| 2:23 am
Monday, May 30, 2005
The Guy Who Checked the Crowd for Signs of Bad Taste in Dress
Something elicited from me what is the first book report I have written in over 30 years. It's of a book I read 25 years ago: Confederacy of Dunces, the funniest book ever written.
It doesn't matter where one starts. Everything must have a beginning before it can have anything else. So without equivocating, if Confederacy of Dunces isn't the funniest book ever written, you'll still have to put me in orthopedic shoes before I will say I stand corrected.
John Kennedy Toole wrote Confederacy of Dunces. He was a teacher at a small college in Louisiana. Unable to get it published, depressed and financially strapped, in 1969 Toole killed himself. His mother spent the next ten years trying to get it into print.
One day she found herself in front of Walker Percy, the renowned writer and an old fashioned Southern gentleman. She was able to extract from him a guarantee that he would "try to read it." Percy felt in promising this he could be honorable. He'd read a few muddy, disjointed, unconnected sentences, much like those of this essay, and then he could stop and tell her he had tried to read it but couldn't.
So he sat down with the manuscript and began reading. The first page wasn't so bad he could in good conscience quit. He felt obligated to read page two, page three and more. Finally, he went from thinking that it wasn't too bad to asking himself, "Is it possible that it is this good?"
Like every reader of Dunces, Walker Percy reached a place where he could "see" Toole’s creation: this monument of wonderful insensible nonsense. And Percy did what everyone does who arrives there; he laughed, at nothing in particular, and found himsef unable to stop. And then he laughed some more.
Hail Brother Percy and by all means, do make the acquaintance of one Ignatius J. Reilly, Jr.: Hero, idiot, writer with a Worldview who spews an unending stream of invective upon an unaffected world, a gluttonous Don Quixote in search of those who dress poorly and would serve him frozen food. Here is a gargantuan creature of undisclosed weight, a curmudgeon with the flippancy of Wilde, the demeanor of Mencken, and the appetite of Falstaff, perfectly calibrated to screw up anything and everything. Convinced that he alone can and must fix that which is not broken, he sallies forth to the detriment and confusion of all.
LSU Press published it in 1979 even though University Presses never publish fiction. Never. It won the National Book Award.
Ignatius has misadventures with hot dogs, issues with frozen foods, problems with women. He admonishes and harangues a world of convenient inconveniences desperately rejecting it before it accepts him. Repeatedly, Ignatius invokes the “wisdom” of Boethius, a mediocre philosopher/writer of a previous age, discarded and forgotten long before the Twentieth Century.
Once or twice a year, since reading Dunces in '79 or '80, the overwhelming comedy of this story comes out of nowhere, makes me convulse at the wrong moment, last time it happened I was at a funeral, and sets me on a course avoiding anything that will stop the laughter. Ultimately, I end up crying. Belushi is dead, so is John Candy and they had the range of skill with which to bring Ignatius J. Reilly to life. Think of it as a reverse Superman curse. They die before they got to where their talent and commitment would take them.
I'm no Ignatius. Like Ignatius, I have written an ongoing commentary covering the decades. It is at one and the same time funny and sad, insulting, ridiculous, redundant, memorable and maddening. One specific thing in my marriage, diametrically opposite Reilly's relationship with Myrna, has come to define my "husband years" and Ignatius would have understood, even applauded. My wife and I agreed that either could leave anytime on one condition: Whoever left had to take the children with them. The custody fight, a gloves off and no holds barred event, would have been about MY 1989 Harley Davidson.
"May you live in Interesting times" is a Chinese curse, the equivalent of "Damn you to Hell." Ignatius reminds me of how interesting my life has been. He makes me aware of other things I prefer to ignore: I wear reading glasses almost all day and night because if I take them off, I lose them. I prefer Sarcasm to Orgasm most of the time. It’s satisfying and doesn't exhaust me . Growing old gracefully is simply not possible for an old soldier who will one day simply fade away. He is testimony that even those who study history are still condemned to repeat it.
I must write about stupidity. Stupidity, when done on a panoramic and gigantic scale, appears to be brilliance. It has been on my mind too much lately. I have always regarded stupidity as a weapon in the arsenal of the genius because raw stupidity is absolutely unpredictable. When confronted by it, one's first reaction is to personalize and verbalize this idea: "Good Lord, who could have done something so stupid."
