A New Group
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Posted:Feb 26, 2016 4:45 pm
Last Updated:May 19, 2018 10:55 pm
46141 Views
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KItkat1415 had the idea of starting a group of bloggers on the face place. I joined in. It’s called A F F Blogger Refugees. We aren’t leaving this site- we just want to connect elsewhere as well, kind of a group of special friends. If you’re a blog watcher or friend here, send one of us a friend request on that other site and we’ll add you to the new group. Please come on and join up and let’s see if we can have some fun.
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Test post.
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Posted:Feb 25, 2016 6:16 pm
Last Updated:May 19, 2018 10:56 pm
47294 Views
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Talk to me! This is a test post. The site claims the "Disappearing comments glitch" is fixed. Show me!
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Yet another site glitch
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Posted:Feb 23, 2016 7:59 pm
Last Updated:Mar 1, 2016 8:04 pm
41196 Views
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Editor's note: Comments to this post will vanish into thin air. It's part of a site experiment to see what lengths we'll go to to try to communicate with each other. This post and the one below it are corrupted beyond repair. The vanished comments are never coming back. I could repost them, but I'd like them to sit here as a reminder of how the site is always working with your interests in mind.
Just in time for the Seventeenth Virtual Symposium the site is fucking up again. I posted this afternoon and after a couple of hours up the comments began disappearing. Next the post was denied- the usual bullshit yellow banner claiming prohibited language, blah, blah, blah. So, I’m not deleting your comments. I just can’t see them. Not just today’s post is affected. Comments made to earlier posts don’t appear either. I removed an apostrophe from the blog title of my most recent past and succeeded in getting the post back up but the other glitches remain, and it’s anybody’s guess if the post will stay up. I have little hope that it will be fixed any time soon. And no, I haven’t communicated in any way with site support or anyone else involved in the so called administration of the site. I have never had any luck trying to speak with them before and I don’t expect that to change either- ever. Just to show I'm a good sport, I'll post a picture for the jerkoffs to steal.
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It's The First Time
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Posted:Feb 23, 2016 11:53 am
Last Updated:Nov 30, 2017 6:08 pm
40529 Views
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Editor's note: Comments to this post will vanish into thin air. It's part of a site experiment to see what lengths we'll go to to try to communicate with each other. This post and the one above it are corrupted beyond repair. The vanished comments are never coming back. I could repost them, but I'd like them to sit here as a reminder of how the site is always working with your interests in mind.
Unknown
"The First Time" Is The Topic For The Seventeenth Virtual Symposium
The public has spoken. They’ve selected “The First Time” for the topic of the next Symposium. As H.L. Mencken said, the public is an ass. I’m not saying I agree with Mencken. I just wanted to put that out there so you were all aware of it. This is a recurring problem with the democratic type of government. In theory, every jackass is entitled to a vote, and unless you’re Antonin Scalia, you think that vote should count. If the vote is merely symbolic and doesn’t count in even the tiniest way, it’s just an exercise in absurdity, like reading the future in chicken guts. So this is why many people don’t vote. They’d just as soon spend the morning staring at chicken guts.
H.L. Mencken
The First Time is a hell of a lot more broad a topic than the last one, friends with benefits. No matter how broadly or narrowly FWB is defined, it still describes a certain human relationship, but with the first time the sky’s pretty much the limit. It has been famously noted that there’s a first time for everything. I can’t find a documented instance where Mencken said that, but I figure the odds are pretty good that he did at some time or another. Now, if I could manage to dig up the very first time he said it, by golly, then I’d have something! As it is I got nothing so far. You might have guessed that by now, but give me a break- it’s my first time.
Joyce Kilmer
Joyce Kilmer once wrote that “Only God can make a tree.” And Woody Allen noted “Probably because it’s so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.” It seems pretty clear that H.L. Mencken knew of Joyce Kilmer, but it seems unlikely that he’d ever met Woody Allen. How these two facts shaped his opinion of the public is not known, but I’m sure that an exploration of that-if attempted- would be an exploration done for the first time.
Woody Allen
On or about the stroke of midnight on 27 February, or in the wee early hours of Sunday 28 February, participants will post an interpretation of the topic “The First Time”, many of them surely for the first time. My own first time was 2 September 2014, when I posted A Treatise on Age and Amorousness. It was also the very first time we had this series of Symposia. I’d rate it an overwhelming success. Many of us are introduced to other bloggers for the first time, and it will surely be the first time being exposed to certain takes on the topic.
Please do visit humorlife, Unknown and read the details for yourself. The comments are entertaining as well, so don’t skip those. This is an online party, so have fun. And do write a post about a first time. There’s at least a chance you’ll meet that special blogger and end up copulating, for the first time!
Bonus photo- Myrna Loy
Editor's note: Comments are disappearing from this post. I'm not deleting them, they're simply vanishing. My responses to those comments are disappearing too. Blogs I watch and have watched for a long time are not showing up in my watched list.
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Naught's had, all's spent...
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Posted:Feb 21, 2016 10:52 pm
Last Updated:May 19, 2018 10:57 pm
44367 Views
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When I was young I lived on my grandfather’s farm outside Centreville, Michigan, a tiny town of about five hundred people south of here. Our farm was an “eighty”- an eighth of a section consisting of eighty acres, and it abutted a “one sixty”, a quarter section, owned by an Amish farmer, Joseph Schwartz. On April 7,1962 a young man named Carlyle Schragg quarreled with Schwartz over Joseph’s sixteen year old Jeanie. The Schwartz’s were old order Amish and the Schraggs were former Mennonites who owned cars, watched television and had a telephone in the house.
Joseph and his wife Vivian didn’t approve of their Jeanie seeing Carl Schragg and had laid down the law- they demanded that the the young people stop dating. Jeanie had been sneaking out at night, changing her somber Amish clothes for a short skirt and saddle shoes and dated Carl without a chaperone or her parents’ permission or even their knowledge. Twenty one year old Carl could do nothing to change the minds of Jeanie’s parents. A girl who wouldn’t obey her parents would be shunned and had to choose between her family and Carl.
