What's it like to know you're being fucked and fucked over? To be taught violence doesn't solve anything. No? WWII was violent, the French Revolution was violent. Overthrowing the Nazis required violence, defending against fascists, despots, tyrants and other control-freak snakes has always needed a large dose of violence. But it is the state that now administers violence, applies violence, justifies violence, defines violence - when reason and talk fail - a condascending shake of the head with a muttered: "Well, we did try..." Like Iraq or Central Asia or anywhere white and white-led imperialist troops must intervene to impose the White Man's Burden.
But at home, in their safe subdivision or hipper-than-thou gentrified neighborhood, their own kids hate them for what they have bought into, what they've sold their future to acquire, the moronic belief that violence will never again be required to defend themselves, that the regimes they empower are largely benign - hypnotized by credit, actually believing that they are not a simple 1 or 0 in some sleepless Mumbai database.
The refrain, though more muted in these enlightened, progressive-parent days, is still underlined by: "Look at what we've given you. Look how easy you have it (with the unspoken addition of 'you fat fucking lump of shit of my loins'), look at all the opportunity we've afforded you, how we've worked to provide all the thumb-operated devices we've delivered fresh from the R&D dept."
And the all too rare reply: "But none of this means anything. You are fucking frauds and you're making me feel like one too." 99.999% of the time the parent(s) will hear: "Thanks Mom/Dad/Stephen/Laura (I'm allowed to call my parents by their name), this I-Prod/Stoogle/Mamasoft prisoner-built thingamafuck is sooooo siiiiiiick! (or whatever approximately current term is applied to denote unmitigated approval).
And one or two of the kids are all right. Those kids are all right. Their instincts are correct, the ones who can actually string together a coherent thought, the vast minority. But there's enough to form a bloc - a black bloc. Video of not completely mollified young women and men somewhat incompetently smashing shop windows, kicking the shit out of police cars and setting them alight. These are the sights that warm the cockles of my degenerate old heart. Have they figured out they're the victims of the greatest sham in history - the selling of the human soul for accessorized convenience, for an ocean of information that adds up to very little. But they're not the majority, nowhere near it and never will be. The majority? Like any bovine majority - shrink into their little corner of the digital universe, a couple human friends, an ironically owned pet, not wanting to know much, forgetting that really gross/cool/weird/funny/fuckedup video 5 minutes after viewing it. Did you see fucking gross/cool/weird/funny/fuckedup video? Yeah, wasn't that so fucking gross/cool/weird/funny/fuckedup?
Facebook friends right up the large intestine, packed, jammed, filled to the eyeballs with Facegeek friends you will never ever meet not-in-a-million-years and 2 weeks later onto better connected Facebuck friends, then a cyber-spat over a band, a song, a piece of clothing, a haircut - really important shit, mano (I caught you cyber-dating my best cyberfriend!) So, new allies sought in the land of Zero Diff. A rash of msgs exchanged, only to discover undying somethingorother and then pffft, it's all too much the same, pointless, exhausting, too much to remain excited about, but trying, youth being the helpful booster, but what about that really serious fucker - earning power? Huh? Well? Whachoo gonna do, White child, White-trained child?
So.... still at home at 21, 26, at 29 at 32 and 41 and well, if you're still doing that, c'mon, you're a fucking asshole for staying/hiding in that basement/bedroom. He mostly but sometimes even she - says to him/her/itself: I'm twenty or thirty whatevs and my parents are away for the weekend. They are away.
So you are a dead zone. Little or no reading, at least nothing longer than 140 characters, including spaces, doncha know.
Step 1 - Remove fat ass from subdivision/mall/Mama's SUV. No, it's not cool to hang out with your parents. Your parents are your enemy, villains, they make you pathetic and security-conscious - they are pure death on the installment plan, they are death on a stick, on the tube, on your device, a dead genital in your hand, cold and incapable of ecstatic epiphany. They only have your security in mind, your fucking security. Feel insulted, not cared for, you brainless piece of weak shit. Don't you fucking get it?
