Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Time was, long ago in the days of my youth, and even into my young manhood,

When there was neither coffee nor wine in the whole state of Washington worth mentioning.  You had to go almost to Chicago in one direction, or to San Francisco in the other direction, to get a good cup of coffee--and wine was pretty much out of the question.  Then of course, in the 1980's, Starbucks happened, and then wine, first child-like, delicious Rieslings, then reds, in the 1990's and 2000's, of French-like complexity and subtlety (compared to the robust, Italianate red wines of California).

And so, a couple of days ago, doing my monthly shopping at the Honolulu Safeway, I found a bottle of Washington state Merlot for a reasonable twelve dollars:  a little cloudy, but far from insipid, with a softness of tannins and a violaceous redolence of cherries, blackberries and tobacco that perfectly complements red meats.  Times have indeed changed.

Friday, May 12, 2017

Live and Learn

My computer being restored to me after nearly a week's dismal death, I've been watching the much-anticipated first episode of the second season of Sense8, in which for a very schocking surprise our two most comely male Latin principals are exhibited in a photograph on the Internet and on the movie screen of a college classroom butt-fucking.  The professor (one of the fuck-buddies exhibited) asked a surly male member of his class what he saw in the photograph, and was answered "shit-packing porn."  To which he said, in all his Latin beauty and simplicity, "Well, I see two guys who love one another making love.  And I see art.  For Art is nothing other than making private love public."  Jeez, how times have changed.  

Or maybe not so much.  While my computer's been down, I've been reading The Little Flowers of il Messer Santo Francesco, in the original old Umbrian dialect like I like to do when Modernity and its Devices fail me--reading this morning where san Francesco orders frate Ruffino, "the noblest man of his town," and a cousin of sta. Chiara, to go into the cathedral in the city and "strip naked as the day you were born, and climb up into the pulpit, and preach to the people whatever the Lord inspires you to preach."  And then, repenting of what he'd just ordered this noblest of men (and how good-looking we can only imagine) to do, Saint Francis follows him into the church, and takes off his clothes, and mounts the pulpit beside Brother Rufino--the sight of all of which male nakedness causes "the men and boys" to snicker and and say rude things--until they all, both men and women, are overcome by the sweetness and power of Saint Francis's preaching.  Then the two saintly men put their clothes back on and walk back to the Portiuncula.  What I wouldn't have given to see that noble cousin of St. Clair's cock!

Sunday, April 30, 2017

An Open Letter to Talal Itani

Thank you, Reverend Sage, for the purity and clarity of your English translation of the Holy Quran. I feel on reading it that your remarkable and worthy Faith has, for the first time that I am aware of, been given  a deservedly comprehensible and intellectually and stylistically respectable presence in my native language.  This, no doubt, is how the Quran should sound in English.

Not, alas, of course, that I am persuaded by it, but that I am assured that at last I understand Islam via its Sacred Scriptures.  Do the faithful never shudder a bit at the insistence straight through from the very beginning of the Quran on "Belief in the way that others believe"--nor feel, with disquiet, that such insistence is the very essence of duplicity and charlatanry?  

Friday, April 28, 2017

Dunno what I'm doing right...

Just watched the latest episode of Supernatural ("Lucifer's and Kelly's Baby")--which I tried and failed to watch last night on my computer--all the way through, with sound and subtitles and no commercials.  Delightful.  Morally Sane.

Just read, in Wikipedia, the true story of Emmanuel Macron and Brigitte Trogneux--

How they met when she was his 39 year old drama teacher and he was just 15.  They're married now, but somehow the queasy-making nastiness lingers on.  Not the utter, disqualifying financial venality of Mme. Le Pen's other opponents (and their families), but still gag-a-maggot creepy as a forest leech.  This is not mattering in la douce France where a taste for anal sex is considered perfectly normal (as, of course, it is), but his being booed by workers who earlier in the day had cheered Marine does (matter--and gives hope).  Like the French, I don't really care (nor give a fuck) whom M. Macron fucks--what disquiets me is that his eyes are slightly too small for his otherwise rather pretty face.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Does the Deep State/Establishment/Powers-thar-Are Exist? Does it--whatever it may be--recognize its own Existence?

One knows that it was the entity which raised Hillary Clinton to eminence, from whom she derived her limitless campaign funds, and which, if any existent entity did, suffered Angst and Nightmares and Bitterly Humiliating Defeat in her Loss to the absurd, unmeaning  buffoon and (likely) Alzheimer's victim Donald Trump.  Now again, in the French presidential elections--in the hysterical attempts to denigrate Marine Le Pen, and in the fatuous attempt to make presidential material of the characterless, insipid, virtually amorphous Emmanuel Macron, that the Deep State seems ready almost to materialize.  Gone are the days when, in a Nixon and his evil strategist Kissinger, the utter corruption and villainous wickedness of Supreme Power had human and open (if butt ugly) faces.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

The chief problem with welcoming Sissies, Trannies and Lesbians to the Feast of (Male) Gay Liberation is

That any normal (i.e. masculine), self-respecting gay man hates--loathes viscerally--the very idea of having sex with any of them as much as he does the idea even of having sex with actual girls (creatures with actual vaginas).  In fact (for such we are commonly made by God or Nature, as you will), effeminacy is ordinarily as repugnant to us real, macho gays as real femininity--and we fucking resent being told that this, our most essential negative characteristic, is a species of captious bigotry.  Too bad if it's your vagina (or feminine nature, or effeminate pose) that we nauseate and shudder at. We are not, in sum, as much what we despise and abominate, as we are what we love and worship. And we have the inalienable right to despise and abominate what we damn please, as much as we have the right to love and worship almighty cock.

Saturday, April 22, 2017

But seriously, having arrived at the usual approximate term of human existence, the ridiculously old age of 74 and a half years,

I have to say that my two main revolutionary objectives in this life, the legalization of marijuana and the normalization of male homosexuality have been perfectly and thoroughly realized.  There's more to do:  One senses that the fundamental understanding that it is an unacceptable infringement of human liberty to prohibit any human being from ingesting any drug he wants (including, in the appropriate circumstance, a lethal one) is now not quite, but about to drop, like a ripe fruit from the Tree of Wisdom and permeate the consciousness of mankind as naturally and obviously and easily as people now believe that there is no divine right of kings.