Vol. 2, Post #52 Maybe not the VDay post you expected?

If you have nothing nice to say, come sit by me. My sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, AKA, people with readers.

You know what? I’ve had it.

Fuck those cruel, stupid fuckwads who are currently getting away with bringing our country to its knees. Fuck the spineless Democrats who led us into this mess. Forget the idiots who are extolling Kamala 2028 OR AOC 2028 — a snowball’s chance in hell, either one of those fantasies. Fuck the people you know on social media who are showing their true colors and letting loose their dipshit inside voices to speak loudly and proudly flaunt their ignorance — from topics as varied and disgusting as comparing the unspeakable torture of the Israeli hostages to the (also unspeakable) staggering number of victims of the war in the Middle East (newsflash — those situations are apples and oranges, both are horrific but they are NOT THE SAME). Or how banning trans women athletes protects cisgender females in sports. Or any of the cringeworthy and petrifying white whining about “I didn’t like the Super Bowl Halftime show; it was just noise and I couldn’t understand what he was saying.” Oh REALLY? (And likewise, in the middle of this rant, kudos to the people who actually didn’t “get” Kendrick Lamar’s performance and then took the time to educate themselves about why it was a jaw-dropping cultural masterclass in the midst of reneged Black History Month.)

I feel like drowning myself in the Gulf Of Liza Minelli — I can’t remember who posted that, but I’m going with it. Oh sure, let’s just rename it all.

I wish I could harness some humor, some resilience, some snarky, sexy chitchat that tickled your tits, licked your balls, and the rest of it, but I cannot. I’m fucking heartbroken. My beautiful, sweet young pal. O. texted me tonight, “Sometimes I wish I knew God because it is ROUGH out here.”

Truth, Lady O. T-R-U-T-H.

Here’s me earlier this week.

I’m not sure I’ve been this unhappy in years, maybe decades. I hate the way I look; I hate the way I sound; and I hate the way I feel. Look, Ma! Three for three! So much for my idea that I’d sniff out some semi-casual sex during the apocalypse. Today, I had back-to-back meetings from morning till night, and in every one of my in-person appointments or Zoom gatherings, there was someone in tears (and sometimes that person was me).

I’ve made a deal with myself that, unlike almost any other time in my life, I’m not going to gorge myself on something new and shiny (or thick and hard) to distract my thoughts from the endless swirling cesspool that is life right now. I’m just going to sit in my sorrow and rock myself back and forth until that time when I get inspired to stand up and do something else. Yes, playing drums helps. Yes, fresh air helps. Yes, burrowing in bed with the dog and sleeping like a teenager helps (TEN hours of straight snoozing? Don’t mind if I do) but right now it doesn’t help enough. I’m scared of how I feel. Are you worried about me? Don’t be. I’m strong enough to admit that I’m scared of how I feel. In some deep dark recess…in this small, quietly screaming void, I know that I will bounce back but when? That’s a whole ‘nother who-the-fuck-knows. Wait, go ahead and be worried, I guess. It’s nice to be cared about in that way. I forget that while I’m strong, I don’t have the be THE strongest person in the room. The old “raised by wolves” thing. It’s actually wonderful to comfort each other right now.

Let me try to harness some sanity for a minute. This weekend, I’m hoping that my new Pride Flag arrives so I can hang it from my porch. There are fresh flowers in every room in my house. My kid, who makes his livelihood in music and is involved in multiple hip hop projects, told me tonight via text (as he’s in New Zealand on tour) that everyone he knows has denounced Kanye.

Speaking of Kanye (I never miss an opportunity to reference one of my favorite movies):

Next week I will be 57. Fifty-fucking-seven. In fact, next Wednesday is my actual birthday. I know this is a dating, sex, and love Substack, focusing on me and my Young Old friends and readers, and I know that I’ve gone waaay off topic this week but since I think you love me, you’ll forgive me. Hoping next week is slinkier. It better be.

Given that it’s fucking Valentine’s Day this Friday and as much as I enjoy a soppy little bullshit fake holiday like this, because I am a softie/romantic at heart and love to love, I’m feeling about as romantic as your grandmother’s old rubber douchebag. Last year, I was seeing a man who I’ve since released with love, which was the right thing to do but, in this moment, the ways he didn’t show up for me during our years together is chapping my ass. Listen, I’m human (I just reread what I wrote above about not being the strongest person in the room). Everything hurts right now. So, here’s one for all you hardscrabble lovers out there.

Peter Wolf, singer of The J. Geils Band, was married to Faye Dunaway for five years, and it was their union that supposedly inspired this song. Years of their marriage — 1974-1979 (and this record came out in 1980). FYI, Peter is now 79, Faye is 84. And an extra fun fact: Peter’s college roommate at Tuft’s museum of fine arts school, where he studied painting, was David Lynch.

As a way of reminding you that self-care is still love, if you’re hot and bothered by any of the things I described at the top of this post (or anything else — my list of Fuck This Shit is not necessarily your list of of Fuck This Shit), give yourself the gift of cutting it out of your life like cancer. You do not have to behave. Last week, someone started telling me online that she wasn’t sure if Israel should exist. Not the Israeli government. Israel. Fuck you, I said, and I blocked her. That’s my idea of self-care right now and self-care is something I wish for you, Dear Readers, everyday of the week, not just February 14th.

And love doesn’t stink, I know. Oh how I’ve loved and I will love again. And I will sit outside on my porch this spring, and enjoy the birdsongs in the morning while I drink my coffee, and I’ll go on dates, and some of them will be hot and some of them will be SO not, and we’ll laugh about it, and probably roll our eyes (at both me and my dates), but right now, life is not so rosy and too many Pollyanna attempts to tell me otherwise will piss me the fuck off. If you feel like screaming, here I am. I’ll scream along with you.

^^^Up top, that’s a Alvino Bagni for Raymor mid-century ceramic vase, from the “Emotions” series. I love it so much that I’m not going to smash it into a million pieces in a blind rage. So that’s progress, right?

ALSO: As many of you know, ahead of the election, I did tarot readings for $50 donations to Kamala’s campaign and we collectively raised nearly $12k. For this, my birthday month, I’m doing the same, for $50 (or more) donations to the ACLU. So far we’ve raised about $2k. I’d love to raise $5k. Intrigued? Hit me up.