Aw, baby, baby, baby... stop all of your sobbin'... If anyone will, it's going to be the girls that lead you out of this - and no, being a non-hetero male doesn't make much difference - it helps but isn't the boon it once was. There's no resistance to being non-hetero male any more, no need to be clever or avant garde or fly under the radar. You have no war left to fight. The old queens long ago won it for you and now you can be young and chubby and popular with the straight world. Congrats, you are dead. Let's face it, Brucey, being a fag no longer takes guile, brains or guts or style. Congrats, you are a Molson fag. You look like fucking Leafs fans. Congrats, you are dead in the water. Well, that's something, I suppose...
Me? Fuck, what do I know about anything beyond what's obvious. And what's obvious is you are being sold down the fucking river, sold into digital slavery, your heart, your soul, your mind, your entrails, all of it sold for ephemeral bullshit by those who claim to luv you, your family. Your fucking family, those suffocating, guilt-inducing con artists laying it on with a fucking trowel ever since the goddamn old testament.
If it's anyone, it's going to be the females who lead the way, bi-sexual, tri-sexual, multi-sexual and sharp as punji stakes, they'll have the brains, the spiritual brawn and yes, even most of the balls. And they'll look really hot all in black, leading from the front, showing the smarter males how it's done, patiently teaching the boys they must shed a great deal of blood and destroy a great deal of property to earn back this lost world.
Love live the Black Bloc. They're the only hope we've got...
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
partial scene, Thracian Tales... and song of the past few days.
Think about writing Thracian Tales while going over Mount Royal with a microscope, looking for those bad notes and awkward chords, making sure of spellings and locales then thinking about Thracian Tales some more.
The sex scene in this new novel, well, one of the sex scenes in this new novel - it takes place in a small monastery, more a chapel. Later on, the protagonist, Bill, he finds out the woman he was with in the chapel, a woman based on Irmina, she's living in Athens and when he's down there tries to contact her. She had somehow lucked out and wrapped a rich old guy around her finger and married him. He's a rice pudding magnate and has given her a very expensive lifestyle, complete with car, foreign trips, clothes, elegant evenings out, etc. After much conniving, since the rice pudding magnate's mother lives with them and is highly suspicious of Irmina - and would be happy to show her son she's been cheating and get her and her son kicked out - she and Bill meet briefly in his tiny apartment, a garconiera, a little rooftop sweatbox, a real sauna. Irmina meets him by going to a girlfriend's apartment then going out the back and down into the center courtyard. She comes out the lane, which is on the next block after having changed into guy's clothing, jeans, ballcap and sunglasses, her long hair hidden under a hoody, walking with head down and small backpack, from behind or at a distance, might be a really cute young guy. Bill is waiting for her in his uncle's Ford Taunus. Much is at stake. She's agreed to see him this one time after he'd taunted her she was just some fat asshole's toy cunt. Yeah, great life you've got. It's for my son. Yeah, great life your son's got. Irmina goes through the hassle of meeting him almost just to prove that nobody runs her life, her pride's at stake.
They go to his garconiera and have sex and talk and talk and have sex and talk some more and drink until she's got to go back to her friend's place. He sneaks her back there, laying down in the back seat of the car. She scoots up the lane, into the courtyard and back up to her pal's apt. where she changes back into her girly gear and comes out the front. While putting make up on, her friend stands in the bathroom doorway and they talk and gossip. Irmina tells her friend she did something really stupid. In their rush, neither got any condoms and she still had sex with him. She says he did pull out but it's all pretty stupid nonetheless. She tells her friend, I couldn't help it. I haven't been with anybody in ages. You know I thought about getting pregnant with Bill and telling Stellio it's his but they have ways of finding out who the father is. Stellio would insist on such a test. Trouble is, my old fool can't get it up anymore because he's on some kind of heart pills, not that he could do much to begin with. I tried to get pregnant with him, you know, to really nail the bastard down but it's been a trial. I try for ages to get him hard, get myself ready to get on him since he won't take long, you know. I've managed it here and there but it was the wrong time of the month, close perhaps, but not close enough. Without me having his kid, there's no guarantee he won't get rid of us eventually and you know what the fucking courts are like in this country.
