By the time I entered university at twenty, I had been falling in and out of love with girls for as long as I could remember. Most often, it was friends or classmates or scene partners but even a stranger’s glance in a passing bus window could haunt me for months.

In practice, my love always went unrequited. I suspect now that had I made more of an effort this wouldn’t have always been the case. I suspect also, like a lot of other poet-philosophers as young men, the idea of love was, for me, better than its embodiment.

In my first year of university, romantically-speaking, things turned around. In the first semester, I managed to tell one girl, while breaking up with her, that I might have loved her. By the end of the second semester, I was in love with someone who loved me back almost as feverishly as I loved her.

Unfortunately — or perhaps fortunately — she and a friend had already committed to go to Europe that upcoming summer. As the end of the semester approached, it also dawned on me that I would need to return to my father’s home in Ottawa. I would also need to go back to a job doing numeric data entry for an insurance company.

It was a perfect romantic storm. First, we fell in love, then we realized we would be apart, then we decided we’d stay together, and then we tried to spend every possible minute together before she returned to her hometown and I to my own personal hell.

It was somewhere around this time that my true love and soul mate told me that her parents had suggested that she shouldn’t take things too seriously because, after all, we were so young.

I was outraged. Too young! I was no fucking kid! Not only had I finished a year of university, I had taken a year off before university and had travelled in Europe for two and a half months. Sure, I wasn’t old, but I sure as hell wasn’t young. I was turning twenty-one in a matter of months! Too young! I brooded passionately about the slight for weeks.

It has only really occurred to me in the past few months that my girlfriend’s parents were right and I was wrong. We were young. Very young. When I see people the age I was, they are — and we were — clearly babes playing at being grown-up.

Here’s the curious thing: I feel much younger now than I did then. When I was sixteen, it felt more like forty-five. Fortunately, somewhere along the line, I started feeling younger. My best explanation for this is that at some point, thanks to some effort and luck, I stopped trying to be “grown-up” — that is, who I thought I should be — and started trying to be who I wanted to be.

I know now that ten or twenty years in the future, I will see people in their mid-thirties and think, wow, they look so young. With a bit of luck and effort, I also know I will feel younger than ever.

So, how old did you feel when you were a teenager and do you feel older or younger than that now?

Oh!? And what happened to me and the girlfriend? Well that, as the narrator for Hammy Hamster always says, is another story.

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Ladyface. That’s her other name besides Blake. Or Punkin’ Pie Drool Face. That’s what I call her. And my oh my how she has grown since I last took her picture…

It was great fun capturing Blake with her big brother, Oscar aka Oscar Doodle aka Osky…we really enjoy nicknames. With it being close to the holidays, grabbing a few family shots that could be used as a Christmas card was certainly doable.

Her shirt reads “Diaper loading…72% complete.” Awesomeness.

This was the first session where we included Justin, Blake’s amazing Daddy. They were so sweet together!

This is the funtastic-ness you get when Mommy stands right behind the Photographer!

My favorite picture of the session…what a beautiful family!

Remember that Christmas card I mentioned? This is the photo going with. And the furball…that’s Oscar…the big brother…all up in the camera’s face.

love (primadonna pups),
jenifriend

John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn’t, the girl with the rose. His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind.

In front of the book, he discovered the previous owner’s name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II

During the next year and one-month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A Romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn’t matter what she looked like.

When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting – 7:00 pm at Grand Central Station in New York.

“You’ll recognize me, ” she wrote, “by the red rose I’ll be wearing on my lapel.” So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he’d never seen.

I’ll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened: A young women was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips. “Going my way, sailor?” she murmured. Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A women well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as though I split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the women whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own.

And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful.

I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the women, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment. “I’m Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?”

The women’s face broadened into a tolerant smile. “I don’t know what this is about, son,” she answered, “but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!”

It’s not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell’s wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in it’s response to the unattractive. “Tell me whom you love,” Houssaye wrote, “And I will tell you who you are.”

     It is so hard for me to imagine why a woman who has experienced the wonder of loving and living with lesbians could return to men, that whenever I hear about this happening, it completely freaks me out.  That must be how heteros feel when they hear of a woman switching teams and coming over to our side. I guess we are all so passionate about our sexual orientation that at some primal level we cannot understand anyone being different from us.

     It’s old news now, but when Anne Heche left Ellen and decided to go back to men, I felt devastated. I was actually angry with this woman I had never met and did not know. The question is why? When I reacted so strongly, I remember puzzling over the strength of my feelings. Funny how you don’t even always understand your own emotions. Considering that fact, how can we expect to understand someone else’s desires and motivations for choosing what they do in life.

