George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
The things you lean on / are things that don't last
User ID: 107
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
4mo ago
What are your Christmas Eve plans? Obviously not everyone here celebrates Christmas, but I live in land of fake Christmas where the busiest shop on Christmas eve is KFC and Colonel Sanders is dressed as Santa, tonight is the only important part of the season and that only because it's when families eat Christmas Cake and young people have romantic dates.
As a dad of two, I of course made spaghetti and a couple of homemade pizzas. Tomorrow on the 25th I will be making chicken with cornbread dressing and, yes, greenbean casserole. It is what it is. My redneck background is never far. Also I am going to try out an eggnog recipe. and enjoy a few days off.
So what are we doing, Mottizens? Regardless I hope all have a pleasant holidays.
Edit:
In the days leading up to now, I have watched, with my sons, the first two Home Alone movies, Die Hard, as well as the best version of the Dickens story out there IMO, the 1970 Albert Finney Scrooge.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
1mo ago
I don't get the fascination with her. At all.
The white woman/black man "pairing" as you put it is not, as far as I am aware, a particularly new concept, though you may be correct in suggesting it has not long been mainstream in terms of characters in film (or games, or whatever, though I am out of my element there.)* In other words, while I do not deny that there may be propagandistic moves made by popular media in the service of progressive goals, and that often these moves are ham-fisted and disrupt story narrative, this does not seem like such an example to me. I agree with @Gillitrut in this regard, unsure where the propaganda angle is, unless seeing such an interracial coupling itself is jarring to you. (Again, based on my ignorance of this and pretty much all games I can't speak to how odd it is in that context.)
*Edit: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner was released in 1967 and was presumably a shocker then.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
2mo ago
In anticipation of the what are we reading thread: What are we reading?
I have just finished the 2-book story by Daniel Suarez, Daemon and Freedom tm, which are not at all my usual genre but were given to me by a friend. I found them very fast and interesting reads on my commute. They're neither of them newly published, but has anyone read them?
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
9mo ago
Is there a music sharing thread? Probably not, and I get it, people have varying musical tastes. Anyway I am throwing this out there:
https://youtube.com/watch?v=5x-u7iw7W1Y
The faux-ballet is called "Ma Mere L'Oye" and was composed by Ravel, and this is called Le Jardin Feerique which translates, alas, as "The Fairy Garden." A more fey title does not exist. Yet I love this part, and this iteration, in particular, though you can find others on Youtube. Enjoy. Or don't, of course.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
9mo ago
Today on the morning train nothing of import happened. This is not unusual. I should say nothing happened that would make me want to write a haiku, or villanelle, or sestina, or whatever. It was a usual day. The usual day is as follows:
Wake: 4 a.m. Yes, 4 a.m. This is 5 days a week. You get used to it, even at my age. Do the usual hygiene things. Suit or whatever has been laid out by me the night previously, so insert myself into whatever getup I imagined.
Walk: To the train. I used to bicycle, but my bicycle of ten years eventually turned into a pile of moving junk and was a deathtrap with capricious gears and dubious brakes, so when the recycle truck guy came by chanting his chant for computers, bicycles, old fridges, I flagged him down, scraped off my ID sticker, and threw my bike in the back of his truck. Now I walk. This only sucks if it is raining. The walk at that hour is dark as a motherfuck in the winter, but this time of year is almost bright, and I find my best clear thinking happens at this time. All the rebuttals I might have made. all the best arguments I might make, every clear thought and esprit d'escalier I might have had in the previous week or day or two crystallizes at this time, on this walk. I see no one and say nothing and walk the whole length in silence. Sometimes I quietly sing Billy Joel's My Life and think of the proper piano chords I might play and that will get me a third of the way.
Arrive: At the station around 4:45. Yeah I get ready fast. It takes about 20 minutes to walk. Train leaves at 5:03. On the train is a bald construction worker guy who is always on the platform with me. He always squats on the platform, and plays apparently some inane mobile game on his phone--I heard the wakawaka sound this morning as he was playing it. One asshole old man who wears a bucket hat and button-down shirts with a suit. One woman with long, perfect legs down the end whose face I have never seen but who looks vaguely, from a distance, like a Japanese Ingrid Bergman to my Humphrey Bogart. I'll never speak to her. I love my wife, after all.
Ride: The train. The first of three. The first is the longest, a local, lasts around 40-ish minutes. I typically read a book, browse The Motte (TM), or do something like DuoLingo so I don't lose my place in the Diamond League.
Ride again: The next train This one is more of a subway and lasts about 10 minutes. For some reason this one is always overly cold. In the afternoon on the return version of this same commute you can sometimes see the prostitutes from Tobita shinchi heading home. That's a whole other post.
