Merry Christmas, y'all

Do I even need to tell you how much I identify with this performance?

You noticed the little leg kicks, right? Mmmmm. A stirring rendition of an old chestnut, yes indeedy. And I was worried I wouldn't be able to get into the spirit of things this year. Btw, I have a huge bundle of those old-fashioned red Christmas lights stored away if anyone wants to come hold the ladder for me. *wink*

Ojo - boys

Those of you who monitor Japanese culture are probably aware of this, but I just now heard. There is a portion of Japan's young men who are opting out of conventional gender roles in significantly overt ways. They are rejecting the Japanese work ethic and are cool with the consequences of that choice. They also are growing increasingly ambivalent about heterosexual relationships (which is not to say they are necessarily gay). And they just love clothes, especially clothes that are influenced by feminine styles. Some of them go so far as to wear makeup and dresses. The more interesting ones, however, are redefining fashion rather than merely exchanging one gender wardrobe for the other. Just look at Shinya Yamaguchi's creation at right. This is way edgier than metrosexual, which in comparison is dripping with testosterone.

And that's sort of the main thrust of this shift in fashion sense, taking a stand that boys can be pretty too. These pretty boys are being referred to alternately as "ojo-men" (translate "girly men") or -- and this is interesting -- "herbivorous males" (translate "grass-eaters"), presumably in contrast to the overtly masculine, red-blooded heterosexual meat gnawers we all want our men to be [sic]. Whatever you want to call them, they've got it going on, and they're bound to have a huge impact on traditional gender roles in societies around the world.

Or do they? Will they?

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Of course all this has folks buzzing. And worrying. And scrambling. You can read all about that by Googling the salient terminology (where you'll find articles like this one), but in case the news cycle expires before this post does, I'll hit the highlights for you. Essentially, all sorts of professional observers are being exercised, as they are wont to do, by this situation and feel compelled to sound off, as they are equally wont to do, with all manner of hand-wringing and authoritative pontification. It all boils down to this:

• The money changers are worried sick that these ojo-slackers turning up their cute little noses at an onerous, unrewarding work ethic are going to bring the country to its economic knees.
• The social engineers and moral arbiters, including academia, foresee the utter collapse of the family unit and decimation of the population because herbivorous males aren't all that convinced that chasing skirts is all it's cracked up to be.
• Japanese women are a bit miffed that ojo-boys don't really give a rat's ass how girls think men should behave, and of course a shrinking dating pool can't make the little wenches happy either.
• Peddlers of consumer goods are mystified that these boys appear to be content to opt out of the big ticket purchases intended to keep wage earners in hock their entire working lives. Aside from the killer outfits, ojo-men don't seem to be all that materialistic. Speaking of which ...
• Designers and and marketers and merchants who are better time managers, rather than wasting any of it fretting over what herbivorous males won't buy, are scrambling to find out what they will buy. In other words, they recognize a new niche when they see one, and the more creative (and perhaps empathetic) ones figure they can even shape the demand.
• And then there are, of course, TGs around the globe craning their necks out the ark's windows, waxing ecstatic that this colloquial phenomenon is another precious dove of hope, olive sprig in beak, portending a momentous culture shift of sensibility and acceptance for gender benders of all stripes in all cultures.

The lines are drawn
What makes this story so interesting is that it isn't just about fashion or gender or sexuality, much as we love those subjects. Ojo fashion appears to be inextricably linked to a general rejection of traditional roles as they apply to one's personal behavior and destiny.

Anti-establishmentism
First off, if you are, like me, old enough to recall the 60s "cultural revolution" here in the States, you may be thinking deja vu. Remember "turn on, tune in, drop out"? The era, if you can call it that, was in fact infused with an extreme dissatisfaction with the status quo. "The man" was our enemy. The Vietnam war and the draft were a moral outrage. And there just had to be more to life than a mind-numbing, soul-stealing, meaningless job, a mortgage and rigid social mores. It was time to act. Obviously, the reality didn't measure up to the ideal:  to be honest, most of us were more preoccupied with getting high and getting laid than with taking the high road, and lo these many years later, the proof is in the pudding. Profound cultural change is exceedingly diffiecult and if you're not careful, you become the thing you once despised.

