It’s time to set the record straight about hockey players and teeth. I seriously can’t believe what they fail to teach kids in school these days.
If you know anything about Greek mythology, you know that around 2000 BCE, Cadmus—credited for the original alphabet—erected (not a casual choice of the word) the city of Thebes. You know, where Oepidus later had a little hanky panky with his mama (the earliest known Cougar), and Dionysus got some ladies so pickled and riled up that they mistook Pentheus (Pen as the Greek root for Peeping, and Tom being the modern derivative of Theus) for a cow and tore him to shreds. (Why the drunk women would tear a leering bovine to shreds is off topic, but I’m sure most women have felt a similar urge.) The earliest cult images of Dionysus show him in procession with his followers, bearded satyrs with erect penises, and he and the satyrs each carry a Thrysus.
What you might not know is that the Thyrsus was long thought to be a giant fennel staff of symbolic significance (symbolizing, what else?, an erect penis), but when Heinrich Schliemann excavated Troy in 1873, the Thrysus was definitively proven (after centuries of unsubstantiated speculation) to be the Original Hockey Stick. As if bearded satyrs with erect penises would be carrying anything else. Thrysus and Thrust have of course now become interchangeable in romance novels.Read More »
Eight years into my quarter-century marriage, my husband left me.
The Man I Married got on the motorcycle we’d driven cross-country together the summer before and drove himself to New Orleans. Which is almost as far as you can get from Seattle yet remain on this continent. To get much farther, he’d have to sell the bike and buy a boat. Believe me, he’s considered it.
On that cross-country motorcycle trip the prior summer, I had insisted that we stop in New Orleans; he insisted that we not. He had no desire to go to New Orleans and it went against our only requirements for the 10,000-mile trip: no cities, no major roads, no planning. But I had a literary passion for the Crescent City and craved the opportunity to fondle the wrought-iron gates through which Lestat and Kate Chopin had passed. We quarreled about whether to stop in New Orleans all the way from Puget Sound to Lake Michigan; from Lake Michigan to the Atlantic Ocean; from the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico. MIM continued to resist the increasing pull as we rumbled back west from Georgia to Florida to Alabama to Mississippi, while the ringing of “Stella!” grew louder in my ears until I could hear nothing else, least of all his protests that I was deviating from everything he held sacred about this trip.
He was reading Sun Tzu and had taken to fits of roadside contemplation in which he posed artfully in leather pants atop boulders and beside brooks, with a pen and a tiny notebook and an increasing amount of facial hair.Read More »