Over the summer, I attended my (GASP!) 50th high school reunion. I’ve adjusted to the shock of how many years have passed since graduation, and it was fun trying to identify old classmates that I hadn’t seen in years. After we got past the great lie that starts with “Gee, you look good!” some of us talked about what used to be. The passage of time might make you remember things as being simpler then, and perhaps they were because we didn’t have grown-up responsibilities, but I realized that some things in the world haven’t really changed.

In 1973, we had a Republican President (Richard Nixon), who authorized a break-in of the Democratic national headquarters to ensure his re-election in ’72. Hmm, a President tampering with an election to win a second term…what a dreadful notion! Following a Congressional investigation, Nixon resigned the following year rather than face impeachment and possible jail time. At least he knew how to take a hint.

Many of us who grew up in the late 60s/early 70s took an interest in ecology and the effects of air and water pollution on the environment. I attended school in the Cleveland area, and it was during this era that the Cuyahoga River caught on fire after years of pollutants being dumped into it. Environmentalists also began using the term Greenhouse Effect in reference to the deteriorating ozone layer and global warming. Fifty years later, we’re still paying the price and fighting the same battles regarding the climate.

Speaking of paying the price, the average cost of gasoline was 38.5 cents a gallon, up from $.34 the previous year. By the Spring of ’74 it had increased to $.55, due to the Middle East oil embargo. Remember gas rationing, something that hadn’t been done since WWII? Shortages of crude oil and fluctuating gas prices still remain a fact of life. I recall some economist predicting in the late ‘70s that gas would stabilize once it reached $1.00 a gallon. Riiiiiight!

On the lighter side, we got our music fix from AM radio, vinyl records (albums and 45s), and cassettes. FM radio was still the refuge of easy listening, classical music, opera, and NPR talk shows. That year, a bouncy little folk tune called “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Ole Oak Tree,” by Tony Orlando and Dawn, captured the Billboard number 1 spot.

Further down the chart, Jim Croce warned us to beware of a cat named “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” while Roberta Flack moaned about her man “Killing Me Softly with His Song.” She might have been referring to Marvin Gaye when he sang “Let’s Get It On,” Kris Kristoferson asking “Why Me,” or Paul McCartney and Wings performing the slow dance favorite “My Love.” Diana Ross extended an invitation to “Touch Me in the Morning,” while Carly Simon chastised someone with “You’re So Vain.” Rumor has it that she wrote that song about her one-time lover Warren Beatty. Listen to the lyrics and judge for yourself. For contrast, Elton John coaxed us to get down with “Crocodile Rock,” Billy Preston asked “Will It Go ‘Round in Circles,” and Vicki Lawrence told us about “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.” This was also the year that Bette Midler broke out with her update of an Andrews Sisters hit from the ‘40s, “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy.”

Broadcast TV via rooftop antennas was the primary form of home-based entertainment, since we were a few years away from cable and home video. We still delighted in hearing Archie Bunker yell “Stifle!” on the number 1 show, “All in the Family,” while Redd Foxx did a Black version of the character on “Sanford and Son.” All things being equal, Bea Arthur’s “Maude” put a feminist spin on topical events. The other top shows that year were “The Waltons,” “M*A*S*H,” “Kojak,” “Hawaii Five-O,” “Sonny and Cher,” “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and “Cannon.” Compare those to what we’ve been watching over the past few decades and see how our tastes have changed.

The too-hip-to-be-square comedy show “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in” finally ran out of jokes after six years. Does anyone remember presidential candidate Nixon’s appearance in ’68, when he posed the question “Sock it to me?” ‘73 was also the first year for the soap opera “The Young and the Restless,” still churning out angst and sexual hijinks after 50 years.

One thing that has remained constant is our appetite for movies, and we had some great ones to choose from. The American box office was dominated by “The Exorcist” (the #1 movie), and “The Sting,” a reteaming of Paul Newman and Robert Redford that also renewed interest in Scott Joplin’s ragtime music. “American Graffiti” (#3 on the list) struck a chord with many of us, thanks to its plot about high school grads enjoying their last night at home before leaving for college and the real world. Love the soundtrack album.