Her friend asks about Bill.
Bill? I like being with him. He's a gentlemen most of the time and we have fun together. He makes me laugh and takes his time with me. We talk a lot. Sometimes I have to do things most men don't go for but that's all right, I enjoy how different he is. I don't like him around my son because Bill can be rather childish himself sometimes so he's very playful with Eli and the boy got instantly attached to him so I kept them apart since we can't think of being together. Yes, I day dream about it, how sweet it would be, the three of us, having a man who knows how to handle me and is so loving with my boy, so open-hearted but that's just a fantasy. He'll never have any money really. He's a vagabond and a whore. It wouldn't occur to him to say no to anyone, not that I'm a saint but it truly doesn't even cross his mind. It's like having an old girlfriend who is a man. Besides, we've never spent that much time together. We just became close in a way very quickly, when he came up to Thrace. I saw him at his uncle's store and immediately wanted to sleep with him because I'm as bad as he is. We recognized that in one another, the secret society of the completely amoral. Truth is, we weren't together more than a couple dozen times in the year he was up there. He wandered around, up into Bulgaria and Moesia, Vlachia and Carpathia then over to Istanbul and Gallipoli, the Pontus. Out of that whole time, he spent maybe 3 or 4 months in the village. In the end everyone knew he was my lover and I got really tired of those fucking hypocrites so I decided to get out. Bill had been right about me taking Eleftheri and going to Saloniki or Athens. I should have done it much earlier. I had to leave my mother behind but there was no living there and she was driving me mad, always praying for my soul.
A week after I got here, I found a job in a small cafe near the Polytechnic. A week after that a guy who owned a nightclub asked me to work for him as a waitress. I made good money but he wouldn't leave me alone, insisting I have sex with him as a kind of re-payment. He was good looking and could be charming, the idiot. I might have slept with him if he hadn't been so pushy. So I quit and was lucky to get a job in that really fancy ice cream and pastry cafe, Flocca. I had to sleep with the manager but afterwards he was fine and actually very helpful and didn't bother me again. That's where I met Stellio. He came there every day in the afternoon and one of the busboys told me he was very rich and a widower with no children. I saw him driving a big expensive car so I began to dress down, more demure and I didn't care if I got fewer tips for the time being. It took him a few months to actually ask me out. I'd just about given up and was beginning to look around when he finally approached me, very nervous about it too. He was rather sweet and he didn't react badly when I told him I had a 9 year old son. I gave him the whole woe is me tale of the abusive husband and the village poverty, how I was determined to maintain my virtue and dignity in this hard-bitten world. After we went out to dinner that first time, I dropped a guy I'd been seeing, a bartender who worked at club near where I lived in Exarhia. Nice guy. I told him the situation and he was good enough to not make an issue out of it, only wishing me luck. He also warned me that a man like Stellio would have me checked out. And I did notice a few men driving taxis and watching me and they did not look like taxi drivers. When I caught their eye, they tried to smile and wink as if making a pass but it was bullshit. They looked like off-duty cops. It was tedious for a while, dressing like a virgin and only going to pick Eli up from school and going home. And can you believe it, I even began going to church or running into a church I was passing to light a candle. I even caught one of those cops off-guard when I ran straight up to his taxi after coming out of church and begging, please good sir, if you might, take me to Flocca as fast as possible, I'm late for work. He was flustered and barely knew how to operate the meter. I could hardly keep from laughing out loud.
Anyway, that's part of a scene, I guess...
Song today, or the past few days. Florence + the Machine - The Dog Days Are Over.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWOyfLBYtuU
Great song for great singer that's finally getting her big break. She looks like the Madwoman of Chaillot in this video but does different personas in other vids, using those endless legs of her like an English Tina Turner. Her song Kiss With A Fist is another one worth listening to. Yeah, Florence, she's got a whole lotta soul and a whole lotta style...
