Pre-Code sex: just cattin' around

Me-OW! Me-ow, me-OW! Chow-chow-chow, meow-meow-meow-meow, and all that stuff.  Well, at least it's not a dog parade. There's something about a bunch of wiggly chorus girls from the '30s pretending to be kitties in fur costumes. It's just. . . surreal. Ruby Keeler in particular is a strange one: not pretty (at all), not charismatic, an atrocious actress and singer, and only a so-so dancer. Must've banged the boss or something.

I watched most of this movie (Footlight Parade) while in a glazed state (just plain tired). It sort of slunk by me in a surreal haze, and I kept on watching it cuz it had James Cagney in it and I've always found him interesting, if a bit frightening. Now HE had all the things Keeler lacked, and was a fair dancer in an odd, stiff-legged way when he played George M. Cohan. He was even prettier than she was, with those heavy-lidded, bedroomy eyes that promised a good slapping around. Then again, pickled herring would be prettier than she was.

This movie was astonishing in that it had multiple Busby Berkeley numbers staged in such venues as giant swimming pools, a Shanghai brothel and an entire hotel full of couples trying to conceive babies. These numbers were all performed live at movie theatres - in fact, the whole entourage had to rush from one theatre to another - to warm up the audience as an opening act for the film.

That meant they had to pack up 57 floors of a hotel in the back of a truck, drag an Olympic-size pool with water in it around with them and scrape together a brothel  as they zazzed from movie theatre to movie theatre, maybe collaring a couple of extra chippies along the way. Nobody asked how they fit all that stuff on a stage that wasn't even that big cuz it wasn't meant for live shows. Not THIS kind of live show anyway. All that water would've warped the floor boards.

This whole thing was coy and jiggly and obviously pre-Code with its references to prostitution, extramarital sex and various kinds of hoochy-koochy. The costumes were brief and filmy and nipples figured large. Within a year the iron gates would have clanged shut on all that bloody sex nonsense. Tarzan still wore his loincloth, but Jane was clad in something like a gym suit and kept referring to T. as her "husband". (So who married them - Cheetah?).

I've made a bit of a study of the Tarzan films - oh God, stop me please, it's late. I'm surprised the second one (Tarzan and his Mate) was even released, as it had a highly erotic nude swimming scene that's well worth seeing.  Jane seems to be living in a kind of sexual reverie with her big ol' ape. But in the third one, the gym suit one, there is a scene in which the filmmakers somehow got around all the rules.

Jane is (supposedly) about to go back to England to sort out her inheritance, so is saying goodbye to Tarzan (reassuring him that she will be back "when the moon makes safari three times"). She's sitting on the ground and he suddenly looms up in front of her. Weismuller couldn't act his way out of a paper bag full of bananas, but physical presence he had, and a sinuous leopardlike jungle tread that was compelling and even a bit disturbing to watch.

Anyway, he gives her what looks like a gardenia. Then she begins to lie back with a look on her face that's complex - it's almost fear, but also anticipation and awe - and a big shadow falls over her and then the camera pans to the river beside her. As her hand slowly opens the gardenia drops into the water and rushes away.

Well, any ninny with 3/4 of a brain knew that they made love, and any ninny with 3/4 of a brain would wonder what that would be like with a big ol' ape man who is basically an animal. In other words, the scene was much more erotically charged than all the jiggles n' giggles of pre-Code fluff.

But what WOULD it be like with Tarzan? Did Jane school him in the ways of erotic delight, or did he just. . . .I'm going to bed now. Jeez.

 

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book

    It took me years to write, will you take a look

Order The Glass Character from:

Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA

Barnes & Noble

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-glass-character-margaret-gunning/1117863913?ean=9781927068885

Thistledown Press

http://www.thistledownpress.com/html/search/genre/Fiction/the_glass_character_p580.cfm

Chapters/Indigo
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. . . while we're busy making other plans

We had the Olympics on in the background most of the time, well, at least part of the time, and I kept wanting to see the equestrian events (the only thing that interests me, besides, I will admit, those young male divers with Speedos that barely cover the essentials). Somehow they never came on, though I recorded great six-hour swaths in the middle of the night.

