So, when is it okay to watch Porn on your car DVD player?

I mean, are those players programmed to only accept Disney fare? The laser-eye scanning for the proper encryption code that says “naughty” or “nice”.

What circumstances do you so badly need to watch porn in your car anyway? From the backseat even.

Are you one of those swinging couples that have merry-dear-Penthouse-I-never-thought-this-would-happen-to-me type of entertainment? And say maybe your tag-team duo is in the back, warming up. Would that be a case?

Or are you feeling particularly amorous and you let your partner slither in the back, to get a head start while you adjust the rear-view mirror just right for the show?

Or maybe you’re alone and you got one of those portable units that slip over the headrest? You casually put it in the empty passenger seat. Just a little thought. A titillation that makes you giggle and blush. Exposed and protected by metal, paint, and oh-so much leg-room. You are riding high in your SUV. Why not whip it out or slide down , hand inside, in the double-sewn leather and grind one off?

Safety concerns of a distracted driver aside, what if someone saw? Not the act itself. But what if they could see the screen? What if they innocently slowed behind you at the traffic light and slowly realized that what at first just seemed like a steady ebbing of flesh-colored pixels was really digital-quality fucking? Is that a public display? And do you, the victim in all this who came to a halt, fidgeting with the Sirius, pick up your cell phone and report the tag number? Or do you follow them? Trailing to the next light. The right turn and then another. Do you need to see where such a freak lives? What your community neighbors are doing on their way back from Pilates, dinner at Café Amici, or a late night at the office?

And so these are things I pondered tonight. On my way home from the gym, high on endorphins and bored by the rain. Line of cars ahead of me with their “Proud Parent “ and “Ask me about my honors student” bumper stickers posing as EZ-Passes for the Happy-Average-Normal Turnpike. Cruising the NorthSouth corridor with their innocuous Wiggles, Veggie Tales, and Toy Story giving you a 30second drive-in-Saturday peek show that reconfirms that is, indeed, what they are, thank you very much.

Is watching porn in your car a serious cry for something more? Or is it just another way to get your circus-freak-on?

Technology can put them in your dashboard, right next to your Tom-Tom and Garmin. Toss one off and you can still make it on time. You can’t tell me that someone isn’t doing just that right now. Think about that next time you pile into super-multi-tasking Mom’s mini. And then check the 31compartments for the Ritalin that her kids ain’t taking and the unlabeled, black DVD cases.

"Feed us drinks! Get us laid!"

A friend posted a comment on my mysp in reply to my "mood status" there stating that I " just got a msg that constituted some "quick" "drunken love". Ahh, it's like being back in college. And he was a Sig Ep even! ;)". My buddy Adj was up late and apparently he had been enjoying the weekend. He's a Lt in the Army. He's earned all the beer he ever wants.

The comment I got said, "i hated frat boys even though one of my best friends was one. the vile excuse to be in gang with greek lettering".

I get what he is trying to say I do. - But still... could any of us stand-up to scrutiny based on the oh-my-God-it's-so-huge-tools we were when we were younger? I mean, all of the world is an asshole at age 20. We are all scared, insecure, cocky bastards, weebling around, trying not to fall down. Either geared with keg-stand skills or armed with self-righteous schooled insight ("it's Knee-che people, like Che Guevara" - dude, I hate those people), we all pick teams, gather for warmth, and just try to survive. Accountability can't really start until you're 30. Everything before is just a testing-ground, Double-Dare obstacle course. There's bells to ring, slip-n-slides to belly-flop, and a shit-load of goo to be dived into, all with the intent of finding some ticket. Some thing that will get us to the next round.

I've known frat boys in my day. Some super-awesome. Some not so much. Even the worst of them had something to offer. I still remember the night one certain arrogant, womanizer broke down and "shared" something (ok, at 20 I had a real bad case of the messiah-complex ... that each of these guys had a sensitive poet inside them and their homophobic fuck-machine exterior was just window-dressing... yeah, I know. I f'n know.). He said, "You know, all women are beautiful... from the back of their head." - Yeah. They should put that on pillows and sell them with Thomas Kincade pics. But still, I love that moment. It taught me so much about boys.

Jeremy Piven has it right in this clip below. "PCU" is my favorite college movie. Maybe it's because I was in college (my first time, back in TN) when it came out and the political correctness was in full-swing. "Feed us drinks! Get us Laid!" - Geeks. Feminazis. Stoners. Jocks. And, yes, Greeks. - Basically at 20 we are all assholes. Who want to get drunk. Get laid. And forget that we are really just children thrown into an adult world we aren't ready for and the only equipment we have on hand is whatever we brought with us.

After this, I think I'd F*ck Matt Damon too...

One of my most favoritest thing in all the world is when people get their own joke. When they just make fun of themselves. Something Barry Manilow does but Elton John, eh, not so much (he is a queen, honey, it isn't irony).

Congratulations indeed!

Speaking of Jacksons...

So my nephew Chase needed help with his Calc homework the other night. Which meant I had to reteach myself. While it's kind of a Captain Obvious statement, unless you are like a scientist-y kind of person, you really aren't going to be using advanced math that much. I told this to Chase. He was relieved.

