Steve Blevins's Open Salon Blog

Top 10 Ways to Die

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 08:10:03 -0400

10. Colonoscopy gone awry

9. Acupuncture gone awry

8. Face-lift (performed by Michael Jackson's surgeon)

7. Cocaine (in supratherapeutic doses)

6. Clorox intoxication

5. Cardiac arrest

4. Syphilis

3. Autoerotic asphyxiation

2. Waterboarding

1. Having your cake and eating it too

Now who's it all about?

My Inglorious Debut as a Sexual Predator

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 08:11:03 -0500

When I joined Open Salon eight months ago, I read poetry and political commentary. Times have changed. OS is now saturated with sexual content. It's a shame. What began as a unique and intriguing online journal has turned into a prurient tabloid. The change has left me disgusted. And angry.

And horny.

Last week, it hit me: Everyone at OS is having great sex -- except me. Well, I'm tired of being left out. Just because I'm shy and nerdy doesn't mean I should be neglected. I'm a nice person. Who knows? Maybe there's a woman out there who finds me attractive.

In any case, I'm tired of women patting me on the head and calling me "that adorable little doctor." I want to be strong and powerful. I want to be an object of lust. I want to be ... Dr. Steve Blevins, Sexual Conquistador!

Last week I decided to make it happen. I went on the prowl. My prey: Bridget Anderson, front-desk clerk and hottest babe in the clinic. Bridget is a beautiful blond with gorgeous eyes and a perfect figure. She's not the brightest bulb in the clinic, but she's super-sexy. I called her to my office.

"Bridget," I said, "What I'm about to say may shock you, but I'm going to come right out and say it. I've been admiring you for months -- and I think you're gorgeous. I want you to know I'm deeply attracted to you and I'd like to make love to you tonight."

Bridget looked at me with breathtaking disinterest. She did not respond.

"Well?" I muttered.

"I'm listening," she said. "Go on."

"Go on? That's all I have."

She seemed disappointed. "That's it?"

"Well, yes."

She shook her head. "Don't you have something to offer?"

I understood the situation immediately.

"Oh, yes," I replied. "Let's see. Hmmm. Well, what if I raise your salary by a dollar an hour?"

Bridget closed her eyes and began counting on her fingers. I could tell she was struggling with the math. She then asked to borrow my calculator. I obliged. Ten minutes later, she put it away and pulled out her calendar. Another five minutes passed. She then smiled at me with self-satisfaction.

"Okay, Dr. Blevins, I can pencil you in on March 7."

"March 7!" I exclaimed. "That's in four months!"

She didn't like my reaction. "Dr. Blevins, this is the holiday season. Do you have any idea how busy I am? I'm sorry. March is the best I can do."

I was incensed. "Well, forget it! Just forget it! I don't want to make love to you, now or in March!"

Bridget remained cool. "Look," she said, "If you're that desperate, why don't you ask Tunesha? She's going through a dry spell."

I was angry. "Tunesha? Are you crazy? No way. There's no freakin' way!"

Bridget had had enough. She stood and glared at me. "Gee, Dr. Blevins, I didn't know you were a racist."

I was furious. "I'm not a racist!" I yelled, but she was already out the door.

I turned toward my desk and buried my head in my hands. I couldn't believe what had transpired. Racist? Me? How absurd! I had lots of black friends. There wasn't a racist bone in my body. Still, I wondered: Why had I rejected Tunesha so quickly? She was young and attractive. I had no reason to reject her. Was there a soupçon of bigotry in my subconscious?

I thought about it all night, and the more I thought about it, the more agitated I became. Tunesha was a fine woman -- and probably good in bed. More importantly, I was not a racist, and I was determined to prove it.

The next day, I called Tunesha to my office. As soon as she entered, I predicted trouble. Her eyes were cold; her arms were crossed. I'd never seen her in such high dudgeon, but I was determined to press forward.

"Tunesha, what I'm going to say will surprise you, but I don't care. I just want you to know that I find you very attractive. You're a wonderful person, and I think you're very hot. In fact, I'd like to make love to you tonight."

Tunesha's mood changed instantly. She donned the loveliest smile. I could tell she was thrilled! She jumped out of chair and wrapped her arms around me.

"I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!" she squealed. "You're not a racist! Bridget said you were, but I knew you weren't! You're wonderful, Dr. Blevins."

"Well, thanks," I said. "So, you'll make love to me?"

"No, sweetie," she replied."But you're so nice to ask."

"What? Why?"

"Don't get me wrong, Dr. Blevins. I think the world of you, but you're not really my type."

"And what is your type?"

"Manly."

"And what am I?"

"Adorable!"

I was not pleased.

Sensing my discontent, she said, "Look, if you really need sex that bad, why don't you ask the phlebotomist?"