I was eating dinner and blathering on to my husband about something, when I heard some music, Land of Hope and Glory I think, and turned my head and saw a dark horse.

I wasn't paying half-attention, but I should have been, and after a while my nattering grew less and my attention grew more until I was completely magnetized.

This wasn't a horse. This was some Astaire or Baryshnikov of equitation. He was putting his feet down precisely on each beat of the music. But it wasn't just that. His footfall had a - what, a softness? Softness mixed with sureness, or was it those incredible liquid knees? 


It was hard to believe what I was seeing. The commentator, some English lady who droned on interminably during all the dressage events with her ENDLESS technical nit-picking, wasn't saying very much because I think even she was a bit taken aback.

The music went all over the place (Elgar, James Bond, the Olympic theme) sort of like figure-skating music, but this horse (and rider - let's not forget - she's not just sitting there any more than an orchestra conductor stands up there and waves his arms) seemed to defy the laws of nature. The English lady kept commenting on how smooth his tail was, a river of silk, none of that irritable swishing that seems to indicate the horse wants to get this bloody business over with and get back to the barn for his victory oats.

By the time I was really paying attention to it, it was almost over. The Big Ben chiming accompanied by impeccable, Lippizaner-style pirouettes especially seemed to get to people, maybe because it was so quintessentially English.

Anyway, it took me days to find a full video of this that wasn't shot from a million miles away in the stadium, accompanied by "Ohhh, look at that!" "Isn't he marvelous?" etc.  (One had DREADFUL rock music in place of that amazing score.) This one isn't perfect and seizes and pixillates in places - oh, I hope it doesn't break down altogether. But you get the feeling of it, those instinctively rhythmic hoofbeats: well, not entirely instinctive.

Some say dressage moves just utilize the natural gaits of horses, but I really don't see it. Yes, a wild stallion may prance around, but only when he feels like it or is being territorial. Not many wild horses step in time to the music or execute perfect pirouettes, though it's true that most of them can turn on a dime to escape a predator. So maybe the seeds are there.

I don't know how they get horses to do this except through patient training and a relationship between horse and rider that reflects millennia of close communication.  How I wish now that I had watched more and blathered less, because I haven't seen a video that precisely reflects the performance I saw on TV. Or sort of saw. It was a humbling, shocking reminder of how the most remarkable moments get away from us, happening and unhappening in the one-way flow of time while we're busy doing something else.

Some day, when I'm awfully low

"Never Gonna Dance" music by Jerome Kern and words by Dorothy Fields

Though I'm left without a penny, The wolf was discreet. He left me my feet. And so, I put them down on anything But the la belle, La perfectly swell romance. Never gonna dance. Never gonna dance. Only gonna love. Never gonna dance.   Have I a heart that acts like a heart, Or is it a crazy drum, Beating the weird tattoos Of the St. Louis Blues? Have I two eyes to see your two eyes Or see myself on my toes Dancing to radios Or Major Edward Bowes? Though I'm left without a penny, The wolf was discreet. He left me my feet. And so, I put them down on anything But the la belle, La perfectly swell romance. Never gonna dance. Never gonna dance. Only gonna love. Never gonna dance.   I'll put my shoes on beautiful trees. I'll give my rhythm back to the breeze. My dinner clothes may dine where they please, For all I really want is you.   And to Groucho Marx I give my cravat. To Harpo goes my shiny silk hat. And to heaven, I give a vow To adore you. I'm starting now To be much more positive. That....   Though I'm left without my Penny, The wolf was not smart. He left me my heart. And so, I cannot go for anything But the la belle, La perfectly swell romance. Never gonna dance. Never gonna dance. Only gonna love you. Never gonna dance. http://www.glamamor.com/2012/02/cinema-style-file-fred-astaire-and.html (Best movie photos EVER!)