The rest of the top ten consisted of “Papillon” with Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman, Redford and Barbra Streisand in “The Way We Were,” Clint Eastwood reprising Dirty Harry in “Magnum Force,” the Depression-era comedy “Paper Moon” (starring Ryan O’Neal and his daughter Tatum), and Roger Moore’s debut as James Bond in “Live and Let Die.” The list also included two unlikely films, both rated X—the controversial “Last Tango in Paris,” which nearly tanked Marlon Brando’s reputation, and “The Devil in Miss Jones,” a holdover from the porno chic era.

Some of the other flicks that brought us to theaters and drive-ins were “Walking Tall,” “Serpico,” “The World’s Greatest Athlete,” “Enter the Dragon” (Bruce Lee’s big screen debut), “High Plains Drifter” (Eastwood on horseback this time), “Dillinger,” “Save the Tiger,” “The Seven-ups” (a sequel to “The French Connection”), “Shamus” (Burt Reynolds trying to revive the private eye genre), Woody Allen’s “Sleeper,” and one that achieved cult status, “Soylent Green.” Bet you can’t remember the last line of that movie, screamed by Charlton Heston.

The Oscar ceremony that year was noteworthy for the stunt pulled by Marlon Brando. He was the favorite to win the best actor prize for “The Godfather.” Brando decided to boycott the ceremony as a protest against Hollywood’s portrayal of Native Americans, and to draw attention to the standoff at Wounded Knee. Rather than communicate this by sending a letter, Brando asked a little-known actress named Sacheen Littlefeather to appear on his behalf, and explain his reasons for declining the award. Her speech was not well-received.

Did you know that year marked the debut of Spenser, Robert B. Parker’s fictional private eye? His first caper was the novel “The Godwulf Manuscript.” Mickey Spillane continued his comeback with a bestselling action thriller, “The Erection Set” (yes, that’s the real title). We also read “Breakfast of Champions” (Kurt Vonnegut), “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” (Richard Bach), “Once is Not Enough” (Jacqueline Susann), and a little thing called “The Princess Bride” by William Goldman.

Speaking of debuts, although it sure didn’t look mobile, the first cell phone was invented by Motorola. The introduction of the Xerox 1200 Computer Printing System is significant as being the first commercial Xerographic printer used to create computer output. Never mind that it took up roughly a third of a standard office. The ‘73 Chevrolet Monte Carlo was crowned Motor Trend’s Car of the Year, thanks in large part to its “Euro-style ride and handling.” With nearly a quarter-million cars sold that year, the model set a new sales record for Chevrolet.

The World Trade Center opened that year, FedEx began operations, and the United States Drug Enforcement Agency was founded. In what was termed “The Battle of the Sexes,” Billie Jean King defeated Bobby Riggs in a televised tennis match attended by 30,942, the largest live audience to watch a tennis match in U.S. history. It was also seen by several million TV viewers around the globe.

That was the year the BIC lighter was first sold. The company boasted that it could be lit up to 3,000 times before wearing out. I don’t know if anyone actually counted. Television commercials told potential consumers to “flick your BIC,” something that is still heard today. The sexually charged slogan was an attempt to compete with the leading lighter manufacturer at the time, Gillette.

And that’s the way it was. On to the next 50 years!

People tend to get attached to certain films, books, TV shows and music to the point of obsession. We find something we like and just can’t get enough of it. Facebook groups, fan conventions and online clubs sprout up over just about anything. For proof, look at things like “Game of Thrones,” “Star Trek,” the Marvel superhero films and the James Bond flicks, to name a few. Many of these fall into the category of cult classics.

A cult classic is defined as something that is obscure or unpopular with mainstream audiences, but develops a dedicated fanbase through repeated exposure and word of mouth. After failing at the cinema, some cult films have become regular fixtures on cable television or profitable sellers on home video. The term cult film was first used in the 1970s to describe the culture that surrounded underground films and midnight movies. With the increase in cable TV channels in the ‘80s, and the need for inexpensive programming to fill air time, many of these films got another shot. Some movies that fit into this category are “The Night of the Hunter,” “Toxic Avenger,” “I Spit on your Grave,” “Mad Max,” the 1940s noir crime films “Detour” and “D.O.A.” and the Bond film “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” It may surprise you to know that “It’s a Wonderful Life” was once considered a cult classic. It bombed at the box office and didn’t become popular until the copyright expired and TV stations could show it free every year at Christmas.