After arguing with Joseph Schwartz and finding him implacable, Carl drove home, only a half mile distant, loaded his twenty two rifle, and returned to the Schwartz farm. As Joseph mucked out his hog pen, Carl shot him in the head. He then walked to the farmhouse and announced to Vivian that he had shot Joseph. She tried to grab the rifle from Carl and he shot her in the chest, but not before she had managed, in the fight for the rifle, to shoot Carl in the stomach. Jeanie fled over the fields, in the dark. I remember that night. It was windy and alternately dark and moonlit, in my memory. The back forty of each farm was hilly and uncultivated, and the grass was a maze of dewberry vines and brambles.
By the time she arrived at our farm she was scratched, torn and bedraggled. She kept saying that Carl had shot her father. We had no telephone, and after she had cried out her story my grandfather had to drive to town to get the sheriff. He drove a new ’62 Ford and the wind blew the shed doors closed just as he got the car started. He didn’t get out to reopen them- he bumped them open with the Ford. None of us knew where Carl was, or that he’d been shot himself.
Carl surrendered to the police later that night and was sentenced to life in prison.
The Schwartz farm changed after that night. Vivian sold the place and it got shabby and unkempt. There was a marsh in front of the farmhouse, and it took on a sinister look after the murder. No matter how bright the sun shone afterward, it always had a bleak and doomed feel to it. I shuddered when I looked at it- I couldn’t help it. I trod the fields of my childhood for years after that night, but I didn’t like walking the north property line alone. I couldn’t go there without thinking of Jeanie Schwartz’s terrified flight in the dark over that very ground.
On Saturday, just yesterday, an Uber driver from Cooper, a little collection of houses and a grocery store just a few miles north of here, broke somehow inside and murdered six people in a path from northeast to southwest over several hours. Several of his fares- he was still picking up fares while in the process of randomly killing people- were alarmed by his erratic behavior and his suicidal driving in his Uber cab. One was frightened enough to jump out of the cab as soon as it slowed down enough that he could jump out.
The killing began on the northeast fringe of Kalamazoo at an apartment complex that I know well. Those apartments are full of students and former students who liked it here well enough to stay after graduation. I knew quite a few of them. I’ve delivered a lot of supplies and furniture there. Jason Dalton, the Uber driver, shot a woman at that complex and left her to die. He apparently shot her just because she was there.
Sometime later, on Stadium Drive a few miles west of downtown, Dalton shot and killed a man and his seventeen year old as they were looking at cars. The young man was nuts about cars. I delivered car parts to that dealership for years. The old man who received those parts was a nephew to Monty Stratton, the one legged pitcher. Jimmy Stewart made a movie about Monty Stratton.
Later yet, Dalton drove to the Cracker Barrel restaurant, at Ninth Street and I 94. When we hike at Al Sabo north to Atwater Pond, we pass the Cracker Barrel restaurant, just across the channel. PD and I don’t eat there often, but her and grandson like it so we’ve taken them there when they visit. In the restaurant parking lot, Dalton shot five women as they sat in their cars, killing four and seriously wounding a fourteen year old girl.
We heard the sirens of the emergency vehicles that night, and Gracie was nervous and went outside to howl with the sirens. We figured it was a fire, or a crash on one of the freeways. We live in the southwest corner of the place where the highways intersect. We had gone out for dinner in the middle of all that killing, and were unaware of it.
This is a small town. Kalamazoo and Portage together are about a hundred and twenty thousand, and the metro area isn’t much more than three hundred twenty five thousand. It isn’t tiny like that little farm town I come from, but I’ve lived and worked here for years. I have customers everywhere in a fifty or sixty mile radius. Some of them I know well. Some I know by first name, and some I only know on sight. I don’t think I know any of the victims personally, not like I knew Jeanie Schwartz. But it feels changed today. I didn’t much want to write a post about this. I’m sorry I ever had to hear any of it. I thought I ought to at least acknowledge it though. These places we know so well will never be quite the same again. It’ll fade in time, but we won’t be able to look at our town in quite the same way again, just like that old farmstead that used to be so safe and tidy looking when I was a boy. Six people died for no particular reason. They had never met the man who murdered them. Two more cling to life in the hospital, critically injured. With all my heart I hope they live, and recover to live well.
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The Seventeenth Virtual Symposium
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Posted:Feb 18, 2016 10:51 am
Last Updated:Nov 30, 2017 6:12 pm
40459 Views
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The Virtual Symposium Returns Lets Pick A Topic
The Virtual Symposium Returns: Let’s Pick A Topic!
It’s time to vote for a topic for the Seventeenth Virtual Symposium. The topics offered are Vocabulary, The First Time, The Future and Science. You can always take a chance and write in a topic- run it up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes. Visit the blog of humorlife and read The Virtual Symposium Returns Lets Pick A Topic. Vote for a topic that catches your fancy!
We voted for the future, and why not? Most of us have one- some more than others- and however brief, it’s a compelling subject for all whether it’s promising or bleak. Sometimes I’ve thought that if at ten years old I could have seen my future I might have elected not to have one. It’s queer how time can mellow your perspective on this, but it isn’t at all odd that when faced with the choice of forgoing a future or soldiering on with whatever miserable script fate has handed us, with a finger on our next line of dialogue, we generally opt to swallow our pride and hope for a better role and higher billing in the next performance. A Hailee Steinfeld doesn’t come along that often, so the rest of us are left to slog along in the trenches and hope that when our moment comes we won’t miss it and can deliver something befitting a command performance. And that we won’t be a mere flash in the pan, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.
If you don’t much care to brood upon your own personal prospects in any depth, there’s always the future of the nation, or of the human race or the planet to depress yourself with. My own balance beam tilts just a hair towards optimism when weighing these possibilities, but I reckon you might not guess that from listening to me. When I look at the human race as a lump, that’s pretty much what I see- a lump. But the individuals! I meet new people all the time, and can count many friends both past and current, who restore my faith in my fellow man and make me think we might just be all right after all. And I’m bullish as all hell about the likelihood of crossing paths with delightful new people, bright and uncharted territory for me and bound to put a smile on my face. There is indeed a riot of assclowns going on outside my door, but I’m accompanied by a loyal coterie of comrades and confederates who make life fun and entertaining.
After all of which we arrive at the nut of the matter- the purpose of the Symposia. It is intended to swell the ranks of those we delight in. It’s a way to read the thoughts of our fellow bloggers, to pick their brains, not out of our teeth like zombies, but to select from those minds their wild and unfettered take on a chosen topic. With great good luck and at least minimal good hygiene, we might find ourselves impressing and being impressed enough by that one special blogger who we can relate to so well that we end up holding hands in the moonlight. I got you this far- where you take it from there is up to you.
