Tough Talkers

Tough Talk Technician - 03/13/09 00:59:19

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He hits the link to talk tough, and when he gets some in return he complains about it. What a wanker.

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You call this tough talk? This is a bunch of armchair commentators holding forth on inane subjects. War stories, squirrel lore, bad Chinese poetry, cryptic Godfather references, quotes from racist children's books, unsolicited statements about pop music, and TV viewing tips. All of Johnny's has gone to hell. It went to hell years ago. Now, if you tap the link to Talk Tough Yourself, the unnamed technician tells you to go fuck yourself. There was once a better class of people appearing here.

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Who wears short shorts? We wear short shorts.

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I just finished reading Film Noir Johnny's #2 through #9 and it appears to me that the primary purpose of this narrative, from the beginnning, is to display women's asses. There are secondary purposes, such as Johnny's many strutting proclamations about his cat-burglar physical prowess, his driving skills, his ability to handle trouble deftly and his general sex appeal, but the female ass is top-totem.

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Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew is excellent right now, as long as Gary Busey, Tawny Kitaen, and Amber Smith stay in rehab.

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We were formed during WWII. Skiers and rock climbers were recruited for this new division and there were many volunteers: gentlemen, sports of all sorts, rich, middle class, all talented athletes in one way or another, many well-educated. We had European expatriates with mountain skills refined in Finland and Sweden or in the Alps and who wanted to fight against Hitler (These members taught basic and advanced to their superior officers). We trained together in Colorado at 8000 feet, for three years, and we had sky-high esprit de corps, we had it to burn. We got to know each other's strengths and flaws before we were finally sent into action in Italy. Our job was in the North, and thousands of us had to climb heavily defended vertical cliffs in the dark and fight all across the high forests to drive the Germans out of the Apennines and north across the Po Valley into retreat. That's what we did, fast, beginning on Riva Ridge and Mt. Belvedere. War tunes you up physically and mentally. You learn things, life and death things, that you would never have known or realized without it. I remember earthshaking artillery shells exploding in the trees above us and the crazy flying rain of lethal red shrapnel pouring down on us from above and tearing up the bodies of mountain troops all around me, killing them instantly. We were the first Americans into the Po Valley and the Italians crowded along the village streets as we walked by. They cheered us and shouted and gave us glasses of red wine. The women threw themselves at us. Everywhere, German soldiers were surrendering to us in the hundreds, in the thousands, and on May 2, 1945 they surrendered in Italy. It was over and we were in Italy! We were broken up the following November and that was it. The current 10th Mountain Division is something very different from us. As old men, we are now bringing in Germans who fought against us and welcoming them to our group of surviving fighters.

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The squirrel is a muscular animal. It presses itself almost flat against the wide trunk and flashes straight up the tree faster than any other animal on Earth. Birds could do it faster, but birds don't fly straight up from the ground like that and sustain the climb at a 90-degree angle.

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Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was born with!

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I hug 'em and I squeeze 'em they don't even know my name. They call me the Wanderer.

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I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because sahma people out there in our nation don't have maps and I believe that our education like such as in South Africa and the Iraq everywhere like such as, and I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S. it should help South Africa, should help the Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future for our . . .

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City neighborhood / crooked yellow-brick house built long ago / Tsiang-Tang in rocker facing west on porch with no railing, like deck / small square front yard I have gardened / managed Darwinism is garden Zen / winding brick path under Zumi crab toward side of house and back yard / two birches I plant here in center / one black river birch one white birch / natural leaf mulch around birches on damp ground misted by garden hose / sundown breeze ruffle birch leaves like aspen / black mulch misted by garden hose along all borders of wet shining sidewalk / massive sycamore wider and far taller than my house big above birches, at curb / between birches and bright sundown sun / from west sundown light beam straight to Tsiang-Tang face / but dappled through all these trees and fluttering leaves / no need to shade eye

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The 20 greatest Elvis songs in reverse order: 20. Love Letters (Straight From Your Heart) 19. That's All Right Mama (Tupelo Elvis, Sun) 18. American Trilogy (Full Vegas Elvis) 17. Burnin' Love 16. Return to Sender 15. You Don't Have to Say You Love Me (Vegas Elvis) 14. Mean Woman Blues (Sometimes I Think She's Almost Mean As Me) 13. Little Sister 12. Polk Salad Annie 11. It's Now or Never (Operatic Border-Town Elvis) 10. Too Much (Rockabilly Elvis) 9. Treat Me Nice 8. The Wonder of You (Full Vegas Elvis) 7. Moody Blue (Vegas Elvis) 6. Suspicious Minds (Full Vegas Elvis) 5. Mystery Train (Tupelo Elvis, Sun) 4. Jailhouse Rock (50's Elvis) 3. One Night (Rockabilly Elvis) 2. Heartbreak Hotel (50's Elvis) 1. All Shook Up (50's Elvis)

