AUGIE’S ALPHABET OF APHRODISIACS 

Augie Boyer is a pothead Minneapolis private investigator  and the hero of my forthcoming novel, The Man in the Blizzard, to be published in August. I thought I was finished with the dude, or that he was finished with me, but, obviously, he’s not done. Here he’s compiling a curious alphabet. I just try to stay out of his way.

A 

ABSINTHE

My taste for this stuff goes back to early childhood in San Francisco. It was an ice cream store on Balboa called Frosty Bosty that featured exotic flavors, including licorice. Which is why I take my absinthe on the rocks. When I’m back in S.F. I visit Absinthe Brasserie and Bar on Hayes.

 ANNA AKHMATOVA

My detective buddy Bobby Sabbatini turned me on to the Russian poet and tried to talk me into memorizing one of her poems. I wasn’t having any of that. Then he showed me a picture of her on the back of one of her books. I don’t know which affected me more, her eyes, her cheek bones, or her clavicle. I took the book to bed with me. By morning, I’d nailed one of her poems. You can get a good hit of her here.

B 

BALINESE DANCE

I’m knocked out by the sound of the gamelan. And check out the way each women’s arms move, both supple and disciplined as if they were multiple limbs. All I got to do is put on a CD from Bali and I can see it all. Here’s a good place to start.

BLOOD ORANGE CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES

It was an Israeli client, whose wife I was tracking, that first turned me on to the blood orange chocolate truffle. After I handed him photos of the wife in a compromising position, the dude had a box of a dozen shipped to my office every month for a year. They never failed to impress. Here’s where he got them.

C 

 CLIFFORD BROWN

All I’ve got to hear is the bright, buoyant head to Clifford Brown’s “Joy Spring” and I’m ready to participate. The fact that poor Clifford died at twenty-five, returns me to that age and I could swear I’m channeling the virtuoso of swinging bop.

CONCH

Nothing awakens romance in me as easily as the sound of the ocean, even if the sound’s only an illusion.  I’m reminded of my romance with a girl named Jeannie and our teenage trysts at China Beach in S.F. Although Jeannie’s long gone, I have a nice collection of conch shells. But be careful, it can be bad luck to bring them inside. I keep mine outside on the porch where I visit them when I want to be roused by the sea. You can fill your needs at Sea Shell City. 

D  

DELORES DEL RIO

I heard that Orson Welles was nuts about her. I’ve never actually seen one of her movies. But I came across a picture of her in a used bookstore in Mankato, one of those movie star files. I took her home with me and had her matted. Delores Del Rio. I just like saying her name. 

DUNGENESS CRAB

I spent the summer I turned seventeen hitching up and down the west coast. The best part was being picked up by a woman, twice my age, in Coos Bay. She brought me home with two enormous crabs. Three pounders. I watched her clean ‘em and crack ‘em at the kitchen sink. We ate and ate. Sweetest meat I’ve ever had. 

E 

EBONY

An ebony-finished grand piano is clearly one of the most sensual bodies I’ve ever run my hands over. One summer during college, I took piano lessons in the studio of Berkeley matron who’s Baldwin baby-grand was a pleasure to sit down to. The woman did nothing for me, but the curves and the deep, black finish of her piano truly turned me on. Now, in middle age, I’d be happy with an upright.

EGGS

Eric Burden, the ancient rocker from The Animals, got his nickname, Eggman, because he loved cracking eggs open on the bodies of naked girls. I’ve never so indulged. But the egg, symbol of both fertility and fragility, is a constant wonder to me. I have taught myself to crack them open with one hand and pour them into the sizzling butter of my fry pan. Salute the sunny side up beauties, my version of a morning miracle.