Reading about serious damage to the scrotum is always an extremely unpleasant experience. You actually feel it in your balls, not like a sharp pain or anything, just an awareness of their presence and vulnerability. Having a cock and balls is nice, it sure as hell beats the alternative and bleeding every damned month, but it's a joy that comes with responsibility and vulnerability. That's driven home every time you read about some poor sucker who had his twig and berries trimmed. Yeowtch.
My fantasies are all over the place these days. I think about being in a bank during a hostage situation and trying to talk the hostage takers down from their position with pure reason and appeals to self-interest. I wonder what would happen if George Bush lost the election, refused to relinquish his position, and declared martial law. Would he actually nuke Detroit? I'm sure he wouldn't have an ethical problem with that, he's certainly proven willing to have Americans killed to further his political aims, but would he go through with it? Would the military apparatus come through?
That's not true. I think Bush would have moral qualms with nuking Detroit. It's easier to hate him if you think he wouldn't, though.
Most of my fantasies of success involve being a desired outsider in a glamorous world, sticking to the shadows and margains and observing the self destructive self adulation that takes hold in any elite enclave. I wonder why that is. Why do I not imagine myself a participant or someone completely divorced from that world?
In doing research on reproductive policy in the Bush administration I came across this little gem:
"People who intend to remain abstinent may "slip" and have sex unexpectedly."
Now I know what it means, and I know what alcohol is and how it has ways of helping you find yourself naked in a hayloft lying next to 3 trapeze artists and a strongman midget and totally baffled as to where your pants are and why you have a tattoo of Ricardo Montalban on your abdomen, but when I read it I couldn't help but imagine a guy going to the Laundromat to get his clothes washed and emerging a couple hours later dazed and confused, his clothes rumpled, his shirt undone, lipstick on his collar and wondering "Now how the HELL did that happen? One minute I was getting a sheet of Bounce from the vending machine and the next I was kneeling behind her in the doggy-style position wearing a cowboy hat while a Mariachi band urged us on. I was not expecting that."
Physically I feel okay. The cold is lifting. My mind is sharp again.
That's a good thing.