A Birthday Wish List: Part 3

This is it, folks. The home stretch. Soon, you will be privy to my most intimate hopes and dreams.

It’s still not too late to click over to Boing Boing, where you can treat your eyes to Flying Spaghetti Monsterotica. Hey, there’s a reason why Boing Boing is number one: they give you guys just what you want to see. In this case, a naked woman (I think) clothed only in Saran Wrap and spaghetti.

On the other hand, all I have to offer is the warped Woody Allen-meets-John Waters schtick that runs through my head. Here ya go.

#4: I want my body back!

A couple years ago, I decided that a man really ought to be able to see his penis when he goes pee. Is that so much to ask? At the urging of a doctor-friend, I plunged into the Atkin’s induction diet and discovered the wonders of bacon, eggs, cheese, and more bacon, with a few more eggs for good measure.

The weight came off, I had to buy a new wardrobe, but I still felt crappy. I had no energy. I felt like I had Crisco for blood. When I tried a more reasonable diet (South Beach), the weight came back, a pound a day. I realized there was nothing for it: I needed to add some carbs back to my diet, but the only way I could do that was to exercise.

I used to laugh at my hospital colleagues whenever they’d been injured biking or doing something else vaguely athletic. “No one ever broke or sprained anything sitting on their couch,” I’d say. That’s how much I hated exercise — I made lame jokes to excuse my torpor. But a year ago, desperate to feel like a normal human being again, I joined a gym.

I surprised myself by sticking with it. And, you know, I found out something surprising: I’m a mesomorph. I put on muscle with relative ease.

I began to look pretty damned buff.

Then, about a month ago, my gym closed. Just for a few days, the manager said. We have to bring the plumbing up to code. Four weeks later, they’re still closed.

And now, damn it, I can’t pass the pinch test.

What I dream of:

Looking like this again.

What I’ll be satisfied with:

Avoiding a return to my fat clothes’ drawer.

#3: I am such a whore for brains, beauty, and fame.

It’s true. If a woman has all three, I’m lost. There was a time, a very brief time, oh, for maybe a few months after I saw Beetlejuice, when Winona Ryder did it for me. The fact that she was tribe, well, that only added spice (Winona Laura Horowitz — you figure it out). But then she got all klepto for Dolce & Gabbana black leather purses and Gucci dresses, and, you know, I’ve never looked at her the same way. (Click the link to find out what else Winona had in her trench coat!)

I mean, she might be able to play smart women for the movies, but how smart is she really?

Y’all know about my jones for Olivia Hussey and Jacqueline Kim, but honestly, I don’t know much about either woman. Not in the brains department, anyway. On the other hand, 10,000 Maniacs’ Natalie Merchant has it all, and damned if she doesn’t choke me up whenever I see her on TV. Now, if only she would jam with Trent Reznor, I’d be in heaven.

Ah, well. I can only pick one perfect dame for this particular birthday wish, so I’m gonna choose Cintra Wilson.

If any of you aren’t familiar with Ms. Wilson, you might begin by checking out Bookslut’s interview with her. Karen and I own both of Ms. Wilson’s books, and we read her weekly column in the Bay Area’s Freep, The Wave. (Note: to read Cintra’s column, The Dregulator, online, you’ll need to download the pdf — see link in upper lefthand corner of The Wave’s home page. It’s worth it. You’ll get to see Cintra’s newest photo, Cintra in dark lipstick, gggrrrahghglllrlll.)

Not only is she beautiful, but she looks like a different beautiful woman in every photo she takes. Don’t you see? She’s a one-woman harem! And oooh, is she ever smart. I especially loved her snark on the Bush Campaign in the last election, saying that Bush’s only plank was “the strengthiness of strengthy strength.”

Arguably, Cintra’s master work is her collection of essays (A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Re-examined as a Grotesque Crippling Disease, and other cultural revelations). Here’s a quote from her rant on Los Angeles, which is sort of a latter day nonfiction version of what Nathanael West had percolating in his brain when he wrote The Day of the Locust:

“L.A. is the place where Satan squats with an enormous ladle and dips deeply into his black cavity to extract huge soiled wads of cash, which he then pitches at the heads of the inhabitants below with such speed and force that they are rendered first unconscious, then punchy and depressed. This affliction causes them to overfeed the Dark Lord a-more with their incessant compromises in the workplace, and He devours and digests their creepy and self-negating decisions by day, and befouls them anew with the sooty issue of their moral failures each evening.”