The money game is rigged
In most democratic / capitalist nations, a key tenet is that the hard-working, rule-observing citizen could count on a a reasonable quality of life and an acceptable measure of financial security. Here in the U.S., we call it the American dream. But as we settle into the 21st century, that tenet appears to be turning to bitter dust for many people. It's pretty easy to make a case that there is a self-serving socio-economic gov/corp construct in place that, left to its natural inclination toward greed and manipulation, will eventually rob the worker bees of their hive and drive them to rebellion. Some people, especially young people, are going to say this game sucks, deal me out. You can take your 7:00 am corporate calisthenics and company slogan chants and shove 'em. They were so lame anyway.

Win the battle and lose the war
In this post-feminist era, women are getting on men's nerves. They bristle and snarl when men try to influence, well, anything regarding women's role(s) in the endless dance of the sexes, yet they don't hesitate to shrilly quote chapter and verse from their self-serving manifesto about how they think men should think and feel and behave. Even worse, they themselves appear to be thinking and behaving like men more all the time without realizing (or is it caring?) how unappealing that is to many men. Herbivorous males seem to be reacting by saying, "Know what? You're becoming less and less attractive all the time, and I'm not at all sure you're worth the trouble. In fact, I think I can have more fun playing with myself. But let's do lunch sometime." Game over.

What are you lookin' at?
Gender bending kids are, in a way, in an enviable position: they essentially have only themselves to worry about. They haven't started careers or families, so their choices don't affect anyone but themselves. That, and kids actually enjoy shocking people, getting attention. Even if they do encounter some prejudice, that only reinforces the validity of their, um ... what's the Japanese word for chutzpah? Besides, mirrors are so much more fun now.

But if they thought that high school peer pressure was tough, just wait until the real world starts working on them. The pressure to conform never lets up no matter how old you are, and the stakes can get much higher. That's when we'll find out which ones really mean it.

My take on all this
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
A sense of disenfranchisement is inevitable when working class people can't make ends meet, let alone have a nice life, in return for an honest day's work. Greedy corporations like it like that, of course, and naturally they're going to wag their fingers in disapproval when their minions start challenging the status quo. But fuck 'em, one way or another, we've got to get back to a livable wage for ordinary people, especially in light of the extraordinary dedication that Japanese companies demand. The stock market has no conscience, so nothing's changing 'til enough people push back -- or opt out.

But bailing out of "the system" entirely can have long-range consequences. One of these days these kids are gonna look up and they're 39, with no prospects, and realize they've had their heads clear up their asses. For the average guy, it's tough to make up that lost ground. When they attempt to rectify things, the system will have them by the balls more than ever. Maybe they should be thinking about Plan B, whatever that is, right now. I guess what I'd like them to know is that the rebellious passions of youth rarely have staying power, at least in that pure form they imagine to be inviolable. The system is going to change you, or else you'll wind up a homeless person. So better to change it what little you can now, while you have the chance, before it starts in on you. And just so you know, it's tough to exert any lasting pressure from the outside looking in.

You're not the boss of me
"Okay women of the [democratic Westernized] universe, you've carved out your stake in the man's world (although why you'd want it is beyond me), so lighten the fuck up. And get off my back. You don't have a penis between your legs and you never will, so quit trying to tell me who and what a man is supposed to be. There is a limit to what I will put up with. Got it? You're hard enough to put up with when you're trying to be nice. Sheesh. Speaking of which, if I can't get what I need from you, then I'll just do it myself."

Well, presumably that's more or less the logic underscoring the herbivorous male's disenchantment with The Dating Game. To which I can only respond with, wow, things must be getting pretty bad if that's what it's come to, given a twenty-something's raging hormones. And I gotta say I can understand -- understand their frustration, understand their fascination with being pretty themselves. And I totally get acting out that which I find lacking in my life. But ...

Ultimately, unchecked narcissism is a lose-lose propostition. Maybe putting a little distance between the sexes is what it will take to iron things out, I dunno. Whatever, one is a lonely number, sooner or later. And true narcissists eventually alienate everyone around them -- out of exhaustion, if nothing else. Cuz they go crazy, basically.

So I guess I'm saying, I just don't think alienation is a viable long-range strategy. And mind you, I'm saying that as someone who could be content replacing a her with a him, given the chance. But him or her, it needs to be someone other than me. If any society devolves into a culture of onanists, weirdness can't be far off.

You say you want a revolution
Oh my, how TGs do love waxing ecstatic over the latest portent of social acceptance, and the hubbub over ojo-men is no exception. For one thing, we just love someone else doing the heavy lifting for us, especially when it's The Next Generation, with such strong backs and so full of promise of the brave new world that we failed to achieve ourselves.