FOUND! The author of That Really Dumb Psychology Test

Here in all his grainy glory is the original author of That Really Dumb Psychology Test we all took in high school (the one with the bear and the cup and the dada-dada-dada). Or didn't, but should have because it revealed so much about ourselves, to ourselves. The proof: just look at the blackboard behind his head as he holds up that egg (egg??): it says "CHOLOGY 101". Unless chology is a scientific discipline I haven't heard of, it's plain that this guy wasn't just an ordinary chemistry teacher whose students (like Archie) blew things up in the lab.

He even has a Wiki entry all his own:
Mr. Flutesnoot is a fictional character from the Archie Comics books.

Mr. Flutesnoot is a chemistry professor (he has also been shown teaching music and history as well). Although to a lesser level than Hiram Lodge and Mr. Weatherbee, he is sometimes the victim of Archie's ever-present accidents (in particular when Archie blows up the school's chemistry lab).

Occasionally, Mr. Flutesnoot will run into trouble when dealing with his scientific finds. In one comic, Moose gains the ability to predict the weather from sunspot activity. The sunspot effect wears off right as Moose predicts sunny weather for the next day's meteorological picnic, so Flutesnoot makes a fool out of himself when a thunderstorm comes instead.

Another time, Flutesnoot's satellite dish picks up a signal he believes to be of extraterrestrial origin, but he later discovers that the sound is from an audio tape running backwards. However, at the end of the story, there is, in fact, a rock band of aliens singing exactly the same words.

Skinny and aging, Professor Flutesnoot sports an extremely prominent nose (hence his name) and tufts of curly white hair at his temples (but is otherwise bald). Before Professor Flutesnoot appeared, Archie comics featured a similarly designed character named Mr. Fluteweed (a music teacher). Professor Flutesnoot may have evolved from Mr. Fluteweed.

Now, don't get too excited here because there is an alternate explanation: my friend Matt Paust insists that the author of That Really Dumb  Psychology Test is the guidance counselor from Funky Winkerbean, Fred Fairgood (and not, as Matt told me, Feelgood, which I personally prefer anyway because wasn't that really his mandate?). Since Winkerbean is just a slightly updated version of Archie, it stands to reason.

Other candidates include Albert Ellis (the sex guy), Erich Fromm (the other sex guy), Carl Rogers (known as "Mr." to his friends), and the redoubtable Carol Gilligan, whose most famous diagnostic test posed the existential question, "Would you rather be Ginger or Mary Ann?"

Turn to this blog, folks, for the Answers.

(Oh, and. Have you ever noticed that both Gilligan's Island and Archie have two babes with opposing personalities, one wholesome and one sexy? But in this case the brunette is the sexy one. Go figure.)

Bob Dylan: ace of hearts

So what can I say about Bob Dylan? Flat-out nothing, because there is no one and nothing like him. As if he's the Taj Mahal, or Abraham-fuckin'-Lincoln or something.

No hip has ever been hipster. Who knew what went on in his head. A flying spin of songs, a spin-dry of flying relationships. Sometimes we knew all about him, somehow we knew nothing. Not much of a core except a glowing fire-winged sycamore tree that burned but was not consumed.

You could touch him but you couldn't. He could smile but he wouldn't. Nobody had such cool hair, such hands. He was an e. e. cummings poem except supremer. He was the joujou doll of the universe.

Some say Bob Dylan still arises, still sails. I see a picture now and again as he gets older, and more and more things are hung around his neck. Might as well take them, as his effort has been Olympian, while - all the while - he made it look easy. Some say all them medals is going to get too heavy one o these days and he will tip over, hopefully on stage where I think he will breathe his last breath. I mean this in the most respectest and possiblist way.

'Skinda-a weird, the attitude-ta fame, cuzzadafact that he sought it and bought it, still tours and tours and tours, but never seemed to care two pygmyburgers about it, as if he could take it or leave it alone, as if he'd still write his songs if nobody listened to them, but I don't know whether to believe him. Would Charles Dickens be Charles Dickens if nobody flippin' heard of him? Didn't think so.

