Category: family

One christmas, please hold the christ.

Karl ElvisLeave a comment

So let’s make this really clear up front. I’m not a christian. I wasn’t raised a christian.

I was raised an atheist. Mother and father were both from southern protestant/baptist families (something like that, I’m not sure exactly), but but they were both intellectual liberals who grew up in souther California. Dad was, as I’ve said, a science and logic guy, and empiricist who would never open his mind to anything science could not prove.

So have no religion. I have no spirituality, per se.

However, I find the idea of atheism to be as — I want to say wrong-headed but that sounds much stronger than I really mean, so let’s say intellectually closed — as theism. Because just as Satanists must then accept a concept of God, in order to worship God’s counterpart. Atheists, by absolutely denying the existence of any deity, thus close the mind to things without any proof.

So if required to label myself, I’d use the word agnostic. It is, to me, the ultimate rational position of mankind in an unknowable universe. We do not an can not ever know.

I’ll put of a rant on organized religion for another day. Because that’s not what I want to talk about here.

What I want to talk about is christmas. Because I love christmas. I love it, not as a festival celebrating the birth of someone who probably existed, but most likely was simply a minor philosopher with really great PR; because we all know he wasn’t born December 25th, and most likely never even lay in a manger. Nor do I love it as a celebration of the solstice, which is far closer to what it is and how it’s celebrated. I love it, instead, as a cultural tradition. Which means that I can love images of Santa Claus just as much as I love a holiday creche; I can love a menorah as much as I love stars and angels and trees.

It’s not about the religion that have tried to co-opt an older tradition; it’s not even about the older tradition. It’s about how my culture, modern America in the 20th century, celebrated the end of the year.

We all know, those of us who think and read, that these are all variants on solstice festivals; something that has existed, I would guess, since man first learned to count the days of the year and predict the long nights and short days of the year’s end. I suspect every culture since has celebrated the solstice in some way, with feast or sacrifice, solemn prayer or wild orgy, drink and plenty or fear. If I were to choose a thing to celebrate, it would be that, since that pre-dates any of our absurd modern ideas.

But to me, christmas, or hanukkah, or kwanza, or whatever else people celebrate here in this season, isn’t about any of that. And it’s not about the commercial nonsense either, about the getting and they buying, though try telling that to any kid you know and watch them laugh.

Christmas is about love. It’s about recognition of the people you care about. It’s about gestures and symbols and celebrations. It’s about remembering to say thank you and I love you and I’m glad you’re in my life to people. Gifts are lovely; and the tradition of gift-giving is a delight, even though I’m terrible at choosing gifts for people and often get myself stressed because I can’t figure out what to get for someone I care about. But the gift-giving tradition isn’t about things, it’s about symbols. It’s about a physical representation of love and caring, the act of giving symbolic of intimate connection.

Christmas is about being with people you care about. It’s about music and drink and food and celebration of each other, of people so see every day and may not always remember to honor and celebrate, of people far away or seldom seen.

Oddly, christmas isn’t about family, to me, in the traditional extended family sense. That may be because I never had extended family; it was always the four of us, mom, dad, kids, dogs and cats, maybe a friend or two. We had no great clan, everyone else from both sides are far away, Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, the east coast. It was just us. Later, it was us and friends, but never, apart from a few years with my grandfather, was it ever about generation-spanning family gatherings.

No, it’s about my tribe, not my relatives. It’s about the connections forged not by blood, but by love. It’s about my core family, and the people I care enough about to invite into my family, near or far.

My choice of celebration, my ideal, is not always what I manage. There are a couple of reasons for this. One is that my simple view of inner-circle of family and friends is at odds with my extended tribe of in-laws, who have a vast and complicated christmas ritual spanning two or three days of planned events. But more, in my ideal of what christmas is, there’s also a celebration of love in a carnal sense.

Our culture keeps the ideas of love and lust so vastly separate; I do not see that divide as rational or sane. Chaste, romantic love makes no sense to me. Thus I wish, when the nights grow long, the year grows old, and we gather to celebrate, that we could celebrate in an older, more primitive way, with feast and orgy as might our ancestors. Drink and food, and physical love. There are so many things that are easy to say with touch that are hard to say in words, so many things that are easier to say when one is naked and covered with someone else’s sweat and bodily fluids. I wish that were possible in our culture, or rather, less difficult. I’m not talking about fucking a room full of strangers; I’m talking simply about sharing that love with people, celebrating love’s other characteristics.

