movies. I’m sure they would rather have been working on “The Godfather.” Hell, I was doing the same thing, playing Top 40 in bars, selling out.

I was miserable. In less than a day with Claudia, I had been distant and cool, friendly and helpful, bold and sexual, and now lovestruck and obsessed. I didn’t want her to be a porn star anymore. I wanted to run upstairs, drag her out of the shower and profess my love. Luckily, she appeared on the staircase before I could get that together.

Claudia was a natural, unconventional beauty. I can’t describe the effect she had achieved, but I vaguely recall that the homemade gown was off the shoulder there, slit way up the side here, plunging way the heck down there and completely backless. She was all accessorized and coordinated, with dangly earrings, matching choker, high-heeled sandals. The impossibly luxurious blonde hair was in some kind of sophisticated upsweep, accentuating her long neck. She hadn’t tried to hide her flat chest, or push it up or in or out. I loved that about her, and the fact that she was unconcerned that in her heels she’d be taller than many men.

When it was time for them to go I walked with her to the door, not wanting her to leave. At the last possible second, with the boys already out to the street and getting in the car, she turned and gave me that quizzical smile. I leaned in and she kissed me, not a goodbye kiss.

“See you tonight?” I couldn’t tell if it was a question, but yeah, I’d see her tonight, name the time and place. When she turned to go, carrying her wrap because it was a warm evening, the last thing I saw was the wash of freckles across her shoulder blades.

\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_

I was dreaming of Claudia Skye. Her long legs, her high cheekbones, the storm of blonde hair on the pillow. We were wrapping our arms around each other and pressing ourselves together all the way to our toes, and any slight movement of thigh or shoulder was sending electric shocks through us. We teased and tickled, stroked and tormented. We came together and did what we always do – we used each other. To satisfy urges, assuage needs. We owned each other for a few hours, and we tasted and touched every inch of new terrain that fell beneath us.

I rose early in the morning, and watched Claudia sleep. There had been a lot of screaming. I wondered if she was acting. I wondered how I measured up. In a lifetime I wouldn’t gain as much experience as Claudia already had. She had a lot to compare me with, and I wondered what my score would be. If she gave me a score, would she tell me? I thought about her job. I had barely been able to let her go to a party. How would I feel when she was going to a shoot? I looked at lovely Claudia, and I thought of these things, and I let my fingers brush, ever so lightly, a few of the freckles on her shoulder.

Then I went downstairs to make some coffee.

When I went downstairs on Saturday morning there was a porn star in my living room.

She was wearing a not-very-naughty oversized t-shirt, sitting on the couch reading a magazine. I knew she was a porn star because I knew that porno movie people would be staying at our house for the weekend. They had evidently arrived the night before while I was working, and they were all sleeping by the time I got home at 3 AM. But now it was 11 AM and the crowd was gone and I was alone with Claudia Skye.

She probably thought she was alone in the house, since her companions and my roommates had all left, but when she saw me on the open staircase she didn’t look surprised. She put down her reading, gave me a quizzical smile and said “Hi, I’m Claudia.” (I’m making up the name Claudia Skye, because I’m not going to tell you her real porno name, or even the fake “real” name she later gave me.)

I got to the foot of the stairs and went over to where she was sitting. I told her who I was and tried to act like I wasn’t all that excited to be there with her. I quickly verified that yes, she was a porn star in town for the porno movie awards show (And yes, there is such a thing.). To demonstrate my nonchalance I went into the kitchen and made coffee, continuing an intemittent conversation in a voice loud enough for her to hear me from 40 feet away. After a while she got up and came into the kitchen with me, and I watched her walk, framed by the big picture window behind her.

Claudia wasn’t built the way I thought a porn star would be. She was lean and tall and hard, and her chest was, well, boyish. But she had a splendid long mane of thick blonde hair and major curves from the midsection on down. Still, nothing about her said “I have sex on cue, for money, while people watch.” She didn’t walk like a vamp, and her smile was fresh and straightforward. I was enthralled.

She needed a belt, and this was how I could spend more time with her, which is what I wanted to do. She had made her own gown to wear to the awards banquet that night, but it required a belt or a sash or some such accessory. She may have showed me the gown. I honestly can’t remember. But I remember that her friends had gone out, she was “stranded” in Hollywood, needing to shop, and I had a car.

She made me feel like it was my idea, to take her down to Hollywood Boulevard, find a boutique where she could acquire the belt, have some lunch, read some of the stars embedded in the sidewalk there. She was very sweet when I offerred, as if certain that I must have better things to do, and she was an unexpected burden. By this time I would have fought anyone who tried to stop me.

And so we drove and talked and shopped and ate. She found her belt and bought it, not at a boutique after all, but a big department store, one of the ones that no longer exists. She told me she was too old to be a real porn star: 27, close to my age. I told her I was too old to be a real rock star. We were both telling the truth, at least then.

