Last night. Mark and I are side by side, both at our desks. Both at our computers.
Mark is all thoughtful, “Who do you know who you could call a crew slut?”
“That would be a great thing to write about. You know . . . that Frank Zappa song?”
“Ummm . . . I do not know anyone who is going to be pleased to be called a crew slut, babe.”
“Maybe you could write about how you are a crew slut.”
“Really? Really, babe?”
“Are we talking about the song I think we’re talking about? The one about the girls blowing the crew members to get backstage passes? That one? What about that song screams your wife, babe?”
Mark sips his beer, “I just think you could re-write the song and call it Pretty All True Slut. Or just True Slut for short.”
“OK, babe? The song is about girls blowing people to get to the band. So in your vision . . . Am I the crew slut? Or am I the band?”
“I’m thinking I’m the band. You want me to write a post about how people have to blow you to get to me! That is all kinds of wrong, babe.”
“But it would be funny.”
And now he’s singing, “The boys in the crew, they have a present for you.”
Mark? He makes me laugh.
“Crew Slut! Don’t make a fuss. Just get on the bus! Just add water! Makes its own sauce.”
I would just like to take a moment here to mention that Mark? Never gets the lyrics right to any song. Ever. But this song? He remembers perfectly. I know because I Googled the lyrics.
I so did not remember that Just add water, makes its own sauce line.
That? Is fucking awesome.
OK, so guess what?
Mark thought yesterday’s post was fucking hilarious! I actually did think he would be a little annoyed at my sluttiness, but guess what?
Turns out that if it’s not my sluttiness we are discussing?
Mark is all happy. Bring on the friend’s sluttiness.
He is all about the friend’s sluttiness.
Husbands are weird.
Speaking of weird?
Last night, we are having this crew-slut discussion, and he is eating chips. He is sitting in his chair at his desk and eating chips. And after every few chips? He reaches down to the floor beside him to pick up a wet wipe he has placed there to clean his chip-holding hand. And then he leaves the wipe on the floor. And eats more chips. And then reaches down to clean his hand. And leaves the wipe on the floor.
I watch him do this several times.
What the fuck?
And so I say, “What the fuck is up with the floor napkin, babe?”
“You are like a crazy person. Why do you have a wipe on the floor beside you?”
“Because if I put it on my desk, it will get things wet. And if I put it in my lap, it will look like I pissed myself. So this?”
He reaches down to wipe his chip-holding hand again, types a few words, “Is perfectly reasonable.”
“You are a loon.”
“And you? Need crew sluts.”
And then he turns toward me, picks up his beer and drinks it in that monkey way he does, in both hands, with pinkies extended. He knows that drives me up the fucking wall.
He’s all mine, people.
That man’s voice?
Filled with sex.
Zappa opens by reading a note from someone who is of the opinion that Zappa’s attitude toward women sucks.
And then he says this . . .
Let me tell you about women’s movement. There is only one good women’s movement, and I am deeply involved in it. That is the movement where their back arches up like this and they hold onto the top of the bed and their eyes roll back. That is the most important women’s movement, and you should all be involved in it.
That voice! Oh my god.
Sometimes? An image gets caught in my head and there is just nothing to be done until that image is addressed.
Scratch that . . . One time? I had this friend who would occasionally get an image stuck in her head. And then? There was just no getting around the need for that image and that urge? To become reality.
She was all slutty that way.
A last thought? I am prepared to debate anyone who wants to argue that Frank Zappa was a misogynist. But that debate? Will look a lot like having your comments altered to reflect your secret sexual fantasies involving Mr. Zappa. So bring it on!
I am all forensic and debatey over here.