The sex scene in this new novel, well, one of the sex scenes in this new novel - it takes place in a small monastery, more a chapel. Later on, the protagonist, Bill, he finds out the woman he was with in the chapel, a woman based on Irmina, she's living in Athens and when he's down there tries to contact her. She had somehow lucked out and wrapped a rich old guy around her finger and married him. He's a rice pudding magnate and has given her a very expensive lifestyle, complete with car, foreign trips, clothes, elegant evenings out, etc. After much conniving, since the rice pudding magnate's mother lives with them and is highly suspicious of Irmina - and would be happy to show her son she's been cheating and get her and her son kicked out - she and Bill meet briefly in his tiny apartment, a garconiera, a little rooftop sweatbox, a real sauna. Irmina meets him by going to a girlfriend's apartment then going out the back and down into the center courtyard. She comes out the lane, which is on the next block after having changed into guy's clothing, jeans, ballcap and sunglasses, her long hair hidden under a hoody, walking with head down and small backpack, from behind or at a distance, might be a really cute young guy. Bill is waiting for her in his uncle's Ford Taunus. Much is at stake. She's agreed to see him this one time after he'd taunted her she was just some fat asshole's toy cunt. Yeah, great life you've got. It's for my son. Yeah, great life your son's got. Irmina goes through the hassle of meeting him almost just to prove that nobody runs her life, her pride's at stake.
They go to his garconiera and have sex and talk and talk and have sex and talk some more and drink until she's got to go back to her friend's place. He sneaks her back there, laying down in the back seat of the car. She scoots up the lane, into the courtyard and back up to her pal's apt. where she changes back into her girly gear and comes out the front. While putting make up on, her friend stands in the bathroom doorway and they talk and gossip. Irmina tells her friend she did something really stupid. In their rush, neither got any condoms and she still had sex with him. She says he did pull out but it's all pretty stupid nonetheless. She tells her friend, I couldn't help it. I haven't been with anybody in ages. You know I thought about getting pregnant with Bill and telling Stellio it's his but they have ways of finding out who the father is. Stellio would insist on such a test. Trouble is, my old fool can't get it up anymore because he's on some kind of heart pills, not that he could do much to begin with. I tried to get pregnant with him, you know, to really nail the bastard down but it's been a trial. I try for ages to get him hard, get myself ready to get on him since he won't take long, you know. I've managed it here and there but it was the wrong time of the month, close perhaps, but not close enough. Without me having his kid, there's no guarantee he won't get rid of us eventually and you know what the fucking courts are like in this country.
Her friend asks about Bill.
Bill? I like being with him. He's a gentlemen most of the time and we have fun together. He makes me laugh and takes his time with me. We talk a lot. Sometimes I have to do things most men don't go for but that's all right, I enjoy how different he is. I don't like him around my son because Bill can be rather childish himself sometimes so he's very playful with Eli and the boy got instantly attached to him so I kept them apart since we can't think of being together. Yes, I day dream about it, how sweet it would be, the three of us, having a man who knows how to handle me and is so loving with my boy, so open-hearted but that's just a fantasy. He'll never have any money really. He's a vagabond and a whore. It wouldn't occur to him to say no to anyone, not that I'm a saint but it truly doesn't even cross his mind. It's like having an old girlfriend who is a man. Besides, we've never spent that much time together. We just became close in a way very quickly, when he came up to Thrace. I saw him at his uncle's store and immediately wanted to sleep with him because I'm as bad as he is. We recognized that in one another, the secret society of the completely amoral. Truth is, we weren't together more than a couple dozen times in the year he was up there. He wandered around, up into Bulgaria and Moesia, Vlachia and Carpathia then over to Istanbul and Gallipoli, the Pontus. Out of that whole time, he spent maybe 3 or 4 months in the village. In the end everyone knew he was my lover and I got really tired of those fucking hypocrites so I decided to get out. Bill had been right about me taking Eleftheri and going to Saloniki or Athens. I should have done it much earlier. I had to leave my mother behind but there was no living there and she was driving me mad, always praying for my soul.