Life is not the Laverne & Shirley show where Lenny & Squiggy enter saying the nasally anti-melodic "Hello!" The utter shock and surprise value of pure stupidity is to not even consider the culprit to be stupid. The architect of the mess must be, has to be, evil.
I'm not evil but I fear I may be re-defining the concept of moron. One would think that in the San Fernando Valley, that has already been done. Perhaps what defines the Valley is that "moron" remains susceptible to re-definition.
I am capable of enormous stupidity and proud of it. But tonight I am ready to do something silly as opposed to stupid because real stupid takes practice. I don't have the time. Dunces does this to me.
******************************
*Hannah Arendt's essay, "On the Banality of Evil" was about Adolph Eichmann who was captured by Israelis in South America and taken to Israel. He was tried for his part in the Holocaust, the killing of 6 million Jews. Eichmann, a small and dour bureaucrat, insisted he didn’t kill anyone; he was arranging "shipments" to Concentration Camps. It was all about transportation, delivery dates, quotas, he argued, not death. He was executed.*
The thing about utter stupidity, often funny, is that it can be banal and evil. Minor surgery is something performed on someone else. Stupidity impacts lives and events outside the context in which the stupidity is stupid or funny.
*************************************************
The funniest book ever written, in the end, extracted a terrible price from its creator. We'll never know what we missed. | comments: Leave a comment   |
| Fuck Buddies: The New Objectivism
Below Was Posted on a Myspace Bulletin Board a Few Days Ago.
Date: May 29, 2005 12:21 AM
I'm doing some research.
I'm trying to understand the "rules" for fuck buddies.
Do they kiss?
Do they talk?
Do they hang out?
Are they friends?
Should the rules be laid out?
Does this mean there is no caring involved?
Why do people do it?
I know you guys know so help poor ignorant ol' me, please!!!
I'm conducting a study... I've gotta think of things to chew over so that I feel "normal." Thanks.
_________
Date: May 29, 2005 9:32 AM
Good Morning! Funny you are researching this one. I am too and have recorded much data. I don't sleep and have literally hundreds of FB'ers moving in swarms around me day & night. I observe a lot just by watching. I'll take your questions one by one.
Do They Kiss? They seem to kiss mostly in the dark and rarely on the lips, at least mouth lips. Every other body part seems to be on the playing field.
Do They Talk? No. This is one of the rules most often invoked. There is very little talking, not even on the phone. Beeps and other auditory signals are the means of communication. FB'ers are quiet and disturbing others is a major violation in the culture. It leads to discovery and that usually results in the end of a FB'er "unit." Remember, FB'ers get together to exchange body fluids, not ideas.
I am not sure what "hang out" signifies but if FB'ers do hang out, they do it alone, never with other FB'er units.
Are They Friends? No, not in the traditional sense though they sometimes finish that way or start that way. Friendship gets in the way of FB'er Success. Friendship implies respect. FB'erdom is more about two people, using and degrading each other, not being seen in public.
Should The Rules be Laid Out?: It is the FB'ers who are out and boy do they get laid. Rules do not appear to be having any sex at all. But rules are just ideas. Can ideas fuck or suck? I've heard FB'ers say "Fuck that rule." Also heard them say, "That rule sucks." Rules seem to do a lot of sucking. But I have never caught one in the act.
Does This Mean There is No Caring Involved? Lotsa caring but only about one's self. The lure of FB'erdom resides in thinking selfishness is a virtue.
(See Ayn Rand & Nathaniel Brandon. Now, tell me, were they lovers. FB'ers, cheatin' spouses, lying bastard or definers of the new and bold code of morality?)
So, why do people do it? In this sub-cultural game, it is not selfish to be selfish. One only cares if they're satisfied without being inconvenienced. That’s why it works.
Conclusions: Getting married ruins a good FB'er relationship. Becoming FB'ers saves a failing marriage
Final observation: Lots of folks getting fucked; few getting kissed.
For some, the fucking they get is worth the fucking they get.
For others, they learn how to put the shoe on the other foot.
What this research did for me: I realized during the study that my marriage lasted 25 years because we became FB'ers. I now have closure.
Final Comment from the Bulletin Poster
* Date: May 29, 2005 11:10 PM
I love that 'lotsa caring about oneself' bit...man, did it make me laugh.. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| I have done quite a bit of writing lately. More than a few people I correspond with have noted the increase in output and some even have said its the best material from me they have ever seen. Additionally, a few have even indicated that I must have some kind of secret formula. Well, ladies, here it is, the secret. Just some basic rules of writing that I adhere to zealously when trying to communicate. Of course, some of you should not try these at home. And others should not be admitted to this grammer and language cleaning operation. A little knowledge can indeed be a dangerous thing. Any questions, just use paypal to contact me.
