A Grammar Lesson

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Lay

Lay and lie are both present-tense verbs, but they don’t
mean quite the same thing. Lay means to put or set something down, so if the
subject is acting on an object, it’s “lay.” For example, I lay down the book.
You, the subject, set down the book, the object.

Lie

Lie, on the other hand, is defined as, “to be, to stay or to
assume rest in a horizontal position,” so the subject is the one doing the
lying—I lie down to sleep or When I pick up a copy of my favorite magazine,
Writer’s Digest, I lie down to take in all its great information—and not acting
on an object. In both these cases, you, the subject, are setting yourself down.
Are you with me so far?


Laid

You had a great night (or morning, as the case may be.)

(legitimate grammar courtesy of https://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/lay-vs-lie)

You Have Someone Already, I Heard it the First Time

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OK, I get it. Nothing is going to happen here. You mentioned your spouse again. We’re just talking. That’s fine. I enjoy talking to people. And attractive women are much better at conversation. Lots of interesting conversations. And OK, you’ve got a boyfriend. I’m not going to ask you for your phone number. Nothing is happening. We’re just having a delightful conversation about your shoulder injury when you fell down the stairs.

You’re headed off to a date. Great. I’m enjoying this conversation. You’re came into town to see a friend perform in a play and now you have to catch the train back to home, which is not here. But yeah, the beer at this bar is pretty great. Baltimore has a lot of amazing breweries.

I play rugby. Just thought I should throw that into this conversation about how you’re just passing through as you’re interviewing for jobs all through the country. Speaking of which your immigration story of coming here from Sri Lanka is nice, and you are really cute if not a bit young, as are many of the women that I end up having conversations with at this bar, which seems to attract attractive young women from out of town and/or have husbands, wives, or girl/boy friends. I’m cool with all that, because we’re having an awesome conversation about something. I don’t quite remember what, but I do remember you are waiting for someone, a significant other sort of someone, I believe.

I know that we are just having a wonderful conversation, and you asking you for your a phone number would be a bad move, so I won’t do that. Why would I do that, we’re just having a fine conversation, and besides I’m sure would wonder what sort of shit I’d send you if I did have your number. But why would I need your number, we’re just two people talking, and I’m a bit on the older side. Why would you want a dick pic from some old guy.

Unless that is exactly why you are at this bar, even though you have someone or are about to date someone or are just passing through.

OK, again, I get it. You mentioned your husband again. But if you did want a dick pic, I can send one if I had your number, which I haven’t asked for, because we’re just having a conversation. Just talking. About your boyfriend. If I did send you one, it would be dripping with pre-cum, probably because I was fantasizing about you or someone else who has a lover that I’ve had so many intriguing conversations with at this bar.

Of course, you wouldn’t want that , because you again mentioned that other person, as we’re talking about the winters in Michigan vs those in the DC metropolitan area. You grew up in Michigan, and I lived in Michigan for a while!

It’s not just the amazing sex, and the fact that I’d get to use a bunch of stuff from my bdsm kit that I’ve not yet had a chance to use. It’s also connecting with someone in an emotionally intimate way that involves anal sex.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You’ve got a train to catch. Or a date to meet. Or you just need to get the hell out of this bar and back to your soulmate, who you’ve mentioned a few times during our cool conversation about the sad extinction of the koala bear.

Anyhow, it was good to meet you, and I enjoyed our conversation around the public transit systems in various cities around the world. My name is K— and have a good night.

Poor Sandy

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Poor Sandy, credited as an unnamed caged prisoner in a dungeon cell with Poor Cecily. Chained and whipped and raped in a cage, titillating in a seventies soft-core sort of way. It’s the inquisition, apparently, although the chief inquisitors and everyone else in the movie are dressed in 18th century garb, petticoats and three-cornered hats.

80 torrid adult film performances now her history. “Swinging Genie", "Country Hooker". Hard-core classics like “Johnny Wadd”, and at the pinnacle of her career, “Oriental Ecstasy Girls”. 1974 was a prolific year. Yet, unnamed or uncredited so often. Even in her known best known role, Sandy Dempsey is credited as “Girl at Tryouts” in the mainstream “Swinging Cheerleaders”

Even her death, a freak boating accident in the Gulf of Mexico, was undocumented. (Did you know that in international waters it’s up to the captain of the ship to decide whether to incarcerate someone suspected of a crime?) What was freakish about the accident? The interwebs don’t say. Did she simply, silently withdraw from a public view?

