I queried AP Stylebook’s editor a few days ago about whether it’s preferred to discontinue “prostitute” in favor of “sex worker” or “escort.” Below is a screenshot of the response I received today. How do you think the AP should decide?
See my original post on this issue.
Ah, the joys of typewriter maintenance. Picture me, just your average Joe, undertaking the noble task of maintaining my precious Hermes 3000 in pristine glory.
Armed with cotton swabs and a spray bottle of 99 percent isopropyl alcohol, I was all set to dive into the fiddly, smudgy, inky world of typeslug cleanliness.
What I wasn’t ready for was the time travel that occurred after the first spray.
The moment that acerbic scent of isopropyl alcohol hit my nostrils, my brain went on an impromptu trip down memory lane.
Picture this: One moment, I was elbow-deep in the guts of a vintage typewriter, and the next, I was back in the sultry, steamy setting of Denver’s Empire Baths.
I’d somehow managed to astrally project myself into the midst of a memory of my first visit to the former gay bathhouse.
Why, you might ask, did my brain make this leap from cleaning typeslugs to steamy encounters?
Here’s the explanation.
Poppers are recreational inhalants of isobutyl nitrite or related compounds made by reacting isobutyl alcohol with sodium nitrite in dilute sulfuric acid.
These aren’t exactly household chemicals, but their distinctive scent is oddly reminiscent of alcohol.
At the Empire Baths — or any other gay bathhouse — the aroma of poppers infused the humid air, subtly overlaying the scent of damp towels and sweat. Quite the unique olfactory cocktail.
It’s not a far stretch to say that my nostrils picked up the thread of familiarity between the isopropyl alcohol and those ethereal nitrite wafts from the past.
And voila!
My brain leaped from typeslugs to steam rooms faster than a pussy pouncing on a laser pointer.
But I must cut this blog post short before we digress further into memory and nostalgia.
There’s an irresistible siren call from my living room I cannot ignore: a new Chris Pratt movie on Amazon Prime.
I’ve been noticing something strange in the news lately. Many news stories about the Long Island Serial Killer no longer refer to some victims as prostitutes.
The media’s preferred term is becoming “escort” or “sex worker.”
But why is that? And why should journalists still write “prostitute”?
Forget about being politically correct. Yes, we should usually respect how people want to be identified and avoid using hurtful words.
But let’s be honest: Most prostitutes do it because they are desperate or forced. Saying “escort” or “sex worker” makes it sound like a regular job, which it sure as hell wasn’t for them.
Using the word “prostitute” reminds us of the harsh truth about sex work. It’s a trade in which people are taken advantage of, often in terrible ways. It tells us we must help those caught in this situation.
If we use nicer-sounding words, we forget how serious and urgent this problem is.
So, who wins when we change the words we use?
People who want us to see sex work as just another job like these new words. If we think of sex work as normal and not something terrible, it might help their cause. But that view forgets about all the people forced into prostitution because they’re poor, addicted to drugs, or because someone made them do it.
Also, as a society, we don’t like to face harsh truths. Using nicer words helps us feel better and keep a safe distance from real problems.
But here’s the thing: A journalist’s job is to tell the truth, not make people feel good.
Remember that we shouldn’t use the word “prostitute” in a mean way. The Long Island Serial Killer’s victims were real people with families and friends. Their lives mattered, and they died horribly.
Journalists must recognize the hard truths to tell their stories right and not hide behind more sociable words.
Journalists should keep writing and saying “prostitute” because it shows how bad things are for some people and reminds us we need to help.
As the mercury rises, so does the significance of one fundamental element governing our health, endurance, and overall survival — water.
The signs of dehydration often creep up on us unnoticed. Many people are unaware they’re dehydrated until the symptoms become severe. This is because our bodies are incredibly adaptive, and we may not realize we’re losing water until we start feeling weak, dizzy, or experience a rapid heart rate.
Subtle signs, such as dry mouth, headache, and fatigue, are often overlooked and attributed to the rigors of our work, recreation, or stress rather than dehydration.
What happens when we’re dehydrated?
