What Happens in Vegas Shouldn't In Front of a Child

So, this summer has been a trip weather-wise. While some parts of the country have been baking in an incredibly endless heat wave, other parts have been shivering. Specifically, San Francisco. It has sucked! Mark Twain may or may not have said, "The coldest winter I've ever spent is a summer in San Francisco", but if he didn't, I'm saying it now. I finally had enough in July and decided to go to Vegas for a couple of days to relax and bask in the heat of the desert.

I hadn't been to Vegas in years, and chose to go there for very specific reasons:
1. It was close by plane so I didn't have to drive for hours to chill.
2. It was cheap.

I also told myself that Vegas would be good because I thought they had cleaned it up: All the trashy reality shows that I watch, and everyone knows I love trash in my reality television, seem to indicate that Vegas wasn't the child-friendly neon Bright Horizons daycare that I encountered on my last visit.

Watching "Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock" and seeing everyone on every other reality show go there to act a ho, I was under the impression that people who aren't tall enough to ride the rides were no longer welcome. WRONG! WTF?! Why were there more children than slot machines at the Luxor? When I put my chips on the table, I expect a dealer to appear, not a child.

Again, I must reiterate the fact that I do love children, I do. Just where they are supposed to be: Anywhere but Vegas. Okay- that's a bit excessive, but you know what I mean, I hope. There are certain things that we all love, but just not in every situation, because everything is not good in every situation. The closest analogy I can think of is this: Mini-skirts. I love wearing mini-skirts. When I was growing up in Texas, as soon as the cold, dark shade of winter lifted itself into spring, this bitch's legs were out until the shade fell again the next year. Not only was it cooling, no matter what anyone said, I thought I had nice legs. Still do. But, since I live in San Francisco, I can't wear minis in the summer anymore. Not that my legs get cold, they don't, but because of the random gusts of wind that reveal either my thong or granny panties, neither of which anyone wants to see. Also because of the fact that if you're running around with a mini on in our cold ass summers, you look like you're trying to full-on sell it, not lease it out for an evening of drinks, dinner, and laughs as all we bitches do to a degree when we likes a dude (or chick).

I am not trying to drone on parents, but I will because this is my blog: Why, why, why, why, why, why infinity would any parent choose to bring their progeny to Vegas for a vacation? Why would you introduce a world of decadence and depravity to your child before he or she finds it, as he or she surely will, at a later date with friends or lovers of which you don't approve? Either leave them at home with oma or opa, hire a babysitter, or do what my parents did and take them to Six Flags?! You chose to be a parent- vacation in a child appropriate place until they can stay home alone or with a trusted adult. I know you wanna live the life and wild a bit, but if you can't afford to not bring your kids, you cannot afford to go to Vegas. Period.

Why am I waving smoke away and curbing my NC-17 language because your kid is walking through the casino? Wanda Sykes said it best years ago: She was at a bar (a bar, mind you), and cursed. She looked over and saw a kid and covered her mouth after expelling a grown-folks' tirade, apologizing. Then she thought about the fact that she was at a bar- where children shouldn't be- why was she apologizing? She didn't go drinking at playgrounds, why was a child in a bar?! That's how I felt in Vegas. When I go to Disney movies and get mad because a kid is squirming or talking, that's on me: Disney is not for me, and I need to shut it and adjust to the peeps it was made for. When I am swearing at the slot machine that took my money or drunkenly, verbally, ogling the hot 21-year-old boy who staggered past me loud enough for him to hear, stop, and make-out with me, I am not apologizing to any child's parents for acting my age and B.A.C reading.

When I came home, I told my roommate that I was willing to cut my pinkie fingernail super short to not see kids in Vegas (like most Americans, I will bitch until I can't talk anymore about what irks me, but I am not willing to adhere or promise to any discomfort that accompanies a solid commitment such as "I'd give my right arm" blah, blah, blah). I have been thinking about it off and on since then, but it all came to head in my mind today when I read a CNN.com article called, "Vegas' awkward coming-out party".

The article was about something that I had seen at the Luxor: the Sunday gay-themed pool party. The article writer mentioned early on that Vegas is "long a bastion of straight male culture, with its bachelor parties, strip clubs and Sinatra-esque swagger, this desert town has been making deliberate attempts since about 2005 to become a destination for gay and lesbian tourists, and to increase its own gay community."

