100+

It has been hot here, very hot, above 100 degrees. That's like gay-nightclub hot. Yesterday, the digital thermometer in Rachel's car read 108, though that can't possibly be accurate. It was nearly unbearable. I felt like a three-legged dog, trapped in the family sedan with the windows rolled up, abandoned on the fringes of the Wal-Mart parking lot. My mind was howling to escape. 

We couldn't take it any more, my howling. We went to a friend's house and swam in the pool. There really is nothing else quite like submersion to fight off heat and the unending misery of summer fleas, not even air conditioning, not even cold beer in air conditioning. Nothing. 

Ice cubes are useless compared to a pool.

Rhys loved it. He has sensibly determined that if he just walks into the water then we will scramble to get him. He either seems to have no fear or he has enormous trust in us. He requires constant monitoring, though he is thankfully predisposed to walking into the pool towards the place where one of us happens to be. That kid is rarely more than two steps distant from calamity. 

The day before yesterday it was equally hot, if not greater. I can't remember much beyond that, it has bleached my brain. We went to a local charity event. It was impossible to listen to people ask for financial help in that wretchedness. I couldn't sit still. I had to walk over the the entrance where I could get closer to an air conditioning vent. Fat people do not hold up well in these temperatures. I'm certain that there were some there that were angry with me, that I was blocking the flow of cool air, somehow fouling it with my advanced and sweaty presence. I was desperately looking around for a sturdy chair to stand on, to get my head closer to the source. 

At one point I'm pretty sure I saw Rhys humping Rachel's leg. I didn't even care. She looked good. I couldn't think about the implications of such a thing in that stifling heat and humidity, though. I was relieved that somebody had the energy to do it. It was a sign that we might survive. The last few days have been pages ripped straight out of Revelations. I would not have been a bit surprised to hear frogs falling from the sky last night, cooking on the roof. These are the plague-times.

One partially good thing, at least: the heat has doubled the size of my cock and balls. They just hang there, stretched, trying to get as far away from my body as possible. I've been looking into nudist camps in the area, wanting to take advantage of it while it lasts. The cock - much like the clitoris, lips, and inner ear - cannot sweat. It does not have the required glands for such a thing. The balls are quite famous for it, but the cock is treated mercilessly in this weather, in an evolutionary way. Nobody ever references their sweaty cock but the balls are hardly ever accompanied by a different adjective. The temperature will only make it uselessly hang there - which may help the cooling process some, giving it more surface area - but that is minor compensation for the other misery.

It's pitiful to witness, there is a forlornness that saddens.  

I've been going to the gym regularly, trying to recapture some youth. But as I slowly get back into a simulation of shape I just end up looking more stretched. My arms and shoulders and neck and face do not look the same any more. The skin refuses to react the way that it once did. I'm a melted version of myself. My whole body's starting to look like penis skin. It seems as if it has been grafted on well enough - though not quite as snugly as I might have preferred, with only the occasional seam being noticeable - but the surface must have been taken from a distant relative. It's not my skin, it's not possible. The years have embezzled my life away. My body looks like a duffle bag that was once used in a getaway run.

When did I become this aged thing. I appear in the mirror as a police sketch of my former myself, a fugitive from my own past. It will not surprise me at all if one day soon I awake to find the entire world still rendered in color but my reflection will just be a rudely stated black and white composite. I've gotten in the reluctant habit of stopping by the post-office, to keep an eye on the wall, in the event that a familiar ghostly sketch reappears there.

"Oh, the only decent thing I did when I worked as a postal clerk 

Was to haul your picture down off the wall near the cage where I used to work."

-Dylan

.

Define - pornology

(ex-cheesecake)

My buddy, Selavy, is a talented old syphilitic. For many long years he has harangued me about sending him naked pictures of the various women (girls) I've known, or loved, presumably so that he can abuse himself privately at his own leisure, to his own foul ends. I have sent him some pictures that highlight the more fascinating components of female physiology but never told him whose anatomy was revealed in the image, whose genitals and anus were attached to which person, which smiling face, etc. Instead, I misled him, giving him snatches of insight while intentionally swapping and confusing the names, deceiving him in perpetuity. He still has no idea whose parts he's actually been gazing at. The color of pubic hair is often a perplexing mystery, particularly when it is lighter in color.

That was more fun for me than honesty. I have no special obligation to, or relationship with, the truth.

He can not help himself, the syphilis has gripped him. He's not exactly a dirty old man, neither is he a pervert. Perversion would imply a deviation from the norm and if anything his tastes are rather prudish, comparatively speaking. His impulses seem quite normal to me, almost healthy. He is merely more comfortable expressing them privately than most. Also, he is yet to be truly old, though he might disagree with this objective, non-clinical assessment. As for his tastes, he often makes some very salient points concerning sociobiology and the sexual tendencies of groups. It is difficult logic to argue with.

His cadging for glimpses into the lives of others goes on unabated. 

Alternately, he has forced upon me thousands and thousands of naked images to review. Is it a "nude" or is it a "naked image"...? I forget, though one is preferable and more precise than the other. I don't feel like thinking about it this morning. But there is scarcely a women I've ever met through him whose anatomy I have not seen in alarming detail, often with various props. He is never one to deny the model a little mise en scène when it suits the mood. He rarely lapses into what might be considered pornography, by most. This is not to say that his fascination does not extend to that point, only that his artistic temperament often prevents him from giving in to such base impulses. 

His fetish mainly seems to be the fetishes of others. 

"What good are friends like this who would fool you about such explicit things." -Selavy

.

As things become possible

(unknown)

Selavy makes a good point this morning. What is more alluring than sharing an unexpected secret? What could be better than willingness? All things are possible with it, none without. Is there anything nicer than an unforeseen invitation, one lined with suggestion, innuendo. A summons in the form of a simple, little, picture - unexpectedly sent. I have long sought the sweet and tawdry. Love, or anything resembling it, should have its secrets, the sharing of cheap, precious little unknowns; there should exist a component of private naughtiness, to keep the imaginative component involved.

All things are possible within it.

It is as easy as going into the bathroom and taking a quick picture, though it can be done even easier than that. It could be as simple as lifting a leg. Describing it may make it sound cheap, but you know it when it happens, and it is not cheap at all but rather precious, among other things, exciting.

They are sweet stories to tell yourself.


With many photographs there is the feeling that one is peering in on, or perhaps past, a secret - a shared confidential may also be peering back out, or even through. It may be the moment that the secret is secret no more. It is never easy to say with complete certainty. It is a mystery concerning mysteries.

Maybe I have already said too much.

.

Blondes give more fun

(photograph taken at SF Moma, artist unknown)

I assumed that most people thought of Nelson Mandela as a hero. Not so, say some online Brits. Apparently, he was a terrorist and was in prison for good reason: treason. I tried to point out that he was resisting what most people considered a tyrannical and outright racist government. 

Little matter, that. They likely oppose those filthy Palestinians as well. 

