Siggy Rhymes shows up early for our shoot at Lookout Mountain. Of course she would. She's Austrian. She will play my nanny, the blonde uber-babysitter whose job it was to make sure I survived a childhood without parents in Beirut. I imprinted on my nanny. I was her chastity belt, held between her crotch and the advances of horny Saudi princes who saw Siggi on the beach in her brown bikini and thought they'd found Venus right there on the Riviera. The princes would try to buy me off with toys and sweets, but when it came time to try for the end zone I was there, in Siggi's lap, a snarling and frenzied little animal with sharp teeth and shrill voice. My reward for protecting her virginity was my own access to the treasures of Siggi's bikini line. The effects of this relationship color my life today, years later. I cannot look at German blondes without thinking of bikini lines; Steffi Graf winning at Wimbledon gave me hours of enticement not because I find tennis thrilling but because with every flip of the hem of her white skirt I was in familiar territory, in the awesome explorations of childhood, where a shower in the changing cabins on the beaches of Lebanon meant I could rub my fingers over the squeaky skin of Siggi or Steffi until I reached the raspy pubic regions and found my probing rewarded with a sharp slap. Even the slaps have left fond memories.

I try to tell this all to Siggy Rhymes, who is impressed with the lines about Oppenhemier relating to Vishnu as he watched the mushroomed skies of New Mexico. She is happy to be my nanny for the photo shoot, and effortlessly peels off her jeans and my lines in German as she lets me enjoy that rare continuum of emotion, wherein I have always been my nanny's child, and will always be.

The nuclear nanny video can be seen at BadTV. Not sure if the nude version will make it there soon or not, but will give notice in a subsequent post if so.