Next time, Internet, friends, I will explain how I blame Petrarch for all my troubles.
Michel Simon dans un musée du sexe ?
5 years ago
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Thursday, November 18, 2004
It's a necessity.
'Among human societies the most advanced orgasmically are purported to be the women of Mangaia, a southern Cook Island in central Polynesia. Mangaian females reach orgasm two or three times during intercourse. Upon entering puberty, Mangaian boys go through a series of initiation rites into adulthood. Part of the initiation includes being instructed in methods of stimulating women to maximum sexual pleasure. Indeed, Mangaian women are expected to attain orgasm during intercourse each time; if not, the Mangaian man who fails to please her loses his status in the island's society. The Mangaians, with no semblance of a Puritan heritage, do not consider female sexual pleasure an indulgence. They consider it a necessity.'
Exactly.
I'm having squidginess withdrawal symptoms. They clearly prompt me to read about stuff like Polynesian societies; I suppose it's sublimation of a kind. On top of the lack of squidginess comes the fact that it's the time of year to prepare your hibernation chamber and snuggle up next to a hairy mate. If you're a bear, or an Alpine marmot, that is; if you're human, well you just carry on ignoring nature's cycles and haul your ass out of bed three hours before dawn and drink mixtures of fat sugar and caffeine to prop your eyelids open instead of snuggling. Not that I have anyone to snuggle with in the first place. So better forget about the Necessity of Orgasm and squidginess and snuggling and everything.
Crap I'm bored today. Or cranky. Or hungry. Or dehydrated. I can't always tell the difference. Perhaps it's the November syndrome. Time feels so flat; work for another four weeks, then go through Christmas like it's a meat grinder.
I do have moments of pure exhilaration, though.
Walking fast at night, messing up the neat heaps of dead leaves, enjoying having a body that can move fast through the crisp air. Faster, faster, through the deserted streets on the way home. I do wish I had some snuggling to look forward to, though.
Internet, friends, mom, I've gotta go. I'm having a craving for uncooked puff pastry. If cravings are supposed to be a way for your body to tell you what it's missing, I wonder what that one is supposed to mean. So, puff pastry ; then I might go out for a walk.There are heaps of leaves that need kicking out there.
'Among human societies the most advanced orgasmically are purported to be the women of Mangaia, a southern Cook Island in central Polynesia. Mangaian females reach orgasm two or three times during intercourse. Upon entering puberty, Mangaian boys go through a series of initiation rites into adulthood. Part of the initiation includes being instructed in methods of stimulating women to maximum sexual pleasure. Indeed, Mangaian women are expected to attain orgasm during intercourse each time; if not, the Mangaian man who fails to please her loses his status in the island's society. The Mangaians, with no semblance of a Puritan heritage, do not consider female sexual pleasure an indulgence. They consider it a necessity.'
Exactly.
I'm having squidginess withdrawal symptoms. They clearly prompt me to read about stuff like Polynesian societies; I suppose it's sublimation of a kind. On top of the lack of squidginess comes the fact that it's the time of year to prepare your hibernation chamber and snuggle up next to a hairy mate. If you're a bear, or an Alpine marmot, that is; if you're human, well you just carry on ignoring nature's cycles and haul your ass out of bed three hours before dawn and drink mixtures of fat sugar and caffeine to prop your eyelids open instead of snuggling. Not that I have anyone to snuggle with in the first place. So better forget about the Necessity of Orgasm and squidginess and snuggling and everything.
Crap I'm bored today. Or cranky. Or hungry. Or dehydrated. I can't always tell the difference. Perhaps it's the November syndrome. Time feels so flat; work for another four weeks, then go through Christmas like it's a meat grinder.
I do have moments of pure exhilaration, though.
Walking fast at night, messing up the neat heaps of dead leaves, enjoying having a body that can move fast through the crisp air. Faster, faster, through the deserted streets on the way home. I do wish I had some snuggling to look forward to, though.
Internet, friends, mom, I've gotta go. I'm having a craving for uncooked puff pastry. If cravings are supposed to be a way for your body to tell you what it's missing, I wonder what that one is supposed to mean. So, puff pastry ; then I might go out for a walk.There are heaps of leaves that need kicking out there.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Monday, November 15, 2004
Black and white cinema
'Do you think François Truffaut is in heaven?', asks Melissa.
I patiently explain that since I don't believe in any kind of afterlife, I can't answer that question in a way that she would find satisfactory.
'Yes, but, was he not a good man?' she pursues.
I add, rather pompously, that since I don't hold such a manichean view of humanity, I cannot really answer that question either.
'What does manichean mean?' she asks.
