Blogging about your sex life (or "slogging," as we like to call it in the slogosphere) can be dangerous, as anyone might imagine. It's not always conducive to harmonious relations, which is why I don't go into great gory detail on the topic here on my blog.

But the truth is, I do have adult-type relationships, and sex (much, much more often than I write about it, I can assure you*), and when I do feel the need to weigh in on what is, after all, a part of our universal (or near-universal) experience (and a potentially very squishy part at that), I always give my subjects a choice of pseudonyms, and offer to alter certain details to suit them, and possibly flatter us both, where I can.

For example, here are the slog versions of Bachelors 1,2, and 3, whom you have been hearing so much about lately:

Oops, and lest I forget, Bachelor No.4 (The Alternate):


Why mention them at all, you ask?  Well, I like to think of myself—and I hope it doesn't sound pretentious—as a direct, if distant, descendant of Montaigne, who says, "A generous heart should not belie its thoughts, but should be ready to show its inmost depths."

He goes on to remind us that "Aristotle regards it as the duty of a great soul"—and here both Aristotle and Montaigne assume, I think, that we all aspire to a certain greatness of soul—"to hate and love openly, to judge, to speak in all freedom, and, when the truth is in question, to pay attention to the approval and disapproval of others." (I'm working on that last bit in group.)

But Montaigne concludes (here's the pertinent part): "It is not always necessary to say everything; that would be foolishness." (Not to mention there would be some major-name professional athletes out there who would have some big-time explaining to do if I were to tell all.)

Keep 'em guessing. All in all that sums up my slogging philosophy nicely, I think.

While I shouldn't even have to say it: slogging should never be confused with slagging. Sex is like cooking: if someone's willing to do it with you or for you, or even just to clean up afterwards, don't complain.

(I also happen to believe that people who complain about sex are probably not doing it right themselves. I mean, doesn't everybody think he's a good kisser? Remember, it always takes two to tango. And great kissers are not born, they're made. Trust me.)

Now, if someone is willing to have sex with you and cook for you (but, please—not at the same time), he's a keeper.

Which brings me to my next point. Number One (the bachelor previously known as Number Two) continues to surprise and astound. The latest is the revelation: "I like to cook." Well, that's half the battle right there, isn't it? Of course, "I like to cook," can mean anything, can't it? I mean, I like to run around stark-naked and strike dramatic poses in suburban shopping malls, but that doesn't mean I do it all that often, or that when I do anyone else likes it, does it?

Still. I am hoping I have stumbled on, among other wonderful things I have already stumbled on (the lights were out, and I had no idea it was that big), a real little Alain Ducasse here (and while I'm at it I'm praying, of course, that he does not turn out to be a Bernard Loiseau).

Needless to say, my esteemed housemates are as excited about the first cook-over as I am. I woke up this morning to find the food section of yesterday's Globe slipped under my door and an article about Sabi Varga and Gabor Kapin's Hungarian kitchen marked "To Mike From Sarah Did you see this?" (I do love my housemates.)


Rantott hus—basically Hungarian Wiener schnitzel—features big in the article. I love schnitzel, of course—I mean, come on, who doesn't?—especially with a good crisp pilsner. The problem is, Number One has given up meat for lent.

Well, no biggie. Like I said, if someone wants to cook for you, don't complain. And bring a good wine to wash whatever it is down with.

The thing I found interesting about the article was not the dish, which is very typically Hungarian.  It's that Varga and Kapin are married, but not to each other. They look so cute together in the kitchen. And the other thing is that Varga has sort of anglicized his first name, which I think is sad. He spells it Sabi, when in Hungarian it's Szabi (short for Szabolcs).

Now, whatever. Non-Hungarian speakers (there are currently approximately 6,570,000,000 or so of them) will have a better chance of pronouncing it close to correctly as he spells it (the Hungarian digraph "sz" corresponds to the English "s"), but what must his compatriots think?

As it is spelled (and the Hungarian alphabet derives from the Latin alphabet), his fellow countrymen would (mis)pronounce it Shah-bee.

I am adamantly opposed to anglicization of non-anglo names myself. If someone has a problem pronouncing your name (and believe me it happens—my given name is Michelangelo Aloisius Cholmondeley Mennonno III) just look at it as a teachable moment.

English is chock full of words that don't sound anything like they look. But our history is in those words, and their spellings, and I think the inconvenience of learning to pronounce them accurately is worth it.

The irony of the thing is that both of these guys are artists with what seems like a strong sense of their Hungarian roots. Truth is, "Sabi" is no more anglo than "Szabi," really. Why not go the whole hog and call yourself "Steve" or "Sam"?

Well, it's none of my business, really. I just thought it was funny, is all. Fact is, "Gabor" is also transliterated (a bit), since there is a phonemic difference between the short and long "a" that is indicated by a diacritic in Standard Hungarian: Gábor is how it's spelled, and it makes a difference in how you say it, though it might not seem like a big one. (Newspapers like The Globe don't use diacriticals, though, so I don't know if Kapin does in his everyday life or not.)

Anyway, there won't be any Hungarians at dinner tonight, and no schnitzel (or "rantote hoosh"), as an entree, either.  I'm hoping there's a little beefcake for dessert, though.

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* No, really.