But sometimes we do learn things we'll use. Sometimes, we do have moments, lessons, that end up defining us. They just aren't mathematical. Well, not for me. :) For me they are "shifts" where my world perception changed. Where yellow became sunburst and red became crimson. We all start out with the same 8 crayons. Me? I keep wanting to upgrade. Get more colors. Get a bigger box.

In 1st grade I was given permission to go to the "other side" of the library. Beyond the Berenstain Bears and into the Dewey Decimal realm. I was allowed to use the Encyclopedias. The Reference Room. I was reading before kindergarten so they thought I needed more of a challenge. The first thing I did was look up 'stars'. I wanted to read about celebrities. I ended up starting a love-affair with astronomy, constellations, and, from there, Greek mythology. My life changed. Within a year I was obsessed with Alexander the Great and thought up my own stories.

In 4th grade I was assigned to read "A Wrinkle in Time" for my book report. Good Lord, it was if I had never really existed. Following the mad-crave that Madeleine L'Engle unleashed, I started writing. Putting carbon to paper, childish smudges where chubby-hand and pencil blended. Two years later my 6th grade teacher asked me for stories to take to her Master's class. I had an audience, attention, and stroking. I was hooked.

The next moment took a bit longer. It took some crawling out of my small town, some binge-drinking, and, sadly, some really really bad poetry written backwards, with dry-erase markers, on my suite windows to get me there.

I was 22 when I first went to Manhattan and went to the Met. I went up some stairs in the modern art section I took a right and there was "Autumn Rythm (Number 30)", Jackson Pollack's 8ft high, 17ft long, drip masterpiece. No fake-drama. I started crying. Thankfully there was a padded-seat to lessen the public display. Suddenly things made sense. This 50yo painting did something nothing else in my life had ever done. It put a peace in me. Controlled chaos. It explained so much. Chopin. Dostoevsky. Pollack. Humanity was, again, for me only maybe, controlled chaos.

If you've never been moved by music (and if you've read any of my blogs recently you know I'm not a music elitist in any sense), literature, art or philosophy or any of the other beautiful outlets we are gifted with, then I'm sorry. I can't fathom an existence without such passion. Without such reaction.

I think that is part of what Koka calls my "wanderlust". The drive that keeps me unsatisfied. The push to get a bigger, brighter Crayola box, sharpener in the back. Sometimes I do wish I didn't have it. Sometimes I think it would be simpler, easier, if I could just be happy with a comfy job and seek out the house and kids. But those are just moment of weakness. I can't imagine not crying before a painting. I can't imagine not wanting more and believing it is still possible. Suppose I just can't imagine not being me.

Normies and bunnies. *pfft* You ain't got nothing on me. :)

Damn, Miss Jackson -Is it just a spoke in my cycle, or am I really such a populist?

Arggs! NKOTB. New Freddy K. movie. K T Tunstall goes all cover on "Walk Like an Egyptian" and now I can't get this damn song out of my head!!! What a week so far.

I like Radiohead. Really I do! And I can so go punk-a-punk with you. I've exchanged rent money for David Bowie Madison Square Garden tix. I've traversed hipster Brooklyn neighborhoods for Sarah Vowel readings, TMBG secret shows, Dave Cross improv, and avant-garde shit involving silence, a strobe light, and two guys dressed like Sendak creatures reciting "Jabberwocky" over slowed-down, barely recognizable N.E.R.D tracks from "Fly or Die".

All it takes is a nasty hook, pulses, and Underworld-style black-slick to undo all my assumed credentials. Maybe I should just embrace the contradictions and stop the analysis. *sigh* F'n existentialism and ethos.

Go ahead ... Enjoy .. No one is looking. Go ahead... Download. Your player won't tell.

My head just exploded ... NKOTB? Holy Freshman Year, Batman!

I know I shouldn't be this excited. And honestly, cubbies, I wish I wasn't. I wish the news glided over me with just a whimsy of nostalgia.

That being said ...

OMG!!!! Break out the banana-clips, girls, 'cause it looks like Jordan, Donnie, Joey, Jon, and Danny are going to be getting out on that floor and doing The New Kids Dance.

As described to some friends, I am dancing around like I just got a Butterscotch My Little Pony, still in the original packaging (prrreeettty). As Mark wisely observed, I'm so retarded and I'm unashamed.

And to think I normally do verbose blogs citing the influence of Rousseau in episodes of "Married With Children". Kristy is a complex-critter.

I'm upside-down, victory pose on the sticky stripper-pole that is pop-culture. Throw some dollar bills, ya'll. Make some noise! Are you tough enough??

Enjoy..............

When your grrrl-power is running a little low ....

So yeah... I was down today. Beaten and bruised by the grinding of life. Me cigarette. Life big old shit-kicker of a steel-toe.

So like a modern girl with high-speed internet and time to spare, I sought out motivation. Not from the Bible. And not even from Oprah. Oh no. I need my go-girlfriend to come from a TV show. 'Scrubs' to be exact.

When this first aired I remembered thinking, "A-motherfuck-yeah". Eloquent I know. Putting that Rutgers education to use.

But I challenge any girl out there to not have this moment in their head. Where they shake off the little and razor their ends and get all rocked out. Ok, and I'll even fess up this is the haircut I started with, though it's grown out.

Boys got their Wiis and their Guitar-Hero. I'll take an Elliot Reid make-over any day. Tom Petty suh-weet bonus.

Enjoy!