Or did a drunk captain slip, fall onto the throttle, the ship’s floating lurch shooting Sandy Dempsey floundering into the boat’s propeller? Did she go overboard, moonlight catching a tattoo, the butterfly on her thigh?

My Relationships

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I think it’s time that i settled down and made a commitment. For the long haul. For better or worse. I’ve just had enough of this bouncing around from one relationship to another.

There was my first true love. Where the bartenders were German cowboys, tattooed, and/or named Emily. The beer selection was great. Nice boozy stouts and porters. High end cocktail capabilities. Sazeracs. Brunch menu all day long. What was not to love?

But alas, time moved on. I moved around from one neighborhood to another, and I could no longer fit my first love into my daily routine. Then not even my weekly routine. Not as available as those that came later. Still every now and again, I hook up. On laundry day.

My next bar was much more convenient for where I was at the time. Just around the corner, so I could slip in for a quickie. They also had the Sazeracs. Wasn’t a big fan of the beer, although many others thought highly of the it. Belgian was always too citrus for my tastes.

What was nice about this place was that it had no TVs. You could really just engage. With the rugby player from Wales. The bartender with the same name as mine. And then there was the grotto downstairs. Dark with secluded corners if you chose not to sit at the bar. A place for a date. A few drinks before we scuttled off to my place.

Every now and again, I head over to this one bar, well outside of my neighborhood, for it’s exotic appeal. Not any meaningful relationship here, but it’s quirky and fun. Features the Bicycle Clown, where they customizes mixed drinks to meet whatever fetish you may have. And I have a few.

Another place, at a train station, a stranger passing in the night at the train station. A desperate choice, because you can’t be too particular when you’re waiting to catch a train. The staff was much too young, but I was in the middle of mid-life cruising. As it turns out I didn’t have the wherewithal to take advantage of the opportunities the bar had to offer. So many different oysters. One solid stout.

There was another place, that I would also see sometimes on the side for some variety. It never really appealed to me. Most notable for the BW photos from the 30s when you walk in. I always felt like I was walking into the Kubrick film, The Shining, which was not really what I was looking for in a relationship. I prefer the significant others in my life not be the spiritual reincarnation of a maniac, who murdered their family.

And then I find a place that I absolutely fall in love with. It feels like I’m really a part of something. They all know my name. And after awhile, I realize that there is nothing special about this place or my relationship with it. I am merely one of many. In fact, as a drunk, I was a bit hard to tolerate, and they didn’t really appreciate it.

Then the desperate grab for rebounds, looking to recapture that magic. Places with wonderful atmosphere. Awesome, friendly staff. Cocktail expertise most extraordinaire. After a bit afternoon quickes, getting drunk during lunch and finding my way back to work, just didn’t quite satisfy.

There’s this place, maybe the last place, where I sit now, enjoying a mezcal negroni. Already, it’s getting old and tired. I need another change of scenery. Maybe, something besides a bar. Hash runs?

Handbooks

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50 Euros? Was that right? He fumbled for the correct handbook. He was more of a pen and paper guy, which is why he didn’t have the handbooks on his phone. For him, printed hard copies were the way to go.   

Oh shit, this wasn’t the right one. This was the handbook for Trying to be Friends with Someone You Are Still in Love With. He’d been reading it from cover to cover, over and over, while killing time and drinking at Mata Hari earlier today. 

“Should you come back when you have your handbooks in order?” She had an Eastern European accent.  

“Just a second” OK, was this the book he was looking for?  

“I can save you the trouble. 50 Euros for a ten-minute of me using my hand. Another 300 for a full hour, and I'll be naked and you can go inside me.” 

“Yes, 300.”  

As she pulled her spandex uniform over her head and off, he read through the Fucking a Hooker handbook.  

“If it is your team’s ball, you are most likely throwing in, so you want to call out your play and throw it through the 'tunnel'” 

Oh dammit, this was the Playing the Hooker Position in Rugby handbook.  

“So sorry, just a moment.” Ah, here it was.  

No kissing, of course, he already knew that. But also, no driving in and up to push into the clit. No nipple pinching or suckling. He kept pinching her nipples though, and she kept telling him to stop it.  

