August 2015

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imageShe’s way hotter than her boyfriend. Thinking neither one of them has ever seen the inside of a quadratic equation.

Schnalkinberg’s Theorem. The theory that the smartest mathematician in the room is always a Jew, until the first Jap walks in. Learned this in Business School 101 at Cornell.

“Set Set” set Theory. The idea that the whole world can be defined by Venn diagrams that overlap MIT, Cal Tech, and the Numb3rs TV show. And a picture of Stephen Hawking beaming blissfully above the scene.

We have Popcorn Diagrammatics. There’s this situation where the plot makes no sense and my mathematician wife says let’s make some popcorn. And we do. Then the plot seems to fix itself while we eat the popcorn and Amita even seems to want to kiss Charlie before the closing credits.

And the Amita Combinatorix. We don’t get to see these exactly and don’t really want to. Who the hell knows what Charlie is like in bed, or Amita either for that matter. But we have these instances where the blackboard is absolutely stuffed with Greek letters and everybody huffs out unhappily, and then the next morning there’s coffee and Larry looks happy, and Charlie and Amita both look Combinatorix.

Oh. Judd Hirschmetic. My favorite. Which is the feeling you get when your two year old son can say the times tables up to eighteen and perform every long division calculation you ever thought of. Judd could always do that. He was always the smartest kid in Hebrew School. It’s just Charlie he couldn’t handle. Little genius bastard. And Don. Nasty hardass Little Bastard.

We’ll be back at you later.

Penn State Matters!

Penn State Matters!

Yeah, we went one year. To the Link. Supposed to be this great intra-state college football event. Not to call it a rivalry. Temple shows up, gets beaten into the ground by the Nittany Pedophiles and endures lots of racial abuse by the fat Penn Staters in their XXX jerseys showing off for their future Penn State bully kids. It’s great.

ESPN has apparently decided that it’s time to forgive the Nittany mob and their capo de tutti capi Joe Paterno.

I’m not there yet. But you can be there. Next Saturday at Lincoln Park Field.

Who is What and a Which is Who?

Who is What and Which is Who?

My wife and I have mirror minds. We say the same thing so often we don’t even comment on it but just do a high five.

Unprompted, we both seem to see ourselves as Don.

Except that neither of us is an FBI commander.

Except that neither of us is an FBI guy. I’ve got the shades; she’s got the posture.

Occasionally (or more often than that), we each see the other as the arrogant know it all Charlie.

Smart, yes, but also with a bad case of Y-pants.

Smart, yes, but also with a bad case of Y-pants.

Sometimes we’re not the same person. I have an annoying habit of being dad…

But not so much the aging hippy.

But not so much the aging hippy.

While she can do a very good impression of the much smarter than everybody else Amita…

The cute polymath.

The cute polymath.

…or as she sees it…

The much much cuter polymath.

The much much cuter polymath.

All of which disguises the fact that we’re both much more like Larry, the genuinely wifty guy who lives in a quantum universe that sometimes beds him down in steam tunnels under the university and sometimes in a Buddhist monastery.

Yeah, we're both this cute in our separate but equal ways.

Yeah, we’re both this cute in our separate but equal ways.

I was going to explain the new math that has emerged from our interactions, our atomic collisions if you will. No time now. We’re on call after all

**********TO BE CONTINUED**********

Sinister place. That one end really does look like serpent's head.

Sinister place. That one end really does look like serpent’s head.

The premise of this Treasure Quest is intriguing. Four guys with more greed than brains think they can find $300 million in gold stashed by 16th century Jesuits on the most uninhabitable dot of land on earth. I mean, the place is totally dominated by one of the most venomous species of snakes on earth.

They're everywhere. On the ground, in the trees, in the caves, every-effing-where.

They’re everywhere. On the ground, in the trees, in the caves, every-effing-where.

It’s pretty good for a few episodes. They find some messages written by the Jesuits on stones. They have close calls with snakes. Did I mention that the snakes are every-effing-where? They are.

You can't even go to the bathroom without checking your feet. I mean your own bathroom. It's that scary.

You can’t even go to the bathroom without checking your feet. I mean your own bathroom. It’s that scary.