Ah well, what can be done. I should have listened to my ol' buddy Selavy. You can't convince anybody of anything they don't already want to believe. It is all a foolish waste of time.

I have nothing to say today, but would like a chance to prove it.

Let's see.....

In the distance the houses are burning. The smoke rises without following us. 

I'm not sure if I like intoxicants or intoxication. I know the difference, I simply don't possess a control group from which to test.

The child's hand around the stem of a wineglass, the expected tilt, the carpet beneath, the tears.

She had done her white hair up such that she looked like an animated toilet bowl cleaner. Hairspray bolstered the illusion. One quick dip in the water and she would have proven useless. 

It was the most effortlessly graceless performance I had ever witnessed. 

Seeking a sordidness I could not find.

Blondes give more fun.

She was a delightful recipient. 

You silly monsters.

Contemplating suicide helps me go to sleep.

Nope, nothing's working for me. On another day I might have stretched any one of those sentences out past its logical end. Not today. 

Let's pick back up here tomorrow and see where the world has taken us.

.

Bring Forth The Krackenhead!

The rains have not stopped. Yesterday morning, after publishing my post, Rachel and I discovered a leak in the ceiling. We had known something was wrong but we weren't quite certain what it was, now we know. A piece of the drywall tape had come loose. I had convinced her it was just poor workmanship, that we would get it fixed. 

Nope, or at least not in the way that I had thought. The poor workmanship was higher up, on the patio outside of Rhys' room. A friend came over who does roofing and we discussed strategies for repair. We will have to wait until everything dries and then use a hose to try to find the leak. For now our house is a water park of sorts, we dance among the magical waterfalls.

I poked two holes in the ceiling to let any standing water drain out. There was none. By doing so I have caused what water was there to make its way further along into the sheet of drywall. It was a calculated risk, it had to be done. Too much water standing in the ceiling could have been much worse. 

Home ownership is not always the unending joy that it seems. The value of our townhouse has increased somewhat dramatically in a single year as the market has rebounded. Somewhere, someone will be getting even more wealthy off of our eventual bad luck. We have considered remortgaging already. How can that be? 

Another friend has warned us not to do so unless we can get a full point off of our current interest rate.

What the fuck am I writing about?

Jesus Christ, it's only a matter of time before this site becomes dedicated to Christian Financial Advice. I'll open an office somewhere in Texas. I'll call it Mormons For Money.

Doesn't the word Mormon sound like it belongs next to Gorgon in The Clash of the Titans?

That reminds me.....

Last night I got in an argument with a few people that seemed surprised, adamant even, that there exists abuse potential in pharmaceutical pain killers. They seemed mainly content to blame the companies that make the drugs and the doctors that must do their nefarious bidding. It ended poorly, or rather my contribution to the conversation did. I mocked my counterpart, after being told that I was "non-sensical," or rather that my assertions / analogies were, that my observations were not apt, which means that they were not appropriate. This assessment, a clear attempt to limit the use of the mind, was somehow not considered an insult, though my use of the pejorative "dunce" was. If you don't toe the line that big-pharma is simply all evil and that all creators of GMO's are likewise purely villainous, then you will feel the collective wrath of the left. Just try it sometime, for kicks.

As I get older I find myself less and less able to align myself with that which might be called "the left," though I am still far from agreeing with much of "the right." I somehow oppose both of them, though not always equally or adequately, apparently. There are simply fewer and fewer places remaining to go. Even agreeing with people online is difficult. There is a "righteousness and indignation quota" that must be met, if yours is found to be insufficient then you are in line with the evildoers, fooled by the media, a dim-witted shill for the corporate elite. 

What passes for "science as proof" online is likewise shocking. I don't think that many bother reading the studies that are buried in the articles they post. They are presented as unread and yet incontrovertible fact. For the study to support their assumptions is alone good enough. To question the study, or the science behind it, is when you will really suffer the ridicule. Being literate is not enough, one must have already published a contrary study, though this same qualification is oddly not needed as a means of agreeing with said study. 

As for the abuse potential to be found in pain killers, I was more than willing to prove my point. As part of a loosely related independent study I promptly ate a Vicodin and a Klonopin (not strictly a pain killer, but rather a hypnotic anticonvulsant classified as a benzodiazepine, which has muscle relaxant properties, a thing which anybody my age or older will assure you has a pain relieving effect), and then a Xanax to help relax me as the others took hold. You don't want to go into anything like that with stress plaguing you. It's very important to drift comfortably into that strange world, a soft and somewhat rounded place where one can easily bend and reshape their surroundings to the will of their mind, if only to justify the quest. 

What, precisely, it is that I am looking for there, I never know. In the search for a thing unnamed I discover other lost phantasms entirely detached from purpose, just floating there like eye angels along the vitreous humour, starting as the shape of unicellular amoebas, in time becoming banshee mermaids, wonderful in their amorphous animated proportions.

In the morning when I slumber through they are all lost to me, like the memory of billboards passed in the rain during an ancient Florida vacation, the advertisements of floating myths, underwater nymphs, dancing and twirling among the reefs, Weeki Wachee and Blue Springs pulled from the past and saved, like lost souls now swimming alongside the Mighty Mormon.

.

The longest days of the year

(Ruscha)

Fell asleep and then woke again to the sound of rain. The notes of it restful as a detached emotion, one that can be felt freely without the weight of experience; nostalgia for an unnamed thing, universal in scope. A mysterious summer anomaly for the region, unique to others' memories, so claimed. I close my eyes and I am in the jungle, an open windowed room along the coast, waiting for the rains to lift, the boat prepared and also halted. When I close my eyes in it I am anywhere at once. 

Soft grey from scope to scope, the daily ambit robbed. The longest days of the year have lost much of their light. I lie in bed and do not mind at all. I could be perfectly happy there all day, waiting to escape.

I've drank straight from the milk jug twice in the last two days, tilting the gallon upwards, a thing I have not done in years. I am reminded of my mother's pleas not to, getting caught yet again, the admonishments. I remember young grade-school projects in which we were all asked to bring in a plastic gallon milk jug, one that had been thoroughly washed out. The stench filling the room when those that had not were finally opened, as if a rotten sarcophagus had been unearthed in Egypt, or worse. The children's faces withdrawn in crumpled cries of unison. I wonder what projects students must do now, consider the differences of a cardboard soy container. What assumptions can be made. Those days must be long lost, the ones in which all children drank generous portions of daily milk, plastic jugs being a norm in almost every home. Those days must be gone.

If not, then soon, though not before the rains have lifted.

.

Ok, Charlie Hustle

Four day weekends are the way it should be. Your traditional two-day weekend should be buffered by a day off on each side, always. The three day work week is where it's at. Imagine how productive we would all be in those mid-week days. Nobody even cares about Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. It would be a win-win for everybody. We could call it the Super-Size Weekend. You can get them at 7-11, like lottery tickets.

Monday would make a great new Sunday. 

