News Item: The parent company of Ashley Madison, a matchmaking website for cheating spouses, says it was hacked and that the personal information of some of its users was posted online.
— JD (@JDfromCJAY) July 21, 2015
News Item: The parent company of Ashley Madison, a matchmaking website for cheating spouses, says it was hacked and that the personal information of some of its users was posted online.
— JD (@JDfromCJAY) July 21, 2015
Our old friend Cripes Suzette is in Las Vegas, and as always, she’s determined to find out what’s going on:
I wondered what was in the “Intimacy Kit” on the minibar on this hotel room so I picked it up to see.
Feel free to see for yourself. There is, of course, a downside:
And now I’m going to have a $32.00 charge on my bill for moving it off the sensor.
Curiosity killed the Carte Blanche.
The Coca-Cola Company says so:
Coke is for boys, Diet Coke is for girls? Am I misreading this? pic.twitter.com/veBeknLeQE
— ☞ Chris Messina ☜ (@chrismessina) July 12, 2015
I think I’ll take another swig of Dr Pepper.
Does this need explanation?
— TAXI (@designtaxi) July 9, 2015
To quote the guy (29, Harvard Biz grad):
[I]f you work 12 hours/day, how would you want to spend the few waking hours you have left? Probably not standing around in a bar with your fingers crossed. This is way more fun for me.
If the relationship holds up for six months, he writes the check. I, for one, wonder how anyone can have anything resembling a relationship with a person who works twelve hours a day for a few weeks, let alone half a year.
Disclosure: I work about 9.5 hours a day.
We have here a clear example of “We didn’t plan for this”:
Once someone from @Lovestruck told me I'd have to sign up twice, once as straight and once as gay because of "the way their database works"!
— Holly Brockwell (@holly) June 28, 2015
If bisexuals confuse them so, imagine what pansexuals would do. (Or perhaps you shouldn’t.)
Online dating, it’s always seemed to me, is problematic by definition; it’s the equivalent of buying a used car without a test drive, and you don’t have anything resembling a warranty. So I’m not too surprised by this question:
Recently talking to a guy on [OKCupid] and asked him out for a beer after a rough day. He replied “only if you’re buying”. Are women giving into this douchebag attitude and reinforcing this kind of behavior? Wtf?
Have guys gotten more douchey? I don’t know. I think fuckwits like the ones in all of these stories have always been there. Negging isn’t exactly new, nor is concern trolling women about their attractiveness. The reality is that a lot of men feel completely comfortable expressing their unsolicited opinions about our looks or body. Many men are still under the impression that we exist solely for their gaze. As such, they believe they have free reign when it comes to offering suggestions about how we could become more attractive. Because, see, that’s our main purpose on this earth. I think we’re hearing more about this sort of behavior now because of social media.
All of that said, I think a lot of men on dating sites are tired of being used for free stuff. You asked this guy for a drink, which means you should have expected to pay. While completely tactless, it sounds to me like the guy was trying to make his expectations clear. Additionally, I think it’s safe to assume this guy wasn’t terribly interested in you, which brings me to the dating leagues issue we often discuss here. If this guy was genuine in his interest for you, he wouldn’t have said that. He would have met up with you and offered to pay.
Apparent conclusion: loser, but not necessarily typical loser.
Test drive concluded. Return vehicle and keys, and never speak of this experience again.
Caroline Cossey is a fairly normal Southern housewife with a trace of England in her voice; she’s sixty, she’s tall (6′), and since she lives in Kennesaw, Georgia, she owns a gun. But once in a while someone stumbles across the memory hole, and in this month’s Playboy there’s a repeat of a 1991 pictorial of Cossey under her nom de model Tula, and a new interview with the woman once known as Barry Cossey.
Minor anatomical detail: Cossey was born in 1954 with a variation on Klinefelter’s syndrome; instead of XX or XY, she was XXXY. She transitioned in her late teens, had The Surgery at twenty-one, and began a not-so-low-key modeling career, perhaps peaking with her appearance as an extra in For Your Eyes Only, which led to her first appearance in Playboy, in her capacity as one of several anonymous Bond girls. Things might have leveled off there, except that one of the more odious British tabloids, the News of the World, put her on the front page with the headline “James Bond Girl Was a Boy.”