Note: I did not assemble this list of good and essential and profound writing guidelines. I have, however, made it mine, philosophically speaking. Or writing. Or even typing. Never mind, communication, that's why we're here.
40 Tips for proper English
1. Avoid alliteration. Always.
2. Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
4. Employ the vernacular.
5. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.
6. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary.
7. Remember to never split an infinitive.
8. Contractions aren't necessary.
9. Foreign words and phrases are not apropos.
10. One should never generalize.
11. Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson
said, "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
12. Comparisons are as bad as cliches.
13. Don't be redundant; don't use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous.
14. Be more or less specific.
15. Understatement is always best.
16. One-word sentences? Eliminate.
17. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
18. The passive voice is to be avoided.
19. Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms.
20. Even if a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed.
21. Who needs rhetorical questions?
22. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.
23. Don't never use a double negation.
24. capitalize every sentence and remember always end it with point
25. Do not put statements in the negative form.
26. Verbs have to agree with their subjects.
27. Proofread carefully to see if you words out.
28. If you reread your work, you can find on rereading a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
29. A writer must not shift your point of view.
30. And don't start a sentence with a conjunction. (Remember,
too, a preposition is a terrible word to end a sentence with.)
31. Don't overuse exclamation marks!!
32. Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in
long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
33. Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
34. If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
35. Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
36. Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
37. Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
38. Always pick on the correct idiom.
39. The adverb always follows the verb.
40. Last but not least, avoid cliches like
the plague; They're old hat; seek viable alternatives
Remember, one sentence paragraphs, especially at the end of a work, is very bad craftsmanship. | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| A spanking poet has no time for rhyme
His hand gets hot whether she does or not
But the wetness that beckoned
is more than he reckoned
And on the fourth whack
which moved her far back
His pleasure she learned was hardly an act.
She started to cry from the stinging attack.
She got her reward, in/on the end.
His hand got so hot his finger can't bend.
All this is sad, and all this is true
Her ass once red is now black and blue.
So if she walks by and sticks out her hip
Be careful my friend where you offer your lip
This little mass of warm yielding flesh
Turns men into puddles and lives into mess.
=========Shannon is quite a writer, thinker and ponderer of daily mysteries of which most of us remain unaware. Gives her an edge that is alluring and somehow feminine in a way I cannot define. Maybe being married to a detective for so long prepared me to notice it. I wrote this to her:
Academicians is a word. A noun. Describes one who is essentially unemployable unless there is a need for fountains of useless and not quite accurate information delivered in a format that has no intrinsic or real world value except as a guide to what not to do and how not to do it.
Looked at your pictures today for the first time. You're lovely. Bet you have made a lot of men, I mean one helluva lot of men, feel very unsure of themselves simply by being unabashed about your "self." And I wil tell you something that I am quite sure of: from your writing, the pictures, and the stark honesty and self-acceptance in which you are bundled, I think you have the qualities that are necessary to being a very good soldier. You have little fear and lots of smarts. You're even pretty enough to be an officer!
I expect to write more tonight but I have a guest who, regrettably, has not left yet. I have ignored her for hours but she is making herself quite comfortable. If I really minded I would toss her out. In reality she is a good if irritating woman who has several overridiing redeeming qualities not least of which is a profound expertise at fellatio. I have experienced one male multiple orgasm, this was some 4 or 5 months ago, and didn't really know there was such a thing. Well, that what don't kill does make you stronger, even if its three days later. Jesus that was some blow job! Maybe that will wind her down and free me up. The things men do in order to write!
Max
-----------Not sure who I sent this missive too. Obviously someone who mentioned Toole's
Confederacy of Dunces.
Well, I am probably not the guy you want to meet even though I didn't pay attention to your bikini, can't see well enough to catch the twinkle in your eyes. But, and this is something to me, I live to eat, never had even a lousy steak fuck me over, and if Confederacy of Dunces isn't the funniest book ever, you'll have to put me in orthopedic shoes before I will say I stand corrected.
That was a surprise. And delight. The book and encountering a fellow member of the Ignatius Brigade. That it happened here, on Myspace, almost made my valve snap shut. Where is Boethius when you really need him!