I explain that it means I don't think that people are either bad or good, but both at the same time.
'But don't you think, like, you're a good person?' she asks.
'No, I don't think I'm a good person.' Melissa stares at me with something akin to horror. She probably thinks I have low self-esteem. Low self-esteem is a fashionable concept, she will have heard of that. She's 16.
This person has a friend whose car licence plate reads:
"If you're going to ride my ass...
...you may as well spank me and pull my hair."
She's envious; so am I, and I don't even have a car. I immediately thought of someone perfect for that license plate. she doesn't have a car either, though.
'Do you think François Truffaut is in heaven?', asks Melissa.
I patiently explain that since I don't believe in any kind of afterlife, I can't answer that question in a way that she would find satisfactory.
'Yes, but, was he not a good man?' she pursues.
I add, rather pompously, that since I don't hold such a manichean view of humanity, I cannot really answer that question either.
'What does manichean mean?' she asks.
I explain that it means I don't think that people are either bad or good, but both at the same time.
'But don't you think, like, you're a good person?' she asks.
'No, I don't think I'm a good person.' Melissa stares at me with something akin to horror. She probably thinks I have low self-esteem. Low self-esteem is a fashionable concept, she will have heard of that. She's 16.
This person has a friend whose car licence plate reads:
"If you're going to ride my ass...
...you may as well spank me and pull my hair."
She's envious; so am I, and I don't even have a car. I immediately thought of someone perfect for that license plate. she doesn't have a car either, though.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Scrabble scars
Today, Internet, I would like to vent my loathing of Scrabble.
'Real intellectuals play board games', my grandmother said. 'Play Scrabble with your mother and me', she said. 'It's your chance for another mind-numbing afternoon sipping lukewarm tea and wracking your brain for three-letter words that never get used in any real context til you either want to throw up or bang your forehead against the wall, or both', she did not add. Years and years of Sunday afternoons around a game of Scrabble, out of guilt, or duty. Then she died, and my mother and I swore to never let the horror rule our life ever again.
We considered placing the game in her coffin before the burial but for some silly reason of inappropriateness or something it didn't happen.
Fast forward three or four years to The Scrabble Holidays.
It was meant to be ten enchanted days up in the mountains, just the girlfriend and me. No television, no radio, no phone, no computer; just the two of us in a little mountain chalet, an unbeatable view on the Pyrenees complete with sheep, and a large double bed. We would hike, be at one with the wonder that is Nature, and fall into bed at the end of a long day; and just be together. It rained the whole time, the temperature dropped to below 8° (in August) and the fog was so thick we couldn't even see the sheep. Hiking was reduced to driving down to the village to buy food and extra socks. We could have piled up the blankets on the bed and given ourselves over to languorous sexual activities, right? Wrong. For reasons I won't even go into, fooling around naked under blankets with her very willing and able partner wasn't on her agenda, then or ever; so she demanded that we play Scrabble.
I bought a game of Scrabble. We played Scrabble. For ten days. At first I tried to improve on the rules by making it a bit more creative: for every word we had to make up a saying; but after the first two games it gave her a headache to try and think too hard, so we reverted back to the normal way. Ten days, people of blogland. And no sex.
I still have the game. Internet, friends, readers, it's available entirely for free to a good home. I'll even throw in a bottle of Tippex to customize the points on the letters; my version is the French one, different letters earn different numbers of points. It's yours. Really. Please have it.
The only happy Scrabble memory I have is last summer's, when, at her request, I showed A how infinitely mind-numbing the game was; she'd never played it and wanted to be enlightened. She cheated, I let her cheat, I still won, thinking 'finally! we share the same values -she hates it too- how I love this woman'. Can't trust Scrabble.
Today, Internet, I would like to vent my loathing of Scrabble.
'Real intellectuals play board games', my grandmother said. 'Play Scrabble with your mother and me', she said. 'It's your chance for another mind-numbing afternoon sipping lukewarm tea and wracking your brain for three-letter words that never get used in any real context til you either want to throw up or bang your forehead against the wall, or both', she did not add. Years and years of Sunday afternoons around a game of Scrabble, out of guilt, or duty. Then she died, and my mother and I swore to never let the horror rule our life ever again.
We considered placing the game in her coffin before the burial but for some silly reason of inappropriateness or something it didn't happen.
Fast forward three or four years to The Scrabble Holidays.
