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 Everyone's thinking about war, war, war. And even though this zine is dedicated to the culture of sex, obviously we're no different than anyone else in our concern for what's currently happening in the cradle of civilization (and surely the irony of resorting to the most base human instincts, violence and territoriality, in the land where we first learned to move beyond these impulses hasn't been lost on everyone but me). So you can understand the challenge this poses to an editor of a publication whose sole purpose is to titillate, be it on an intellectual or more visceral level (we've always believed in erotic content as the balance between tits and art, or better yet, where the two converge, which is everywhere). I mean, if hearing about how deep our troops are penetrating into Iraq turns you on, I suggest you start watching Dr. Phil.  Like many here in San Francisco, and indeed all around the world, I was fairly upset the first full day of war. It's strange when I think about it—obviously, it was no great surprise, but watching it all unfold on CNN brought the reality in stark terms, and I ended up being far more affected than I would have guessed.And again, like many here and abroad, I felt like the only way to try to work out these feelings was to take to the streets in protest. Not carrying a banner, or a puppet, or an effigy of our president that I could bugger while running from the corner of Market and Sixth Streets before the cops could brain me with an errant baton; just me and my tiny, insignificant revulsion at the current administration's foreign policies. There were literally thousands of people on the streets that day. And at the risk of sounding a little cynical, I had to wonder how many of them were out en masse simply because it was quite an unusually sunny, beautiful day here in the city. I think I even got a tan while waiting for the grim-looking line of police to descend on the unruly, pizza-eating crowd. If you think that was a cynical thought, try this one on for size; after eyeing a few of those on hand on that corner just a few yards from Tu Lan (Julia Child's favorite Vietnamese restaurant, and more irony for ya), I started to wonder if an even more insidious agenda was on hand.  One, in particular, caught my eye. She was a beautiful, Rubenesque brunette. The elasticity of her flesh guaranteed that she couldn't have been a day over 19, if that.But this was no narcissistic beauty queen, you could tell by her lack of cosmetics and choice of clothing. She was by herself, and you could tell by the intense look in her eyes that she was here out of pure conviction. I also knew that she would surely be dragged off by the advancing phalanx of officers, and she didn't disappoint. I would see her being dragged off in cuffs (mmm… sorry, got lost there for a second) about an hour later. But I need not shed any tears. It turned out that, as ubiquitous as all the "No blood for oil" and "Not in our name" signs was an uncommon quantity of, for wont of a better phrase… hot protester chicks. No matter where you turned, there were girls in varying amounts of dress (or lack thereof), heckling cops, carrying signs, or just chilling out in homemade t-shirts bearing various bits of brief philosophy proudly upon their bosom. Now, lest there be any confusion, I do not doubt for a second the strength of these girls' conviction. Other than the appropriate style of dress for a sunny day, none were dressed intentionally provocative, and I honestly don't think any were there to draw any attention from the cause at hand.  Nevertheless, they did, and while I don't doubt their intentions, I can't help but wonder about all the dudes. I know that a lot of hallowed sentiment has elevated the Vietnam-era protests to high cultural significance (a worthy distinction, to be sure), but I've also talked to enough old hippies to know that quite a few of the guys came out to chase some tail and dip into some o' that free love that was going around.Not to wax Candace Bushnell or anything, but these girls' presence on that day and in subsequent demonstrations begged the question—are protester girls naturally hot? Or does protesting (or merely the act of espousing a well-thought-out opinion or ideology) make girls hotter? Well, maybe because I've been a nerd all my life, but clearly I'm more attracted to a girl who I feel has a thought in her head or conviction in her heart. So, yeah, that is a factor. Of course, we aren't exactly talking slogan-chanting warthogs here; I'm not sure that I could get it up for a girl who looks like Aunt Esther from Sanford and Son, no matter how much Noam Chomsky she could quote. One thing's for sure—protester chicks may be hot, but I'll be happy to see them gone. That is, once there's no war left to protest.
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