Tiger Woods’ Sex Fantasies ‘Not Normal’ is the headline here. The piece goes on to describe that Tiger “likes role-playing, he likes to be the guy in control and wearing a suit while there are girls performing girl-on-girl and guys entertaining guys.”

Voyeurism? Completely normal. Exhibitionism? Totally normal. Seeing that men and/or women enjoy themselves in a sexual context, that is ensuring everyone is having a good time?

NORMAL.

Preaching married monogamy while fucking around on your spouse? Also normal. There are people who are born for only having sex with one person their entire lives, but there are also people who don’t, won’t, or can’t. The reason Tiger is being treated like a sex addict is because he hid his activities from the wife he loves - the mother of his children - because she would not understand and would leave him if she knew.

I’m not saying his wife is at fault by any stretch; what I am saying is that one should not be “unequally yoked,” to quote the Bible (of all things). Radical honesty in a relationship requires that you’re up front about your needs, from the first date to the “I do” moment. If you can’t be honest with your potential spouse, you shouldn’t marry them. End of story.

If only Tiger - like Will Smith and Tilda Swinton - had chosen a partner who understands that sexual fantasies are great, but more importantly, that the sex act itself is NOT EVEN CLOSE to love …

Well, we wouldn’t have the celeb story of the year thus far, would we?

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Just about the time I get a solid pity party started …

I was not a happy camper last night. Nor was I this morning. I had a lot of options for a Saturday evening, including going out to dinner or the club and/or inviting people over. I let all these plans go in favor of a “better offer” from my love.

Such an offer is, actually, better. Usually. But last night, he fell asleep around midnight.

Left to my own devices, I watched more Frisky Dingo than anyone should be allowed to watch in one sitting. It was a good distraction, too, until I got tired enough to go to bed. So I rousted The Maestro off of the couch and headed off to dreamland.

Except I couldn’t sleep. I had stereotypically girlie moments which made me mad at him at first, then mad at myself for having a completely emotional reaction to what amounts to nothing. Yet no matter how many times I told myself not to take it personally, I still did, and I awoke this morning kind of cranky.

I was wallowing, I admit it, but my love was tuned into it and he made me breakfast. He was just sweet as pie - his version of apologetic - then he laid down on the couch because he’s wasn’t feeling well. He’s cold in a warm room now, so it looks like a fever is coming on.

I sat quietly on the couch opposite him, reading up on my friend’s lives online, and I learned that my girlfriend has food poisoning. Like fever, vomiting, the works. And here I sit, unable to help either of them except if they ask for something specific I can provide.

I’m not disappointed in myself for thinking only about my own needs. That would be futile, since that’s what we as humans do. I wish I could say it will never happen again, but that would be a big lie.

What I can do, right this moment, is get the hell over myself.

Over and out.

Marcellus Wallace does, in fact, look like a bitch. Just ask Zed … oh, wait … he’s dead, baby … Zed’s dead.

Quentin Tarantino may not be the best film maker of all time, but he does - by far - write some of the best dialogue I have ever heard in movies. If you haven’t seen Inglorious Basterds yet, do it. It’s a hoot, a holler, and I wish I could write conversations/monologues like that.

I’m sure Dennis Hopper and Christopher Walken took their roles in True Romance when they read their respective character’s tête-à-tête scene. It comprises all of perhaps five minutes of the film, but it is BRILLIANT (all caps, no apology).

The best part for me? The day I realized Tarantino was the weird, borderline creepy nerd-boy working the counter at the video store in Hermosa Beach where my best friend and I would rent tapes in the early 1980s. Actually “weird, borderline creepy” doesn’t begin to describe him. He was … obsessed. That’s it: Completely obsessed and creepy - totally, unrepentantly creepy - about it.

You know, kind of like his characters.

Being a fool for a woman such as yourself is always the right thing to do.

It’s that time again, boys and girls! As always, if you think the Zen Arrow is about you, don’t be so touchy…

Knowing a weakness doesn’t automatically lead to exploitation. That particular leap is made by choice.

Dogs and cats get stroked daily, not people.

What you say to the most beautiful girl in the world is, “Hello.”

Anything else you want us to carry, while you’re at it?

Tolerance, love, forgiveness … how is it those particular days in Sunday school get missed most?

Has anyone ever noticed when a void has gone missing?

If the boundaries moved, maybe the limit wasn’t set in a strong enough foundation.

When teaching a lesson, be sure the lesson isn’t your own.

I’d pat your back, but I’d have to work around the knives.

Degenerating into confrontation just means you’re doing it wrong.

The opinion wasn’t asked for, so why are you upset it was ignored?

You can’t invade my dreams, but I can invade yours. (Wanna see? Just keep it up.)

The dead bear no grudges. That is the ultimate peace.

We shouldn’t even be having this conversation … not just because you’re close-minded, but because I have legs.

Sharing is not always caring.

If your ego really is that hungry, feed it your personal demons. It will never starve again.

… but if the shoe fits …

Your personal baggage is part of what made you who you are. However, it is unfair - not to mention unwise - to make anyone else carry it for you, even if they volunteer to do so.