He thumbed through pages, trying to find out exactly what he could do. Jesus, why didn’t he read this before? Why was this even a good idea? Oh right, drinking and reading Trying to be Friends again and again.  

Dirty talk would have been OK, but he never acquired that handbook. Good God, so many rules. Basically, all he could do was straight in and out.  

50 minutes of his limpish, pseudo-hardness, just enough to go through the motions of fucking. It likely didn’t help that he’d been drinking, but he’d lost the Drinking Responsibly handbook a long time ago. 

They tried Missionary. They tried from behind.  She probably needed to revisit the Pretending I’m Really Enjoying this and It’s Hot for Your Benefit, When I Just Lost another Bit of My Soul handbook. He could tell. 

10 minutes left when they quit. And while they lay naked together, chatting, he thought he should read Disposing of that Emotional Corpse, yet again. This had not worked at all. Or maybe, he should order a copy of That Emotional Corpse is Getting Awfully Ripe, Time to Bury It and Move On.   

In an unguarded moment, she casually ran her fingers through his chest hair and mentioned that she’d wanted to go skydiving someday. Straight out of the Mayfly Moments of Happiness handbook.

Trouble in System Telco Line 1 

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It was supposed to be a casual, NSA thing, when Madison met the fire alarm system that had trouble in telco line 1.  

Still a fondness, an infatuation quickly grew between them. In some ways they couldn't be more different. One a living, breathing human being. The other an alarm system for the fire suppression system. Still, they had common interests. Like fire safety. The alarm system wanted everyone to know when the fire suppression system was faulty. And Madison wanted to be warned before being burned alive in a fire.

Madison admired the supple curves of the alarm system's switches and circuits. Its hot and sexy fire-engine-red shell that had all the bevels and perpendicularity in the right places. The adorable wailing it made when it blared Not Sure, Not Sure, like the sound of a truck backing up. Its bright LED display that indicated there was trouble in system telco line 1.

Even when it was clear that the alarm system’s annunciator was not securely attached to the wall and that it had a few loose wires, Madison was smitten and embraced the emotional risk. 

When the couple approached the three month mark, the alarm system began beeping No More, No More. What else could Madison have expected? It had been clear from the beginning that there was trouble in system telco line 1. It only took a single call to Housing Code Enforcement before an inspector was sent to the building, where both Madison and the alarm system resided, and cited the building's owner for a coding violation regarding a nonfunctional fire notification system.

Still, even though it was really over, for Madison the relationship was ash that still held some heat and laying awake some nights with a home spun cocktail in hand and teared-up eyes, imagined the sound of the alarm singing Still Here, Still Here.

Flight 904

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He fantasized that on his trip to Bali his plane would crash in the ocean, and she’d see it on the news and be heart-broken, but miraculously he would survive the crash and be scooped up out of the water after surviving for days floating in the ocean. She would be overjoyed at the news that he was, indeed, alive.

And then on his trip to Bali, his plane did, indeed, crash over the ocean. Imagining that he would soon be reuniting with his lover, he joyfully prepared for the plane’s collision with the rolling waves below. The impact on the water’s surface shattered the plane into bits; debris sliced him into pieces at his happiest moment.

Communication Skills

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Tell me one fact. You haven’t told me a single fact, yet. Where did you hear that, the news? Those aren’t facts. That’s hearsay.

What are you being so distant and irritated for. Just because I said that your personality was disgusting? That was like 5 minutes ago, already. Why can’t you just get over that, so we can move on with our lives and be happy. Now, give me a hug.

What’s so obnoxious about that? I just shared that I find the way you hug is condescending and insincere. That’s not obnoxious. That’s communication. Open communication is important in a relationship.

What good has politics done for anyone? One fact, please. Medicaid. What? I’ve never heard of a President Johnson. I’m going to Google it.

I took psychology before I became a teacher, so I understand people and relationships. Something that you are very confused about. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus. I’ll say it again, because I’m not sure you’re getting it. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus.

Tell me one fact. Enough with the history. That stuff doesn’t count.

You might feel comfortable folding your arms, but it is making me so super uncomfortable. It makes me feel contradicted while I’m being furious with you. I’m going to have to ask you to stop.

You still haven’t given me a single fact. I have one. My investments are doing so much better now. What do you mean you need that tax cut. Other people? I don’t get it.

