proven innocent

This statement has always struck me as off: "A suspect is considered innocent until proven guilty."

Shouldn't it be "unless proven guilty?" Because to say "until" intimates that the proof of guilt is an absolute certainty, that it's already in the bag, a foregone conclusion. That we're all playing a charade of pretending until the verdict, which will be a slam-dunk guilty.

Now it may be true that a majority of suspects, once brought to trial, will be found guilty. But a majority is not all.

Often you hear lawyers use this statement in media interviews, particularly defense lawyers. You'd think of all people they'd be a bit more precise.

This presumes you're talking about a country with relatively fair trials. Because, of course, if you're arrested in North Korean or Iran or Russia, the "proof" of guilt is as close to absolute certainty that you can get. All you can hope for is some bureaucratic fuck-up and will accidentally be set free.

That's actually what happened to Napoleon's wife. Before he met her, she was in a prison due to be beheaded during the French Revolution. Some records screw up had another woman accidentally put to death in her place. True story.

reincarnation nation

I heard someone on the radio the other day talking about her reincarnation experiences. Whenever I hear alleged first-person narratives, the person claims to remember being something exciting or glamorous in his or her previous life: a lady pirate, a heroic fighter in the French Resistance, an ancient prince, and so forth.

Why is it that people never say, "I was a squirrel until I was eaten by a fox." Or "I was a small bug with a very short and uneventful life." Or "I was a bacterium that infected a now extinct species of weed."

I'm not saying reincarnation doesn't exist -- I would be happy if it does -- but like any aspect of theology, nobody really knows until it's all over and then it's too late to let the rest of us know. So when people make dubious claims, I'd argue it scares more people away from your theology than it attracts interest.

No, you weren't a warrior priestess. You just have an overactive imagination and a need for attention.

poo!!!!!

Joey is now 18 months old but nonetheless still too young for serious potty training. He's definitely starting to think about his bodily functions, however.

He stays dry for a long time, which is a good sign for future potty training, but when he does go, he seems not to care a whit he's sitting in pissy nappies. I suspect that's because they're so absorbent it's difficult to tell they're actually wet.

Poo is another story altogether. When that happens, he wants a change pronto. Recently, in the last two weeks or so, he's taught himself a new trick.

As soon as he goes -- the scent and his facial expressions are excellent indicators -- he'll announce in his loudest voice: "Poo!!!!!" When a diaper change doesn't happen instantly, the complaint is then repeated every ten seconds or so. Poo!!! Poo!!! Poo!!!

This is usually accompanied by him standing still and slightly straddled. I guess he doesn't like the sensation of a wet turd in his drawers.

He picked up this, I'm sure, from me, because when I changed him before his new announcement protocol, I'd always say something like "poo" which he started to repeat in a sort of dialog while I cleaned him up.

I was thinking this could be quite amusing if I happened to take him to a political rally in the next few weeks. The politician would be on stage, promising the moon and the stars, and the world's youngest heckler would suddenly yell "Poo!!!!!"

vibrator lawsuit

Last year I wrote about law banning vibrators in Alabama that was challenged but an appeals court allowed it to stand.

Now comes word of a new lawsuit against a similar ban in a Georgia town which prohibits sex toy sales without a prescription. The woman who filed the suit needs a vibrator because a medical condition prevents her from achieving an orgasm during conventional sex.

To add insult to injury, one of the politician who pushed through the Georgia vibrator ban campaigned as a "small government" advocate.

Yep, pal, you're a fucking hypocrite. You're all in favor of small government, except when you want to use big government to stick its nose into someone's bedroom where it doesn't belong.

Scanning through the ordinance found online, I see it's designed to stamp out masturbation, which it brands "obscene." Never mind that countless healthcare professionals have said masturbation is perfectly healthy. But, of course, if you're a puritan, it's "sinful" because every sperm is sacred.

And I guess none of these bozos realize you can masturbate without a sex toy. But quite honestly, why should any politician care if someone wants to masturbate in the privacy of his or her home?

I hope the woman filing the lawsuit wins, but unfortunately it will be the town's taxpayers who foot the bill to defend this assinine bill, not the asshat morons who put the law on the books. And given the unsuccessful attempt to strike down Alabama's vibrator ban, one has to wonder if she has any chance of prevailing.

divorcing your relatives

A friend of my husband's stopped by for a short visit yesterday to return a tool he had borrowed. He chatted briefly with us and started to talk about his sister, whom I've never met but I understand to be a gigantic pain in the ass. My husband's friend was lamenting about he didn't know what to do with her.

