We're off to Mexico City tomorrow, to spend a week and a half with Punketa and family. And thanks to an unusually busy pre-Christmas stress-a-thon, we have hardly learned ANY Spanish. We plan to cram on the plane. Eep.

Not to worry, though -- I plan to do a post or two from our hostess's computer while we're there. So expect some dispatches about how a real Mexican family celebrates New Year.

For now, I just want to say how much I enjoyed meeting Kara, Simon, Camille and Lisa the other day. All of you were just as fascinating and fun as I knew you would be -- although I suspect Kara was on her best behavior, because she was just WAY too sweet to be real. Heh. By the way, for those of you who don't go to the Sissyfight boards any more, here's an animation I did to tell the tale of our meeting. Sorry if it's a long download; I should have made the pictures smaller. So sue me.

Hope you all have a great New Year!

Anyway, if you insist I have to shag a male rock star, it would probably be David Bowie. He's good looking, he's musically interesting, we're close enough in age that we'd have something to talk about, and most importantly, he's bi, so at least one of us would know what the hell to do.

Now that's out of the way, I have a question of my own to put to the group. If you came into an obscene amount of money (and I don't mean a piddly lottery win, I mean like the cash value of Microsoft) what crazy thing would you do? My girl Crabby says she has always wanted to buy a big company and change its name to something really stupid, just to see it on the billboards and TV commercials. Like, buying Ford and changing its name to Smelly Bum Motors. Just imagine the ad campaign: "Introducing the new Smelly Bum Explorer!" Sometimes Crabby can be a little silly.

Me, I've always wanted to buy 300 Chihuahuas and then let them run wild on my sprawling estate. I want to see if they would turn into a pack, the way real dogs do. I mean, Chihuahuas think they are dogs, right? So they must have the same instincts. There would be one tough Alpha Chihuahua who would keep the pack in line. And they would run around in a great yipping crowd, 300 pairs of bug eyes staring, those skinny little legs going a million miles an hour. Imagine the thrill of watching the pack bring down a big squirrel or a bull chipmunk. Imagine, late at night, listening to the unearthly sound of 300 Chihuahuas yapping at the moon. It would be worth it.

Well, what stupid, self-indulgent whim would you indulge in, if you had a bazillion dollars?

Hey, I just noticed that we have a new member of our sleep-deprived little roundtable. I guess I missed the meeting when they introduced surfcarol. Welcome, Carol. I trust you managed to dig yourself out of that snow drift and didn't have to eat the cat.

Sarascara, your fruit fly infestation puts me in mind of the wisdom of Groucho Marx, who once said, "Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana." Badda BING! Anyway, since you have developed a scientific interest in the little critters, here's a web page about the latest research into their sex lives. It discusses the "dissatisfaction gene" -- which, come to think of it, is also relevant to kara's worry about keeping the flames of sexual attraction alive. I can't imagine her asking nylon to provide a tissue sample for genetic testing, but hey, you never know. Science marches on; I just stand alongside the parade route, waving my hanky and batting my eyelashes.

Speaking of ethics, I'm curious what others think about the recent furore in England over that poor woman whose sexy e-mail to her boyfriend was forwarded to like a million people. It seems one Claire Swire, a 26-year-old public relations executive, sent her lawyer boyfriend, one Bradley Chait, a private message going into ethusiastic detail on how much she enjoyed doing him orally. Mr. Chait is apparently the "kiss and tell" type, because he forwarded her message to SIX of his male friends, who found it so amusing that they forwarded it to THEIR friends, and next thing you know, it has gone half-way around the world. Now there's a website in her honor, the British tabloid press are chasing her, she's gone into hiding, and Mr. Chait and several co-workers are facing "disciplinary action" from their law firm over improper use of company e-mail.

Do you think this indicates:
a) Lawyers are pond scum;
b) Not sure about the rest, but Bradley Chait is definitely pond scum;
c) When it comes to sex, all men, even well-paid professionals, are essentially sniggering little boys;
d) Judging by all the fuss, Claire Swire is apparently the only woman in Britain who enjoys giving head;
e) A lucrative book deal is imminent.