It was meant to be ten enchanted days up in the mountains, just the girlfriend and me. No television, no radio, no phone, no computer; just the two of us in a little mountain chalet, an unbeatable view on the Pyrenees complete with sheep, and a large double bed. We would hike, be at one with the wonder that is Nature, and fall into bed at the end of a long day; and just be together. It rained the whole time, the temperature dropped to below 8° (in August) and the fog was so thick we couldn't even see the sheep. Hiking was reduced to driving down to the village to buy food and extra socks. We could have piled up the blankets on the bed and given ourselves over to languorous sexual activities, right? Wrong. For reasons I won't even go into, fooling around naked under blankets with her very willing and able partner wasn't on her agenda, then or ever; so she demanded that we play Scrabble.
I bought a game of Scrabble. We played Scrabble. For ten days. At first I tried to improve on the rules by making it a bit more creative: for every word we had to make up a saying; but after the first two games it gave her a headache to try and think too hard, so we reverted back to the normal way. Ten days, people of blogland. And no sex.
I still have the game. Internet, friends, readers, it's available entirely for free to a good home. I'll even throw in a bottle of Tippex to customize the points on the letters; my version is the French one, different letters earn different numbers of points. It's yours. Really. Please have it.
The only happy Scrabble memory I have is last summer's, when, at her request, I showed A how infinitely mind-numbing the game was; she'd never played it and wanted to be enlightened. She cheated, I let her cheat, I still won, thinking 'finally! we share the same values -she hates it too- how I love this woman'. Can't trust Scrabble.
Comatose Sunday
Soon, to indulge my penchant for writing about very random things, I will tell you, internet, people of blogland, friends, mom, I’ll tell you just why I hate Scrabble. I might also expand on some fascinating dreams I’ve had lately; but now I’m off to eat coq au vin with baby new potatoes followed by caramelised apples in cinammon; to try and cure my hangover.
Soon, to indulge my penchant for writing about very random things, I will tell you, internet, people of blogland, friends, mom, I’ll tell you just why I hate Scrabble. I might also expand on some fascinating dreams I’ve had lately; but now I’m off to eat coq au vin with baby new potatoes followed by caramelised apples in cinammon; to try and cure my hangover.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Art of hospitality
We’re entertaining tonight. The custard and mince surprise is in the oven- the secret is to not boil the lager, but the guest is running late; I hope it’ll still be ok. We have Chablis, but no mineral water – if I were her I wouldn’t stay for a minute, I say. Fingers crossed, J says. When was the last time he had a guest over for dinner? He cleaned his hovel of a room for the occasion. Time to open the wine, I think.
We’re entertaining tonight. The custard and mince surprise is in the oven- the secret is to not boil the lager, but the guest is running late; I hope it’ll still be ok. We have Chablis, but no mineral water – if I were her I wouldn’t stay for a minute, I say. Fingers crossed, J says. When was the last time he had a guest over for dinner? He cleaned his hovel of a room for the occasion. Time to open the wine, I think.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Gonorrhea lectim, then?
The Center for Disease Control has issued a warning about a new virulent strain of sexually transmitted disease. This disease is contracted through dangerous and high risk behavior. The disease is called Gonorrhea Lectim (pronounced "gonna re-elect him").
Many victims have contracted it after having been screwed for the past 4 years, in spite of having taken measures to protect themselves from this especially troublesome disease.
Cognitive sequellae of individuals infected with Gonorrhea Lectim include, but are not limited to:
* Anti-social personality disorder traits:
* delusions of grandeur with a distinct messianic flavor;
* chronic mangling of the English language;
* extreme cognitive dissonance;
• inability to incorporate new information;
* pronounced xenophobia;
* inability to accept responsibility for actions;
* exceptional cowardice masked by acts of misplaced bravado;
* uncontrolled facial smirking;
* ignorance of geography and history;
* tendencies toward creating evangelical theocracies; and
* a strong propensity for categorical, all-or nothing behavior
Shamelessly nicked from this blog
The Center for Disease Control has issued a warning about a new virulent strain of sexually transmitted disease. This disease is contracted through dangerous and high risk behavior. The disease is called Gonorrhea Lectim (pronounced "gonna re-elect him").
Many victims have contracted it after having been screwed for the past 4 years, in spite of having taken measures to protect themselves from this especially troublesome disease.
Cognitive sequellae of individuals infected with Gonorrhea Lectim include, but are not limited to:
* Anti-social personality disorder traits:
* delusions of grandeur with a distinct messianic flavor;
* chronic mangling of the English language;
* extreme cognitive dissonance;
• inability to incorporate new information;
* pronounced xenophobia;
* inability to accept responsibility for actions;
* exceptional cowardice masked by acts of misplaced bravado;
* uncontrolled facial smirking;
* ignorance of geography and history;
* tendencies toward creating evangelical theocracies; and
* a strong propensity for categorical, all-or nothing behavior
Shamelessly nicked from this blog
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