So far so good. But there’s a point in reality shows, even on the Discovery Channel, when you start to grow suspicious. Sometime in episode four, after snakes and snakes and still more snakes, when our dimwit heroes realize they are not alone. This is right on the verge, mind you, of exploring a very promising cave in which the Jesuits may have done something incredibly important.

But there are sounds of breaking twigs and stuff, so they go running in pursuit. Who is on the island with them? Rival treasure hunters. Snake poachers? Everything’s up in the air. Wait for the next episode, where the ugly truth will be revealed.

The truth is far worse than the cliffhanger hinted at. The interlopers on Snake Island are even more annoying than the constant snakes.

Clarkson, Hammond, and May.

Hammond, Clarkson, and May. Twiddlers three.

The Top Gear producers had air dropped them on the island with a Rover SUV to prove once and for all the superiority of Brit auto technology. But they were in a bad mood. Because the Rover was wrecked. The prissy Brits were therefore stranded and, well, peeved.

The snakes got it.

The snakes got it.

Maybe not going to watch much more of Snake Island. You?

Reminds us an Agatha Christie title: Murder at the Gallop.

Reminds us of an Agatha Christie title: Murder at the Gallop.

This is by way of thanking the very kind ladies of the Greyhound Friends of New Jersey who responded to my plea for help in getting our greyhound Rikki up the stairs.

We have tried and failed to get Rikki up the stairs. Someone suggested letting him watch another greyhound do it. What we have is a 110 pound deerhound named Raebert with legs nearly as long as Secretariat’s. After meals and other outings, Raebert comes bounding up the stairs like a herd of buffaloes. It shakes the house and when he charges at me on the couch I am always momentarily in fear he won’t be able to stop.

At full speed up the stairs and down the hall to a dead stop three inches in front of my face, he looks exactly this.

At full speed up the stairs and down the hall to a dead stop 1 inch in front of my face, he looks just like this.

And sounds like this:


The first 30 seconds are pretty accurate as to sound. The picture’s not bad either for a while. The guy who pulls up short would be Rikki. So be it.

You see, Rikki is — as a guy, I hate to say it — Bambi.

We're pretty sure his daddy got mixed up in the rackets in Brooklyn and was gunned down. On the second floor.

We’re pretty sure his daddy got mixed up in the rackets in Brooklyn and was hunted down by the Russian mob. On the second floor.

Where was I? Oh. Yes. Thanks to all the kind ladies of GFNJ. We’ve read the advice and appreciate it. Our conclusion is that Rikki is a ground floor dog and we will continue to take him for walks, visit the couch he refuses to get up on, and light candles for his father, Guido the Deer in the Headlights.

Raebert says hi. He thinks Rikki’s cool as hell.

He gets this way. His favorite song is "Song Sung Blue." And he hates flies. But he puts up with the Stones because he loves his daddy.

He gets this way. His favorite song is “Song Sung Blue.” And he hates flies. But he puts up with the Stones because he loves his daddy.

“Say goodnight, Raebert.”

“Goodnight Raebert. And Rikki.”

And for those who don’t acknowledge that deerhounds are the coolest sighthounds of all. We leave you with a deerhound pic not even a greyhound can match.

The Emperor. The late Psmith.

The Emperor. The late Psmith.

He's a menace, right? To all those of you who have never listened to him.

He’s a menace, right? To all those of you who have never listened to him.

Rush Limbaugh is now in his 28th year in broadcasting. Still the top radio talk show host in America.

We’ve agreed and disagreed with him over the years. He’s a blustering, egotistical know-it-all who lives large, consumes conspicuously, and might qualify in some people’s minds for the label narcissist. Sound familiar? We’ve also had fun with his carefully crafted persona. For example, we congratulated him on his 20th anniversary back in 2007.

Sensible Cheek.

What he is, most of all, is the most gifted radio host in the history of the medium. Five days a week, three hours a day, he can analyze the events of the day from a conservative perspective, bitingly, humorously, optimistically, and insightfully. He has an accounting firm hired specifically to track the accuracy of his political predictions. He comes in at 99 point something dead on. He takes calls but he doesn’t depend on them. Doesn’t need them at all. The quasi lefty Imus a few years ago said he’d just listened to a Limbaugh broadcast and proclaimed that he was the greatest radio talent in the business. Imus has sidekicks, props, guests, and schticks. Limbaugh does what he does without any of these. Imus understood the difference.