Another Straight White Guy Sad about the End of a Relationship as the World Bursts at its Seams

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They’d been drinking quite a bit before going to the Light Festival. While they’d stood in line for a ride the Ferris Wheel, a previously unfulfilled dating wish of his, she engaged a mother and her young kids waiting behind them, complimenting the young girl on her warrior costume.

(A car rammed into a crowd of protesters)

Once on the Ferris Wheel, they kissed, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Harbor spinning past as he pressed his hand between her legs and felt the wetness through her jeans.

The sex had been great fun with all the trappings that he enjoyed. Restraints and collars and floggers, and once he chained her to his mantel piece.

(and a state police helicopter crashed into the woods Saturday as tension boiled over at a white supremacist rally. The violent day left three dead, dozens injured)

And he thought nostalgically about the time while all four of her limbs were tied securely to the bed, he jammed his cock into her mouth.

And the time that she walked out of the shower in the morning, when she thought he had already left, stark naked with a towel wrapped around her head.

And when he went upstairs one night after watching an episode of the Wire, and she simply welcomed him into bed.

(The violent day left three dead, dozens injured, and this usually quiet college town a bloodied symbol of the nation’s roiling racial and political divisions)

But now, she pauses at the street crossing looking back, dressed in baggy pants and a black blouse, a single mother, adoptive daughter, religious rape survivor, recovered addict, and an international development worker. And then she waves goodbye and walks away.

( - Sarah Rankin, Associated Press)

The 8 Man

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The 8 man lies on his back with coaches and players gathered around. The scrum half says stay down. The coach laughs in relief when the 8 man gives him the thumbs up and cracks a joke. What do you call kids born in a whorehouse? Brothel sprouts. It's a common joke. Someone helps the 8 man to the sidelines.

"You'll be out for a month they say. And no drinking for 24 hours."

Terrible, he thinks. The idea of abstaining from drink for a while is a bit of a slap, like a counter-ruck after a tackle. (The 8 man relates everything in life through rugby metaphors.) He tries to remember if he's been taking the medication prescribed for his low grade depression. He's nearly certain that he's paid the electric and water bills.

The last time the 8 man sees his kid: downtown. She is 19. The white masonry of buildings rise, the sidewalks are paved with red brick, and the tracks for the light rail run up and down the road. His kid pauses a moment in the dimming light of dusk, before heading down Lexington and then the intersection is empty.

His team mates support him with pats on the shoulders and the back of his head.

The kid develops a topsyturvy religion based on an inverted reincarnation scheme. When you die, you become your favorite animal. (The kid is going to be a kitten.) What happens after the kitten dies, then you  become a plant, and then a thing. These scissors (presented as evidence). They’re a slave.

The 8 man stands on the sidelines holding an ice pack to the back of his head. He thinks he's lucid, even though he's confused about now and before and later. His team is ahead  by 2 points as the game winds to a close, but the other team has possession and is moving the ball down the field. Their fly half, tall and lanky, gets the ball and drop kicks it from 30 meters out. Dammit, the 8 man thinks as the ball hurtles through the uprights, that's a beautiful kick.

Each night the kid asks him if he will brush her teeth for her. She claims that she doesn't know how to brush her teeth. The kid puts toothpaste on the toothbrush and then waves the toothbrush around until the lump of toothpaste, perched precariously on her brush, falls off. Two years pass, and she still hasn’t brushed her teeth.

At the ER, the 8 man gets everything scanned and properly checked out. No headache. No nausea. No blurry vision. He is a tough guy with a hard head, apparently. It's all good, but even so, the attending physician advises no practice and games for a month. And walking is OK, but not running. Sloshes the brain around too much. Also, he musn't think too hard.

He looks for weaknesses in the opponents defense and runs hard through a gap, hit low, but the tackler doesn't wrap. The 8 man spins and skitters across the try line, then runs behind the goal posts and centers the ball.

The 8 man laments the fact that he did not take a piss between those two fucks, especially since the first did occur in a washroom. But hindsight is 20/20, and on the second go-around, there's enough residual sperm from the first go in that pre-cum foreplay fluid that he ends up with the kid and married for awhile.

