bloomsday

P.S., the birthday is entirely fictitious on my part, but chosen for reasons which should be all too clear to you. Slan, -
Mac Giolla

Wow, GOOD article... it's a little scary how much Bush's poll numbers are rising, though.

MOST IMPORTANT DAY OF MY LIFE SO FAR

April 22, 1995. It was the first Saturday after the Murrah Building exploded in Oklahoma City. A horrible time. We think of 9/11 as the beginning of a darker age, but the sorrow and confusion that we immediately associate with it dates back much further. At any rate, it was a Saturday morning. I still lived with my parents as my law school loans came due. My father was dying of inoperable heart disease at the time. His heart was too big, they said. My mother was out shopping that morning. I woke to find my ashen father glued to the television, as usual, but with a particular somberness as the pundits discussed the culprits. He often clutched a pillow to his chest as he sat forward on the couch, the top of his long-healed heart surgery scar exposed by the V-neck of his pit-stained T-shirt.
I asked him if he wanted breakfast, and he was grateful. I made eggs, bacon, rye toast, coffee for both of us, and we watched C-SPAN together with our plates in our hands. Clinton's weekly radio address was transformed by the Oklahoma City bombing into an unusual television moment: He and Hillary addressed a room full of elementary school students, sitting on the floor around them. It was reminescent of a book reading in the library that we'd all experienced years ago. Except the topic of the talk was how to go on in the face of fear and sorrow and death. My father and I cried together as we sopped up the last of the yolks with our toast.
Then, fate and great program choices at C-SPAN, dealt an unanticipated blow. After the anquish of the presidential address, the station followed with Jerry Lewis speaking at the National Press Club. Soon my father and I were howling with laughter at the "Hey, Laaaydee's" and "Oooofs." Lewis was more relaxed and funny then he ever was on those fucking telethons.
My father and I were having such a great time laughing together, that we started crying all over again. I am overjoyed that I shared that particular moment with my father on the last day of his life.
Ultimately, the moment passed. I did the dishes before my mother got home. She never knew about the moment shared, until I told her years later. I went out on a date that night to see the Spanic Boys (twangy father-son alt. country duo) at Wilberts, and came home to find my mother off to the hospital after my father slipped into cardiac arrest while in front of the television. At the hospital, I saw him, dead and warm and incredibly healthy-looking and serene. I thought of the breakfast I had made that was still probably creeping around inside of him.

FIVE QUESTIONS EVERYONE SHOULD HAVE TO ANSWER

1) How often do you achieve orgasm, alone or otherwise?

2) Is this number (of orgasms) consistent with your conception of yourself?

3) Do you feel any ancillary benefits of reaching orgasm beyond the pleasure of the moment?

4) What role does the sexual climax of a partner play in your own orgasms?

5) What role do sexual tools such as pornography, toys, body mods, or fantasy, play in your own orgasms?


I don't think I'm talking here about anything more radical than a Cosmo quiz. But it would be helpful to know where everyone else weighs in on these questions, before we judge our sexual selves. The fact of the matter is this: the President is a lying pitch-man for a cabal; CO2 emmissions have gone up drastically in the last year (I actually spit on an SUV in a parking lot the other day); pot is still technically illegal; sexually repressed religious fanatics want to dictate whom I love and how; America has been hijacked by corporations with no interest in my well-being, etc., etc., etc.

The one thing that consistently allows me to rise above the horror and insanity of existence is the sanctuary and communion of a sacred sexual moment. Whether I commune with my own Molly Bloom in the nest of our bed, or I commune with my hand and a naughty DVD, I always find myself right where I need to be. And isn't that really the ultimate question, after all? To be, or not to be?

why do you use such words
and every day no less

I am currently flaccid. When was the last time I was turgid? When will be the next time I'm turgid? Will I be alone or with a loved one? It is fair to say these questions should cross men's minds now and then.

Is my life placid or turbid? When I lay down to sleep, what stream of thoughts float through my head? Placid ones of peace and love and insight? Or is the current stronger, more turbid, stirrings of fear and sadness and regret? It is fair to say these questions should cross men's minds now and then.

I also believe that folding my girlfriend's underwear as I finish the laundry is a sacred act.

I think your list has the problem of bouncing back and forth between sarcasm and seriousness, making your message unclear. Another issue I take with it is this:

Rule No. 2: If you consider yourself a Democrat or a Republican, then you are too small- minded to meaningfully participate in a modern political debate.

I'm assuming this is one of the parts that is not sarcastic. If it is, then this is a rather closed-minded statement in and of itself. Your making an unfair generalization about two major groups. Not everyone within these groups are as closed-minded as you think. And I say this as someone who considers myself to be a member of neither group.

Fuckin double post. I apologize.

[Edited on Feb 13, 2004 7:51AM]

it means he enjoys life...yes, it is a very good thing