I won't get into his lifelong relationship with La Baez, folktresse supersupreme. She's like a peace pizza with everything. Whenever I see an interview with him he talks about her, and whenever I see an interview with her she talks about him. They are beginning to look like each other now with those never-say-die eyes and the peachfuzz skin of youth stretched and seamed like very fine kidskin leather. They were kids together, and wasn't it awfully hard on Suze? Did he really have any morals at all? Did she? They just took. They did. The entitlement of being extraordinary? Or a drug to make it all bearable?

I can say no benediction more than a man, amen, amayhn, amayhhhn, ahmehhhhhhnnnnnn.

WHERE did this goddamn thing come from?

Good morning, children of the universe! It's time for a Psychology Test. 

Do any of you remember this from a Long Time Ago? Did maybe your pretentious sister, home from university and spouting her usual boring neurotic bumph, start gassing on and on about her answers to this test and her friends' answers to this test? as if they had some sort of Great Existential Significance and/or revealed something Great and Existential about themselves? Did the whole thing strike you as an exercise in total narcissism?

Have any of you ever wondered what sort of ninny actually WROTE this thing and why everyone fell into lockstep and decided it must Mean Something because SO-AND-SO wrote it and decided it must be important, therefore WE must think it's important too?

OK then, let's begin. . .

A Psychological Test

The Test:

First picture yourself in a FOREST. Describe the forest.

Its ah, got treesn' stuffinnit? And I'm like, I'm really scared cuz I'm like, lost or something or maybe it's an animal?

Next you come upon a KEY. Describe the key and what you do with it (pick it up, leave it there, look at it, etc.).


Look at it first cuz I'm like, I like them cuz they're cute, specially those little ones?

Uh I think I'll leave it there cuz it's a donkey? and I'm like not strong enough to carry it.

Next you come upon a BEAR. Describe the bear and what you do in reaction to it.

Bears are cute and stuff, and they wave their like paws? I wave back at them. Some of them are pandas, way cute like a stuffy. But don't walk backwards when you see them, you should run fast instead.

Next you come upon a CUP. Describe the cup and what you do with it.

Um. I don't know what to do with a cup.

Next you come upon a HOUSE. Describe the house and what you do with it.

I'm like scared of this house because it's falling down? So I can't go inside of it.

Next you come upon a body of WATER. Describe the body of water and what you do with it.

Am I spozed to do something with a body of water cuz I don't know what. Pull the plug or something.

Next you come upon a WALL. Describe the wall. If you can see it, describe what is

BEYOND THE WALL.

Is it lunch time yet?



What It All Means:

The FOREST represents YOUR LIFE.

The KEY represents OPPORUNITY.

The BEAR represents OBSTACLES.

The CUP represents LOVE.

The HOUSE represents MARRIAGE.

The WATER represents SEX.

The WALL represents DEATH and

BEYOND THE WALL represents the

AFTERLIFE.

ummmm. . . . . does that mean I like failed?

The shitless, screamless, no-mess, no-fuss baby

Most people who see a video like this one have an instinctive "ewwwwww" reaction: "oh, that's creepy". There's something about an object that's described as "lifelike" - those embalmed-looking Madame Tussaud's waxwork figures, or the Victorian post-mortem "subjects" photographed sitting up with sculpted smiles  - that makes most of us feel a sinkhole open up in the pit of the abdomen.

These sweet little things are called Reborn dolls, a creepy name if there ever was one, evoking both recycling and born-again evangelism. For many women, mostly older women, they call forth feelings that we normally associate with a kicking, squalling, pooping, drooling, red-faced little spud that causes endless trouble because it requires constant care.

But if you "adopt" one of these (and the cost can be well into the thousands), the baby is surprisingly low-maintenance, or perhaps even NO-maintenance, for it doesn't cry or require changing or bathing or cuddling. No, the requirement for cuddling rests with the cuddler, who must be trying to fill some sort of inner emotional abyss in constructing and buying/selling these things (for things they are, complete with crusty little rashes and runny noses).