Limbaugh got lots of national media attention when he became addicted to painkillers. He got no media attention when he went through an ordeal most of us could not imagine.

But we can try. Imagine you’re an NFL quarterback and your throwing arm is amputated at the shoulder. You’re a World Cup soccer star and your leg is amputated at the hip. You’re an Oscar winning director and you go completely blind. You’re a gold medal swimmer and you wake up in a wheelchair. What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO?

Rush Limbaugh began losing his hearing in 2001. In bits and pieces over the years he has described the sequence of events that led to him having surgically implanted cochlear devices which simulate hearing, sufficient to enable him to hear most of the words people say, though not music or other sounds we take for granted. But his revelations were mostly to explain his occasional medical absences from the show. He never asked us to spend much time thinking about it and never asked us to feel sorry for him. I do remember one vicious doctor caller who told Limbaugh his implant was already failing and he deserved it. Whereupon the vindictive beast that is Rush Limbaugh thanked him for his contribution and went to a commercial break.

But yesterday was Friday, and the guy who doesn’t really need callers always deems that day Open Line Friday. People can call in and talk about what they want to talk about, not just the topics Rush is talking about on any other given day.

Yesterday, an old black man with a wise voice called in to say he was a long time listener and said he had a serious question. Rush told him to go ahead and ask. The man wanted to know what it was really like to go through the experience of losing his hearing, emotionally, deep down, and what was that like, because Rush had never really shared it with the audience.

Rush replied that he had to go to a break but would answer the question afterwards.

And he did.

As you might expect, the perception of the loss was gradual. Three events stick out. First, he thought the fan in his cigar room was faulty, running at maybe half speed. The technicians checked the fan and told him there was no problem. An interval in which odd things occurred. The TV was never loud enough, people around him were mumbling. Then came 9/11. He was in a cab as the story was breaking on the radio. He couldn’t understand what the announcer was saying and had to ask the cab driver to tell him what the radio was saying. Trouble. He knew he was in trouble, but at that point doctors were still trying to tell him he was getting to be “of an age” and loss of hearing to a degree was in his family’s history.

This phase he readily ascribes to denial. Then came the day, and this back when he did the show all by himself, that he had to make the pre-show call to the syndicator to let them know when to begin broadcast that he realized he couldn’t understand a word at the other end of the line. That day, he couldn’t take any calls at all. Did the show anyhow.

Shortly after that, he was on the air and a doctor called in to say, “End the show. Go directly to the hospital.” So he finished the show and went to the hospital. The final diagnosis was that his own immune system was destroying his inner ears. His hearing declined by ten percent a month. Meanwhile he was taking an intravenous cocktail of prescribed anti-immune drugs, administered by himself with a syringe.

Then he went totally deaf. By then he had hired assistance. A court reporter to transcribe caller questions, and others to help cover his inability to hear network cues, etc.

Rush said he never panicked. He’d been told about cochlear implant technology. He believed he would beat the problem. Once, a doctor told him, “You’re terrified. You don’t want to show it, but you are.” Rush told him, “No, I’m not. I’ll get through this.”

He did his show for two whole months stone deaf. Couldn’t hear anything, not even his own voice. Prior to the surgery, he asked the doctors if he could just go on doing what he’d been doing. They said no. Over time, he would lose his enunciation. Callers would hear that he had a profound disability.

Happy ending? He had a cochlear implant in one ear. Which gradually failed until it became unusable late last year. So he had the second ear drilled and implanted. Right now, he’s only at 50 percent hearing, with no promises about how long he will be able to do his show.

He told his audience all of this without a hint of self pity. It’s just what’s happened.

But there was a revealing segment or two. He confided that even his closest friends cannot comprehend the nature of utter deafness. “You can’t simulate it,” he said. Because he can mostly make out what they’re saying — 15 out of 20 words, with lots of mind racing fill-ins to get it right — they think of him as hearing impaired, like your octogenarian grandfather. Not like that, Rush assures us. His hearing is a prosthetic, not a fix or a booster shot.