Eat: I have a coffee, usually from the McDonald's. Sometimes there is an old woman there who reminds me of Bathilda Bagshot from the Harry Potter movies--if you don't know what that means I guess you don't have kids the age of my sons, which is fine. Bathilda Bagshot in the films is actually a serpent, and there is a scene where she transmogrifies into said serpent (we later learn its name is Nagini, and even later learn this serpent is actually not Bathilda nor a serpent but originally a fairly hot Asian woman). Anyway that scene where the old woman reverts into a giant Anaconda-like magic snake thing is disturbing as hell, as far as disturbing CGI snake images in fantasy films go--and this woman at the McDonald's, I am not saying she is a magic evil snake Horcrux, but if somehow it turned out that she were let me say I would not be surprised, not in the slightest. Her voice is too deep. She possesses a dark look in her eyes; her irises and pupils are the same oily black. Not cool, is what I'm saying. Her sclera appears to be dun-colored. Something seems really really wrong. It's probably in my head.
Ride again: The final train. This train arrives 6:21. On it one finds those youthful souls returning from nights out. Girls in immodest dress, once two guys in tightish jeans holding hands as they slept on the bench with their mouths lolling open. Once a girl with raven hair and sneakers, looking like what I would imagine a girl who had spent some time in LA might look, lay half fallen over on the bench, drowsing off a drunk or a really good time, and whatever Bluetooth or other technical function allowed her Iphone to play music out of something besides its speakers had come undone, and her phone lay splat on the floor blurting out Hip Hop. Big no-no here.
Ever the hero, I walked over and sat beside her, knowing enough that I couldn't touch her even to wake her. I nevertheless tried to accomplish this by speaking to her with authority, lowering my voice intentionally, but keeping a kind tone. They say if you hear your own name when you are asleep you will wake--this is probably bullshit. Nevertheless I tried Yuki, and Misato, and Moe and similar, but nothing worked. She kept sleeping, her phone kept blatting out its insufferable American hiphop.
Eventually I get to my final stop and ride the bus to work, which as it happens is a hospital. There is a a cardiologist who rides the same bus as I do, but I never speak to him and he never speaks to me. I think we both realize that if we ever did speak we would have to then speak every day for eternity, and who wants that? Or maybe I'm just a rude shit.
This started out with me imagining it would be more interesting than it actually is. If you got this far, thank you. Happy Friday, all. I really enjoy this place, as crazy as some of you drive me with your bullshit.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
1mo ago
I don't have daughters and always wanted one but sometimes imagine this kind of thing and wonder how I'd react. Not well, I'd imagine.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
10mo ago
As a resident and homeowner in Japan one of the small aspects of daily life I miss most are yards. In which I might play with my sons, or keep my dog if we had one, or mow and rake as therapeutic look-this-thing-I-did-has-immediate-results. As it is we have pavement, and in one small section, gravel, and a few potted plants. There is a small dedicated neighborhood park adjacent to our home, and for a time I used to busy myself with its upkeep, until it was gently suggested to me that this was accruing undesirable on on the part of the rest of the neighborhood, to whom my behavior could only be seen as odd but then what-can-one-expect-from-foreigners.
I am not sure if lawns in particular are your bugbear, or a general disdain of people. Lawns are arguably not the sole domain of the suburban middle class. You use the term Karen-y which puts you square in my mind in a certain youthful angry nihilistic demographic that is alien to me. Though I could be wrong. The snark may be clouding your greater points.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
16d ago
I prefer @2rafa 's explanation of your viewpoint to your actual viewpoint, which I am not sure I even understand, mainly due to its vague word salad. I'm sure you have a point but I don't understand it yet beyond what seems to be a visceral disgust you have for India, and something to do with I presume Hinduism.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
4mo ago
I was the same. I appreciate your opening gifts on the 25th instead of like the barbarians I have met who open them on Christmas eve.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
6mo ago
I feel like I single out your comments for scrutiny and end up replying to them, but I want to stress that I don't do this in a negative way.
When you suggest young women want (if anything) from men attention that puzzles me, because I feel like young (and old) men give women lots of attention. Loads, even. In fact the attention given them is often deflected back as unwanted attention, creepiness, etc. I'm sure there's a model for this that I'm not perceiving for whatever reason.
One aspect I suppose is that attention isn't given any more equally to all women than it is to all men.
Part Deux of this post
The return commute from work is more hectic--the crepuscular calm of the 5:03 (edit: I realize belatedly that crepuscular actually means twilight, which would be the opposite of dawn, but I am not changing it because I like the consonance.) is miles away from the rush hour bustle of the late afternoon trains--I avoid the buses on this end, usually walking the leisurely half hour to the station, then again walking home on the last leg, which takes about 20 minutes. I do a lot of walking, every day. I have come to understand that although walking burns just as many calories as running (at least in the brief walks I take), it doesn't provide any real sort of cardio unless the walk is strenuous, and even then, once you reach a certain threshold, in order to get the benefits you may want you probably have to go ahead and run. I don't. It's just too damn hot.
We are in summer now. Started June 21st. It hit 90 on my walk to the first return station the other day. I had foregone the jacket and tie for a polo shirt like Daniel Craig in Haiti in the misjudged and underrated film Quantum of Solace. When I am LARPing in that particular getup I like to scrape my keys off the table in Craig fashion, and wait patiently for someone to ask if someone is a friend of mine, so I can remark without humor: "I don't have any friends." As it happens I do, but the line was a good one. If you haven't seen the movie you have no idea what I'm on about.
