Fleshbot and Lost References

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot does all the things that you’d never, ever do. Not in a million yea . . . oh, you did? Really?

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Eden delivering some unsettling news, Jocasta hankering for a threesome that hasn’t happened—at least, not yet—and Lynsey writing poems in which I don’t kill her—at least, not yet.

With the acquisition of a new computer a few months ago, I gained the capability to burn CDs. This lead me to begin learning to use iTunes. Yes, finally—like the survivors of Flight Eight-Fifteen I’m stuck in two thousand four. (Stuck in time . . . or are they?) Madeline pushed me along by giving me Senuti, which allows me to upload music from iPods.

I’ve let my friends know that I’m building my music library and they are stopping by to plug in their tunes. (Join the fun! Come over with your iPod. You can suck my dick as I rip your music.)

Now, one thing that’s cool about having friends and lovers in a wide range of ages is that I’m exposed to all kinds of music. That’s often reciprocal; for example, Cody turned me on to Eisley, and I introduced her to Carole King. My multigenerational friendships, and the fact that I’m a parent, make me wicked wise in pop culture references. It’s not everyone who can sing along to Grand Funk Railroad, Vampire Weekend and Hannah Montana.

When it comes to age, I’m the middle child. I pedal after the big kids, but I still enjoy the sand box.

Unfortunately, this breadth of pop culture trivia doesn’t always translate with the younger people in my life. I recently saw a funny mash up of ”Gilligan’s Island” and “Lost” and suggested that my son Jason take a look. “What’s ‘Gilligan’s Island?’” he asked. I realized that my boy probably couldn’t pick Mary Tyler Moore out of a line up.

A girlfriend was showing me photos of her friends on Facebook and pointed to a picture of a girl in front of a poster. “This is Heather in front of a totally random picture of some space alien.”

I looked closer. “Honey, that’s Miles Davis.”

“Huh,” she said. “I never knew what he looked like.”

Recently, two women came over for a threesome. We were having dinner preliminary to getting naked, as you do, and two of us were trying to describe a mutual friend to the third, who hadn’t met him.

“He’s pretty buff,” I said, “And cute, in a Penny Marshall kind of way.”

They looked at me blankly. “Who’s that?” one asked.

“Penny Marshall. Laverne.” Nothing. “‘Laverne and Shirley?’ Cursive L sweaters? Directed the movie about women playing baseball?”

The other touched my hand. “You’re showing your age, Jefferson.”

I guess that’s why I was gladdened when Lynsey mentioned that she had read a Dick Cavett piece on Bobby Fisher in today’s Times. Like, dude, I know who those guys are, too! Maybe we can discuss it the next time we’re listening to Mott the Hoople or playing Mass Effect.

Still, now and then, there’s an unexpected connection. The other day I came across Jason playing a game on the new computer. I heard a sound that pinged in the remnants of my long-term memory.

“Dude,” I asked. “Are you playing Pong?”

He moved the mouse to stop a volley. “Yeah!” he cheered facetiously. “Pong is only like the bestest game, ev-errr.”

“Totally, man,” I agreed. “Meet me in the den circa nineteen seventy-eight and I’ll deliver your butt kicking.”

Jason held up a hand. We high-fived.