“..I know the news has only just broke that Michael Jackson is dead, and that some might think this is in bad taste, but it’s worth pointing out how endurance-type activities — like preparing for and putting on a dramatic rock concert, complete with lots of dancing leading up to and during the performance — don’t mix with a vegetarian diet. That’s right: since about the mid-1980s, Michael Jackson was a vegetarian, occasionally starving himself as well.
(Some think he had anorexia nervosa. If so, it would corroborate what I noticed here about anorexic girls eating almost exclusively carbs and no sort of animal products, other than the odd container of sugar-loaded yoghurt.)
Heart disease is caused by inflammation, and certain types of cholesterol transporters — low-density lipoproteins — are more easily damaged and can get lodged into the arterial walls more easily than other types. There are basically two shapes that an LDL particle comes in (there’s a spectrum in between, but it’s mostly one side or the other): a small, dense BB shape, and a large, fluffy cotton ball shape…”
Breast Implants, better known as “fake tits” – their appearance are increasingly prevalent phenomenon among American women. British women as well. So, let us say, Anglo-American, or “Anglosphere” women.
I don’t notice them much among foreign women. They seem particularly absent among Asiatic races, as well as African (no real need there), and even among Europe the aesthetic finds them to be vulgar. But in America they are common. And what do I think of them?
They make me sad, and bring a tear to the corner of my eye.
From an early age the riddle of man and woman has fascinated me, in fact to near obsession. I observe men and women, I observe our culture, how we relate to each other, how we love each other, and how we hate each other – the differences between our genders and sex, how we interact with one another, fascinates me. And it disturbs me. I can be seen as a “sensitive” (and rather guilt ridden) man, my efforts to conquer a sort of guilt for being a man, a guilt for my maleness, occupied most of my young adulthood.
I have come to a few conclusions.
The riddle of our age is that few men and women mutually understand each other’s nature.
I reflect upon conversations with The Woodchuck, and who is The Woodchuck? Why he is a BSD Unix hacker, a furry Marmot burrowed in, a Patriotic Vet, a slightly tired near, Misogynist, and a keen observer of all concerning Western Civilization’s incipient fall.
Lately my thoughts have grazed in the pastures of nostalgia. Flashbacks from the 80’s and early 90’s regularly assault me, a woman’s haircut brings back warm, and sad, memories and feelings for Sharon, the first intense crush I ever had, in the 5th grade. A bar or two of a song overheard, and I remember the awkwardness of the 7th grade. The intense embarrassment and awakened desire of catching a glimpse of Peggy’s knickers in class, as she sat demure, in a chaste little skirt. Of awkward attempts to find friends, walking along train tracks or fields discussing with other boys dreams of conquest…
The young beturbaned Mullah sits cross legged on his divan, ruby tinted sherub swirled in a crystal goblet, held in one hand, he chats about such nostalgia with The Woodchuck. The Marmot licks his paw, smoothes down a patch of fur, takes a deep puff on his pipe, and then directs his keen gaze at the Young Mullah.
Nostalgia, muses the Woodchuck, is an Old Man’s Disease.