The Virtual Symposium Returns Lets Pick A Topic
The Virtual Symposium Returns: Let’s Pick A Topic!
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Johnny- My Friend with Benefits
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Posted:Feb 9, 2016 10:49 am
Last Updated:Mar 6, 2020 12:22 am
49239 Views
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Unknown
"Friends With Benefits" Is The Topic For The Sixteenth Virtual Symposium
Johnny- My Friend with Benefits
Friends with benefits is kind of a cool, detached term. When we talk about friends with benefits we’re thinking of “Sex in the City” with hip and beautiful career women in a trendy and slick metropolis who don’t need men for anything but sex. They’re self contained and self absorbed and they need each other more than they’ll ever need any man. Their friends with benefits are fit, well attired and well coiffed, sensitive to a woman’s needs but never quite sensitive enough, and they’re very successful in business or the arts. There’s an underculture though, a hidden class, with little access to cash, who didn’t go to expensive schools and don’t have careers, and they fuck too. “Blue Velvet”. They have friends with benefits too, and they and their kin have been doing it for generations. A “Walk on the Wild Side”.
I first met Johnny in 1969. I’d seen her around before. She was quite slender and very pretty, too. She must have been fourteen or fifteen when we met, but she already had a reputation as the neighborhood slut. I wasn’t from that neighborhood, but she was beginning to branch out a bit, expanding her horizons. Her name was Juanita Robb but everyone called her Johnny.
I was just turned eighteen and had a room in an old boarding house in Johnny’s part of town, where the factories were, and a third shift job in a wire mill. Reaching eighteen was a big deal then. It meant I could quit the small change minimum wage part time jobs I was stuck with and get that factory job, working eight hours a night for twice the money- about three bucks an hour. Men supported families on that wage in 1969. They didn’t get rich, but they paid for the rent and the groceries with it, and had . So I clocked in at the wire plant at eleven every night and had to try every trick I could think of to keep my eyes open till morning, when I punched out again at seven. It was only eight or ten blocks to school from the mill and on the way was a mom and pop greasy spoon called the Dairy Bar. I began stopping there for breakfast every morning. I had over an hour to kill before my first class anyway and the hot meal refreshed me enough to make it til school began. Once I got to class I could sleep in nearly one hour shifts. I only had three classes and I only needed to pass one to graduate. I had made a deal with the Mass Media teacher that she’d pass me if I kept my mouth shut and didn’t disrupt the class. She’d also agreed to sign me out to the men’s room once a day so I could go outside and burn one. All I had to do was show up and shut up.
One morning, after I’d been stopping at the Dairy Bar for about a week, Johnny and her two brothers asked if I wanted some company at my table. I said sure- I could use the company. The Robb brothers were a couple of white trash jerks, but apparently they had scoped me out and figured I was OK. I was quiet in new surroundings and never gave anyone any shit unless they started something first, and then I was savvy enough to count heads before lipping off. Johnny on the other hand was pretty bright, and quite engaging, actually. I remember finding it hard to square her with her reputation. She seemed to be a pretty good to me, and we started having fun talking every morning. She kept a bit of a rein on her brothers- those two were a real brain trust. I tried to be polite and non committal with them for the most part. These weren’t the first inbred goobers I’d met, and I knew they were just the kind of clannish clowns who’d take offense at the drop of a hat and then feud with you for life. They were careful to make certain I wasn’t hitting on their sister. I reckon they were worried about competition. Wanted to mark their territory.
School ended- I just managed to graduate- and we drifted apart. I got kicked out of my room in the boarding house for having women in my room and had to move. It meant a five mile walk to work and another five home again, but it was summer and I was young. I used that time to think, and I used to cut across country, stomping through the woods and fields and staying out of sight of farmers. In the late summer I got a car, and I felt free. I drove that car to a community college in the fall after work, but I quickly dropped out. I had got myself a new girlfriend, a dancer with a fine big ass, and I had also discovered heroin. They were more compelling than creative writing and art.
I didn’t bump into Johnny anymore, but word of her was around town anyway. She was using drugs by then too and I heard of her from time to time. She’d had a in the late winter, Ralph, and no one was surprised. She’d been the entertainment at the local swimming hole since she was ten or eleven and it was only a matter of time before she’d turn up pregnant and not know who the daddy was. But she did know. My mom was a case worker and Johnny was one of her cases. Ralph’s daddy was Johnny’s daddy- Norbert. Johnny was cagey about how long he’d been screwing her, but she’d admitted that it was him. Johnny was just another one of those hillbilly girls to become irresistible to her kin, and to Johnny, it worked out that if you fucked her, it meant you liked her.
I headed out west. I wanted to see San Francisco and the Pacific Ocean. Haight Ashbury was done by then and the Summer of Love was three years gone. The Haight was full of junkies and hookers. I got a fleabag hotel room over a strip joint, but I didn’t stay long. There’s urban decay nearly everywhere in the country, and finding it in San Fransisco was depressing. When the weather was good I landed at some rock festivals and otherwise just drifted. I eventually drifted back east again.
Johnny had started taking a succession of boyfriends, some of them nice enough guys, but she was one of those girls who couldn’t say no, and all those pairings ended up badly, with hard feelings and recriminations. Johnny was fun, and funny. She was pretty and sexy and guys were bound to want to keep her, but she really couldn’t be kept. It wasn’t her fault. She’d learned early that she was all about sex, and she was good at sex. She liked it too. I had it on good authority that she did. A number of my friends had made it with Johnny.
We finally drifted into sight of one another again after a couple of years apart. Once again it was a shitty job of mine that brought us together. I had got a job assembling brake adjusters- the screw mechanism that keeps brake shoes close enough to the drum to enable them to squeeze against the drum and stop your car, and it was mind numbingly boring. You were supposed to be able to screw six hundred of those things together in an hour. Why anyone would actually attempt that feat escaped me, when it would have been easy just to hang yourself instead. Just a few hundred feet from the factory, a friend of mine had started a drug abuse clinic, the first one in our town. My friend was a sociology major and had been a member of a task force investigating drug abuse sponsored by the state attorney general. He was rewarded with the clinic to run. I used to hang out at the clinic at dinner break, and as I had no place to stay yet my buddy told me I could crash there at night, but I had to wait til closing time at nine.