"Too bad you can't divorce your relatives," I said in jest.

I was thinking about this later and said to James that maybe it wasn't such a nutty idea -- why hasn't anyone ever developed a legal mechanism so you could just divorce problematic relatives? I can't be the first person who said "too bad you can't divorce your relatives" because nearly everyone is related to a pain in the ass or two or more. If you can divorce a spouse or disown a child, why can't you divorce a relative?

Yes, you can get a court order to keep someone from contacting or visiting you if he or she goes way over the edge, but that's only for serious threats. That wouldn't resolve the common problem of the relative who calls too much, who whines too much, who asks to much, who begs too much, who pesters too much, etc.

Relative divorce would serve several purposes. First, it could be used as a mechanism to underscore when the problem relative has or is about to cross a line of no return. "If you don't stop calling at three in the morning, we're filing for relative divorce."

Chances are that won't work with certain relatives, so you would proceed to the next step: file a relative divorce action in the court system, just like you would when a marriage is ending. That would be the proverbial shot across the bow for the problem relative. He or she could mend his or her ways by agreeing to a legal stipulation to end the bothersome behavior or allow the matter to proceed to trial.

Once the divorce was granted, the annoying relative could no longer contact you. Violations of this would result in pre-stipulated fines that would have to be paid to the bothered relative. And, the offending relation would have to pay all the court and legal fees both for the original action and any ensuing legal proceedings for violations.

it's memorial day

Memorial Day is not celebrated in Australia, given it's primarily an American holiday. The closest equivalents here are Anzac Day, on April 25, and Remembrance Day, on November 11.

I am fortunate that no one in my immediate family died in military service to the best of my knowledge, but some in my husband's family did during World War II and earlier. As the granddaughter of an American veteran and the wife of an Australian veteran, plus the cousin of a soldier currently in the US armed forces, all of whom experienced combat, I am thankful for their service.

I know Memorial Day is a time of happy gatherings, picnics, barbeques, and more back in the US, but it's important also to take some time to remember all those who gave their lives for our country. Those of us who enjoy freedom owe them our gratitude.

a confession

I wrote before about how my husband and I are trying to get me pregnant again. I said we weren't getting ourselves freaked out about it like the last time, that we were just letting nature take its course.

That's still true. But I confess that I find myself getting increasingly more hopeful as time passes. I keep waiting for all the little signs and odd things that happened before.

The time is now approaching for Aunt Flo's monthly visit. Will she stop by this time or pass me by? I'm starting to get those mild stomach flutters that come when you're waiting for something important. I know the chances are high that I'll have my period again -- it took a lot longer for me to get pregnant the last time then the amount we've been trying now -- but I still can't help but hope.

My husband said that if and when my next period arrives on schedule, that'll probably making me crankier than usual. I imagine that'll be the case, but then I can start looking forward to the next month again.

the art of silence

I think I've written before about how I used to be much more talkative than I am now. When I first met my husband, before we were married, he even teased me on occasion with names like "Little Miss Chatter."

James, in turn, is quite laconic. He is the personification of the strong, silent type. He's not shy; he's just not a chatterbox.

Even though he never told me to talk less or to be quiet, by being with him constantly, I found myself less and less chatty with time. I like that I've become more thoughtful and less of a yapper.

An interesting development from this is the fact that I now find excessively chattery people to be rather annoying. My husband has a relative by marriage who is an excessive, obsessive talker. She just cannot shut up and, when she runs out of things to say, she just repeats herself and more than once. Every time I see her, she annoys me more and more.

I have definitely embraced the mantra that it is better to speak when I have something to say than to speak simply to say something.

mama bear

This was shot last weekend just by chance in Canada by a storm chaser. A baby bear jumped onto the highway and freaked. His mom then hauled him to safety in a nip of time, albeit a bit roughly. His expression when she picks him is pure annoyed toddler. If you listen closely, he also protest vocally -- it almost sounds like a cat.

Notice at the end how another cub pops up for a look and then hauls ass out of there. Those little bears owe their mom a really nice Mother's Day gift next year for saving their necks!

coming on to me?