Sometimes bad stuff ensues if one doesn’t pay attention to the signs and portents. Let’s just say I ignored more than a few of them, like my own “meh” attitude and the reports of snow, and headed into New Mexico last Friday.

Friday night was lovely. The rest of the weekend was quite lovely, too, if you don’t mind being around me when I’m truly ill.

By the by, seeking urgent care is not something one should do in Albuquerque on a weekend. First, all the good ones are closed on Saturdays and Sundays and when I located a place that was open, it turned out to be as surreal an experience as one can get. It was not unlike being diagnosed in someone’s kitchen by shy teenagers, though the doctor himself was smoking hot. But, [begin sarcasm] like all doctors who know me better than I do [end sarcasm], he wouldn’t take my word for it when I said I needed cephalexin. Really, it’s the only antibiotic that works for me, but Valhalla forbid I should know what I’m talking about … then he gave me penicillin. I didn’t think anyone prescribed penicillin anymore, but I took what I could get and went on my way.

Other than accidents and heart attacks, there are two medical conditions I believe warrant a trip to the hospital: Fever of 103-plus and/or constant vomiting. Saturday night, my fever got up to 102.8. At least I think that’s right, because I couldn’t really focus. I considered calling my love and asking him to head to Albuquerque for me. Fortunately for both of us, my beautiful travel companion turned out to be the best caregiver in the whole world. Two trips to the store for supplies and comfort food for me? Hooray! Also, soaking in the tub to bring the fever down was totally her idea. *applause*

I’ve spent years getting my immune system into shape, so between that, the pain relievers, and two long soaks in the bath, my fever broke sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning. However, I still could not really speak nor swallow because the glands in my neck were swelling my throat shut. Plus, I’d slept in 20 minute increments all night, what with the swallow-OW!-wake up pattern. Once again my lovely companion rose to the occasion and packed all our stuff, loaded the car, and drove us all the way home yesterday. *standing ovation*

My fever was gone, but the throat thing wouldn’t stop, so this morning I dug up my supply of cephalexin and started on it first thing. By 9:00pm tonight, I had finished my homework for tomorrow, programmed my new graphic calculator to do quadratic equations, answered some e-mails, and here I sit, writing about the entire debacle. Lesson learned: Even when I’m sick, I know what’s best for me and I should stand up for it. If I’d done so and therefore gotten the right meds to begin with, we could have had a much more fun weekend away, but what’s done is done.

Now I ask myself: Should I have listened to the signs and not gone anywhere? Though we both would have preferred to spend the time doing fun things - after spending our money on gas, hotel, and food, for sure - nothing bonds two people like stress, fear, and adversity.

So yeah, next time I’m totally listening to the ether.

It’s much more fun to bond on music and movies anyway.

It’s a wish, really. I’d rather my 6 hour trek not become 8 to 10 due to weather.

So where am I going? Consider that Salt Lake City is 8 hours west in good weather, there’s nothing 6 hours east but a whole lot of Kansas, and 6 hours north in January would be a suicide mission.

South, there is a jet tub hotel room with my name on it, thanks to all the reward points I’ve gathered with a particular chain during our travels. Plus all the green chile I can eat.

Some cravings should not be denied.

As I watch the penultimate The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien, I wonder many things. Like how much plastic surgery has Barry Manilow had? He looks like plastic. Is Robin Williams back on coke? He was really manic on the show tonight. Damn, it’s good to see Pee Wee again! Is Conan as mad about the way NBC has treated him as his fans are? Will he go to another network or quit the business with his multi-million dollar buyout deal? What the fuck was NBC thinking?

I think on these topics to stop considering others. If I quit pondering such mundane subjects, even for a moment, I will over-analyze more important areas of my life to a fault. The last thing I want to do is reach the point of saying that now is not the time, this is not the place, I can’t do this, what the fuck was I thinking?

Because if I give in to fear, I will always wonder what the fuck I was thinking.

Fear is the mind-killer.

The bath house I was in was very opulent, like an upscale spa. It was co-ed and there were many men and women mingling about in fluffy, white robes, their plastic spa sandals making light scraping noises as they walked on the hardwood and tiled floors.

I locked eyes with a gentleman whom I knew would not give me the time of day, since the woman on his arm was of the supermodel variety. She was obviously the mistress or the trophy wife. Still, he didn’t look away, and he nodded to me as my own companion - a young man about half my age - came up from behind and took my arm. “Are you ready to go soak in the tub?” he asked me quite playfully.

“Yes, but first things first.” I took him by the hand and led him into a small massage room where we did not make love; what we did was primal, growling, and fabulous.

We left the room and ran into my love in the hallway, who had just returned from his own tryst. “Have a moment?” he asked me. My young paramour took the hint and excused himself to go talk to a very pretty, young blond on the other side of the atrium.

“Absolutely,” I winked. We entered a different room, where he picked me up and lay me on the massage table. We made love so intensely that my audible groans woke me up for a brief moment.

Oh, what a beautiful morning.

The audio on this clip sucks, but it’s the only one I can find on YouTube.

Sometimes I really don’t know my own strength.