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Sollozzo, Clemenza, Willi Cicci, Pentangeli, Luca Brasi. Michael transformed at the hospital, before he and Enzo stand guard outside on the steps. Moe Green working his tie. Santino, Fredo, Tessio, Johnny Fontane. Can't do it, Sally. I didn't know until this day that it was Barzini all along. Don Ciccio, Bonasera, Vincenzo, Joey Zasa. Whoever comes to you with this Barzini meeting, he's the traitor. Do you think I'd make my sister a widow?

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Since Mullah Hozni Tabool put the fatwa on me, the women have been flocking around me in even greater numbers, their eyes shining as they flirt shamelessly, each one smart, complex, beautiful, and well-dressed.

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An under-appreciated classic which showcases Little Richard through his full range of deliveries is "Send Me Some Lovin." It's mid-tempo R&B, almost a slow-dance song until halfway through when he can't help himself and must bust loose. In addition, it features more stylized soulful lisping than any other Little Richard song. I mitchu so much. Jenny Jenny I buy you diamond rings and pearls. Jenny Jenny. Lucille. I woke up this morning, Lucille was not in sight, I asked my friends about her but all their lips were tight. Lucille you won't do your sister's will. I'm beggin' to you baby. Great saxophone and Little Richard's pounding piano.

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I was on the wild lam but now I'm in jail because my oil pan has a hairline fracture and they brought out the Arabian Oil Hounds to track me down. I didn't know about this fracture.

Commens;
Here at Sun Qi Sedona we feature seventeen forms of healing: fingertip magnetism, rapid energy-field alteration(REFA), handless touch therapy, half-hair acupuncture, holistic acutronics w/ vibrating earth fork, suction cup toxin removal, Sahrashara scalp-breathing, essential candle-cup fluid churning, intense spinal rocking, Sichuan aroma-paper hair singe, palpation of the interior, pinking of the high colon, quantum alignment therapy (QAT), ginseng phallus wrap, crystal osteo-balancing, deep pulse regulation, and full-seven double-seven ruling-leader chakra emergence, known in Tibet as the Full Chakra Khan.

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After the atomic bomb and during the era of invasions by creatures from Mars, teenagers had a joke where you look at something or someone and say, "Kill it before it multiplies." Before It Multiplies is the title of David Noble's novel which won the National Book Award, the PEN/Faulkner, and the Pulitzer and has become an international bestseller here in high summer, 2008. Demand for his readings is strong from Shanghai to Galway, from Mongolia to Peru, from Baffin Bay to the Argentine.

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It's been many years since my divorce and I've had a chance to reflect on things. Married women of all ethnicities, if you get a divorce be sure to get one from a rich white man or a middle-class white man, one with a job he's had for many years, one with a real address and a phone number that stays the same. When he gets a subpoena, the white middle-class ex-husband will always appear in court, he won't disappear, he doesn't want to go to jail, he signs for every registered letter from your lawyer, and they can always find him.

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You remember the Mazda with the big powertrain / that was t-t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / t-t-t t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / Well I was fully insured and nobody would sue / but to replace it costs a thousand and m-m-m maybe two / to replace it costs a thousand and m-m-m maybe two / So I slid on my sunglasses, got my stainless brrr-koo / went down to pull a stick-up at the Bank of Wazoo / w-w went down to pull a stickup at the Bank of Wazoo / because I had to get a thousand and m-m-m maybe two / So now I'm coolin' my heels in a cell full of fools / because I had to get a thousand and m-m-m maybe two / because I had to get a thousand and m-m-m maybe two / Pull a stick-up at the Bank of Wazoo . . . get your shades and get your stainless brrr-koo . . . p-p-p pull a stick-up at the Bank of Wazoo.

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Ilsa was a smart woman and she knew when to say, "Rick, you'll have to do the thinking for both of us." Many contemporary women don't recognize those hours, days and weeks when their mysterious hormonal blendings have them spinning like cyclones containing pianos and refrigerators and touching down on this parking lot or that barn. My women regularly say, "Dewtulio, you'll have to do the thinking for both of us," and each one is smart and independent.

