Objectum Sexuality: I want it, OH I want it

It took the last post to make me realize how much of this blog is about "old stuff".

It just is.

Blogs are supposed to have themes (?), so maybe mine does now, as much as it ever will.

(Sayyyyyy. . . that's really swell!)

Things were browner then, and somehow more dreamlike.

These '40s cars are erotic, their jutting noses phallic, bulging fenders like blown-up bosoms, and bottoms squatting haunchily like some faunlike forest animal. This one looks completely unreasonable with its slitty little windows and ridiculous upward thrust, but it must have belonged to someone. Who knows who that is in the foreground. Was this a piece of artwork? I don't think so, but still, it doesn't seem real.

My favorite thing about them is the rear wheels. Why did they cover them like that? They had little disclike things that must have flipped up to service the tires. Some of these are so extreme that the car seems to be sinking into the ground. 

If you look at this dispassionately, which frankly I can't, you see a gorgeous galleon of a thing, insurmountable, its bulbousness both male and female, jutting like the shoulders of certain military men, all out of proportion but devastatingly beautiful.

This one is all haunch, but still with those mysterious wheel covers. Looks a little bit like a Volkswagen bug from the '60s. Who owned this thing, what was his/her life like, what did they like to eat? Everyone has a story. 

This one is some sort of roadster, very sporty, but still with those ridiculous luscious curves and the jutting nose. Also the vestiges of a running board, which carried on well into the decade. Not sure of the year, but surely it's 1940s.

Surely these are animals. They seem alive. Their smoothness makes me want to wrap myself around them, feel the heat and the hum. The tensed haunch seems ready to spring the vehicle straight into the air. 

This one is all nose, ugly really, but interesting for the exaggerated nature of it, the cartoonishness. And still, the covered wheels. I am not sure how long this quirk lasted. (Come to think of it, this DOES look like a toy car. Maybe it came with a toy man.)

And this, one of the most beautiful photos of a car I've ever seen, for it bespeaks Hollywood in the '40s. It's not faked like so many of these sepia poses, as the background vehicles are period-accurate. That caramel tone is irresistible. I want it, oh I want it.

Post-blog blatherings. OK, I watch My Strange Addiction too, everybody does, I don't care how clean your hands are. You masturbate too, c'mon admit it. So I see this  really weird one where a guy is in love with his car. It's plain this is not a platonic thing, either. He - well, I won't go into detail. In an even stranger episode, a woman is married to a carnival ride, one that doesn't even function (but then, can't that be said of many "real" husbands?). 

I don't think what I "have" is this, since I have barely ever seen one of these 1940s monsters, nor have I ridden in one. But I'd be in ecstasy if I did. I will never forget that cream-and-aubergine dream that I glimpsed maybe 12 years ago, that moment. It wasn't just admiration or love, it was a jones. I won't go on the show cuz my addiction isn't colorful enough: if I owned one of these beauties, it might be another story.

It's a definite disorder, this I know, for Wikipedia tells me so: Objectum Sexuality, also called OS or "fetishism", but that term has gone out of style cuz it doesn't have "disorder" on the end of it, or initials that sound good on talk shows. 

Dr. Marsh, writing a weekly column called "Love's Outer Limits" for Carnal Nation, began with three columns called "People Who Love Objects".She has also published "Love Among the Objectum Sexuals" in the Electronic Journal of Human Sexuality, March 2010.

In March 2012, British citizen Amanda Liberty gave an interview to the Daily Mail newspaper (complete with photos) regarding her romantic feelings for the Statue of Liberty. Liberty said:

'She is my long-distance lover and I am blown away by how stunning she is. Other people might be shocked to think I can have romantic feelings for an object, but I am not the same as them.'

In the same month, 40 year old Reighner Deleighnie was interviewed by the Daily Mail newspaper regarding her romantic relationship with a three-foot marble statue of the Greek God Adonis that she bought for £395, and which she had nicknamed "Hans". A later example involved Val Theroux, a 64 year old Canadian woman who flew thousands of miles from Kamloops to the UK every year to see an Oak tree which she had fallen in love with.During the summer of 2012, Babylonia Aivaz, a Seattle woman, married a 107 year old warehouse, however, this particular relationship is not being described as object sexuality, due to the political protest nature of her marriage demonstration.

Erika Eiffel, who adopted her surname after a 2007 "marriage" to the Eiffel Tower, founded OS Internationale, an educational website and international online community for those identifying or researching the condition to love objects.