He will never again hear a mourning dove or an operatic soprano.

And he did that show for TWO MONTHS without a single bleat or excuse. (When, mind, he was already richer than Croesus.) While he was spending almost all of his off-air time in medical facilities and under treatment.

I listened to him multiple times during that period and I did not detect the problem. And I have really really good ears.

Courage. It doesn't always have a chiseled profile.

Courage. It doesn’t always have a chiseled profile.

MORAL. Bluster is bluster. Character is character. A wise man knows not to confuse the two.

Yes, we love looking up women's skirts. But they should be nice looking women.

Yes, we love looking up women’s skirts. But they should be nice looking women.

Why I don’t watch MSNBC. Rachel Maddow doesn’t have an upskirt. Or even a topless aspect you’d want to look at.

Rachel. Who wouldn't hammer her in a debate?

Rachel. Who wouldn’t hammer her in a debate?

And if she won’t show us what’s under her skirt, there’s nothing we have to look forward to.

But Fox has taken a huge body blow. Megyn Kelly is a pretty version of Hillary, mean, nasty, and equipped with the Fox requirement of great legs and tits.

Trump is enjoying the hell out of himself. He DOES NOT CARE ABOUT FOX NEWS. This is how the mighty are brought to their knees.

Shelley. He was fond of looking up women's skirts too. You know. White men. The greatest poets ever. Something about panties maybe.

Shelley. He was fond of looking up women’s skirts too. You know. White men. The greatest poets ever. Something about panties maybe.

But Fox has taken the same kind of dislike to Trump (or anyone with the nerve to run against Jeb) that MSNBC has had for years against anyone named Bush.

I guess Bush is truly a dirty dirty word in the here and now. Especially now that all the girls are shaved.

I know. You couldn’t read the Ozymandias part.

He like be dead and fallen.

He like be dead and fallen.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Courtesy of Percy Shelley.

Shelley liked looking up women’s skirts too. What’s wrong with the MSM. They’re all gay these days. Nothing better than looking up a skirt. They’ve just forgotten.

Old as I get, I will never ever forget. But Fox seems to have. This is how life and civilization end.

With the earth melting down at this rate, we’ve had a longstanding policy of providing diversions. This is one of our attempts in that direction.

Let’s define terms here. The mystery genre was invented, along with science fiction and horror, by the most overlooked of all American literary geniuses, Edgar Allan Poe. He was his own prototype of the brilliant analytical detective who solves crime by observation rather than brutality, legwork, smart remarks, or seductions.

Meet Auguste Dupin, aka, E. A. Poe.

Meet Auguste Dupin, aka, E. A. Poe.

The three stories Poe wrote about Dupin set the template for the greats who followed. Dupin had a sidekick, unnamed, whose purpose was to make us realize how brilliant Dupin was.

Pierre de Pueur, constant companion of Dupin.

Pierre de Pueur, dense but well dressed companion of Dupin.

Thing is, Poe had other fish to fry. He chose not to make a career out of Dupin. Maybe why he died in a gutter in Baltimore or wherever. But the three great detectives of mystery literature all have Poe’s DNA in their prodigious brains.

The first who saw the opportunity was Arthur Conan Doyle, who gave us a brilliant eccentric genius named Sherlock Holmes. Millions and millions loved the stories, including me (not one I haven’t read at least twice), and then Hollywood moved in to do it badly at great profit until the BBC decided to do it right.

Jeremy Brett was perfect as the great detective.

Jeremy Brett was perfect as the great detective.

David Burke was fine as the well dressed sidekick Watson.

David Burke was fine as the dapper sidekick Watson.

Then, of course, thanks to the Special Relationship that exists between the Yanks and the Brits, both sides of the Atlantic conspired to destroy Holmes in two series called “Elementary” and “Sherlock.” Oh well. Moving on. Just wanted to make clear this crap is no part of the canon. Cumberbunch may be a cute gay Oxbridge Spock, but he’s no Sherlock Holmes. I knew Holmes. From the age of ten on.