The 8 man thinks he's had a vasectomy; he doesn't want children, but the result of that semi-casual fuck in the washroom raises a question. 1 in 1000 is the answer. There's enough sperm struggling through that post-operative semen spurt that he ends up with the kid and married for awhile.  

Too far away to make a leaping tackle, the 8 man still chases. Another teammate is able to haul the runner down, and the 8 man is there to poach the ball, stealing back control, if only for a moment.

When she is 9, his kid loves to hear him read "Call of the Wild". It's their favorite story. They laugh at Mercedes, who screams at every little thing, right up until the moment when her imbecile brothers lead them to their demise, falling through the thin ice, at which point she actually has something to scream about. But Buck, the dog, lingers on.

The 8 man sails down the field in ungainly grace, a tattered rag, worn out, running a hard line, and it's all good, this ballet of blood and broken hands, black eyes and lacerations, that chip away at the narrow slice of time that’s left, until just short of the try line; the back of his head slams into the ground, and the ball is out.

Star Trek Fanfiction by Kathy Acker as Read by Jonathan Goldstein

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Interspecies Fuckland

In Interspecies Fuckland, a lot of fucking is going on.  Romulans and Vulcans are intermingling to produce strange offspring with pointed ears. Klingons are violently copulating with humans, killing their mates and mounting their heads on spikes before giving birth to bumpy-headed babies doomed to a substandard living that lacks a good dental plan.

In Interspecies Fuckland, Cardassian night porters are performing sadomasochistic rituals on broken glass with the Bajorans they victimized during the occupation. The deviant behavior becomes more perverted by the fact that the Cardassian hemipenis doesn’t fit properly in any Bajoran orifices.

In Interspecies Fuckland, the Sheliak engage in contractual sexual relations that involves protracted foreplay in the form of legal maneuverings and negotiations to determine position, location, time , and amount of mucous that will be exchanged.

Inexplicably, the crossbreeding orgy of unmatched chromosomes by the different hominid species of the Alpha quadrant manage to produce reptile-ape-crustacean-squid offspring with bumpy ass-shaped heads, nineteen nostrils, fish mouths, webbed feet, hands covered with suckers, and leathery skin.

In the fucking free-for-all, the aliens of the 24th century are happy to get skull bonked by a giant hairy bug, but still get squeamish when faced with transgender Trills.

The most tolerant species in Interspecies Fuckland is the Slime Mold of Seti Prime which reproduces by consuming its mates, regardless of number and gender, and dissolving them to absorb their DNA.

50.3333333 shades of red, green, and blue in equal proportions

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He admired her proportions. She was perfectly dimensioned, measuring 2×1.3333333333333333333×2 cubits. Her face exhibited all the ideal symmetry ratios, and it scored 18 on the von Luschan chromatic scale. They commenced to mate in the tribunal of love.

Initially, they aligned themselves perpendicularly, then parallel. After 600K milliseconds and expending 4186 Joules in the parallel alignment, they adopted a rhomboid configuration that exponentially accelerated the flow of endorphins in their bloodstream.

5500 milliseconds after returning to a parallel alignment, he rotated her 180 degrees on her longitudinal axis, and they maintained a perpendicular alignment. He administered a strike upon her gluteus maximus, expending 4 joules of energy, and then engaged the intestinal avenue.

After securing her carpus with jute, he used the instrument that had been constructed by wrapping its core in filler and then covered by an initial plait and then up to three additional layers–in this case only two, the belly plait and one bolster–and the stock starked with a round piece of wood and plaited over with leather.

Having reached a point where various emissions had occurred and their muscles were overwhelmed by lactic acid, they rested for 240000 milliseconds in overlapping physical proximity. Their respiratory and circulatory systems, which had been operating at high levels of activity, slowly reverted to normative levels. She told him that her limbic system was highly attuned to him, but he had already been seized by a fit resembling narcolepsy

Millennials Feel Entitled to Guilt Free Masturbation

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Global economic and cultural dynamics are slowly eroding traditional values. That’s why the world is going to hell in a hand basket. That, and Millennials feel entitled to guilt free masturbation.  

They were brought up in a world where they feel entitled to masturbate for no other reason than their own shameless sexual satisfaction. Where’s the guilt? Where’s the hard work required to obtain satisfactory pornographic materials? 

More so than previous generations, millennials have a sexual self-assurance that is egregious and off-putting. Sex-positive societal attitudes. Online sex toy stores. Webcam feeds, sexting. Fetish sites. Nero is practically fiddling as Rome burns.