Sometimes, a film will develop such a following because, in the words of critic Michael Medved, “It’s so bad it’s good.” Many of them were made on a minus-zero budget which made cheap special effects necessary, with wooden acting to match. “Night of the Living Dead” and “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” are prime examples, but a better one is “Plan 9 from Outer Space” (1959). It was made by Ed Wood, probably the worst filmmaker ever. He was responsible for the forgettable gems “Bride of the Gorilla” and the cross-dressing melodrama “Glen or Glenda.” Wood began “Plan 9” with a home movie of his idol, Bela Lugosi, made shortly before his death. He listed him as the star to increase box office appeal, even though his screen time was less than two minutes. Wood then doubled the actor with a guy who was taller, thinner and younger than Lugosi. He also used hubcaps suspended from thread to mimic flying saucers. You have to see this one to believe it.

I found a DVD collection of films from the 1970s, called “Drive-in Cult Classics.” These were ultra-cheap flicks that were shown as the third feature at the drive-in, or at college midnight movie fests. The casts are comprised of C-list actors, the kind that popped up as supporting players on TV shows or in commercial crowd scenes. These were what we used to call sexploitation movies, the ones that took advantage of the recently-abolished censorship code, giving moviemakers free reign to put out just about anything.

The plots are confusing, most of the acting isn’t good enough for community theater, and some of the sex scenes produce more laughs than heat. One featured a bedroom encounter between a husband and wife, but the guy never took off his pants or shoes while wriggling atop his naked spouse. How realistic is that? Gratuitous nudity also abounds. In another film, an actress walked across the screen topless for no reason. That scene came at a place where the story bogged down, and the director probably couldn’t think of anything else to do.

And those titles! “Pick-up,” “The Sister-in-law,” “The Teacher,” “The Stepmother,” “Trip with the Teacher,” and “Malibu High Hookers,” to name a few. Check out these poster teaser lines:

“She destroyed her husband’s brother by the most immoral act imaginable!”

“She corrupted the youthful morality of an entire school.”

“She forced her husband’s son to commit the ultimate sin!”

“This high school senior worked her way through the faculty lounge.”

A prime example of a cult classic is “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” (1975). A local theater used to hold midnight screenings of this one every year as part of their summer classic film series. I’d seen people showing up in costume and reciting dialogue along with the actors, so it wasn’t surprising. What did surprise me was when I attended a Sunday afternoon showing of “The Wizard of Oz.” I didn’t expect to see so many kids dressed in calico dresses, ruby red slippers and pigtails, accompanied by their mothers decked out as the Wicked Witch of the West, complete with brooms. I felt like I had entered an alternate universe.

I guess a cult classic can be anything you’re passionate about. What’s yours?

I read a post on a reviewer’s website that made me rethink online courtesy. This woman went on a rant about authors who aren’t considerate enough to say “thank you” when she reviews their books, often at their request. She held the opinion that after she spent “hours reading and reviewing” a book, the least the author could do was “take a few minutes” to send a follow-up e-mail, especially if it was a good write-up.

Wow – I thought we were all on the same page! I used to write book reviews for a romance site and I didn’t expect flowers when I favorably critiqued someone’s book. That isn’t why I did it and I can count on one hand the times an author reached out to thank me or question my parentage. If they did drop a line, I appreciated it, but it wasn’t what I lived for. I know a lot of authors who don’t communicate with reviewers because they don’t want it to look like they’re sucking up or influencing the outcome. If I hold a contest and offer a book as a prize, I always ask the winner to let me know what they thought of it. I don’t ask them to post a review, but just share their opinion so I’ll know if I’m reaching my audience. This is something else I don’t count on because people say they will, but usually don’t. It’s all part of the game and no, I don’t take it personally.

I make it a point to follow up with bloggers who have interviewed me or featured my books, because it’s common courtesy, and often results in a return invitation. I was raised by a generation that believed in sending “thank you” notes, and it’s a habit. The one time I received a terrible review on a blog, I actually left a comment for the reviewer, thanking them for their honest opinion. I didn’t like what they said about me or my book, but I chose to take the high road and show them that I wasn’t bothered by their negative comments. In other words, “Screw you and your ill-informed opinion!”

A friend once asked me to review one of his books when I was contributing to that online review site. We had appeared at the same author events, and supported each other’s literary endeavors. The problem? I wasn’t into the genre he writes and I didn’t think I’d appreciate his story. I tried to explain this but before I knew it, a package arrived in the mail containing his book. Autographed, of course.