Our bodies are roughly 60 percent water. This water is crucial for bodily functions, including maintaining the fluidity of our blood.
When we’re dehydrated, the water content in our body drops, causing our blood to thicken. This thicker blood is more complicated for our hearts to pump, and it impacts the effectiveness of nutrient and oxygen delivery throughout our bodies, plus the removal of waste products.
This physiological response explains why we may feel fatigued or mentally sluggish when dehydrated. Staying hydrated is not merely quenching thirst but maintaining ideal bodily functions.
This brings us to an emblem of outdoor hydration: the Nalgene bottle.
This marvel of design and practicality is much more than a simple vessel for holding water. Nalgene bottles have become the gold standard in hydration solutions due to their robust build, reliable sealing, and efficient insulation capabilities.
They ensure your water stays clean and at hand, while the measurements on the side let you track water intake, making it a trusty companion when coping with scorching heat.
There’s a common misconception that the popularity of Nalgene bottles among outdoor enthusiasts amounts to something of a cult. However, the truth is more straightforward and driven by common sense.
These bottles are not just durable and reliable but are also free of harmful substances like BPA. They’re dishwasher safe, withstand high temperatures, and can even survive drops onto hard surfaces. A Nalgene bottle can last you a lifetime of adventures.
So, the next time you prepare for an outdoor adventure or a commute to work, remember that water isn’t a thirst quencher; it’s a vital lifeline.
Arm yourself with a Nalgene bottle, and embrace the common sense it represents.
Staying adequately hydrated is not a cult — it’s essential survival wisdom.
How much water should we drink every day?
I’m still catching my breath from yesterday’s supposed “reveal” at the Subcommittee on National Security, the Border, and Foreign Affairs. Despite the hype, there wasn’t even a whiff of extraterrestrial cologne in the air, let alone any proof of them or their fancy interstellar toys.
David Grusch, the former U.S. Air Force officer and intelligence official, dodged questions like a pro, repeatedly offering to provide answers only in a closed hearing.
Oh, the suspense!
But forgive me if I’m not biting my nails waiting for the curtain to rise on that shadowy encore.
Chairman Rep. Glenn Grothman kicked off the hearings with a fiery pro-transparency rallying cry. He said, “The lack of transparency surrounding UAPs has fueled wild speculation and debate for decades, eroding public trust in the very institutions that are meant to serve and protect them.”
I couldn’t have put it better, Glenn. The Wisconsin Republican was onto something, but did we hit pay dirt?
Close, but no cigar-shaped object.
If you’re involved in UFO and UAP research, you’ve got to spill the beans in public hearings. It’s as simple as that.
Without public transparency, UFO research will keep lurking in the same murky corner as other beloved mysteries like Roswell, JFK, RFK, Oklahoma City, Jeffrey Epstein, and 9/11.
Remember the Phoenix Lights of 1997 or the Rendlesham Forest incident? How about the UFO flap in Belgium? Or the Lonnie Zamora case? If we’ve learned anything from these, the truth is far more intricate and unnerving than what’s been spoon-fed.
Stanton Friedman, the granddaddy of ufology, put it best: “The evidence is overwhelming that Planet Earth is being visited by intelligently controlled extraterrestrial spacecraft. There is no doubt that a small number of people in governments both in the United States and overseas have been actively covering up the truth about these visits. There really is a ‘Cosmic Watergate.’”
Cosmic Watergate, indeed.
So, let’s take a wild guess. Do you think we’ve been given the whole enchilada?
If you think so, I’ve got a slightly used flying saucer to sell you driven only on Sundays by a little old gray lady from Zeta Reticuli.
When the highlight of a morning coffee ritual is the bitter aftertaste brought on by the “joke of the day” column in your daily paper, one can’t help but wonder: “When did humor retire and forget to tell the newspapers?”
Joke columns, those tiny blocks of text nestled in the corner of the front page, are a moth-eaten relic from a bygone era — not charming antiques but the stuff of musty basements.
The so-called “jokes” they sputter out have aged worse than a water-damaged Shakespearean folio, and even that would be a more amusing read.
