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Sunday, September 13, 2015


Love, lust and laughs as everything burns around us...

Monday, January 26, 2015


There's this weird thing I heard about...

A husband doesn't give his wife flowers during 20 years of marriage. Not once. Not when their kids are born, not on anniversaries, not on birthdays, nada, zilch, zero, bupkus. Oh, wait. One time he told his secretary to have flowers sent to his wife when he closed a big deal and wanted to celebrate. ie: Take memo. Send flowers to me via wife.

Okay, maybe I'm hopelessly romantic but I love buying flowers for my girl - or for anyone. Who doesn't? Who would flip it off as ridiculous and say: "Flowers? Oh, c'mon. Grow up already."
Is that like a special kind of sociopath? The non-flower buying type? Is it in the DSM nut categorizing manual? Should be.

Flowers are a crucial part of any successful relationship and an important marital aid. Not only do you get to look like a good guy in the flower store and on the way to giving the flowers to that special person, but when every woman and relatively enlightened guy sees you, as you're marching along with a bunch of colorful flowers in your fist, bright eyed with happy anticipation, they all go: "Awww... what a good guy."

But the non-flower giving guy had his reasons, apparently. He felt flowers were corny and unnecessary. If I was a woman and a guy went two weeks without flowers, forget two effin' decades - I'd be throwing his butt onto the curb with the trash. No flowers, huh? Okay, no nookie. Whaddaya mean that won't work? Why not? Oh, c'mon, grow up, sex is so corny and unnecessary. I've had the kid. What do you need sex for?

Now here's the really weird part. The wife in this spousal partnership, or whatever you'd call a thing where the guy never buys flowers, she felt she couldn't impose on him to be someone he's not - ie: a flower-buying guy. She didn't feel she could force him to not be a self absorbed a-hole who can't think of anyone but himself for a single moment. Oh, well, sure, I get that. Live and let live. "He just doesn't have it in him." Uh, yeah.
No wonder their love life stinks.

And she actually wonders why things have gone flat? Why the magic's worn off and the fire's died, etc etc? Duh. Here's a clue, Dr. Watson. A pathological lack of flowers would undermine the whole shebang and turn it into a she-not-bang. How hot are you gonna get for a guy who's NEVER bought you flowers? Seriously. Imagine the underlying pathology. Some sort of really bizarre enabling kinda unspoken freak show. Yesh.

And how the hell does he get sheepish and apologize for being a jerk without flowers? What the hell? How does that work? When you've messed up and pissed her off, there's a law somewhere on the books that says you MUST go to a good flower store and get her a bunch of nice flowers - not corner store dying carnations, but real flowers. And no, not a big bushel of melodramatic blood red roses.

Don't put some big pressure on. Just drag your ass in there with some nice flowers, you shrug and mutter: "Sorry, baby... I know I been a real jackoff."
And she'll pout and reply: "Yeah, you have."
And then you give her the flowers. And if you haven't screwed up really bad, she'll smile that in spite of herself Okay, I guess you're not a total jerk smile and your ass is hopefully out of the fire. Try pulling that off without flowers. You'll be lucky to sleep in the garage.

Or what happens when at the last minute you're going to someone's house and you grab a bottle of wine and....? Yeah, flowers. Show up with just a bottle and you're a lush. Show up with flowers and wine and it's a bit of class. Your hostess looks at you and thinks, Hm... I guess he isn't a total dirtbag, after all.

And what about all that other stuff - anniversaries, birthdays, other happy occasions? As my mum used to say: "Don't show up with empty hands a'swingin'."

Amazing this is even a topic of any kind. Seems implausible. Of course the worst part is the wife putting up with this creep's no-flowers psychosis and even making excuses for it and claiming to be no worse for wear. Nice try but I did notice she cringed when he touched her.