I read it, found it to be better than I expected and wrote a four-star review. Actually, that was generous because he had self-published and there were numerous problems, which I didn’t mention in the write-up. I sent him a separate email summarizing my observations in a constructive way. Apparently, he expected a rave review because he didn’t communicate with me for a year after I posted it. I looked up some of his reviews on Goodreads and discovered that many were less flattering than what I wrote. In fact, a couple of them were downright nasty. Beats me why he wasn’t happy with four stars.

One of my Lodge brothers liked my books and asked if I would critique a few draft chapters of his first endeavor. He was a retired Fire Department Chief and wrote a fictionalized story based on his career. It sounded like an interesting concept, but had we not been friends, I would’ve told him I was too busy. As it turns out, I should have. My comments were constructive and designed to help him produce a better manuscript, but he didn’t see it that way. When I suggested that he might want to “dumb down” some of the technical jargon and insider references because readers might not understand them, he took an attitude with me, claiming “Everyone knows what those are!”

Apparently not everyone, because I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Ever since then, I’ve been “too busy”—unless someone hires me to edit their work.

The remarks I mentioned earlier gave me cause for pause. The person referenced “hours spent reading and reviewing” books, but I wonder if she has any idea how much time and effort an author invests in getting that book ready for her to read. We agonize over every word, comma, revision and rewrite. We worry that the cover might not convey what the story is about. We sweat out a release date then become sleep deprived from promotional activity once it’s released. We anxiously await feedback and when we get it…we’re chastised because we didn’t say “thank you”?

As I said, it’s all part of the game and there is no right or wrong approach. Some people express themselves beautifully through the mouths of their characters but fumble when it comes to speaking from the heart. I fall into that trap myself at times. I suppose that’s why we choose to write, to express our feelings and opinions, and that’s a great skill.

For what it’s worth, I don’t expect a “thank you” note for this post, either. Just buy one of my books. And a nice review wouldn’t hurt!

Image by Khusen Rustamov from Pixabay

I was primed to want him long before I met him. Was this a deliberate ploy on my husband’s part? Or just the consequence of my hyperactive sexual imagination?

“James is a really good friend,” K told me. He’d known James for years before I appeared on the scene, during his tumultuous period living in San Francisco. “He’s a physicist. Does research at UCSF hospital.” My ears perked up. I’ve always found intelligence to be an aphrodisiac. “Oh, and you should see his paintings and sculpture. He’s really talented.” Oh my! An artist too! Was I wet already?

We were on our way cross country and planned to stop in the City by the Bay before heading south to Los Angeles. Having spent the last few years in grad school on the East Coast, K hadn’t seen James in a while, but he assured me that we’d get a warm welcome.

“And did I tell you about his time in Japan?” K executed a neat maneuver to pass a battered, dusty pickup, then pointed the Subaru straight across the sere plains of eastern Colorado. The Rockies were blue-gray shadows hugging the horizon.

I squeezed my husband’s thigh. “No, I don’t think so. What was he doing in Japan?”

“Working in a sex show.” He gave me a quick glance, as if to gauge my reaction, before returning his gaze to the empty, monotonous highway.

A tingle swept through me. “You’re kidding, right?” At that point I hadn’t yet visited Japan, but everyone had heard bizarre stories about the Japanese sexual underground.

“No, not at all. For three months James and his partner performed live in some club in Tokyo. Fucking on stage six nights a week.”

I sat silent, staring into the distance and pondering this thrilling and disturbing concept. I considered myself a free spirit, a bit of a sexual outlaw, but public sex, for money? What sort of person would engage in such behavior?

“Why?” I asked finally, expecting some wild tale of extortion or human slavery.

“He was curious to see what it would be like,” K responded with a chuckle.

I was quiet for a long time after that, contemplating with excitement and trepidation the prospect of meeting this “friend”. I had no idea what he looked like, but I was already half in lust.

James turned out to be lean and loose-limbed, a good half a head taller than K, with unruly hair, a soft voice and an easy laugh. As K had promised, he offered us the spare room in his Mission District flat. We shared take-out Chinese, red wine from a gallon jug and lots of pot. We talked about art, science, philosophy, politics. Well, K and James talked, mostly, catching up after years apart, reestablishing the bonds of their friendship. I listened, uncharacteristically mute, watching James’ long, expressive fingers trace patterns in the air as he explained some nuance of electromagnetic theory, wondering how those fingers would feel feathering across my nipples.