"The phlebotomist? Which phlebotomist?"

"You know, Nathan."

"Nathan!" I yelled. "Are you crazy? I'm not gay!"

"But he is," she replied. "And who knows? You might enjoy it."

"You're freakin' crazy!" I howled. "You're totally and freakingly out of your freakin' mind! No way! There's absolutely no way!"

Tunesha's smile disappeared. "Well, Dr. Blevins, I guess I misjudged you. I didn't know you were a homophobe."

"Homophobe?" I yelled. "That's insane! I'm not a homophobe!"

Tunesha's patience had run out. She walked toward the door, shook her head in disappointment, and left.

Shocked, I sat down and began thinking. What a terrible thing she had said! I wasn't a homophobe. I had lots of gay friends. How dare she accuse me of that. Still, I asked myself: Why had I rejected Nathan so quickly? He was kind and courteous, though somewhat melancholic. He seemed very lonely and he never spoke to anyone, but so what? Maybe he was an interesting person. Maybe he was fun. And why was I being so judgmental? Maybe a little gay sex was what I needed.

The following day I decided to give it a whirl. I called Nathan to my office.

"Nathan," I said, "What I'm going to say will surprise you. Don't be shocked. Just hear me out. You probably think no one notices you, but that's not true. I've noticed you, and I think you're really neat. In fact, I find you very attractive. Now, I know this will come as a surprise, but I've been thinking a lot about this lately and I'd really like to make love to you."

Nathan stared at me blankly. I couldn't tell if my words were registering with him.

After a few mintes, he broke the silence: "Dr. Blevins, I didn't know you were gay."

"I'm not."

"Okay, well, aren't you a bit, um, mature to be experimenting?"

"I'm not experimenting."

He seemed puzzled. "Do you have the swine flu?"

"No, Nathan. Just answer the question, okay?"

"Well, Dr. Blevins," he stammered, "I think you're fantastic and, um, everyone likes you. In fact, you're the best doctor I've ever worked with. But, um, if it's all the same to you, I'll take a raincheck."

"A raincheck? Why?"

Nathan's discomfort was noticeable. "I think you're a fantastic doctor --and please don't take this the wrong way -- but, with all due respect, you're not my type, though you're a really, really great doctor."

"And what is your type?" I asked.

"Manly," he replied.

"I am manly!"

"Well, Dr. Blevins, to be quite honest, you are super-nice, and I really don't mean this in a bad way, but you make my metrosexual brother Cliff look like Brad Pitt."

Nathan knew I was angry. Seeking to remove himself from the spotlight, he said, "Dr. Blevins, I've got an idea! Why don't you ask Shirley out! Shirley really likes you. I'm serious. She told me so. I promise."

"Shirley? Shirley who?"

"You know Shirley. Shirley in the gift shop."

I felt the blood pooling in my face.

"Shirley!" I yelled. "Shirley has Down's Syndrome!"

"She's a high-functioning Down's," he corrected.

I was seething with rage -- and Nathan knew it.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Blevins. I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't know you had a problem with the mentally challenged."

That was the last straw.

I jumped out of my chair, grabbed Nathan by the collar, and roared: "Listen, Nathan, and listen good. I don't have a problem with the mentally challenged. In fact, I LOVE the mentally challenged. And guess what? I also LOVE the gays. And guess what else? I LOVE the blacks. But you know what? I DON'T WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH EVERY GODDAM ONE OF THEM!"

Exasperated, I put on my jacket and prepared to leave, but Nathan wouldn't let me go in such a mood.

"Dr. Blevins, this may sound, um, crazy, but have you ever thought of, maybe, going home and making love to your wife?"

An arctic air entered the room.

Nathan had mentioned the unmentionable -- and I was loathe to admit my vulnerability. A flood of emotion entered my heart. I bowed my head in embarrassment. I was torn: I didn't want to discuss this, but I did want to unburden myself. Finally I gave in.

"Nathan," I confessed, "Susan has lost interest in me. She doesn't care about me any more. I love her very much, but she doesn't feel the same way. I don't know what to do."

Nathan looked confident for the first time.

"Dr. Blevins, I don't mean to pry, but do you ever bring flowers to your wife, or read poetry to her, or play the piano for her, or massage her feet?"

The question stung. Sheepishly I replied, "No, Nathan. I don't."

"Well, maybe you should," he argued. His face was now expressive. He looked dead-serious.

"Thanks, Nathan. I appreciate the suggestion. But if I did those things, Susan would have me committed."

"Well, Dr. Blevins, with all due respect, I think you've crossed that line already."

I paused for a moment and reflected on his advice. And the more I reflected on it, the more brilliant it seemed.

"You know, Nathan, maybe you're right. Maybe I should pay more attention to Susan. I tell you what. I'll give it a try -- just for you."