     I hate to admit this, but it’s late at night and it feels safe to open up since you can’t see me and probably have no idea who I am. I actually dated a woman, who ended up going back to men after we split up. At the time, I felt incredibly embarrassed about it, like it was my fault she defected. I worried that at some level I had not represented our lifestyle well and had caused her defection to the other side. Her leaving, made me doubt myself in that gut-wrenching way that completely devastates you, as I vacillated between crying and sleeping for days.

     In some ways I’ve been lucky I guess. I am one of those lesbians who always knew. When I was eleven and one of my girlfriends kissed me at a slumber party, every nerve in my body woke up and screamed HELLO. Funny thing is, I dated boys/men though, trying to fit in, desperately worried about being ostracized by my friends or letting my parents down. So I led a dual life of sorts in high school and college. I dated guys so I could attend the events I felt I should, but I was always in love with my best friend at the time.

     Then when I fell in love with my first girlfriend and she fell for me, I swore off boys for a while, until she broke my heart. At the time, when she broke up with me, she explained that it was time we grew up and that we could not keep being together since we needed to get married, to have a family. I could not believe my ears. This girl that had taught me everything I thought I needed to know about sex and love and passion had decided suddenly to give it all up, in the name of having a family. It was as if she turned a switch off and suddenly morphed into this practical heterosexual girl who was doing what she was supposed to do, ignoring all our earlier promises to each other to always love each other and stay together forever. Ain’t young love grand.

     After she broke my heart, I gave up on girls and decided they would always hurt me and leave me. That’s when I began drinking a lot, to assist me in forgetting her, and to swallow the fact that I had to “make do” with boys. To say I was depressed, is putting it mildly. Culturally, our world was still invisible. I had no idea there were so many girls like me, so I felt my first love was a fluke and I’d never meet another girl like her, until I joined the Georgia Tech softball team. When in doubt, or if you find yourself in a small, right-wing town for some terrible reason, always find the softball team, and you’re home free.

     I guess what we all need to accept is that we’re going to lose a few players to the other team on occasion. Instead of being angry or upset, we need to intellectually accept that she was never really on our team to begin with. Because as angry and upset as many women have made me over the years, I know that I could never give up on them. Now that’s being a true team player.  Or maybe the fact is that some of us have no choice in the matter, regardless of what the right-wing rhetoric would have people believe about lesbians and gay men.

Steel Pier, Atlantic City, 1938.  Mary was the star of the show.  She was a natural rider, as my father and the local press would say.  She had been since she learned to walk.  I guess that included diving with them as well.

She was famous, at least in the tri-state area, and people would come in droves to watch her get on old Mabel, lead her up that ramp and then jump a good fifty feet into a small pool of water, triumphantly walk out of the water, horse in tow, and take a bow.  Eventually they even trained the horse to bow alongside of her.  The crowd would roar, and there I would be, on the sidelines, ready to take the reigns from my sister and lead the horse back to the stable.

I’d wanted to dive as far back as I could remember, even then.  But it was an honor that escaped me and stayed with my sister at that time.  “You’re too young,” my dad would say, every year on my birthday, even though Mary had been doing it since she was my age.  And so I was a jealous little girl back in those days.

Labor Day, 1938.  Our last big weekend for the season.  After that we would pack up and head to our small home in South Philadelphia, where father would go back to his construction job, and my mother would go back to being a homemaker.  Mary and I would head back to school, where people swarmed around her, asking about her dives, while basically shoving me aside.

That was the weekend Albert showed up.  Mary came out of the water, bowed, and began walking, and I saw him standing too close, with a grin on his face, an autograph book and pencil, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  I’d seen it hundreds of times, but for some reason, this time, it was different.  To me, at least.  Mary barely noticed him as she took his pencil, signed the little book, and continued on towards me to hand off Mabel.  I took them and pointed at him, trying to get Mary to turn around.  She looked over her shoulder and saw him still standing there.

“What is it, kid?”  It always drove me nuts how she spoke as if she were eighteen and the rest of us were four.  Albert was only a year or two younger than her, probably right between my age and hers.

“I’m…I’m Albert.”

“That’s great Al.  What’s your story morning glory?”  He stood there quizzically.  She sighed.  “Whatta ya want?”

“I, I,” he stammered.  “Want to go out for some popcorn tonight?  My parents gave me some money for the weekend and I still have some.”