In my unmarried days, on occasion another woman would put the moves on me. Rarely, she was boldly overt about it and there was never a question what she wanted. Other times, I couldn't tell for sure, so I always found a way to steer it quickly to some mention of a boyfriend.

As a married woman, there are still times when I can't tell if a woman is doing this. A casual mention of my husband doesn't seem to make any difference. In situations like this, the woman reminds me of when men came on to me. The whole body language is similar.

My husband and I were out with Joey a few nights ago. He stayed with the kid while I visited the ladies bog for a quick slash. On the way in, I noticed a woman in her later thirties at the mirror in the process of redoing her makeup, with several cosmetics and brushes neatly laid out on the shelf like she was doing some art project.

When I washed my hands, she quickly latched onto me and started a conversation. Turns out she's American but has lived in Australia a long time. She stopped with her makeup application and came over to stand right next to me. I had been several sinks away from her.

She was talking like I've known her for years and touched me several times lightly on the forearm. She stood really close, too. She was very friendly and I was cordial back, but not effusive like she was. After a few minutes, I extricated myself and went out to rejoin my husband and son.

I told James about this and remain mystified as to whether she was trying to make a move on me or maybe she was just friendly and lonely. She didn't ask to exchange numbers or anything, so I'm leaning a little toward the latter.

I feel really dumb and naive about this at times -- are somewhat older women cruising around trying to pick up younger married women like me? Is this a whole scene utterly off my radar? Or am I just imagining things?

what's the point?

I can't imagine that having a tattoo done on the inside of your lips is pain free. So unless you're married or paired with a dental professional, or you're a masochist who enjoys a sore mouth, what's the point of this?

I have a very close and intimate relationship with my husband, but I don't believe I've ever seen the inside of his lips down where they meet the gums. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen anyone's inner-lips, save my own.

So, if you have one like this, do you stop people on the street, pry open your lips with both hands, and attempt to say "wanna see my tattoo"? Except with the lips being gripped, that would come out more like "nwanwa seemuh dahdoo?"

At least there are upsides to this. It's not a job-killer tattoo. Once its owner is embarrassed by this adventure in puerile money wasting, no one ever need know it's there.

And, hey, nice teeth. I'm sure your orthodontist is proud.

85,000 free films

No, this isn't a post about a pirate website. British Pathé aka Pathé News has put their entire archive of 85,000films online. While many are mundane and forgetable, there are quite a few that record stunning historical events and famous personalities like the Wright Brothers, Queen Victoria's funeral, abdication of the tsar, and many more.

Their YouTube portal has all the films but in a sort of haphazard sequence, as is typical for all large libraries on that site. The Pathé website is better organized for searching, but the films there are watermarked. I used the latter to browse the selections, then copied the title into the YouTube search field to view higher resolution versions of the films.

moving to Alabama?

I keep a running file on my laptop that I use as sort of a scratchpad. I write all kinds of things there, like links I should check out in the future, things to do, books to read, movies to see, etc. I add new entries at the end.

I've been keeping this file for more than a decade so it's pretty huge. Some of the earliest entries in the file probably are from when shortly after I started as an exotic dancer when I turned eighteen. I can't tell how old the file is, because every time it's updated, it has the last date in the file directory.

Yesterday I had a few minutes, so I decided to clean some of the junk out I didn't need because the file has become a bit unwieldy. And that's when I discovered this entry not far from the top: "Cheap place to move to, Eufaula, Alabama."

Huh?

Apparently at some point, I was actually thinking about moving to someplace really cheap. But Alabama? Really? I have utterly no memory of writing this, probably about ten years ago.

Maybe I was depressed at that moment in time, realizing how difficult it was for me to save money while living in Manhattan. Did I hear about a gentleman's club down there that was looking for dancers?

Now I'm sure Alabama is very nice for the people who live there. I drove through the state one time on my way from New York to Los Angeles.

But I don't think I'm Alabama material. Not at all.

I looked it up on Google maps and discovered the town is in the middle of nowhere, near the Georgia border. I'm sort of picturing me in an alternative reality living in Alabama when I was eighteen. That makes me laugh.

I think Eufaula should consider itself very lucky I never moved there.

toilet paper magazine

As porn, this is disturbing. As art photography, it is not. Why is that?

If it's porn, it's about erotic pleasure derived from one person hurting another. It's not harmless stuff, like light spanking would be. It would hurt like fuck. It's about two people: a dominant and a submissive, where the former has a need to hurt the latter, who needs to be hurt. And then other people getting off on seeing this. It's meant to awaken prurient desires.

