Bob Guiccione was Italianate, marble, stirring up bodily fluids, plopping them down on the table.
Was chess invented then?
Chess has a bizarrely biz bizzbuzz blissful Byzantine medieval, calculating “it is just a game” je ne sais quois ROOK TAKES KNIGHT AND THEN BIXXBUXXES, taking down the Queen, and it is not rape.
Bob Guiccione taught both sons, Bob and Nick, (Nicholas, when it shortens, becomes Nick– the terrible “h”, which might be silent, as an insucking, becometh the klacking castenette sound “ku” phonetically).
“For I have loved you dearly, more dearly than the spoken word can tell,”
Guiccione talked in these terms, even as he made “wide open beaver” mainstream, and conventional.
Vietnam veterans who mooned on whatever port of call beckoned, mainly San Francisco, rice a roni, the San Francisco treat, more fun to make than it is to eat, shipped out? Clipped out? Moved to hustle, to juggle, to moan, to go into a gloam,
Oscar remembered how sad Vietnam Veterans were when they came in, on a jet plane, hoping, in San Francisco Airport to, making up for lost time, grab a Playboy magazine. Oscar, though a literateur, was also an erotic politician. So he wished with all his heart he had scooped up Constance, made her love his withdrawn sweet carress, as if any woman could or should.
Spam of Human Affection 
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