Playboy asked her: “Has the growing acceptance of LGBT people made life easier?” She replied:
“I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling like a second-class citizen. It’s embedded and instilled from birth. You grow up, you don’t fit in, you don’t belong, you’re bullied. That doesn’t go away in five minutes. I don’t think it ever goes away. When I look back at it all, what I went through was tragic. But how do you deal with pain? You shrug it off. That’s the British way of doing it, at least.”
Would she do another James Bond film, if asked?
“I would never say no to something that’s tastefully done, but I’m not expecting to grace any covers anytime soon.”
Her 1991 pictorial was tastefully done, but, if you don’t mind my saying so, surgical techniques may have improved since then.
The July Collectible Classic in Automobile is the legendary Alfa Romeo Spider, manufactured from 1966 to 1994, and Kara Snow’s description of her ’74 made my heart melt a little:
The Spider adds a little Italian sophistication to everyday life. Rare are the days one can cruise the sun-dappled country roads of Tuscany or visit Verona for espresso and biscotti at a posh outdoor bistro. Yet I can wrap my head in a diaphanous scarf, don sunglasses and driving gloves, and stomp on the gas pedal with a Prada stiletto, transforming the mean L.A. streets into an Italian daydream. You’ll get no such experience in a Mazda Miata.
If your immediate reaction is “Well, yeah, but the Mazda won’t break during your daydream,” let me go back to the end of the previous paragraph:
[M]ost repairs can be done in the driveway. For instance, I replaced the Spider’s stock Spica fuel-injection system with twin Italian-built Weber carburetors in an afternoon.
For, you see, I have daydreams of my own.
The last time we checked in with the Swedish Association for Sexuality Education, they’d come up with a term to replace “hymen”: “slidkrans,” which has the advantage of not meaning “membrane.”
That was five years ago. And it’s not like the RFSU has had nothing to do since then:
Last year, Swedish Association for Sexuality Education announced it was holding a poll to find a new word for the act as an important step in establishing equality for the sexes. Now, from more than 1,200 suggestions, the winner has emerged as “Klittra,” a combination of Clitoris and Glitter.
Guys, of course, have been holding their polls for years. Or something like that.
But what about further afield? The reaction to the story in the English-speaking world suggests that there isn’t currently a suitable term for female masturbation in English, and the concept and etymology of the Swedish term make it a perfect candidate to fill a void that is just as pressing in English as it is in Swedish.
So don’t be surprised to see Klittra make the move across languages in the next few years and establish itself as the world’s universal term for what is, after all, a universal act.
Mulva (or was it Dolores?) was not available for comment.
(With thanks to Nancy Friedman.)
After several years of wry but (mostly) cheerful breakup songs from tall blondes, I suppose it was time I went as far in the other direction as is humanly possible:
For lack of a better description, this is grief personified. And towards the end, she does what she must: she puts herself as far away from the source as possible.
If I’ve ever done this to you, can you ever forgive me? (The answer, of course, is No.)
(Via Sheila O’Malley.)
Two souls with a single thought, however far apart:
Of course they’re dating.
Robert Stacy McCain, who was once a college-age lad himself, offers advice to the present-day generation:
It is easier for many young women nowadays to express craven sexual lust than to admit their actual desire to be loved, and I think a lot of young guys are confused by these mixed messages. As religious morality has waned, and as the “script” of romantic custom has been dissolved by an acidic postmodern cynicism, many youth simply don’t know how to negotiate their male-female relationships in what we adults would consider a reasonable manner.
Therefore, I’d tell a young guy who is “on the hunt,” so to speak, to consider that it is better to lose out on an opportunity to “score,” if he cannot “score” on a basis of honesty. Don’t get yourself into a situation where there is confusion as to whether it’s friendship, romance or just straight-out carnal lust. If you think a girl is getting the wrong idea about the transaction, better to tell her the blunt truth and risk scaring her off, than to “lead her on” (to use an old-fashioned phrase) with romantic dreams you must eventually shatter.
Love is a contact sport. Severe emotional injuries occur routinely. If you can’t play the game by fair rules, you’d be better off staying on the sidelines.
Having never really been on the receiving end of “craven sexual lust,” at least not to the extent that I developed any reliable means of recognizing it in the first place, I can’t really just sit here and nod; but I can agree — indeed, I must agree — that it’s better to forgo that extra notch on the headboard if you’re not absolutely certain of the mental states, both yours and hers, involved. Dealing with a brief period of cornflower hue in the scrotal region is far better than dealing with legal briefs.
