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Thursday, June 17, 2004

Hello everybody! Today we talk about nudism. Seriously. I’m not holding back or getting afraid of what I write this time. It’s full-frontal Leticia day here in th blogosphere.

You know, yestserday I got really angry when I saw a beer ad depicting a bottle of the demon drink perched in front of a sign reading “nude beach.” Why did this make me angry, you ask? Well...

- It perpetuates the idea that nude beaches are frighteningly sexual places in which orgies take place by the hour
- It confirms my suspicion that, if this were true, every single American would want to go to one.

So I just sort of brooded and counted the number of beer ads I saw just to prove that we’re living in a dystopic science fiction novel (John Anderton! You could use a Guiness) and it hit me... there is nothing wrong with me. There is EVERYTHING wrong with everybody else. Jeebus. This is what we think about all day, we all just want beer and sex. Hell, I’m fairly certain I could have all the beer and the sex in the world if I wanted any (charming my way into Poseidontown’s underworld of beer and sex would not be difficult for master seductress Leticia)... but what I really want is a friend, as I have repeated numerous times in the oh-so-pitiful manner that I’m so good at.

Well I had a dream last night. It was pouring rain at my community college and I was wearing nothing but a shirt and a skirt (my, um, uplink was indeed exposed to the elements). But the ghostlike woman who was darting around the place? No, she was naked. NAKED! Not only was she naked, but she eminated so many Cooler-Than-You vibes that I was about to choke on their stench.

The Guardian did a column basically mocking the Americans for going nutso about the Boob and at the same time paying out the nose for pictures of boobs that are only slightly covered, between the covers of Maxim (but oh, the articles!). In Britain, I suppose, everybody knows the tabloids are fucking ridiculous (at least, I imagine, out of respect from the British; come on, while I was in London, the big story across the tabloids was that Beckham had signed a Madrid conspirator’s birthday card), but here in America, we REALLY THINK we’re watching art when we turn on the TV on prime time. You can show all the cleavage you want and it’s okay, you can do a whole song alluding to sexual coercion and male dominance and it’s peachy keen family fun, but by golly if the mom spot busts loose and the impenetrable mystery of how we our fed as babies comes unbrassiered, by golly, what will we tell the cheeeeildren?!

As any nudist knows, a naked boob is not half as sexual as looking at a boob that is slightly covered and wondering what’s underneath it. It’s that teasing that is predominant in modern fashion, and that is why I can walk down the street and count the number of V-necks and run out of toes before I get to the bus stop. However, if a woman wants to reclaim her body and show it, in all it’s non-sexual usefulness, shamelessly, as an equal part of what makes her human, by golly she needs a new record out and a Super Bowl with which to use her boob as an act of curtailment in order to do it. If we don’t get used to the sight of the nipple, which was, you know, what your mother fed you with (sorry to break it to you...), then it will FOREVER be controlled by male power and sexual shame.

So! That brings me to today, when I had this dream, and it had the naked woman running through the rain without a care in the world and me, soaking wet in my shirt and skirt and wondering what the hell that ghostlike girl was doing, thinking she was stupid for wasting all her spiritual energy on a streak, but knowing what I REALLY wanted was to run up to her and ask her, “what are you doing? Hey! I’ll join. Is that all right? I mean, it must get lonely running around in the pouring rain naked with the knowledge that you’re merely a stray thought in Leticia’s brain, merely a manifestation of some deep-seated insecurity...” But instead, I just stood there, thought about how dumb she was, and left, remembering how much she looked like... a ghoul... an apparition of the spirit that is really inside me.

That brings me to today, at which point I can look out my window and see—get this—there are a bunch of little kids playing naked in a sprinkler but two backyards from me. There IS hope for the world. And that is why I will be the bestest mother who ever lived, as soon as I get my Mothering Liscence and I give ONE BOY (one boy, count ‘em, ONE BOY IN THE WHOLE WORLD, but girls can form a line) permission to enter the Sacred Temple of Leticia and give me the fucking of my life, at which point, a little Mini-Leticia will pop out, and good God I will put money down that she will be the most well-adjusted kid since Thoreau when she turns twelve. Mark my words. I will kick ASS as a mother.

I suppose I should bring all this rambling to a conclusion, which is that we are all naked, not because we’re naked underneath our clothing but when we all wear piles of designer clothing and fancy jackets in the scorching heat of summer we must look fucking stupid to all the alien probes that are doubtlessly orbiting our atmosphere as our daily existence is broadcast on the Andromedan News Channel: Earth news, squared and factored.

And they are laughing their ASSES off about the Atkins diet but that is another rant. (Public service announcement: Carbohydrates are what human beings run on. Steak will clog your arteries like nobody’s business. Junk food is low in carbs, that’s part of why they call it JUNK FOOD. Anything that says "low fat" on the box is, by definition, bad for you. If you’re going to eat junk food, by golly don’t eat anything that says "low fat" and buy into the illusion. Personally, though, I prefer the things like, you know, BREAD. And fruit. And vegetables. They may be sky-high in carbs, but you won’t keel over and die and/or remain fat, slumped over in your chair shouting to the heavens, "Why, Dr. Phil?! Why?!")

(Oh, and some people are just fat. The point is to be healthy. Do not measure yourself in pounds; if you eat well and you exercise, you’re damn well good enough for God, right?)
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