If it's art, we can find all sorts of commentary in the picture: how a male-dominant society inherently hurts women; how men dominate women and use threats as currency; how the male will always strive to subject women. And on and on and on. It's not meant to trigger prurient cravings.

But what if it's meant as art but consumed as porn? The photo below was commissioned for an artistic endeavor, but it's being widely circulated on BDSM boards, blogs, Tumblrs, and more. "I want to try this," one person writes, not revealing whether as perpetrator or victim.

Censors want to prohibit publication of art like this with the argument that it will inadvertently awaken prurient desires. But isn't that a good thing? Is it better to fantasize and not react then to suppress until the inevitable explosion occurs?

This originally appeared in Toilet Paper Magazine, an arts publication celebrating the surreal. If you have a need today for the surreal, or at any time, you should check out the link. To say "it's different" is an understatement.

careful what you promise

A group calling itself Operation American Spring decided to hold a rally yesterday in Washington to urge certain political figures to resign. They went big with the PR for their event, promising many things, including that at least ten million to as many as thirty million would show up.

According to the most optimistic headcount, all of 250 people turned out.

This is not the first time a group has promised a massive crowd that turned out to be wildly overestimated. There were plenty of other peoples' mistakes that could have served as a cautionary warning, but that was not heeded.

Basic common sense dictates you don't promise what you can't deliver. Because if you don't deliver, then no one will ever believe you again. Call it The Boy Who Cried Wolf Axiom.

demon steve

This is some unknown guy's Steve Jobs tattoo. To me, it looks like Steve Jobs as the villain in a Steven King novel.

This is also on the owner's chest between his nipples. So if he wears an open-neck or V-neck shirt, Demon Steve will peek out at you.

In future decades, will Jobs still be recognizable by his face? Maybe not. After all, who would recognize a Philo Farnsworth tattoo today? So in some far-off year, the owner might be known at the beach as the strange old man with the devil on his chest.

This leaves me wondering if the owner wants Jobs to look like Satan. Maybe it's some kind of statement about Apple products.

Or maybe he's a hypnotist. He could be like the evil hypnotist in a horror movie. He slowly unbuttons his shirt to reveal the face as he repeats softly, over and over, "look into Steve's eyes, look into Steve's eyes, look into..."

nineteen men and a girl

The Husband and I watched the remake of Flight of the Phoenix the other night. It was made about ten years ago. The original was made in the mid-1960s.

Both James and I thought the original was far superior to the remake. The only thing the latter had going for it was the visuals -- the plane crash and the bleak desert were stunning. The rest, forgettable.

One change between the original and remake was the addition of a female, played by Miranda Otto, who's Australian. The original was all male. Her character could've brought so much to the movie, but the writers and/or producers and studio weren't about to have that. I suspect the part was written for a guy and they slapped a girl in the role at casting.

Here you have a movie filled with hot sweaty men who've been without female companionship for months -- and one shapely young woman -- but with utterly no sexual tension. She might as well been a cabbage.

If you had a dozen or two men stuck in the wilderness with a lone woman, and with no possible chance of rescue, I think you'd have a whole lot of friction. She could've bargained half the water for herself. Or, someone could've tried to pimp her out and gotten half the water for himself. Or something.

Nobody in the movie had any sex drive. None of the men tried to take a pass at her, nor did she pursue any of the men. She was trapped in a movie with nineteen gay Franciscan monks who worked in an oilfield. They never even seemed to notice her tits, her tight shorts, her shapely legs, nothing.

I found this hard to believe. I think rough-and-tumble oilfield workers would be all over her in a New York minute. Sexual tension should've driven this movie and made it distinct from the original, which had no pussy.

I know if I was a single woman stuck in the desert with no chance of survival and was surrounded by nineteen big strong oilfield workers, I would've had myself a lot of fun before dying of thirst and starvation.

mother's day postscript

After he read my entry here the other day about Mother's Day, my shrink brother posed the following question to me in an email: "If our mother had welcomed Mother's Day gifts and if you now had a warm and convivial relationship with her, do you think you'd still feel the same way about people wishing you a happy Mother's Day?"

Truth be told, in a word, no.

I don't have bad memories about Mother's Day. By the same token, I don't have good memories, either. It was just a day to get through. We dared not wish her a happy Mother's Day or give her a gift. The holiday just didn't exist.