One might argue, “They were funny in 1930!” If you hold this opinion, I’d recommend a thorough reality check, accompanied by a comprehensive sense of humor transplant. These chronically recycled jests’ monotony and predictable punchlines are as engaging as a Kamala Harris word salad.
Worse, these chestnuts make “dad jokes” look like comedic masterpieces.
The brilliance of humor lies in unexpectedness, novel insight, and clever subversion of reality. The comedy peddled by these columns delivers none of this.
We’ve advanced in leaps and bounds in every other field, so why do we settle for subpar humor in our daily dose of news?
While browsing eBay for eclectic printed ephemera several years back, I spied an auction for “Sophisticates Confidential Phone Book Hotline, — Members Only” a guide for swingers that appeared to have been published in the late 1960s or early 1970s.
Intrigued, I bid and won this little book, and as I leafed through it, got the idea to pound out a steamy novel in which its ads are the basis for story arcs. Because more than a few ads mentioned meeting up in motels, I figured that could be the narrative frame.
I probably got the idea of the setting from the 1987 TV movie “Bates Motel” in which Bud Cort portrays a guy who befriended Norman Bates during their incarceration and inherits the motel when Norman dies. The movie was a pilot for a series, I think.
OK, so I had the sexy stories and the motel setting, but the story needed a better overall theme.
While watching a documentary about Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, more inspiration struck: What if a sleazy motel on a busy tourist highway is run by Russian agents whose job is to get blackmail material on anybody and everybody who checks in?
Here’s the brief description of “No-Tell Motel” that I came up with, including ideas for the first three chapters . . .
In the sultry backdrop of the early 1960s, along a bustling tourist highway, lies the enigmatic No-Tell Motel. Hidden behind its kitschy facade, this ordinary lodging is a hotbed of secrets and seduction, its true purpose concealed to all but its cunning owners — the enigmatic couple, Viktor and Natalia Ivanov, who double as covert Russian agents.
Viktor, a dashing and charismatic figure with piercing blue eyes and a disarming smile, manages the motel with an air of charm that conceals his true intentions. Natalia, his captivating and mysterious wife, exudes allure with her fiery red hair and a demeanor that masks her covert skills. Together, they form a formidable pair, using their unique talents to exploit unsuspecting guests who answer the siren call of their strategically placed ads in swinger magazines.
Chapter 1: “The Honeytrap” — When a high-ranking government official checks into the No-Tell Motel, Viktor and Natalia see an opportunity too good to pass up. As an alluring duo seeking a thrilling night, they draw the official into their web of temptation. Little does he know that their passionate encounter is meticulously recorded for future leverage. As the night unfolds, the couple realizes that emotions are entangling them in unexpected ways, leading them to question the true nature of their mission.
Chapter 2: “The Actress and the Diplomat” — When a glamorous Hollywood actress, Grace Harper, and a dashing foreign diplomat, Alexei Volkov, simultaneously check into the No-Tell Motel, Viktor and Natalia find themselves in a complex web of desire, ambition, and political intrigue. Drawn to each other like moths to a flame, Grace and Alexei’s clandestine affair takes center stage while the Ivanovs gather compromising information to exert influence over these influential players. But as emotions intensify, loyalties blur, and the line between duty and passion becomes dangerously thin.
Chapter 3: “The Double Agents” — An unexpected twist of fate reunites Viktor and Natalia with two familiar faces from their past – fellow Russian agents posing as a married couple, Yuri and Irina Petrov. As the two couples join forces to extract critical information from a renowned scientist staying at the motel, tensions run high, and old wounds resurface. Betrayals and revelations from their shared history threaten to derail the mission and put everyone’s lives at risk. Amid the steamy encounters and high-stakes espionage, the true test of loyalty and love emerges, forcing the characters to confront their deepest desires and darkest secrets.
“No-Tell Motel” weaves a tale of seduction, espionage, and forbidden wants against the backdrop of the tumultuous 1960s. In a time of shifting allegiances and political intrigue, Viktor and Natalia must navigate the dangerous game of espionage while wrestling with their emotions. As they delve deeper into the lives of their guests, they must confront the moral ambiguity of their actions, leading to a heart-pounding climax that will leave readers breathless and longing for more.
