It occurs to me that LiveJournal users seem to get remarkably few comments from people who aren't registered LiveJournal users. In some cases, it's just not an option, as the only way for an unregistered reader to comment is to do so as "anonymous" and then just sign a name, and many journalers here don't allow anonymous commenting. However, many of us do—I do, and I have for some time. I seem to get anonymous comments at a rate of about one per year. There was that one guy who weighed in on a brouhaha that had started over at academics anon: a college instructor posted one of her students' papers in her journal so that her readers could make fun of it, and I got disgusted by the fact that several people were defending the instructor's "right" to make such a post. The anonymous guy tried to make a case for the notion that teachers could help prepare their students for the world of work by ridiculing them publicly. It was an absurd line of reasoning, but he did sign his name to his comments, so I knew who he was. I also got an anonymous comment a couple of months ago from someone who really was anonymous. And there was one post in which I encouraged a free-for-all, but that only half counts, because most of those comments were from people who have LJ accounts but felt like being saucy.

And that's about it, really. I can only think of a couple of people here who I've seen interact regularly with unregistered readers: marstokyo used to, but I believe those readers eventually got accounts here, and schpahky got comments from nickelchief before he started his own journal. There are a few others here and there, but that's about all I can come up with, and I know that a large number of us both allow anonymous commenting and have friends and family members who read what we write here.

I wonder what stops people? Readers are free to lurk, of course; people who object to having outside readers tend to make their journals friends-only (and if they don't, they should). But it seems like there's something about the LiveJournal set-up that specifically discourages commenting from non-users. Is it the fact that there's no place for them to put their name on the actual comment form, so if they want us to know who they are, they have to sign their comments? Does it seem like they're not supposed to comment? Or maybe it's that LiveJournal seems insular—perhaps cliquish—and they don't want to play croquet for fear that they'll end up underlining the word "eskimo" in someone's copy of Moby Dick. Don't they know we'd probably let them underline whatever they'd like in our copies of Moby Dick as long as they don't murder us first?

And by "they," I might very well mean "you." And if I do mean "you," and you want your own username here but don't want to fork over any cash to get one, let me know. I have about a zillion codes I can give out. A few dozen, anyway. And even if you don't think I mean you when I say "you," because you are a different "you" than the first "you," you can still ask me for a code. If you aren't mean or scary, I will give you one.

This is Scoby. Scoby lives with a man named Josh and likes to hang out at the Long Beach Dog Park. Napa really wanted to be friends with Scoby, because she likes little dogs, but Scoby was not interested in doing anything but staring at that mangled tennis ball. After watching him stare at it for a good 15 minutes, I asked him what he was doing. He glanced at me briefly and seemed to indicate that he wanted me to throw the ball for him. What he actually wanted was to snatch the ball just as I was about to pick it up, and then drop it as soon as I withdrew my hand. And he wanted to do this about 400 times.

While I was obliging him, Napa got bored and started hitting on a Papillon. Ivy was busy checking the trees for squirrels and could not be reached for comment.

I am very tired. I spent most of yesterday with channelinglucy and crew at Disneyland. It was a pleasure, as always. The lines were surprisingly short, given that it was a Saturday, and the good company made them seem even shorter. It also helped that we noticed a couple of baffling fashion trends that provided fodder for discussion:

First, terrycloth jogging suits are apparently in.

Second, young girls who participate in what I can only assume was some sort of junior cheerleading competition—Lucy and friends spotted groups of them praying and flipping—wear matching jogging suits when they visit park attractions in between basket tosses. This is not baffling, for the jogging suits they wear are nylon, and I don't find nylon jogging suits baffling. What I do find baffling is the fact that they all put their hair up and then affix fake hairpieces to the backs of their little twelve year-old heads. They make some effort to match the shiny cascade of curls to their own hair color, but there's no real attempt to make it look real: it's fake. Obviously fake. And all of them had one.

"How many points for touching one of the cheer-toupees?" asked one of Lucy's friends. "I bet they feel like plastic."

"Like Barbie hair," another member of our party speculatively agreed.

"Okay, so one of us obviously has to check on that. But what's next? How would you score points after that?"

"Does anyone have a lighter?" I wanted to know.

I didn't set anyone on fire, but I did enjoy the rest of my evening. By the time I had gotten home, washed my face, and brushed my teeth, it was 2:00 in the morning. I then sprang forward and realized I had to get up in six hours. The company I work for just started offering prep programs for the SAT II exams—they used to be called Achievement Tests—and all of us verbal folks had to get ourselves trained. I drove out to LA, talked about grammar for three hours, and then came home and took a nap. I still haven't managed to fully wake up. That will probably happen just as I lie down and attempt to go to sleep again, because I am a vampire.

