Here’s a theme that’s been at K. for decades: time to add comments and to coordinate some of the chatter:
My girl is worried about her granddaughter, an attractive girl in her early twenties, living in Brooklyn, commuting all around NYC, all hours, new job starts today, day starts in Manhattan at 5 AM.
Dangerous? Sure. Fatal? Injury guaranteed? Not necessarily. I think of some of my own devices, worked for me so far: how much can / should I pass on to Jan / Taylor?
Males and females are not the same. What worked for me timeA may not work timeB-Z. I could be a mess; a cute girl with a different trick set could be still up and running.
I’ve long remembered V.S. Naipul’s single woman walking successfully from one coast of Africa to the other, her body and virtue still intact. That woman smeared herself with filth, made sure her stink would announce her well in advance of her actually arriving. That’s a good female ploy though it might work equally well for a weak sliver of a male too.
Aging counts. One’s self has to be mistrusted to a degree. In my mind I still feel vigorous, I remember how to bluster; what I can’t see 24/7 is how pathetic I actually am, white haired, shriveled.
Watching The Notorious Bettie Page, the film depicts Page being invited to a dance, getting driven out of town as the meat for a gang bang. Awful, horrible, wrong; but: she survived it. Knew how to pose as sexy as ever, maybe sexier than ever: became the icon for such: got commended by Hugh Hefner, the iconic lech.
I sort of remember Bettie Page. The early 1950s is certainly when I covered my walls with Esquire calendar art: pinups promising perfections, jeez what boobs, shat tush, what faces. The girl cast for Bettie Page looked good bare-ass.