The meetings were running late one night when I showed up at nine, and Johnny was there, so I sat in on the group and talked with them til everyone left, but she hung around and wouldn’t leave. My buddy finally managed to get her out the door and rolled his eyes at me. We got high in his office and he headed home. Finally I got a chance to roll out my sleeping bag and collapsed on it.
Just as I was about to drift off I heard a tapping at the front door. It was Johnny. I tried to get her to go away- I really did. I didn’t want to screw up my only sleeping arrangements. But she made it clear she wasn’t interested in whether I got any sleep or not. And she looked good. I let her in. She laid right down on my sleeping bag. I joined her. We cuddled there on the sleeping bag and talked, and pawed each other. She started kissing me. I did not know until that night that Johnny had had a - we had some catching up to do. It had been rumored and I’d heard the rumors, but I was never sure what I could believe. Johnny had stretch marks though, and she explained matter of factly why.
She stayed for a couple of hours and left as perfunctorily as she had come. It had all been easy. I was to learn that fucking Johnny was always easy. It was as natural as fucking was ever meant to be. We’d talk and joke and laugh and touch each other without pretense, having fun. I don’t recall it ever being so intense and passionate that we didn’t talk and laugh. We never really stopped being friends. There was intensity and passion, certainly, but we just didn’t take it that seriously. And we always finished laughing.
Johnny was crazy for butt fucking. She loved anal sex, and she prompted me to it. She was my anal mentor. There was no discussion. She just grabbed my dick and aimed it at her anus and said “There”. I was already well lubed from her juices and she knew what she was doing. I fucked her like that for a while- I have no idea how long- when she got a smirk on her face and began masturbating me with her sphincter. She held my face so she could see my eyes and watched me lose control. And I lost control quickly. I begged her to let up and she laughed and I knew she wasn’t going to let me rest. I exploded inside her and she was clearly well satisfied with herself. She must have enjoyed that. She’d had so little control and this was one little way she could be in charge. She had owned me, that much was certain.
We drifted apart again. I got clean, and got married. Johnny didn’t quit shooting smack, but she did get married. She met Sam Brundage, and he was a hateful -of-a-bitch. I had known Sam’s sister, in a biblical sense, and I had worked with his little brother. They were from the same clannish and distrustful gene pool as the Robb family, but Sam was one of the ones who are just plain mean. He’d done time and came out meaner than Clyde Barrow without being as smart and if that bastard loved anything I can’t guess what it might have been. The fucker had cold reptile eyes and lank greasy hair, and I think Johnny must have thought she’d finally be safe as his wife. If she did she was wrong. No one was ever safe in the same room with that twisted prick and once married he would never allow her to sleep around and live. She hadn’t thought that through.
I didn’t see much of Johnny during her Sam phase, but it didn’t last that long. Their brief union produced another , Jimmy, and Sam headed out for parts unknown. Johnny started dealing dope, and when my own marriage failed I used to visit her from time to time. She was still good company and we’d get high and hang out, or not get high and fuck, but it wasn’t a regular thing. When I felt like seeing her I’d drop by, and she was always glad to see me, and I always left laughing and feeling better. I couldn’t change anything for Johnny and I never tried. We liked each other and we hooked up from time to time. I didn’t know much, but I knew better than to try to make a permanent thing with Johnny. As long as I didn’t get too close, she could trust me. And I didn’t dare get too close to her. That way lay madness.
After a couple of years of this, Johnny began keeping company with Ray, a close friend of mine, and Ray regularly fielded threats of violent retribution from Sam, who’d show up from time to time to assert his rights. Johnny fended him off pretty well- she surprised me. She stood her ground and told him he was through and for some reason he took it. I never did understand what went on between those two. Ray talked a good game but I knew he was just as wary of that psycho motherfucker as I was. You didn’t want to be around Sam when you were unarmed.
Along about this time Johnny fucked up and sold a bag of heroin to a narcotics agent. That agent was a user himself and not much more than a rat, but that’s how it’s done. They get close to people, gain their trust however briefly and then snitch once they’ve scored. She was a very small time dealer but still counted as another notch on his gunstock. Narcs aren’t looking to stop the drug trade. They’re just parasites, leeching both sides for whatever drops of blood they can suck up and then moving on of necessity because they burn up their welcome quickly everywhere they go. Even the cops hate them. It’s a dangerous way to live- somebody is always wanting to kill them.
Johnny went to prison. She didn’t like it there, so she didn’t stay. Her sentence was relatively lenient. She was a mother of two sons, and she was as charming in court as she ever was with anyone- she was very, very charming and disarming, and cute too. That little thing, when she got dolled up she looked as innocent as a skinny Shirley Temple. She knew how to charm the pants off men. She’d done it with me, and dozens of others. After not much more than a year she got assigned to a halfway house in Grand Rapids, and she walked away. I got a call from Ray one night and he said “Johnny’s escaped.” I drove to meet him and discovered it wasn’t exactly “Escape from Alcatraz”- she’d simply walked away from a halfway house. This was bad, and I tried to explain my point of view. She had six months to spend in that place, and although I believed her when she said it was miserable, who the hell can’t put up with six months?
I wasn’t about to turn her in, which was why I was the guy they’d called, but this couldn’t end well. I talked til my jaw hurt, and I repeated myself til I was sick of my own voice and everything I was saying, but I wasn’t getting any traction. A smart friend would have picked up the phone and called a cop, but I wasn’t that friend. I valued their trust. Lord help me, I was honored that they trusted me, that Johnny trusted me to do as she asked. I might have to pay for this. I guess that if I had it to do over again, I’d do the same thing. I kept their secret.
Reunited with Ray on the lam, Johnny got pregnant, and had a beautiful little blonde girl, Louanne. Ray was as proud and doting a father as you could ask for, but by this time, Ray was a patient at a methadone clinic, and he was fast becoming an alcoholic. He was a Vietnam veteran, and he managed to land a job at the post office due to that, but at thirty three years old he’d managed to abuse himself into impotency. After Louanne’s arrival, he lost all interest in sex because he was seldom capable of it. I continued visiting them once or twice a week, and I spent a lot of holidays with Johnny and Ray. I was their family, the only one who knew where they were and what they were up to. Ray was working the night shift unloading mail trucks, and he encouraged me to stay with Johnny on Friday nights when he went off to work. He knew she liked me and trusted me, and he knew she was lonely. He also figured he could trust me too.
