Do you know the expression ‘Fuck me!’ ?  (The aggravated frustration one, not the penetration one.)

No?  Yesterday I watched the entire final press conference of President Barack Obama, the grace and intelligence of the man abundant throughout.  Picturing the Nattering Imbecile-elect in this setting, I said ‘Fuck me’, but not very loud.

Please recall that last month I wrote that I was not going to let this blog turn into ‘one of those’, so in accordance, I’m going to use as my model the Melina Mercouri character ‘Ilya’, a prostitute working the port city of Piraeus in the movie ‘Never on Sunday’.

In the course of the movie, we discover that Ilya misinterprets the storylines of the Greek tragedies, or rather mentally rewrites them to all have happy endings.  In the case of ‘Medea’, at the conclusion, “Everybody goes to the beach!”.

Speaking of port cities, in another lifetime, I ran across a photograph of a harbor scene (circa 1880?) with all the massive dockside hardware, industrial cranes and so forth, as the focus.  However, an isolated spot in the picture caught my attention: a tiny figure in a suit and bowler surveying the horizon.

I macro-photograhed him and screen-printed him (without permission) for a card that year: the New Year before us!  Well, that was the idea, anyway.

Now I’m just going to think of him as searching in the distance for the umbrellas and surfboards.


Remember that Tumblr site I set you onto some months ago, Kafka’s Apartment?

Well, Stephen sent me another one this A.M. called nobellnostorm, from which the attached image comes.  (Stephen says my story has been written; oh, I hope so.)

The further you explore the site, the more eclectic the images seem to become, but so far, no naked gentlemen.

What’s the point, you may ask.


I wrote this as a comment on another blog, but then thought, why not fill some space here on Domani Dave?

Stephen and I had Thanksgiving lunch with friends in Atlanta, and since repetition becomes ‘tradition’, this has become a wonderful one.  All attendees were as, or almost as, decrepit as we, with the exception this year of the addition of a young man from India.

Normally, I say this alleged ‘tonic’ of mixing with the younger is a hoax, since the gap of experiences and references just becomes frustrating.  This bright and charming young man, however, seemed genuinely delighted to be there, and interesting conversation was nonstop.

After Stephen and I got home, assessing the day as couples do, we placed this young man in a category we like to call ‘I’d just like to bounce him on my knee’.  Relating this category to someone once, I inadvertently replaced ‘knee’ with ‘lap’.

That’s an entirely different category.

There was this blog called ‘Life is an STD’ that consisted alternately of images of callipygous male bum, and out-of-control diatribe on the subject of the United States.

I used to visit this blog from time to time, not for the bum which all things considered was a little garden-variety, but to be witness to the black hole that was developing.  The blog did eventually implode, and I do wonder if the author wasn’t hauled off to the ‘nervous hospital’.

So that Domani Dave will not develop such a reputation, I have decided to depart the subject of D*n*ld Tr*mp for good.


I haven’t name-dropped in a while, but since my drop-worthy names have become so dated (though I do know Tom Ford’s husband, Richard), I don’t know if they even count anymore.

This morning, we are drinking Fred ‘The B-52s’ Schneider’s ‘Monster Blend’ coffee.  As I quoted last post, ‘A boy has to make his way in the world’, so Fred (who is a friend of ours) licensed his name to this enterprise, which rather like Paul Newman’s line of products, supports worthy causes, in this case, removal of UXO (‘unexploded ordnance’, bombs) in Southeast Asia.


Earlier this month I got new glasses, and when picking new frames, I espied a pair which I could not understand why I recognized.  So strong was my attraction to them over any of the others I was fondling, they essentially picked me, rather than the other way around.

Lo and behold, the eyewear company Oliver Peoples had licensed the Gregory Peck name from his estate to market a tweaked version of the glasses he wore in To Kill a Mockingbird.  The ones I chose are not tortoiseshell, but translucent grey, however I still look rather ‘adversarial’ in them.


With all this in mind, I’ve decided to license my own name for a product, but I have no idea what or which.  I haven’t given it a great deal of thought at this point, but I could use your help.

I don’t think there’s so much as one good reason for any rude suggestions.

I’m going to go ahead and pre-regret this post.

In the years following the Kennedy assassination, when Jacquline Bouvier Kennedy eventually married Aristotle Onassis, I remember reading a piece in nothing so lofty as a serious ‘journal’ of the times, but rather Look magazine.

On the subject of that union the article began:

‘If they fight every day, they will still have the perfect marriage, because through his vast wealth, she got protection for her children, and he got the world’s ultimate bauble.’

Referring to Mrs. Kennedy as a ‘bauble’ stands matchless in the utterances echoing though the corridors of time.

I have no patience with grousing about the ‘sham marriage’ of Bill and Hillary Clinton.  She didn’t bake cookies, and he was serially unfaithful, but the marriage took them where they aspired to be.  That aspiration has now crashed, and as if I have the right, I genuinely ache for Hillary Rodham (Clinton).

The other wife?  The worst thing I’ve read about Melania Trump is that “she’d still be turning tricks in Transylvania if she hadn’t married Donald.”  I think this is uncalled-for, as I nod to the words of Saint Truman (Capote):

“A boy [girl] has to make his [her] way in the world.”

My skin crawls for the price the current Mrs. Trump pays.  A similar revulsion is for me the very idea of this couple moving into Mrs. Kennedy’s and Mrs. Obama’s White House, prissy as that sounds.

The contribution to this tenancy, by those whose ‘lofty ideals’ compelled them to sit out this election?  I’m searching for the word to describe my reaction to them.

As Mark Twain wrote, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is … the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

What good would an intelligent explanation do?

I am going be patient and wait for the Public Broadcasting series ‘Frontline’ to come along during 2017 to spoon-feed this election to me.

Whether or not I have ever had the intellectual wherewithal to fathom any of it is beside the point at this juncture, as the whole thing has so significantly rearranged my psyche.

My friend Will W in New Jersey sent me this picture this morning.  It didn’t help.


Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but September 2015, I ditched the previous posts in a fit of cyber housecleaning. Some of it was really nice writing, but alas as my old friend Susan once said, 'Compulsion is a cruel master'.

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