Yeah, I went to Christian camp once. It was Young Life camp, at Windy Gap, North Carolina. I don’t remember everything about it, other than it was camp, things went on there that normally went on at camp — activities like canoeing, crafts, pranking other campers, especially the ones in the other cabins, etc.
I don’t remember the religious aspect of the camp being overbearing, but it was fun and somewhat seductive. The songs were infectious. Over thirty years later and I still remember the songs, good Lord it’s been a long time.
I remember, vaguely, that I was maybe a year too young to be there officially, but someone pulled some strings. A lot of strings were pulled for me as a kid. I was a quirky kid. I didn’t understand it much then, but now that I have quirky kids, I kind of do. At least a little better. And I’m not much better equipped to help them than I was back then to help myself.
Do you ever reminisce long past days, and remember small things, tiny things, rather than the big events? Sometimes I’ll look back at times like this and remember little but a turn of phrase that someone uttered. And the songs. And the fact that that’s where I learned to saran wrap a toilet.
In my younger and more open-minded days, I spent a lot of time in the city. Even when I didn’t live in the city proper, I was a city-dweller. In the city, you see grates and doors in the sidewalk all the time. Sometimes they are steam grates, sometimes cellar doors for store stockrooms, sometimes above Metro, sometimes above drainage systems.
I used to imagine they were a test, and only the pure of heart could walk across them without falling through. And knowing my purity levels tended to waver, I would sometimes actually get a bit nervous in anticipation of walking across them.
Note: not the same kind of purity test as this — if it was that type of test, I would have only had a 30% chance of making it across.
Last week outside the Black Cat, I saw some of those cellar doors, and flashed back to those days of old. Before the show, I didn’t take a chance on walking across them. After the show, I figured, “what the hell,” and walked across. Successfully.
It’s a shame that so much of male self-esteem is wrapped up the confidence of having an “adequately” sized penis. That’s some caveman shit there. Other than the sheer difficulty of consummation with a “micropenis,” studies have shown that there is no correlation between penis size and fertility/virility.
In fact, they have found something that determines fertility far more accurately. anogenital distance (AGD), which was found to be a much better indicator. AGD is the distance between the anus and the closest connection of the scrotum. Less than two inches means likely impaired fertility. Of course, none of this matters in terms of our roles in the universe… but my AGD is fucking huge. Just sayin’.
Of course, the marketing geniuses are having a tough time marketing condoms to those whose length and/or girth is considered “below average.” I mean, you don’t want to give a guy a complex, right? God forbid you’re buying them in the local drugstore, and Tammy behind the counter learns that what you’re packing is, maybe, less-than-impressive.
“Snug Fit” smaller condoms
As the article points out, this refusal to address size in a transparent manner can result in serious consequences, such as increased rates of infection due to a failure to navigate size propaganda and find the correct fit.
The truth is, a lot of men don’t know how a condom is supposed to fit anyway. Newsflash: It’s not supposed to squeeze you like a sausage. If you complain that condoms reduce sensation, that’s probably why that’s happening, you’re too-tight condom is restricting blood flow and making it numb. Go for a magnum next time. It doesn’t need to be that tight, it just needs to not fall off.
MAYBE, just maybe, if we can get the condom size thing sorted out, we can get WOMEN sorted into various anatomy types and fit preferences, so that those with tighter anatomies who aren’t comfortable with serious stretching can gravitate toward those guys who will fit them the way they like, and the size queens can gravitate toward the over-endowed.
Pop star Zara Larsson puts a condom on her leg to prove that no man is “too big for condoms.”
And in Other Penis News
I figured I’d get this other penis news out of the way now rather than post another penis article right away and be accused of being penicentric.
During Vietnam, both the South Vietnamese and the Vietcong soldiers believed that you meet your god in whatever form you are in when you die. So they would cut the penises off of dead soldiers and insert them into the soldiers’ mouths.
I don’t know what kind of God they were envisioning here. The God of high school jocks, who will point and laugh, humiliating the newly-arrived dead soldier for arriving with his own dick in his mouth? Please. I like to think the welcome would be more like, “Welcome. Sorry about the dick thing. War is hell.”
I heard this one for the first time a few months ago on the SiriusXM channel Bluegrass Junction. It has all of the earmarks of an old murder ballad, but it’s relatively recent, written and recorded by Don Humphries in 1997.
I mentioned during the show review earlier this week that I had stumbled upon a record store while exploring the neighborhood around Black Cat. I thought I’d take an opportunity to talk about Hooked, a cool little store in downtown Fredericksburg, across from Hyperion.
Every time I go into Hooked, which used to be Horseshoes and Hand Grenades, I marvel at the selection and end up buying nothing. That says more about me and my choices than about the store itself. There are some interesting contradictions at work here.