I smiled at him, trying to give him some support.  He was a looker, in my mind, but I could see Mary ready to brush him off.

“Sorry, kid.  No can do.  I have to wash my hair.”

Ouch.

The look on Albert’s face was one of pure devastation.  It was probably the first time he’d asked a gal out, and the look on his face broke my heart.  Mary took her glasses from my hands and said, “Make sure you feed Mabel.  She seems a bit hungry,” and walked away.

I walked up to Albert.  “Hey, I’m Dorothy.”

“Hi,” he said distractedly, looking over my shoulder as Mary walked away.

“I’m Mary’s sister.  You know, we go to the Pennsylvania Avenue beach every morning with our parents.  Want to meet up with us then?”

His attention came right to me.  “Really?  You do?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Will Mary be there?”

My smile faded a bit, but I tried to conceal it.  “Sure, yeah.  She’ll be there.”

“Great,” he said with a smile as he started walking away, “See you there!”

The next day was beautiful, and the beach was crowded.  Everyone was out to enjoy the last day of the summer, the day when everyone starts packing, the stores get ready to shut down for the winter, and we have to start trying to remember the math problems we spent all summer trying to forget.

I kept scanning the beach, looking for Albert, but didn’t see him until we’d already been there for a few hours.  Mary had just come out of the water and was drying off.  I handed her glasses over and she took them.

“Thanks.”

“Oh look, there’s Albert.”  I pointed in his direction.

“Who?”

“That kid from yesterday.  Asked you out for popcorn?”

“Oh, that genius?”  She sat down in my father’s beach chair and closed her eyes.  “Tell that wet sock I’m asleep.  I need to rest for the show tonight.”

“Tell him yourself,” I said, picking up a book.

He walked up to us and smiled.  “Hey there, Mary.  Wanna go for a swim?”

She looked up, annoyed.  “I’m all wet, pal.  Don’t you think maybe I already did?”

He stood there, awkwardly shifting again, quiet for far too long.  “Well, hey, my dad lent me his camera…think we could get in a photo together?”

“I will!” I said.  He acted as if he didn’t hear me, so I went back to my book, embarrassed.

That was when father approached us.  “What’s going on here?”

I looked up from my book.  “That’s Albert.  He wants to take Mary out for popcorn or to take a photograph or something.”

My father looked from Albert to Mary to me, and back again.

“Well of course Mary will get in a photograph with you, son!” he said, glaring at Mary.  “She’ll do anything for a fan, won’t ya Mary?”  She looked at father and sighed.

“Of course I will.”

My father took the camera from Albert and looked around.  “We’re too far from the pier, how about over there against that life guard boat?”

Albert nodded enthusiastically and Mary walked over.  When Albert got a bit too close and started trying to put his arm around her, father frowned and looked back at me.  “Hey, Dorothy, why don’t you get in there between them?  Who knows, maybe you’ll be a star too and Albert here’ll have a photograph of the both of yous.”

Albert looked disappointed, but I jumped at the chance.  It was the first time father even hinted at the possibility I might one day dive as well, so I jumped right in between them.  Mary put on her fake, photograph grin, while I couldn’t contain my smile.  And Albert, well he couldn’t take his eyes off of Mary.  Father took the photograph and handed the camera back to Albert, also handing him a dollar.

“Tell ya what, why don’t the three of yous head to the boardwalk and grab some lunch.  On me.”

Albert looked at Mary, who rolled her eyes, and I nodded enthusiastically.  We grabbed lunch, Mary left right after to go home because she had a headache, and Albert, broken-hearted, went home to pack.

It was a few years before father let me start diving, and I loved it.  He called me a natural with the fans, since I always hung out after and signed autographs, went out with the boys who asked, and generally was more of a people-person than my older sister.  I’d longed for the spotlight for years, and it made me that way.

One evening after my final dive, I was brushing Steel, my diving horse and Mabel’s son, when someone walked in behind me.  I turned around and he handed me a photograph of me, Mary and himself as a kid, posing in front of a lifeboat.

“I’ve waited a long time to see you again,” he said.

I smiled.  I’d often thought of Albert, wondering what ever happened to him.

“You’ve gotten even better, Mary.  And you’ve grown up to be even more beautiful.”

He’d gotten more smooth, but was mistaking me for my sister.

“Actually, Albert, I’m Dorothy.”

His eyes widened a bit, but then he reached out and took my hand.

“How about some popcorn?”

Don’t forget to check back regularly as I continue the series of short fiction based on random old photos I find!