Holy crap, speaking of lose-lose.... I struck out in softball yesterday. I didn't even know that such a thing was possible. I leaned into two pitches, dangerously swatting at air, then was caught watching the last, flat-footed in the shoulders. Shameful, truly disgraceful. I wish I would have pulled my back out on the first wild strike, hospitalized myself instead of what I actually did do. I should have shit my pants at the plate, just forced a couple big turds out into my drawers, fell to the ground and claimed I was having a stroke, anything.

The bases were loaded and it was the third out of the inning. The team needed me to get at least a base hit, a thing that I'm pretty good at, usually. I had gotten on twice in the game, once even from some Pete Rose type hustle to first, but this was just deplorable. Rachel hasn't had sex with me since, hasn't even kissed me. She offered some batting advice after the game. She got drunk last night and talked about old boyfriends, texting secretively, giggling. Rhys spent the remainder of the day crying. This morning he woke up and rolled over when he looked at me, burying his head into his "wuzzy" and moaning, not wanting to be picked up. 

Contemptible. I think the team captain is going to trade me. 

C'est la vie, as they used to say.

"It's a round ball and a round bat, and you got to hit it square." - Pete Rose

The Lord's Moon

(unknown)

The Lord's Moon. 

Slept like a werewolf, hair growing out of the eyes and rabid claws for fingers, the bloodthirst of a crazed demonic fiend. I dreamed of waking needles keeping.

St. Vulgaris. The compensatory murmurs; courage to follow gypsies into the forest, to steal from them, to be lured by their dark song, tempted. The prime force driven, apologies drifting up through the stars, mumbling prayers deep into St. Anus. On a running night like last lit, devouring wanderers wide. Angels crept past the fire, baring the teeth of ghosts.

.

Stinson, redux

(dreaming of the tides)

Yesterday: I took Rhys to the beach. We went with a childhood friend of mine and her sister's family. I'm not sure if I've ever told the story here about her. She and I have been buddies since just before adolescence. I must have told that story, right? Somebody remind me. I'm getting old and can not distinguish between memories and shared fictions.

Quickly: Lisa, my friend from childhood, along with her husband Matt and soon-to-be adopted child, live here in Sonoma. We were very close friends from the ages of around 11 to about 16, then her family moved to Nashville. We stayed in touch intermittently but then lost touch, as I had done with so many of my friends, for about 15 years. She found me online, writing a column for a music website out of Amsterdam. She saw that I was coming to visit San Francisco soon and she invited me out to Sonoma to visit and meet her husband. I accepted and started making a visit to Sonoma a regular part of my trip to SF. It played a very significant role in Rachel and I having our wedding ceremony here, as well as eventually moving here. I must have relayed that already. It sounds familiar. 

The Beach: We went. As I've said before, taking a child to the beach is not like other visits there. It is nearly perpetual work. I don't know how women do it, but they seem to sometimes love it. If the child is not in your arms - and even when they are - you must be on the lookout much of the time for them eating sand, crapping their pants, drowning, or eating a jellyfish - all sorts of terrors. I didn't take a single picture while there. A wet diaper filled with poop is a very different monster. But it is a quite special feeling to see the boy fascinated with the waves, the water, the open sky, the ocean itself, the Pacific. I'm not sure how much he can grasp the enormity of it, what version of the truth a child's mind brings. I imagine it to be a snow globe version of the place for him, though perhaps I am only imposing my sense of the rounded edges; likely. I know that he cannot yet imagine Asia across, that's all. Infinity for him might mean as little as losing sight of me for a moment when he turns to look. Who are we to ever say; assumptions all. Last time we had much fun together running into the surf and then retreating from it. Yesterday, he was fascinated with the waves. He would stand on the shore where the waves were making their last thin, spreading break. He would fall forward into the water as it would draw away, and then again be knocked backwards by the sensation of it advancing past him. It was hysterical, though I had to put a limit on how much hysteria I thought he could manage, the parental assumption becomes fact. There were a few moments when the tears came, but he recovered quickly as the next wave approached. I would just stand him up again and the ocean would take over. It must have tricked his mind into thinking he was falling forward or backward and he would just go with it. Or, considering that he was dropping towards the flow of the water perhaps some desire to compensate and correct was his undoing, the liquid earth moving unexpectedly under his feet. His newly learned ability to stand coming up against an eternal foe. It was fantastic. When I would pick him up to right him he would be covered in mud, and giggling, excited towards the sea. I mean covered, beach mud packed under his shirt, down his ass crack, partially trapped by a sagging wet diaper, saltwater mud in his hair and on his face. Yuck. Kids are quite a sensation, exhaustingly messy. Nothing is miniature about the chaos they make of themselves. They live for it. Once I got to the open showers I conceded that there were some things that should not be managed publicly. Feces, etc. We returned home prematurely. I took him to the car, changed his diaper and placed him in his car seat, a lone deep breath as the final click confirmed it. He was asleep before we left the parking lot. I felt as if I had been flattened by sunlight. The drive up through the hills and away was peaceful. The boy and I had bonded, which made it all sensible and warm and worth it. To wit, there was a moment in the day as we were waiting for our food from a little local shop in which he and I started playing with a straw. He was trying to jab it into my mouth and nostrils and eyeballs as I held him, so I started biting at it, a thing that he seemed to find hilarious. All that I needed to do from there was add a "rumph!" sound to each bite and he became devastated by my unending comic genius. The boy could not control himself, he was consumed by giggles. The rest of the day and into last night as he was going asleep he kept instigating more of it from me, rumphing me from a distance, peeking around corners to launch a surprise rumph!, expecting the same in return. From across the house we would trade air bites at imaginary straws, chuckling and chortling as we went. 

Simple joys, buddies, etc. 

.

I never asked

My piss has turned to uric poison. It is supposed to leave the body sterile though mineral rich, which explains why it becomes "less than sterile" so quickly. That, along with its warmth and moisture.

Whatever sickness it is that has gripped my body is finally making its way through, and out. The cleansing organs have been working all night, as I was nearly sleeping. I've been helping them along by not drinking at all for the last few days, but now they've shown their hand. It was all a dark yellow that smelled stinky foul, and it burned terribly, of course.

No, I only jest.

Any loss of vitality is just a practice run, and it does not burn when I pee, any more.


I've encouraged Cato not to be too vulgar on his new site, and now look at me... I'm despicable.

A female friend, long ago, once told me that I have a "Bundy-esque charm." That would be Ted, for those of you perhaps too young to recognize the reference. He was an American Monster, or some named-for-television thing like that. There were several documentaries made. He was a quite storied serial killer in his time.

He escaped from prison a couple times and then acted as his own defense attorney, keeping himself from both extradition and execution for over 10 years, several appeals, etc. This all happened at the very end of his run as a serial killer. There weren't enough female victims in prison, sort of. Some experts surmise that he came to Florida only because they have a death penalty, that he needed to increase the risk to increase the pleasure. He had perhaps become bored with just the standard rape, killing, mutilation and necrophilia.

