Ah, alright. Fair play. That makes sense then. I got you.

I'm 53 and don't mind a quick glance at young bums. They are nice.

young bums? young buns? young bums' buns?

A bum is a bootie. A derriere. A behind.

I'm so not a butt / chest person. All about the face for me. It's what I have to look at all the time.

there are other positions besides missionary

Standard, lacked creativity or personal touch.

Rumor has it Dominic made a few video tutorials on this subject, so I'll take his word on it and give him a B minus.

From: Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino

When you have forded the river, when you have crossed the mountain pass, you suddenly find before you the city of Moriana, its alabaster gates transparent in the sunlight, its coal columns supporting pediments encrusted with serpentine, its villas all of glass like aquariums where the shadows of dancing girls with silvery scales swim beneath the medusa-shaped chandeliers. If this is not your first journey, you already know that cities like this have an obverse: you have only to walk in a semicircle and you will come into view of Moriana’s hidden face, an expanse of rusting sheet metal, sackcloth, planks bristling with spikes, pipes black with soot, piles of tins, blind walls with fading signs, frames of staved-in straw chairs, ropes good only for hanging oneself from a rotten beam.
______________________

Have a wonderful weekend...Loungers

I wrote a short story and I think it's fairly good. Yeah, I know. But even if it sucks, is there somewhere I can publish this? I don't have any delusions of making money on it but maybe there is some place to put it "out there"?

You might want to look at something like this. http://www.writing.com/?rfrc=inkspot.com

I've had poetry published using a similar site.

Dylan sold out. Unlike Jean-Paul Sartre.

https://www.theguardian.com/music/20...-five-day-wait

https://wordpress.com/

Cost nothing!

e-book on amazon.

I caught Zeno three days ago. Two 63 year olds who still haven't grown up.

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

-- As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7

I'm with you on this one.

Sometimes if I am hosting a home game that is spiraling out of control, I'll threaten the table with a group hug if they don't calm down and get a grip. It works every time.

The biggest thing I miss by being retired is having female coworkers -- thus I no longer have access to the best and most exquisitely vile dirty jokes. I long for the days when I worked for a public school district. It was just loaded with women.

......and with no plans to ever do so............

From Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino (last paragraph in work [Happy Birthday, John)



And Polo [Marco] said: “The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the mist of the inferno, are not inferno, then make then endure, give them space.

Note on quote above:

*Translated from the original Italian, the last word space should, I think, be opportunity; not space. Space being absconded by the 60’s -70’s generation into a bunk word.

I was beat about the head and shoulders in SMP (posted the same quote) for a typo and the perverted use of the word absconded.

Being not quite the grown up I'm supposed to be, I want to be the first to acknowledge my vast deficiencies in regards to the English language, basic grammar, and the Iron Hammer of definitions.

But no apology will be proffered. But all are free to track me down and try to hang me.

I love the quote, Zeno.

Your usage is entirely correct. Absconded is defined very strictly as what the Beagle Boys did with Scrooge McDuck's money. They left quickly and secretly with it. They also stole it. As was space stolen by the 60's-70's generation.

Also, anybody who reads Calvino can pretty much do with the language what they will.

Now for a question: If on a winter's night a traveler...