"That's the spirit, Dr. Blevins! I'm proud of you."

I looked at Nathan. His concern for my marriage was real. He truly wanted to help me. This inconspicuous phlebotomist was, in fact, an engaging and empathetic young man.

"Nathan," I said. "I'm really impressed with you. You are wise beyond your years. How do you know so much about women?"

"Oh, I'm gay," he replied.

I smiled and thanked him for his counsel. I then walked him to his car and bade him farewell.

Driving home that evening, I felt invigorated. I thought about Susan. I loved her very much and I was determined to rebuild our marriage. At each stoplight, I dreamed of what we could achieve with a little work and lots of love. And I hoped that Nathan would one day experience a dream as uplifting and inspired.

I Was Not Ass-Raped in Fort Lauderdale

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 07:10:59 -0400

First, let me apologize for being away from OS. I was on vacation in Fort Lauderdale – and what a splendid vacation it was! No electronic connections – just sun, sand, and surf! And now that I'm refreshed and back in Oklahoma City, I'm catching up on all your great posts.

My vacation was spectacular for one reason: I met one of my favorite OSers – Cartouche.

I've said this before and I'll say it again: Cartouche is one of the most generous people I know. No one has done more to promote OS. Though I was already aware of her brilliance and artistry, I was wholly unprepared to meet her. And if you don't believe we actually met, look here:

(That's right, muthafuckas. That's me and Cartouche -- unphotoshopped! Instead of reading your crappy posts, I had lunch with her. Who's the mutha-fucka now?)

So what is Cartouche like, you ask.

Well, here's a summary: AWESOME! She's smart as hell. (I estimate her I.Q. at 220-230.) She knows what you're thinking before you've thought it. She's fun, vivacious, and totally HAWT! And if you don't think we actually met, check this out:

No photoshopping here!

Anyway, after a delightful lunch, we went to the hotel and joined my mother for tea. (There's nothing a woman finds more attractive than a middle-aged man traveling with his mother.)

Half way through the tea (and to my heart-stopping astonishment), Mom revealed what had been troubling her all day. Knowing that I was going to meet an Internet friend, she was expecting the worse. Mom is pretty old and she doesn't understand the Internet. She gets her ideas from television, which does a fantastic job of scaring the crap out of old people. (See: Fox News.)

For years, she'd heard of Internet meet-ups in which someone gets maimed, killed, or worse, and she was afraid I would meet a psycho bent on ass-raping me.

Well, as you can imagine, she was relieved to meet Cartouche, who is smart, elegant, and not the least predisposed to ass-raping. Of course, Mom was surprised that a nice person like Cartouche would have lunch with someone like me. And for those of you who are similarly surprised, look here:

Now, here's the down-and-dirty on our get-together: We talked about everything from art to medicine, and at no time did I feel ass-threatened. We never even broached the subject of ass molestation. In fact, I'm willing to bet $100, maybe $200, that Cartouche has never ass-raped anyone.

Okay, maybe I'm too cavalier about the Internet, and maybe every man needs his mother to protect him from an ass-assault, but I'm convinced that OS is a friendly place, and as long as it remains that way, I'm not going to worry about potential ass-conflicts.

Okay, next: Are you ready to be surprised?

Guess whom I talked to on the phone in Florida? (And don't say "your mother.")

Lea Lane and Sally Swift!

Lea and Sally are AWESOME! They are two of the coolest people at OS! And if you don't think I talked to them, get a load of this:

Me and Lea

Me and Sally

(That's right, muthafuckas. Instead of reading your crappy posts, I was talking to Lea and Sally!)

Anyway, as you might guess, it was hard saying goodbye to Cartouche. After a huge hug, I gazed into the sparkling aurora of her bejeweled eyes, and for a brief moment saw reflections of... ME jumping up and down giddily at having met a real, live OS woman!!!

So here's a summary:

I had a wonderful time in Fort Lauderdale
I'm back in Oklahoma City (reading your crappy posts)
Cartouche is AWESOME!
Lea and Sally are AMAZING!
I was not ass-raped.

The beautiful Ft. Lauderdale beach, where I enjoyed sun, sand, surf, and absolutely no -- I repeat, no -- ass-raping.

(Oh, and by the way, here's a picture of Cartouche and my Mom.)

Who's jealousing now, muthafuckas?

Gilligan's Island: Season 8, Episode 13 Recap

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 08:09:01 -0400

I'm a selfish bastard.

When I joined Open Salon six months ago, I found literary freedom. No one questioned my choice of topics. No one restricted my hours. No one limited my space. No one charged me a red cent for the expensive technology that allows me to communicate with the world.

And how did I use that freedom?