The first train ride takes me to a commuter hub, where you can actually travel to one of the international airports in my area. You see a lot of Chinese, Korean, Thai, probably other Asians as well. I recognize the first three first on dress and style, then usually on language--I don't understand Chinese, Korean, or Thai, but I know them when I hear them. The Chinese tend to sit on the train expansively, two members of the family on one side, two others on the other. They speak in regular speaking tones on the train. They don't make themselves small or seem to care if anyone else needs a seat (perhaps they do care, and care very much, but they don't show it in any way I can understand.) The Koreans are usually wearing expensive watches and rather fashionable clothes, if of a sort of nouveau riche type often with conspicuous labels and such (very similar to many Japanese, though the labels are slightly different), and have smart haircuts and very well done plastic surgery, in particular the women. The Thais are louder and fewer, and probably much more fun to talk to. Often any of the above will, if I scootch over (my computer is telling me scootch is not a word--maybe I am spelling it wrong?) anyway if I move over they will say "Thank you," to me in very well-pronounced English. Japanese people never respond to me in English--well, almost never.
Once I am at the hub I stride purposefully through the crowds--I have learned over the years to walk quickly and with confidence through massive crowds, like a character in an action film who finds himself in a rousing nightclub--you ignore everyone and everything around you, no matter how interesting, and push your way through as if towards something much more important than the carnal rabble writhing around you. I take a subway, which takes me past the oldest brothel district in this part of Japan, and one of the oldest in the country. If I am lucky, one of the girls has just finished and is getting on the subway home--she will be wearing something either very provocative and ignore everyone--once I saw a girl in a tan/flesh-colored skin-tight one-piece wearing a fucking bucket hat--or will be with another girl and wearing clothes that are almost nondescript, but I always know. Or convince myself that i do. Once I am positive I saw a girl headed to work, though if you were to pin me and ask me "How could you possibly know?" my best answer would be Intuition.
The brothel district is a long street which, at night, has poles with white globes on them. There is a poster on the side of at least one building which says something similar to "Let's keep our brothel district clean!" There is a police box one block outside the district, and police on bicycles cruising through are not unheard of. There is a rather massive apartment complex just east of this block or two of whorehouses, and if you were enterprising and lived in these apartments nothing really would stop you from buying a telescope and camera and documenting exactly who comes and goes. But it's Japan, and something tells me no one does this. I probably would, just as a diversion.
I wrote that it's a street. It's not, really, it's a block or two of parallel streets. These have nicknames, if you must know. One is known as 青春通り (seishun doori or "youth street"). Here you will find girls who are very likely university students somewhere (probably somewhere at least mildly distant) and who are making some extra cash. The signs say the smallest amount of time you can pay for is a 20-minute booking. I have had a discussion with one of these girls, and learned that she gets 60% of whatever is paid. For 20 minutes the price the last time I bothered to look was 16,000 yen, which is roughly 115 USD at current exchange rates.
You walk down the street and you see the genkans--which means the doorway where in a normal house you'd take your shoes off and hang your coat. In these establishments the genkan is open to the air, and while there is a place to put your shoes, instead of a coatrack you will see a girl sitting in a zaisu, a chair flush to the ground with a back, and she may have a blanket modestly draped over her thighs if it's cold. If not, she may be in a bikini, may be dressed like some sort of fairy, may be in a maid's costume, a balldress, even, yes, and you knew this was coming--a high school uniform. In other words, some type of thing that is geared toward the fetish/fantasy of the dudes who end up here. And Japan is nothing if not a fetish/fantasy wonderland. Or cesspool, depending of course on one's perspective. What is remarkable to me is that the times I have beheld this tableau the women have almost all been strikingly beautiful.
Anyway. I don't want to bog this account of my commute down too much with prurient description of the brothel area. I am by no means an expert on the area but I probably know more than a lot of people simply because I have lived here so long, have walked down the street several times, etc. (These stories are less interesting than they probably sound.) Anyway I will leave this whole part of the story in stasis for now. Thank Christ for anonymity online--I only mention any of this because no one on here knows who the hell I am. One reason I like the "privacy" filter or whatever it is. I used to write all sorts of stories on reddit and have now deleted them all (in as much as reddit would allow me). For a long time I liked writing about my life, and I was approached by randos in DMs asking to use my stories in their podcasts. I always agreed with one caveat: Tell me where I can listen to it. They always agreed. And none of them ever got back to me.
Subway takes me to yet another train--my first of the morning, last of the day. Again, in the late afternoon it is very crowded. If I go at a certain time of day and board the right car there is a woman with what I am sure is Proteus syndrome, or what they suspect Joseph Merrick had--her face is incredibly, implausibly distorted. I expect the COVID wave of mask-wearing was a boon for her. She wears a prim blouse and either a skirt or slacks of some sort, and has a bag, and always stands and faces the door, perhaps so she doesn't have to look across the aisle and pretend she doesn't notice everyone forcing themselves not to acknowledge her.