I think I like where the store is positioning itself culturally. Some things you can buy at the store include records (vinyl of course), including the latest Pere Ubu album; Crosley Cruiser briefcase-style portable turntables (they will even play 78 rpm records!), vintage clothing, and sunglasses. They have a whole section of Impossible Project instant cameras and film, and another whole section of vintage video game cartridges and systems (mainly NES and SNES, it looked like).
I love the idea of a store that plants itself in firm rejection of technological futurism, and basically stops the clock 20+ years in the past. It’s kind of reminiscent of the Steampunk movement, but less artsy and more hands-on practical.
Practical for their demographic, I should say. I can’t currently justify buying anything in the store, but golly, it’s fun to shop there.
I hate that this device exists, and that a company can use such intrusive measures to gauge your worthiness as a driver, and charge you based on arbitrary criteria such as whether you brake too fast. Numbers and data from a monitoring device do not tell the whole story. Maybe your fast braking saved a child, or a kitten.
Plus they have access to other information – basically anything your OBD port can tell them. GPS data is an obvious target. With modern vehicles becoming more and more integrated, what else?
Anyhow, I love that people have already figured out how to work around it and limit the amount of information provided to Progressive.
I don’t use Progressive, but if I did, and they asked me to use this device, I would certainly consider this hack. Thanks to the person in my feed who mentioned this and brought it to my attention.
I like to support my friends in the arts when I can. I believe it’s a person’s duty to leave something in this world that is an artifact of you, that will live on long after you are gone. Something someone can hold in their hand and say “I knew this person.”
I have a surprising amount of paintings, books, CDs, etc. from friend that I have collected over the years. Some of it marks moments in time, and some of it is burned into my soul.
I didn’t know Sean. I mean, I went to school with him, so I knew him, but I never “knew” him. And that was a long time ago. In school, I was in my head. All the time. Very bad at being social. Even now, I know him about as well as I know Thomas Pynchon. And like Pynchon, I can maybe get to know Sean a little bit better through the words he committed to paper (and Kindle).
Reading this book was startling to me. The first time I started, life got in the way, and this book was put aside in a stack of books, along with another Brijbasi title, while I dealt with those other things, and then of course life just kept on moving along and the stack lay undisturbed. Also in the stack were three Lawrence Wright titles. When you have the exuberant and sometimes haphazard passion for life that I do, combined with a busy work life and social schedule, it can be difficult to find time to just sit and read.
Recently, I finally made the time to attack these books again, and was startled all over again. Reading this book was like exploring dreams I had a long time ago. It was as if these other people in other cities were having some of the same tiny little moments, or tiny variations of them, that I’ve known in my own life. His observational skills are excellent, and he describes events in better detail than I would have remembered them. The nuance is impeccable. Emotions are transmitted. Most importantly, he enables you to share the mysteries, because at its core, it’s all a mystery. A mystery of coincidences and near misses.
I just ordered his more recent title, and I’m looking forward to making time for its consumption very soon.
I didn’t NEED one. I probably shouldn’t have ordered it. But it was there. And they hooked me. I mean, it does address some of the “shortcomings” of my previous phone. Although, to be honest, my “phone” had no shortcomings. It was the all-powerful computer, audio-video and communications subsystem that came included with my phone that has gradually begun to disappoint, at the same rate as the growth of my expectations.
I ordered my last phone, the RAZR MAXX HD, to address a shortcoming — battery life — it was requiring to be tethered to the power grid with increasing frequency, as if it had become addicted to electricity. Ironic, since the phone was billed at the time of its introduction as the best battery life on the market. But batteries, like humans, grow old and weary, and need to recharge more frequently.
The old phone also suffered from the ailment that all smartphones (at least those owned by power users) tend to suffer at some point or another — it began to lag. Even bringing up the applications menu might take thirty seconds to load. I know that I could probably speed that up by doing a factory reset, releasing software hooks, storage and detritus caused by badly programmed applications and whatnot, but I felt, as a man, that I had to draw the line somewhere. I mean, who’s the tool and who’s the owner? I’m not going to let some damned overpriced subsidized phone tell me what to do! Fuck that. This relationship is over.
Turbo got a big ole butt
I know I told you I’d be true
But Turbo got a big ole butt
So I’m leaving you.
I ordered the Droid Turbo. Geek specs: Qualcomm Snapdragon 805, Quad-core 2.7 GHz Krait 450, Adreno 420 GPU. Super AMOLED capacitive touchscreen, splash resistant, Corning Gorilla Glass 3, 1440×2560 pixels. 3GB RAM, 64GB Storage. 21MP (5248×3936) camera. 2160p video @24fps, 1080p@30fps. Fast charging (60% in 30min), wireless charging (Qi-enabled). Oh, and I ordered it in ballistic nylon.
A 21MP phone camera?!?!?!? What’s the fucking point of that? There’s no possible way that the tiny little phone camera lens can take full advantage of a sensor that dense. Just no way. But we’ll see. We’ll see.