Well, it just so happens that in this instance I sort of agree with the optimists. It's not that I believe that ojo-boys constitute a tsunami of culture-changing influence, or that even if they did, their rising tide will raise all ships. But I do believe that collectively, all these bubbles and burps of awareness can eventually help general society get over its gender rigidity to the point of being much more tolerant, if not accepting. Sorta like boiling a frog. * Two caveats, however:

1. Herbivorous males are not drag queens/trannies. Both groups can conceivably serve each other's interests, but crossdressers and transsexuals are still gonna have to do their own legwork. Sorry.
2. By and large, kids could care less what our agendas are. If some of them do happen to take up the cause, you can bet your bippy they will have their own motives and their own way of doing things. Their iterations may only vaguely resemble ours, if that. And in bottom-up, youth-worshiping cultures such as ours, their social assimilation may be of only marginal benefit to their predecessors. In other words, we may be on our way to becoming old school. Sorry.

**********

In researching this story, I happened across this video about Japanese maid cafes and couldn't resist including it here. Another bubble, perhaps? Whatever it is, I'd love to play.

**********

* The folk wisdom being that if you toss a frog into a scalding pot of water, he will hop right back out, but gently place Mr. Hoppy into tepid water and slowly bring it to a boil and he will not notice the difference until it's too late.

Semper gumby *

Pristine recently posted a Levi's ad on her blog featuring a TG (there's a link to her in the left column). Well that led me to browsing commercials on YouTube, which eventually led me to this one:

I still haven't figured out what they're peddling here, but as far as I'm concerned, it would work just fine making a case for bi-sexuality. Why eliminate 50% of the indigenous population? Even if you have your favorite, sometimes you just gotta work with what you got. I mean, it's more fun than doing without. Way more. ;-)

* Semper gumby = always flexible

Gettin cheeky for Halloween

Halloween 2009 will be the first time since I was a little kid to wear a costume to a costume party. I'd luv to throw lots of money at the situation for an ultra glam or ultra exotic outfit, but since I can't do that, I'm opting for that good ole cheap and easy cliche, Daisy Duke. And besides, when else will I have the opportunity to show so much leg without getting ejected from the premises for public indecency? I've already fashioned some ultra short denim cutoffs from a pair of jeans a la the photo at left and run them through the wash/dry cycle a couple of times to get the fringe thing going, and you can be sure I'm gonna starch and iron those bad girls to keep everything in its proper place. For the top, I've been deliberating between homage to Al Kapp's original Daisy Mae in the Lil Abner strip as fleshed out on stage and screen, or the classic Catherine Bach of Dukes of Hazard, um, fame.

Since I lack the blonde hair or creamy white shoulders or convincing decolletage of Daisy Mae in her little gravity defying polka dot number, I think I'll opt for a cute l/sl shirt I spotted at NY&Co, tied at the midriff, which I'm working on as we speak (the midriff, I mean). :-P As for the legs and butt, it's time to cash in on all the cycling this summer.

What are you gonna wear to the party?

*****

Update -- while out walking this afternoon I stopped in a thrift shop to browse the racks and guess what I found. Yup, a cute pink and white striped l/sl Liz Claiburne shirt in just my size, tailored just the way I like them, perfect for my Daisy costume. Price = a buck fifty. That's pretty much my entire cost for the whole outfit since my shorts were made from jeans I already had. I mean, we're talking zero carbon credits expended here. In this economy and the new recycling sensibility, I think I should win the costume contest on those merits alone, if it weren't for the fact that if anyone asks I'll probably say I paid 60 for the shirt and 45 for the shorts. ;-) Just tried it all on with some wedge heels and my new shoulder-length brunette wig and gotta say, pretty cute! This is gonna be fun.

Now where can I find some fake navel piercing jewelry ...

Adios mi amiga

Here in the cultural hinterlands, finding TG friends to hang out with is tough. 99.9% of the time, when I go out to the clubs or wherever, I'm the only crossdresser in the joint. That circumstance isn't the burden it once was now that I've finally managed to make a few friends (even if they're just bar friends) and establish a smidgen of credibility among the GL>BT rank and file, but still, it's just human nature to seek out our own kind, right? I've known quite a few CDs in this area and spent time with several, but there always seems to be something fleeting about those relationships. Far and away the longest and most stable was with my friend Reana. And now Reana is gone, too.

