Thank you, as always, ridiculous praiser of folly. Given your nom de Web, I do regard myself a fitting object of your encomia, however inspissated they may be by misjudgments and exaggerations. Did you ever, btw, read Walter J. Kaiser’s ancient book? I honestly have nothing but the greatest love and respect for him; he’s been by and large phenomenally generous to me. But I’m no Renaissance, much less Erasmian, scholar, to be sure.

I squeezed his penis in a friendly way the first night I accepted dinner at his house, which I was told was considered a faux pas. Much later, when I thought he’d been as asshole to me, I wrote him a cute anonymous quinque-lingual limerick sequence about his sexual propensities, whose authorship I was told he identified instantly. That Harvard philological education in the first half of the last century was killer sharp. I never really could get a leg up on him, so to speak. But I did teach In Praise of Folly for his lecture course, one semester. And I’d still give him a blow job. Especially, if he’d recite Alcaeus to me in the meanwhile.

Hiromi looks smart and fascinating. Much more, she’s sober. I’m not sure I can go that far, though.

As I wrote privately to the other generous commenter on my post:

sorry to wax pathetic. the worst feature of these rounds of depression is the evaginating vicious cycle i fall into. remaining motionless (except for occasional . . . ok, frequent . . . bouts of self-stimulation) in bed, and drinking all day, i fatten like a fucking veal on bovine supersteroids. funny thing, though — i cease taking all medications. . . . i lose any vestiges of that hourglass figure i could once imagine myself, maybe, one day, aspiring to hope to have, eventually, through liposuction, hard work, and some yet-unapproved advance in medical science, and i feel as alluring, delicate, feminine, and sensuous to the touch as a contractor’s weatherworn storage chest on his dodge ram in minnesota on a winter’s night.

so i don’t go out. or rather i elaborately plan to go out but rarely make it. the unavoidable specular ordeal of wrinkles and face and clothes and fat revolts the sense.

well, anyway, happy new year!

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rechurn-o-ze-depressed  ·  anecdotage

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