Monday, July 12


When Erasmus wrote In Praise Of Folly in the 16th century, he was addressing notions of virtue and the imagination; that reason alone was not enough to attain either virtue or perfectibility.

There is a false reason afoot that places blame on age and experience with regard to women.

The facts are that, increasingly, women in their thirties, with their biological clocks waking the neighbourhood and their own neurotic natures, are marrying abruptly. Then, just as abruptly, they are ditching the sperm donors.

The men are left with their heads and cheque books spinning.

Younger women have their own problems, but psychopathic nesting isn't one of them.

I have found that the same men who roll their eyes at my callow pussy plight, sanctimonious in their notion of identifying youth itself as the culprit, the feeble link in the romantic chain, are themselves only a soft, pubic hair away from romantic eviction--somewhere between the fourth and fifth level of Dante's shitstorm.

My friends who are working on their first or second divorce will, when pressed, tell you that they really don't know a goddamned thing about women.

But it's nice to pretend.

Hugh Hefner told me to rejoin the battle, and keep them young, they're more idealistic that way. And less likely to be fixedly circumspect.

After all, there's plenty of time to be a battle axe. Don't believe me? Just look across from the kitchen table and tell me what you see.

Then invite me over for dinner to meet your daughter--if she's still in college ...