The cars are almost always crowded. There is one woman who always gets on the same car as I do if I have timed it wrong, and she will lunge for any empty seat like a jackal for a wounded bird. Opportunistic bitch. I do not say this. Like everyone else, I stare into the middle distance, or at my phone, or wherever else is convenient to not acknowledge the actions of others. I often will wave another to a seat that comes available and which is within my ass-reach. I have some sort of mental scale which tells me whether I should just sit down or give the seat to someone else. I am sure if I were more Motte-y I would calibrate exactly what quantitative values I weigh in my head in this process. I'm not going to.
When I get to my terminus station I always see two women, striking in their beauty, whose lives appear to be in the reverse order of mine--which is to say where I am going to they are coming from, and vice versa. I wonder if anyone ever notices me in this way. Neither of these women ever look at me and I never say a word to either of them nor do I acknowledge them in any way. But they are milestones on my daily journey. And, oddly, I notice if they aren't there on some days. A cold, perhaps.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
10mo ago
The whole ethos of this forum is to be charitable and assume the best form of your opponent's argument, regardless of how wrong you imagine it/they might be. In the interest of avoiding the easy construction of strawman arguments.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
10mo ago
To what degree it is currently de rigueur to accept as self-evident that homosexuality is innate is unclear to me, but if we believe Lady Gaga (and why wouldn't we?) it is. On the other side we have voices suggesting gayness, like sexual paraphilia (and I sometimes wonder if this term is even used any more or is seen as 'intolerant,') is a product of formative experiences in childhood (I've read for example Camille Paglia making this claim.) I am so far not compelled by the arguments of either side, particularly as often neither side makes arguments beyond that that their conclusions are obvious and to question them is at best silly (see the wry cartoons of a person beibg asked "When did you realize you were straight?") and at worst evidence of some serious character flaw/maliciousness in the questioner.
In my thinking here both views are now hopelessly mired (at least in the US) in politics, and while I am not as dogmatic as some in insisiting that social science is all garbage, I also have eyes to see, and yes, much of it (and much of psychology) to me seems to intellectually bear rotten fruit.
Having thumbed all that out, I think personally that even if we are to passively accept that a fetish might indeed be born of and from childhood circumstances, one would have to assume such circumstances were at least in some may imaginatively sensual--insert any evocative image from your own childhood as illustration. Even then, though, we are assuming, playing with self-report and reconstruction of motive, without the kind of empirical verification one might demand in other circumstances. But let'w say we accept it anyway. It still seems a jump, as ＠Gdanning suggests, that pride flags and a general ethos of gayness will produce spontaneously in boys a desire to fellate members of their peeergroup. It might make these same boys less traditionally masculine, sure (though I have my doubts how much influence Miss Bardwell pinning Pride flags on bulletin boards or organizing Pride summits or whatever will have on the realities of the locker room). It might make them more accepting of gayness as a norm, which is arguably very much a good thing.
There seems, in your post, to be a kind of knee-jerk reaction happening--I mean my knee jerks as much as the next person and it's true I am not really exposed to this kind of Pridemania where I am. But suggesting that it all is going to cause an uptick in gayness I believe requires a bit more rigor than you seem to be applying.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
20d ago
Has anyone else watched, or did anyone else watch as a child, the documentary series World At War? The link I just provided is to all 26 episodes on Youtube. Not the best resolution, but really this must be one of the best documentary series about WWII ever produced, not least because of the interviews with men who were actually in the war and who are now dead (it was made in 1973.) Narrated by Laurence Olivier. Highly recommended. I remember my dad watching it as it was released--he'd sit in his lounge chair, and I can still recall the theme playing. I got bored quickly and usually only watched a few minutes, but I was a kid. Recently I've been watching the whole thing.
Not really fun, however, so I'm not sure it's appropriate to this thread. I didn't want to put this in the main forum and I am not interested in a culture war take.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
6mo ago
Do you expect you're talking about the same women? The women I know best wouldn't dream of setting up an OF account. I am sure they have their secret garden like all women, the face they don't show me and would never show me, but I am not sure the OF types are the same girls one might be approaching at, say, Starbucks. Of course you could argue you're talking about some sort of female psychology here, but that seems like women assuming all men are subscribers to OF or are dangerous potential rapists. This is only true in the least charitable view.
Also I am not sure it's either realistic or ideal (despite the modern idea of writing up a dating profile) to be "open about preferences" from the get-go (primarily because I think these preferences should be a natural growth based on shared experience of one another, and not, say, what one learns one gets off to via watching porn).
Many women are students of male weakness, yes. For various reasons. But I'd argue against anyone who suggests all men want one type of inamorata, actually. There are commonalities, probably, among men, but I mean camgirl and porn sites all have the Category button for a reason. If what you mean is "All men want to see your tits" then you're probably right. Past that it's vague. But presumably for most the draw of such sites is the same as the draw of the waterlogged magazine cache in the woods for boys of my era--the erotic forbidden. There have been Playboy centerfolds for a long time. That doesn't mean that's everyone's ideal (thus you get sexless wonders asking on reddit and elsewhere "Would U date an Onlyfans girl?") Regardless of the answers, the fact that this is a question that gets asked suggests these girls and women who put themselves in that marketplace are not the norm, despite how it seems.