Except in this case, Rome isn’t burning, so much as thriving with a stock market breaking record after record. Also, Nero is playing with his wang, not a fiddle.

Nonetheless, the performance of this generation's boomer retirement portfolios are at risk as long as our future depends on a generation that lacks a work ethic that can only be instilled in a world of scarce pornographic resources.

In our teenage years, masturbation took a lot of work. Playboy or your imagination. That's all we had. You couldn’t even talk about it. That’s how it was meant to be. Hard work. Hard work and denial that anyone was even doing it.

When we were young, you had to earn the right to masturbate. It wasn’t something that was just given to you. Full frontal nudity wasn’t even prevalent until the 70s. And by then we were slogging through a soul sucking job and raising a soul sucking family. Does the younger generation even understand how getting married early makes masturbation super inconvenient? 

No, they don’t, because they delay marriage solely for the purpose of irritating our generation and showing a complete disregard for what made this country great: a workaholic lifestyle spent vainly and futilely attempting to meet the needs of a dysfunctional family and spending large sums of money on talk therapy. 

For our generation, there were few options besides tossing one off in the shower. There was no Porn Hub. Penthouse or--God Forbid--Hustler in the household? We might as well have taken a live bomb into our collective houses, just waiting for it to be tripped, blowing us all to kingdom come.

And things sure didn’t get any easier as we got older. Sure, there was VHS and Cable, but unless you lived it, you can't possibly appreciate the anxiety induced from waiting in the middle of the night until your sure your spouse was soundly asleep, so you could safely slip out of bed to catch some soft porn on Cinemax? Worrying about our spouses coming down or even-Jesus Christ to even thing about it now--one of the kids? Seeing you sitting back, naked in that lawn chair in the middle of the TV room next to a super sized box of tissues while you're jacking off? 

Holy Hell. The anxiety and worry makes it impossible to appreciate that film of topless super models infiltrating the Soviet Union and bringing it to its knees by parachuting behind the Iron Curtain. You can be sure of that.

No, kids these days don't struggle with this masturbational anxiety and worry, because they’ve been spoiled by technology. Like smart phones and tablets. Wherever, whenever, able to engage with a young, nubile naked woman in a pornographic exchange based on their twisted and idiosyncratic masturbational fantasies. Have they ever tried to smuggle a TV set and cable box and cable hook-up into the bathroom for some privacy? Certainly not. Can't be done.

And they have never had to develop a plausible "I'm Working Late" excuse to tell their spouse before slinking off to a peep show, where parking is a real bitch and you have to hoof it 5 blocks through the Irish neighborhood. And then once there, having to wait for a private pleasure booth. It's hard work! There isn't a more damning exhibit of our decline into a world of easily satisfied sexual needs than pornographic webcams.

It's the End of Days and the four horsemen are upon us. Except we're not living with war, death, and so on, so much as wealth and prosperity, while Millennials are fighting those wars we figured were a good idea, but still. 

It is just so sad that our future depends on a generation that has missed the character-building, coming-of-age experience of masturbation that is as frustrating and unfulfilling as possible.

I Only Watch Movies when Kate Winslet is Naked

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I only watch movies when Kate Winslet is naked. The first movie I saw was Titanic, then I saw Holy Smoke and Quills. I didn’t watch many movies for the next five years. I did watch Eternal Sunshine of the Mind, even though Kate Winslet wasn’t naked, and then I saw Little Children, in which she was naked in numerous positions. I haven’t seen The Reader, yet, in which Kate Winslet was Oscar naked. That movie is on my list. I’ll need to see that movie, soon, to round out my repertoire of naked Kate Winset movies.

A movie with Rachel Weisz naked would be nearly as good as a movie with Kate Winslet naked. If I really wanted to see a movie, I might see a movie with Greta Scacchi or Isabella Rossellinia naked. I would also watch a movie with a naked Denise Richards, Kathy Bates, Tom Skerrit, Rin Tin Tin or a movie that has German subtitles or a science fiction movie–but only the intellectual sort of scifi, not pale imitations of Star Wars or horror movies masquerading as SciFi movies, although I did like Alien quite a bit. I don’t think Ian Holm has ever been naked in a movie. Maybe, never been naked at all.