Sexy Time Warp
Random bootknocking is so 1992. But if you find yourself in a dilly of a pickle after a night of boomin’ in ya Jeep, be sure to peep Dr. Ding’s wisdoms here.
Without further ado, Boomin’ In Ya Jeep.
Also: Soul Train. Japanese ideogram captions. Don Cornelius. And Color Me Badd, singing “I Wanna Sex You Up”. Their porn ’staches and fancy dance moves still really boil me auld potato after all these years. Damn.
And Now For Something Completely Different…
Gentle reader(s). Recently Dr. Ding expressed the urge to wear a cape to her Twitter peeps. One thing led to another, and eventually @groovehouse led me to the following video from Ghostland Observatory.
In short: they rock.
Behold.
Cue Banjo Music
So. Today Dr. Ding received the commentary featured below. If this keeps up, I may have to take a page out of The Bloggess’ book, and give props to commenters who excel in uh certain categories. Like wit, clarity, and deep, penetrating insight.*
Our new friend WOGG was kind enough to post his website address, and for some unfathomable reason decided to leave me an email addy as well. Most intriguing behavior from a complex, multilayered person.
*Not the sexual kind. But I totally get a I-want-to-sleep-with-Dr.Ding vibe from WOGG, don’t you? I knew someday I would have to contend with this kind of stalkingly sweet attention from a fan. A sexy fan. Le sigh.
Adorable Primate
It occurred to Dr. Ding recently that there have been not nearly enough adorable primate pictures here at AskDrDing as of late. My Evil Manservant Jeebes has been busily preparing several specimens for your viewing pleasure, but alas has retreated forthwith and posthaste to his procrustean lair, wherein he is doubtless devising some sort of abominable eigenplot in order to further befoul the spiritual æthers of humanity, thus leaving me to decide which primate is most suitable. The fucker.
In diametric opposition to Jeebes’ skullduggering distate for forming relationships with other beings, I’d like to point out just how sweet the backstory behind this picture is by referring you here. We could all learn a thing or two from this pair about tolerance, peaceable coexistence and the vital importance of healthy relationships. Well, that stuff, plus pooping and peeing with devil-may-care abandon. I’m just saying.
Pardon My Narcissistic Ballyhooing
Dr. Ding is still whoring herself gleefully out over at UGO.com. For real; my editor thinks I’m a lucite-heeled poledancer down at the Sons of Hermann Biweekly Krackenkokainenfest who just so happens to have read Freud in the original German. I am so sneaky and wicked bad like that. But they pay me*, so it’s totally cool.
My latest clinical masterpiece is entitled “How to Make Love to a Geek” and can be found here. Enjoy. Go on, you deserve it.
*I know, right?
Dr. Ding Sings The Blues
Picture it: Paris, 1961.
A solitary, sparrow-like figure, clad in trenchcoat and beret, clutching several thin notebooks and sheafs of paper with grim certainty; her countenance is pale and wan yet somehow she is as luminous as a thousand Jardin des Luxembourg Café candles. Listlessly smoking a Gauloise, she sags against a doorframe as the rain beats down a solemn grey tattoo. “Mon Dieu!” she whispers, her eyes feverish with longing, thinking of her now-faraway lover, of warm, soft sheets, of harsh words that pierce her heart as carelessly as a knife would an apple, if the apple happened to get in the way of the knife, as apples often do. Foolish apples! For what do they know of life?
And now this. She is alone and freshly grieving, cold and soaked-through by the very tears of Montmarte herself, the snooty French bitch. She realizes only now that he would never love her, not as she loved him. Never! The rain would beat on, relentless, her own tears unnoticed, unmourned. Her writings would so too pass on, unread. All in vain. All for nothing. “Alors!” she cries, and throws herself bodily in front of the next passing streetcar, her fragile soul a mere hiccup after a particularly rich meal of foie gras.
“Alors!” indeed mon ami; alors forever.
Bet you thought Dr. Ding Sings The Blues was going to incoporate some Edith Piafian/late-stage French poet tropes, eh? Yeah, well, Dr. Ding ain’t no angsty, beanie-sporting Beatnik writerchick. Screw all that unrequited gloomy existential shit with a self-consciously seriocomic ending. Life is for the living. Get to it.
In the meantime, however, it’s highly recommended that you sing the blues every once in awhile. Blows the dust out of the asscracks of whatever personal demons are troubling you. Here are some of my favorites.
At Last — Etta James
Shotgun — Jr. Walker and the All-Stars
Hellhound On My Trail — Robert Johnson
They’re Red Hot — Robert Johnson
Pride and Joy — Stevie Ray Vaughan
Dearest Darling — Bo Diddley
Who Do You Love — Bo Diddley
Going Down Slow — Little Walter
I’m Tore Down — Eric Clapton
It Hurts Me Too — Junior Wells
The Same Thing — KoKo Taylor
Voodoo Woman — KoKo Taylor
Wang Dang Doodle — KoKo Taylor
Killing Floor — Howlin’ Wolf
Built For Comfort — Howlin’ Wolf
BOOM BOOM — John Lee Hooker
Sugar Mama — The Bel Airs
Going to the River — The Bel Airs
That oughta get your mojo workin’.