Yesterday I met Bruce and two of his chums for breakfast at the same cafe he has inhabited since I first met him six or eight years ago. The crew included one self-described "liberal ex-hippy professor," and a lifelong diver, the author of the definitive work on the history of abalone diving in southern California. The professor, also a writer, fiddled with a leaky Italian fountain pen as we spoke. (I recommended Permatex.)

This was a conversation, perhaps unsustainable over time, but certainly fascinating, rambling, long-striding. Literature, military history, western movies, women. Masculine conversation, comfortable and respectful. It's telling that all four of us are old enough to remember and practice the art of conversation. And it's telling that while we all had different backgrounds and politics and such, those added to the conversation rather than terminated it.

D.L., commenting on the last post, asked about the new nickeled S&W revolver. I avoided talking about shooting short guns for a reason. I really suck. That pretty piece shot just fine, but I'm far from being able to take advantage of it. More practice is needed - there's an indoor range just down the road from my office and I may have to spend a lot of time there with a .22 before I'll be able to write about handguns with anything short of embarrassment.

Pretty Uma pleasuring herself (and by transference, me) in a hotel room in Arlington, Texas.