Yay! Nylon's on his way!

OK, you hard-bitten, edgie, napster people can scorn me all you like, but I confess I am a romantic. I think passion is the best of all emotions, and I'd rather be making love than doing just about anything. I like the little thoughtful gestures, especially when I think of them at the right time, and I see that little spark of delight in my lover's eyes. Casablanca is my all-time favorite movie, and even after seeing it a dozen times, there are scenes that still make my eyes mist up. Love won't keep you alive, but it's the best reason to BE alive.

So kara and nylon, I hope you have a magical time, and I hope the real world leaves you alone long enough to properly get to know each other again, in that alternative universe populated by just the two of you.

Paul asks about plans for New Year's Eve. Crabbygal and I have started a tradition of going someplace unusual every year. Last year we took the train to San Diego and camped on the beach. This year we are going to Mexico City. That's right, not Mazatlan or Acapulco or Rio Des Putas, but the Big Stinky City itself. We were invited by our Sissy friend Punketa and her family to come visit them, so we are. We'll do whatever it is Mexicans do to celebrate New Years. Not sure what that is, but it's bound to be fun. We'll eat a lot, speak bad Spanish, visit some cool Mayan ruins, and knowing Punketa, smoke a lot of "truck" (her word for weed).

Punketa just sent us a cassette of her talking with her family and friends, to help with our Spanish learning. Oh my god she sounds adorable! A sweet, girlish but spunky and good-humored voice, like a Hispanic Bernadette Peters. She's extremely excited that we're coming. This should be really fun. And if it turns into a disaster, it will still be fun.

Beefi, I feel bad about you being trapped in a job you hate. I wish I could offer some sage advice. Kara says I am patriarchal; I will interpret that to mean fatherly and prone to advice-giving, as opposed to representing an oppressive male-dominated ideology that subjugates women. But I still want to say something helpful. All I can think is, if your job is making you feel that awful, it's not worth it.

Me, I would walk away -- in fact, I'd run -- and find something better. It may pinch economically in the short run, but you'll get by, and at least you won't be destroying your soul. Bitterness and hopelessness are the worst of emotions. They eat you up like acid. Don't stay in a place like that. If you really were my sister, that's what I'd tell you. Then I'd help you with your resume (I'm serious about that part; let me know if that would help, coz I'm good at resumes).

When you're feeling better, I'll tell you our funny (and true) Boise story. It involves Basques and spanking. But you can't be depressed when I tell you. Chin up, sweetie, I do care.

On Sunday Crabby and I went to Singalong Messiah at the Orpheum. She's been going for years, every year, but it was the first time for me. If you've never heard of it, this is an annual performance of Handel's Messiah (the Hallelujah Chorus and all that), but the cool part is the audience does the singing, accompanied by an orchestra. The sopranos sit in one part of the theatre, the altos in another area, tenors, baritones, and everybody follows along with their sheet music and sings their hearts out for three hours. It's amazing fun, and a good way to get into the Christmas spirit.

I sang in a choir in high school, but haven't done any choral singing since then, so I was pretty nervous going in. I mean, I can't really sight-read and had never sung most of this stuff before. Crabby was a little concerned that I was only going along to collect Boyfriend Points, but I assured her I really wanted to do it. Mostly, I wanted to share something that was special to her, but I was also curious. As it turned out, I did pretty well, and only got lost a few times. All three of us (including Crabby's friend Pam) sang the tenor part.