A week after I got here, I found a job in a small cafe near the Polytechnic. A week after that a guy who owned a nightclub asked me to work for him as a waitress. I made good money but he wouldn't leave me alone, insisting I have sex with him as a kind of re-payment. He was good looking and could be charming, the idiot. I might have slept with him if he hadn't been so pushy. So I quit and was lucky to get a job in that really fancy ice cream and pastry cafe, Flocca. I had to sleep with the manager but afterwards he was fine and actually very helpful and didn't bother me again. That's where I met Stellio. He came there every day in the afternoon and one of the busboys told me he was very rich and a widower with no children. I saw him driving a big expensive car so I began to dress down, more demure and I didn't care if I got fewer tips for the time being. It took him a few months to actually ask me out. I'd just about given up and was beginning to look around when he finally approached me, very nervous about it too. He was rather sweet and he didn't react badly when I told him I had a 9 year old son. I gave him the whole woe is me tale of the abusive husband and the village poverty, how I was determined to maintain my virtue and dignity in this hard-bitten world. After we went out to dinner that first time, I dropped a guy I'd been seeing, a bartender who worked at club near where I lived in Exarhia. Nice guy. I told him the situation and he was good enough to not make an issue out of it, only wishing me luck. He also warned me that a man like Stellio would have me checked out. And I did notice a few men driving taxis and watching me and they did not look like taxi drivers. When I caught their eye, they tried to smile and wink as if making a pass but it was bullshit. They looked like off-duty cops. It was tedious for a while, dressing like a virgin and only going to pick Eli up from school and going home. And can you believe it, I even began going to church or running into a church I was passing to light a candle. I even caught one of those cops off-guard when I ran straight up to his taxi after coming out of church and begging, please good sir, if you might, take me to Flocca as fast as possible, I'm late for work. He was flustered and barely knew how to operate the meter. I could hardly keep from laughing out loud.
Anyway, that's part of a scene, I guess...
Song today, or the past few days. Florence + the Machine - The Dog Days Are Over.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWOyfLBYtuU
Great song for great singer that's finally getting her big break. She looks like the Madwoman of Chaillot in this video but does different personas in other vids, using those endless legs of her like an English Tina Turner. Her song Kiss With A Fist is another one worth listening to. Yeah, Florence, she's got a whole lotta soul and a whole lotta style...
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
A whole lotta nuthin'?
I know a guy who started an online literary mag several months ago. At first he was plenty excited and published stuff he thought was fresh, etc. But he knew some writers and photographers and visual artists who'd been working for many years so their stuff was well developed and made the initial edition pretty good. The problem was that after a few months the quality of the submissions really went downhill. Unless he wanted to publish the same half dozen writers, photogs and visual artists all the time, well, you see the problem here. I'd said to him, c'mon, this stuff you're getting can't be that bad.
It was even worse. And it's not that the writing's so awful or the story ideas are so lousy. The main problem is the lack of re-writing, that old bugaboo. Some submissions weren't bad but there wasn't one that didn't need a lot of work. It's like the writers were in a big hurry to get the thing published so they didn't bother really massaging the work. Aside from grammar and so on, it's the lack of development, the cliched crap you take out during a later re-write. And since this editor's not running a writing workshop, he just rejects the stuff and the rejectees get really angry and fire off angry and insulting emails.
All I know is writing is like a sickness but it's also like a musical instrument. You just have to do it a lot, all the time, constantly, obsessive re-writing, editing, re-editing, trying this way and that way and the other way, thinking, deliberating, reading your shit then wondering for long spells then rewriting some more and more again and again then leaving it for a while and go back and seeing more clearly what works and what doesn't and rewriting yet again, etc etc. Unless you're REALLY into it, the whole process can be a major drag.
I write first drafts by hand. No, not the entire manuscript but sections. Well, my method is to sort of write scenes and pieces of dialogue then try to dovetail it together somehow into larger sections which I try to work into some sort of overall story. The idea of a plot, I mean a conventional movie or tv style plot, the type you get in a whodunit, that never attracts me. I don't like those kinds of books. They seem contrived and kind of stupid. Like the old saying goes: Plots are for soap operas. I'm more interested in larger ideas, weird sidetracks, ideas I've never heard of and have a hard time understanding. So that's what I try to write and even now, I look at this Mount Royal mss I've written and I wonder sometimes, what the fuck am I trying to say? Maybe a bunch of things, who the hell knows.