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I'm 90 now, I'm still energetic, and every afternoon I can be found at one of the tables on the mezzanine overlooking the lobby of the Paramount. My apartment is upstairs and the people here bring whatever I want. Sometimes it's a drink, or a salad, or one of le tartufo et prosciutto sandwiches I love.

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You should fly here, take a suite with a view at the Gansevoort, bring those pillowcases with you, and use your imagination for the rest of your life. Call me as soon as you get here and I'll show you around town.

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Johnny, I have a problem and I'd like your advice. You seem like someone who knows what to do. I have only a few years left. Most of my friends and most of my family are dead now. My ex-wife and I had two sons, both stay in touch, but they are far away and basically gone. Twenty years ago in August, we had a huge power outage all over the city and it lasted most of the night. Just before dark, looting broke out downtown and also across several suburban strip malls. As soon as I heard the news that looting had begun, I got a big hammer, my mag-lite, my Colt .38, two pillowcases, and drove my beater into the city, three miles from my comfortable house and safe street. I had the impulse to join in, but I wanted to act fast and alone and I wanted to do the job before police gained control. I passed fires, crowds running in and out of department stores and electronics stores, leaping, shoving, zig-zagging. Nearly all of the looters were black people, many of them had shopping carts, and their faces had the festival look. I drove toward a high-end jewelry store in another part of town and was surprised and delighted to see that the nearest looters were more than a block away. I shattered the display window with two heavy hammer blows and heard no alarm. I jumped in with my handgun in my back pocket and my mag-lite focused wide, agile and quick. Now, at 72, I have these two king-sized pillowcases stuffed with platinum jewelry, sapphires, rubies, handfuls of Colombian emeralds, one the size of an egg, heavy black velvet bags of Kimberley diamonds, diamond rings featuring huge rocks in all sorts of cuts, Rolex chronometers, Cartier watches, long strings of Kojima natural pearls, you name it. Should I tell my sons about this treasure hoard? I won't even try to fence it, so don't suggest that.

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In my high-quality opinion it's a tossup between "Be My Baby," "Long Tall Sally," "Speedo," "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow," "Roll Over Beethoven," and "Stay," by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs. Nothing by Michael Jackson or Madonna or anyone else in the last 40 years is at the top of the greatest list.

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Squirrel Time must be a shut-in. Film Noir Johnny's is now about chipmunks, celebrity gossip, and "the green of the periwinkle."

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There is much activity in the back yard this afternoon. Five fat doves walking around pecking, four or five squirrels in a never-ending series of squirrel poses, a pair of Big Boss Blue Jays, robins cocking their heads to pinpoint the worm's location, then striking, one scarlet cardinal flying in with its wild color against the green of the periwinkle, the drab winter leftovers, and last year's mulch. Two chipmunks darting. Flocks of a dozen small birds in and out of the leafless wisteria. I've always thought Dr. Phil was obnoxious and smug and preachy, and I'm happy to read in the paper that his wife filed for divorce. Can you imagine being married to Dr. Phil and listening to those horrible pronouncements all the time?

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The young man was only 34 but he had committed horrible crimes. One afternoon in the sunshine he was stopped by a sheriff's deputy on a two-lane blacktop road, five or six miles from the community of Cass. There was no other traffic and there wasn't a house in sight or even a power line. The deputy was 64 and he'd also been a lay preacher at the Deer Creek Baptist Church since he was 20. He recognized the fugitive immediately, but he just asked him for his license and stayed cool. He even made a joke and they both laughed. Then, quickly, the deputy put his gun on him and told him to get out of the car. They walked over to the tree line and sat down together, the deputy about five feet away with his gun in his hand. He told the young man he could take as long as he wanted to confess his sins and make his peace with the Lord. Then he'd take him in. "Take as long as you want to," he said. "I'm in no hurry and I know you're not." Still, not one car had passed by. After about fifteen minutes of what might have been silent prayer, the young man stood up smiling, and still smiling made an almost playful lunge at the deputy, who shot him dead.

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Compared to black and white, color pictures don't hold up to time. They fade into yellows and purples. More than sixty years of color pictures are in danger.