I think women with low singing voices are incredibly sexy. I don't know why. Sure, sopranos are very nice, with their high, sweet voices. But give me an earthy alto voice any day, or better yet, a woman singing the tenor part. *shiver*

Paul, I checked out your twothirty website. Looks good. But I had to laugh when I read your explanation for the company name: it's because we're usually up past 2:30 a.m. working. we actually have fun doing what we do and gladly stay up late designing neat new things and developing our ideas. creativity isn't inclusive to 9 - 5, it can happen at any hour. I would add one little bit to that: Of course, since we're up til 3 in the bloody a.m., you shouldn't expect much creativity at 9, when we are generally unconscious. As a fellow night owl, I know whereof I speak, heh.

Lisa writing about the cold weather reminds me of winters in my youth, growing up in Winnipeg The world looks and sounds very different when it's -40 or colder. I remember one night when I was about 12, walking in the park across the street from our house after a light snowfall, and it was extremely cold but totally still and quiet. No traffic noises, no human voices, just the trees and the snow. Walking on packed snow sounds different when it's -40. Not a crunching sound, but a high-pitched squeak, which goes higher the colder it gets. When it rises beyond the range of hearing, you know it's really cold. But with no wind chill, it's not that hard to take.

That time, I remember the fresh snow dusting the spruce and pine trees, sparkling hard and bright in the moonlight like a billion tiny diamonds. The air was filled with ice crystals. I stopped and stood there for a while, just looking and listening. Total silence. But then, after a while, almost below the threshold of hearing, I could sense a faint tinkling kind of sound, as if the ice crystals were colliding and ringing like microscopic chimes. I still remember that sound.

My kid (17-year-old annoying genius) has a website. If any of you are interested in online multiplayer games, he and his buddies have a rather amusing review site at www.corpnews.com. They plan to get rich from it, so please feel free to direct your younger siblings to it, if they're into that stuff. He's Mr. Poppinfresh, by the way.

Speaking of online time-wasting, thanks a lot Lisa for getting me to check out that AmIhot.com site. It's distressingly addictive. How can people set themselves up for public humiliation like that? I can't look away, it's like driving past a car crash on the freeway.

Wayward, tell your sister we miss her on the playground. Yeah, I know, it's a toxic waste dump at times, but there are still a lot of people there whose virtual company I enjoy. Without Beastie, I am a harem boy without a master. And what am I going to do with all these curly-toed slippers?

Kara's horsie talk made me laugh (sorry, I wasn't laughing at your injuries). I haven't had a lot of time in the saddle, but enough to know that horses are the most amazing animals. I went on a week-long pack trip in the Chilcotins a couple summers ago, and despite the fact it rained much of the time, I loved it. I had never known how much personality horses have, and how sneaky-smart they can be. Way smarter than dogs, in my opinion.

I promise I'll get my coding and linking straightened out this weekend.

Sorry. Just shorted out there for a minute. Like Nylon says, I wish I had more time, so I could post every day, coz otherwise you can't keep up. (By the way, "arse" is a perfectly splendid old Anglo-Saxon word, which you'd know if you had read my post on the sissyboreds.)

I'll deal with the html stuff another time. For now, I feel inspired to write.

Lisa, your dad remembering going downtown alone at age 4 touches on a peeve of mine. When I was 11, my friends and I (ordinary, middle-class urban kids) were allowed to go everywhere by ourselves, clear across the city. We'd build rafts from scrap lumber and float for miles down drainage ditches, or hike across railway bridges (like the scene in Stand By Me) and then run like hell, laughing, if a fat railway cop challenged us. We'd hop on a bus on a Saturday and go downtown to the movies -- kiddies' matinees, they were called, double features of gory gladiator movies or cowboy flicks plus a cartoon short. The place would be packed with 11-year-olds and younger, hooting and tossing popcorn boxes from the balcony, without a single adult in sight. Today the parks are empty because no kid is allowed to go 10 feet without a parent supervising them, guarding against the human monsters behind every tree. It's sad, because kids don't get to be kids any more.

My grandmothers were both warm, cheerful ladies who I loved dearly. But I was never close to my one grandfather, and in later years I've regretted that. I mostly remember him as a grumpy old guy, shrunken and stooped, sitting all day in his chair by the window, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and complaining about the world. Once in a while he would tease me with a twinkle in his eye, but most of the time he was sour and unpleasant. Only later did I realize that he was sick for most of his final years, and because he was such a proud man, it really bothered him to be so frail and dependant.

