WEDNESDAY morning update:
“YOU are the fucking problem with society,” declares a ThoughtCatalog commenter calling themselves “Fuck.”
The comments there are mostly positive, however, much to my surprise.
Confessions of a Failed Slut continues to rank in the Top %1 at the Kindle Paid Store.
If you liked it (or if you didn’t), you can write an Amazon review.
There’s planning and “being prepared,” and then there’s just plain stupid…
I have to report mixed results. Sure, it’s healthier to be mostly standing. If you’re not used to it, though, it’s a bitch on your knees and calf muscles. Allow for a period—at my age (the largest even number that can’t be expressed as the sum of two nonprime odd numbers in two or more ways) it’s about a month—of getting used to the darn thing.
And face it: You’re never going to catch the zeitgeist. Just as I was congratulating myself on having caught up with all the bright young kids, I started reading news stories about treadmill desks. I give up.
My column on BoyfriendTwins hits the 100 comment mark.
I’m still working on it…
Like a lot of film noir leads, William Holden’s Joe Gillis begins Sunset Boulevard rather down on his luck, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of putting together decent outfit. It’s enduring proof, perhaps, that the definition of “schlubby” has come a long way since the 1950s, when walking around town in a buttoned-up dress shirt and light blazer would have apparently been a sign of prevailing misfortune rather than taste. Would that we all could dress so sloppily.
Incidentally, Esquire is correct:
People think James Dean popularized the leather jacket in Nicholas Ray’s Rebel Without a Cause, when in fact he wore a far less iconic red windbreaker in that film.
The leather-jacketed young man actually predated even The Wild One (1953); the original was Farley Granger, in another Ray film, They Live By Night (1948).
Of course I did, but not this chick, who goes on:
So what better way to get people to stop crapping in public than with a fun, cutesy music video [produced by UNICEF] with a catchy song? That’s the ticket!
In the video, called “Poo Party,” a bunch of people are haunted by errant turds with flies disgustingly swarming everywhere, until they finally build a gigantic potty that all of the poops are lured into — effectively clearing India’s public spaces of human fecal matter.
On the other hand, TCM does an extraordinary job of connecting the past to the present. Take that showing tonight of The Remains of the Day. It’s followed by a couple of movies from 1935 and 1936, If You Could Only Cook and My Man Godfrey, respectively, that explore the themes of upstairs/downstairs class structures in a much more lighthearted way from another time, though actually taking place at about the same point in history as the story in The Remains of the Day.
At the end of his post on the first anniversary of the Boston Marathon bombing, Mark Steyn writes:
Like the photographs of Mrs. Tsarnaeva then and now, these are stories of dis-assimilation, of secularized Easterners who in the vacuum of Western multiculturalism search for identity and find a one-stop shop in Islamic imperialism.
Either that, or it’s the local gym. Like Lors and Tamerlan, the Aussie sheikh and the Canuck terrorist were boxers.
For African-Americans, boxing used to be the way out of the ghetto. For Western Muslims, boxing is apparently the way out of Cambridge, Mass. — and straight into jihad.
Earlier this morning, a loyal 5FF reader sent me this link; his subject line was “why is it that some terrorists look like younger versions of Justin [Trudeau]?”
Frankly, I don’t see the resemblance in the link above.
But that Boston bomber that Rolling Stone put on the cover is another matter.
For several weeks, she was blindfolded, confined to a smelly closet, tormented, periodically raped, and subjected to a coarse Maoist style program of indoctrination and re-education. (…)
The leader Donald “Cinque” DeFreeze and the others propagandized and interrogated her constantly, explaining that “Amerikkka” was a racist and evil society, repeatedly calling her a privileged “bourgeoise bitch” and her father a “pig” of the “corporate fascist state.”
Leading Ed Driscoll to quip:
So pretty much like life at the average elite university…
This guy’s name is Kat Callahan and he’s memorized all the crazy terms these people use like cis scum and bio female. They seem to have it all figured out until this “respected” rapist came along and fucked up the whole system. If he has a vagina, what did he do to this chick, scissor her to death? I know we’re not allowed to ask questions but this is apparently rape. That’s kind of a big deal.
The Leveson Inquiry declaration of support signed by all those London luvvies like Emma Thompson, Tom Stoppard, Maggie Smith, Bob Geldof and Ian McKellen is the stage that comes after that House of Commons Science and Technology Committee — when the most creative spirits in our society all suddenly say: ‘Ooh, yes, please, state regulation, bring it on!’
Presented with a script that contained three ‘fucks’ and an explicit reference to anal sex, he’d inform the producer that he would be permitted two ‘crikeys’ and a hint of heavy petting.
In 1968, he lost his censorship powers, and the previously banned Hair, of all anodyne trifles, could finally be seen on the London stage: this is the dawning of the age of Aquarius.
Only four and a half decades after the censor’s departure, British liberals are panting for the reimposition of censorship under a new ‘Royal Charter’.
This is the aging of the dawn of Aquarius: new blasphemy laws for progressive pieties.
Or…. is it…?
My series at PJMedia continues, with some seemingly contradictory, even counterintuitive advice…