So remember... When in doubt - flowers.
My personal fave, wild flowers

Sunday, November 23, 2014


When I was a kid my parents knew a couple called George and Georgia. Both were made of that exotic mongrel mix you get in southeastern Europe, the land bridge going into Turkey and the Middle East. Mobs of marauders and rapists have been through there for centuries.

George was swarthy and handsome. He'd have looked right at home with a top-knot and Fu Manchu, shirtless and carrying a scimitar. Georgia wasn't magazine beautiful but had a rare blonde sensuality. Not easy for a woman with pale hair, pale skin and pale gray eyes to come off fiery but she did it with a kind of deeper sweet hunger.

Their real strength was others didn't exist for them. George was a typical man of his era, tall and masculine, didn't dance, a sublime undertone of confidence and power. Women went all girlish and soft near him.

The same way men doted on Georgia's sweetness, which seemed to be for the whole world but she was just being a good girl. When those two looked at one another, they burned everything else away. Married but no kids, which was strange for the time and she openly dismissed the idea as "Not for us."

I guess they were too busy fucking to be parents. I was like ten or something and at some big wedding or baptism in a church basement me and a few other kids saw George and Georgia steaming up their car windows out in the parking lot. I guess they couldn't wait to get home, just had to take a break from the drinking and socializing to lay on a good fuck. They seemed a lot younger than my parents or their other friends. Fucking will do that. Amazing they didn't get sick of one another the way couples usually do.

Anyway, my original point was about this thing Georgia would do. A couple times she dropped George off at a cafeteria my old man owned a piece of. George was a highly skilled carpenter. He usually did bowling alley lanes with an uncle of mine but since my old man had found him a cool hotrod Buick at a good price, George came round for a few days and built a new cafeteria counter.

I'd be sitting outside peeling potatoes in the alley way and see them pull in and she'd wipe his mouth and his mustache with her hand. Actually, more like fondle his face and mouth, this really slutty smile on her. I didn't recognize it as such then, being just some stupid kid, but I realized later on what her look meant.

I asked my old man about the mouth fondling and he was never a subtle guy. "She wipes her wet pussy first," he grunted then gave me a leer and winked but didn't explain further and I didn't ask since I had no clue what he was talking about.

George and Georgia looked so natural in his hopped-up Buick Skylark coupe. They were a pair of Balkan fuck freaks yet easily slipped into the beautiful American open road forever nihilism of that very romantic era. Now it's all about gas mileage and hard-on drugs and traffic tickets.

I'm talking about ancient ideas pushed so well by those old hotrods merging speed and love in a perfect way cuz they had a front bench seat, like a big sofa, so were pretty much made for George and Georgia. Not like cars nowadays with the straight jacket bucket seats you're strapped into and can't touch each other. Well, maybe hold hands.

Try giving a driver's seat blow job in your average commuter car today. The one doing the blowing will end up eviscerated by some lever or other plastic protuberance - and you'll both get a raft of tickets issued by some safety-obsessed paramilitary idiot cop.

The crazy thing is not long after George built the cafeteria counter they were both killed in a high speed crash. The police said it happened for no apparent reason on a straight away, during a warm sunny day. So I figure they must have died fucking, Georgia straddling George in the driver's seat, the windshield fogged up, her ass knocks the steering wheel sideways and the Buick bashes into the guard rail at 100 mph and goes cartwheeling down a steep rocky gorge to explode on impact - their huge A-Bomb mushroom cloud of burnin' hot love. Talk about going out in style...

Friday, November 14, 2014


I was recently sent the following message from what I'm told is a local swingers collective. I think I'll give up trying to write satire. The names have not been changed in order to protect the credulous...

If you come alone or with your partner please be here no later than 6pm; please bring a chemise or something similar to wear when not actively engaged. You do not have to, it is not required but most of the ladies like slipping something on even if it is waist or hip long when they take a break for a drink or snack, or go to the bathroom to freshen up.

pleas email us at and all we ask for is a face picture so we know who is showing up at the door. this is not required either but is a good comfort factor for us.