I will offer that I think the normalization to some degree of this sort of virtual prostitution is very troubling and I can't imagine it sending us anywhere good. An equivalent would be normalization of, say, fighting and violence for men. We all have that side in us, buried to some degree. Make it acceptable and people suppress it less. There probably is a zone where girls who never would have imagined themselves dancing naked to shitty music in video are doing so because as you say, easy money and some degree of anonymity.
It depends. On what? In how much you love her. And your relationship. And whatever it is you both build out of it, whatever family you make. It depends on how committed you both are to fidelity, how much of a deal breaker it is. It will also depend on how careless you allow yourself to be by putting yourself into situations where you'll be tempted to stray--and let me assure you now that there are and will be many, many such situations unless you willfully and consciously navigate away from them. Pence isn't the fool people make him out to be, at least not in this regard. The clashing rocks, as it were. They'll get you. Then you'll be playing guilt and intrigue games forever. You needn't go far to find examples of this.
It frankly sounds to me that you're not ready. Sex is just sex. The variety of women and women's bodies, that thrill, the hunt, the look, that way a girl's eyes change when she realizes she wants you, how her body language picks up, the little pulses of interest, the smell of her make-up, and hers, and hers. I could go on. I won't. Gold can't buy this. (Of course it can, but not really. Gold buys the facsimile.) Juxtapose that next to growing old with one woman--will she lop off her hair? The inevitable graying and broadening. In both of you. But also the intimacy, the knowing without being told, the chatty suppers, the contented silences, the shared life. Trust. Is anything more valuable?
I won't--can't-- tell you which you are meant for. One or the other. Or maybe neither. If you're lucky you have a choice, and you can fuck up either one easily. Good luck.
Edit: 18 1/2 years of marriage here.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
1mo ago
All attempts at editing come back with an error message saying I'm over the word limit. I did try to add everyone's comments, but without deleting and reworking it all--which I do not have the willpower to do--that's not happenin'.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
2mo ago
I like to (or used to like to) call this (or some version of this) the Diamond Jim syndrome. I don't know who Diamond Jim is but when I came up with that term it seemed to fit. The Diamond Jim syndrome is pretty well defined by the following attitude:
(She) is obsessed with me, and has been since she met me....I don't know how in the world I could ever meet a woman as open to my weirdo contrarian conservatism as she is, or as accepting of my quirks, or as in love with me. She's put a halo on my head that I cannot possibly be worthy of.
If I may--and very possibly I may not, without being rude--It's possible you may be just a bit complacent and self-satisfied here. I am not suggesting this girl is without affection for you, not at all, but there's a dynamic here you're unaware of, possibly. You feel this way (beloved by her, beatified, desired) because for whatever amazing lucky reason she makes you feel this way.
Let me explain. And, in the explaining, I would encourage you to keep in the forefront of your brain that I might be wrong: This girl probably does love you lots. You're sweet, smart, and cute, just like what girls used to write in my school yearbooks (are yearbooks still a thing? I don't even know). But you feeling it, you knowing you are loved, that is a result of her efforts. It is very possible to be in a relationship where all the parts seem to function but you do not viscerally feel that you are loved--sometimes you even feel the opposite, that you are despised and contemptible, despite the fact that your other half seems to nevertheless stay with you. Feeling great and loved then is a reflection not just on you and your lucky self, but on the considerable talent and grace of this girl. Whom you now are considering (airily though your considering may be) ditching for some (I was going to write skank, then goth loli, but have settled on) sylph who might get your rocks off.
The fact is the girl you're seeing long distance may or may not see you as, in the words of my late father, "having hung the moon." She might like you lots, yes, but keep the following in mind: If and when she changes her mind, she will be far, far less sentimental about the break-up than you will be On the contrary, she'll walk away and never give you another thought and you'll be sitting alone thinking What just happened.
I want you to now enact a little mental exercise where you imagine just that scenario: You send a text (because you can't be bothered to live close to your beat friend/partner who loves you) and you brace yourself for the long sprawling message beseeching you to stay, stay. What you get instead is static. It sits on unread. You are blocked on social media--or maybe not? Maybe she was kidnapped and disappeared and moved away, etc etc. You suddenly, far too late, realize the folly of your mistake and send an apology. This also sits unread. You maybe try a, b, and c if whatever other scrambling to undo what's been done, but all this will be a waste of time. Because it's over.
But, but, she loved you! She would never leave you! You were practically soulmates. Yes, yes, she did, she wouldn't, and you were. And now she's gone and she ain't coming back, ever. Good luck with the casual sex.
All of the above may be wrong, but if experience is any teacher (and often it isn't) you can probably get something of value by rereading. I am not saying you'll change your mind. If you were using your mind this wouldn't be an issue. You're not using your mind. Diamond Jim never does. Diamond Jim sees the greener grass everywhere. He is full of confidence that he has but to seek and he will find. And he feels that way (which isn't a bad way to feel, of course) because he is puffed up with sexual confidence. Nevermind that he gained this confidence because he has a stable, supportive relationship.
