Elle Molique

Sex is all in your head.

So much hype is thrown out into the cultural mind about the techniques involved in improving a person’s sex life that what should be a simple thing becomes more complicated than it probably needs to be. Kind of like that sentence. Are we missing the point entirely?

I am not a psychologist, but having a somewhat screwed-up childhood forces a person to acquire some knowledge in the area. I know I am submissive by nature, yet I am somewhat of a strong personality out in public. Nothing new there. I constantly attract submissive men, which is a tough situation because nobody is holding the whip. This mostly leads to miscommunication and a difficulty navigating my own psychology enough to make sex as fun as the theory of it.

Elle Molique

“Why do I know this?”

Are you one of those people that people tell stuff to? I know! Can you believe some of the stuff that gets stuck in your conscience? Geez. It’s like a closet full of skeletons whose DNA has no real relation to your own, so you store the junky bones in a subterranean vault somewhere where they can collect cobwebs and grin constantly.

Why can’t people just tell me where they hid the money?! I don’t care where you hid the body, so don’t even try to tell me that. You have an ounce of weed in the car? MY car?! I’m driving you to the airport, knucklehead. You know what? I hope the cops pull me over. I don’t have a record and I’m guessing that you do. That’s what I get for helping a friend of a friend of a friend.

By Elle Molique

I love cheese, yes I do.

Why is cheese as good as sex? Its melts, its tasty, and its sometimes bad for you. My favorites are Manchego, Vermont white cheddar, and Osceola Nippy Cheddar (Aged One Year) from the Osceola Cheese Company in Osceola, Missouri.

Why is Manchego so great? Because it has an al dente bite and a rich creamy flavor, kind of a combination between good Parmesan and white cheddar. It is made from sheep’s milk and I can eat $5-worth in one sitting.

Vermont white cheddar is so great on hamburgers using anything else is a travesty. White cheddar should be mandatory eating to earn a college degree. Put it with a sexy barbecue sauce on a turkey burger with mushrooms, zucchini, a little real mayonnaise, and a good sesame seed bun and see if you can stop the orgasms.

.Elle Molique

I recently had the kind of day where if you could take it to the customer service department and get your money back, you would. I won’t go into the details, though it involved a car, a cop, an ex-, and a lost DVD rental. PMS was my friend and I didn’t have many others.

I exploded through the door of Higher Grounds in search of pure cane sugar demons to take my frustrations out on. Seducing me sweetly from the confectionery case stood a voluptuous chorus line of glowing cupcakes. Maybe an inch and a half tall adorned with two inches of icing squeezed into church spires of heavenly glory, the vanilla one with the red heart chose me. I bought it with a charming latte to accompany us to our table.

By Elle Molique

This isn’t about sucking your thumb.  It’s about smoking.

When I moved to Kansas City from Los Angeles, I was amazed how prevalent smoking was to the culture.  Weed smoking was the norm in L.A.  Many weed smokers in L.A. hate cigarette smokers because they think that cigarette smoke is somehow worse for you.  I used to laugh my ass off when that argument flew out of the skunky mouths of my pothead acquaintances. 

However, I usually didn’t have to deal with their particular residue in public.

By Elle Molique

Zakk Wylde is the greatest guitarist that ever lived!

Anyone want to fight me on that? Fine. Let’s meet me after school over by the bike racks and I will kick your ass.

I saw some “Greatest-Guitarists-of-All-Time” list fairly recently and I am ashamed that left-wing radicals have found their way into “Shredderville”. I’d also like to talk to Al Gore about this global warming promise he made. The Arctic is taking a crap on my house at the moment!

Anyway, on one of these f-ing lists, (that will remain nameless because I absolutely don’t want to advertise for this prominent, somewhat Communist music magazine in anyway, shape, or forearm) it had Ike Turner ahead of Eddie Van Halen.

Elle Molique

Welcome to the jungle.

For some clandestine assignment that I cannot reveal on pain of non-payment, I was given the book “Fast Food Nation” by Eric Schlosser to read and review. This book is about the rise and plateau (though Eric calls it a fall) of the fast food industry in America…and all the blood-covered boots it has taken to get there.

I smell that this guy REALLY digs Upton Sinclair. He cleverly references “The Jungle” in order to throw me off the trail, but I see through the severed arms and slit jugulars. Eric Schlosser is Upton Sinclair reincarnated. I’m not making fun of him. (Here.) I believe that maybe the points about the dangers of meatpacking needed a modern revival, and who better than Upton Sinclair’s reincarnation?

Elle Molique

Some risks are worth taking…

I walk through the mall, glaring at its constituents. Consumers. What a bunch of atomatons, with their disposable income and leisure time. There are starving people in China, you know. Or there used to be. I wonder when itreally pushes to kick our asses economically if the Chinese government, with its cornered markets and pollution apathy and wanton ownership of US Treasury Bonds, will give a crap about the starving people in America. Screw that. I’m for continuing our world economic domination. Stop reading this and get back to work.

Return to mall maudlinium. A herd of high school kids rushes into Abercrombie and Bitch to look like everyone else as fast as they can before the holidays. I sneak myself past Sephora, hefty faceted zircon in the crown of the Overpriced Cosmetics Empire. Love it, love it, love it!!! My knees buckle. I put my left hand against my head to block the tentacle edge of the vortex that threatens to wipe color on my cheeks and lids and suck the ATM card right out of my pocket.

Elle Molique

First thing you say to yourself as you walk onstage: “Don’t s#&t your pants.”