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We met online and kept a lively correspondence going in fits and starts as various topics engaged our interest. Eventually she drove to Amarillo from her home near Childress and we made the rounds of the clubs, me serving as her guide, becoming good friends even if all we really had in common was CDing. She would return every two or three months, we'd hit the bars til closing time then sit up all night talking. She loved to talk. We kept an online dialog going in between her visits.

Reana was a little older than me, never married, successful in business, very tall and slender, quirky but interesting, meticulous, arbitrary and stubborn in her thinking. It was hard to make her laugh but she smiled a lot, had beautiful teeth and was good at makeup, although she was hyper-critical of the latter. She liked making friends but kept her emotional distance. She loved cars, car shows, car collecting. And she loved crossdressing. An entire bedroom in her home served as her wardrobe room. She preferred very short belted sweater dresses, 5-inch heels, blonde page boy wigs, pantyhose and big silver purses. She liked traveling to Houston to get makeovers and attend events hosted by Vanity Wilde. The last time she did that (2007 Halloween weekend) she fulfilled one of her oldest and fondest fantasies -- to dress up as Elvira. She was too self-conscious about her height and inability to pass to go anywhere but the clubs in full drag, but when traveling she liked to wear girl's jeans, eye makeup and moccasins.

Reana had one of the oddest fetishes I've ever encountered -- she loved ballet-type slippers and beaded moccasins, found them highly erotic. (If you're interested, you can learn more at her Flickr profile.) She had slippers custom made for her in Mexico, had dozens if not hundreds of pairs, mostly gold and silver, even had them in various sizes so she could give them to friends. She gave me some and even though I never understood the fetish, I wore them occasionally just to please her. We were both bi-sexual but we were also both bottoms, so sex was never part of our relationship -- or rather, it never went farther than modeling for each other and discussing our fantasies (and some of my exploits). We rocked along like that for a couple of years.

Then about a year and a half ago, I temporarily lost my mind and decided I was through with CDing (but that's another story). I mailed Reana a few of my things I knew she would like and got rid of the rest. I made it clear to Reana that this did not mean the end of our friendship as far as I was concerned, but in light of CDing being our only commonality, interest waned and we effectively lost touch. My bad.

Months later, when I had regained my senses, I emailed Reana but received no reply, which was not like her at all as she was a very conscientious correspondent. Finally, I called her, first at home with no answer, then at her business. As soon as she answered and discovered who was calling, she started crying, which was also very much out of character for her. I wouldn't have believed anything could make Reana cry. I instantly knew something was terribly wrong.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"Oh my god, you have cancer don't you?"

A long pause as she struggled to regain her composure, then a quiet, "Yes."

She had lung cancer, even though she'd never smoked in her life, and it was spreading fast. The prognosis was so dismal the doctors didn't even recommend treatment beyond pain management. She had elected to pursue chemotherapy, but it wasn't working. Reana was only 60 years old.

By the time I reestablished contact, Reana was too ill to dress or get out much. She had lost the will to dress but grieved its loss, so much so that I was reluctant to even bring up the subject unless she pressed me for details of my own activities, and whenever she did so I offered to come get her and bring her to Amarillo for an outing but, ever vain, she was too self-conscious about her failing appearance and she really didn't have the strength. I began calling her by her male name and started using mine in our conversations. We never saw each other again. I called every week or two until it became apparent that talking was exhausting for her, so I cut back to once every month or so. The last time I talked to her she was in great pain and close to being bed-ridden, not even going to her office any more.

Then she didn't answer her phone in July. Or August. I finally called her business and was told she had passed away in late June. And that was that.

Her numbers were still on my cell phone and it felt so strange not to be able to dial her up. I only just now could bring myself to delete her name from my phone. Like a fool I had returned her slippers to her when I purged, knowing it would displease her if they weren't being used, and now I wish I could wear them in her memory. I think about her every time I get dressed, usually as I'm driving to Amarillo, or sitting in the club wishing I had her to talk to. I don't think Reana would have missed me as much if it had been me who had passed, and I doubt she would have ever thought to memorialize me, but I don't care. That was just how she was, and I am who I am. I miss my friend, and it breaks my heart that she knew such terrible sadness at the end.