Anyway. My train has arrived Good luck
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
3mo ago
You asked for it.
I had a thing in high school where, when faced with the attention of females, I would become so emotionally fraught that I would vomit. You may feel that this is unrelated to what you've written here, and I realize I am being somewhat vague when I say "attention of females," but just give me a minute.
The neurosis--if that's what we can call it, and maybe we can't--plagued me for some time. I can remember exactly when it started, when it ended, and when it threatened to return, which is the part of the story relevant to your situation, probably. But let me try and tell this properly.
I will begin, or, rather, continue, by making a statement that will probably come across as extremely arrogant and un-self-aware. Moreso than even the usual Motte dude waxing philosophical about women. That statement is: I am an attractive man.
Okay now that you've done your spit take, let me qualify: I know that I am not everyone's cup of tea, I cannot imagine I am anyone's version of a 10, and I am not particularly wealthy. Plus, now, I am older, or, relative to many on the Motte, just old. Nevertheless, I in my life I have turned heads, caused women to get nervous and awkward just by my speaking to them, etc. I have been on television and modeled for magazines as the "cool guy," blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. All this prelude to suggest that I have had, in some ways, an advantage over many males. But in the days of which I am writing, none of this mattered in any way.
The first time I felt the slow-rising bile was not the first kiss of youth, or any similar situation where you might imagine a callow young manboy might get bent out of shape. No. It was a rather benign moment where I was sitting at the bar counter of my then-girlfriend's kitchen, being served a plate of I think Stouffer's spaghetti. Why that dish, memory does not reveal. But I remember she served me a single portion (she herself wasn't eating) and I sat there and ate it. It probably tasted fine or at least not so bad that I would have wanted to immediately regurgitate it. Let's even say it was good, for after all she served it to me and why be ungrateful? The same is true of the apple crumble she served me as dessert. I believe her mother had made that herself. A nurse, she was, the mother, which isn't important but informs what happens later.
So I ate the crumble. It was good. Hot and very sweet and something I have never had since, though I had always liked it. But something about the sensation of fullness in this moment collided with whatever else was going on in the warring of my para- and sympathetic nervous systems, and I knew immediately what was to happen. I managed to croak out "excuse me for a second" and may have even said "I need to go to the bathroom." I remember she, my girlfriend, a lovely green-eyed stawberry blonde daughter of a university professor, looked at me with an expression of confused worry, but said simply "Okay" and turned back to her mother, who by now had come into the kitchen to perhaps see how I liked her apple crumble.
I made it almost all the way to the toilet. The key word is of course almost. What happened next is disgusting to relate (this isn't askreddit, after all) so I won't. Suffice to say I threw up, albeit quietly, there in front of the bathroom door. They had hardwood flooring, I recall. Oddly--well, the whole thing was odd--but oddly now that my stomach had relieved itself of its contents I was no longer nauseous. Which of course did not mean that I now had any idea what to do next. After a moment of standing there in baffled shock in the hallway, I stepped over it, rinsed my mouth and face, and returned with as much dignity as I could summon to the kitchen, saying "Can I possibly have a paper towel or something? I just sort of threw up."
They were kind people. As a nurse, the mother's instinctive, first reaction was to stabilize. They sat me down, they fetched me a glass of water, they adopted furrowed brows. There was no lip-curled disgust. No "Eeww" or similar. The mother instructed her daughter to lay me down on one of their couches in a dim room, and dispatched herself to the hallway for the unenviable task of cleanup.
They both seemed to suspect illness. My temperature was taken. I was worried over and pampered and urged to just relax, sip the water, don't worry about a thing. Only I knew the unspeakable truth, one that I dared not tell--the truth all males in such a situation know and have known throughout time: I was not physically impaired. I was just fucking scared shitless.
Now. While I say men throughout time have realized this about themselves, it's true that they have had such moments of purging panic fear in extremely different circumstances: When confronted unexpectedly with a woolly mammoth, or at the call of "Charge!" or in the ball-turret at 30,000 feet, or when about to storm a fucking beach under mortar fire. These men have puked in abject fear. And so be it. I, though, maybe because I had never been tested, maybe because I wasn't much of an athlete, or maybe because I had just watched too much goddam TV--I puked in the warm kitchen of a beautiful girl serving me comfort food. The heart is a lonely hunter.
Fast forward weeks, months, to prom night. She was wearing one of those strapless dresses where her shoulders were bare, as if she were rising up like Aphrodite out of it, and the moment arrived when I was supposed to do my thing as we lay there on yet another dark couch, and pull the dress down. I mean even in my state of chode-hood I wasn't incapable of reading signals. And so what, then, gentle reader, do you imagine I did?
At least I made it to the bathroom this time.
Let me be clear here in my description of what was happening: I was not revolted. There was no feeling of disgust, which is what is usually associated with vomiting or the urge to do so. Quite the contrary. The cause, as I have suggested, was panic fear. A normal reaction to stimuli thrown into bizarro world.