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So you want to be a blogger

OK, so I've wanted to write about this for a long time. Then I'd say, wait a minute, what do you know about it? Then I'd come to the conclusion: that depends.

Depends on whether the worth of this blog is measured in "views", shares, likes, followers, etc. or merely the daily fulfillment of writing it.

When I started keeping this blog in 2010, I think my main goal was to get a contract for my novel The Glass Character. And after something like 3 years of solid effort, I did, though I don't think it had anything to do with the blog.

What do I know from blogging? Nothing. I used the simplest template I could find and changed the header many times, even changing the title of it when the book finally came out.

So it failed in its first purpose. What is its raison-d'etre now, that I keep on with it with such ardor? I think there are two parts to it. In my case, I made a solemn vow, not unlike getting married (and I've been married 42 years - gasp! - so I think I know something about that), that I would write whatever the hell I wanted to write, just whatever topic struck my fancy. There would be no "shoulds". There would be no "musts". There would be no "popular" topics. It was pretty much wide open. I did delete a few which were too whiny or too personal. But I allowed myself the option of short fiction, lots of photos, Blingees, videos, and ESPECIALLY (my favorite form of illustrations) gifs.

I love gifs because they are a movie in a handful of seconds. If you use archival material, e. g. those very rare George Gershwin home movies, you can discover a lot about the subject. In these snippets, Gershwin hauls a little dog up by the scruff of the neck, and puts his hands around a woman's neck as if he is about to "playfully" throttle her. I could not get dates or a context for these, but made gifs of them because they fascinated me.

There is hardly any film of Gershwin, only a couple of bits of him performing, and those frustratingly brief private movies. Mostly he was shooting them, as in this few seconds of the one-of-a-kind genius Oscar Levant. One wonders why he at least didn't make some recordings of his piano playing, which was said to be gaspingly, even jaw-droppingly brilliant. Instead, he'd play in the background at parties with (actual guest list) Cole Porter, Otto Klemperer, Frank Capra, Jimmy Stewart, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, and (yes, even) Oscar Levant, standing around smoking, drinking champagne and gabbing. Probably no one really paid any attention.

Slippery as an eel, Gershwin was, really unknowable, so if I can just get a ten-second gif of him at the piano, and if I notice something new on tenth or twentieth viewing, so much the better.

So why Gershwin? He is my current happy obsession. I say happy because I've never enjoyed my obsessions more. Information is at my fingertips, and I can write anything I like, pro or con. So the blog tends to leap from one mad topic to another, but not before it has been thoroughly macerated and giffinized.

Some readers (if there are any) seem to believe that the overbalance of gifs on my blog trivializes it, makes it cartoonish, especially since old cartoons are my favorite subject (along with TV ads from the '40s and '50s). Well, too bad, I love gifs, and like everything else I am good at, they go unsung. Making them is really not that easy - try it some time.

What else? The other pledge, commitment, whatever, along with writing about anything that pleases me and/or makes me angry enough to HAVE to write, is to keep it up. Nothing irritates me more than to discover a really fine blog and to notice that the last post is dated 2011. There is such an "I-lost-interest" feeling about it, a lack of dedication. I think if you're going to keep one of these, you need to keep it, like tending a garden.

About views: I seem to average anywhere between five and (my all-time high) 99,085 - no kidding, I just checked it, it's nearly 100,000! - for a post called I See Dead People: Victorian Post-Mortem Photography. People are still reading this thing, because the number of views continues to rise. Fifteen more views and I'll be at 100,000! How is this? Hell if I know, but I did find a link to it on someone else's blog, a very popular one, I would imagine. I've had a few in the ten-thousand-ish range (Some Cats Know, which is really just a bunch of cat pictures) and more in the hundreds. But for the most part, I don't look.

About repeats. Yes. I do them. I do them because I have a very small number of followers. I do them because in no way, shape or form do I expect people to read this blog every day, or even every week or every month. Even I don't remember much about these repeats. I pick ones that I think are good, ones that I especially like.

Why do I do this? If hardly anyone reads it, why do I bother? I need it. It's like a diary, yet it isn't, because I have to keep most of the personal stuff out of it. The "blogger" develops a certain persona over time, and if that persona is enjoyable to inhabit, then it's fun and gratifying to keep a blog. Though there are topics I return to again and again (I mention "celluloid, Harold Lloyd and me" under the title, and old film/photos/film history/ads/cartoons do form a sort of nucleus for the other mad stuff going on), I don't restrict myself to one subject. It would bore the piss out of me, that's why. And if I am bored, you, gentle reader, will be too.

