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Musing: Ever notice that 12 seems to be the default age when one rhetorically asks someone how old they are after that someone has done or said something immature: “What, are you twelve?”

Hm. Yeah. Though I can pre-come a lot while not needing to be so hard, to climax I do. Go figure.

Speaking of hardness, or lack thereof: I’ve noticed quite a lot, and this is anecdotal, of course: Older men don’t seem to need to be fully-erect to achieve orgasm. I’ve taken many a guy to climax who neither appears nor feels to be sometimes even 70% hard. I however am completely firm when I come. I don’t know if I NEED to be so, but I always am when I do, so maybe. ?

Thought about adding this to the “abusive parent” thread to inject a bit of levity, but I thought that maybe it would be a skosh unbecoming:

And incidentally, you can now actually have breakfast at Tiffany and Co., for they have opened their Blue Box Café. Cheers to $29 avocado toast.

“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.” said by Philip Seymour Hoffman in Almost Famous

I rather thought that this was pretty abysmal acting on her part until I saw the comments that indicated that it’s comedic.

“How to Tell a True War Story” (1990) by Tim O’Brien This is true. I had a buddy in Vietnam. His name was Bob Kiley but everybody called him Rat. A friend of his gets killed, so about a week later Rat sits down and writes a letter to the guy’s sister. Rat tells her what a great brother she had, how strack the guy was, a number one pal and comrade. A real soldier’s soldier, Rat says. Then he tells a few stories to make the point, how her brother would always volunteer for stuff nobody else would volunteer for in a million years, dangerous stuff, like doing recon or going out on these really badass night patrols. Stainless steel balls, Rat tells her. The guy was a little crazy, for sure, but crazy in a good way, a real daredevil, because he liked the challenge of it, he liked testing himself, just man against gook. A great, great guy, Rat says. Anyway, it’s a terrific letter, very personal and touching. Rat almost bawls writing it. He gets all teary telling about the good times they had together, how her brother made the war seem almost fun, always raising hell and lighting up villes and bringing smoke to bear every which way. A great sense of humor, too. Like the time at this river when he went fishing with a whole damn crate of hand grenades. Probably the funniest thing in world history, Rat says, all that gore, about twenty zillion dead gook fish. Her brother, he had the right attitude. He knew how to have a good time. On Halloween, this real hot spooky night, the dude paints up his body all different colors and puts on this weird mask and goes out on ambush almost stark naked, just boots and balls and an M-16. A tremendous human being, Rat says. Pretty nutso sometimes, but you could trust him with your life. And then the letter gets very sad and serious. Rat pours his heart out. He says he loved the guy. He says the guy was his best friend in the world. They were like soul mates, he says, like twins or something, they had a whole lot in common. He tells the guy’s sister he’ll look her up when the war’s over. So what happens? Rat mails the letter. He waits two months. The dumb cooze never writes back. A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things they have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. Listen to Rat Kiley. Cooze, he says. He does not say bitch. He certainly does not say woman, or girl, He says cooze. Then he spits and stares. He’s nineteen years old—it’s too much for him—so he looks at you with those big gentle, killer eyes and says cooze, because his friend is dead, and because it’s so incredibly sad and true: she never wrote back. You can tell a true war story if it embarrasses you. If you don’t care for obscenity, you don’t care for the truth; if you don’t care for the truth, watch how you vote. Send guys to war, they come home talking dirty. Listen to Rat: “Jesus Christ, man, I write this beautiful fucking letter, I slave over it, and what happens? The dumb cooze never writes back.”

Just finished watching The Philadelphia Story. Weird ending.

Speaking of new life: A (straight, if it matters) friend of mine, visiting from London and struggling to make it in the States, once considered donating sperm for cash. I was like “are you sure” and he was like “why not, that’s what I’m supposed to do, spread my seed” I suppose that’s right from an evolutionary-biological/Darwinian perspective, but I’ve always thought I would never want offspring out there of whom I don’t know the existence.

All I see is “tequila”

sending you forget-me-nots to help me to remember Baby please forget me not I want you to remember

Touché. I wonder to what extent (if any) “Pics Verified” affects one’s business.

Yes, Latin versus the English language can also engender some contentiousness among people when pluralizing words, for example, and Greek can come into play, too. An instance of this is the word “octopus.” Should the plural be octopuses (English), octopi (Latin, as plural Latin words end with “i”), or octopodes (Greek, because after all, the word “octopus” is of Greek origin)? But I love the English language, warts (read: imprecision) and all.

I’ve been meaning to read Death in Venice for ages. Thanks for the reminder.

An apocryphal anecdote holds that Winston Churchill had an editor who corrected one of his sentences because he deemed it grammatically incorrect — and Churchill wasn’t having it. He said sardonically, “This is insubordination up with which I shall not put!” Personally, ending sentences with prepositions is something I will not be a part of.

Apparently the scene was difficult to film because of Hepburn’s aversion to Danish pastry. Lore has it that she objected and wished to lick an ice cream cone instead.

At least not on their necks.

I’ll give you three because I’m “gen”: 1) it’s said in a movie whose opening scene is a slim woman in a little black dress eating pastry and window-shopping, 2) the two main characters in the film are essentially escorts, and 3) the film contains a controversial, stereotypically-Asian character played by a very famous actor who was white, which only compounded the controversy.

Probably, but I’d venture that professional academics are typically more stodgy and not as socially-capable as those in most other professions. Side note: This reminds me of the concepts of introversion and extraversion. Carl Jung popularized these terms, but “extroversion” is the more widely-used spelling today, owing to one Phyllis Blanchard, a psychologist, misspelling it, which led to its greater use. Carl Jung vainly objected to this. “Intro” means “inside” and “extra” means “outside.” Jung thus considered “extroversion” to be “bad Latin.”

Some trainers feel the prevailing methods of reeling in clients and retaining them are unethical. My erstwhile trainer who too worked for a commercial chain had a hard time reconciling his principles with certain business tactics, and lamented that most of his colleagues had no such compunction. He quit and enlisted for the army (first having had to undergo laser treatments to remove the tattoo of his mother’s name on his neck, since they didn’t allow it). Incidentally, we got on famously even though he fit the ideal type (see: Max Weber) of someone who isn’t particularly known for embracing differences: a bro-ish personal trainer living in one of the more conservative areas of San Diego, has a former-cop father, not hesitant to try to physically fight someone if they cut off his motorcycle, and is a vehement Trump supporter. The only aspect to him that perhaps belies all this is that he is a vegan.

Had to look up. Here, in turn, is a (film) challenge for you: I love you. So what. So what? So plenty! I love you! You belong to me! No. People don't belong to people. Of course they do! I'll never let anybody put me in a cage. I don't want to put you in a cage. I want to love you! It's the same thing!

Had to look her up and discovered her erstwhile LGBT stances. Thanks.