So to me, this season is not about the birth of a messiah or a miracle of lights, or about shopping. It’s about music, songs of my youth, songs of different cultures with religious words but cultural meaning. It’s about cooking with people you love, eating and drinking with people you love. It’s about remembering who’s important in your life, and showing them you’re thinking of them. It might be about carnal love, it might be about friendship, respect. remembrance, but it is about love.

Friends, family, loved ones who read this space; I do not always show all the love I have, all the respect I have, all the caring and commitment I have. I do not always remember to treat you as well as you deserve. I can be a thoughtless churl, I can be impatient and short-tempered and arrogant and condescending. I can be demanding and forgetful and take you for granted. But I love you; and as always, I strive to be better.

Drink up my friends. It’s been a long year, yet over too soon. Celebrate love in all ways you can think of.

Christmas is about love. Not about jesus or gifts or religion. It’s about love.

So let’s make this really clear up front. I’m not a christian. I wasn’t raised a christian.

I was raised an atheist. Mother and father were both from southern protestant/baptist families (something like that, I’m not sure exactly), but they were both intellectual liberals who grew up in southern California. Dad was, as I’ve said, a science and logic guy, an empiricist who would never open his mind to anything science could not prove.

So have no religion. I have no spirituality, per se.

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Too Hard or Too Soft

Karl ElvisLeave a comment

Andie and I decided to try to attempt mother’s Peanut Butter Fudge. Fudge attempts so far: Four. Successful results: Zip. Zilch. Nada. Null. None. Goose Egg. We’re skunked on fudge. I even picked up a candy thermometer, but due to a mis-read on it, the first two batches were very over-done and set up as […]

Andie and I decided to try to attempt mother’s Peanut Butter Fudge.

Fudge attempts so far:

Four.

Successful results:

Zip. Zilch. Nada. Null. None. Goose Egg.

We’re skunked on fudge.

I even picked up a candy thermometer, but due to a mis-read on it, the first two batches were very over-done and set up as soon as I started to beat them (Oh, I get to use it again, beat ’til creamy. That phrase does it for me every time.) Batch three came out very very close but is still a bit soft, but I’d gotten some of the boiling syrup on the thermometer and the read was a best-guess. Batch four was again over-cooked.

But you know, the smell of it cooling was right. I think that mattered more to me than the fudge itself, which is so sweet it’ll put me into a sugar-coma just thinking about it. But god, it smells good. And cooking with best friends is really what makes it christmas.

I’m gonna try again. I was hoping for a batch for christmas eve, but we’ll see.

Meanwhile, it seems like several of my female readers were quite enamored of my entry on shaving. Just let me know when you’re ready, I’m here with a razor any time.

The World’s Best Peanut Butter Fudge

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The Recipe: Peanut Butter Fudge (makes 36 pieces) 4 cups sugar 2 Tablespoons corn syrup 1 1/3 cups milk 1/2 cup + 2 Tablespoons smooth peanut butter (Jif/Skippy type, not natural) 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 cup coarsely chopped peanuts (we usually left this out) In a saucepan, combine sugar, corn syrup, and milk. Stir together […]

The Recipe:

    Peanut Butter Fudge

    (makes 36 pieces)

    4 cups sugar
    2 Tablespoons corn syrup
    1 1/3 cups milk
    1/2 cup + 2 Tablespoons smooth peanut butter (Jif/Skippy type, not natural)
    1 teaspoon vanilla
    1 cup coarsely chopped peanuts (we usually left this out)

    In a saucepan, combine sugar, corn syrup, and milk. Stir together well. Cover pan and bring to a boil slowly. Remove cover and cook mixture until a small amount dropped into cold water forms a soft ball (or do it the easy way and get a candy thermometer, and cook to 236 degrees F). Remove from heat; add peanut butter and vanilla, but do not stir. Cool to lukewarm. Add peanuts (or don’t, we never did), and beat until creamy (Wow, I like that phrase) and thick. Pour out onto a buttered pan. When cool, cut into squares.

The Story:

This is a slightly modified version of a recipe from the Sunset Cookbook of Favorite Recipes by Emily Chase, published in 1949.

I don’t know when my mother got this cookbook, nor do I know when she first made the World’s Best Peanut Butter Fudge. But I know this was a holiday fixture in my house throughout my childhood.

I still, once in a while, buy a lump of peanut butter fudge in a candy shop. Every time, every single time, I’ve been disappointed. It’s never as good as mom’s. It’s never even close.

