CHRONICLE 88 :PHOENIX 1987--1988
Continued from Chronicle 87
We were discussing the meaning of colors. Purple is a sexual color, she said.
I replied, Some of the color meanings are arbitrary, but I think red is the most sexual color on a woman. On men, though, especially in pants, it merely looks ridiculous. My theory is that this comes from our distant ancestors among the primates, to whom a red ass on a female signals sexual excitement to the male.
She thought that was amusing, but then she suddenly said, I don't believe in evolution, so let's not talk about it.
I asked if she believed in creation as literally described in Genesis. She said No. I asked where she thought we came from. She said, in all seriousness, Out of the mud.
But she didn't really want to talk about it, and wouldn't say anything more. She is intelligent, and must know there is no logic in her answer. She has mentioned before that she doesn't believe in God, so surely it isn't a religious opinion. What, then, could be her reason? Is it merely an aesthetic objection to having non-human ancestors? Does she think it somehow demeans humanity to have risen from lesser organisms?
Once I said, half in jest, that men don't expect logic from women. Actually, I do expect, or at least hope, that women will be logical. But, they so often use baffling illogic against men to get their way, a tactic that is unfair, but tolerated by condescending men as endearingly childlike. Less perceptive men may believe it is unintentional, or that women's thinking really is radically different, but it is no more than a ploy, like the looks, winks, wiggles, and snuggles they begin using around age 4. It works whether we can see through it or not, because we men adore them. And because we do, the human race is a social, and therefore successful, animal.
It's too late to make spaghetti. If we did, it would be pasta time.
An announcer, during the 1987 World Series, said, You could see daylight between them...or in this case, night light
A FLASH WAY BACK
I was not a bad-looking kid at 16, but I had little self-confidence when it came to girls. So, when I managed to summon the courage to ask out the pretty blonde girl who smiled at me after class, I was both surprised and elated when she said Yes.
Carolyn had German genes; she was a real blonde with a voluptuous figure and a dazzling smile. She turned out to be pleasant to be with, cheerful and fairly intelligent, though not too imaginative. I grew to like her a lot, not just because she was strikingly attractive, but also because she was remarkably positive. She never complained about my low-budget cars-- my stepmother's '51 Chevy, my '54 Ford, or my '59 Studebaker Lark-- or my low-budget wallet. I had no social status or popularity, and yet she seemed to enjoy just being with me.
The sexual revolution had not yet reached Hannibal, but as the months went by, I felt increasing need to go beyond kissing and light petting. I knew nothing of seduction, and actually talking about it was inconceivable. It had to come from spontaneous mutual desire.
One afternoon Carolyn and I went swimming at a lake outside of town. On the way home early in the warm sultry evening we drove through Riverview park. I stopped in a secluded place. Carolyn looked delicious in her bikini. So much of her creamy smooth skin was available to be touched. Only two damp pieces of cloth stood between us and paradise. We sensed one another's excitement. The ease with which something new could happen was evident.
But Carolyn had been taught to fear this moment, and the fear won. She uttered the four most dreaded words in teenage experience: Don't touch me there!
If I had been more confident or smoother or more persistent, the story might have ended differently, but we will never know. We are who we are, when we are. I took her home.
We continued to date after that, but it was different. I thought perhaps I loved her, and maybe she loved me, but the possibilities of our relationship had been closed off. She had said No to the expression of love, and I couldn't bring myself to try again, or to talk to her about it.
Yolanda was a couple of years younger than I, short and cute and sensuous. She was more enthusiastic about physical affection than Carolyn. One day I took her to the lake to swim, not knowing that Carolyn's sister was there The next time I saw Carolyn, she confronted me with cold anger, and with seeming finality, broke up with me.
I was quite upset by that. I hadn't given up on Carolyn; I was just trying to find a way to meet my sexual needs. I would much rather have done that with her; we were both victims of the anti-sexual attitudes that were taught so exclusively then. Although those attitudes still exist today, they are countered by more enlightened ideas and information.
I continued to date Yolanda, and one night in the back seat of my car parked in front of her house, my hands were caressing her, and clothing was coming off. I was in new territory. By what seemed to be amazing luck, I was in sight of my goal, and I wanted desperately to reach it before something happened to break the spell. The last obstacle was that diabolical article of clothing known as pantyhose.
The teenaged amateur seducer often operates under the illusion that he can whisk away an impeding piece of cloth before she realizes it is being removed. The seducee, if she is willing, may cooperate in this illusion, but the removal of pantyhose tends to strain its credibility.
I slid the pantyhose downward, leaving unobstructed access, but now they were in a position to tie her thighs together. I did not pause to consider the disadvantage of that. I had waited all my teenaged years for this opportunity.
Impulsively I plunged between nylon-bound thighs, probing for paradise. My aim was true, and I came immediately. Suddenly Yolanda pulled away and put her clothes back on. I've got to go in!, she said, and ran into the house. I wasn't sure at the time what that behavior meant, but I was in a daze of amazement and elation, though I regretted that the experience hadn't lasted longer. I drove home grinning.
On Justice and Crime
It is shocking how lightly some regard our constitutional rights to a fair trial, which help insure that few of us are deprived of life, liberty, or property by mistake. Whether attacks on these safeguards are made in the name of Law and Order or Victim's Rights, they disregard the fact that to punish the innocent is far worse than to free the guilty.
If prosecuters and victims are frustrated by the difficulty and uncertainty of extracting revenge for a crime, they should imagine the horror and despair of being punished for a crime they did not commit.
If we wish to assign blame beyond the perpetrator, it should be the society that permits poverty to exist, which breeds hopelessness and desperation. But we must concentrate less on revenge and blame and more on rehabilitation both within and without prisons, and try to create a society that breeds less crime in the first place; one that provides better for the economic and emotional needs of its people.
Don't call me a bloody vassal!
I am not a juggler in vain.
Would you hand me my cap, Larry?
Greased for the competition, arriving hours ahead of time, the blatantly religious bodybuilder had an oilier than thou attitude.
I'm tired of dead bodies, said the corpulent county coroner, pulling on his pants; I need a breather!
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HE, SHE, OR IT IS OF INDETERMINATE
AGE, SEX, AND NATIONAL ORIGIN,
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