The obsession with collecting is beginning to spread into a mania for actually making these things, and Reborn kits are surprisingly easy to obtain on the internet. The woman in the video, who with her stony face and turned-down mouth looks extremely unhappy, turns out a complete Reborn doll per day - but, even more disturbingly, she doesn't sell them or even give them away. Her house has rooms packed full of them, 1800 in all, to the point that I don't see how she has time to rock and nurture them all. Though she insists she was only seeking "inspiration", the local maternity ward told her to stay away because she was giving patients the creeps.

The more I got into this subject, the more I was reminded of something infinitely more horrifying. Awhile ago I saw one of those semi-sensationalistic documentaries about World War II on the History Channel. I confess right now that I'm obsessed with that war and with the Nazis and their twisted ideology. Probably the most pathological idea they ever had was to breed babies.

The Lebensborn project was a means of producing a master race of full-blooded Aryans, many of them fathered by members of the SS and handed over by their young mothers as a duty to the Fatherland. In fact, surrendering a baby in this way was seen as an honor, with your child guaranteed the best possible education in the unassailable truths of Nazism. They'd learn that stiff-armed salute before they were two.

What gave me the shivers - and I haven't been able to find a picture or clip of this - was a very brief shot of babies - dozens of babies - scores of babies - some with diapers, many without. They lay kicking and squalling, squashed together on the flat surface of a giant table, with a few nurses moving around among them, maybe checking to see if they were still alive. But that's not the worst. In the foreground more babies were coming in, shoulder-to-shoulder and knee-to-knee. . . on a conveyor belt.

These babies were "product", something systematically mass-produced to carry on the horrors of the Reich. My personal view is that the Nazis feared that these children might feel something unacceptable - pangs of conscience, perhaps  - if they weren't indoctrinated  from their very first breath.

When I found these photos, they made my scalp prickle because everything seems so wholesome, so "normal". No doubt much of this normalcy was fabricated for the camera to reassure people that their lost babies were being properly cared for. The shot of nurses cuddling life-sized dolls made my hair stand on end. What is this bizarre photo all about?  Did they really think they could perfect their childrearing skills on an inanimate object?

I'm not for one minute saying these dollmaking women are Nazis, but they sure are strange. They're turning out what amounts to "product": inert replicas of babies, blobs of primal instinct made of latex and fabric, monuments to departed children or grandchildren, or maybe just something to fill an aching space inside.

I've felt it in unguarded moments, usually at the supermarket checkout line: a sudden pang when I see a newborn baby. Not only did my own children's infancy hurtle by in a blur, my grandchildren are growing up at an appalling rate, like those old Wonder Bread ads where the kid shoots up right before your eyes. I was in the delivery room when Caitlin was born, a compact little football swaddled in a green towel with almost unnaturally-bright, almond-shaped eyes. And now she's nearly nine. NINE - ye gods, I remember being nine! That was the year Kennedy was shot. The Beatles first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show on my tenth birthday. So she's already in that phase of cynicism that I remember so well, sometimes causing my older (much older) siblings to cry out, "Oh, stop!"

I'm not in a rush to get one of these Reborn things, carefully weighted in head and body so that it "handles" just like a real baby. I'd rather get a puppy or a kitten, something that is at least alive. As a matter of fact, being very tired of shovelling shit and listening to earsplitting shrieks, I don't think I'll get another bird when Jasper dies. Didn't I do enough cleaning up shit when I looked after real babies?

But this is the perfect creation, the shitless, screamless baby, a baby that never changes, as if it has been dipped in wax or embedded in plexiglass. Frozen in time, it's always there as a comfort. The only problem is, it gives me the shivering creeps.

SPOT THE REAL BABY! One of these photos is a real baby (not counting the Caitlin newborn shot). Can you guess which one?

 

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book

    It took me years to write, will you take a look

Order The Glass Character from:

Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA

Mommee. . . I'm. . . hun. . .gry. . .