I was between wives. I had asked my second wife to vacate the premises, and my love life was at low tide. I couldn’t even see the fucking water from where I was standing. My sex life was parched. It was comforting to me to have this particular connection with Johnny and Ray, to be the one person they could count on. It was little enough to be proud of, but I didn’t have a lot otherwise.
One January night, Ray got ready for work, and I got up to go home. He told me he wanted me to stay with Johnny and Louanne. They’d rented movies, and he wanted me to keep Johnny company while he was at work. “Watch a movie with her” he said. “It’s cool.” I wanted to go home- I was tired. But I said I’d stay. He told me to spend the night, but I begged off. “I’ve got my dogs to take care of” I told him.
Ray wasn’t out the door ten minutes when Johnny beckoned to me to come sit on the couch beside her. I knew what this meant, but I did it anyway. She talked about how she missed sex. She said Ray never fucked her anymore. I babbled about how it was the meds, and the booze, and what they could do to fix that, how it wouldn’t be easy, but if they worked at it, it could work out again. I was talking to myself, trying to fend off the inevitable, trying to distract myself. Johnny sure as hell wasn’t buying it. When she put her arms around me I gave up. Fuck it- I’m only human, and not an especially disciplined human at that. She had broached this subject with me before, but had never suggested that I was the remedy. Now I was more than willing to minister to her needs.
It’s remarkable what insane shit you can talk yourself into believing if your need is great enough. I must have fucked Johnny three times that night. And I managed to convince myself that I was doing a good deed. It’s easy for you, the reader, to see how full of shit I was. It’s easy for me too, now, thirty years later. But when the sap is rising in you, and there’s a warm and loving woman before you, and she is no stranger to you but a lover and friend of many years, what would you do? I had said no to sex plenty of times when the price was too high, but I couldn’t do it that night.
So Johnny and I became regulars finally. We fucked every chance we got for the next two years. All with Ray’s “blessing”. That’s what we told ourselves. I know I told myself that so much that I came to think it was true. He couldn’t do it, and I did it for him. I kept Johnny close to him. All three of us got closer. I became Louanne’s godfather. I was still the one most trusted friend.
Johnny and Ray got careless. They wanted to start reconnecting with family, and that led to reconnecting with a few friends. One of those friends had a big mouth, and the law tracked Johnny down. She wasn’t a dangerous felon, but she was still a fugitive. She was an escaped con. Johnny went back to prison. She did her time, and was released again to another halfway house. She did get a small amount of free time, and I met her and took her to dinner when Ray couldn’t.
I assumed that we would continue where we had left off. She, for her part, had decided she wanted to be married to Ray. I was good with that. But she had also decided that she had to confess her sins to Ray. “What sins?” I asked. “You” she said. Bad idea, I thought! And I said so. But now I was back in the position of trying to plead my case to Johnny again about why what she contemplated was a lousy plan. And we all know how well that had always worked. She had a bug up her ass to unburden her soul to Ray, and there I stood with nothing in my hands but my dick. For the last two years I had thought we had had an arrangement. Really, all I had was a hard on.
Ray was mad. He denied any knowledge of our affair, and even denied being impotent. He denied being a drunk. He denied having been a methadone junkie. What he did acknowledge was that I had betrayed his trust. On that point, we agreed. It was one thing to know it was happening and not have to look at it. It was another thing entirely to have it rubbed in your face by Johnny, anxious to wipe the slate clean and claim she was seduced. He had to react, and he had to be able to hold his head up with her clan. I never saw either of them again. Years later, Ray found me, and sent me a letter absolving me of my sins. He told me he’d never really loved her. I didn’t believe him. I declined the reunion he had planned. I couldn’t think of a single reason why I’d want to revisit any of that.
Ray died a few years ago of liver failure, and Johnny married a cop.
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Share your kinks with KItkat!!
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Posted:Feb 2, 2016 6:09 pm
Last Updated:Feb 5, 2016 6:01 pm
43478 Views
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KItkat1415 has taken the bit in her teeth and she’s running away with it. She is forever fascinated with sex, sexuality and relationships in our lives and in our culture, and is an avid investigator and chronicler of it all. She has an easy approachability and is as free of prejudice as anyone I know about how we express that aspect of our lives. She aims, I think, to be the Dr. Samuel Johnson of fucking. KItkat1415 wants to hear about your kinks! Please follow the link to her posts [post 3771515] and [post 3771070] and see if you can help out.
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An update on Darling Annette
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Posted:Jan 31, 2016 4:21 pm
Last Updated:Feb 2, 2016 6:01 pm
42883 Views
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Finding that she couldn't do a thing with her blog here on Friday, Annette went to the library for a supply of new books. She lives in the wilderness so it's a project to go to town. On the way home she encountered a terrible lightening storm, and on arriving home on top of her mountain she discovered that all her electronics had been ruined by the lightening strikes. It's Monday in Cooroy so she's hustling around getting replacements today, and should be back online soon. She felt bad about not being able to post her Symposium entry, but it shouldn't be long before she can post it.
So- she had a yet another setback and some unwanted expense, but she's doing well and misses you all.
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Flint, Michigan: Urban Disaster, or Just Good Corporate Governance?
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Posted:Jan 28, 2016 4:07 pm
Last Updated:Feb 23, 2016 9:15 am
50059 Views
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Flint, Michigan: Urban Disaster, or Just Good Corporate Governance? by PD
When Rick Snyder, Michigan's former CEO & self-professed 'Nerd' governor discovered that his personal decisions were directly responsible for turning Flint, Michigan's water supply into a toxic, lead-infused mess, he took immediate action (well…two years late), the same kind of immediate action that any powerful, effective CEO would take in such a situation:
He hired two new PR firms and conceded at a national press conference that the situation in Flint would "probably be a slight stain on (his) legacy."
Yikes.
Priorities, huh? Good thing he got right on that.
Actually, by revealing his priorities in such a bald and tone-deaf way, Governor Snyder unintentionally shone a surgical-wattage light on why good governance and good corporate management are not the same thing, nor should they be the same thing.