I lived with this for some time. I eventually broke up with the kind green-eyed girl. She married a close friend of mine. Then divorced him. Anyway the experience of wanting to puke any time I felt a tingling in my loins or flutter in the heart did not just go away. I was to feel this in many instances as I got older. Probably I should have drunk alcohol or ingested some other substance to lubricate my social self, but I was raised in a teetotaling household and wasn't equipped with the wherewithal. And although I came to drink eventually, and, eventually, even get high from time to time, this was always in a very specific context with a specific friend (who I've written about in a separate, equally rambling post).
I can remember moments poised over the porcelain dry-heaving, praying audibly as we are said to do when at the end of our respective ropes: "Please, make this stop." And it didn't, and wouldn't, for a long long time. Until it did. A time for all things, I suppose.
Now we move in time. Now in the story I am early twenties. I am still a virgin. I have left home and moved to Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer. In my training group I meet a leggy brunette with bookish glasses and doe eyes, and I fuck her in a tent as we camp in a dark gorge away from our training group. Accidentally. She laughs that I am a virgin, but not in a mocking way. I am, to her--she a wild artist a few years older from Huntingdon Beach--I am like someone from a Harper Lee story. I embody a southern gentlemen fetish she never knew she had. And she shepherds me patiently through my belated sexual awakening--and Christ looking back on it how insatiable are young men, or at least we were then. Surely it wasn't just me.
So what does any of this have to do with your question or issue?
After I returned to the US I had changed. Many events far too numerous to write out or even summarize occurred in the interim, but suffice to say I came of age, whatever that phrase means for you. I left a boy and returned a man. I began to be the guy who threw parties. I organized social functions. I became gregarious, at least for a time. And in short order I met a new girl (the woman in tent I had long ago left behind, and then she had quickly moved on. Other entanglements had followed.) This new young woman I have also alluded to in these threads. She was a very attractive, confident, intellectual Jewish girl (not that that last part matters except that she was the only Jewish girl I was ever intimate with.) And we had sex and then she stopped answering my calls. And then the old familiar feeling returned.
In those days we still used answering machines. I'd call hers and leave messages I hoped were funny. And some of them probably were. It didn't matter. I saw her in a Camaro next to some buff dude who looked like his idea of good conversation was talking about Bama football, or bong types, or titties. And she was hanging on his side like a nymph to his Apollo.
Next time I saw her was at a bar. Two seconds later I felt like hitting the toilet. I didn't . Instead I spoke to her, had a laugh, and took my leave . I decided I wouldn't care about anyone enough again to be that worried what they thought. This required a considerable amount of bootstrapping for me to convince myself. But apparently, I did. A time for all things.
Is there any advice in here? God knows. But it's an anecdote, and you asked. Good luck man. I'm rooting for you.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
5mo ago
Moral dilemma or obvious thing to do?
Hey Mottizens, lend me your ears, and your voices. I will keep this brief, but perhaps you can give your opinion (and tell me why). It's not Sunday anymore but maybe someone will read this.
I have recently submitted a book chapter for publication in what is to be an anthologized set of essays. Never you mind where or what, but this is an internationally recognized publishing house.
In an odd turn, after submission I received a paper of another author (to be in the same book, presumably) from the publisher to proof and review. Which is fine. I have no problem doing that.
I noticed there were a lot of non-smart quotes in the text. Some quotes were formatted properly, many weren't. This often happens when people paste material into a document with data that originated/was typed in another program (or on the internet). You see where I'm going with this, perhaps.
I decided to run the abstract through a ChatGPT detector. It was flagged as 51% chance written by AI. I ran the first paragraphs, and got the same result. It coded highest on "average sentence length" where the sentences did not vary in the same way a human's might.
I then ran my own first page, just as a counterfactual. My abstract alone also showed as 20% chance written by AI. But the first paragraphs showed 0% chance of AI authorship.
I don't think these systems are all that reliable, but it gave me pause. My question is should I:
1. ignore all of this, mention the smartquotes should be reformatted, revise as usual.
2. revise as usual, email the editors the above information.
3. stop revising, email the editors the above information.
4. other
I am leaning towards 1 simply because I am not convinced the AI detector is all that accurate, and also the author is not a native-speaker of English (though is pretty damn good). Maybe the author put it into Chat GPT and said "Make this sound academic" or something. And at the end of the day I am not sure how serious "generate by AI" is, whether it suggests a kind of academic fraud or is simply a tool put to use. It isn't clear.
What say you?
Note: This post was human-generated.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
7mo ago
As an aside, if this isn't too off-topic, in fifteen minutes of Motte browsing I have now encountered the word assabiyah twice, having never seen it before. What's the pronunciation? And from whence the apparently now popular usage?