At FSU, five victims in one night, four within 15 minutes of one another, within 30 feet of each other.


He asked a woman who had previously testified on his behalf to marry him in court, she accepted. By a strange Florida law (are there any other kind), because he had done so in a courtroom and in front of a judge, they were considered immediately married. There was nothing the judge could do to stop it. It was the law.

Mrs. Bundy and he had a child together, nobody is quite sure how. Oddly, he never killed her.

The anticipation on her part must have really been something. Believing somebody to be innocent is partial, no matter the level of faith.

It took three death sentences to finally execute him. It happened the day after Salvador Dali died naturally, or rather, in a very non-surrealistic way.

I think my friend only meant that I could be devious and convincing. I never asked.

.

Strike up the Wurlitzer

Sick again. Who knows with what. Up all night, mercury spinning in my veins; my body as the rising and falling of a thermostat, at the whim of unseen wind. Impossible to get comfortable, impossible to sleep, sweating and chills, tossing and turning, everything more liquid than solid. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

The room reeks of dank somatic complaint.

I'm heading into what might have been a nice 4-day weekend. The woman who takes care of Rhys in the daytime needed Friday and Monday off so I took them off also, to take care of the boy. Now I question it. Parenting is a particular burden when ill. 

Nausea, Coffee, Repeat. 

My stomach is empty, as dizzy as the carnival, lonely as a carousel, dragged through the night behind certain circular horses.

.

Vaginosis

It feels like that sometimes, doesn't it? Just icy death and that all over fishy feeling.

So, now I'm sick too. I won't bore you with all the details, but I knew it was coming. I was up most of last night with the feeling of metallic blood moving through me, but that wasn't all that was moving through, there were many midnight mysteries.

The body wishes to purge, and for once I'm on its side.

.

Things change....

(The "real" Yankee Stadium)

I wrote a rather extensive piece earlier that will never be published. 

I was sharing my vast wisdom concerning having children and the various gender-specific sacrifices that are made, and rewards given. I dropped Rhys off at the nanny's place, when I got back I looked at it and recognized it for the vile wretchedness that it was.

One of the key points was, "Why can't we have it all?" 

It included a rather lengthy encouragement to carefully consider the question.

I will be emailing it out privately, to men that I trust.

.

Ms. Pithy

(One of the many tunnels at Train Town)

I've had another long-time reader of the site say that the black on white is no good. Too hard to read, it's the new claim. Why can't these decisions be reader-based. Come on Google? If you have a Gmail account you could log on and make your own preferences, site by site, or an as overarching preference. How hard can it be to get something right?

I should change it to black on black. Anybody that wanted to read would have to copy, paste and edit. A secret within a secret.

Cato has recently started writing on his own site. I hate the words blog, and blogging. Something about them has always seemed..... turd-worthy. Perhaps it is that Brits use a euphemism for a toilet: the bog, toilet paper being bog-roll. Then, of course, there is the standard and accepted use of the word: wet, muddy and marshy ground.  A morass of possible meanings. But, Cato has his own blog site now also. So, I've probably lost a reader, but it'll be good for him to finally come out of the closet. 

Are we allowed to re-claim the meaning of that phrase yet? If I had more energy I would just misuse metaphors and re-appropriate phrases, to see what happens, what possible meanings emerge. Or, perhaps that's all that I've ever been doing, pasting lifted hackneyed phrases where they don't belong. I do get an almost cocaine-like thrill from stealing. Have I mentioned my days as a shoplifter here? 

That is a story for another morning.

Rhys was sick all night last night. So, Rachel was up doing what mothers are famous for.

Some moron was outside of our house honking their horn in the middle of the night. This only triggered Rhys' awakening, but then the boy was up dry-heaving and child-wailing, confused and distressed at the sickness' onset.

I've tried to think of a good exiting maxim here but can't. 

You know how that goes: it 'aint over 'til it's

.

Jurassic Skid Mark

(Rick)

So, here is the new look for the site. Let me know if the green and mauve don't work. I had a few complaints about the other, the white on black. I have a couple aging retirees who read here regularly and it was negatively impacting their eyes, apparently. They were seeing "trails" again, they claimed, when they looked away. Easy fix, I said, don't look away. A testament to how closely they were reading, certainly. The white background will overheat their computers more, and wear out the lcd faster, and be far more conspicuous when reading in the dark, but as long as it keeps their glaucoma from further advancement, well... victory for the eyes.

The mobile site is unchanged. It has always been black on white, like an old girlfriend's fireman fantasy.

A new study suggests that women are naughty, filthy sluts. That can't be quite right though, right? Well, sort of. The study suggests that women cheat much more than previously thought. They are just far less likely to be honest about it, even in an anonymous survey. Past wisdom reflected that men cheated more than women, the opposite is the new truth. Or, it is much closer to equal than the experts had thought.

A telling experiment used to be to type "why do..." into the Google search field. The first and presumably most popular response based on their auto-suggestion algorithm was "why do men cheat" I just tried it and it has now changed. Children have apparently taken over the internet and the top suggestions from Google are now "Why do we yawn" , "Why do cats purr" , "Why do dogs eat grass" Women must have finally satisfied their curiosity about such things.

You have to type "why do m..." to get the result now. 

Oh wait, it's Father's Day, I should show some decorum. Or, is it Fathers' Day? We already went over this in last Mom's Day. It was boring then and has not gained any.

Okay, I'm out of time this morning. 

Big day ahead: breakfast, the beach, a softball game, possibly a dinner. Who knows... 

I found this in an old stickie on my desktop. I never published it, so you get some recycled wisdom here:

I'm not sure why I do these kinds of things to myself. I went and saw "Jurassic Park 3-D" yesterday. It was terrible, I mean really horrendous. I guess I just couldn't take it any more. I've been in the house, sick for days. I only wanted to get out of bed and do something. I haven't been to the cinema by myself in years.

I chose wrong.

Luckily, I had the entire theater to myself, so I could complain out loud as it was happening. It was like Mystery Science Theater 3000 but without any audience, and I was short two robots.... sort of. Midway through the film a friend called and I sat and chatted on the phone with her while the cinematic disaster unfolded. Yes, I had my ringer on. Why not? I felt like Howard Hughes. If you've never had the luxury of sitting in a movie theater talking on the phone... oh wait, what am I saying, lots of people have done that.

No other film comes immediately to mind that was made for the sole purpose of branding, none that I've seen before anyway. It was as if I was watching a product somehow survive its own abortion and then screech to life. It seemed like Spielberg was trying to repeatedly kill it as it was happening. Every dull suspense cliche was trotted out and methodically misused. These are filmmakers who have simply given up on life. 

I think that might have been the same year that he did "Schindler's List."  What can be said about such things? I believe this was the same year that I entered film school, so these were the films that were being discussed at the time, and "Terminator 2"(still) and "Forrest Gump" and "Pulp Fiction", of course.