Back in time again. Dame Agatha Christie had the most warped mind of any mystery writer ever, God bless her heart. But she also had herself a case of professional jealousy. Like all valiant overachievers she wanted to outdo the competition of the past. You think Sherlock Holmes was eccentric? Try Hercule Poirot. The exact opposite in every respect but the genius of Agatha Christie. Holmes was a slob, Poirot is a dandy. Holmes was always on the go, Poirot stays home unless he has to go out. Who was it, the BBC (?) who actually got this right. Maybe the best detective series ever.

David Suchet is perfect, even more than perfect, as the great detective.

David Suchet is perfect, even more than perfect, as the great detective.

Hastings. The ultimate dimwit sidekick. Brave, loyal, moral, and possessed of a Lagonda to kill for.

Hastings. The ultimate dimwit sidekick. Brave, loyal, moral, and possessed of a Lagonda to kill for.

Would Poe be happy? Thinking he’d like an American heir. Where the third of the great three comes in.

Nero Wolfe. If you think about it, the concatenation of Holmes and Poirot. The third but by no means the least. Rex Stout was the best pure writer of the three. His detective was the most eccentric, a 300 pound orchid fancier from Montenegro who lived in a New York brownstone and only entertained the police by appointment.

Nero Wolfe. The greatest of them all.

Nero Wolfe. The greatest of them all.

He had the best sidekick too. Archie Goodwin was not only as well dressed as all his forebears, but he carried a gun and always tried to save damsels in distress. He also wrote like a gumshoe Hemingway, better (truth be told) than a lot of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, lean clean prose that’s still fun to read. Timothy Hutton followed his instincts and produced a classic series.

Archie Goodwin. Perfect sidekick for the perfect detective.

Archie Goodwin. Perfect sidekick for the perfect detective.

What am I going on about? These three detectives have multi-season series that cycle through Netflix. Look for them. They’re all marvelous, clever, filled with attention to temporal detail. The only one on Netflix at the moment is Hercule Poirot, which is as much monument to the Art Deco period as it is a mystery series. But the same could and should be said of Sherlock Holmes and Nero Wolfe. The former is a view of Victoriana and the latter of New York in the fifties.

The family I’m talking about is civilization. If you miss it, look for these artifacts of it.

How we rise from the doldrums of Obamatopia.

You know. Those Eagles ESPN is sure be racist.

You know. Those Eagles ESPN is sure be racist.

How is it that we’re for the racist Eagles and also for Lewis Hamilton, the Grand Prix F1 Champion who has been called a nigger in Spain and even in his own country? We love him. He’s a better driver than my Scottish heroes Jimmy Clark and Jackie Stewart. We like him because he’s incredibly talented, polite, and just mischievous enough to firehose a supermodel with champagne.

But he’s in trooouuuble now. Because he broke up with his model girlfriend and has been seen with Jamie Farr. He’s been Partying!

So, after a month off in the middle of the F1 season, the dissipated Champion of Formula 1 returned to the track for the tail whipping he so richly deserved.

He wins the pole and the race. Again.

He wins the pole and the race at the Belgian Grand Prix. Again.

Eagles? Second straight preseason blowout. Must be in good shape indeed to have all those racial fisticuffs in the clubhouse and then come out onto the field to hammer the opposition. In this case the Baltimore Ravens.

What did you think would happen?

What did you think would happen?

E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES… or ducks.

Something in a Times Square. Something bad.

Something in Times Square. Something bad.

The Governor reportedly is not happy, though his binoculars have never been in better repair.

NEW YORK (AP) — New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo says women posing nearly naked for photos in Times Square are breaking the law and undermining efforts to keep the tourist area family friendly. Cuomo said Wednesday on NY1 that the situation is beginning to remind him of the seedy days of the “bad old Times Square.” His friend Mario Andromo heartily agrees.

Thing is, there’s nothing salacious about body paint per se. Unless you’re an old Marxist mayor who pines for the good old days of the politburo, when Viagra was just hundred proof vodka.

It's not really illegal. Think about the meaning of "free country" before you give all the power to people like the Mayor.

It’s not really illegal if you get the body paint right. Without the jingoistic sexist crap, body paint can be darn artistic.

Oh? The Mayor was away on vacation when the breasts in Times Square hit the fan? Well, Isn’t he always? Yes. He has a good reason.

