Hi friends! This here web log has had it’s best month, in terms of hits, thanks primarily to three regular readers and several hundred perverts. As previously mentioned, I’ve gotten quite a bit of what I like to call ‘pegging traffic’; that is, people who have used a search engine to find information or images of the sex act of pegging and ended up here. I suppose it’s the tasteful watercolor depicting pegging that I posted here, twice, but still I ask, “Where are the people searching for the intermittent ramblings of a reformed lunatic?” It’s sad when all the pearls fall upon deaf ears, to mix some metaphors.
That said, here are a few more images of pegs throughout the ages.
Right now there’s a lovely breeze blowing in from the east. I’m in my bedroom, watching Amadeus and drinking this wickedly cheap wine my mother left in my fridge when she was here last week. I’m drinking it iced, if that should reveal how wicked it is. Still, twelve dollars American for a large bottle? Boucheron me ASAP.
Salieri has just ordered a servant to see Frau Mozart out of his house. She is half-naked and under the impression that sleeping with him will secure an appointment for her husband to teach music to the Emperor’s niece. It’s the directors cut. I find the scene vexing because when I saw the movie for the first time (I was ten or so) I felt strangely sympathetic for poor Salieri, the loser with the sweet tooth and acne scars. This flesh peddle of a married woman makes him seem seedy and therefore not exactly worthy of the affection of a twelve year-old.
Oh, look! Here’s a lovely bit from The Magic Flute!
It’s the Queen of the Night demanding vengeance, I think. She’d do just as well with some Boucheron on ice, probably.
In case the total lack of posts on this here thing didn’t confirm that, my silence speaking for itself. I think I might start a blog of comments from other blogs. Or a blog of pictures of lawn decorations that look tortured or neglected. Maybe a blog about not blogging.
What I mean to say, people, is that I’m thinking about this thing. I’m thinking about a lot of things. This has been a summer of thoughts; thoughts about that woodchuck that wandered under a Prius in Brooklyn; about Robert Moses and Jones Beach and how both are ultimately second rate; about the semicolon and how I love it; about painting and curtains and shelf-hanging; about trips to Beacon that end on the side of the Grand Central Parkway then later in a tow truck talking about flesh and steel and the incompatability of the two; thoughts about the horrid denim that Europeans prefer; thoughts about Paula Poundstone and Orly Tainz; about Milan and Lafayette, New York; about pasta salad and New Jersey; thoughts about Doris Duke and rain and sweat and Wal Mart and feeling low or puppeted or wonderful or low and puppeted and wonderful and how, eventually, all these days here are composed of gentle and amusing terrors.
More to come. I promise (mostly myself). More to come.
I’m trying to do this thing where when I start to think a needlessly critical thought about myself or others I stop and think something nice, or nothing at all.
Forcing myself to think like this is miserable.
Rather, thinking like this is wonderful. Yes, wonderful.
The first and, to date, only boyfriend I have lived with wore a cologne by Sonia Rykiel. It was purple colored and came in a bottle shaped like a t-shirt. See below.
I smelled it at the gym today and almost vomited. Smell can be funny like that.
Hannibal knew something of the power of our olfactory senses, too.
I smelled it at the gym today and almost vomited. Smell can be funny like that.