I just overcame a tremendous urge to eat a hot dog and thaw something from the freezer. Once or twice a year, and I only read Dunces once and it was in '79 or '80, the overwhelming comedy of the whole story grabs me from out of nowhere, makes me avoid all things that really make sense, and leaves me laughing until I really cry. And I end up crying because John Belushi is dead and so is John Candy and those two guys are the only ones that even had the range of skill to bring Ignatius J. Reilly to a new life without totally killing off the genius that Toole gave him. Kind of a reverse curse of Superman. They die before they got to where their talent and commitment would have taken them.
And while I'm no Reilly, my life has been as madcap as his, even nutsier and all the while I have produced, in real time, an ongoing commentary that has been funny, insulting, ridiculous and redundant, memorable and maddening. Only Ignatius could end up with Myrna. Well, I had one that redefined lunatic too. For 25 years.
The last 5 years of my marriage could be summed up by this: We agreed that ether could leave anytime we so desired on one condition: If you left, you had to take the children with you. The custody fight, with the gloves off, would have been over MY 1989 Softtail (Harley Davidson motorcycle for those who have avoided the bike phase of adulthood.
Didn't mean to ramble on here, hope you don't mind, hell you probably won't even read all this. I'm not the writer Toole is and unlike Walker Percy, you didn't promise anyone that you would try to read my note. But if you got this far, I thank you for gazing this way and hope you will write me an acknowledgement if nothing else. Take a gander at my page and blogs. Might be something there that will lead you to true insight in understanding the morons that cross your path daily. No promises on that though.
You had a comment on your page about the predictability of stupidity. Curious. I have always regarded stupidity as a weapon in the arsenal of the genius. Because it is absolutely unpredictable. I mean, when you encounter it, don't you initially say or at least think something like, "Good lord, who could have done something so stupid." The utter shock and surprise value of unreproachable stupidity is not to even consider the culprit to have been one of those blessed with an extra chromosome. Life is not the Laverne & Shirley show where Lenny & Squiggy come rolling' in with the nasally anti-melodic "Hello!"
I will close with this confession: I am capable of enormous, panoramic and gigantic stupidity. And proud of it to the extent of achieving a real sense of self because of it. Severe ID 10T problem. Makes people say, "None whatsoever." (common sense)
Be well. And may the farce be with you Wednesdays. | | comments: 4 comments or Leave a comment |
| | A couple weeks ago, I posted my first entry. A sexual encounter of the laughable kind was related. But it did set up an idea that I acted on a week later. Which led to me writing about it. But in a different, wholly detailed manner unlike anything I had ever tried to communicate or expound upon. The result, at least for me, has been a sense of freedom and a different kind of freedom at that. No, I am not turning into a 19 year old girl though I imagine she could understand. But I am thinking in a deliberately new and different pattern. I am processing stimulation in a new way; I am not just enjoying myself; I am freezing the moment in time in my mind, trying to have receptors open (careful with the barbs; my 9 mm is right here) but also trying to record the sensation and record the action/response of my partner. Unusual. To wit, here I present this and dear reader, if graphic sex offends you, now is the time to leave this meandering.
The Description of a Collision with Flooded Sparks
Well, this was our second encounter. Can I describe it really? Yes, but I am going to be very graphic and dear reader, know that seeing, tasting, hearing and smelling the results would have added to the confusion. So this account is no doubt much cleaner than the reality. Though there was nothing dirty in the reality.
I had left the door unlocked. Had showered, brushed my teeth, gone into the bedroom. I laid down across the bed. I was wearing a small smile and a pair of sweats. It was warm so I turned on a fan.
After a few minutes, I reached for one of the ties attached to the bed frame and slipped my right hand into the opening of the slipknot and tightened it. Played with myself for a moment with my left hand. Hard immediately! Had I played for two moments, it would have been over…everything. Was very close.
Finally, I felt comfortable enough to put my left hand into the slipknot of the other tie, pull it tight, moved my head and butt so now, quite effectively, I was tied to my own bed, my body facing the door, my gun locked and most definitely loaded, sticking right through the hole in the crotch of the sweats. The fan moved the air quietly around, it was cool and the room smelled slightly of vanilla and cinnamon, the candles long gone but not forgotten.
When she came into the room, I sat up with a start, said something stupid, and fell back, my eyes closed. My hands were not tied to the bed by the ties, I realized. I made no effort to re-attach. I listened to her undress. Heard a zipper. Then I heard another zipper. Then she was on the bed. I felt the heat of her pussy first. When it arrived on my mouth, my tongue searched, and found, all locations it would visit. Quickly she was very wet, getting wetter.