Oh yeah. My PRIVATE pussy. Her tits are cute too.

Oh yeah. My PRIVATE pussy. Her tits are cute too.

Last week, Drudge was pushing sex at 57 with Sharon Stone.

White girls. Still constipated by false modesty.

White girls. Still constipated by false modesty.

But as the stock market crashed, Drudge advanced his agenda by a full decade closer to the Apocalypse. Sex at 67 features an even hotter one.

Topless Grace Jones, 67, hits the stage in just tribal bodypaint and a basque as she headlines Afropunk festival

Grace Jones still cooks.

Grace Jones still cooks.

So I’m happy. Grace Jones was always as hot as they come.

Always a knockout.

Always a knockout.

Or did you want me to talk about Meet the Press, Face the Nation, George Stephanhillarious, and Fox News Sunday? I still can. If you prefer, I’ll remove the breasts and substitute the beasts.

Pretty funny. The Belgian Grand Prix. My wife has been waiting. She’s a hard mistress. What she wants is cars screaming through the city so hard that the city itself screams. Putt putt putt. Oh that’s the Austrians pouting. What we need is screeeaaaming!

Second Driveway

Second Driveway (click all of these for bigger.)

Because he’s only eleven and has eleven times our energy, Rikki gets to go for a walk every night. We wait till the gun nuts are in bed because he looks exactly, completely, unbelievably like a deer.

When those ears pop up, you can hear every Elmer Fudd in the county cock his rifle. So we are careful.

When those ears pop up, you can hear every Elmer Fudd in the county cock his rifle. So we are careful.

So we march past the second driveway up top and barely even pause at our homestead’s cricket green.

Rikki will pee by the bamboos to the right (where the cobras are), but then he wants to go exploring.

Rikki will pee by the bamboos to the right (where the cobras are), but then he wants to go exploring.

We walk past the mysterious wood along the road.

Pretty sure Harry Potter's in there. Or at least his owl is.

Pretty sure Harry Potter’s in there. Or at least his owl is.

And then we arrive at the gates of Mordor.

Where the shadows lie.

Where the shadows lie.

And then, panting slightly, both of us, because even I am eleven in dog years, we turn around and go back home in our magical elven cloaks, which are proof against all the pickup truck headlights in the world.

That was arduous, sahib. Tikki-Tik-Tikki Tavi.

That was arduous, sahib. Tikki-Tik-Tik-Tikki Tavi.

After which we have a cookie, and curl up for a good night’s sleep.

All the other stands around the league have been empty in this first week. Not so in Philadelphia, the so-called "worst fan base in the NFL."

All the other stands around the league have been empty in this first week. Not so in Philadelphia, the so-called “worst fan base in the NFL.”

Well into the second quarter, the Ducks are leading 13-3, and we haven’t even got the chance to cheer deliriously for Tebow yet.

So. Based on one quarter or so of the first preseason game, it’s pretty clear in Philadelphia that they’re going to the SUPER BOWL!!!

Fly, Ducklings, Fly… On to Victory!

She likes it. She really likes it.

She likes it. She really likes it.

The quote above is by my wife. I don’t wrassle with Muffy. I chase her around, the same way she discos with me at mealtimes, and mostly I let her go. Then, SOMETIMES, I swoop down and scoop her up for a two minute cuddle.

I grant you this picture seems like some kind of homage to Clockwork Orange or innumerable Satanic movies. But I ask you, who’s the Satan figure here? Me or the Scotty who loves me without being able to reveal it to another living soul.

She does rest content in my arms for about two minutes. We’re working on the endurance factor. It’s way up from the 20 seconds we started with in December.

The punditocracy is not amused.

The punditocracy is not amused.

I’ve been having a blast the past week or so, posting and commenting on the subject of Donald Trump and the completely, laughably, hysterical reaction to his candidacy by the MSM in all its forms, including National Review (Kevin Williamson, throat clearing noise), and all the pundits on every side of the aisle. I’ve been struggling to come up with an appropriate comparison that illustrates the sheer ridiculousness of the dudgeon. I finally found it. A sudden lightning bolt of insight that’s just perfect.