K asked about James’ partner – ex-partner as it turned out – but the one subject we didn’t discuss was sex. Still, the entire evening buzzed with erotic tension. When James looked at me, I felt the heat simmering in his lanky body. What had K told him about me?

I honestly don’t recall how we ended up in bed together. All I remember is how easy it was, how light and relaxed – how friendly. I didn’t worry about jealousy; that seemed a non-issue as I mounted K and James slid his cock (long and thin like his fingers) into my rear hole. My first double penetration – only the second or third time I’d ever experienced anal sex, actually. I can hardly believe, looking back, how little resistance James found. At the time, I was too turned on to even think about the question. I was neither surprised nor shocked. It was obviously the natural thing to be doing. We all agreed about that.

Sandwiched between a man I loved and my new lover, I felt not only acute pleasure but a delicious sense of connection. I was cherished and desired, giving and receiving. The brazenness of our actions thrilled me. The three-way intimacy kindled a new kind of joy.

I remember the details of the next day more clearly now than I do that incandescent night. The three of us went to see a matinee of “Raiders of the Lost Ark”. We strolled down the San Francisco sidewalk, arm in arm in arm, with me in the middle once again. I wore a flouncy white cotton dress I’d bought in Tijuana, with nothing underneath. I felt like a dirty angel, high on residual arousal, perversely proud we’d been brave enough to push friendship to its next obvious level.

Even after K and I moved back East, we remained close with James. We attended his wedding. Later, after their son was born, we visited him and Priscilla in their redwood-encircled cabin in the Santa Cruz mountains. We never had sex together again, but our mutual erotic history gave the relationship a special poignancy. I knew James remembered, as I did.

Four decades later, we’ve mostly lost touch. James’ struggles with addiction and psychiatric problems have weakened the connection. I regret that deeply. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate more fully how remarkable that episode really was – despite the fact that it felt inevitable at the time.

Enumerating a list of my long-time friends, I’m a bit embarrassed to realize how many of them were once my lovers. One might point to this as evidence of my unbridled promiscuity during my twenties and thirties. I interpret this fact differently, though. I’ve always been sexually attracted to people I like and admire, both women and men. Although I’ve had close friendships that were completely platonic, without the smallest shred of desire on my part, that’s not the norm for me. The intellectual and emotional buzz from meeting someone special transmutes into sexual desire.

In most cases, I’ve refrained from acting on my lusts, especially in recent years. Instead, they spill over into my dreams. Even people I haven’t met in person – people I’ve come to know and love remotely, in the guise of Lisabet Sarai – have found their way into my night visions. That’s one reason why I am reluctant to get closer to some of you in the real world. Friends are always welcome. At this stage in my life, though, I probably don’t need more lovers.

It’s summertime, and the living is easy, according to the old song. Among the many warm weather activities many of us will indulge in, movies still make the list. There have been a lot of films that use this time of year as a backdrop, and many of them rely on standby tropes like summer camp or vacations. Romance usually plays a big part, too, along with funny situations. Here are a few good ones, in no special order. How many of these have you seen?

“The Parent Trap” (1961) – This Disney production has Hayley Mills playing a dual role as teenage twins who were separated at birth when their parents divorced. They meet for the first time at a summer camp for girls, and plot to get their parents back together by switching places when camp is over. Yeah, I know—too cute, right? Just accept the premise and roll with it. Along the way, enjoy watching Brian Keith and Maureen O’Hara as the clueless parents. This was remade in 1998 with Lindsay Lohan, in her film debut.

“Gidget” (1959) – “Hey, gang—surf’s up!” This is the original beach party and surfer flick, starring Sandra Dee, Cliff Robertson, and James Darren. It’s about a teenager’s introduction to the California surf scene and her romance with a young surfer who teaches her how to hang ten, among other things. In addition to inspiring a television series, the film is considered the beginning of the “beach party’’ genre, and is credited as being a big factor in the mainstreaming of surfing culture. It also popularized the nickname Big Kahuna, for Chief (Robertson’s character, a professional surfer and beach bum the kids look up to).