I think the youngest is 30 and the oldest, bringing his GF too if I remember right, is 65 or 66 and I am 60 and I am a Master.

I hope it is not a problem that all the males are white.

When you get to the house we will give the ladies a quick tour, we have three bedrooms and three full baths w/three showers.

One bedroom has a king sized bed and one has a queen while the middle room has a double.

We have a range of toys and equipment, all well sanitized but pls bring your own if you wish something specific.

If you have special requirements, pls write them down so it can be circulated among the men attending so there are no awkward or embarrassing moments.

Please let me know if you d can tell me Saturday. We want to make sure the guys know who does so they do not try anything with those that do NOT.

Okay, we currently have several couples; 4-5 single men and 2-3 Single females.

We are in the Esmeralda apartments; 64-66 Soi Nagmduplee, Rama 4 Rd.
Apt 7C, tell the guards you are visiting RichardMcCormick.

Nagmduplee is Sathonr area; behind the big Q House Lumpini.

It can be accessed down Sathon Soi 1 or off of Rama 4. Soi 1 dead ends on nagmduplee , turn RIGHT, 25 ' entrance to Esmeralda on RIGHT we are in UPPER tower.

From Rama 4 you turn directly onto Nagmduplee. Stay straight, all cab drivers want to turn. When you pass the only 7-11 (scary I know) you are close. Stay straight. Pass the intersection (Soi 1 enters on your right) and again stay straight and 25' on right side

Walking distance from the 7-11 or the IBIS Hotel on Soi Nagmduplee.

Again - upper tower.

Anything else? Oh, no drugs, no drunks and no vulgar language. We will have drinks and snacks. We just folk to have fun and get what they want.

And please be aware we practice safe sex and keep to strict safe word limits and all encounters will be monitored to keep all safe and for no misunderstandings.

And if you wish a particular group activity such as GB, please let us know beforehand to again ensure there is no embarrassment.


Master Richard

Friday, October 24, 2014


I got an email from some pretend college in Canada offering weekend courses in how to write fiction and get published.
"We're Ready When You Are."
They make it sound as if you're building a deck. 5 Easy Steps To Being A Nuisance!

The course will "Launch you toward the top tier in the highly competitive world of modern fiction." But it doesn't say where you'll land after being launched toward the top tier.


I love this IKEA style branding. It's 10 hours over 2 days of "a simple and easily understood assignment and peer-review based learning process."

PT Barnum and Ripley got rich off these rubes. Incredible they'll pay $350 each to be diapered and stroked by some loser in bad glasses and a plaid shirt.

But the really depressing part is the "Instructor."
Paid pretty much shit, a dumpy middle aged schmendrick must drag his sorry ass outa bed on a freezing Saturday morning in some obscure hick town called Parry Sound and go deal with the aspirations of a bunch of angry housewives and the one geeky guy who's got half a foot out the closet door and wants to start a fiction magazine but not pay anybody.

So here's the "instructor" - driving his shitty little leased car across the wind swept plains of some Canadian steppe, full of dread at the upcoming two days locked in a room with a load of big mouthed yentas who'll sit at the front and kibitz and openly compare him to some other asshole instructor and demand their money's worth.

While getting his drive-thru ten dollar coffee from the new Cognoscenti's outlet, he prays for a willowy little English lit major to show up and sit at the back of the class and shyly pull out a copy of his pointless novel, hoping he'll personally sign it. He'll tell her she has talent, she's not like the others. He checks his bald spot in the rearview mirror and wishes he had the money to buy Rogaine on a regular basis.