We only had a few hours before the evening’s event, and I wasn’t invited. I was falling in love, anyway, and the last thing I wanted was to see Claudia with her porno friends. I figured she’d act different with them, skanky or something, and I didn’t want to be there for that. So when the shopping and the walking and the talking and the eating was finished, and we were driving back up the winding road to my house, she asked me what I wanted to do next. I wanted to give her a gift, something special, and I didn’t have much in those days. I took a deep breath, looked her right in the eyes and said I wanted to go down on her until she screamed.

She actually blushed.

The precious, lovely girl with the frank smile and the curvy hips and the husky voice blushed at my vulgar suggestion, and didn’t say no. There’s more, and I’ll tell it soon.

Click here to read Part 2.

Just a quick one.

I want to get this in tonight, before Pops gets hold of it.

We all know that God works in mysterious ways. We hear it every time a tornado demolishes another mobile home park in Oklahoma. Amazingly, one trailer is always untouched, surrounded by horrifying devastation. The folks who lost everything are always consoled by hearing of God’s Mysterious Ways. We can’t comprehend the methods of the Lord. Or maybe the nicest, hardest-working guy at your job gets fired for being late because he stopped on his way to work to help an old lady change a tire on the freeway. A crippled old lady. No doubt God has plans for that young man, big plans, but since he’s working in Mysterious Ways, we can’t see them, or we think they don’t make any sense. Or, if you’re a Democrat, every four years your serious, experienced and thoughtful candidate gets trounced by some yahoo in a plaid Howdy Doody shirt, and you have to think – say it with me – Mysterious Ways.

As mysterious as these occurrences are, as opaque and unfathomable, they are flickering shadows on the wall of the cave compared to this crazy thing discovered by German scientists. I mean, tell the truth, did you ever think in your wildest peyote-induced fantasy that the ultimate salvation of the human race would come from the balls of mice? That’s right, German mouse testicle researchers have shown us that you can probably get stem cells from sperm-producing cells in your testicles. Stem cells, you’ll recall from recent congressional debate, are cells that can morph into any other kind of cell in your body, thus they can be used to rejuvenate your burned-out liver after fifty years of heavy drinking, not to mention grow new heart valves and eyeballs and restore damaged nerves and brain cells. They are – dare I say it? – the fountain of youth!

Trouble is, up to now the main source of them has been embryos, and no one wants to violate the sanctity of the embryo, right? Luckily for them (the embryos), the defenders of the rights of citizens who have no voice, primarily because they are undifferentiated cells who live in petri dishes, have managed to stymie any serious progress in the field of stem cell research, which leaves that tantalizing fountain of youth miracle just out of reach.

Enter the mouseball boys from the Georg-August-University of Göttingen. Through an elaborate process, undertaken who-knows-why, they have discovered that they can get stem cells from mouse testicles. Of course it’s not likely these cells will work in humans, but it’s only a matter of time before they get hold of some guy’s testicles and start to demonstrate that there are stem cells there, too.

What this means is that the ethical dilemna (or political pandering, you decide) of using embryos to obtain stem cells will evaporate, stem cells will become plentiful, research will forge ahead and guys like Alan Greenspan will start to look and feel young again.

Of course, this will only work if you happen to have testicles. Sorry girls. God works in mysterious ways.

OK, I am the Oldest Blogger and everything, and maybe I’m getting a little crotchety,

but I have a request, and I hope you’ll all take it in the warm spirit with which it is asked and not get insulted or anything, because God knows I have very little social capital left and I certainly don’t want to squander it on a careless remark. And of course I am not addressing those Precious Few who actually look me up and read this blog on any kind of regular basis, because you are exempt at all times from any criticism here.

But to the rest of you, would you please stop saying “the internets” when you mean “the internet?” Yes, I know, it’s a joke. I get it. You’re misusing the word intentionally, acting like a goober to bring into sharp focus the fact that you are anything but. And oh, how witty and sophisticated it was, the first time. Yes, I got quite a chuckle out of it, the first time I saw it on somebody’s blog, who shall remain nameless.

But it’s old now, people. Get a new joke. Unlike the one about the penguin and the dish of vanilla ice cream, this one is not funny every time. And if you have a blog, there is nothing you can do to convince the world that you are not a geek.

Anyway, that’s it. Oh, one more thing. While you’re at it could you also stop using periods between.every.fucking.word? You know, to add emphasis? We are writing, aren’t we, and we should think of writerly ways to add emphasis. Unless you’re a teenage girl. If you’re a teenage girl, you are probably required to do that period-between-every-word thing at least twice in every post, because, OMG, that’s the way you talk!

