He took me to a beautiful French restaurant in Los Angeles for dinner on a crisp fall evening in 2007. He had approached me at the coffee shop the week before and asked me out, after chatting me up while we both sipped pumpkin spice lattes. He was friendly and sported the salt and pepper hair that hinted he was probably a touch older than the men I usually dated, but I agreed to a date because I wanted to give it a chance.
When the memoirs of Frank Harris were first published, in the easily shockable 1920s, the book fell into the same notorious category as its near-contemporaries Lady Chatterley's Lover and Ulysses: it was a book guaranteed to bring the prospect of a jail sentence to any bookseller foolhardy enough to stock it. And so it remained for several decades, a collector's item, more familiar by repute than by reading. The US and Britain banned it for approximately 40 years. The book not only failed to achieve the circulation Harris hoped for, but it also escaped the normal process of critical review and discussion.
Throughout history there has been a strict rule of thumb, men are men and women are women. But in the early 1970s, Rock and Roll musicians broke that rule when they dipped their toes into the glittery waters of glam androgyny. Traditionally, Rock has always been on the cutting edge of cool and has characteristically been a patriarchal dominant genre. That tradition changed with Glam Rock. It ushered in a new generation of people breaking social and sexual norms by embracing femininity.
Why does a rose smell like a rose? We know it looks like a rose because we can define shape, texture, and color. But to define its smell is beyond us. Smell is the sense we know the least about and, like all mysteries, it holds enormous erotic potential.
Language is one of the most inhibiting factors in love play. There comes a moment when every American or English male traveling abroad sees a girl to whom he wishes to say something to the following effect: "Mademoselle... Fräulen... Signorina, you are exquisite. Only the pre-Raphaelites could have caught your eyes, your lips, your hair. Your laughter is as that of distant cowbells on verdant hills, and the Georgian poets alone could have described you, oh moon of my delight that knows no wane…"
If you can’t see any connection between sex and our polluted planet, it's only because you haven't met Professor Quilp. But you'll be hearing a lot about him here. His name is going to become a household word, like Dr. Spock. I mean it. What Salk did for polio–well, that's what Quilp is doing for erotic pollution.