I hear people say to those who are frustrated with writing: "Just get it out, just keep writing." Really? You have to be told that? Writing novels, writing fiction, usually won't work unless it's a compulsion of some sort, an unhealthy concentration. Yes, it is a sickness, a sweet sickness you can hide within. My fantasy is to just be left alone in my room to write, to wonder about things, feed the cat and go for a motorbike ride and think some more, go back and write and rewrite and eventually a book comes out the other end - well, I hope it does.
Now I'm working on something called Thracian Tales and I have no really strong idea of what it's about. I know some of what will be in it but the over-arching story, I figure that will reveal itself in time. That's the exciting part.
It was even worse. And it's not that the writing's so awful or the story ideas are so lousy. The main problem is the lack of re-writing, that old bugaboo. Some submissions weren't bad but there wasn't one that didn't need a lot of work. It's like the writers were in a big hurry to get the thing published so they didn't bother really massaging the work. Aside from grammar and so on, it's the lack of development, the cliched crap you take out during a later re-write. And since this editor's not running a writing workshop, he just rejects the stuff and the rejectees get really angry and fire off angry and insulting emails.
All I know is writing is like a sickness but it's also like a musical instrument. You just have to do it a lot, all the time, constantly, obsessive re-writing, editing, re-editing, trying this way and that way and the other way, thinking, deliberating, reading your shit then wondering for long spells then rewriting some more and more again and again then leaving it for a while and go back and seeing more clearly what works and what doesn't and rewriting yet again, etc etc. Unless you're REALLY into it, the whole process can be a major drag.
I write first drafts by hand. No, not the entire manuscript but sections. Well, my method is to sort of write scenes and pieces of dialogue then try to dovetail it together somehow into larger sections which I try to work into some sort of overall story. The idea of a plot, I mean a conventional movie or tv style plot, the type you get in a whodunit, that never attracts me. I don't like those kinds of books. They seem contrived and kind of stupid. Like the old saying goes: Plots are for soap operas. I'm more interested in larger ideas, weird sidetracks, ideas I've never heard of and have a hard time understanding. So that's what I try to write and even now, I look at this Mount Royal mss I've written and I wonder sometimes, what the fuck am I trying to say? Maybe a bunch of things, who the hell knows.
I hear people say to those who are frustrated with writing: "Just get it out, just keep writing." Really? You have to be told that? Writing novels, writing fiction, usually won't work unless it's a compulsion of some sort, an unhealthy concentration. Yes, it is a sickness, a sweet sickness you can hide within. My fantasy is to just be left alone in my room to write, to wonder about things, feed the cat and go for a motorbike ride and think some more, go back and write and rewrite and eventually a book comes out the other end - well, I hope it does.
Now I'm working on something called Thracian Tales and I have no really strong idea of what it's about. I know some of what will be in it but the over-arching story, I figure that will reveal itself in time. That's the exciting part.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Whitey, where's your head at? (Part 2)
Around the time I'd been lucky enough to get signed by Tightrope Books, I'd talked with a couple of other publ. One of them was more established, bigger, etc and I was familiar with their editor.
But when I went to their offices, the place gave off the wrong vibe. There was a big, sepia-toned old photo of the founder himself, glaring down at arrivals. Don't you DARE publish that book! That cliche of the imperious Anglo-Canadian publisher, moral arbiters of the public taste, etc. Really stale shit.
It's clearly a company that's lost touch. They don't get contemporary subtext, complaining that too many stories nowadays don't have concrete plots. I'd replied: Plots are for soap operas.
After he'd read my mss, the editor's disheartening comment: "I just skipped ahead to the sex parts."
A comment that made me feel like an animal taking a bullet and I'd thought, what kind of overaged juvenile is this alleged editor/ Well, a guy with very limited sexual experiences if he'd going to get sidetracked so easily by stuff that isn't even that explicit.