Really, that’s all I need to be completely happy in life, so think of the power you hold, to cheer me. And next time you’re writing one of your trademark witty posts, weigh it against the nanosecond of pleasure you’ll get from writing internets.

Not worth it, is it?

Have you ever been walking along the road, minding your own business, and then you get hit by a truck?

Man I hate it when that happens. It’s bad enough when the thing is moving fast, like sixty miles an hour or more. I mean, one second you’re strollin’ along, wondering if there’s a convenience store anywhere up ahead, trying to decide if you’d rather have an RC or an Orange Crush, and the next second – wham! – and you’re like, “Oh, shit!”

Probably you’re more like “!!!” because at that moment when the grille of that big rig smacks you in the back at sixty miles an hour, fifty thousand pounds of hot iron, your brain doesn’t even have time to form the simplest epithet, because it happens in a microsecond, or some real short period of time, hardly worth mentioning. However long (I mean short) it is, that’s how long it takes for most of your bones to be shattered and your spinal column severed, and now you’re flying through the air like a loose-packed sack of buckwheat, only with blood and squishy things leaking out.

So you fly for maybe 200 feet and then you hit the ground, but you’re still moving pretty fast, and with all your bones broken you can’t really stop yourself from flipping and flopping like a rag doll along the gravel for another fifty or so feet, decorating the roadside with red designs of your own blood, and the last thought you have is “Jeez, this is going to take a lot of rehab.”

And that’s if it hits you fast.

If it hits you slow, like thirty miles an hour, then half the time you get hooked on something, and instead of flying, you get dragged along. Usually there’s not as much bone-breaking, so you struggle a little to get free, but all that happens is you manage to get yourself under the truck with your torn pants caught in the front axle and the rest of your clothes ripping and burning off as you scrape along at thirty miles an hour, asphalt against skin, and believe me, the skin is not winning this one.

If you’re like me, when something like this happens you say to yourself, “I am definitely going to be more careful the next time I am walking out here on the road. I am going to walk on the left side so I can see the traffic coming, I am going to stay way the hell off to the side and I am going to wear reflective clothing at night, because that is the last time I am going to get hit by a truck.”

Amen, brothers and sisters.

My name is Larry, and I am a cilantroholic.

My story is probably not that much different from yours. I had my first taste of cilantro at a Thai restaurant in Hollywood. I went there with a friend who wanted me to try the Tom Ka Gai – spicy soup made from coconut milk, with chicken, lemon grass and “thai bird” chiles. He thought it would be hot enough to burn off the top of my head, and it was, but this particular Thai restaurant had a secret ingredient, and as I ate my soup, the cilantro spoke to me.

I didn’t know what it was that first time, but the exotic flavor intoxicated me. With each sip I fell more in love, and I determined right then that I had to have more. I asked the server what was that unusual flavor, but the language barrier was insurmountable that day. Frustrated, I had to leave the restaurant unenlightened. For weeks I tried to discover the magic ingredient, asking everyone I knew who cooked.

I went to the spice section in grocery stores and lingered there, reading labels. If I couldn’t identify the spice from the label, I bought it and took it home to test (damn those tamper-proof caps). It seems foolish now, but I didn’t know what form it came in – what else could I do?

Then one day at a California Cuisine/Southwestern-Style/Mexican Restaurant/Grill in Laguna Beach, there it was again. This time it was in a salad, so when that special flavor zapped my taste buds I was able to pick through the greenery until I found the source. I held it up to the waiter and demanded to know what it was.

“It is cilantro, senor. Mexican parsley.”

Never mind that it’s Chinese parsley. The important thing was that now I knew what it was, and I could go out on my own and score some of it.

At first I used it sparingly. I chopped it up finely and sprinkled it daintily on salads. I put a little in burritos, a dash of it in soups. As my tolerance grew, I began to chop it not so finely, and use more and more of it. When dining out I pored over menus, looking for dishes that might contain cilantro. If I ordered something that I thought was going to have some in it, I’d get belligerent if it didn’t. I embarrassed my friends, making ugly scenes in bistros all over town.

If I didn’t have my cilantro for a couple of days, I became moody and unpredictable. When I was out of my supply I’d visit friends and ask if they wanted to do a few leaves, hoping they’d break out their stash. More often than not, if they did, I’d finish it off before I left. Gradually, the invitations stopped.

I started to hide cilantro in different places – the storeroom at work, in the trunk of the car, on a high shelf out in the garage – so I could sneak away and have some on the sly, and not have to share.

My work began to suffer. At lunch, I’d drive half way across town to go to the original Thai restaurant where I’d first tasted my sweet, sweet cilantro, and end up taking a three-hour lunch break. I couldn’t keep a girlfriend, because no one wanted to be around that much cilantro. To hell with ’em.