Here it is. He’s Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack. The outsider who doesn’t care about all the rules he’s breaking and yet understands exactly what rules he’s breaking. He’s enjoying the hell out of himself and the frightened country club members are terrified he will buy the club out from under them and bring in more of the very worst sort, just like him. Enjoy.

Think of all the people you’d cast in the Ted Knight role.

You decide.

You decide.

First pic from my wife's new phone.

First pic from my wife’s new phone.

Me.

Yeah. I always win.

Yeah. I always win. I’m not bald. I’m crazy.

Here’s what’s missing on the jacket.

Flying Skull Squadron

Flying Skull Squadron

All right. What are we up to? Just for fun’s sake there’s the New Avengers, which as far as my wife is concerned beats Emma Peel by a mile.

Because she thinks Purdey is a slag at AbFab.

Got this image from Jeffrey Malashock. He thought it was hilarious, not knowing that I had written this novel all the way back in 1999.

The passion, the degradation...

The passion, the degradation…

Yes, back in the days of Shuteye Town 1999, I was the premier writer of women’s romantic fiction. This is a title I’m especially proud of.

The timeless erotica, the degradation, the Maureen Dowdism of it all...

The timeless erotica, the perversion, the Rosalie Ryder does Maureen Dowd of it all…(Click for bigger.)

Wait till you read the hot hot hot text. (Pardon what is called Greeking, where the words of one novel might be variable compared to the real pay dirt of female erotica.)

Chapter One

Arma virumque her long skirts and voluptuous yet maidenly form cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque the candles which her younger sister had lit hours before venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec the lush scent of the wisteria outside olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque still not married and contemplating the prospect of being a spinster cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto since her virtuous but dull suitor Thomas had fallen off his horse. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit sighed heavily, causing her firm young bosom to heave.

Arma virumque cano handsome stranger, dirty, disheveled, smelling strongly of maleness and travel. Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto ever since the war had begun. Dux femina facta troops and bandits and mysterious things in the night. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Aunt Prunella looked on disapprovingly as arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque the stranger looked directly at her and a strange heat grew in her belly venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

“How dare you speak to me in that way, sir?” she protested.
Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille his arms went round her but she pushed him away and ran back to the house through the rose garden, her breath coming in quick short gasps. terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta and nothing happening for quite a while. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano and nothing continues to happen for a while Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et some cooking and sewing haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque more candle lighting cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris difficulty sleeping iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec rumors of historical events and name dropping in some nearby town olim meminisse iuvabit.

“Wake up!” It was his voice and she came bolt awake, still half in a dream she realized had involved him. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma his arms around her but she pushed him away and virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa more nothing going on but some name dropping and more historical events ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec a famous person shows up and thinks she’s smart and fascinating for a woman olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae more trouble sleeping qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris disturbing rumors about the handsome stranger iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque candles and sewing and cooking and bosom heavings, trouble sleeping, name dropping, horse hooves et cetera Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma around her and this time she did not, could not have resisted because it was page sixty, and she knew it was impossible to hold out past page sixty. She wanted him, had wanted him ever since the moment she first laid eyes on his handsome face and the virile shape of his lean, male body inside those leathern breeches.

“Oh my darling dear,” he breathed, “I’ve wanted you ever since I first saw your beautiful face and the womanly heaving shape of your, er, maidenly form in that dress that’s cut down to here, if you know what I mean.”

And then they didn’t speak. There was only the questing of their hands, their lips, their hundreds of other nonsexual body parts, and finally their things that stiffened or peaked or protuberated or moistened, and they were joined together, as man to woman, and they rose and fell together, as deeply and naturally as the ocean or as two dogs in the street, except that the smell of tallow candles and leathern breeches made it somehow sweeter, more refined, less dirty and disgusting than it is in real life, and they sighed the words of love in the proper dialect in each other’s ear, and kept on joining and rejoining and rejoining some more until dawn, when both of them were exhausted with love, but still not speaking because of the plot complication.

Virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Well, those few paragraphs of Greeking (aka Latining) are about what they imagine when they run into a genuine Don Juan with a yellow carp on his head. Mind blowing. For paragraph after paragraph. After paragraph.

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