F.D.R. (F*ck Da Rich): Bonoboville X-Press
F.D.R. (F*ck Da Rich):
It’s a bumpy ride on the Bonoboville X-press which is still censored, disabled, terminated and X-terminated on all major social media, X-cept on “X.”
“X” Marks the Rot
Yes, our beloved Tweety-bird has been X-ecuted by the richest man on Earth just to show the world he is X-tremely dumb. Twitter-lovers are X-iting Elona Musky’s “X” in droves, treating the site like an “ex,” or maybe an X-rated adult store next to a nursery school.
It’s X-hausting, and I feel as X-ploited by this (se)X-obsessed narcissist capitalist as anyone, but (sigh) I’m still there because… where else can I go? Though it’s getting tougher to dodge the toXic clods of X-crement Musky Elon is throwing.
Turbulence on the Love Train
Well, at least I can enjoy a nice eargasmic ride on the Love Train, right? Wrong. Just after I start the show, Capt’n Max X-presses his anger, gruffly saying he is “unhappy,” while refusing to explain why he’s unhappy or talk about much of anything X-cept being unhappy.
The whole episode almost makes me jump out the X-it of this moving train, but I come from the school of “the show must go on,” so I do the best I can, which is pretty bad (sorry darling listeners!), but it does improve somewhat as we get rolling.
I wouldn’t say we make it through the Tunnel of Love—and as I restart the show, Max gets up and leaves—but within a few minutes, he shows up and cheers up.
Apparently, the antidote to his fleeting emotional low is to get high with a nice doobie (been there, done that!), at which point, he hops back on the train and X-presses his anger with MAGAt Republicans and Ron DeStupid, instead of with me.
Ah, the strange X-igencies of marriage. Just as even the best train conductors can have a rough ride, so too can we relationship counselors hit a rough patch in our relationships—sometimes when we least expect it! But much like the little engine that could, our Love Train (both the show and our marriage) continues on through the bumps on the tracks and gets stronger with every ride.
Still… “Doctor, heal thyself!” is on my to-do list.
Bonobo Kanzi, Capitalist Barbie
At least, as I wait for Max to recover, some fellow travelers join me on this bumpy ride.
Wow! Kanzi’s gaming skills have sharpened since the 1990s when I first saw him beating us at Lady Pacman.
Brady asks me for my review of Barbie, the kind of movie that I don’t think you have to actually see to review since there are promos and scenes all over the internet, and anyway, it’s about a damn plastic doll, a kind of early AI in the flagrant service of hot pink capitalism.
Humiliation Kink Ken, Diapered Matt Walsh
My suggestion that guys with humiliation fetishes can relate to Ken dolls rings a bell for Brady who talks about his own cravings for a kind of “motivational” emotional humiliation. Somewhat similar feelings are in play during erotic humiliation, but instead of applying to your career goals, they’re about your dick.
This leads to a discussion about Matt Walsh, Christofascist “What is a Woman?” commentator on The Daily Wire, the platform owned by Ben Shapiro—who was so disturbed by Barbie (the feminism, not the capitalism), he threw her in the trash and set her on fire.
Walsh has six kids that must be driving him nuts. He wants to ban porn, outlaw LGBTQ life, encourage teen pregnancies (that is, for Walsh, the female can be a teen, and the guy could be Robert DeNiro), and he supports forced breeding, that is, no abortions for anybody.
Sounds like someone who might want to keep their own fetishes on the downlow, especially if they’re into the Adult Baby Diaper Fetish. But not Matt “Daddy” Walsh who prides himself on running diaper wrestling contests with his “Sweet Baby Gang” of swastika tattoo-sporting, diaper-wearing adult male babies.
Not saying AB/DL (Adult Baby Diaper Lover) is wrong, but Matt “Daddy” Walsh should get some sex therapy so he doesn’t keep inflicting his unresolved erotic issues on the rest of us.
Libraries Becoming Jails
Meanwhile, sex educators in Appalachia are being threatened with violence over their “Sexy Sex Ed” class. I’m pissed about being censored, but many sex educators are experiencing much worse.
So are librarians. Houston Independent School District will be eliminating librarian positions at 28 schools this upcoming year and utilizing some of the libraries as “Team Centers” where children with “behavioral issues” will be sent, the district announced.