Eventually I dropped all pretense of sophistication. I’d go to the Farmer’s Market and buy nothing but cilantro, big bags of it, fresh, pungent and inviting. Sometimes I wouldn’t even wait to get home and wash it – I’d just grab handfuls of it and stuff it in my mouth as I was driving. Dangerous? Sure, but I didn’t care. I would consume it so fast I’d barely taste it, and yet I only wanted more. I wasn’t getting the same kick I used to, no matter how much I ate.

I told myself that I wasn’t one of those – an addict – that I could quit any time. And I did. I quit many times. Once I white-knuckled it for two months, the worst 60 days of my life. I know now that I can’t do it alone. I’m powerless against cilantro. Some people can have it once in a while, enjoy it and get on with their lives. But my kind – we think “If a little is good, a whole bunch will be better.”

I was clean for almost a year, until tonight. Tonight I made myself a pita wrap. I browned some ground beef, grated some cheese, and then I remembered I’d eaten the last pita for lunch. I headed out to the grocery store, and that’s the last thing I recall.

When I woke up on the kitchen floor, the pita was there, and the cheese and the meat. Tell-tale leaves were plastered around my mouth. The only sign of the cilantro I must have bought before I blacked out was a few stems and an extra-large plastic bag. My breath reeked of cilantro.

My name is Larry, and I’m still a cilantroholic.

I was listening to a segment on NPR’s “Day to Day” earlier this week,

about Muslim families in a Muslim community in Fremont, California. It was concerning real estate. Specifically, how hard it is for these Muslim families to find a home that allows for proper protection of the modesty of the women. One house-hunting husband, whose wife is kept covered head to toe whenever anybody’s around, said he was looking for what all good Muslims were looking for: a floor plan that would allow his wife to get from the bedroom to the kitchen or bathroom without being seen by guests. So they have to buy bigger homes than non-Muslims, so they will have enough space to create the convoluted back passageways necessary to keep the wifey’s skin private, and it turns out that – surprise! – bigger houses cost more.

Way to keep the womenfolk in their place, Muslim dudes! They won’t be gettin’ uppity and competing with you, will they? Not if they can’t even walk past a visitor in the living room. Keep them in the labyrinth in the back of the house, going to and fro between the bedroom, the kitchen and maybe the laundry room. The hiding will prevent any confusion as to who’s boss, and the covering up should act as a constant reminder of the lowly position of women.

Clearly, this is the order that Allah intends. Otherwise why make men so much stronger and more intelligent than women? Oh, sure, some spoilsports might raise the issue of fairness, or the equality and “dignity” of all people, but these people are inspired by Satan, and besides, they are exactly the non-mahrem men you need to protect the women from in the first place.

OK, I know my sarcastic attitude will offend some of the 1.3 billion Muslims in the world, but I hope they will be able to take solace in the fact that I’m pretty offensive to everyone, particularly those with harsh and rigid religious beliefs. And in any case, Muslims, think how much easier it will be for you to take over the world and kill all the infidels if you get your women – fifty percent of you, remember – into the act.

Suggested reading: Hijab Basics: The Requirements of the Muslim Woman’s Dress

So it seems Benedict XVI is coming down squarely on the side of getting it on.

I say you go, Ben! As a sexually repressed former Catholic, imagine my surprise and relief on reading Pope Benedict’s new encyclical, “Deus Caritas Est” (God is Love), a teaching letter in which he encourages men and women to say “yes” to their bodily natures. “Love,” says the Pontiff. “…we cannot simply abandon it. We must take it up again, purify it and give back to it its original splendor.” Yes! This is his first encyclical, the one that most Pope-watchers say will set the tone for a new pope’s entire reign, and indeed Benedict has said that he wants Love to be the keystone of his papacy.

So this guy is going to be The Pope of Love. This comes as kind of a surprise because remember, his previous job in the Church was as the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, known historically as The Inquisition. This led some of us to think maybe he would become the Pope of Bondage and Discipline, but certainly no one expected the Love Pope. I mean, in this letter His Holiness actually goes so far as to say sex “…is, indeed, ecstasy…” Naughty Pope! Of course, he goes and spoils it a little by adding that it must be between a married man and his wife, and yes, the wife has to be a woman, and there is to be no “intoxication” and there has to be “self-sacrificing love” or else the whole thing is degrading.

Still, I have to hand it to the guy. He’s been celibate for like 60 years. There’s a pretty good chance he can’t remember the last time he did the nasty, and yet the first thing he writes as Pope is this cheerful guide to “ecstasy.” We may be starting to see a thaw in Holy Mother Church. In the next five hundred years I fully expect to see a softening in her stance on sexy lingerie.

Worn, of course, within the sacrament of Holy Matrimony. By the woman.