So I'm a blogger. I don't think it has made one iota of difference to my book sales, because book sales just don't stick to me. It's all very  flukey, like that one post that got 100,000 views, when many of the others (much better ones, in my view) get maybe 5 (four of them from me, when I go back to edit them).

So. You want to be a blogger? Go ahead, just make sure you enjoy it, follow your nose, don't be afraid to be quirky, don't pay much attention to views (even though the entire internet seems to revolve around numbers and popularity), and - this last one is the most important - KEEP IT UP. Nobody wants to find an absolutely wonderful, stimulating blog that ran out of steam in 2009.

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More cat pictures

Mia cuddling up in her new blanket. This was a rush job - I did it in 2 1/2 days! Grandma's blanket magic seems to cross the species border.

I think I'm going to stop writing, stop blogging, or else just give the blog over to cute cat pictures, which get more views than anything. Maybe they'll make a movie out of it. Margaret's Cute Cat Blog: The Motion Picture!

Mia Blingee shot. Miawwwww.

HERE SHE IS: the Mystery Kitten!

 

A new kitten in the family is a very big event around here. Mia is my new grandcat, kitty of my daughter's family. Not long ago they mourned the passing of Oscar, catriarch of the family for some 13 years.

And then along came Mia! Mia and I have yet to meet, but I've knitted her a special blanket (a rush job, I did it in three days) and made her a toy out of one of my famous jujus. Today's the day I see her for the first time.

Caitlin and Ryan are pleased as can be!

So's Mia. Miaaawwwwww!

Bonus Mia Blingee!

Bonus-bonus Mia Facebook profile picture!

Bonus-bonus-bonus Mia Facebook cover!

Amen, amen, amen, and hallelujah.

Just another eggplant

I have never been able to cook eggplant. My mother knew. She fried it, in the way people fried things then, in a lot of hot bubbling Crisco, and she fried it very slowly. The breading would become very dense and crisp from concentrated juices, and the middle was almost like a custard, smooth and jelly-like, with that salty-sweet punky eggplant taste and the slippery texture of the seeds.

Nor can I find it duplicated in a restaurant, though the occasional Greek place has a nice moussaka with a creamy, almost gelatinous texture. But enough.

I've posted before about how I have a thing for cars. Well, no. I hate them. I don't even drive, which is yet more evidence of my freakishness. I hate what cars have done to the environment and believe they are probably about 75% responsible for the planet's impending doom. Nobody thinks about this, but I do.

And yet.

It was years ago, a some-enchanted-evening moment when I saw this car, not exactly the one pictured but of similar shape and vintage. It was eggplant-and-cream, two-toned, with a lot of chrome in between.  It swooshed along elegantly as if driven along by some liveried chauffeur in the 1940s. And something happened to me then: I was transfixed. It was erotic, nothing more or less. I was electrified. Had that car been anywhere near me, I would have attached myself to the roof and held on for dear life while it accelerated madly and blew through red lights. I would have slid down that hunched, crouched back, the back with no wheels, tensed and animal-like. I would have wrapped myself around those balloon-like fenders, so blown-up that they're ready to explode like in that obscene Popeye cartoon where the tire blows up. 

The creature swanned around, did one more turn around the strip mall (for my benefit, no doubt), then disappeared. It was likely going to be displayed in a car show somewhere. I was not yet going to car shows - I didn't "know", not the way I know now. Now I go, and I look for that car, which according to Google is a 1940 Mercury Westergard custom. I may never find it, but I keep on looking. In spite of what everybody seems to think about me, I have always been the most wretched kind of optimist.

Elmer the Safety Elephant!

This was one of those late-night, treasure-trove finds that kind of made my head spin. It was a site of dozens and dozens of old (I mean OLD) photos of Kent County landmarks, especially schools in Chatham. I've already posted many pictures of McKeough School, a formidable-looking old brick building built in about 1906 that looks like something out of the Addams Family. But these shots were miraculous: it's Elmer the Safety Elephant!

