Whilst I would prefer to imagine that I'm the captain of my destiny and all such other affirmatory guff. I'm amused to note that this morning I did something nigh on ten years ago. That is to say, realised I needed an onlione place purely for the writing dtuff so I csan leavE Coastalblog free to roam wheresoe'er my pointless brain will take it. Which is, often, nowehere. Luckily this time I already had one up and running. And so the armschair dissident is, as of this morning, once more a going concern. As, hopefully, is the writing. And who knows? Hopefully, freed from the indecision of wondering what a blog's actually for, I may got back on here a bit more, you never know your luck.
I note, somewhat wearily, that creepy old men are back in the news, being creepy. Creepy old men, and their apologists and enablers, who argue that their creepiness is somehow the natural order of things. Old men would have you believe that it is difficult to not be a creepy old man. That it is a task of epic proportions. It is not that difficult. It is a matter of intention. As yet more of the grimness of Epstein unfolds, creepy old men are, sadly, a flaccid topic once again. Whether it be pursuing students thirty years their junior, or simply not asking too many questions about the background of the probably legal young woman who you've just been introduced to by your good pal Jeff. To be clear, I am not referring to criminal creepy old men, the ones who actually committed statutory rape, the ones who fucked trafficked hirls. That is not something which is allowed to get away merely with the contempt of the observer. That deserves prison. No , I'm referring to the hinterla...
Comments
Post a Comment