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Flowers for Addison

Karl ElvisLeave a comment

It’s hard to have a pet die in your hands and remain unmoved. My ten year old daughter keeps pet rats, as I did when I was a kid. And if you have never had pet rats, you have entirely the wrong impression of rats. They’re excellent pets. Affectionate, tame, intelligent. Easy to care for […]

It’s hard to have a pet die in your hands and remain unmoved.

My ten year old daughter keeps pet rats, as I did when I was a kid. And if you have never had pet rats, you have entirely the wrong impression of rats. They’re excellent pets. Affectionate, tame, intelligent. Easy to care for and not particularly stinky as small caged rodents go.

I had a lot of rats when I was growing up. One that would ride in the pocket of my army field jacket all day. I had a number of them when I was in my twenties as well, one or two at a time. My daughter got her first rat a few years ago and we’ve had several since. She adores them.

Rats don’t live very long though. Two or three years, tops. Most are lucky to see two years. I recall them living longer when I was a kid, maybe they were less prone to infections, maybe they were raised differently, or maybe I just remember it through the blurred lens of memory.

Given how many rats I’ve owned, it takes a lot for one to stand out. Most rats are pretty much just rats; all about the same. The odds ones are memorable; one who had some sort of neurological disorder and would sway, and the sometimes leap at you and strike when startled. She was a beautiful tawny ray with deep red eyes, but not at all right in the head. The one I had when I was a kid who loved in my coat pocket. A couple of others that I particularly remember.

Sunday, we lost possibly the best pet rat we’ve ever had.

Addison.

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Hit me slowly, hit me quick!

Karl ElvisLeave a comment

So as kind of an attention slut, I can’t help but keep an eye on my hits and stats and referrals (Where the hits come from). My best hit spikes have both been from mentions in erosblog, one of my favorite sex blogs. Both times my hits spiked through the roof, and I’m still getting […]

So as kind of an attention slut, I can’t help but keep an eye on my hits and stats and referrals (Where the hits come from).

My best hit spikes have both been from mentions in erosblog, one of my favorite sex blogs. Both times my hits spiked through the roof, and I’m still getting hits from both mentions.

But the funny thing I’m getting now is a steady wave of hits from google searches on the word “Erototoxins“.

This makes me laugh. I’m hoping some of these are coming from the insane people who actually thing all this makes sense. But in any case I just think it’s funny how many times each day I’m still seeing referrals based on that word. If I’ve actually picked up any readers from that, folks, let me know, that will be a cherry on top. I keep trying to find a way to work erototoxins into everyday conversation since it’s such a silly word.

When I started blogging I really didn’t want anyone to read this. I was doing it for myself. Somewhere along the line that changed and I wanted to make sure I stayed visible and had an audience. That’s a double-edged sword; I know I’m more restrained in what I write here now, since people I might talk about are reading this, people I might not be talking about might assume I’m talking about them, and — well, people are reading, and I am aware of it. On the other hand, knowing people read this makes me update it; when my audience was about three people, I updated only once in a great while.

In other news, people keep asking me for details on last weekend’s party. Lets’ just say it wasn’t my party and they were not my details, so I promised not to confess too much here. I will say, though, that I spent most of sunday in bed; I’ll also say that my children were not the least bit surprised and alarmed to find two people passed out in my living room, nor were they in any way concerned to find daddy in bed that morning cuddled up with a lovely woman who was not mommy. “Oh, hi!” they said; “We didn’t know you were here!” They’re pretty damned cool kids.

Skin and Moomin

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This is one of those ‘odd where the web can take you’ bits. Let’s trace it as it happened. Brother Ray was talking about the tattoo he’s getting. Quinn responded with a mention of Shelley Jackson’s ‘skin’ project. So I went off and googled that, and got skin.

This is one of those ‘odd where the web can take you’ bits.

Let’s trace it as it happened.

Brother Ray was talking about the tattoo he’s getting.

Quinn responded with a mention of Shelley Jackson’s ‘skin’ project.

So I went off and googled that, and got skin.

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What’s fifty-six?

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“Mom, what’s fifty-six?””Ah, I’m not sure what you mean.””I think it might be a… a…””Mmm-hmm?”(Whispered) “…a set thing…”Long, long pause.

    “Mom, What’s fifty-six?”

    “Ah, I’m not sure what you mean.”

    “I think it might be a… a…”

    “Mmm-hmm?”

    (Whispered) “…a sex thing…”

    Long, long pause.