I'm posting this just so that I don't lose it (again), but you're welcome to read it if you'd like. I got it in a forward back in 1995, when AOL seemed like a good idea and email was lots of fun. Things change. This, however, is still really funny.

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Dear Maid,

Please do not leave any more of those little bars of soap in my bathroom since I have brought my own bath-sized Dial. Please remove the six unopened little bars from the shelf under the medicine chest and an-other three in the shower soap dish. They are in my way.

Thank you,
S. Berman

---

Dear Room 635,

I am not your regular maid. She will be back tomorrow, Thursday, from her day off. I took the 3 hotel soaps out of the shower soap dish as you requested. The 6 bars on your shelf I took out of your way and put on top of your Kleenex dispenser in case you should change your mind. This leaves only the 3 bars I left today which my instructions from the management is to leave 3 soaps daily. I hope this is satisfactory.

Kathy, Relief Maid

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Dear Maid — I hope you are my regular maid,

Apparently Kathy did not tell you about my note to her concerning the little bars of soap. When I got back to my room this evening I found you had added 3 little Camays to the shelf under my medicine cabinet. I am going to be here in the hotel for two weeks and have brought my own bath-size Dial so I won't need those 6 little Camays which are on the shelf. They are in my way when shaving, brushing teeth, etc. Please remove them.

S. Berman

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Dear Mr. Berman,

My day off was last Wed. so the relief maid left 3 hotel soaps which we are instructed by the management. I took the 6 soaps which were in your way on the shelf and put them in the soap dish where your Dial was. I put the Dial in the medicine cabinet for your convenience. I didn't remove the 3 complimentary soaps which are always placed inside the medicine cabinet for all new check-ins and which you did not object to when you checked in last Monday. Please let me know if I can of further assistance.

Your regular maid,
Dotty

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Dear Mr. Berman,

The assistant manager, Mr. Kensedder, informed me this A.M. that you called him last evening and said you were unhappy with your maid service. I have assigned a new girl to your room. I hope you will accept my apologies for any past inconvenience. If you have any future complaints please contact me so I can give it my personal attention. Call extension 1108 between 8AM and 5PM. Thank you.

Elaine Carmen, Housekeeper

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Dear Miss Carmen,

It is impossible to contact you by phone since I leave the hotel for business at 7:45 AM and don't get back before 5:30 or 6PM. That's the reason I called Mr. Kensedder last night. You were already off duty. I only asked Mr. Kensedder if he could do anything about those little bars of soap. The new maid you assigned me must have thought I was a new check-in today, since she left another 3 bars of hotel soap in my medicine cabinet along with her regular delivery of 3 bars on the bath-room shelf. In just 5 days here I have accumulated 24 little bars of soap. Why are you doing this to me?

S. Berman

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Dear Mr. Berman,

Your maid, Kathy, has been instructed to stop delivering soap to your room and remove the extra soaps. If I can be of further assistance, please call extension 1108 between 8AM and 5PM.

Thank you,
Elaine Carmen, Housekeeper

---

Dear Mr. Kensedder,

My bath-size Dial is missing. Every bar of soap was taken from my room including my own bath-size Dial. I came in late last night and had to call the bellhop to bring me 4 little Cashmere Bouquets.

S. Berman

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Dear Mr. Berman,

I have informed our housekeeper, Elaine Carmen, of your soap problem. I cannot understand why there was no soap in your room since our maids are instructed to leave 3 bars of soap each time they service a room. The situation will be rectified immediately. Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience.

Martin L. Kensedder, Assistant Manager

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Dear Mrs. Carmen,

Who the hell left 54 little bars of Camay in my room? I came in last night and found 54 little bars of soap. I don't want 54 little bars of Camay. I want my one damn bar of bath-size Dial. Do you realize I have 54 bars of soap in here. All I want is my bath size Dial. Please give me back my bath-size Dial.

S. Berman

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Dear Mr. Berman,

You complained of too much soap in your room so I had them removed. Then you complained to Mr. Kensedder that all your soap was missing so I personally returned them. The 24 Camays which had been taken and the 3 Camays you are supposed to receive daily [sic]. I don't know anything about the 4 Cashmere Bouquets. Obviously your maid, Kathy, did not know I had returned your soaps so she also brought 24 Camays plus the 3 daily Camays. I don't know where you got the idea this hotel issues bath-size Dial. I was able to locate some bath-size Ivory which I left in your room.

