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I wrote me these suckers, too.


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Naked on Campus in January: I Hate it When That Happens (March 26, 2015)

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May 4, 2015

More Cocks in our Media Diet? Sure, Why Not.






Is that you, Jorah Mormont?



So there’s this controversy brewing (because “brewing” is what controversies enjoy doing in their leisure time) over the imbalance of nudity on cable series, with Game of Thrones cited as the worst offender. As GoT aims to surpass the late, lamented Spartacus in gratuitous tittage and female pubic zones displayed, the relative dearth of exposed man-meat grows all the more grating to some critics.

And no less a source than Jon Snow himself, Kit Harrington, has noted the need to be fair and balanced by introducing more trouser monsters (tunic trolls?) to the series, which thus far has given tubesteak aficionados little more to cheer about than one lingering shot of Theon Grayjoy’s ill-fated organ, unaccountably flaccid despite the highly qualified and naked sex worker standing right next to him, and a retina-searing glimpse of Hodor’s penis (his pet name for which is, predictably, “Hodor”). But even if you’re deep into the whole mentally-challenged-fictional-character fetish that’s sweeping the western world, this is clearly an inadequate sum total of dickage. (And Hodor’s reportedly was a prosthetic, to boot, though don’t try convincing him of that.)

One fails to glean from such criticisms one very critical point, however. Just which penis do the critics want to see? By this, I don’t mean the whole Jon Snow vs. Daario Naharis vs. Tyrion Lannister debate. I mean, which version of so-and-so’s penis. The Jekyll? Or the Hyde? The Cold Stone Creamery double-scoop? Or the Dairy Queen soft-serve? The Bruce Banner? Or the Hulk? Before going any further with this, what say we cool off by talking about tits for a while?

I’ve made this point previously on this site but it bears repeating here, if only to more quickly get me to my wordage target: The reason for the universal fascination with tits is the astonishing variation in size. Heterosexual males and lesbians love tits because we’re wired to love them; it is thus this variability factor that brings into the tit-loving tent that other half of humanity not inherently aroused by the female form and explains why an aerobically gay red-carpet reporter can’t resist honking Scarlett Johansson’s horn, whereas Melissa Rivers feels under no obligation to seize John Hamm by the hamhock.

It’s the only body part where one human (Kate Upton, say) can possess twenty times the volume of another (Kate Bosworth, say), and yet both said humans can be regarded not only as normal, but attractive. Imagine if that were true of some other random body part, such as kneecaps.

[End of self-plagiarism; thank you for not smoking.]

Or of penises, for that matter. It’s depressing enough for mere mortal like myself to occupy space in this world at the same time as Jack Napier’s cock does without having to contemplate someone wielding twenty times my volume. So, while the wonderful world of penises does have its own diversity (You don’t have to hang out all day on amateur porn sites to notice that, though it’s a fun day), the variation in mass doesn’t approach that of hooters, and thank God for small favors.

Then again, penises have a magic all their own that tits can never hope to mimic, and I’m not talking about their amazing capacity to produce a makeshift hair gel on short notice, though that is also pretty nifty if you think about it. I refer, instead, to the size variability built into each individual unit: the ability to quadruple in volume in a matter of seconds, while also changing direction, like a divining rod seeking buried moisture.

Yes, naked tits can also change in appearance owing to air temperature, arousal, etc., but Lena Dunham’s tits are still Lena Dunham’s tits in any and all circumstances; any person with a working knowledge of Lena Dunham’s tits will not fail to recognize them as such simply because the air conditioning is turned way up. Cocks, on the other hand, have this schizophrenic nature by which they can change into something that one's own mother would not recognize,* a change not only of appearance but of attitude.

If you’re a reasonably attractive young woman who owns a smartphone, then you’re probably out and about doing attractive-young-woman stuff and not reading this blog. But on the odd chance that you are an attractive young woman, a cursory glimpse at your phone messages will remind you of the way the vast majority of males like their penises displayed, and that way is full-mast, unfurled, in all its regal purplitude, proudly hailed by the dawn’s early light, and all that. Not the sad, pinkish, mild-mannered Droopy Dog version.

Presumably, cable TV actors feel the same way, and it is just that type of penis that Kit Harrington yearns to spring upon the world, such that Jon Snow would greet Ygritte beside the hot spring with, well, a hot spring. The question is, is that also the type of penis that female fans clamoring for more male nudity have in mind?

I really don’t know. Thought one of you might.






* Though, to be sure, the sudden and unexpected presence of one’s mother in a room is, for most of us, a surefire way of instantly reducing the unrecognizable penis back to its more placid and Mom-friendly state.





April 6, 2015

Oh Bill, for Heaven's Sake...







1st & 4th album covers. See it?




In the years 1963 through 1966, when I was seven to ten years old, my life revolved to no small extent around the doings of two titanic heroes then at the peak of their powers: Sandy Koufax and Bill Cosby. These two could do no wrong in my eyes, apart from their stubborn and selfish insistence on remaining, respectively, Jewish and black.

Koufax pitched—and willed—a Dodgers team with an offense more impotent than a Cialis-deprived Hugh Hefner to three World Series in four years, but when he refused to pitch the Series opener in ’65 because it fell on Yom Kippur, I felt like the “Say it ain’t so, Joe!” kid from the Black Sox scandal or a random Koch brother sadly watching yet another bought-and-paid-for Republican governor succumb to the siren call of Obamacare.