Then I thought, well, some kinds of writing are simply not accessible to privileged, middle aged white men. Many of them lose the ability to read between the lines, or more likely, never possessed such skills and hence, their lack of experiences. But it's not about knowing some secret. It's about the other person seeing that this guy will never put out one ounce of passion or emotion or anything but his absolute surface. The whole issue is beautifully described in Myna Wallin's new novel, The Confessions of a Reluctant Cougar, a very sweet and human book.
But when I went to their offices, the place gave off the wrong vibe. There was a big, sepia-toned old photo of the founder himself, glaring down at arrivals. Don't you DARE publish that book! That cliche of the imperious Anglo-Canadian publisher, moral arbiters of the public taste, etc. Really stale shit.
It's clearly a company that's lost touch. They don't get contemporary subtext, complaining that too many stories nowadays don't have concrete plots. I'd replied: Plots are for soap operas.
After he'd read my mss, the editor's disheartening comment: "I just skipped ahead to the sex parts."
A comment that made me feel like an animal taking a bullet and I'd thought, what kind of overaged juvenile is this alleged editor/ Well, a guy with very limited sexual experiences if he'd going to get sidetracked so easily by stuff that isn't even that explicit.
Then I thought, well, some kinds of writing are simply not accessible to privileged, middle aged white men. Many of them lose the ability to read between the lines, or more likely, never possessed such skills and hence, their lack of experiences. But it's not about knowing some secret. It's about the other person seeing that this guy will never put out one ounce of passion or emotion or anything but his absolute surface. The whole issue is beautifully described in Myna Wallin's new novel, The Confessions of a Reluctant Cougar, a very sweet and human book.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Fet
There's a website called Fetlife. I don't know, these things always seem like a joke. Some out of shape suburban geek in a leather vest and cock harness sitting at his computer trying to meet "likeminded" idiots. All their embellishments and toys and tools and nonsense. Like, gimme a break. I guess the really stupid thing about it is they don't see the pathetic irony in try to 'normalize' this type of activity. The whole idea is should not be safe and normal. When something becomes mainstream and the square media trip over it, you know it's long dead and done.
Also, these ridiculous fetlife terms, like "baby of" and "under protection of". Baby of? We're talking about alleged adults here.
Anyway, I fired off a screed to this idiotic site, told them what I thought of their Walmart quality fetlife and as expected, I got a couple hundred of enraged replies. Like I'm gonna bother reading any of that crap.
The other thing is, so many of these fetlife guys into wearing women's lingerie, at least they could have some taste. They'll throw on any old cheap and corny looking Sears catalog women's underwear. Real lowbrow rayon shit, no idea how to get something that fits properly.
And the morality of it all, that's probably the most offensive part of it, trying to convert what should be an amoral activity into more of their Christianized claptrap.
Ah well, I'm too old for all that bullshit now. It's fun when you're young and you've got a body but doing that kinda thing when you're old and bagged out, Jeezus, now THAT is depraved - and reallly, really ugly to look at... As they say, youth is for the young and going beyond the best-before date lacks credibility, like two saggy-assed old men having sex. It's just plain embarrassing.
Also, these ridiculous fetlife terms, like "baby of" and "under protection of". Baby of? We're talking about alleged adults here.
Anyway, I fired off a screed to this idiotic site, told them what I thought of their Walmart quality fetlife and as expected, I got a couple hundred of enraged replies. Like I'm gonna bother reading any of that crap.
The other thing is, so many of these fetlife guys into wearing women's lingerie, at least they could have some taste. They'll throw on any old cheap and corny looking Sears catalog women's underwear. Real lowbrow rayon shit, no idea how to get something that fits properly.
And the morality of it all, that's probably the most offensive part of it, trying to convert what should be an amoral activity into more of their Christianized claptrap.
Ah well, I'm too old for all that bullshit now. It's fun when you're young and you've got a body but doing that kinda thing when you're old and bagged out, Jeezus, now THAT is depraved - and reallly, really ugly to look at... As they say, youth is for the young and going beyond the best-before date lacks credibility, like two saggy-assed old men having sex. It's just plain embarrassing.
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