No matter how many political sound bytes we hear to the contrary, being a successful businessman is not a viable credential for being a decent public servant.
It's worth doing a little thought experiment at this point:
Just imagine, if Rick Snyder could do this much violence to the people of Michigan in four years just by running it like an efficient corporation, what could Donald Trump do to the U.S. over the same period of time by applying the same methods?
If that thought doesn't scare the pants off you, keep reading.
The Rick Snyder Guide to Ridding Your State of Pesky Poor People
A lot of political progressives believe that corporations are immoral and evil, but corporations are not immoral by design. Corporations are amoral. The purpose of organizing a business as a corporation is not to create evil but to generate the most profit with the least liability.
A corporation is essentially a profit-making machine. Should this machine end up taking harmful actions in the pursuit of profit, the individual people running the corporation can't be blamed because the corporation did the harm, not the people. The corporate structure protects the individuals running it.
Corporations may or may not be required to redress those harmed by their actions, but often, even this consequence turns out to be inconsequential. How badly was Wall Street harmed by nearly tanking the world economy? World Con? Dow Chemical?
You get my drift.
Corporations may do evil in the pursuit of profit, but that's more of a side effect than an expressed intent.
Running a government like a corporation therefore means valuing what and who is profitable above all else, and taking no personal responsibility for harmful outcomes in the process of appling those values. Rick Snyder is doing exactly that and he is doing it consistently and well.
Sadly, representative government gets in the way of efficient corporate management, especially when it comes to unprofitable segments of the governed. Immediately recognizing this troubling conflict of interest between government and good corporate management, Rick Snyder decided to simply waive the rights of citizens in poor cities and instead appoint his own city managers to take over and make all their decisions for them.
OK, the jury is still out on whether that is even constitutional (because so far there hasn't been a jury or a constitutional inquiry), but Snyder did it anyway.
When a statewide ballot initiative calling for the repeal of the city manager provision passed overwhelmingly in the last election, Snyder and the GOP-controlled legislature changed a few phrases of the old law and simply reinstated it under a different name, immediately.
So, if you live in Michigan and your city is poor, you have no rights. Sorry.
This policy had far-reaching effects almost as soon as Snyder took office, and not just for cities.
School teachers instantly became the target of brutal cost/benefit analyses and many teaching positions were eliminated in poor cities and towns across Michigan. State employees similarly became the butt of severe ridicule and their access to unions, pensions, and decent wages was slashed.
Benton Harbor, a city consisting pretty much entirely of desperately poor blacks had its local government shut down and taken over by a state-appointed city manager in 2008. That city manager decided that what would really help the poverty stricken people of Benton Harbor would be to sell their Lake Michigan access and empty land to a private developer.
That developer is currently building an exclusive private golf resort with an expensive beachfront hotel on land that once belonged to the citizens of Benton Harbor.
The people of Benton Harbor will not be able to use that resort or that golf course. The likelihood that they will be employed in these exclusive developments is not looking good either.
Back before the days when we thought corporations and governments were the same thing, that used to be called a 'land grab'. Now it's just an example of maximizing your profit margin: giving to the profitable the spoils of the profit-less
No one should be surprised that Rick Snyder's city managers are people he knew from his CEO days, his friends and cronies and familiars. The fact that his CEO days were at Gateway, that 90's computer retailer that sold desktop PCs packed in witty cow boxes seems not to matter.
Gateway is long gone, sold to China, and the cow box thing was kind of stupid.
The point is, if you are a CEO of something, even outsourced cow boxes, people figure you know what you are doing, even if all you know how to do is delegate and hire PR firms.
Maybe we need to start examining this government=business equation more critically.
Eat the Poor
Have you noticed that, except for random general complaints against food stamp recipients, no one talks about poverty anymore?
Most Americans today think of themselves as "middle class", and this seems to be so whether they make $12,000/year or $120,000 or $400,000; whether they are employed, between jobs, retired, or other; whether they live in shared efficiency apartments or trailers or gated communities.
The reason everyone has decided to be middle class these days is that we've pretty much accepted the proposition that poverty is shameful.
We don't talk about poverty, and we most especially don't talk about our own poverty, because we feel ashamed. Good hard working people are rewarded with wealth, right? So if you don't have enough, you must not be enough.
This shaming of the poor is great for rich people and even better for corporations. You don't have to pay people well or treat people well if they have already proven their unworthiness by having no money.
When government-run-like corporation steals land from the poor, or takes away their rights to representative government, or poisons their water to save a paltry amount of money and then refuses to repair the damage done, no guilt or liability is admitted, because these people, these poor people, are not profitable concerns. They have no wealth, they generate no profit.
And what's more, most of them are black.
Swift's Modest Proposal doesn't read as satire in such a world, it reads as a poor business plan, since even the corporate elite have a negative reaction to consuming cooked babies.
Why should they have to consider such a thing?
They can afford that $45 a pound steak and the right wine to go with it.
And the poor?
Never mind cake: Let them drink the water in Flint.
As Flint Goes, So Goes the Nation
I live in West Michigan, roughly 130 miles southwest of Flint. The city where I live is also an aging industrial center that has recently seen jobs dry up and blow away, specifically northward, to the GOP-leaning city of Grand Rapids.
It is another unintended artifact of corporate governance that the cities most likely to be unprofitable are also the ones most likely to vote Democratic: Flint, Detroit, Kalamazoo.
I retired at 62 when I could no longer get a decent job to save my life, and that makes me just another unprofitable person in an unprofitable city in Michigan, but that, for me, was an upgrade, since before that I lived in Indiana.
A couple years ago, the worst inland oil spill of all time happened where I live now, and not long after a half-assed clean up effort, the corporation responsible for that spill hired a PR firm to make TV spots about how the oil spill actually made the rivers and wilderness areas better than before.
Nothing like a buttload of sticky, toxic, tar sand oil spilled all over field and stream to improve the beauty of nature, huh?
America has become increasingly corporate over the last three decades, and that corporatization has mostly benefited the super-rich, who are now the super-duper-rich and getting richer by the minute.
The rest of us, not so much.
Millions of middle class people are falling into poverty, while clinging to the middle class title to cushion the anger and shame.