There’s been some sparring in social media over the feminism, or lack thereof, that obtains in Mad Max: Fury Road, and since I have not yet seen the film, I’m going with the Friar’s assessment [possible spoilers]:
The he-man tough-guy warrior schtick of both Joe and the Humungus fall to a society that values both genders. That idea, by the way, seems to be the extent of the back-and-forth about Fury Road being a “feminist movie.” Pro- and anti-feminist blatherers made a lot about [George] Miller using playwright Eve Ensler as a coach to help the models playing Joe’s wives understand the mindset of someone basically held as a sex slave. That’s fine. My main worry was that he’d hired Ensler to write some of the movie; I’ve read The Vagina Monologues.
I’m still waiting for the inevitable sequel It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Max.
Someone named “Bethanie Beason” — no, wait, it’s “Beason Bethanie” — writes me, addresses me by name, and asks: “Have you noticed you set my body on fire?”
It’s just the hives. You’ll get over it.
Oh, by the way, “Bethanie,” if that is your real name, why does your email come with a footer from TEN: The Enthusiast Network, publisher of Motor Trend and Automobile? (The TEN links, however, specify Bike magazine, one of the TEN mags to which I don’t subscribe; the rest of the links go to some obscure Tumblr.) And who is this “Stephany” whose picture I’m supposed to want to see?
The probability of someone actually coming on to me, or someone actually feeling feverish in my presence, is of course somewhere between negligible and nonexistent.
So this showed up earlier today:
The guy next to me on the subway was checking Twitter; he followed almost all the same people I did but NO WOMEN. Passive sexism is for real
— Jessica Valenti (@JessicaValenti) May 12, 2015
In actual English, this can mean only one of one thing. If he follows “almost all the same people” she does, and he follows no women at all, one is forced to conclude that she must not follow very many women herself — or that she’s running behind on her Bad Example quota.
One more nail sticking up, for someone who wields only a hammer.
I haven’t decided if this is fiendishly clever or utterly pitiful, so it’s up to you guys:
Explanation for this query:
I want to reduce the USB transfer speed. I use windows 8.1 and I get a transfer speed of 17.5 MB per second through USB. I want to slow it down temporarily. Here is the Story for those who are curious, I met an awesome girl on a trip, we found out that we both are from the same city so she asked if i can take pics of her as she forgot her cam. So i took many pics of her which comes around 400 mb totally. Tomorrow she told me she would meet me to get those pics, I told her transferring pics would take an hour or so, I know it will get over in few min but this is like the only valid reason I have to meet her. So i just wanna slow down the transfer speed temporarily so I ll have little time to get to know her even better. Please help me guy. I dont wanna reduce it forever. I hate slow speed USB transfer. I just wanna make sure it takes at least 40 min. How to do it?
Note: The punctuation in the original was sufficiently random, in my judgment, to warrant some minor corrections.
The underlying assumption here is that The Girl won’t realize that he’s screwed around with the mechanism. I have a gut feeling that about six minutes into this scamlet, she’s going to ask why it’s taking so long, it never takes this long with her USB sticks.
Media fascination with Bruce Jenner seems to have evaporated with Jenner’s declaration of affinity with the Constitution and the GOP. These two items showed up more or less simultaneously in my Twitter timeline, and in fact, you’re seeing a screenshot from TweetDeck that illustrates that evaporation most economically:
I suspect Jenner’s happy to have the camera pointed in some other direction.
I mean, Miss Rhode Island says so:
— Ben Winslow (@BenWinslow) April 25, 2015
Then again, it got up to 84 today in Oklahoma City. Decide for yourself if that’s too hot or too cold.
(Scene, of course, from Miss Congeniality.)
Remember the old “Advice to the Lovelorn” columns? Useless in the Internet age, says Robert Stacy McCain:
Whereas in the Dead Tree Age, it was possible to be clueless about sex and relationships, in the Information Age, the only clueless people are (a) stupid or (b) quasi-autistic nerd types with impaired social perception. Everybody else is able to Google up their own particular issue and figure it out. By 2006, all potential relationship problems (“Is my penis too small?” “If you have to ask, the answer is yes.”) had already been answered somewhere on the Internet.
The only reason anyone would still be publishing an online Relationship Advice column in 2015 is to serve that niche readership of Pathetic Nerds Who Just Don’t Get It.