That was the climate of Hollywood filmmaking at the time. 

It was boring then and has not gained any.

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Genetically Modified Heroes

I am not alone in my suspicions of Edward Snowden, nor of his superheroics.

The problem, for me, is that too many people define themselves by, and insist upon, their purely anti-government stance, as if it is a pre-agreed upon virtue. To speak in any way otherwise, even if you only suspect the government in slightly different ways than them, or for different reasons, is to question the very sanctity of community and friendship itself. It's like insisting that we all must be adequately pro-oxygen, or else what reason to love, what possible purpose?.... 

But how can you not see how they have you fooled....?

Just try this: Suggest that there is not enough research to yet support that genetically modified foods are as dangerous as claimed. There is mostly just pseudo-anecdote and organized suspicion from the one side. The long-term research that has been conducted on genetic modification is claimed to be inconclusive, because it tends to support the opposite claims. 

Genetic modification has been occurring by humans for about 14,000 years. Try explaining to anybody that their dog or cat is the direct result of human directed genetic modification. Just try that....

To be fair, genetic engineering is a more recent development, about 40 years old.

The problem is not just with the science conducted by big-industry, but the other stuff also. The supposedly damaging reports from the purely organic-fans can not be reproduced. These are as dangerous to truth as anything else. The anti-GMO crew are not entirely dissimilar from those who deny climate change, they largely ignore the science in favor of their feelings about a thing, their studies. Hysteria must be pleasant, for some, even in small daily doses. Their demands are not unreasonable, but the results could potentially be devastating. Their behavior is fueled by a culture of ignorance. I swear it, read the actual independent studies, the peer-reviewed ones, the ones that can be reproduced.

This is not to say that I don't favor labeling, or even that I trust genetically modified foods. I only fear the effect that labeling might have, allowing fear-mongering and economic denunciation to take the place of public discourse in any substantive way. The biggest sin of the future will be poverty, if it isn't already. We are not far off from blaming the needs of the poor for ruining everything for the rest of us. It's simply that they need to eat also that's causing all of the problems and driving the need to produce stronger crops on less land. The dietary greed of the impoverished and starving is ruining the earth. Right?

That bothers me. There is something inherently wrong, and even evil, about it. The liberals will, of course, never outright make the claim, they lack the courage. But it will be introduced into the conversation once they realize the problems that their demands create. Once foods are labeled then only the iniquitous would ever dare eat them. It is the underside and the ugliness of the liberal lie come to life. The only good liberals are rich ones, or middle-class ones that think themselves rich in enlightened ideas. Poor liberals are the ones that are causing all the problems for everybody, right?

In a society based mainly on economics the biggest, and perhaps only, sin will be poverty.

Try having that conversation, even if you don't entirely believe it. If you want to understand part of the essence of why people believe a certain thing then question the assumptions, expect them to qualify the claims made, whether they be wild or reasoned. It will often result in anger or dismissal, mostly, rather than clarity on the subject. The agreed upon evil is what matters most. 

People don't mind you claiming that there might not be a god, but don't ever try claiming that the devil is not the devil. That would be heresy. 

But how can you not see how they have you fooled....?

(I should note that I have not read every possible study, nor would I consider myself even well-versed on the subject. I did some reading when the labeling proposition came up on California's ballot. I was amazed at how many of the reputable science journals expressed caution and even outright suspicion or derision of the wild claims of the anti-GMO camp. Most of them agreed that the science simply isn't there to support the claims of the one side, that the science supports the opposite. This fact will excite the "anti-crowd" more than almost any other. It is the surest sign that you are being duped, that you would trust science and research for anything at all. Little matter that you point out to them that the studies cited are independent studies conducted globally, often by liberal institutions. There is a wide general consensus that genetically modified foods are safe. But the only science to trust, apparently, is that which supports superstitions. Only they possess the real truth, anything else is just ignorant, and you must be in league with those who are killing the earth... Ask them how sustainable organic farming might feed 7 billion. Oh, then you'll hear some certain facts...)

But enough about all of that. It is time to move on. There are things other than deceased horse-beating that must happen around here. Who knows, that horse may have died from all that Monsanto witch corn. It's probably the least safe to beat one of those. It'll just creep back into the soil. We had better burn it. 

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Change we can believe in

Okay, one last thing on this NSA privacy issue.... I have been screeching about governmental overreach and totalitarian democracy for some time now. If you look back through the posted pages of this site then you will find ample evidence to form an understanding about how I feel about such things.

Remember, I worked for Apple. The iPhone was so riddled with security breaches that could be easily exploited by app developers that I knew there was no way they could ever keep personal information out of the hands of the government, even if they tried. If an unemployed nerd can get it then the US gov. certainly can. Look at what happened to Microsoft. If you want to do big business in this country then you learn how to play ball. You can only hide under the couch for so long.

.... and when they start claiming that it's an issue of national security then the party's already over. 

Also, I have been publicly writing here in a very non-anonymous way for a few years now, openly divulging many personal secrets, minor crimes and major plots in support of humanity. The government has a much larger file on me than most, with well over half a million words and counting, some of it occasionally well written (thinking my turds are interesting is the way my mom recently described it).

Of what do I possibly have to be afraid of now, really? 

Does the government want to know if I've done drugs? Check

Does the government want to know if I had a turbulent youth? Check

Does the government want to know if I have a ferocious masturbation habit? Check 

Does the government want to know if I trust them? Check

Does the government want to know if I want to own a gun? Check
Does the government want to know if I pay my taxes? Checkmate


People believe they will somehow protect themselves from the government by hiding, disengaging, or seeking an "off-the-grid" secrecy. The opposite is closer to being true. If you want to possess liberty then practice the expression of it. To me it seems that the majority of the nation is moving in the wrong direction to adequately resist. But that is how I've always felt, so, Amen to that. 

Do you see? I'm all for privacy, but those days are gone, and have been for some time. Trying to hide now is among the worst things that can possibly be done, and expecting a return to privacy is absurd. It will not happen. There must be some politicians now saying, "See? Why is everybody so suspicious about the NSA. We were right all along." Fear feeds fear and justifies the suspicions of others.

Some would say that I'm missing the point there. I do not believe that I am. If you believe that the democratic process is a valid strategy of resistance then I wish you luck with your occasional partisan voting. It truly is change we will believe in. It is proven now.

But adding my voice to the current self-righteous noise, paranoia, and patriotic indignation isn't going to help much. Anybody that reads here knows how I feel about any number of things. Are my feelings consistent: rarely, sometimes, and then far too often for most. For me, the damage is done. It's well past the point that I might ever expect personal privacy again. Between this and some of the seditious nonsense I post on Facebook the government knows pretty much all that they might need to tie me up in a bag of rocks and snakes and dump me in the bay near San Quentin when the time finally comes, or to drag me screaming back to Rikers Island for some past infraction on the distant east coast. Some lucky future or present brown-shirt will take much joy in punishing an addled libertine like me.