I didn't like working for corporations, and I like being governed by them even less. All over the U.S., infrastructure is crumbling at an astonishing rate. In some places, like Flint MI, that decay is being helped along by callous GOP governors. In others, like Porter Ranch CA, amoral corporations that only care about money neglect toxic situations of their own making.
In still other places, like San Francisco, the new techie elite are pushing people out of their own neighborhoods and turning entire cities into expensive Whole Foods-Starbucks-Sushi-bar meccas accessible only to young hip millionaires.
The midwest may be on the crest of this new and destructive wave, but it's what's on the menu for everyone who didn't inherit a whole lot of Benjamins. If that seems like a good thing to you, by all means, continue carrying on as if you are perfectly safe and everything is fine.
If not, you might want to think about making some noise.
Like, now.
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Pimpin'a friend...
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Posted:Jan 26, 2016 6:07 pm
Last Updated:Jun 30, 2016 11:00 am
41595 Views
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Unknown
"Friends With Benefits" Is The Topic For The Sixteenth Virtual Symposium
The people want friends with benefits. This is no surprise. It’s also no surprise that, now that they have friends with benefits, some of the people aren’t happy. Such is the way with love and romance. “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. They paved paradise and put up a parkin’ lot!” But friends with benefits it’s going to be, and they’ll take it and like it! Some of the voters, a considerable number in fact, craved fetishes, but of course, that’s what a fetish is, so another non-surprise.
I voted for a different topic, vocabulary, but I’m not too disappointed. I can still use that vocabulary talking about friends with benefits, so I really hadn’t put a large sum of money on that . I’ve bullshitted my way through fifteen of these things, maybe I can pull off one more.
At the stroke of midnight Saturday 30 January 2016 bloggers will post their entries. This deadline is pretty lax. You can post a bit early, and if you need to, do it. We want to read what you have to say. The same goes for late posts. This is all about having your say, and the other bloggers want to hear you. Send a link to your post to humorlife so he can add it to the participants list. In the early hours you can use this link: Unknown. After this bus gets rolling you can scroll down the participants list and work your way through the different entries.
Pitch in, pipe up and shout it out, folks! This is just one big bullshit session. You can say what’s on your mind about FWB. Don’t hold it back- this is where you can cut loose. It’s an open forum for new bloggers and veterans alike. You will certainly encounter new bloggers and you will just as certainly hear new ideas expressed in the Symposium. If you play your cards right, that chance meeting in the Symposium could just lead to the Holy Grail of many members of the site…a Friend With Benefits! Here it comes, humorlife: It’s your chance to meet interesting new people and fuck them.
Unknown
"Friends With Benefits" Is The Topic For The Sixteenth Virtual Symposium
This is a pro bono advertisement for the Sixteenth Virtual Symposium, the lovechild of humorlife. No animals were harmed in making this ad.
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Re-post: About The How We Met posts
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Posted:Jan 24, 2016 4:24 pm
Last Updated:Feb 22, 2023 2:31 pm
40857 Views
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As usual, mcmaniac was my muse. He suggested that I write these posts the first time, and we were talking today and he'd said he'd like to read them again, and that a lot of the newer people have never seen them. So I'm reposting these three pieces, since I never get tired of praising my wife, and I really want to impress upon members that you just can't give up. You never know what's going to happen and you have to be open to it when it does.
About The How We Met posts
mcmaniac asked about a week ago if I'd be interested in posting about how my wife PD and I met. I have commented about it in other folks' blogs, and I've alluded to it in posts here in my own blog, but I never really told the story. How we recall events can be really interesting- look at the different perspectives on what happened in Ferguson, Missouri. People witness an event and recall what they saw, but often when a video recording is played that doesn't appear to be what happened. Or they witness an event and they remember the version stored in their brain but they get to hanging around with someone who interprets that same event differently, maybe with a certain slant, and a new version supplants the one stored up in the mind and takes over- and the old version is gone. This isn't about attempting to deceive. It's about how our brains and our memories work. People who record testimony know this already. Cops, insurance agents, court recorders- all kinds of people do this for a living and they have to get kind of skeptical of people's memories, and their ability to accurately recall what actually happened. You can ask six witnesses and get six different answers.
This is not a serious issue in a "how we met" story. This ain't Ferguson, Missouri or The War Between the States. I don't think there'll be any protests, or any grand juries. Unless my ex-wife gets wind of it. But I got to thinking that it might be fun to do a "he said, she said' pair of posts, and see what happened. So we did. They follow- the next post is hers and mine finishes up below that.
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Re-Post:
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Posted:Jan 24, 2016 4:18 pm
Last Updated:Feb 22, 2023 1:49 pm
41108 Views
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"How we met" by PD
In 2001 after my third marriage ended it occurred to me that I couldn't possibly be any worse at picking men if I'd gotten a degree in failure.
OK, that's a bit heavy.
Let me put it this way:
If I were to accidentally walk into the International Prince Charming Convention, a room filled with all the nicest, kindest, handsomest most eligible men in the world, I'd walk right up to a pickpocket working the room and say in my chirpiest girl voice, "Hi, my name's PD! What's yours?"
First I cried a lot. Then I did lots of things people do in this situation.
I quit drinking. I saw a therapist. I got on some decent antidepressant medication. I got a real job and bought a car and bought a house and bought an oriental rug (is it PC to call it that?) and finally, one day, when I'd almost quit thinking about myself I realized I felt pretty good.
Maybe I wasn't so good at finding Prince Charming, but at least I was totally over Prince Alarming. That guy was no longer welcome. I knew what he looked like. I had his number. And he was going to have to torment some other dim chick next time.
I was as happy as I'd ever been.
I did not need another loser to make my life interesting.
I had hired a psychotherapist with the mutually agreed upon goal of never doing this expensive miserable thing again. No more loser marriages. My third husband had completely cleaned me out both financially and in terms of my stuff.
I had no stuff. I had to get all new stuff.
This happened not because he had such a good case to steal every damned thing I owned, but because he was crazy and dishonest and I didn't feel like arguing with him over toasters and Christmas ornaments. I just wanted out. I left with my clothes, my car, and an Apple computer.
I figured, since I was starting over in every other way, I might as well start over with men too. But I knew I needed help.
My therapist said that finding the right man was as simple as learning to say no to the wrong man.