People who play jazz know it is the most difficult art form ever invented. And jazz players are the most cruel, critical a-holes out there. You can’t help it. You pick apart someone else’s solo just like you know they are doing to you.

Jazz people idolize the “masters” like crazy, too. Nobody will ever touch Coltrane, Dizzy, Miles, or Bird. Maybe there was something to the fact that they were on the cutting edge of the most coveted jazz genres, but people like Donald Harrison, Danilo Perez, and Terence Blanchard have done what I would call exciting things with jazz in the last twenty years. So have a huge number of other…cats. (I said it.) With the advent of cheaper recording and expendable time and income, everyone can make a record, and does anymore. The cream can’t rise to the top in a centrifuge.

Elle Molique

I am not a doctor. This is more of a “path of logical”, slightly artistic exploration of loneliness. It’s winter.

I was born exactly twenty years to the day after Ted Bundy was born. Not that it is relevant in any way other than it creeps me out quite a bit, and has caused a morbid curiosity to surface about him.

As a result of my studies of Bundy, I have come to the conclusion that he was brought to life with a black cube in his head where his empathy should have been stored. This black cube expanded when he drank, demanding to be filled with snapshots that made up a body of work that was his idea of art. Obsession fueled the desire to kill the way Bundy did it. His diabolical sense of purpose sought out the perfect conditions where means and opportunity could meet his motive in a triumvirate that resulted in a giant hole left in someone else’s family. This hole, started in the cube, engulfed his own sense of loss growing up in a family that was less than stable.

by Elle Molique

All in all, where in the hell did the discipline go?

Horror stories. We were all told tales of rulers being whacked over the knuckles of poor, sweet, try-hard kids in the 1950’s by evil nuns with bad habits. Those same kids grew up to be captains of industry and shatterers of glass ceilings. I don’t ever know what the statistics are, largely because I believe that all statistics are slanted in some way to benefit the people who need to show them, so I am going to make one up to further my own point. The inmates run the asylum in approximately 100% of schools today.
Why is that, and how in the hell am I an authority on the subject?

Because I am a sub. Let’s do some math: Substitute teacher is called in on a Friday before a three-day weekend to replace another sub who has to leave. The class, don’t laugh, is P.E. The kids, ok quit laughing, are in seventh and eight grades at a middle school with a less-than-stellar reputation.

Honestly, the school has been characterized by upstanding citizens as “the inbred school”.

By Elle Molique

Zakk Wylde is the greatest guitarist that ever lived!

Anyone want to fight me on that?  Fine. Let’s meet me after school over by the bike racks and I will kick your ass. 

I saw some “Greatest-Guitarists-of-All-Time” list fairly recently and I am ashamed that left-wing radicals have found their way into “Shredderville”.  I’d also like to talk to Al Gore about this global warming promise he made.  The Arctic is taking a crap on my house at the moment!

By Elle Molique

I refuse to participate in this economic crisis. I am not the only one, either. Many people are sick of hearing about problems with no apparent solutions.

One of the most horrible consequences of up-to-the-minute reporting by 24-hour news agencies is that a person can be inadvertently, or advertently, brainwashed into believing we are experiencing the economic end of the world. A second Great Depression. A complete destruction of the American way.

Here’s what I think has happened. I, like many Americans, have become an entitled a-hole who thinks this cushy lifestyle I have been fortunate enough to experience for the past thirty years is a God-given right. It isn’t.

Elle Molique

…my stomach hurt. Always.

A friend of mine once said, “I’m glad I found out you were cool before I knew you hated the Beatles. Otherwise, I might not have become friends with you.” Hate is such a strong word…that fits like a non-kid glove. I can barely stand that guy because he LIKES the Beatles. I don’t have a lot of friends.

Why do I hate thee, oh Beatles sound? Let me count the ways:

1. No guitar playing that is worth a crap.
2. The lyrics are made of sap. “My guitar gently weeps…” Get a new one. The sap is draining out of the wood and that’s a problem.
3. The drumming is suspect, mostly because it barely exists.
4. The song writing defined a generation…of drug addicts.
5. They’re all so cute…not at all. Not one. Not that it matters because I’d pick Motorhead over them any day, and they ain’t Victoria’s Secret models. (Ace of spades! Does that come in a fuschia demi?)

Elle Molique

…I love Creflo Dollar!

I just bought a house, so affording cable is low on my priority list. I am a television addict, so I am left with Hulu, which sucks because of the couchlessness of it, and USA Network that comes in snowy and garbled through my internet cable connection. As a result, I get to watch buttloads of NCIS, JAG, Walker Texas Ranger, and Monk in diffused black and white.

One Sunday morning, I decided to tune in to my crappy non-cable (the reception I get adds up to about ninety cents over a three-month period---feel free to prosecute for the full amount; here’s a half inch of my change jar) and to my surprise, I was blessed with the dulcet preachings of non other than Dr. (ahem…amen) Creflo Dollar.

.Elle Molique

“I love my women in 2-D.”

I see this guy on his laptop and I am thrust back into the 1980s. Obviously, there weren’t a preponderance of laptops at the time, but it looked as though this guy was hard at work, probably monitoring stocks during after-hours trading, and/or reading news stories on competitive companies to research his next big investment. Wrong. He was jacking around on Facebook.

Is this yet another reason the Euro is beating our asses right now? Is our productivity truncated by the allure of two-dimensional love or lust or “friends” keeping us from doing out jobs, or even aspiring to anything?