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I disagree with Funkman 29 (below). "Do You Love Me" is the greatest rock 'n' roll song of all time. It has everything: How the lead singer, Billy Gordon, comes in pumped up and already dancing at the beginning, "Watch me now! I can mashed potato, I can do the twist, now tell me, baby, do you like it like this?" The fake ending and the return, the uptempo doo-wop bass man doing the mythic bmmm-bmmm-bmmm during the fadeout. It stands alone and doesn't need Johnny and Baby.

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I make a bella figura. That is my nature. I cut a bella figura all over the City.

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Hey, fuck all these commentators and reviewers. Fuck this.

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I had a new Mazda mobile with a big powertrain / but I was t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / t-t-t-t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / I could have been a star, I could have gone on to fame / but I was t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / I was making a comeback, I was on Lover's Lane / but I was t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / I had a wadda cash and I had spendin' on my brain / but I was t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / t-t-t-t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / It was like a ticker-tape parade and they were goin' insane / but I was t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / t-t-t-t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main / I was livin' the high life (t-t-t-t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main) . . . I was cuttin' a figure (t-t-t-t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main) . . . the women blowin' kisses (t-t-t-t-boned at the corner of Sugar and Main) . . .

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How long since America has had big nationwide hits at the level of "Be My Baby," "Kiss," "Great Balls of Fire," "She Loves You," "Dancing Queen," "Funky Broadway," "Hungry Like The Wolf," "Tell Me Something Good," "Tutti Frutti," "Do You Love Me," "The House of the Rising Sun," "Addicted to Love," "When Will I See You Again," "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)," "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling," "Stop In The Name of Love," "Billie Jean"?

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It's Friday night and I'm at home watching America's Most Shocking Police Shootouts, narrated by the dashing sheriff John Bunnell, where the police kill various people on camera. Some of the dead were both armed and dangerous, some one or the other, and some neither. According to the narration, each killing is appropriate and fully justified. Often it's death by sniper. Rarely is it an up-close struggle. Most often it's a group of policemen opening up from a safe distance, firing together as soon as the desperado makes his fatal provocation. It appears to me that 50% of the time the police open up way too soon, behaving more like scared pack animals than brave men. Sometimes the men are very drunk, sometimes they're deranged by mental illness or drugs or both, sometimes they're holding hostages, sometimes they're trying to avoid going back to prison. I would say that only 50% of the killings are justified and necessary, but I've never heard of a police officer ever admitting to doing anything wrong or ever being convicted of anything.

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Top two Killer Songs: Various versions of "These Foolish Things," esp. Billie Holiday's (1936), Etta James for the big-hall orchestral version with French horns, and Dorothy Moore singing "Misty Blue."

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America's Next Top Model is a good show, but far above it is Snoop Dogg's Father Hood, featuring three generations of males: Uncle Junebug, who brought the family to California, Snoop Dogg Himself, and young Corde. Preach.

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Finally saw 3:10 to Yuma. It had the potential to be an enduring move, maybe even a modern classic of sorts. It's always entertaining, always engaging, but it comes fully apart in the final moments. We're supposed to believe that Ben Wade kills his own gang of bad men, all of them (a wonderful idea, something I've never seen in a Western), on the street in Contention because he's grown to respect the good guy, Christian Bale. Wade's craziest gang member has just shot Bale down in front of his own son. But we're not really prepared (I'm sure we were in the original) for such a gesture from the ruthless Ben Wade we've come to enjoy. The Ben Wade of this movie wouldn't have shot his own gang of "animals," as he calls them. This fatal flaw doesn't come until the very end, so its effect is softened somewhat. So it's a flawed good movie, worth seeing, and interesting to talk about. I'm sure that the original with Glenn Ford and Van Heflin is a simpler story with simpler characters and doesn't contain the ambiguities (e.g. Bale is sort of squirrely good guy) and cynicism which this remake creates and then gallops away from at the end.

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Johnny's Tough Talk is gay men named Michael and reality-show bitches talking about Tyra.

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I beg your pardon! Rebecca who didn't even win and who fainted is far more attractive than Jaslene. Rebecca has the classic Grace Kelly sort of beauty, the gold standard, while Jaslene is just another caliente pepper girl. Call me racist if you will, but everyone with an eye for women's beauty will agree with me. Also, Nicole has far more cover-girl beauty than Jaslene.

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Tyra has crowned many girls "America's Next Top Model," but the one who outshines them all is Jaslene Gonzalez, the Puerto Rican beauty who is in a category of her own and should be in pictures. She's a young Julia Roberts with some bright Latina sass.