A sample of PNWJDGI:
Q. I think the attractive woman in the next cubicle likes me. How do I find out for sure?
A. No, she doesn’t like you. Nobody likes you. You are an ugly man with Asperger’s Syndrome and nobody likes you. This woman on whom you have a sick fixated obsession doesn’t like you. If she smiles at you, that’s because you’re creeping her out. You make her nervous, staring at her constantly. Her smile is a sort of defensive shield. She has nightmares about you stabbing her in the parking lot, you disgusting weirdo. Leave her alone. Leave women alone, period. Don’t even look at a woman.
No, I didn’t ask that. For one thing, there is no “next cubicle” involved.
I’ve followed the development of this mess for a couple of years now. A former competitive air gun shooter, Stacey modeled for several of my RKBA posters, and I got to hear a bit about her situation. My advice was “get out now!” but the reality proved more difficult.
And this is the reality:
In 2001 I married a man I believed to be the one who would love and protect me for the rest of my life. He had a volatile temper, but I just chalked it up to us being fairly young and didn’t worry about it much. A couple of years went by he began to not only punch holes in the walls and doors of our apartment but he also started to be physical toward me. While I was pregnant with our second son in 2004 my husband went out drinking with his friends and came home drunk.
After that, things got worse. And now it’s come to this:
He was arrested again but he has his attorney again and will probably get another light sentence. I tried to get help filing a divorce through the Legal Aid Society but they have not done anything to help. I recently started working outside the house again to be able to support my children and myself but have not been able to make enough to cover all the attorney fees and divorce filing fees so we can finally escape this completely. A few friends of mine have used gofundme.com in the past and suggested I try it. I hate asking for help, especially help with money, but I need it badly right now to get my children and myself out of this mess. So I’m setting my pride aside and humbly asking for help from my friends and family. I love you all and appreciate you more than you could ever know. Bless you!
This fundraiser went up this afternoon, and has already reached
nearly more than a third of its goal.
Men are like parking places. The good ones are taken. The ones that aren’t taken are handicapped.
That’s gonna leave a long, painted mark.
Being a woman, as far as I can tell, is like walking around Chicago at night wearing a 10-ounce Credit Suisse gold bar on a necklace. Some of the people you will meet will want to buy your bar from you at a fair price. Others will want a bargain. Still others want it for free. Last and worst, you have the people who will simply take it from you through measures ranging from misdirection to naked force. Ask yourself how long you could last under pressure like that, then you’ll have some sympathy of your own. It’s a remarkable gift to be unwanted in this world, to go about your business alone and unremarked-upon. Women, particularly women, don’t get that gift. They have only pressure to yield, mighty and unrelenting as the column of dark water above the Challenger Deep, until the moment that they lose their looks and become utterly invisible to everyone.
In these times, this is perhaps the only meaningful example of so-called “male privilege” from which we are likely to benefit more than theoretically: we can be ignored. I’m thinking maybe I should appreciate it more.
Think about her. What can you offer her? If she is a single mother, her children will come first. Can you be a good father figure? A role model? Can she look up to you as a man? Can you be patient and understanding, and appreciate her for her true self, and forgive her for any of her bad moods? Can you look into her eyes, and without words, tell her that she has someone she can always count on? Do you cuddle?
A male friend offers decidedly different advice, at the very same link.
From the Why Are They Together? files, this item from up the turnpike:
An Oklahoma man says he nearly lost his penis when he woke to find his girlfriend trying to bite it off.
A night of drinking and arguing led to the painful arousal when the victim said he found Amber Ellis “biting his (penis) off” as he slept on the couch Thursday, KJRH reported.
One may surmise that he was at a disadvantage during their, um, disagreement:
He told Tulsa police he fought the 31-year-old off but in the process she hit him in the head with a laptop computer.
Their earlier argument was over his accusing her of being too needy, he said.
Well, at least it wasn’t over whether she swallows or not.
Joni Mitchell once sang “You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio.” This might have been one of her better metaphors of the day, though she admitted later on that what motivated her was not so much good old primitive lust as the desire to present her record label with a hit single so they’d quit pestering her. (This makes it the moral equivalent of, say, “Elenore” by the Turtles.)