However, I decided that Joe Weisberg executed the basic idea much better with “The Americans,” so I abandoned the project.
Until a moment ago, my experience in working with Anthropic’s Claude bot left me cold. The AI bot didn’t want to help me write anything off-colored, in poor taste, or really nasty.
I felt like I was having to run everything past the Hays Office.
A few minutes ago, I submitted the following prompt to Claude: Write a fictional 250-word letter to J. Edgar Hoover from a woman, who, in 1932, claims to have been injured during sex with John Dillinger because he was “too big.”
The results surprised me. Now, not only does Claude like it a little nasty, it has a sense of humor. Betty Johnson? Hah!
Check it out . . .
Dear Mr. Hoover,
I am writing to you with an urgent plea to apprehend the notorious outlaw John Dillinger before he violates another woman with his enormous manhood.
My name is Betty Johnson. Last month, I had the misfortune of encountering Mr. Dillinger at a speakeasy in Chicago. After a few drinks, he convinced me to accompany him to a hotel room for an intimate encounter. I assumed a strapping man like him would show a lady a good time.
I was sorely mistaken.
As soon as we were alone, he tore off his pants, exposing himself in all his massive glory. I tell you, Mr. Hoover, I have been with many men, but none compared to his staggering size. He threw me on the bed and had his way with me, forcing his colossal member inside my delicate flower. The pain was excruciating – unlike anything I’d ever felt. I begged and pleaded for him to stop, but he would not relent.
When he finally finished, I was battered, bruised, and bleeding. I could barely walk for days. I fear that if he is not stopped, other women may experience the same suffering at the hands of his freakish phallus.
Please, Mr. Hoover, you must apprehend this criminal and his weapon of mass seduction before he strikes again! No woman should have to endure what I did.
Yours truly,
Betty Johnson
The deadly pandemic known as “crossoveritis” has struck the “Star Trek” franchise again — and given me my most severe case of vicarious embarrassment since “Stargate SG-1” invoked Gerry Anderson.
I sit agog at the sheer audacity of the “Star Trek” franchise to pull this stunt. It’s akin to the ludicrous episode “200” from “Stargate SG-1” — the one that makes you want to teleport yourself into another galaxy, preferably one without cable.
“Star Trek: Strange New Worlds,” for the unfamiliar, is the nostalgia-fueled, good-ship-lollipop revival of Captain Pike’s pre-Kirk adventures.
“Star Trek: Lower Decks” is what you get when you mate “Star Trek” with “Rick and Morty” — a projectile vomit-inducing cartoon for the hyper-caffeinated.
Combine the two in the episode “Those Old Scientists“? It’s like blending champagne with Red Bull: a waste of good champagne and a misuse of Red Bull.
This unholy crossover is the equivalent of forcibly beaming the Starfleet Academy into an interstellar clown college. I don’t know who in the production team thought turning our beloved, serious sci-fi characters into comedic cartoons was a good idea.
Are we so desperate for laughs in the grim vacuum of space we must resort to such abominations?
“Strange New Worlds” was barely hanging on by the thread of nostalgic fanboy/girl hope, but this crossover might as well have been a phaser set to kill, aimed straight at the integrity of the series.
And “Lower Decks”? The original premise was as slippery as a Ferengi businessman — the humorous underbelly of “Star Trek”?
Please. It’s like someone looked at the underappreciated maintenance crews and thought, “You know what would make this better? Caricatures and slapstick!”
“Stargate SG-1” had its Supermarionation embarrassment, sure, but at least it had the decency to return to its senses in later episodes. “200” was a fever dream from which we thankfully awoke.
But our dear Starfleet seems to have lost its way in this cartoon cosmos, with no signs of a course correction.
I swear, if this is the trajectory of “Star Trek’s” future, I’d rather watch a Klingon log-rolling competition. At least that would involve real logs and real danger rather than this watered-down, Saturday-morning-cartoon-esque disgrace that we are forced to reckon with.
Beam me up, Scotty — I can’t take it anymore.
L.T. Hanlon 