What a revelation! Like many women of my generation and from my neck of the woods, the right man was any man who liked you who wasn't a drunk or a convicted felon. And actually, those things were negotiable if the guy has money. One of my sisters met her husband when she was 14 and he was 24, and my parents were thrilled.
Today, that guy might be arrested. But I guess it's good he wasn't, because they are still together.
The point is, I had zero practice saying no. The very concept was alien.
So, by way of practice, my therapist got behind the idea of me trying online dating. If done safely, this would afford me lots of opportunities to meet guys, size them up, maybe go out if they passed the first meeting, and then say no to the ones who didn't measure up.
I'd never done this. I Basically marry every guy who approaches me. So me sizing THEM up, that was different.
People like to talk about how dangerous online dating is.
Hey, dating MEN is dangerous no matter where you attempt it--online, offline, at church, anywhere, any way.
With this in mind, I set some basic ground rules:
I always set up the first meeting at the mall food court. Plenty of people. Security guards. Etc.
I did not give my last name or address or phone number until I felt fairly sure it was safe to do so and often, never.
If the meeting progressed to a date, I met the guy in my own car so I could get up and get out if need be, on my own.
Finally, I discussed my adventures with my therapist and if a guy came up short behavior-wise and I didn't pick up on it, if he showed any assholio tendencies at all, I agreed to practice my 'get lost' routine.
I was never rude or mean though. I don't like it when people are rude or mean to me, so even in situations where I thought, "whoa," I was polite in my "no thanks" responses.
I have to say, I had fun with this. It was a grand adventure for me, and even though it was 90% not that productive romantically, I got a lot of insight into male insecurities and idiosyncrasies, and in the end, I felt a lot of compassion even for the men who were awful.
This surprised me, and it was, in and of itself, a worthwhile experience to have.
But I also enjoyed 'shopping' on my own terms, for what I wanted, instead of trying to fit myself into what some man wanted.
What I wanted was (I thought) pretty easy: 1) I wanted someone to who would go to the movies with me, 2) Someone who wouldn't make a lot of demands (marry me, cook for me, live with me, clean my socks, etc, none of that), and 3) Someone who might enjoy having sex with me every now and again. And then go home. To his own house. And his own socks.
Men say this is what they want. They are all the time saying that.
It's crap. It's not what men want.
No one tells the truth about what they want.
Including me.
The first man I met at the food court sat down, pulled out a piece of paper, and started interviewing me in a ridiculously no nonsense way. After half a dozen questions, the nature of which I do not recall, he laid down the law.
"You will not date anyone else while you are dating me. I am sick of sluts."
At that point I busted out laughing, which I am pretty sure was the wrong response, because after that he excused himself and left. I felt a little bad for laughing since it was my intention to be polite, but when someone is being ridiculously inappropriate sometimes it just happens.
I definitely dodged a bullet there. That guy might have had bodies stacked up in his garage. He had that vibe.
Then I met a guy who had been chatting with me for awhile. In his profile, his photo looked very nice, and I felt I knew him a little better, so I met him at the business he owned and ran.
To my surprise he was horrible deformed by some crippling chronic illness, perhaps rheumatoid arthritis. He could not stand up straight. His limbs and hands were twisted. He could not walk without a walker. He shook my hand while I stood there in shock and then stuck it down his pants.
"Whoa! Seriously!?" I said, (or something to that effect).
I felt kind of sorry for him and now, if I didn't go out with him, he'd think it was because of his disability, which would be only half of it.
I met him at his house for a movie date. He fell asleep on the couch. I left, more annoyed than angry.
He called later and apologized and asked me if I would come over and cook dinner for him. I am embarrassed to say I actually did this. He had this stove with a timer on it that beeped non-stop He didn't know how to fix it so he didn't.
It was crazy making.
He asked me to move in with him rent free in exchange for cooking and some care taking. I told him this was not what I had in mind. I was looking for movies and sex and and he had not been up to either one. He said he actually kind of liked me and I thought, wow, such a romantic.
My therapist vetoed that guy, of course. But I felt bad for him. Not only was he horribly disabled, he was a real crab ass. He'd been on the dating site for five years.
Round about this time I got an email from a guy who lived about seventy miles north of me who said he thought we had a lot in common.
RIght. I shot back an email that said something like, "Oh yeah? Like what"
We started emailing each other though. He was easy to talk to, (he was the only guy I met through the dating sites who was easy to talk to, and the only one who seemed the least bit interested in me), and as we were both kind of engaged in the same search, I told him about my "interviews" (I'd come to regard them that way), and he talked about his own life and occasionally his bad marriage.
He said he was going to leave his wife. I thought, um. Sure you are.
I knew we would never get together because of the distance and the fact that he was married, and I told him this, but we kept talking because it was fun and soon I was looking forward to these talks and to sharing my latest adventures in internet dating land.
I met a lot of guys but I went out with only a few. One of the most common questions I got was, "How many dates do we have to go on before we have sex?" (Answer: Now that you've asked that question, an infinite number of dates, billions and billions of dates...)
OK, I never actually said that. But I thought it.
I went out with a newspaper editor who let me pay for everything and fell asleep during the movie we saw. (This was becoming a theme.) I went out with a seven foot tall black man who kept reminding me that he was a seven foot tall black man. Like I could miss this. That guy did have a huge dick, which was useless because he also WAS a huge dick.
I met a guy who was 5'5" who made $70,000 and went to Disney Land every summer. If I played my cards right, I could be a part of that, he said.
I didn't have any cards.
One night, I was chatting with my friend from up north about my latest dating exploits and he began talking about the woman HE was dating.
Whoa.
It felt like my stomach fell through my shoes. He can't be dating anyone! In about a second and a half I realized I was stuck on this guy and we hadn't even met. But how could it work? He was far away. He was married.
We planned a meeting and from the first it was like getting hit with an uber-strong narcotic. We were like on a love drug. It was ridiculous but wonderful. I had never, ever, in my wildest dreams thought I would experience something so right, ever.
But here's what I remember most (besides the amazing sex): When I asked him what he wanted from this he said, "I want to love someone. I want to love you."
Oh my god, I thought. That is the right answer.
In all my life I had never heard it.
Ten years later, we are still together, still happy, still talking.
Sometimes we even go to the movies.
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To link to this blog (kzoopair) use [blog kzoopair] in your messages.
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