In all honesty, from the time I left my parents' house at age sixteen until I became pregnant, I didn't really think about my mother all that much. She had become a distant relative for me in my memory, like a little-seen aunt or cousin.

Now that I am a mother, however, I think about her much more. I will try not to do anything bad that my mother did to me. My mother had my entire life pre-programmed from the time I was quite young. I was supposed to be a good student, to get into a good college, and then go to a good law school. Never mind I had utterly zero interest in that and, of course, it never happened.

My mother was always hyper-critical, too (and still is, from what I hear through my brother). She didn't do this in a shrewish way but more with psychological manipulation and subtle bullying -- she is a shrink, too, after all. I am determined not to make those kinds of mistakes with my son (and his possible future siblings).

But there are still things I'd like to share with my mother now. I would have liked to talk to her some during my pregnancy. We're 10,000 miles apart, so it's not like I want to drop in every other day or would keep her on the phone.

I might as well send email to a glacier, however. I send my parents pictures of Joey on occasion, and I hear nothing back from my mother. From my father, I get a "thank you for sharing" and that's it.

So, yes, Mother's Day is not a big fluffy bunny of a memory for me. It's not a horrible memory, a locked in the closet and beaten with a wire hanger memory. But it's a reminder of her, the yawning chasm between us, and the fact that no matter what I've tried, she seems to prefer pretending I do not nor have I ever existed.

I'm just so thankful I have a husband, son, and brother whom I love to pieces and who love me back in countless abundance.

the big empty

Sometimes Australia reminds me of the United States, but other times it does not at all. The map below illustrates one way they're very different -- only 2 percent of Australians live in the yellow area, which accounts for a significant majority of the country's land area.

You might wonder why the northern coastal area is barely occupied. One word: crocodiles.

The rest of the yellow is mostly desert, even the part that runs to the southern coast, where the arid land just drops off in high cliffs. It's called the Nullarbor Plain, as in "null" (no) "arbor" (trees).

When the British government conducted nuclear tests there in the 1950s, because of the remoteness, they were not able to warn all of the very few inhabitants to flee. That sounds like a bad scifi movie waiting to come to life.

And if you're thinking about boating or swimming off the coast of the yellow areas, another word for you: sharks.

I've told my husband I have a travel fantasy of driving cross-country from Sydney here in the east to Perth on the west coast. He told me that anyone he knows who has done that concluded it was a really bad idea somewhere about half way across.

I guess there is romantic desert, and then there's the devil's armpit of hell desert. I know of some romantic deserts in the US. I've never been to the other kind.

mother's day protocol

Yesterday, several people wished me Happy Mother's Day (the holiday is on the same date here as in the US, although it is decidedly not spring Down Under). I said thank you but did not share my private thoughts: why are people unrelated to me and not my children wishing me this?

My son is too young yet to understand Mother's Day. My husband bought a gift for him to give to me, but he was more interested in shaking it and trying to throw it.

I guess some people feel Mother's Day is when you extend greetings to any mother, but that's not really my understanding of it. Indeed, when researching the holiday's founder, I learned she stated Mother's Day was "for each family to honor its mother" and that it was not "commemorating all mothers of the world."

So I appreciate when people thank me, when someone leaving a comment yesterday did here, because I do understand that people may celebrate holidays in a different way than I do.

I've noticed that many holidays, including Mother's Day, have less of the commercial frenzy here than in the US. Back there, it always seemed to be about selling shit and guilting you into giving gifts.

That kind of strongarm marketing always makes me feel uncomfortable for the people whose mothers have died. When we're constantly ad bombed about how we must honor Mom and blah blah blah, many of the motherless people just wish they had a mom who was still alive.

I felt this way even before I met my husband, whose mother was killed in an auto accident when he was still a boy. He has never really liked Mother's Day as a result. It's not a time of celebration for him but a reminder of a loss.

I also think some of my malaise about Mother's Day is due to the nearly non-existent relationship I have with my mother. I wish she would get past her anger over the person I used to be and see me for the person I am now, but I also accept the fact that quite likely will never happen.

Of course, my mother wouldn't want Mother's Day greetings even if we were speaking, as she hated the holiday because she thought it was too commercial.

a curious conversation

I was talking to an Australian friend here the other day. She's best described as young, impressionable, somewhat naive, and not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Out of the blue, she asked me if I was worried about the NSA listening into my calls on Skype back to the United States.