There are two folds over the clitoris, and one cannot touch the clit without pushing aside these protective covers. I think they are called the major and minor labia but I am not sure, not concerned. That I know what to do with them is more important than knowing how a group of Ob-Gyn’s will refer to it in discussion.
I gently separated the labia with my tongue. Everything now was very wet, my tongue, the area under the labia, and I utilized this wetness to keep everything real soft, my tongue finally reaching the clit, now a protusion of a fleshy bump with a seam, as if a thread sown recently. And at the end of the seam, it feels like it goes down and into a slight crevice at the top of the clit. My tongue continued its slow wet rubbing of the clit, the seam, the sides of the clit and she continued to produce more wetness. The entire area now took on a softness and hardness at the same time, got even wetter, and then there was a flowing, I could feel it, she was ejaculating and my tongue continued to move slowly but with purpose, touching and moving around the clit, teasing it then forcefully encountering it. She moved in a measured way, not too fast, increasing the pressure as I sought to touch with more softness. Again I felt more and more wetness, she ejaculating again, and I heard a sharp intake of breath and she suddenly increased the pressure on my tongue and now my tongue pushed back and started moving quickly, yet not sharply, everything very wet but not sloppy, rather quite smooth and still my tongue, while quick, maintained its soft quality which by now I knew was what really, Really!, was igniting her and all at once there was an increase in the heat as if there was now a wet fire going on inside her and then there was a real discharge, a letting go, involuntary both physically and mentally, as the sharp intake of breath and the loud exhalation revealed her concentration, and as I reveled in this new flood of female sexual prowess, I heard her to say,”Oh my God! Oh fucking how, oh oh my…..ooooohghghg……. Jesus……ATCH…….KeeeeeeRhyyyyste!”
She pressed all of herself against my lone tongue and with the last word spoken and finally out of her mouth, literally fell off my face and onto her side, then back, much like falling off a bucking bronco or a motorcycle after hitting a significant bump in the road. She laid there with her eyes closed, breathing heavily for a while, then slowing and finally as I watched, a broad and devilish smile broke out across her entire face, the concentration of sexual energy now dissipated, the focus of her being now relaxed, her being unabashed and joyous and, for the moment, pleased and satisfied.
***********
I have tried to the best of my ability to write what I specifically remember. I don’t doubt that I have left out a thing or two. But not by design or with intent has anything here remained untold. Only my limitations to be aware of everything that happened and my inability to remember it later when I started writing act as the parameters in the telling of this tail tale.
She is an extraordinary woman, a better woman than I am a man. Her sexual skill at satisfying herself and simultaneously mesmerizing me left me out of breath, exhausted, and shocked at the sheer force of her power.
I have not spoken with her since this encounter-collision. I have emailed her. She has emailed me. We will meet again. Soon. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| | Current Music: | Blues | | Security: | | | Subject: | Humble Starts | | Time: | 04:20 am | | Current Mood: |  mischievous |
|
| I am starting a new journal today. This will be my own thoughts, observations, commentary. I will try not to quote anybody so that this will be in my words, my application of the language of Shakespeare.
The word brass gets me excited. Say it just right, slow, then the sssssss. Can you believe this word is legal. Sounds nassssty, don't you think. B R A S S - Bra and Ass in the same 1 syllable word. Where is the censorship committee? They need more training. Polishing BRASS. I need a brass right now.
Being a Tit and Ass man, I now feel obligated to start buying candle holders and anything else made of brass. Any tacks on sale in the Valley.
-----
A friend of mine came by tonight. Complete surprise. Door was unlocked and she just walks in to the living room. I heard someone enter but I was in a precarious situation. When she came into my room, she started laughing. Both of my wrists were attached to a tie which was tied to the bed. And I was naked. She laughed, pulled her panties off and out from under her skirt, got on the bed and then smothered my face with her ass. She pushed down on my face and I had a hard time breathing and could not hear her talking until I heard her say, "Get your tongue in my ass hole now."
All the while, she has put her hands to work on my dick, now rock hard, blood filled. She works it and works it, finally it spews forth, is properly drained with a twitter. She rides me for a little while, then gets up. She laughs, inserts each finger separately into her mouth and sucks them, tells me next time she is bringing a friend. And leaves. This is true. Whole thing, 20 minutes maybe.
I had laid down for a short snooze a while before this happened. My clothes were on and I was not tied to a damn thing. What the hell is going on? | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
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