**********

Saturday night at the club, I learned that Frankie, a long-time member of the local gay community and intermittent employee of the 212 Club, passed away a few days ago. He had been fighting cancer a long time, had beat it back into remission only to see it return with a vengeance. In appearance, he looked to my eyes like a character Gary Trudeau (Doonesbury creator) might draw. Frankie was such a sweet guy, always so nice to me back when I first started dressing and exploring the gay world. He would walk me out to my car if I felt insecure. I'll never forget him giving me a drink on the house one night when I felt so alone, like I'd never fit in. He spoke up for me when catty gays talked behind my back, and he would warn me away if he saw a guy hitting on me who might be trouble. Nothing much got past Frankie, and he cared. I hate it that he's gone. Bye Frankie.

Oh what a feeling -- or not

I was well into my twenties before I ever experienced fellatio for the first time, and I must say I was an immediate fan. I will be forever grateful to the young lady so gracious as to introduce me to that distinctive pleasure. I've always enjoyed foreplay -- to the progressive point that I now place as much value on it as I do on consummation -- so in the ensuing years I made it apparent to my partners (all of whom were female) that I preferred that we make blowjobs a routine part of our methodology. I never saw any reason to drop it from the play book. Sure, some of the original thrill may have worn off over the years, but I never tired of the experience. Which is sorta puzzling because in all those years of head, I rarely if ever was stimulated to the point of orgasm by fellatio, that is until I eventually paired up with a woman generous and uninhibited enough to help me discover the right combination of stimuli to achieve that most elusive and fleeting state of nirvana ...

...

But I digress. We must leave off here and fast-forward in this fascinating personal history to my introduction to the vagaries of gay sex -- and one of the many naive misconceptions I brought to the playing field, namely the presumption that a guy, by virtue of sharing the same anatomy as his partner and having himself been the recipient of fellatio, can perform same better than any woman could ever hope to do. It just seems logical. And intuitive. I can just see the uninitiated among you nodding your heads in agreement.

So imagine the dewy little rainbow-colored droplets of surprise splattered all over my face when that particular bubble burst.

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Yup, you heard me right. I would not have believed it going in, and I seriously do not want it to be true, but I gotta tell ya, I am compelled by empirical evidence to conclude that women are better at giving head than are men. In other words, comparatively speaking, men suck at sucking.

Inject disclaimer here
I know, I know, I'm painting with a broad brush stroke here, and admittedly my experience lacks the depth and breadth of many (perhaps most) gays and bi guys. After all, I haven't had that many "partners" and I've never been involved in a gay LTR, so I'm definitely extrapolating from a relatively small sampling. And in all fairness, I have to admit that a guy once gave me a blowjob that was as good as any I've ever had -- a very intense experience that was both exciting and satisfying.

Resume diatribe
But these caveats do not alter the fact that 90% of the guys I've done the wild thang with left a lot to be desired in the fellatio department; in fact, they were pathetic, just pathetic. In some cases, I couldn't really tell they were doing anything. I would look down and confirm that yes, they did indeed have my cock in their mouths, and there did appear to be some physical motion involved, but any other form of sensory input was negligible. Trying to be gracious, I would think to myself, "Well, maybe he's just keeping it warm for me, isn't that thoughtful". Whenever he looked up into my eyes, I would smile sweetly and ask, "Do you mind if I smoke?" Even when the guys show some aptitude, rarely does it approach the level of pleasure served up by the more enthusiastic women I've known.

So how to explain this disparity? Well, I've been thinking about it and here's what I've come up with:

1. I suspect that some of the male partners I've had just aren't that experienced, for whatever reason. Maybe they're newbies, or maybe they don't get much, or maybe this is a sideline departure from their hetero life. I'd go so far as to say some guys are more than a little conflicted about being a cocksucker.


2. A lot of guys, being guys, are more engrossed in the fact that they are sucking cock than with what the experience is like for the recipient. Sort of like, "Oh boy, I have a cock in my mouth!" rather than, "Oh yeah, I'm driving him crazy with pleasure!"


3. Too few men understand that giving head isn't just about sucking. There's a lot more that can be going on with the hands and the bodies during fellatio. And there's also the matter of being sexy while you're doing it, of looking good and sounding good and exuding an air of amped up sexuality.


4. Too often, sex between men is just wham-bam, with no romance or relationship involved. That's certainly been true in my case, which is not to say I prefer it that way. I get all sorts of gushy feelings welling up when I have sex, but rarely do I sense that being reciprocated.


