...that I do not now, nor have I ever, embraced
PS On a bit more serious note, having been described as an "out of the box" kind of guy by the powers that run this lash up, I strongly recommend, and I am quite serious about this, that all who frequent this establishment read, study and commit to memory that wonderful little book: "Is Sex Necessary", by James Thurber and E.B. White. Nowhere will you find a more definitive treatment of how the literary mind can distinguish love from passion. And I quote: "I have mentioned that the question of deciding whether a feeling be love or passion arises at inopportune moments, such as at the start of a letter. Let us say you have sat down to write a letter to your lady. There has been a normal amount of preparation for the ordeal, such as clearing a space on the desk (in doing which you have become momentarily interested in a little article in last month's Scribner's called, "Plumbing the Savage," and have stood for a minute reading the first page and deciding to let it go)"...continuing "This vexing disbelief in one's own illusion of love is experienced most alarmingly by persons of literary inclinations. Yet with them the reaction comes in quite the opposite manner. Writing is a form of sexual expression (Zaner goes further: he says writing is sex), and it takes just as much out of a person."...and concluding: "A person of this sort falls terribly in love, but in the end it turns out is more bemused by a sheet of white paper than a sheet of white bed linen. He would rather leap into print with his lady than leap into bed with her. (This first pleases the lady and then annoys her. She wants him to do both, and with virtually the same impulse). Here endth the reading. PS Accepting that I will soon be asked to withdraw my membership in this club forthwith, let it be known that Harvey and I will be hosting a party at the corner bar at approximately 10:00 p.m.