Conservatives and a few liberals are in a lather over Republican Congresswoman Nancy Mace making a sexy little joke at a “prayer breakfast”
Burt Sesame calls in to talk about how not only are we losing libraries, but schools are discontinuing their art and music departments.
So, they’re turning libraries into detention centers, aka daytime prisons for kids, and public schools into trade schools, so corporations will get skilled cogs to plug into the Capitolocene machine instead of workers with a will of their own and poetry in their souls.
Nancy Mace’s Prayer Breakfast Sex Talk
Conservatives and a few liberals are in a lather over Republican Congresswoman Nancy Mace making a sexy little joke at a “prayer breakfast” for Republican Presidential candidate, Senator Tim Scott. “I woke up this morning at 7, Patrick my fiancé tried to pull me by my waist in bed, and I was like ‘no baby, we don’t have time for that this morning. I gotta get to the prayer breakfast.” He can wait. I’ll see him later tonight.”
Hartley Pleshaw who dubbed me the Official Sexologist of Active Radio on WCAP, even tweeted at me, “Sounds like this couple (couple of WHAT, I wonder) badly needs your therapy, Dr. Suzy.”
I can always use more business, but actually it sounds like Nancy and Patrick’s sex life is doing fine. I don’t see anything bad about the Congresswoman briefly mentioning her morning dalliance at the prayer breakfast. Nothing wrong with morning sex, nothing wrong with putting it off either. Okay, maybe she didn’t “read the room,” or maybe she did and felt her Prayer Breakfast companions could use a little lesson in love. Besides, for a Republican, she’s pretty cool (and somewhat hot); not a MAGAt, and not too bad on abortion rights or a little sensible gun control. She says she’s a “sinner” not a saint, which is a good answer if you’re a sex-positive Christian Republican trying to have a half-way normal life. There should be more Republicans like Nancy Mace.
Lance calls in to beg to differ. He believes Nancy Mace was “inappropriate,” even though he insists he’s not religious and “not a prude.” He also feels the need to keep begging, differing and repeating his point about 20 times—then wanders into racist and ridiculous territory—before I finally say “enough!” as he continues to gripe that he’s “not finished” with telling us how inappropriate she—and at this point, we—are.
Meanwhile, the majority of Republicans still love their racketeering mobster Trumpty Dumpty. As the indictments pile up, some abandon him, and others love him more. Stay tuned to see if America’s Oval Office will be behind bars.
Nothing Compares to Sinéad O’Connor
Throughout this bumpy ride, but especially towards the end, I try to find words to express (X-press?) my feelings about Sinéad O’Connor who just died at the age of 56.
I first became aware of the incomparable Sinéad O’Connor in 1990 when I heard her sing “Nothing Compares 2 U,” a song by Prince that Sinéad made her own—without Prince’s blessing—but with eyes that saw right through you and a voice of silvery gold.
That voice reminded me of Joan Baez singing like an angel crying out against the wars, but more tormented because Sinéad was tortured, abused, probably by a priest or a nun or her mother. Most definitely by our world.
Her delivery was so intense, haunting, accusatory and yet so vulnerable, that as soon as I heard it, like millions around the world, I fell in love with her.
So did my husband Max. And as we fell in love with Sinéad, we fell in love with each other. We were already bonding through our opposition to war in general and Desert Storm (when it was still Desert Shield) in particular, and together we made a cassette tape (remember those?), Desert Susan, in the spirit of Tokyo Rose with a pinch of Scheherazade. We sent a few hundred cassettes to the troops and officers of Desert Shield and Storm to persuade them to “make love not war.” I talk about the wisdom of the much-maligned “Vietnam Syndrome,” the folly of war and the beauty of love in between musical interludes, and the first song on the tape is Sinéad O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U.”
To whom was she singing in that song? Her lover who left her? Maybe they broke up, or he died, or perhaps he went off to war, and she yearns for him to return in peace.
We yearned for all of them to return in peace, but they didn’t, though when they thought they “won,” they held a big parade. Then one Gulf War led to another, with terrible sanctions in between, and the Perma Wars continued and continue. At least, over the years, Max and I have heard how those Desert Susan tapes featuring Sinéad turned some of those troops and officers to turn their swords into plowshares—or maybe floggers—and make love, not war. We’ve even met a few of them.