A little taste of the old bastinado should fix this one....

Oh, and the time is coming.

But, I have been in contact with the people who took the greatest offense at my "Edward Snowden is a Vampire" piece and we are revolutionary brothers again. The cause needs me, I'm told. So, all is still good like pie. You needn't worry that I have lost any of my comrades in the international socialist underground movement. My anarchist buddies and I have also been plotting again. When the time comes, and the heavy curtains of the near future fall, you will still want to know me. I have associates that can keep you safe and get you near the border.

Taco Bell, that is, or Spam when in a pinch.

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Trivial returns

Jesus. My post from the other day was not meant to represent a totality of thought on either Edward Snowden or the high price of freedom, I do not possess such a thing. I only have reflections and reactions. I think that should be made clear enough by reading the post, which was qualified where necessary. I have had people emerging from the chat-boards to publicly berate me for not adequately praising his actions as purely heroic. Admittedly, it was just an initial reaction, but heroism at the level claimed remains to be seen. There exists within his actions something else also.

Reading more, it has become clear that some of what I had mentioned in the article was driven by trivial reporting. Let me try this again: I am not a media agency, a journalist, or in any way associated with a news reporting establishment. I write a daily open email to my friends. It is meant to be entertaining, fun, and hopefully possessing occasional insight. If I have failed my reader base, then so be it. If only I were able to act the same towards them for, Oh, I don't know... not reading my posts daily. Something silly like that.

Can you imagine?

There is much more to any action than simple heroics and national betrayal. I did not mention at all that his girlfriend was a pole dancer. That would seem trivial, to me. Also, I did not even know it at the time. I had only read three articles, all of which were rather surface. Since then I have found out more and I am understandably taken by some of the details. I misspoke that he was a low-level employee, as that was what had been reported by one of the articles I read. Correction: He was a mid-level employee. Beyond that, I stand behind every word I wrote. It was not even an opinion, just an idea, a rambling one at that.

For once, I let others be sanctimonious and filled with praise and condemnation. Hopefully, my real friends will forgive this minor transgression.

Moving on. Can you believe this Edward Snowden guy...?


I had meant to write some trivial reflections on LA this morning, but there is no time left. 

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Defensibility of the wicked

(validation, 1:16)

These are just daily observations, at best. I don't encourage anybody to consider these scribblings as a detailed analysis of the world or its events. Often, I will offer supposition just to bring some light to my own feelings concerning it. It is not meant to be a lucid ordering of the world, at all. If it occasionally lacks the depth or insight that you require then I would encourage you to also write daily, and publicly, to get a feel for how much content can be created while also conducting a reasonably normal life.

This site is not required reading. Though, as I have often said, when I become dictator you will be tested on it, etc.

I've had a friend recently begin to take this site far too seriously, for reasons I still don't understand.

So, it works like this: I wake up most mornings and sit down and jot down any thoughts that come to mind. Often, this is done before I've had coffee, before I have even chosen a topic. I picked this particular explanation as a subject today because this friend has been on my mind. I awoke to find yet another dismissal of me for reasons I don't understand. It was veiled in the form of a question, one that was presumably meant to invite conversation, but the meaning was clear. It was an insult. It is not the first, of late. I suppose I could make a guess as to why this is happening, but that might appear to be less than kind also, so I won't. 

Do not think me thin-skinned here. This subject has landed near me, so I have chosen to write about it. Nothing more.

This site is at its best, for me, when it is absurd and without clear meaning. Ambiguities are more interesting than opinions. I try to choose a subject without too much pre-thought and then see where it takes me. I have (hopefully) arranged the utterances into paragraph form and (hopefully) given them some vague sense of continuity. I will find out a part of how I feel about a particular thing because I have just written about it. It is a process of discovery. I am often shocked at what has come out of me, the thing that I have just written, the preposterous idea that has just been given form. Frequently, I will delete these things before posting. They are hideous, and wrong, and do not deserve any light or oxygen from which they might survive.

There are also recurring times that I go back and read a post, or part of a post that someone has taken interest or offense in, and I will find that I don't agree with what I've written at all either. This is because sometimes I am merely entertaining a runaway thought. 

This is not to say that I do not take some subjects seriously, or alternately dismiss subjects that others cloak in sanctimony, or even attack ideas and people that I find either worthy or unworthy of doing so. I often do, and relish it.

For me, it is an exercise in the unimpeded use of the mind, even when towards senseless or nefarious means. If your desire is to place restrictions (in the form of expectations) on what gets written here then I wish you much luck. 

I have always responded so warmly to the expectations of others.

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Though nothing will drive them away...

The man pictured above - it was the craziest thing - his face shone like a headlight. He must have a helluva damned time meeting new people: hung like a hobby-horse, face like a locomotive. He claimed to be the Illuminati.

I think I'm going to start my own "secret society." That seems like good, healthy fun. It will include the subset of people who read this site that don't want to either sue me or see me go to jail. We'll call it Le' Qre6istance (pronounced: Lake Resistance). I figure there's already as many as 7-8 people on board, or canoes... that is, not including spiders, web-bots and crawlers.

Actually, I want my secret society to be so exclusive that I've just expelled those last potential members. I am the secret society of one. My daily activities will include sharing my experiences here and having the government log them in a database somewhere. Then, I would prefer it if they taxed me to hire somebody to one day read these posts. This will justify my suspicious indignation. But if they don't, I would prefer not to know. Hence the "secret" of my society, etc.

(My Secret, and Password: Who Cares?)

The future is going to be more interesting. There are some who are quite dedicated to that fact.

Ah well, these are not quite our troubles this morning. We have a country that is turning on itself. People divulging classified, or top-secret, information in what we presume to be the best interests of the country, then seeking refuge in Hong Kong....

Many claim him to be a hero, and certainly that is one way of viewing his actions, as heroic. The "victim" of this crime would be the government, or "the people" as we're so often told. A crime against the people, it's starting to sound familiar. My guess would be that he thinks of himself as heroic most of all. Being on the run from a corrupt and dangerous world likely fits his model idea of self.


His actions are not entirely dissimilar from a spree killer's, when seen as removed from the content of the actual act itself. Meaning, a person who feels isolated, and maybe insignificant, decides to take a completely independent action - perhaps partially planned, perhaps not at all, though clearly not entirely thought out - but designed for maximum effect and damage, in the hopes of joining history and validating the feelings of hostility or disappointment they harbor internally. The action may have brewed for quite some time, fantasies emerge that suit the needs of the escapist. My guess would be that both actions arise from similar personal motivation: something must be done and I don't care about myself any more... I will be a hero of some sort, if just for one day...

One is portrayed as a radical optimist (or a cowardly traitor, depending on your particular sensibilities), the other, a deranged sociopath. In both there must also exist a taste for megalomania, fueled by a need for media validation. In both there is a substantial conceit of purpose. Yet each action, though vastly different in result, excites different people's minds in different ways. The ends they each seek are of celebrity or infamy, both announcing their acts in exceedingly different ways. One ex post facto, the other a bit more de facto. Both with the presumption of de jure.

