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These strings show up in my log at least a dozen times a day, often many times that.
Sorry, boys: It’s not looking good for Don Juan Diego. I hear tell from a well-placed source that Mr. Bell, too, bats for our team. (May I say, though: I do admire your devotion to the quaint idea that sexuality is binary and fixed.)
P.S. I have met Don Juan Diego’s fiancée: She is lovely, and he is a very lucky guy.
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No, you see: He actually knows how to sing.
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I met a fidanzato svizzero a few years back, but I know not what became of him.
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Would you settle for Giuseppe Filianoti’s shoe size?
Dolce Gabbana +
Fabio Grosso
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Every day, I receive up to a dozen hits per hour on some combination of the above. Again, you need to go here, here, and here. I would make two further points:
- Fetching as Marco Amelia in undies may be, he’s even more amazing scoring this brazen stealth goal. The boy’s a goalkeeper, people!
- A private message to Dolce and Gabbana:
Domenico, Stefano, mo’ basta con questi giovincelli imberbi. In mutande ci vuole el Dùnadùn.
Mi sa che il mister vi ha segnalato le sue prodezze senza, diciamo, andare troppo per il sottile. E poi M e la di lui sposa vi diranno quanto son pimpanti i bergamaschi. POTA SÌ!
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Almost. See above.
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Rarely, and only if they’re both hung.
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Tell me something I don’t know.
A cold and searching wind drives away all contagion, and nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in it, and accordingly, whatever we meet with in cold and bleak places, as the tops of mountains, we respect for a sort of sturdy innocence…
Every age has its own fascism: Its warning signs can be noted whenever the concentration of power denies a citizen the possibility and the capacity to express and act upon his own will. One arrives at this point in many ways, not necessarily through fear of police intimidation, but also by denying or distorting information, corrupting justice, paralyzing schools, propagating in many subtle ways the nostalgia for a world in which order reigned supreme, and in which the security of the privileged few rested upon the forced work and forced silence of the many.
A young(er) friend convinced vilaine fille to set up a MySpace page (screen? node? exactly what do you kids call ’em?).
The internal forces that oppose our desire to escape Mitzraim, that make us swallow our “crying out,” are great and subtle:
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