Other males that were sickened or scared by girls when in grade school were such simpletons and I don’t understand how parents are raising these little dudes and babes to think each other are sticky icky icky and gross.  It’s a travesty, and I never played into that nonsense as a child, wanting to slip to the next life by infection of the fabricated plague- a lethal case of cooties!  Being a lil’ whipper-snapper, I imprinted upon my dad, as I assume most all males in the world do, and liking breasts was a very natural thing (it sounds weird the way I said it, but I was implying that I never saw a reason to shun women when my tiny body’s hormones wanted what I was sure all the bad as hell teens did- the very same I’d see at the mall when buying new loafers for church with my mommy holding my hand).  No, girls then didn’t have breasts, but how could little me deny little Soandso’s perfect sunshine-and-rainbows smile?  Children are the best flirts and that is the best time in life to be in love.  If you missed out, I can’t say anything to make it better.

These two are taking the love of the outdoors to new heights!

http://ow.ly/163Vbi

Today, Sydney was captivated by two young thrill seekers making love in the historic clock tower of the Broadway Shopping Centre. 

Clearly in view and not at all fazed by the growing crowds below, they shared their love with all of Sydney. The Clock Tower is situated above the Broadway Shopping Centre on Sydney’s Broadway Street, near the University of Sydney. This is a very busy traffic and pedestrian zone and not the place one would usually go to share such an intimate time.

The news has spread around Australia and the world as the buzz grows and the question mark over the identities of the two remains. Shout outs for the pair to come forward are being sent via social media, television and radio. WHO ARE THEY AND WHY DID THEY CHOOSE SUCH A LOCATION?

Hats off to them (well it is the least I can take off after their clothing removal efforts) for giving it a go. I guess it answers the question of “How shall we liven up this dull Tuesday afternoon?”

My final thoughts on the matter are  inspred by the words of Chief Wiggam from The Simpsons:

 ”If it feels good, Do it!”

Puta clipe divertidinho. A música é boa e embala um clipe super criativo. A música é Young Love, do Mistery Jets

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My nephew Xander may still be a child, but he is already turning into quite the ladies man!  I’m not sure what his father has been teaching him, but I was able to witness his confidence with the women on a Chuck E Cheese outing.  I spotted a cute little girl in a T-shirt from his elementary school and asked if he knew her.  He got a devilish grin on his face and gave me a confident “Not yet…”  What a little flirt!

When this woman asked at Deland High, “What does your father do Rod?”

My answer was, “He invests in real estate.”

“He’s a Realtor?”

“No, they buy and sell for other people, my dad invests for himself.”

It was a grey haired lady with long painted fingernails, named Jessica Hampton, she had a red tag that said, ‘Register Here’

She looked at all my papers three times, and then said, “Rod your supposed to have an adult parent with you at the time you check into any Florida school.”

“I brought all the required papers.” I pointed to a brown folder on the counter she had already looked at, “Isn’t everything there?”

“Yes all the necessary papers, but these all look like brand new papers.  Your papers say that last year you went to Palm Beach Middle?”

“Yes I did and my fathers in Daytona Beach on business today.”

“How did you get to school bus or dropped off?”

“I have a driver, he’s outside the office.”

“He can just take you back home and tomorrow have your investor father come to school with you.”

“My father wouldn’t want me to miss a day of school.”

“You really don’t look old enough for the 9th grade Rod.  I think your about eleven, and I think your dad faked some papers to get you ahead in school.”

“My father did not forge my papers!  If you can’t be a helpful old lady, then you should retire to an old folks home!  I’m fourteen and five days old!”

“Well you go home now little boy, you can’t even be on school property.  I don’t care how much you spent on your little suit, you can’t buy your way into Deland High!”  I stood right there, and glared at her.  She was insulting and hateful in her attitude. She brought out the worst in me, and I had some pointy devils down  inside me.

She pushed a button and a school guard in blue uniform came in and she said,  “Escort the student to his car, and if he is parked in a restricted area then issue  him a parking ticket.”

The big guard’s name was Jeff (he had a name tag).  He grabbed me under the arms and propelled me out the door, where my driver and bodyguard Bennie was standing.

Bennie was much bigger and had rarely had a reason to defend me.  Usually we just drove around and he followed me in the mall or at middle school.  People often kept their distance from Bennie.  He quickly removed the guard’s hands from me and put Jeff on the ground on his knees, and locked his hands behind him.  It was fun to see Bennie work, his movements were so fluid and smooth.