The article continued on about a father from LA (Los Angeles) who brought his four kids to Vegas, and the pool at the Luxor, during a gay-themed party. He went on to say (of the party), "It shouldn't be like that, you know, in front of the kids." Really? You think that your children, aged 3 to 13, had more business at the pool of a casino than a gay grown-up? He also said, "It encourages the kids to think it's normal, which it isn't." But you think it's normal for your children to see flyers, billboards, and other postings advertising strip joints and other lascivious activities that celebrate the notion that your daughter could land on a pole? That's okay-but gods forbid if there are (BUM! BUM! BUM!) gay dudes having fun in a swimming pool in broad daylight? Shut the front door!

You have no problems taking your kids to the Vegas strip- all the strippers, escorts, faded dreams, incontinence diapers, alcoholics, meth heads, broken hope- none of that discourages you: It's dudes in speedos making out and dancing (who will probably know what to do to save your kid's life in the future when he/she ODs in a hotel out by the airport all alone but for the memories of the childhood fun in Vegas with moms & pops) by which you can't abide?

You probably don't double down on 11 and you're wrong about this too, my friend.

My Sacral Chakra Khan (And it did!)

So recently I wrote about (stupidly) telling my friend that I had a sex dream about him- thinking that it was all about the HA-HA-HAs and a one time thing. Well, it was only one time about him, but this bitch kept having sex dreams. I am not against those dreams by any stretch of the imagination, but since my imagination is the only thing I've had in my chambers with me in a while, the dreams made my waking life very frustrating.

I didn't understand where these napping and nocturnal sexy times were coming from because I wasn't feeling particularly randy, but it seemed like every time I lay me down to sleep, into my dreams sex would seep. It got to the point where I consulted my dream book and some whack sites that said, basically, a cigar is a cigar. I was dreaming about sex because I wanted or needed sex. Thank you for the King James version of dream interpretation, but me thinks it was something not so obvious. Especially since I have kept dream journals off and on for years and part of my delight in that is diving deep into Lake Thisbitchisnuts and figuring out what certain people and things mean to me. Not an easy task, but definitely worth it in my opinion.

I decided to do it again, and the minute I sat down and really thought it out, the answer came to me: my Sacral Chakra was blocked and I needed to clear it. For you non-believers, or non-interesteds, the Sacral Chakra is the second of the seven main Chakras (Sanskrit for "disk" or "wheel") in your subtle body, and each one is associated with a different energy. The Sacral Chakra is often associated with sex and creativity. (Um, hum. Now we're getting somewhere.)

Now, I didn't immediately recognize that my chakra was blocked. I am not that in tune with my body, and I am not trying to front like I am. Hell, I don't even know when to say when- but I thought about the fact that I hadn't created anything in a few weeks, even though I felt a strong need to do something. I had fleeting ideas sucka-punching my gray matter, but nothing I seriously committed to thought or action. And I needed to. Badly.

I finally quit bullshittin' around and created three new cards, worked a bit on a short story idea I've had based on a dream from a few months ago, and worked on a bigger story idea I've had for years. And guess what? I haven't had a sex dream since. I felt so alive and fulfilled, that I wasn't craving anything, so when I went to sleep, so did my special yes-yes area.

When you think about it, sex is to create life and/or love; and artistic creation- be it athleticism, music, words, or visual-is so soul inspiring and passionate that it feels sexual. No wonder our subconscious mind intertwines the two.

WTF is happening to kisses on television?

I've already admitted to fact that I love naps and Colin Farrell- I have to also confess that I have a predilection for trashy television. I do. So it should come as no surprise that I love Jersey Shore. I figure if you're gonna like trash, you make as well go to the top of the heap, right?

Now having watched the series from the 1st season, I have obviously seen some gross stuff- including, but not limited to, anything in a hot tub, anything that touched The Situation's mouth, Snookie's, (but especially when it's the two of them going at it) and when Ron Ron does that make-out with 2 chicks at once. I thought that nothing could get worse than those aforementioned abominations, until I saw the hell on my screen during the Season Premiere the other night that was Pauly D and Deena "kissing".

What the hell was that, besides disgusting?! Oh man. I should know better than to eat while I am watching JS, but who was ready for that vomit inducing display? Ugh. There was no semblance of sensuality or sexy to be found. Pauly looked like he'd rather have his mouth against floor of the men's room- and I probably would've found that less repulsive. For those brave few among you who can watch without your eyeballs walking into the direct sunshine and facing the true death - click here for the horror of which I speak.

It got me thinking about how gross most kisses are that they show now on television. It's all drunken tongue wrestling that is not the least bit enticing or stimulating. Is this what goes for sexy these days? Am I just getting old and prudish?

