and I cannot lie.

Honestly, I do.  I’m not being vulgar, and I’m not talking about egos, either.  I seem to be attracted to men with abnormally large craniums.

I’ve only ever really had two boyfriends in my life, and both of them were about an inch shorter than me, and at several times either remarked on their own that they had a big head, or my friends would say something about it.  I think that’s interesting.

Can “short and big-headed” be a type?  I’ve always said I don’t have a type, I said it in a post just a little while ago again.

I’m not unattracted to people with small heads, though.  I’m not a size queen or anything.

I read somewhere, I think it was in Gore Vidal’s Hollywood, which is a novel and should be underlined but unfortunately I am unaware of how to use HTML to do this, so I apologize, Mr. Gore, on the odd chance that you are reading this and are offended by my seeming lack of respect for what was truly one of the best books I have ever read, although I confess Myron was pretty fucking excellent, too.

ANYWAY.  I read that the stars of old Hollywood  all had big heads, too.  It was something to do with the facial expressions and photographing better.  And a lot of the men were short, too.  Small people, big heads.  Just like my mens.

I wondered, at work, while reading Blonde by Joyce Carol Oates (sorry, Ms. Oates, please see above) which is also really interesting, if there’s some connection to my love of big-headed men and my love of Old Hollywood, where big heads reigned supreme.

My love of Old Hollywood has nothing to do with the heads, though.  The style, the glamour!  The class!  I can’t think of a single woman except for Dita Von Teese who seems to embody that carriage and demeanor these days.  And she shakes her *tits* for money, people!  Can’t one of today’s *real* stars forego leaving the house in sweatpants and a baseball cap in the name of history?  Clark Gable.  Douglas Fairbanks.  Errol Flynn.  Jean Harlow.  Bette Davis.  Marilyn Monroe!  It’s still there a little bit, I guess, at the Oscars, and especially at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party, which it is one of my life’s dearest ambitions to be invited to, having realized at a very young age that one doesn’t actually win Oscars for aspiring to be Bette Midler with a penis.  And without any singing talent.

Unless karaoke counts.

Which I really don’t think it should!  I mean I love to karaoke, and I’m not terrible, having learned to cover a lack of any legitimate talent with a loungy persona vaguely reminiscent of Dean Martin crossed with Paul Lynde.  But these people who never made it… and wanted to be singers… who go to karaoke… are messed up.  UNLESS.  Going to dive bar karaoke with your friends is always fine.  Yes, even if you wanted to be a singer and it didn’t work out.  Because you’re there with a group of your friends and you’re having a blast.  But when you go by yourself, every single week (or night… I’ve only ever been to weekly karaoke gigs, never to bars that are exclusively karaoke bars; do such things exist?!  Who would karaoke every single night given the opportunity?!  Oh, the horror!) that’s just unhealthy, pigeons.  Pick up the pieces and move on.  Take up a hobby.  I always enjoyed knitting and collecting buttons.

And, obviously, men with big heads.