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I have a Shiba Inu and everyone says he looks like a fox, but no. It's a Japanese breed and they are either red or gray. One woman in the park asked me if it was a Schipperke and her girlfriend wanted to know if it was a South African Wildehond or a Finnish Spitz.

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A woman once called me "a sitting aesthete."

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Four of the best common expressions are "You have to give the Devil his due," "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than to get permission," "A camel is a horse designed by a committee," and "Most of the great discoveries are made because of accidents."

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The term "baby boomer" doesn't really do it for my generation. It's the Edge Generation, pulled in two directions -- toward the fading world of their parents but also into the new world taking shape. The WWII/Korean War generation was followed by the Edge Generation. Al Pacino is the actor of this generation, followed by Jack Nicholson, #2.

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I'm against the people of San Diego County and for the Santa Ana winds and the wildfires in California and also for the massive mudslides when they occur. Those people overbuild all through those canyons and all along the coast and after being burned out one time, they build another big house. They're like the people who keep rebuilding in floodplains. There's something wrong with them. They destroy the areas they live in and then are surprised and amazed when natural forces overcome them.

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Ding is the right word for "Squirrel Time."

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I am a shut-in and happy to have found Johnny's. It's squirrel time! In my overstuffed chair by the window I look into my back yard, which is more like a woods. The squirrels, six or eight of them, are active during these bright afternoons, rustling the leaves on the ground, leaping, climbing, standing on the ground to quickchew acorns and stuff their cheeks, shaking their fluffy tails, shooting wildly across the leaves, zipping across fence tops, flying through the air, posturing and squawking for dominance in the clear October light, spinning, walking upside down on the underside of a tree branch. Falling acorns ding as they hit the clay pots. It's squirrel time!

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Neanderthals should have been able to hold their own in post-Ice-Age Europe after the arrival of Cro-Magnons/Homo Sapiens. Neanderthals were built for power, endurance, and for survival in cold climates, with heavy, short lower limbs, wide expansive chests, and large nasal openings. Their brains were just as large as Homo Sapiens, maybe larger.

Scientists now conclude that abrupt and erratic climate changes caused them to go extinct by reducing the size of forests and creating much more open land. You can see by looking at Neanderthal skeletons, especially at their primitive pelvic bones, that there wasn't much jumping and running in their behavior. Homo Sapiens has a much more intricately developed pelvic bone. Neanderthals evolved for life in a forest environment where they could make strong kills up close. Homo Sapiens, with their speed and agility, had the advantage in open country.

Most scientists, after studying the hyoid bone in the throat of Neanderthals, believe they had a language and spoke to each other. The shape of this hyoid bone indicates that their voices were very high-pitched, similar to the sound made by the Chipmunks on the Xmas song.

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All you women who are flocking around me, you should know that Mullah Omar Rafsanjani put a fatwa on me. Maybe you should keep your distance.

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Where are the peerless women? There are only two on the list, one just a face and the other an egghead.

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I'm compiling a list of Americans who were peerless at some point in their lives, one of a kind, some of whom seem destined to become eternally peerless, and so far the list is not very long. Cassius Clay / Muhammad Ali, Humphrey Bogart, John Dillinger, Robert E. Lee, James Brown, Secretariat, Edgar Allan Poe, Elvis, OJ Simpson, John Kennedy, Cole Porter, Stephen Foster, Ike and Tina Turner, Michael Jordan, Mean Joe Green, Marilyn Monroe, Lynn Swann, Broadway Joe Namath, Thomas Jefferson, Evil Knievel, Muddy Waters, JEB Stuart, young Little Richard, Willie Mays, Grace Kelly, young Jerry Lee Lewis, Pauline Kael, Richard Pryor.

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Cate Blanchett is the most attractive screen presence of our era, up there with Charlotte Rampling, Lauren Bacall, Grace Kelly, Marlene Deitrich, Julia Ormond, Catherine Deneuve, Garbo. Cate Blanchett.

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Shut the fuck up. What a honkey!

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You could argue that the story is far more important than the reality, because the story lives on, not the moment that just happened.

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What a sorry bunch of pontificators come to this Tough Talk website! And they pontificate about the vernaculah! The pic of Tony Montana doesn't belong at the top of this page.