I don't think so. I think that I can still appreciate a long, slow, soft, wet, sexy kiss that lasts for 3 days: For example
.

What do y'all think? Is it me, or do you agree?

Hot with a Chance of Sexy: Jason Momoa

Okay- I posted about Jason Momoa last year, but since he was delicious as Drogo in Game of Thrones, had a birfday on August 1st, and since Conan the Barbarian is coming out 8-19-11 (same day as Colin Farrell's Fright Night and is the closest I will probably ever have as a threesome with those two dudes, but I digress), I figure, let me talk again about this dude on a stick:

(Originally posted May 2010)
If you're like me and never watched Baywatch Hawaii (I know, I know- how on earth did we miss that?) or Stargate Atlantis- let me introduce you to Jason Momoa. Physically, he's just a dude on a stick, right? He's also been cast as the lead in the new Conan the Barbarian movie scheduled for release in 2011, and he's the father of Lisa Bonet's youngest daughter and son, as well as still being her hot piece. (The word on the street is that Jason was set to marry an Aussie actress he'd been dating for seven years, Simmone Jade MacKinnon, when Lisa's uterus trumped her ass and Baby Lola moved in for 9 months.)

Jason was born in Honolulu, HI on August 1, 1979, but raised in Iowa. (And yes, he's going to be 31 this year. I am scared of Ms. Cougar Bonet, okay? She must've pushed him off of his Big Wheel straight into her bed.) His father was a Native Hawaiian and it sounds like his mother was everything else.

In 1998 Jason returned to Hawaii and was discovered by the designer Takeo- thus beginning his modeling career. He must've been the hardest workin' ho on the islands because in 1999 he won Hawaii's Model of the Year, and hasn't looked back since career-wise.

Speaking of actin' a ho, in November of 2008 Jason was at a bar in West Hollywood (when he probably should've been home with his then eight-months-pregnant partner), and got into an argument with some dude. The dude evidently tried to make the work of art that is Jason's face into a Piccaso and Jason had to have 140 stitches and some plastic surgery to bring all that pretty back. The culprit, said to be named Dominic Bando, reportedly was facing up to 7 years for the altercation. He should've gotten that automatically for trying to jack up something so gorgeous, and then time on top of it for the malice behind the act.

I'm sure that as we get closer to the new Conan being released there will be pictures and info galore about Mr. Momoa. For now, enjoy these few.





You're welcome.

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TMI? Telling a Friend about a Sex Dream

So, as you will come to learn if you read this blog (& my lazy ass starts writing regularly again), I love taking naps. I think that naps are truly a gift from the gods more than puppies, ice cream cones, and rainbows. If I had the choice of having mind blowing sex with Colin Farrell once (you will come to know that obsession as well) and giving up naps for the rest of my life, I am not sure what I would choose: That's how much I love naps.

I usually tend to lie in my chambers- as I call my room- and conk out with the television on during the middle of the afternoon for about an hour or so. The other day was no exception. I can't remember what I had on as I lunched horizontally with my eyes closed, probably a marathon of "Deadly Women", or some such non-sexual thought inducing mania. Which is why, when I awoke, my thought-sicles were confused as all get out: Five short minutes ago, a sleeping American, in whose symbolically weird dream she can't understand, had steamy sleep sex with an old friend/ co-worker.

What the what? I could not for the life of me understand where that came from or why, but it sort of made me laugh. Not that that idea of sex with him was funny- it was just so far from my mind- now that we lived the span of the country apart and no longer ran together, that I couldn't figure out what prompted the dream.

Since it was time for me to alight from my chambers soon anyway, I got up and checked my e-mail. And decided to do the stupid: I will send him a FB message telling him about the dream. I know, now.

I just thought that since people usually only tell you jacked up dreams they have about you in disfiguring car crashes, or you dying, why not tell someone you had a dream as life-affirming as sex? What bigger compliment, right? Maybe not.

I have to stop and think what I would think if some random friend of mine, with whom nothing physical ever happened (and that was probably for a reason other than we had partners, or didn't live close by each other): Would I be flattered or flabbergasted? Probably the latter even though I would immediately know that the sex in the dream was a symbol of something else.

I also have to quit frontin' like I am the most amazing thing to look at that's come down the coastline since the Northern Lights. He was probably a little bit horrified, poor dude.

Oh, well- I am sure our friendship will survive and we will have a good ass laugh next time we're in the same burg having bevvies- but I am curious if anyone else has had "foot in mouth" syndrome & told a friend about a sex dream? If so, what happened? Was the friend weirded out? Did your friendship suffer? Would you tell him/ her again?