5. Given the anatomical and genital differences between men and women, I think many women are intrigued with our equipment to the extent that they approach the vocation with a fascination born of the difference, not in spite of it. They're more focused precisely because our cocks are so different from their own equipment and they love finding out what makes it happy. Plus women's sexuality tends to be more subtle and nuanced than men's, and they're more in tune with what's going on with their partners. And there may be a little mothering going on, I dunno.


6. Women are more patient than men.

The net result of this phenomenon is that I would much rather give head than receive it. More than half the guys who hit on me make it known that they're hot to go down on me, and I usually let them, but my expectations, and along with them my enthusiasm, are pretty low. Keeps me from being disappointed, I guess. If they ask me beforehand what i like to do, I talk about giving pleasure, never about receiving it.

Speaking of which, now that I too am a card-carrying member not only of the male and female genders, but also of the Cocksucker Club, how do I stack up? Am I any better at giving head than the guys I've been bitching about? The short answer is that I'd have to say yeah, I am, but the long answer is that there's definitely been a learning curve involved, and to those who have had to suffer through my apprenticeship, I apologize.

Judging from the behavior of my partners and my success ratio (success equaling orgasm, or at least a suitable level of satisfaction), I can only surmise that my first few attempts were abysmal. Not only was I not bringing them to climax, they tended to pull the plug before I was ready to quit, out of boredom or frustration, I presume. Even when I started getting better, I was only batting, oh, say, .150. For one thing, I was as guilty of the "oh boy I have a cock in my mouth" syndrome as anyone. But then I had a breakthrough, an epiphany, the catalyst being the recollection of the techniques of a couple of women in my past who were particularly adept at fellatio. Firing up the synapses, I meditated on the their techniques, mannerisms and the levels of pleasure they seemed to be giving and receiving. Once I learned to incorporate those methods and components into my own cocksucking, along with my own creative twists, my stats shot way up. In all modesty, I have to say my average has gotta be up around .700 these days. Not bad for a relative rookie, and I owe it all to women.

Addendum
I don't have to strain very hard to guess that some guys reading this might object, perhaps strenuously. You may challenge the notion of fellator inferiority as patently absurd. To which I can only say ...

... yeah well, prove it.

A toasty pan of chestnuts

A friend asked me to connect to her Yahoo thingy, which sort of necessitated that I update my Yahoo thingy (I don't really like Yahoo much, but oh well). In the About Me stuff was a place to cite favorite quotes, so I got out my Moleskine ... while I'm at it, I thought I'd quote a few here just for grins:

Everybody is somebody's fool. -- Orson Welles, from the movie Lady Shanghai

There are times when you want to stop working at faith and just be washed in a blowing wind that tells you everything. -- Don DeLilo, Underworld

It is interesting to think of the great blaze of heaven that we winnow down to animal shapes and kitchen tools. -- Don DeLilo, Underworld

She's a shotgun rider, but she don't open no gates. -- Death Cab Cutie

There is no real way to deal with everything we lose. -- Joan Didion

Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. -- Paul Theroux quoting Pico Iyer quoting an anonymous source

I wanna do right, but not right now. -- Gillian Welch, Look At Miss Ohio

The beatings will continue until morale improves. -- Floyd

Happy endings are stories that haven't finished yet. -- a line from Mr. & Mrs. Smith

How many things have to happen before something occurs to you? -- Robert Frost

Every day of freedom is like an act of faith. -- line from Defiance

The heart has its reasons that reason knows not of. -- Pascal

When your heart speaks, take good notes. -- Judith Campbell

There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled. There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled. You feel it, don't you? -- Rumi

It is really this that makes death so hard: curiosity unsatisfied. -- Beryl Markham, West With the Night

No human pursuit achieves dignity until it can be called work, and when you can experience a physical loneliness for the tools of your trade, you see that the other things - the experiments, the irrelevant vocations, the vanities you used to hold - were false to you. -- Beryl Markham, West With the Night

The more we know of particular things, the more we know of God. -- Spinoza

God punishes the ones He loves most. -- Ukraine saying

I was violating my standards faster than I could lower them. -- Robin Williams

You are young and smart and you have a bright future. Andy on a good day thinks maybe he's smart. -- a female detective on NYPD Blue speaking to an assistant DA who'd just had a heated exchange with Andy Sipowitz

Everything in life involves a trade-off. -- me