Karen and I chortled when, in the middle of Terminator II, the Wrath of Schwarzenegger, Linda Hamilton‘s character dreamed of a Los Angeles devastated by nuclear holocaust. (And, yeah, a lot of folks in the theater just sorta stared at us.) So you know where we stand with respect to Cintra Wilson’s take on L.A.

(Hmm. I wonder, though, if there’s a neutron bomb which would leave Sahag’s Basturma Sandwich Shop and all the great Chinese restaurants and sushi bars untouched.)

What I dream of:

An evening of dinner, dancing, and sparkling conversation with Ms. Wilson. We have one of those nights where we are both on, you know what I mean? We play off each other, our comic riffs building to feverishly trenchant heights.

Afterwards, she touches me on the hand — a light touch, but a lingering one — and says, “Call me, any time,” and with her lusciously dark mouth gives me a chaste but emotion-packed kiss full on the lips.

What I’ll be satisfied with:

I bought Karen some Max Factor “Black Cherry Truffle” lipstick. I have a well developed imagination.

#2: A night of male bonding.

Just so you know I’m not a total cooch hound, there are some guys out there I’d like to know better. I suspect Dr. Otter is a great guy, and probably has a few stories to tell, and if DHH doesn’t want me, I might as well experience things vicariously through Doc Ott. I’m also intrigued by guys that seem quick-witted and brainy, like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann, and it would be a blast if I could pal around with some of my favorite directors, like John Carpenter, Sam Raimi, Tim Burton, or David Cronenberg.

But if I had to pick one all-around great guy to bar-hop with, it would have to be Bruce Campbell.

I know him and love him from the Evil Dead movies, especially Army of Darkness, but Bruce has also had great bit rolls (from The Hudsucker Proxy to both Spiderman movies) and, hey, I happened to like him as an obese, elderly Elvis in Bubba Ho-tep. But there are two things you need to know about Bruce: he answers emails from his fans, and he has a heckuva writer’s brain, too.

We’ve bought both of Bruce Campbell’s books, Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way and If Chins Could Kill. The first is sort of a blustering guy version of Carrie Fisher’s Postcards from the Edge, in style, if not in content. The second is Bruce’s memoir. Karen and I just got it from Barnes & Noble, and it’s a fine read.

What I dream of:

Carousing Hollywood with Bruce Campbell, getting only drunk enough to enjoy myself, but not so drunk that I can’t remember every moment until I’m too old to care.

What I’ll be satisfied with:

Watching Army of Darkness for the umpteenth time.

And . . . drumroll . . . my number one birthday wish (you knew it had to be about sex, didn’t you?) . . .

#1: An evening of exquisite torment at the hands (and whips) of Lydia McLane.

She’s bad. She’s beautiful. Performance artist and model Lydia McLane has been my wicked dreamgirl ever since her centerfold for City Slab (Volume 1, Issue 4: buy it!), wherein she wore nothing but a pair of devilish horns. Subscribe to The Slab and you’ll be treated with loads of Lydia, frequently in nasty vicious mean dominatrix garb, and not much of it.

(By the way: those of you who follow my Tangent Reviews know I loves my City Slab. Urban horror at its finest.)

Lest you think I’m some sort of shallow, testosterone-hypercharged vehicle for balls, I’ll have you know that Lydia is one smart cookie. From her website bio:

“Lydia is currently a student working towards her Masters of Clinical Psychology and is employed part-time with an agency that specializes in chronically mentally ill individuals. She is a trained Hospice volunteer. Lydia enjoys literature, Opera, all animals, live music, dancing, and other life enriching activities.”

See? She likes chronically mentally ill individuals and all animals. Lydia, I’m yours.

What I dream of:

Lydia, make me your bitch!

What I’ll be satisfied with:

How do you like the new outfit I bought Karen?

Don’t forget the spiked heels, Karen.

D.