“What is this?”  the school guard said and I pointed to Jessica Hampton inside and said to Bernie, “The grey haired woman ordered him to kick me off campus.”

Jessica was talking to a girl who was lined up after me.  The girl was dark-haired and short like me and I had been embarrassed being taken out of the office like a criminal in front of the pretty girl.

“Arrest the woman Bennie”, I told my bodyguard, pointing at Jessica.  She of course pushed her button again and I heard an alarm ring, far off this time.

“Show her your badge Bennie, so we won’t have to shoot anyone.”

Bennie laid out his badge which said, ‘Federal Agent’/  It was a gold badge, and everyone know gold badges were the most important ones.  “Cuff this one I told Bernie, and as he put Jessica’s hands behind her back, I turned to the girl my size at the counter and said, “And you will stay with me today, you’re going to be my witness.”  I showed the girl my gold badge which said, “U.S. Federal Regulator”

The girl was clutching her new schedule of classes.  It looked like she was a 9th grader like me.  Her name was at the top of the paper and was Rosie Burns.

“Rosie I’m Rod.  Have you ever met a Regulator before?”

“No sir.”

“Well keep it to yourself.  We don’t want publicity.”  Rosie’s eyes got big, and she had beautiful brown eyes, when I showed her my badge.  I went to Regulator school in Washington D.C. every summer and the other boys talked on and on about how girls reacted to gold badges.  Rosie seemed like a great opportunity to me.

I reported to my first 2 classes with Rosie, they were General Science and Civics.  In both cases I explained that, “I am scheduled for this class, but Jessica Hampton didn’t have time to fill out mine and Rosie’s so we both follow Rosie’s.”

At lunch I found a table for Rosie and me and we had held hands going to the different classes and to lunch.  At my middle school I had a girlfriend who went around with me holding hands.  The other girl, Beth, never knew I was a regulator.  With Beth we had to talk about ‘holding hands’ and what it meant, and all that gobble gook.  With Rosie I just took her hand, and I got no complaint.  I began liking my Regulator’s badge.

Bennie went up and bought our lunches, and brought them out to us.  When we were settled at the table I said, “You can talk now Rosie.”

“What happened to the old woman in the office and the guard who were handcuffed?”  she said.

“I haven’t decided yet.  They committed serious crimes

Well your my witness, what did you see them do?”

“The woman called the guard to put you off campus because she didn’t know how important you are.”

“She had to be dragged out of the office.”

“Yes. Where are the woman and the guard?”

“I didn’t ask Bennie, but he probably locked them in the back of my car.  My car is equipped for transporting prisoners or slaves.”

“I never imagined that there were boys who were regulators.  I’ve read books, regulator stories about men who had that job.”

“Last summer at our regulator school we were ten boys.  I could take over full-time tomorrow if something happened to my father. or he retired.”

“Is your father the regulator for Florida?”

“Thats one of our states — the others are Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, South and North Carolina and Tennessee.

Do you know Rosie what regulators do?”

“In the books I read they stop corruption.”

“How do they say we do it?”

“Executions.”

“That’s a main part of it.”

“My family moved to Deland from Columbia South Carolina.  Did you execute people from South Carolina?”

“Sure I remember doing plenty of them.”

“How do you do it Rod?  I mean do you hang them?”

“Well it gets boring if your not imaginative.  Hanging is just a type of strangulation.  That’s always a non-messie type of elimination.  I like the ‘bloodless endings’ for most of those I do, but beheadings are so decisive. ”

Just then Bennie brought our meat loaf, green garden peas, and big biscuit that needed butter, but there was none.

I had finished everything but the biscuit when this big girl, who didn’t comb her hair well enough, she was maybe a senior, came to stand at my table and said,  “Are you Rod Stagger?”

“Yes I am.”  I said.

“Mr. McClory the Assistant Principal wants to see you in his office.”  the girl said, and just stood there.  I waited till Rosie finished her meat loaf and then Bernie took our plates and Rosie and I followed the senior girl, and Bernie followed me.

Les McClory’s office was small and I entered with Rosie and Les said, “I just need to talk to you Rod, not the girl.”

“She’s with me”  I said and pulled her down in the chair with me.

When Bernie closed the door and stayed outside the Vice Principal said, “I understand you’re a 9th grade student, Rod Stagger, and today you came to school without a parent.”

“That is correct.”

“I’m trying to piece together what has happened here today.  So as I understand it, from those I talked to, you objected to not being registered without a parent.  That is our rule, but you objected to that?”