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The vernacular around Santa Fe and Taos has almost become a dialect of American English, featuring hotstone aromatherapy, body harmony, cosmological vitamin and mineral management (CVMM) , Kimokan toxin-removal systems, holistic bristles in the toothbrush, robust cellular glowing (RCG), cosmic renewal, ghost-ranch divination, Jin Shin Do, exploration of the inner realm, rebirthing, vegan natural fiber clothing, naturopathic medicine, and the pervasive galactical post-Xian New Age spirituality. It lives on out there in the deserts of the Southwest and within many well-educated urban and suburban white women all over America. The only urban and suburban males using the idiom are the skinny guru types, with that guru brightness in their eyes, who are in it for the snatch. You see them in health stores and standing around carrot stands everywhere.

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The greatest all-time hot for teacher song is "Mr. Lee" by the Bobettes, followed by David Lee Roth.

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"Funky Broadway" by Wilson Pickett with the Memphis Horns is the #1 soul song of all time. It's one of a kind and up there all by itself.

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Are we better off in nations with presidents, legislatures, kings, and lofty ideas, or are we better off as tribal savages, fashioning weapons out of wood and living close to the natural world?

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Bain de Soleil for the St. Tropez tan. The tube of orange gelee creme solaire spf 4. Up early every morning here on Hatteras Island, oceanfront near the village of Buxton. The house is old, built in the elevated 20's style with huge screen porches, porches with high ceilings and black ceiling fans. Surrounding the house are three acres of thicket reaching heights of eleven or twelve feet in several places. There are only two winding sand pathways through the thicket, each leading in a different direction from the house to the dunes and the ocean. It's always shadowy and cool in the thicket as you walk. Exotic shore birds, large and small, come and go from this healthy, thriving thicket. An ex-marine runs along the surf each morning and evening with his dachsund, clapping encouragement to this dog with little legs, shouting "Hut!" and "Come on!" The suntans are taking their individual casts. If dark complexion, a blackish hue or olive, a bronze, and then copper, copper/red, deep brown with chocolate hues, and golden. At night I walk down to the jetty with the surgeon's wife and we smoke and feel the breezes, we watch the dark surf and talk intimately.

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It's Saturday, June 2nd, very humid and partly sunny. A massing of parents and students has filled the parking lot of the Muslim School across the street. First the chanting and preaching in Arabic, the mysterious high-pitched exhortations from another world and the long ritual responses from the crowd. Then the students, with all the girls in chadors and hair-hiding hajibs, the boys in white shirts and black ties, begin marching in a circle singing "We are the Bobcats, mighty mighty Bobcats, everywhere we go, people want to know, who we are, so we tell them . . . "

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I cannot sympathize with either Johnny Himself or the two women below. Yes he's a lost cause (Too many people routinely use the word "gender" now for us to ever return to "sex." It's a linguistic fait accompli.) and he's contemptuous and dismissive as well, but they're even more obnoxious in their preachy righteousness. More obnoxious than Johnny.

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CROATOAN CRO

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Another outburst of misogyny in this lounge of dinosaurs. It's so clear that Johnny is insecure and feels threatened by strong, independent women.

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Who is this thinking person who says "gender" instead of "sex"? Anyone who uses "gender" is a parrot for hardcore feministas, who are dedicated to their cause like Puritans. "Gender" is a woman's word, like "cute," and any man who'd use it is a tool for the zealots, all of them ugly women, all of them stringy-haired white women on granola with that rabid true-believer look in their eyes.

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I've had it with this insipid "tough talk" and I've had it with the narrative of Johnny Tartufo, which exists only to display women's asses. This is offensive to thinking people of both genders.

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Today I'm stretched out in the chaise longue in the garden swooning over the Lilies of the Valley I have stuffed into a small glass filled with clear water. The fragrance sends me off into the strato regions. They are white coral bells upon a slender stalk.

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They call me Seven Cities. Seven Cities is my name. In the 1500's the Spanish believed they could find the Seven Cities of Cibola by riding northeast from Mexico (New Spain) or by landing in California (also New Spain)and marching straight east for many weeks, maybe months, through a wide desert and then into uncharted territory, a huge blank spot on the maps. The temples of Cibola were smothered in emeralds; ruby spires and diamond turrets pushed skyward over the domes of solid gold and the gleaming silver rooftops. Nearby were the "mines," where you brought a horse-drawn cart and filled it to overflowing with precious jewels and minerals. A pickaxe wasn't necessary. A rake might help, but you could just use your hands.

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Will a gang of thugs please step in here with blazing Khalashnikovs and put Johnny's Tough Talk out of its misery?

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"You and me against the world. Sometimes it seems like you and me against the world." This song can bring tears to my eyes.