The thing was, as a kid in Scotland he worked at a coal mine, taking care of the pit ponies. He came to Canada, alone, at age 14, supported himself by homesteading near Edmonton, went to war with the 49th Battalion and survived two years in the trenches, fought in three major battles including Vimy Ridge, was seriously wounded in the bloody mud of Passchendaele, but survived, married my grandmother, and came back to Canada to raise a family. He was a dour, self-reliant Scot, a tough working-class bugger, but his eldest daughter remembers him as the sweetest, most generous man she ever knew. I wish I had asked him to tell me his stories. But I was a stupid kid, he smelled funny and was kind of scary, and by the time I wised up it was too late.

Dec. 5, 2000

It's so much easier to be intimate with people over a computer link than in real life. But it can be a misleading kind of intimacy. Sure, communicating by e-mail allows you the time to formulate your thoughts and make your points more clearly, instead of the usual tongue-tied mumbling all of us are prone to in real life exchanges. You can explain yourself. Plus the act of writing is a kind of self-exploration, whether you are directly talking about yourself or not. You are putting yourSELF into the words, drawing yourself out, without distractions, whereas in person-to-person contact you are always aware of the other person, how he or she is reacting, and as a result you edit yourself.

What happened to Lisa I have seen happen to other people; the person you thought you knew so intimately by e-mail turns out to be different in some important way. The problem is, the "me" that we put up on the screen is a projection of our consciousness -- our own creation, even if we are being "honest" about ourselves. But when we go out into the world, the person others see is much more than our conscious self-image. Our physical presence, body language, whatever you call it, is usually beyond our control -- we don't even know how we look to other people. Other stuff -- the subconscious, maybe? -- gets involved. We don't realize that we laugh like a donkey, or that our gaze is a little too intense, or that we pick our nose when preoccupied. Try watching a video of yourself doing some mundane daily living stuff, without thinking, "Oh my god, is that ME???"

But we think we know ourselves (deep down we do, even us sensitive artist types), and that's the person we convey on the net. I think every e-mail contact should come with references. Maybe an auto-generated tagline with links to your friends' e-mail accounts, so any new cyberbuddy can get the real scoop on you from the people who have seen you naked.

Today I got to meet several Vancouver sissies in real life -- we met at a safe neutral site for brunch, close enough to the Skytrain that the younger ones could easily escape if I turned out to be a drooling pedophile. Kara missed the ferry from her idyllic Gulf Island retreat, thereby causing her to miss brunch. She didn't say, but I bet she slept in, the slug. To her, and to Beef, I want to say that Towel (and please don't let her know I said this) is absolutely the sweetest little thing -- she looks like a sissy, I swear. The eggs Benedict was pretty good.

By the way, kara, your Art site rocks. Also, welcome to the group, Brian. I look forward to being outraged.

My mother's love for music rubbed off on me. She had a lovely singing voice, and one of my earliest memories is of her crooning a lullaby as I snuggled in bed. She loved listening to Broadway musicals (I know the South Pacific soundtrack by heart), Scottish ditties (Andy Stewart especially), and a smattering of classical works. I was in a band in high school, and when we practised at our house she used to lurk on the basement stairs with a tape recorder. She was so proud that I sang for money. I've never hated her music, only grew beyond it to liking a lot more things than she ever did.

Although he rolls his eyes when I play my oldies (I'm listening to Motown lately), my teenaged son and I like a lot of the same music. Like Collective Soul, Our Lady Peace, Foo Fighters and so on. Yeah, I know, it's not very avant garde. I have't a clue who Prolapse or Flying Saucer Attack are. But I do know about Sonic Mulch, Terminal Apprehension and JJ Reet Cashew. I know them because I just made those names up.