Category: Writing

Exemplar

Good Stuff, Writing

I love Yiddish, because so many of their terms are just wonderful to use as a pithy description of despicable behavior.

Today, we focus on the word chutzpah, which means “effrontery”, “cheek”, “impudence”, “gall” and so much more in the same vein.

For those still unclear on the concept, here’s a wonderful example:

California Gov Gavin Newsom (D) recently traveled to Washington to seek federal aid for addressing the impact of the recent fires.

How is this chutzpah?  Consider the context.

California, which failed to prevent the spread of wildfires in Los Angeles last month and is struggling to repair the damage, is set to spend nearly $10 billion on health care for illegal aliens.

…and even better:

Newsom recently signed $50 million in new spending to fight President Donald Trump’s policies.

I know what I would have said to him, were I the POTUS.

“Esn drek aun shtarbn, mamzer.”

For my non-Tribe Readers, that’s “Eat shit and die, you bastard.”

RFI: Post Topics

Writing

Okay, I admit it:  I am thoroughly bereft of ideas for blog posts of any meaning or consequence for tomorrow’s offering.

Of course, there’s always a Gun Pic, or a Random Totty, or a Beautiful Old Car, or any combination thereof.  (e.g. some young / older totty carrying a gun standing next to a car.)

But a topic worth discussion?  Nada, bupkes, bugger all.  I got, as the saying goes, nothing.

Not interested in Trump trials, 2024 elections, pro-Palestinian bullshit, none of what passes for news nowadays.  Government shenanigans occasionally attract my curiosity, but all I want to do is hang all of them, almost without exception, and how many times can I write about that?

And I cannot be bothered to do anything about sports, because the EPL season is drawing to a close and the F1 season is even less interesting than usual — and anyway, both topics are regarded by my Loyal Readers as equivalent to having me deliver ball-by-ball commentary on a minor golf tournament, during a rainstorm.

I mean, WTF?

So unusually, I’m calling on you, my Readers, to give me some topic(s) you’d like me to talk about.  If I get anything interesting before 6pm Central Whatever Time today, I’ll try to do something about it before midnight.

Otherwise, I’ll be forced to resort to pics of nude women, or guns, or nude women holding guns, or… you get the idea.

In Comments or by email, please.

Worn Out

Writing

I see that aged author Jilly Cooper has thrown in the towel, so to speak, when it comes to writing her bonkfest novels.  Actually, it’s kinda sad:

The 86-year-old, who’s known for her light-hearted take on erotic fiction, confessed that penning her new book, Tackle!, was much tougher than her others because she’s not that interested in sex any more.

The British author, who lost her husband Leo ten years ago, and said writing hot scenes to satisfy readers was harder than people think. 

She told Good Housekeeping magazine: ‘I’m 86 now and have forgotten how to do it! 

‘It’s quite difficult to write sex scenes – you can’t go on finding ways to do it differently.’

Well, yes — it’s the same thing about having sex itself:  once you’ve gone through the Kama Sutra and gone around the clock face a few times, it is a little difficult to imagine new ways of putting it together, so to speak.  Hence, I suppose, why people do things like threesomes, sex parties and affairs, not to mention going over to the Dark Side and exploring things like BDSM and bonking those of Tender Years.

Writing it is even more difficult.  I once wrote an entire erotic novel, the sex scenes strung together with only the flimsiest of common threads, and by the end of it — after a massive sex orgy — I had the “hero” of the story get married to the only woman he hadn’t managed to seduce.  I think he was as tired of fucking around as I was.  (And no, I haven’t published it, and probably won’t, even though it did receive rave reviews from a select few beta testers, as it were.)

Anyway, ol’ Jilly’s sex scenes were quite racy for the times in which she wrote them — good grief, over thirty years, it’s a miracle she can come up with a different plot, let alone yet another different way to describe the insertion of Tab A into Slot B (as Sarah Hoyt so delightfully puts it).

But if the old pen is starting to droop with over-use, there’s unfortunately no Writer’s Viagra to come [sic] to the rescue.

Writing about sex is about as ridiculous as having it, at age 86.

Calm Invective

Culture, Writing

Here’s a little oeuvre which deserves airing, despite the appalling grammar:  Indiana Jones And The Last Franchise.

Even though I was not familiar with about 60% of his cultural allusions, the writing was enough to engage me.  After all, you don’t need to be a military strategist to understand that combat is awful, bloody and destructive.  I especially liked this little turn:

And, if you ever haul yourself out of bed and find that you have little to smile about… just look up Disney on Google News. It may not bring you joy, but the schadenfreude will most likely bring a smile to your face. At least a little grin.

That happens early in the piece, and it gets better.  Here’s the pre-climax exposition:

My great-grandfather was a mason. A brick-layer, I mean, not the… well, you know the other type. He was a master of his craft. Back in the 20’s, his skill was in such high-demand that he was paid to travel the world and build structures in places like Shanghai and Glasgow that stand to this day. In an age of cheap, third-world labor, it can be a bit difficult to imagine the artistry, skill, and talent of a good mason. There’s more to it than slopping mortar onto a brick and stacking another on top. You just don’t see a lot of work like what he was doing, these days. Men like him labored to build cities not just for themselves, but their descendants. They spent their lives – some of them gave their lives – so that their descendants would live in a world that they themselves could scarcely imagine. They build us sprawling, glittering skylines of glass and steel and lights. Man-made miracles of engineering and architecture that would be, quite literally, incomprehensible to most humans from before a certain time.

Yet, the cities they built for us, that they left us, are no longer ours. My great-grandfather did most of his work in Pennsylvania and the North-East. He lived in Philadelphia, in a neighborhood his descendants can’t walk through, day or night. His house is still there. I don’t know who lives in it now, if anyone does. I don’t really want to know, either.

All I know is the fruits of his labors, his house, his city — it’s not just that they don’t belong to his descendants, and, arguably, the country he built them for. We can’t even enjoy them. They were wrested out of the hands of the people, and, without consent, broken, smashed, and destroyed by wicked people, who now hand us the smoldering ruins of our predecessors’ lifetime of work, and say with a smile, Here! We made it better! And, if you dare say otherwise, you’re an ungrateful asshole who should be grateful that they’re deigning to give you a damn thing.

Excellent stuff, and well worth the long read.

Quick Reminder

Writing

We’re entering the Week 3 of the annual Keep The Moneylenders From Repossessing Kim’s Children fundraiser, so if you haven’t yet thrown some coins into Ye Olde Begginge Cuppe, please consider doing so.

And heartfelt thanks to all those who have already contributed.  The difference it has made to our circumstances (and to my general mood) is beyond description.