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
8mo ago
I grew up in the South, land of biscuits and gravy, chicken fried steak, and hushpuppies. To say nothing of deep fried (insert food), and of the ubiquitous "Meat & Three" diners which served (and still serve, if you can find them) a meat and three sides, most of which were either vegetables boiled in oily broth or fried in grease, or the perennial favorite of macaroni and cheese which apparently the cool kids call "Mac & Cheese." If, as I was growing up, my mother served us fish it was either in the form of fried catfish or something she called salmon croquettes which I somehow think was a 70s thing. I did not really understand in my heart that seafood of any sort could be served in any way other than deep, deep fried until my 20s, after I left to go very far away indeed. At this time I also learned it was bizarre to most other Americans to hear me use the terms "I might could," to mean "I might be able to," "I'm fixin' to," to mean "I am about to," and of course the first time, when driving, I was faced with a sudden burst of traffic headlights coming in the other direction at night and I asked, rhetorically, "Who opened the barn door?" my girlfriend at the time erupted into hysterics and asked me to please say more southern phrases. (I think she was a fetishist.) I of course had no answer to this.
Why do I say any of this? Because let us be frank: I grew up in the heart of Fatville. I was raised among the obese. "Bigun" where I am from is a term of endearment. I can recall not too many years ago on a trip home sitting among my aunts, who were all worried about the dangerous heft of my uncle. They spent many minutes fretting over this as we ate pecan pie and drank iced tea. Then this same uncle appeared at the door, and he had barely sat down on the sofa (with considerable effort) before these same aunts were insisting they be allowed to "fix him a plate," though he said he was fine. He eventually did receive a plate, of course, and a large one. Which I am sure he consumed. (Edit: not the actual plate. The food on it. Of course.)
All this as even further prelude to the point that my whole life I have been skinny. Even now, nearing the age when if I were to die, as Louis CK or someone made the joke: no one would mourn that I "died too young," but that "I had a full life." And yet thin I am. My sons are thin. My Japanese wife is thin, though that is no great rarity. I am 5'11" and weigh about 70kg. This is close to the most I have ever weighed.
Why? I do not know. I drink beer. I eat the carbs @2rafa scorns and has scorned all of her life. I heap the pasta onto my plate.
I had a dear friend who was overweight most of his life. He went through a weight-loss phase in his freshman year and I remember him telling me that he was suddenly getting a lot of attention from people (he was also rich, but I suppose rich and slovenly still weigh more on the side of slovenly, no pun intended). Once he became rich and relatively normal-weighted, his new girlfriend (who also appeared with the weight loss) began dressing him (madras shirts, argyle socks, woven leather belts, and even gold bracelets--this was the late 80s.) He told me once that he appreciated me being his friend, and that should anyone from the old days come up to him and want to be his friend now, he was going to tell them "Fuck you." I have no idea if he ever got to do that. He probably wouldn't have, anyway, but it was a funny thing to hear.
That friend is now dead, mostly from excesses of every kind (he gained most of his weight back, drank and drugged himself into an early grave, bless his soul). And I am still here. Some of us are just not meant to be fat. Probably I could put on the pounds if I set my mind to it--for a few years I started drinking protein shakes and going to the gym and tracking calories, and in the reddit days I was a member of /r/gainit. But here I still am.
This is not me bragging. Just, as always, another voice.
George_E_Hale
insufferable blowhard
9mo ago
To borrow your word： apply how? Apply simply in acknowledging the idea as worth further research? Or apply by accepting the hypothesis as axiomatic and then set public policies (re immigration, hiring, voting laws, whatever) in some seemingly reasonable way so that presumably the smarts make the decisions while any member of the dumbs must first pass intellectual muster to be taken half-seriously? Or something else? I ask this question genuinely, and I would be interested to read various answers.
Are we becoming a circle jerk?
I don't ask this facetiously--and for me to use the preposition we here is laughable, not because I do not wish to be included, but because my own contributions are so flimsy that I can scarcely be called a participant, though I am a great lurker.
Rather, I have a concern, perhaps misguided, that themotte.org has become a kind of Athenaeum where (we) sit around in our plush chairs (if that's what they do in The Athenaeum) and bandy opinions that everyone shares anyway, but (we) re-word them at times for cleverness' sake, and, at other times, simply bask in our smugness, content that we are correct and that anyone else who disagrees with us isn't. And don't get me wrong--I often find myself nodding in agreement at certain posts, particularly in the "The Motte Needs You" Janitor section, and wondering if I think they're good because I agree with them out of context, or if I truly think they hold high what I would consider the extremely rare and valuable banner of the Motte.
Of course this group consensus posting people do is in violation of one of the main rules of the Motte: Steelman your opposition. Assume that whoever your interlocutor is (or, put another way, whoever reads your post) may well disagree with you.
I am not suggesting that no one disagrees on any of the posts made here. A few well-known combatants go at it from time to time, usually respectfully, sometimes not.
Still, as a daily browser-not-poster, I feel as if I see a lot of posts that make what I would consider wild, self-assured generalizations without pushback. And very often I either don't have the time or inclination to do a proper pushback or I am, frankly,
intimatedintimidated by the horsepower some people seem to have on making effortposts as counterpoint. Today is a rare day: I have world enough, and time. I usually don't.The question "Are we a circlejerk" is probably rhetorical, but feel free to answer however you will. I hope at least people will give the question some thought. As always I am happy to mingle at the party, nameless and unknown, eating the hors d'oeuvres and sampling the champagne.
Regardless of the answer, I think this site is a success beyond expectation, despite the bullshit dismissal of us on reddit.
More options
Context Copy link