I thought at first she was joking. When I realized she was serious, I told her that I could care less.

I think it's extraordinarily unlikely any NSA employee or contractor would have any reason to listen to my conversations. They monitor people who contact possible terrorists. I do not do that.

But even if they did listen, there's utterly nothing that would interest them. I usually Skype with only my brother or my cousins. We talk about family stuff, their dating lives, and other mundane topics of utterly zero interest to a total stranger.

Several billion telephone calls are made outside the US every day. It's physically impossible for any entity to listen to all calls. They only listen to the calls for which they have reasons to listen.

pussy in my pants

This is not being posted just as a cute cat video. If you watch all the way through, you'll understand.

The man losing his shit is Karl Stefanovic, the co-host of a morning show here in Australia called Today, which has no connection to the American program of the same name.

This is not the first time he has completely lost it on air. His co-host, Lisa Wilkinson, the brunette on the right, is much better at controlling herself during the show's obvious set-ups.

no means no

Like many people, I was appalled to learn about the Texas judge, a woman no less, who sentenced an admitted and convicted rapist to only 45 days in jail with community service and probation to follow.

The judge's rationale for her sentence pretty much boiled down to this: the victim was promiscuous and had agreed to have sex with the rapist at a later time, but at a later time. The judge seems to have conveniently ignored that the rapist forced himself on his victim even though she told him to stop.

This is outrageous. If a woman agrees to have sex with a man tomorrow, that man does not have the right to force himself on her today. And it matters not whether the victim is a nun or a hooker, a man or a woman.

No means no; stop means stop -- how complicated is that? The instant the perpetrator initiates or continues the act forcibly when commanded to stop, it is rape. That is why the rapist in this case was convicted. The jury was not stupid.

To add insult to injury, the judge ordered the rapist to serve his community service in a rape crisis center. That center, in turn, promptly told the judge that the rapist was not welcomed.

I hope the judge in question serves a set term so she can be thrown off the bench by voters if she stands for re-election.

(I don't mean to turn this into a law blog by posting two legal-related entries back to back, but I happened to see this item and it made me mad enough to write this post.)

the stripper in the supreme court

I frequently read Jeffrey Toobin in The New Yorker, and his entries on their news blogs, because he's an excellent writer who can make complex legal issues understandable to a layperson like me. For that reason I also have read one of his books about the Supreme Court and am now reading another I found at the library.

This book, titled The Oath, devotes some discussion to Anna Nicole Smith and her case before the Supreme Court. He also reveals that it's likely the nine justices had no idea who she was, notwithstanding she attended oral arguments for her appeal and thus attracted considerable media attention at the high court. Toobin also correctly notes that Smith was often referred to as a stripper in the media when she was, in fact, an exotic dancer.

It's an interesting bit to me for several reasons. One, Toobin understands the difference between a stripper and an exotic dancer, showing he's grounded in the real world and has probably been in a few clubs in his day. Two, it also reveals that high court justices seem pretty removed from everyday life. That the eight men (at the time) were utterly clueless about her identity, when most of the country surely did, suggests they live in a pretty rarefied world.

I'm left wondering if perhaps they should take a bus trip to a Washington area exotic club to broaden their horizons a bit.

If you'd like to check out Toobin's writing, follow this link.

mismatched stripes

The outfit shown below was featured in a recent magazine's fashion spread about menswear's influence on this season's clothing for women. I was immediately struck by how the stripes do not match on either the lapels or the shoulder tops. (You might need to right-click in order to see better.)

This sort of mismatching is common in cheap off-the-rack clothes, but the featured suit is an expensive outfit by a major designer, Giorgio Armani. The suit's pricetag is $4,350 American.

I would not pay $40 for such a badly matched job like this, let alone a hundred times that. While matching plaids or stripes on certain parts of a garment are impossible, the lapels and shoulder tops can almost always be matched, and the Armani outfit is no exception.

This just goes to show you that when you buy a designer name, you're not always getting something of good quality.

in flagrante delicto

This is some unknown person's very funny selfie. I saw it posted on an internet forum, so I don't know the story of its origin. I think it would be funniest if he didn't know anyone was in the next stall until he saw the photo.