Us kids eagerly looked forward to Elmer's visit every year. We were admonished to learn the "seven safety rules" (and I can only remember a few: look both ways before you cross the street; keep out from between parked cars; always carry something white at night). Then there was the Elmer the Safety Elephant anthem (Safety First) which is starting to make all this sound like the Hitler Youth or something. "Here's what Elmer has to say/On the streets you do not play. . . "

These photos were milky and bleary when I first uploaded them. They had the messy black border of an old Polaroid, the kind where you zip off a plastic cover with a sort of tar-like caustic substance on it. They were labelled with a white grease pencil. I decided to see if I could clean them up. I easily cropped them (and just now I realize that these are all scans, and would lose quality automatically), then hit the restore button. Oh boy! I was there again, one of those little tow-headed kids looking on in awe, standing in an exact straight line. Serried ranks.

I realize now that Elmer has huge blue eyes with lashes, making me think he's more of an Elephantina or Elephette. I only remembered the vast trunk, and the ears (and there was an awful rumor going on in about Grade 6 that Elmer's ear fell off, a real emergency when he was on his way to a visitation with the kids. The whole thing sounds like an urban legend to me.

I believe this is my Grade 6 class from Queen Elizabeth II School, the second school I attended. I recognize several of the teachers. I was given a battery of tests, I swear I remember this, in kindergarten, and I even remember a couple of the questions. I was asked to count to a hundred, and though I dried up at 29, the helpful teacher asked, "So what comes after the 20s?" "30s." "And what comes after the 30s?" (etc.) I got them all right. Then I was given a photo of an open field. "You've lost your wallet in this field. How would you go about finding it?" I did a sort of mazelike pattern from the outside in, something I frankly stole from my brother, but it passed.

So I began to take two grades in one year. In kid parlance, I "skipped". I was being prepared for a special, elitist Grade 5, the "Major Work Class" at QEII. This was one of those infamous '60s experiments in education in which bright kids all learned at their own pace, with little or no curriculum.

I had walked to McKeough, and I will never forget that blissful 10 or 15 minutes, which now seems like paradise. Suddenly I had to commute, a very long bus ride all the way across town. I immortalized our hapless teacher, Mr. Service, in my second novel Mallory: we drove him to a nervous breakdown by mid-term, and he had to be replaced. We kids had been told we were smart one too many times, and were beginning to turn into a sort of Smart Kids' Mafia. 

I didn't keep photos of QEII, though they exist, along with Chatham Collegiate (my high school) and The Pines Ursuline college, a nunnery where I took violin lessons. Talk about altogether ooky.

Didn't keep them because, except for the photo of my Grade 6 teachers, they don't especially interest me or twig any strong memories. They're just bland middle-of-the-road 1930s-built architecture, though CCI may be older than that.

Good to know they are there, however. Apparently, somebody still cares.

POST-BLOG OBSERVATIONS. Mostly the footwear. I notice many of the little girls in the front row are wearing their best shoes, Mary Janes with white knee socks. But I also notice argyle socks, and even saddle shoes, which I have always loved (but never owned, though I did have penny loafers in Junior High). I do remember being told to "dress up for Elmer", picking my Sunday School outfit which was unusual for a school day, my parents having received a notice that the distinguished elephant would be making his yearly appearance. When you think about it, putting your best clothes on for the benefit of a giant papier-mache head is a pretty bizarre concept, but no more bizarre than all the other things that happened at McKeough.

And where are all the black kids? Integration hadn't happened yet. By high school, that had changed. But I didn't find out until years after high school that Chatham was one of the termination points of the Underground Railroad, providing safe haven for runaway slaves before and during the Civil War. This should have been a point of pride, but it wasn't mentioned in school, not even once, in spite of Chatham's higher-than-average black population. My mother found out about it from a history book, not another person. I did sort of notice how many black kids there were, but I just figured it was a Windsor-Detroit thing (and by the late '60s, we DID know a lot about the Motown scene). Now I know that shameful and deliberate historical omission is as much a part of Southwestern Ontario history as those formidable old brick buildings.

Notice all the blonde heads! Nothing ethnic is going on here at all.

Though it isn't easy to make out in this photo, the kids faces are lit up with glee. Their body postures are full of eagerness and excitement. This Elmer visitation, like the McKeough School Picnic with the burning schoolhouse firecracker set off at the very end, is one of the highlights of their year, even though they come away from it with nothing except a bunch of safety rules.

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Who is the MYSTERY KITTEN?

 

Bu-sy day, bu-sy day, bu-sy day