This will bother some of my readers - among the Latins, I am certain of it. But that is why I'm here, and we can't worry about that this morning.


There seems to be a link there, or perhaps a meta-story. As long as the audience is filled with fascination or disgust, admiration or contempt, then the advertisers get their money's worth. The audience gets to choose between drive-thru feeling A, or online-order B, delight or scorn. One set of feelings becomes submerged and entirely private, the other freely shared on Facebook. Those are the main differences I see, in this one regard.

But, what do I know... I used to just watch the news.

Many are demanding a full presidential pardon and certainly it is easy to see why: he has not yet been accused of a crime, nor has he stood trial. It always makes sense in these situations to put legal action before thought and consideration. I mean, this guy was an uneducated, low-level employee of a government contractor who obtained top-secret and embarrassing material and then turned it over to the media. What could be more deserving of a full pardon? Little matter that he may have sold the information and we don't know that yet. He deserves even more money, would say some.

That will anger my readers more than the other. I guess I am trying to thin out my secret society a bit.


There seems to me to be , at least among my peers, an overarching sense of hopelessness in the face of so much corruption. But perhaps that is not so among the younger generation that follows us. They are acting wildly about it. Maybe everything they said about "Generation X" was true, that we were all just lazy and stupid and mean.

Just follow @BretEastonEllis on Twitter.... One of the finest minds of our time, we're told.

In fact, just do anything on Twitter. Like, read the news. You'll see.

But, it all might be true... What if compelling evidence exists to suggest some cogent generational sag between the baby-boomers and the next significant generation, Gen Y... and most of my friends just happened to be born in lazy times, like a bad Chinese proverb, discovered in a sugar cookie. The Freakonomics guys will one day soon determine that stand-alone Pac-Man games contributed to sterility and decay rates among brain cells. That, and Wikileaks.

There really should be a Generation Derless, so it could be shortened to Gen Derless by clever journalists and pundits alike.

Have they even bothered to determine Edward Snowden's inborn sex characteristics yet?

Why don't we ever get to hear the "real story"....?


You heard it here first: Edward Snowden is an albino.

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Pectopah

The weekend moves by more swiftly in another town. It is gone and was only just barely here. 

Yesterday, we went up into the hills, Griffith Park, the observatory. It was after a fantastic lunch at Il Pastaio in Beverly Hills. I had the veal, a thing I have not had in some time. It was delicious, and I ate the tender marrow; a horror to all of my vegetarian friends, a crime to my vegan counterparts, I'm certain. What can I say? I felt bad at first, like a very terrible man, but the bad feeling passed with each delicious bite. Experience extracts its toll.

Then, after the observatory, we searched the handheld internet for a brewery nearby. We found one. A little hipster-ish place called "Golden Road."  We sat on the patio and sipped beers as the day became cooler. By the time that we got home it was already well past my bed time. We watched a recording of the NBA game with San Antonio losing terribly in the second half.

That is an accounting of the day.

The observatory was what you'd expect it to be. It is not every day that you get to observe the sun "live" with the naked eye. One could see the solar flares emerging from the sides, sun spots, all of it, only 8 minutes past. I had been to the observatory once before, years ago, during my "lost weekend" of dj'ing, my dalliance with "the music industry"... I don't remember much of it. I just remember being there, and being high, thinking myself to be quite cool, etc.

LA looks exactly like it's supposed to from up in the hills. There is so much smog that a white glow just hangs over the city, even on the clearest of days. Without a polarizing filter there was no point in trying to photograph any of it, but I tried anyway. The results were what you would expect. Just a blur of hazy light seen from a distance.

Normal people go to bed at a normal hour, I assume. Visiting with others makes me realize how truly off center my sleeping patterns are. We ate dinner after 10pm last night. It felt as if I had been asked to dine in Moscow. I am convinced that I got jet lag from it. 

I awoke this morning at my usual hour and groggily checked my time zone, just to be sure. 

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Urchin

A fresh haircut at Floyd's on the PCH. A bicycle ride to the beach. Oysters, Salmon and good beer at the Fish Bar in Manhattan Beach, watching college baseball. A long ride along the legendary beachfront properties through Hermosa and down to Redondo. Watching the California girls rollerblade and play volleyball and wear flip-flops. More beer. A fresh sea urchin (uni), eaten at the disgust of many old rockers that frequent Naja'a rock and roll bar. A seat at the bar, less sports, more music, more beer. Met up with an old friend, then my buddy's wife arrived. Buffalo style chicken wings, much chat, punctuated by the bombast of cover tunes. They even played Hotel California...

That was our cue to ride home. The sun had begun its retreat.

It started out well. It finished with his wife picking us up in the car. My friend had landed in a bush rounding one corner. It wasn't even really a corner. It was more of a curve. 

Did you see that fucking bush? It came outta' nowhere....

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Fifty shades...

(unpaid porn stars)

What is it about traveling, visiting old friends? Why the required drinking? Or, more specifically: why the required overindulgence? I feel like I got beaten around the ears and eyeballs with a double IPA bottle. There's too much alcohol in those beers. It takes away some of its self-governing properties. You shouldn't be able to get drunk from beer alone. It goes against all that I have learned, all that I know in my heart.

Is that really a word? Overindulgence. It seems like two separate words that have become united through misuse. The computer's not correcting me, as it usually does. It must be A-ok... It took the advent of spell-check on computers for me to realize that most of the words in my head were pure jabberwock. Nonsense. Articles of imagination, shared by few or none.

So, I sit here at my friends' dining room table and let my body metabolize the many, many beers that I consumed yesterday and last night. I am waiting for them to wake up so they can take me to the gym and feed me breakfast.

Repent, repent, repeat.

Traveling is often interesting and vaguely unpleasant. As I get older, people, particularly youths, amaze me with their uncluttered naiveté. It's an occasional charm, for sure. The girls above were sitting at a bar near the boarding gate. I was playing with my camera and we were chatting. They asked me to take a picture of them with the Asian girl's iPhone. I obliged, of course. Then - and only because I had my camera out - I took a picture of them with it, knowing that it would result in a much nicer image, because I would meter and focus on the girl's face who was closest to me. Photographing people with a strong backlight is difficult with a camera phone. It flattens everything, rendering an dull image, one that does not do justice to the actual light in the space. It takes an average reading. I thought that if they asked I would email them a nice picture of them sitting together. They were both very agreeable to my picture taking. Friends.

When done, the girl closest to me said, "Make sure those don't end up on the internet!"

I said, "Oh, I doubt the internet is interested much in that sort of image."

No laughter. No knowing, agreeable smile. Nothing. She just got really silent and seemed to act as if I had said something wrong. Had I? I don't think so. I didn't care if I had, I would be honest with myself about it, and of course, you guys.... but, what did she think I was going to do, jack-off gazing into her eyes? What a creepy young girl she must be, twisted and spiraled into her own self-image and sense of self-worth. 