Humor aside, that's a pretty disgusting place to be fucking. She has prettylow standards. (I assume it's a woman given the size of her shoulders.) You deserve to be taken to someplace nicer for sex than a men's room with piss-sticky floors.

I love sex and have engaged in public dogging before I became a mother, but never in a men's room. I had to go into a few of those in my time for call of nature emergencies, and they're usually pretty vile places. I want someplace with at least a shred of romance, and that can't be said for a public john.

bright shiny things

I checked out some of the White House Correspondents' Dinner coverage online from the other night. As always, many of the barbs were very, very funny.

If you're not familiar with the event, each year White House journalists hold the ultimate black-tie A-list dinner, usually attended by the President and Vice-President, to raise money for scholarships.

More and more each year, press attention has focused on celebrities from Hollywood in the audience, to the point where they arguably overshadow political luminaries in the room. Networks openly use the event to promote current projects, as evidenced by entire tables at the dinner devoted to actors from one show or another.

Quite honestly, I thought the Hollywood people at the event this year were annoying. I've now been away from Las Vegas and Los Angeles for more than five years now, living in a quiet Sydney suburb. Once somewhat close to the glitz and glamor, particuarly in Los Angeles, I'm now at a far distance.

With that distance, I find Hollywood types increasingly tiresome, particularly actors. Their often intense narcissism seems like noisy electronic feedback now. When interviewed by the media at the Correspondents' Dinner, they seemed to think the event was all about them. They're too vain to realize they were whored to garner more revenue for the event.

At the heart of it, I think my annoyance stems from Hollywood's ever-increasing quest to self congratulate. The nearly ridiculous plethora of award shows and the excessive hype surrounding them is evidence of this trend. The studios now crank out fewer pictures and most are formulaic tentpole merchandising opportunities, yet somehow the industry thinks it needs more awards and attention for fewer output.

These awards are less and less about the movies and shows created and more about what somebody wore or who tweeted what or who dissed who. They've become a cliche, a parody of themselves.

Enough of that. Make good movies and live less in the spotlight. Leave politics to the politicians and stop using every possible opportunity to promote yourselves. You are far less important in the scheme of things than you think.

the etymology of a flying fuck

I recently discovered the Online Etymology Dictionary, which may sound like a snore, but it's actually quite entertaining. I quickly tested it with words like fuck, cunt, twat, titties, etc. and was not disappointed.

The history of the word "fuck" is fascinating stuff. I did not know that "a flying fuck" originally meant screwing on horseback and was used more than 200 years ago.

For those of you working in offices who need something to while your time, this would be an excellent educational endeavor.

dirty fitzgerald

Cambridge University Press will republish some of F. Scott Fitzgerald's fiction with all of the censored sex and drug and other references put back in, exactly the way the author wanted them to be printed.

While I can understand why some of the material was cut at the time -- publishers back then could be banned or even prosecuted -- I'm at a loss to understand why some of the stuff was scissored. In one instance, references to a woman undressing and taking a bath were razored out of the text. Why? It's not like anyone could see this.

This is a great idea and I hope more publishers do this with classic works. The only downside to the new Fitzgerald book is the price -- the hardcover book rings up at a whopping £70.00 or about $118 American. Cambridge never heard of paperback or ebooks?

plastic tits

As a woman, I just can't understand why men would be turned on by girls with obvious tit implants. Fake tits in my mind are the same as a blow-up party doll or a zirconium ring -- an obvious and inferior substitute for the real thing.

Maybe this just sounds like tit envy becomes I'm on the small side and vowed never to get a boob job. But if I were to go under the knife, I'd be sure to invest the money to get an undetectable set, and certainly not a pair that could be spotted as fakes a mile away by a blind nun.

When I worked as an exotic dancer, the fake tit girls sometimes mocked those of us with smaller natural tits. Personally, I think they were somewhat secretly envious, because they wished they had the confidence to live with the tits they were dealt.

I asked my husband whether she turned him on. He said without hesitation, "no -- plastic tits."

dumbbook

Is this supposed to be a commentary about Facebook? Because Fuckbook also exists, although their logo looks different.

Either way, in five years, Facebook will probably have a different logo and graphic style, given big companies regularly update their graphic look. Whether or not Fuckbook will be around then is anyone's guess.

So this vague gag has a definite and rather short shelf life, making it all the stupider as a tattoo, which is forever. I wonder how quickly after getting this did its owner start to feel embarrassed?