He curses himself yet again for being such a putz as to marry that fucking cow who ditched his ass after screwing some hockey player. He honks long and loud at nothing, mutters bitterly to himself. She's living downtown in HIS condo with their ingrate kid while he had to move to this whitebread buttfuck end of nowhere and beg for a job as an "Associate Instructor" at a former agricultural school after they took federal money to create an "arts based curriculum" for the hags who bought big boxes houses up here a hundred miles from town because they were too cheap and stupid to have cashed in on the red hot real estate market in the city and now he's making $175 bucks for 10 hours of HIS time to teach them how to get published.

He knows if he had any balls he'd drive to the city, find that other bitch, his so-called publisher, and beat her to death with a tire iron. His most recent novel, A Dog's Breath, won two "non-monetary" but noteworthy awards and he once again got zero attention because his grant-whore publisher couldn't give away free money, let alone sell a fucking book.

And forget having his bonehead students actually work on whatever garbage they type on their laptops, which are worth more than he makes in a month. He, a published author, will be harangued, harassed and hammer-locked into giving them The Secret to seeing their slop published - ie: shoved between the covers of some cock-eyed Print On Demand piece of dreck.

As he drives away from Cognoscenti's with his coffee and settles back into the soothing fantasy of a willowy young thing who will show up for his class and grasp his genius, he takes a sip and almost vomits onto the steering wheel. He very specifically asked for a Neo-Grande Double Naught Despresso Famagusta and they gave him fucking coffee!

In a rage, he tries to reverse but a giant SUV is already at the window and to get back in line he must exit the parking lot, drive three miles to get around the concrete divider then wait ten minutes to make a left turn back into the official drive-thru entrance and once again join the parade of waiting cars.
hey, Teach...

Monday, October 13, 2014


Check this out. I stumbled across some Magick Guy's blog. He seems nice enough, trying to do some holistic type crap with magick. Its sad but whatever, harmless enough hobby.
So he writes some spiel about a very funny demon called Sitri, who has the ability, if properly conjured, to make women drip with heat.
A super hot, snooty nose-in-the-air girl goes by, wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but then she's suddenly compelled to be yours. Great magick trick, right? So some whiner writes in to Magick Guy bitching he's famous but it hasn't gotten him any extra pussy. A few meek homely women shyly rub against his leg a couple times a year but no cock crazed knock-outs begging for stinkin' hot pervin'.

magus93 wrote...
So...even if you are correct about sitri shinig forth his light from your soul, who gives a fuck. As long as you get laid, so what. I haven't been getting much more than once or twice a year and I've grown to become a public figure from all my non goetic efforts and hard work so far. Still haven't got much sex. I say it is about damn time for me to get sex and love but mostly sex on a regular basis and who gives a fuck even if you are right. I'd be getting what I want thus I will use goetia...I am almost ready to start once I finish jsut a bit more studying.

Yeah. This guy is for real. Either that or he's a very sublime satirist. It'd be great if he was but I wouldn't bet real money on it.
"love but mostly sex"

Sunday, June 22, 2014

MOUNT ROYAL: There's Nothing Harder Than Love

Mount Royal: A Novel
Mount Royal: There's Nothing Harder Than Love - a novel
by Basil Papademos
Edition: Paperback
Price: $16.34
25 used & new from $7.19

5.0 out of 5 stars
A book for readers savage and smart.May 20, 2014
Reviewed by Margaret Wagner
Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: Mount Royal: A Novel (Paperback)
Mount Royal shakes you up like a freight train, hitting you with the brash sounds and hell-bent forward motion of an underground culture fueled by high octane drugs, sex, disobedience, and a singular lack of remorse. The writer manages to capture a very specific place and time, evoking the images of old haunts and projecting the voices of irascible ghosts while avoiding the taint of nostalgia. The dialogue sounds true; you can hear it ringing though the alleyways and crash pads of Montreal. The sex is unsparing and incredibly lush.

It is a love story, in the sense that being honest in the portrayal of human passions and complexity without passing judgment is the essence of love.

“We won by not winning, by debauching and sleeping late, by filling the bars and sexing all over the mountain, our victories constant and gentle and irresistible.”