    “Honey, do you mean sixty-nine?”

    “Oh, yeah, that’s it.”

    “Where did you hear about that?”

    “Some kids at school…”

This is the kind of conversation one has when one has children on the verge of teenager-hood. The kind of conversation that’s easy if you’re up-tight and prudish, because you can just wash a kid’s mouth with soap or spank them or pretend you don’t understand. But when you actually talk to your kids and tell them the truth, it can be a little but complicated.

The truth. That’s the tricky part. What truth? How much?

I’m a dirty bastard. I write erotica. I know sexuality. But putting things like this into a context so it’s both understandable and appropriate; that’s difficult.

How do you explain sexuality, sensuality, to a ten year old?

Honestly though, here’s what happens when you don’t.

I had a co-worker named Suzy, long long ago when I worked at a poster store and head shop, a place connected to Tower Records. We sold bongs and rolling papers, pipes and coke mirrors. Plants and incense.

So Suzy was the honey of the crew. A little older than most of us, I was maybe 20, she was 23 or so. A suntanned California babe. A little dim, but not as dim as she acted. Not really as cute as we all thought she was, but you know, the cutest girl we actually had there with us every day. I wanted to fuck her desperately. So did most of the rest of us. And I realize now, I could have but I didn’t think to just ask.

So I wore a shirt back then, a kelly-green football jersey with a big number 69 on the back. People would comment on it, and I’d say “It was the position I played in high-school.” Some got it, some didn’t.

I used this joke on Suzy one day and got a blank stare. The sort of an embarrassed grin. She moved in close, all intimate-like, and whispered to me.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said.

“What?”

“Sixty-nine. I don’t — uh…”

She paused and looked around.

“I don’t know what it means!” she finished, lamely.

I could have said a lot of things. Now, obviously, I’d suggest that I show her. And it might have worked, for all I know. She might have let me take her in the back room and demonstrate. I certainly would have gone if it’d played that way. But then, twenty years old, I had no idea what I might have gotten away with.

So I decided to go for the prank.

“Ask your mother,” I said.

It was a couple of days later when I saw her again; one or the other of us was off shift. But her face was red when she saw me, her body language all embarrassment and irritation.

She planted a punch in my shoulder, and then started poking me.

“You! You! Y-y-y-y-y-y – YOU!” she sputtered at me.

“What?”

“You told me to ask her!”

“Ask who? What?” I’d forgotten all about it.

“You told me to ask my mother, what 69 is!”

“Ooooooohhhh yeahhhhh….”

“And I did!”

Her face was getting redder.

“And. She. Told me!”

Poor Suzy. I doubt that’s the last sexual lesson she had to learn the hard way.

It’s very important to me that my children grow up never having to say “Oh, wow, I didn’t know that.” It’s so easy to teach them, and costs so little. I want them to be the ones who can tell their peers the truth when teen-age conversation turns to adult matters. I want them to be the ones who know what STDs are, who know how you can and can’t get pregnant. I want them to know they can come to us and ask about birth control someday.

BUt still. How do you explain sixty-nine to a ten year old?

I didn’t have to, this time. The conversation above was between mother and daughter, and handled incredibly well; matter-of-factly with enough but not too much detail.

That conversation concluded, after a couple of ten-year old Eeeewwwws and Ughs, with this:

“…And I give you full permission, now that you know this, to forget it completely and pretend we didn’t have this conversation.”

Which my ten-year-old did, and went back to her homework. But now she knows she can ask a question like that and get a real answer.

I must say though, I’m waiting for the day she asks about why daddy is always kissing people who aren’t mommy. That will be an interesting conversation.

The Submarine

Karl ElvisLeave a comment

This is another story about My Aunt Penny.

This is another story about My Aunt Penny.

I don’t know when the argument started. It seems like it was always there; it seems like a beginning of time thing.

It defined, in many ways, my father, my family, the relationship between my parents and Penny who-is-not-really-my-aunt. It represents intellectual games, stubbornness, and a profound silliness; it also represents people who have trouble ever admitting they’re wrong.

What is it, the argument goes, that makes a submarine a submarine?

Sandwiches, we’re talking. Not undersea vessels.

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Overcoming Normality

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“You’re so weird” the little girl said to me. And stealing a line from Lion King, which I think stole it from Reversal of Fortune, I replied; “You have no idea.”

“You’re so weird” the little girl said to me.

And stealing a line from Lion King, which I think stole it from Reversal of Fortune, I replied;

“You have no idea.”

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