Then in 1992, the year Max and I got married, Sinéad O’Connor went on Saturday Night Live, sang out like a seer in that precious metal voice, and then she ripped up the Pope—actually her mother’s photo of Pope John Paul II—telling us to “Fight the Real Enemy.” In that moment, she was incandescent, a Joan of Arc for our times, and I fell even harder in love with her, as the fires burned around her.
Some claim now that nobody knew then that Catholic priests were molesting altar boys and girls en masse, but a lot of us knew, though many didn’t want to know, and poor Sinéad, like Joan, burned and suffered on the stake of society’s willful sexual ignorance.
The pope-ripping caused Sinéad to get canceled before cancelling was a thing. A few days later, she was booed at a concert by seemingly everyone but Kris Kristofferson, and it seemed that her brilliant career had been flushed down the Vicar’s drain.
But Sinéad was never sorry for what she did. She admitted she struggled with bipolar disorder and PTSD all her life, but in that moment, she was the sanest person on the planet. It was what she was destined for, to tell that truth about Catholic priests abusing the most vulnerable members of their flock when it was unpopular to say so, and I loved her for that. Now everyone loves her for that (well, almost everyone).
Then, almost two decades later, in 2013, I felt the pain of seeing someone I love do something I despise—as dramatically as she did the things I loved. Sinéad O’Connor wrote a scolding, slut-shaming open letter to Miley Cyrus about being too sexual and too “naked” in her Wrecking Ball video. She wrote that Hollywood was making a “prostitute” out of Miley, and not in a good way—whether Miley’s outfits and dance moves were Miley’s idea or not. When Sinéad slut-shamed Miley so fiercely and publicly, she slut-shamed me, and all of us who choose to wear erotic outfits or nothing at all—and I hated her for that… perhaps especially because I had loved her so much before.
Another Counterpunch writer, Ruth Fowler, wrote an article at the time that expressed my feelings about that awful letter much more eloquently and humorously than I ever could. Apparently, Sinéad read Ruth’s article and freaked out, called CP editor Jeffrey St. Clair and “unloaded” on him for 40 minutes, demanding that he fire Ruth. He didn’t fire Ruth, but he did suggest Sinéad write a piece for Counterpunch, which she did—and I loved her for that.
She took a few other important and unpopular positions, like supporting the Palestinians, turning down a Grammy as too “commercial,” and opposing all the wars. Though I’m still repelled by her slut-shaming, there was a lot to love about Sinéad O’Connor.
Her youngest son died by suicide a year ago, and I can’t even conceive of the immense pain and harrowing loneliness she went through over that, though I sometimes imagine her singing Prince’s song to her lost boy. Through all of her suffering, she gave us so many gifts of love, until she couldn’t anymore, and now at the young age of 56, she’s gone.
Thank you for everything, Sinéad O’Connor. Nothing compares to you.
The Joy of BeDaLoveLiveLight
Speaking of Jeffrey, he asked me to review a new book about Dr. Alex Comfort, author of The Joy of Sex. It’s called Polymath—because that’s what Comfort was, a genius in many areas of science, a doctor and a poet. He was also a pacifist. Make love not war. And when he was a little boy, he loved to watch and listen to the trains of the Great Northern Railway. Maybe he found it Comfort-ing… like we do.
Finally, we talk with “Most Bonobo Couple” SUZY Award-winners BeDaLoveLiveLight, aka Chef Belive (who has fond memories of embarking upon his erotic life journey through his parents’ copy of The Joy of Sex) and the luminous Daniele Watts, featured in many DrSuzy.Tv shows and bacchanals, including our Bonoboville Reunion soon to air on Vice TV. Our conversation, though delightful as always, is fraught with tensions as Daniele keeps bringing up topics that could get me banned on even more platforms. But I love both of them soooo much.
Nothing compares to BeDaLoveLiveLight.
Breaking News: I just found out right after this live show that our Vice TV special will premiere this Thursday, August 3rd (earlier than we were told)! Watch it here!
© July 29, 2023 Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 626-461-5950.
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