I’ve often said that female emotion is not FM, it’s AM. In other words, if you want to sleep with a woman, it doesn’t particularly matter whether she loves or hates you. What’s important is the strength of that emotion. If a woman tells you that you are the worst person on earth and that she prays for your violent death twice a day, you might as well start filing another notch on your guitar. If, on the other hand, she tells her friends that you “seem like a nice guy, I guess,” chances are you’ll be available for your nightly guild meeting in WoW after all.
I would contrast this with my own experience, except that no one listens to shortwave anymore.
Weighing in on the Westminster results, Ann Coulter:
They have to let non-beagle breeds win some years, just to keep it interesting. #Westminster
— Ann Coulter (@AnnCoulter) February 18, 2015
This is true. The following periods had no Beagle wins at all:
I mention in passing that there have been 18 Fox Terrier winners: 14 wire, 4 smooth. (The 1992 winner, Ch. Registry’s Lonesome Dove, once growled at me.)
I don’t think there’s anything particularly unusual about this sales pitch:
Last 10X Longer In Bed
It has never felt so good
And they’d like you to think that “10X” is being cautious, because:
I took this on Valentines Day and went from lasting 2 minutes to over 35.
So: a factor of seventeen, then?
I wouldn’t have noticed it at all, in fact, except for the minor detail that the bogus name they conjured up for the sender accidentally duplicated the name of someone I never actually took to bed — but
might have wanted to.
Maybe. I wouldn’t know.
Herein, number-one grandson — 15 last November, this tall for at least four years now — has approached his ladylove bearing gifts: brownies, and a bear.
She seems pleased.
It’s like, how much more blue could this guy’s nads be? And the answer is none. None more blue:
You all probably have a lot of questions and in an ideal world I would be able to answer them all. However the risks involved in providing a “Q&A session” before death is clearly too high as the medical profession always values “quantity of life” over “quality of life.” It appears that the prevailing ethos is to keep individuals in a state of continual suffering rather than allow an individual choose to die. Hence the huge resistance to euthanasia.
The reason for my death is simple. I have concluded that in the realm of dating and relationships the primary characteristics required for men are as follows.
- Height: above 5ft10
- Race: huge bias towards caucasian and black
- Wealth: or other manifestation of power
From my observations and research it appears that you need two of the three criteria for success with very few exceptions. What does this mean it means that it’s “game over” for me. By choosing to depart early, all I am doing is to accelerate the process of natural selection whilst saving myself a great deal of long term pain in the process.
A single evolutionary dead end does not constitute an acceleration of natural selection.
Still, I’m a quarter-century older than this chap
is was, I manage two of the three criteria with relative ease — and by now we all know how amazingly successful I am with the babes.
After reading some of his, um, research, I am forced to conclude that most of his problems stemmed from being totally full of crap, which in my experience is not often a selling point.
I’d be lying if I said I never had thoughts like this — and the least you can do is let me fib a bit, right?
You’re maybe twenty-seven years old now and you’ve done nothing worth remembering or noting in your life besides food and travel. Your opinions on everything, such as they are, are sourced directly from your friends and/or Jon Stewart. At an age when our ancestors had already conquered nations or produced great art or invented world-changing ideas, you’re still figuring out who you are and what you’re going to do. You live in an overpriced apartment, you go to LA Fitness, you’re out of money at the end of the month, you have no clear recollection of most of your days.
And yet, you’re so beautiful. You’re like the most gorgeous and alluring woman I ever loved in college, but turned up two more notches, an AMG Black Series version of my favorite physiological features, constructed from the unstable isotopes of my deepest fantasies and presented to me on a thoroughly steam-covered phone screen, your tongue poking flirty between your saucy lips. I want to put you in the passenger seat of a Ferrari 458 Speciale and take you around VIR Full Course for ten laps before dragging you into the women’s restroom and bruising the front of your hipbones on a sink. I want to run into the ocean holding your hand and float on the six-foot waves with you while we laugh like children sharing a secret. I want to wake up next to you twenty years from now, startled by our mutual favorite ringtone because our son is calling home from his first week at Yale.
Except that I know it wouldn’t be like that.
Of course it wouldn’t.
What’s most remarkable about this, I think, is the time it takes to concoct a fantasy at this level: 400, maybe 500 milliseconds for it to be conceived, and then a couple of seconds for the narrative to unspool before the whole thing unravels in a whirlwind of 70 percent lust, 30 percent self-loathing. (Your percentage may vary.)