Elaine Carmen, Housekeeper

---

Dear Mrs. Carmen,

Just a short note to bring you up-to-date on my latest soap inventory. As of today I possess:

On shelf under medicine cabinet - 18 Camay in 4 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 2.
On Kleenex dispenser - 11 Camay in 2 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 3.
On bedroom dresser - 1 stack of 3 Cashmere Bouquet, 1 stack of 4 bath-size Ivory, and 8 Camay in 2 stacks of 4.
Inside medicine cabinet - 14 Camay in 3 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 2.
In shower soap dish - 6 Camay, very moist.
On northeast corner of tub - 1 Cashmere Bouquet, slightly used.
On northwest corner of tub - 6 Camays in 2 stacks of 3.

Please ask Kathy when she services my room to make sure the stacks are neatly piled and dusted. Also, please advise her that stacks of more than 4 have a tendency to tip. May I suggest that my bedroom window sill is not in use and will make an excellent spot for future soap deliveries. One more item: I have purchased another bar of bath-sized Dial, which I am keeping in the hotel vault in order to avoid further misunderstandings.

S. Berman

From here: http://www.michaelkelly.fsnet.co.uk/seduction.htm

FOREPLAY

I am no expert at foreplay. I am, however, a master at stroking cats into a state of ecstasy, and a woman shouldn't be too different. If your bird is anything like my cat, the following manouevres are guaranteed to get her really frothed up:

• Run your hand along her spine


• Scratch her ears


• Tickle her under her chin


• Push her on her back, take hold of her feet and move her legs up and down like levers


• Poke her repeatedly in the belly with one finger while going, "You love it, don't you, you big fat furry fucker."

Okay, people, something needs to be cleared up, here. I just saw the word "violá" printed in a catalog, as in, "Violá! My editor sucks!" A viola is a musical instrument. It's like a violin, but slightly bigger. Adding an accent mark to the "a" at the end of the word might make it look fancy in a romanticizing-the-linguistic-Other kind of way, but that's about it. The word is "voilà." It's French. Screwing up the language doesn't count as political protest, though if you're such a dumbass that you've hopped on the anti-France bandwagon just because the French didn't want us to bomb the shit out of Iraq, then I'm not talking to you. Please go away.

I should also mention that "voilà" does not have an acceptable English variant that is spelled "walla," or—even worse—"wallá."

"Orderves" isn't a word, either. If you thought it was, you should just write "little appetizers." Or "snacks." Or "Wheat Thins with Cheez Whiz."

Our local Urgent Care Center sent us a coupon for $10 off our next visit. If I'm struck with sudden illness or find myself bleeding severely, I'll make finding that coupon a top priority.

This whole Iraqi playing cards thing really creeps me out. It strikes me as grotesquely clichéd, the product of too many movies that rely on heavy-handed symbolism to make the point that there's evil in the world, folks, evil. But is it the evil of human greed and corruption—Joe Pesci in Vegas evil? Or is there an element of the supernatural at work? Like, would these be tarot cards if distributing tarot cards wouldn't cause god-fearing Americans everywhere to accuse the US military of being a bunch of goddamn satan-worshippers, with their fortune-telling, their Harry Potter books, and their WB network? Nope. Tarot won't do, so Texas Hold 'Em it is.

There's nothing like a visit to the dermatologist to make you feel vain and hypochondriacal.

"You're concerned about skin cancer?"

"Yes."

"Any particular spots?"

"My back."

He looks and apparently sees nothing that makes him even want to look twice. "Your back is fine." He then looks at the rest of my body in a "let's humor her" kind of way and pronounces the rest of me fine, too. "You had some other questions?" he asks.

"Yeah. What about these little tiny bumps?"

"What bumps?"

"The ones right here," I answer, pointing.

"I don't see any bumps."

"Right here."

"Oh. Those are oil glands. They're normal. Anything else?"

"Yeah. What about these little broken capillaries?"

"What broken capillaries?"

"These ones."

"Well, I suppose you could have them lasered if you wanted to, but really, you can hardly see them. The treatment might very well leave a more obvious mark."

"Oh. Okay. Well, what about this sun damage? Can I fade it?"

He responds—of course—with, "What sun damage?"

I point, a little sheepishly.

Before I left, he scribbled in my file for a bit. I couldn't see what he wrote, but I'm pretty sure it was, "Patient has been living in L.A. for too long."