“A Summer Place” (1959) — This romantic drama is a prime example of a steamy soap opera, loaded with melodrama, angst, tears, and sex. Infidelity, pre-marital sex, bigotry, class snobbery, alcoholism, teen pregnancy out of wedlock—there are enough vices here for two movies. The plot, for those who care, concerns two teenage lovers from different social classes who get back together 20 years after a summer vacation at a resort. They must then deal with the passionate love affair that’s developing between their own teenage children from previous failed marriages. It stars Richard Egan and Dorothy McGuire as the middle-aged lovers, and Sandra Dee and Troy Donahue as their respective children. Percy Faith’s recording of “Theme from A Summer Place” spent nine weeks at number one on the Billboard singles chart. You might not have seen the movie, but you’ve probably heard the song.

“Summer School” (1987) — This Carl Reiner-directed comedy stars a pre-“NCIS” Mark Harmon as a high school gym teacher who is forced to teach a remedial English class during the summer break. He’s a former pro athlete who lucked into a Phys-Ed job, but doesn’t have a clue about how to teach or motivate a class of underachievers. The film co-stars Kirstie Alley and Courtney Thorne-Smith. If you’ve seen “The Breakfast Club” or “Welcome Back, Kotter,” the group of misfits Harmon is assigned to teach won’t provide too many surprises, but they seem like a fun bunch.

“Summer Rental” (1985) – Here we have another Carl Reiner comedy, this time starring John Candy, Richard Crenna and Rip Torn. Candy is an overworked air traffic controller who takes his family to the resort town of Citrus Cove, Florida, where he clashes with local big shot Crenna. There are a lot of good sight gags and enough quirky characters to make up for the one-joke plot. Candy is great to watch as the put-upon family man who finally gets pushed to the limit. And speaking of John Candy…

“The Great Outdoors” (1988)– This vacation comedy, written and produced by John Hughes, pairs John Candy with Dan Aykroyd. Supporting roles feature Stephanie Faracy, and Annette Bening in her film debut. Candy once again plays a harried family guy who looks forward to their annual summer getaway at a Wisconsin lake resort. A dark cloud appears in the form of Aykroyd as the brother-in-law from hell, who seems to exist only to make Candy’s life miserable. There are some very funny bits, and the comic timing between Candy and Aykroyd is just right.

“National Lampoon’s Vacation” (1983)—The first and still the best of the series (with the possible exception of “Christmas Vacation”), this features the Griswold clan on a cross-country summer road trip to enjoy some quality family time. At least, that’s what Chevy Chase has in mind until they’re actually on the road to Wally World amusement park. Along the way, they take a side trip to visit his mentally-vacant cousin Eddie (Randy Quaid). The whole thing is one mishap after another, with some hilarious gags. Chase’s meltdown and rant toward the end is classic. Like all of the “Vacation” films, you’ll see things that will make you think “Been there, done that.”

“Meatballs” (1979) – This Canadian comedy, about a ragtag group of teenagers at a second-rate summer camp, is noted for being Bill Murray’s first starring role, and for launching the directing career of Ivan Reitman. The two would team up again for “Stripes” (1981) and “Ghostbusters” (1984). Murray is a camp counselor, whose personality and manner will remind you of his lounge lizard character on Saturday Night Live. There really isn’t much to the plot, elements of which were reprised the following year in “Caddyshack” (“The slobs versus the snobs”), but it’s all very funny. The film was hugely successful, and followed by several sequels that had no connection to the original except the name.

“Jaws” (1975) — “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.” Summer had traditionally been the dumping ground for low-budget drive-in flicks until this one broke box office records and became the must-see movie of the year. A quaint New England island is terrorized over the busy July 4th holiday by a huge shark with an equally large appetite. Director Steven Spielberg supplied plenty of suspense, thrills and adventure, and the cast plays it beautifully. Legend has it that the line about needing a bigger boat was ad-libbed by star Roy Scheider, and it became a popular catchphrase.

“American Graffiti” (1973) – The marketing campaign for this coming-of-age movie posed the question “Where were you in ’62?” That’s considered to be the end of the ‘50s American rock-and-roll era, before the British Invasion. The story takes place on the last night in town for a couple of recent high school grads who are leaving for college the next day. Or will they? Cruising, drag races, sock hops, make-out sessions by the lake, carhops on roller skates, and oldies from car radios announced by Wolfman Jack make this a nostalgic and bittersweet look at more innocent times. Director/writer George Lucas (“Star Wars”) based the story on his own post-HS summer experiences. The cast includes Ron Howard, Richard Dreyfuss, Cindy Williams, Candy Clark and a little-known actor named Harrison Ford. Look for the film debut of Suzanne Somers as the blonde in the T-Bird who catches Dreyfuss’s attention.

