Religion, Sex & Politics

Etiquette determines that in polite company one avoid talk of religion, sex and politics.

How one is supposed to have an enlightened and lively conversation without one or more of these topics escapes me. Art, I guess would be one alternative. Sports if you're so inclined. Books if anyone read them.

Forget the etiquette and dig in, I say, because the verboten triumverate always get someone's blood up, which leads to disagreement, which begets a real conversation where people actually defend what they believe. Which is why you should introduce these topics early into your dating.

I had a conversation with a woman friend this weekend, the main point of which was why a four-date dater had dumped her. She claimed it was over his embarrassment at farting in front of her, but that didn't ring true to me. Delving a little deeper, the focus sharpened; they were politically polar opposites. My friend is a socialist, her date a capitalist. Sorry, but that just won't work.

My analogy was this: if you're looking towards building some kind of house together, you need to share construction of the foundation. Two different foundations that aren't linked create two houses. Yes, they might be proximate, but that's friendship or companionship, not a marriage or proxy thereof. Sharing solid - if abstract - understanding of how the universe works, what's right and wrong, and through what prism to view life is critical to creating a stable union.

Exceptions exist, of course. My friend invoked James Carville and Mary Matalin, but I pointed out that

1. this is a very high profile example of precisely one (1) couple, and

2. they are joined more by being part of the media religion than their differences separate them.

In general, I suggest that the easiest path to a happy future is to find someone who shares your meta beliefs - or be prepared to live in a hurricane at least part of the time.



Bottoms Up, True Believers.

Would You Let Your Sister Date Donald Trump?

Muriel Baumeister.

Passing West Palm Beach airport during the week, I spied The Trumpster's Boeing 757 sitting proud amongst all the other fancy-pants jets. Trump is there quite often, given that he owns Mar-A-Lago, an historic pile on frou-frou Palm Beach.

Trump's famous not only for his property empire, but also for regularly renovating his love-life. His pathology is to consistently upgrade wives when their time is up. It's a rich-guy thing, I guess. Why stick with someone when there's a mezzanine floor full of willing totty a few floors down the private elevator from one's penthouse?

Giving in to the temptation of a perkier model doesn't make Trump a bad man. But it doesn't make him a good one, either. This is what used to be known - quaintly - as "the character question". A man's character doesn't interest modern culture that much any more. Bulk media prefer narcissism and self-expression to doing the right thing and selflessness. Unfortunately, where television dwells, so go the people. Mostly, anyway.

I don't have a sister, but if I did, I'd want her dating and marrying men of character. I'd hope she'd want to, too.

Bottoms Up, Gulfstream Owners.

Don't Stop the Dance

Zoe Saldana photo credit. 

Nineteen eighty-five just might represent the apogee of the music video. Weak, qualified statements don't make for good arguments, however, so I'll take a deep breath and say it: The Eighties were the Golden Age of Music Video.

There. Solidity. Definition.

I've taken to asking people what one tune they can point to that categorically changed their lives. Music's a universal, so I figure that it's a useful common denominator that written or spoken language isn't. Others, strangers, musicians, express what we feel better than ourselves.

And although this isn't my all-time-change-tune, it's from 1985. The Golden Age. Let's not change the dance, eh?




Bottoms Up, Looking Back In Wisdomers.

Information Age with Larry Flynt

Image credit.

Larry Flynt. I heard part of a Larry interview on BBC radio, an unlikely combination if ever.

The topic was along the lines of the social value of pornography, another unlikely combination.

Questions about (and to) porn stars and their problems with STDs featured along with Larry, a critical mistake by the man from the Beeb. When did porn promoters like Mr Flynt concern themselves porn feedstock's medical issues? Frankly, the Limey's line made him sound like an effete wanker, and Larry effortlessly took him apart at each turn.

Oh, that's right. I have a point. When Mr Elite Reporter asked Mr Flynt about the redemptive value of porn, he replied in the following way: (I'm paraphrasing.)

Sex is the most primal and most direct way by which we communicate with each other. It also happens to be the means of communication we least understand and talk about the least.




Bottoms Up, Communicators.

Menage a Snooze

A certain animus towards Hugh Hefner wafts around the place, which is appropriate because he smells like stinky old person. He smells like old person because he is old person, wearing that funky fragrance like it's Old Spice.

The problem with Playboy's playboy-in-chief is his lost relevance. The niche he fills is that of the delusional male baby-boomer, an admittedly large demographic but one with vanishingly small future attraction. The days of women needing media-savvy pimps and a nude portfolio to kick-start their careers are over, although a distressingly large number of babes have yet to get the news. Hello internet, hello digital photography, hello do-it-yourself pimping.

I have a small sneaking admiration for Hugh. His redeeming quality is the ability to raise the ire of the Permanently Outraged. That gormless smile and the ridiculous three-girlfriends-at-a-time lifestyle are a parody of what he used to be - a fact that escapes only those who take it seriously.

And given what I've seen of his taste in chicks, Hugh and regular guys really have nothing in common. Those dopey blonde bimbos Hef likes are so far removed from the kind of sexy captivating non-perfect women I like as to be out of sight. Hugh's a fossil, and that's his only value.



Bottoms Up, Bikini-ed Babes!





Pic of Heidi from Playboy.

Pull Yourself to Bits

How refreshing to see male masturbation out in the open. Not completely out in the open, you understand, but on the teev. And not for reals, more acted out than naturalistic. From the waist up. Actually, it was more a hint than anything else. Still, for an act so popular and so little discussed it was a decent start.

Saturday night Mr Nights and I were watching Californication, Season One. I don't watch television, indeed don't even own one, so it was a treat to see so many naked women, gorgeous breasts and rampant shagging on the box. Where has this show been hiding? It's like twenty-seven minutes of guy fantasy/Penthouse letters acted by beautiful and sometimes teenaged women.

Episode Two, I think it was, showed a secondary character (a man) discovering naughty photographs of his sexetary on the internet. He does what every bloke with a pulse would do, to wit: grab his schlong and manipulate it to erection and orgasm. We don't see any of this, of course. The shot (camera shot) is of him behind a desk, head and torso only. Masturbation is implied.


Sidebar: Odd, to my mind, that all kinds of m/f congress is shown in this show, but the penis is evidently not yet ready for prime-time. Double standard, no? End sidebar.


My quibble about this male jerk-off scene is that it looked too much like the Meg Ryan orgasm scene from When Harry met Sally. Frankly, I thought her rendition was a little actorly, but Evan Handler's rendition of the male O in Californication was quite over the top. For a start he was too vocal. Masturbating men will tell you that it's all about what's going on in your brain, and the link between the physical manipulation and one's imagination. It's a silent, internal thing. Also, he lasted only about fifteen seconds, which is totally not the point. The idea of wanking is to prolong those endorphin-fuelled feelings for as long as possible; orgasm is just the icing on the cake.

Maybe a grunt or two at the crowning glory stage is normal, but all that gasping for breathe and "Oh God" shit is pure chick. (Although when one is having sex with a woman, it's natural to up the verbal communication factor. Natural and automatic, I submit.)

Which gives me an idea. I wonder if it wouldn't be smart for couples, early on in the relationship, to watch each other get themselves off. In fact, I'd go further and say the earlier, the better. It would save a lot of time finding out what the other person likes. First date masturbating? That might be taking it too far, but at least it's creative.



Bottoms Up, Self-Pleasurers!



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