I wrote about classical music, poetry, health care and travel -- things I care about. Since its inception, this blog has been about me, me, me. That's right. It's been all take and no give. Why?

Because I'm a selfish bastard.

Not once have I written about transsexuality. Not once have I written about kitty cats. Not once have I written about ... (gulp) ... television.

Well, my selfish days are over. Today's post is not about me or my interests. It's about the The Great Cause. It's about -- TELEVISION!!!

Yeah, I know. I haven't watched television since junior high, so I'm not qualified to write about Mad Men or I Love Lucy or whatever else is on the fucktube. But that doesn't mean I can't contribute.

Today I'm giving it the old college try. I'm writing about the last show I saw on television -- Season 8, Episode 13 of Gilligan's Island.

Enjoy!

The episode begins with Gilligan listening to the radio. He hears something that surprises him. I don't remember what. (It was thirty years ago!) In any case, he communicates what he hears to the skipper, who is equally surprised.

The skipper takes the matter seriously. He decides to act on the news. I don't remember how. Anyway, a robot ... or alien ... or something appears on the island. This is unexpected.

The robot-alien is integral to the story. Everyone is engrossed with him. At some point, Mary Ann appears. (Or was it Marianne? Marian, maybe?) Well, anyway, she shows up in shorts.

She says something to someone. Probably the professor. All I remember is having a wet dream that night. Then Tina Louise appears. Everyone calls her Ginger. To me, she is -- and always will be -- Tina.

This is my favorite part of the show. Unfortunately, I missed some of it because I was crossing my legs and hoping mom wouldn't notice... well, anyway, at the end of the show, Gilligan ends up in a super-cool car!

Ginger is standing by the car. She is hawt! She looks AWESOME in her long red dress! Almost as good as in her bikini!

And the story ends with everyone still on the island, and Mariane and Tina looking hot as ever!

Thanks, OS, for six great months! I promise I'll throw you a bone from time to time.

Costa Rica: A Model of Environmental Stewardship

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 08:09:36 -0400

Environmentalism is a daunting preoccupation:

Global warming threatens the planet
Pollution threatens our health
Dependance on foreign oil threatens our economy and our national security

So we recycle, plant trees, and use public transportation. But we're still discouraged because the world isn't getting greener.

That's when it's time to consider Costa Rica, one of the world's great environmental success stories.

If the "green" revolution has a Cinderella story, it's Costa Rica.

Costa Rica is the only tropical country to have reversed deforestation. It is the first country to have set a goal for achieving carbon neutrality (by 2021). Despite having a population less than Boston, it is a global leader in the effort to curb climate change. Its government is advising dozens of countries, including China, on how to go "green."

But Cinderella stories always begin unpleasantly. In the 1940s, Costa Rica was the poorest country in Central America. The average income was $200/year, infant mortality was 10%, the government was unstable, the population was expanding, and the army accounted for one-fifth of the national budget.

Then things changed.

Inspired by the American example of democracy and free enterprise, the people of Costa Rica peacefully took over the government. They wrote a constitution, abolished the military, built roads, and brought electricity to the countryside. They established social security, comprehensive health care, and universal education. They guaranteed a minimum wage, maximum working hours, and job security.

The result?

Forty years later, Costa Rica was the wealthiest country in Central America (Panama excepted). Life expectancy had risen to U.S. levels; infant mortality had plummeted; and literacy, electrification, and clean running water were near-universal.

But a mistake had been made along the way: Costa Rica had allowed 80% of its rainforest to be destroyed. (The rainforest had previously covered almost the entire country.) Ultimately, the economy fell with the trees.

That's when citizens rose to the challenge.

They debunked the old myth that "wild" lands have no value. Instead of exploiting natural resources for economic gain, they established a national park system. The government assigned economic "worth" to forests, freshwater reservoirs, and scenic landscapes. It began paying farmers to preserve forests, plant trees, and use land responsibly. The program was funded mainly by a gasoline tax.

The result?

Today tropical forests cover half the country. Forest fires and illegal logging have plummeted. The air is fresher, the water is cleaner, and the economy is booming. Ecotourism, the nation's leading industry, is a billion-dollar-a-year business (in a nation of only four million people).

Costa Ricans are rightfully proud of their success. They have reversed deforestation, which results in more greenhouse gases than all the world's cars, trucks, trains, and planes combined.

Twenty years ago, no one cared about Costa Rica. Now dubbed "the Switzerland of the Americas," Costa Rica has become a must-see destination for serious travelers, especially Americans who like the U.S.-friendly atmosphere.

Thanks to smart public policy spanning decades, Costa Rica has risen from an impoverished Spanish colony to one of the most prosperous nations in the Americas.

So if you're blue about the pace of the global greening, just relax and go on a nice vacation. I've got a great destination for you.