But then again, aren't we all.

I should have asked her when she planned on plucking her eyebrows next. 

"Your ass is too flat and too wide."

"You and I both wish you were much prettier, don't we?"

There were lots of things I could have said, but I didn't.

Had I unwittingly raped her? I suppose she did suggest a "no" in her sentence. I have, of course. betrayed the sanctity of the moment by posting the image here. If I'm going to be made to feel guilty then I deserve to find a way of deriving some pleasure from the moment, no matter how wrong and perverse that might be, etc.

The world was perhaps a better place when men just jacked-off everywhere like horny, hairless monkeys. I'm sure that women liked us more then, when we were also needed somehow, as something more than just subjects of autotomy. Now that we've collectively agreed that public masturbation isn't a thing we should be doing then there's no going back, is there? Paradise lost, cast from the garden, all that. The whole world is run by an HR firm and everyone is standing around clapping about it as if they were born at a company picnic, commenting on how tasty the deviled eggs are; never staring, never committing even the vaguest infraction. 

Always noticing, never observing; overlooking, with the intent of one day overseeing.

What am I getting at here? 

I'm trying to find a way to tell my boss she has a sexy voice and I really like listening to it, a lot. I want to propose a new calendar concept: The kinky girls of HR....

Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with people, or me, or both? Civility has its limitations, or it should anyway. 

Where am I going with all of this? 

All behavior can be potentially construed as worthy of punishment, or "correction", if you examine with the right kind of eye, looking towards the future. The only way back will be an increasingly unpleasant one. Societies do revert. History is not at all times an unhindered march forward. Not all Progress is progress.

Women used to like men more, I think. Sure, they also hated them and the power dynamic was all wrong. "Mad Men" has taught us that. But our society has lost some of its natural verve, also. The innate boisterousness of men and boys isn't a thing to extinguish, or even punish. It is what makes us who we are, both women and men. In that same way women have a naturally civilizing influence over men. There is meant to be a balance, I think. We each help define one another, at our best it happens naturally. We're currently in a race to see who can complete a neutered society the fastest. It is what women indicated they wanted, right? A sexless society? 

It's as if the giant teacher in the sky told us to get back in our seats and we all just listened, happy to be scolded. 

It's really better this way.

I don't mean that sexual aggression should be encouraged, at all. But neither should sexuality itself be suspect on every possible level, scrutinized in every conceivable way, down to the most minute and potentially misperceived details... If it is a learned behavior then we must crack the code. You have to break a few eggs to make an omelet, right? We don't want women to become too bored with their emerging social power. That could be dangerous. 

No "rulebook" has yet produced a society of interest. It might result in the eventual and complete defeat of manners, but that's all. Yes, yes, unwanted sexual advances are wrong, everybody knows that, right? But what about unwelcome non-sexual advances? Like runaway rules. 

I tried discussing this with a friend recently, relaying briefly an article I had read about a cultural critic, a female, that suggests that we should loosen the rules on sexual behavior in the workplace, that they are stifling the creativity of our culture, one of the very things that makes us strong and vibrant. She looked at me as if I had just offered to sell her into border-town sex slavery, like I was considering trading her off for a camel and a carton of cigarettes, to be tied up in the lobby of a sex dungeon to be had for free, as a rape appetizer. 

I don't even remember the result of the conversation, but the climate of it was clear: I have completely lost my mind. The only assumptions that need to be questioned are mine, or ones that I have read.

Perhaps. To even converse in a manner that suggests alternatives to our current concepts of "progress" puts me in the pro-rape camp again. 

When did we give over our complete trust to "The Rules"?

So, I didn't bother suggesting that I could email the pics to the two girls in the airport. I just ignored them the rest of the time they were there, which I'm certain made them feel increasingly uncomfortable. But what the fuck, right? It's not an image of her sticking a banana in her ass and making her friend eat it, or anything like that. I hadn't even thought of that until just now. 

Man, people have gotten really weird.

Her friend is out of focus, or not in very sharp focus. It is a very bad habit of mine. I try to shoot everything as "wide open" as possible in terms of aperture. f2.0.

At the same bar, next to them, was this young man of 23. I know this because he announced it to the girl he was sitting with, who had just divulged her age as being 21. I couldn't help but listen to their conversation. This is due mainly to the volume of it, not the content. 

He hasn't yet come to terms with the fact that he is gay and he still gets some pleasure from making girls that are "beneath him" in attractiveness become attracted to him. He is practicing for the guy that he will one day soon meet. He didn't say any of this. I intuited it all. The way he was dressed, the veiled flamboyance in his voice, the fabulousness of his stories, the careful way in which he interrupted her and re-directed the conversation back towards himself. All of it. 

He'll be sucking cock by the end of the year, if he isn't already. 

I don't mind, of course, but there was an inherent dishonesty in the way in which he was treating the girl. I could feel it. She thought that she had found an exciting and good looking guy with whom she could talk, and listen. Mostly listen, but that's fine, she found him fascinating, and she felt good about herself, that such a spirited young man found her of sexual interest. 

He was recruiting a future hag. This poor, dear dolt never even knew. 

It was after the flight, at baggage pickup, that I noticed what he was reading: "Fifty shades of grey"... An interesting young man like himself must keep abreast of current literary trends, I suppose. It was not only that he was reading it, but he was carrying in such a way as to announce the fact to anyone that might be interested, swanning it a bit. 

She was heaving her bag along, an over-packed, lumpy duffle of some sort. It swung partway around her as she tried to navigate her way to the parking garage. It would change her course from time to time as gravity suddenly worked against her, and her feet shuffled and stuttered to compensate. He had a cute little black suitcase that rolled behind him daintily, giving him the freedom to flaunt his taste in contemporary authors. He made no offer to help her, which seemed fine with her. 

These are modern times, and they modern people. 

Once, while working at Apple, I walked by the HR office and overheard a gay guy making a joke with another gay guy, and for all the women who worked in the office. It was rude and definitely constituted a violation of workplace conduct. I wish that I would have written the quip down as it is worth repeating, to reflect the severity of it. But trust me, and I am no prude, the joke was well past what would be considered appropriate workplace banter, by their own standards. It had something to do with largeness and the pleasure of penetration. 

I, of course, don't care. But they should, it is part of their purpose for being there, etc.

It was all laughs and giggles in the office. No cause for alarm, at all. You see, it was not a man that made the joke, but rather a roomful of women that allowed it. Women who are paid to monitor and prevent that very behavior. I was tempted to walk into the office and in a completely deadpan voice repeat the joke, word for word, and stare at the female head of HR, then announce that I too am beyond the reach of her silly command, and no longer in need of her "resources." 

I would have gotten fired, eventually. You don't get to get away with challenging the holder of the rulebook. That's almost as dangerous as challenging the rules. 

This new world longs for the epicene.

(Rizzo)

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