That he was still able to start three games in an eight-day span and win two of them –including the decisive seventh – with complete-game shutouts, all with constant arthritic pain, only slightly assuaged my deep-seated mistrust of Sandy’s nettlesome Hebreity.

As for Bill Cosby, my older brother purchased his first several comedy albums, which came out during that same decade. Much of his act consisted of ruminations on his childhood, some of which tickled me pink--a hue that I hoped my hero would someday aspire to. But what led me to play those LPs over and over was the hope that my prepubescent mind would somehow become able to crack the racy bits, which grew more common as his career progressed—e.g., the story about borrowing Midol from his landlady to alleviate a persistent toothache, and of course the now notorious “Spanish Fly” riff.

My mother would engage in aerobic tongue-clucking when she caught me playing such tracks and fake-laughing at them as if I got the innuendo (or even grasped what innuendo was), but her reaction only endeared me all the more to this articulate, effervescent storyteller whom I did so adore. If only, I would often muse, he weren’t so gosh-darned black.

But then one day I happened to line up those album covers on the living room rug. On the 1963 debut he was very dark, but then seemed to grow progressively more coffee-hued with each release. On some level, I surely must have understood that this was merely a function of lighting (and today I rather suspect deliberate retouching aimed at making the comic more welcome in the homes of closed-minded rural Midwesterners), but I talked myself out of that notion and into the more pleasing theory that, somehow, Bill Cosby was slowly whitening.

And so as the Sixties rolled on, ever more turbulent in the outside world but as quiet as ever in Mortonville, Illinois, I prayed occasionally for Sandy Koufax to renounce Judaism and Bill Cosby to abandon Negritude. To my pre-adolescent mind, having the one cast off the faith of his ancestors and the other adjust his melanin seemed a much less troublesome way to resolve my discomfort than for me to challenge my assumptions about enigmatic “others.” Talk about your white privilege.*

Over time, I somehow managed to continue admiring the two icons despite their genetic flaws, and now here they are both chugging along toward the big 8-0. Koufax mostly faded from view after his Hall of Fame ascension, but apart from a dust-up a while back in which he rejected rumors of gayness a little more forcefully than was called for, he has lived out an exemplary childhood hero’s life. And somewhere along the way, I made my peace with his obstinate Jewishness. I’m prepared to burst into heartfelt tears at a moment’s notice upon hearing that he has passed away. Been practicing for it, in fact.**

And then there’s Bill Cosby. Hoo boy.

Naturally, my eyes widened some dozen years ago when the first spate of accusations came out. The exact news items that I read at the time are, of course, long gone. All I can remember is bizarre terminology along the lines of “serial manual violation,” and the fact that his MO seemed insanely specific, almost OCD-like - at least in the reports that I remember reading. He would lay the drugged victim out on a sofa (and you just had to imagine the Huxtable living room sofa) and create a sort of double-bunned hotdog by wrapping her hand around his Fat Albert and then jerking it with his own hand while using his free one to grope her upper body.

It was, without question, a form of rape, but a weirdly ritualized one. And, to the extent that one can project oneself into the mind of a creature who thinks that all that is a perfectly acceptable thing to do to another human being, it made a diabolical sort of sense. Little cleanup was required. The victim would wake with no physical discomfort or sense of having been penetrated and perhaps only vague memories.

Over the decade following those initial accusations, as the reputations of Woody Allen and others went down in flames, Bill just kept steaming ahead. Whenever I would see him waddling off somewhere to make another speech excoriating young black men for their unslightly pants-wearing and other behaviors, I would squint at him and remind myself, “That guy likes to make unconscious ladies jerk him off,” and wonder why it didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

Of course, the more recent reports make clear that far, far more went on than this double-bunning and feel-copping business and that Bill Cosby is a full-blown monster who needs his hot dog chewed off piece by piece by gonnorrheic piranhas. Among the many condemnations that have been launched against him, there is a subgenre that attacks his art: He was never funny, they say, or Who on earth every laughed at his comedy? This line of attack incites within me a fleeting flicker of an urge to stick up for the man. I assure you, for prepubescent boys in the Sixties, Bill Cosby was a laugh riot when he wasn't going over our heads. But the operative word here is fleeting.***

For all I care, he can stay black, turn white, or break out in polka dots like a Katy Perry swimsuit. There will be no tears for Bill around here when he goes. Maybe some fake laughing, if I can muster it. Bill, I'm very disappointed in you.





*Then again, given the melanin-adjusting escapades of Michael Jackson and John Boehner in recent decades, how hard can it be?




** Sandy keeps himself so fit and buff that he stands a good chance of outlasting me. Always impeccably well-groomed, too. Hmm...




*** On the other hand, I'm all in with the not-funny crowd when it comes to The Cosby Show.

I forced myself to watch several episodes in search of materials that I could use in English classes, and came to know by heart the two that I selected for classroom use. (The one where Vanessa wants to give up the clarinet until Dizzy Gillespie shows up to practice with her, and the one where Denise sews Theo a shitty knock-off designer shirt.) The (predominantly female) students of NU loved Bill Cosby for his crisp, stentorian diction, which made him much easier to understand than any other sitcom character of the era. Ironically, the show's wholesome vibe vis-a-vis later options like Friends or Roseanne added to its appeal and kept me recycling it in classes as late as 2004.

For me, it was pretty excruciating. What few chortles The Cosby Show coaxed out of me were Theo-based, and even those moments didn't hold up very well after the fifteenth viewing.