“The difference between involvement and commitment is like an eggs and ham breakfast—the chicken was involved, but the pig was committed.”

That quote was credited to Anonymous. I don’t know who this Anonymous guy was, but he sure got around, judging from the number of quotes, stories, poems and songs credited to him. He must be getting on in years, because you can trace his credits back to the 1600s. If you look around, you’ll see that he’s still putting stuff out there, but in a different forum.

The anonymous persona continues to get a workout online, largely on social media pages that focus on political topics. People love to rant and rave and post outrageous rhetoric. Not many are brave enough to use their real names, though, and prefer to hide behind pseudonyms. It makes you wonder why they’re afraid to take credit for their opinions. Maybe it’s a feeling of false security, thinking “I can say what I want, and no one will know it’s really me!” That’s also SOP on dating websites, chat boards and adult entertainment sites, but for different reasons. A lot of people still think there’s a stigma to admitting you went online to get a date. That isn’t the only reason folks play it cool, however.

People have figured out that potential employers, colleges, lending institutions and friends use social media as a character reference. Law enforcement agencies monitor sites, too, especially in this era of increased domestic violence and human trafficking. When I worked in civil service, I was careful with my social media pages. I didn’t “friend” anyone who was in a subordinate position, and I didn’t use my real first name, the one that appeared in my personnel file. My friends know me by my middle name, and I publish under that moniker. I listed my occupation as “writer/photographer,” working at “self-employed.” Nowhere on my profile does it say which state agency I worked for, or what position I held. I set it up solely to promote my writing, and to network with friends in the business and some former classmates.

I took these extra measures because word came down that the good folks in Administrative Services were monitoring the online postings of state employees, whether they were on the clock or not. Big Brother was compiling dossiers on the worker bees to see what they were up to. Did one of them post an unfavorable comment about the current administration? Put a red checkmark next to their name. Did someone indicate allegiance to a left- or right-leaning organization? Better keep an eye on them. Did anyone endorse a candidate in the upcoming election or donate money? They are so screwed!

I think one of the reasons for this is the ongoing push for transparency by news organizations, especially those investigative teams that boast about “holding government accountable.” The Freedom of Information Act allows them access to the records of public employees. When I was still working, one such request resulted in a major metro newspaper publishing the name and salary of everyone employed by the state. Most of us looked at it to see how much our co-workers were being paid. The result was a lot of bruised egos, and comments like “That slug is making how much more than me???”

It seems that the majority of authors who write romance (whether it’s erotic or vanilla) use a pseudonym. This can be for a variety of reasons, especially if they pen hot erotic romance. Using an alias for that kind of writing could save you some embarrassing explanations at family gatherings or in the workplace. I’ve found that for some reason, many writers don’t want people to know that they write books or blogs in their spare time, no matter what genre they write. When I’ve asked some of them about this, the responses I’ve received ranged from a desire to separate professional from personal (I get that), to a shrug and an awkward silence.

The Colombian novelist Gabriel Garcia Marquez said “Everyone has three lives—a public life, a private life, and a secret life.” There’s more truth to that statement than many of us like to admit. I once had a psych professor who claimed that everyone was guilty of harboring “secret sins,” things you did that you would never, ever tell anyone about. I’ve also been told by friends in the legal profession that criminal attorneys take their client’s secrets to their graves because they’re ethically bound to do so. That may explain why many of them fall prey to substance abuse, like alcoholism.

There are several online sites where people can post erotic fiction. Naturally, no one uses their real names. This anonymity allows their id to concoct outrageous fantasies involving a variety of fetishes. Some of the posts I’ve read weren’t half bad from a writing standpoint. Others, though, were so poorly written I hoped none of those folks ever pursued a publishing career. I made the same observation about some self-published romance writers when I reviewed books. I realized why they were self-published, because many of them would never have made it past the submission process for a good publisher. A lot of those writers didn’t believe in hiring an editor, either.

I have a good friend who has been writing erotic fiction for nearly 50 years. He began with “one-hand books” in the 1970’s and he’s still cranking them out, but in self-published digital format now. He’s always hidden behind a pseudonym, and the only time he used his real name was when he attempted a mainstream romantic adventure novel. It didn’t catch on, so he went back to writing what I call porn with a plot. When I asked him about it, he explained “I write under this name, and I sell books. I write as myself and nobody cares!”

There’s something to be said for anonymity.