“I objected to being grabbed and dragged out of the office at the orders of Jessica Hampton.”

“Mrs Hampton was just following school rules.  I am very strict about our rules here at Deland HIgh and Mrs Hampton has been on the job here for 25 years.”

“Well today she broke my rule.  I don’t allow anyone to grab me.”

“Oh yes I heard about the phony badge, I think you flashed a gold badge along with your driver.  And you don’t pretend to be a sheriff’s deputy or city cop, but a Federal Regulator?

I’m 43 years old son and I’ve never even met someone who has ever seen a real regulator.”

“So you think regulators are myths?”

“I think there are regulators, but they deal with big criminals and corrupt public officials.  They don’t live in places like Deland Florida.”

“Everyone knows how to report a big federal crime, or how to make the report.  Who do you call Mr. McClory?”

“There is a number listed under the U.S. Post Office Dept. in every directory.  It says ‘U.S. Regulator’.  It’s the one number even little kids are afraid to call.  They play pranks with the police and fire department, but they leave the Regulators alone.  Are you a complete idiot to have fake regulator badges?”

“That’s right, I suggest you can that number Mr. Vice Principal.  You need to report someone here at YOUR school claiming to be a Regulator.  Give his name as Rod Stagger, ‘Using a phony regulator  badge, and be sure to report that his driver flashed a phony federal agent badge.  Tell them that.”

He didn’t move to do anything, again,  he was indecisive.  The phone was right there on his desk and the directory, but he didn’t move.  So I finally said, “Oh that’s right all you know it’s hearsay.  I need to flash my badge at you.”  I pulled out the gold badge (they are real gold, not plated) and sort of pointed it at him.  Rosie squirmed in her seat, and that was quite pleasant.  I like squirming in Rosie, she’s a little hot firecracker of a girl, really beautiful and lively.

“Do you want Bernie to come in a show you his badge?”  I said, and threw my badge across his desk so he could look at it.  My name, number, age were all in the folder.  It even had my new address in Deland 100 Hillshire Drive.  It was a big old house on the Stetson University grounds and he probably knew it.  I was told it was 700 years old, and an historic landmark.  He probably knew or had seen the house.

“This is your chance to verify that my badge is the real thing.  We have almost limitless power for deciding matters of life and death.”  When I said ‘life and death’ the vice principal sort of had a n emotional jerk reaction.  Also Rosie got much closer to me.  She just flattened against me.

“Really I was just checking what was told me.  The badge looks like the real thing to me.

Are you a full regulator now Rod or do you take over if something happens to your father?”

“I’ve been to all the ruquired training in Washington and I’m officially a regularor.  I have the very same powers and obligations as a fully grown regulator.

I grew up in a house in South Miami  where we punished and mutulated people who needed their necks squeezed, almost every night.

You Les McClory will need to be punished because your rule led to the woman ordering the guard to assault me.”

“Look son I’m sorry!  I didn’t know a regulator would be coming to school!”

“Don’t talk so loud.  In fact it would be best right now if you got on the floor and crawled to where I’m sitting and began sucking on my shoes.”

He was caught up in his indecision again and just sat in his chair perfectly still.

“”You admitted that it is your rule that Jessica and the big guard named Jeff followed when they assaulted a regulator.”  He started to say something and I put my hand over my mouth to show he should not talk.

“This is not a court of law where you can talk, you are guilty and will be punished.”

That statement caused the vice principal in his nice suit and tie to get on his knees and quickly crawl to my feet and begain sucking my shoes,  and Rosie began kissing my neck and hugging me.

It was just like this boy who was a regulator student from Montana had told me in Washington, “Girls just melt in your hands when they see that gold badge.  During sex I keep it on the bed.  It’s magic.”

All comments are welcome, send them to Ray Cates at rcates2@cox.net   or fax me at  1-352-629-1573

Another story with links is: http://unsightlyteeth.wordpress.com

Do not feel discouraged if you don’t know who Fabian is/was. Actually, don’t feel bad if you have no idea who Hillary Clinton is – although that may indicate you should change the channel now and then.

Anyway, Ms. Clinton was taking questions from young women in the Philipines when asked if she had ever had a crush on anyone other than Bill Clinton. Unfortunately for the United States of America and the State Department, Secretary of State Clinton answered the question – at length. She revealed the incredibly embarrassing fact she was once president of a Fabian fan club.

During the Nixon administration during the 1970s the same question was posed to Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. Kissinger replied “What the fuck kind of dumbass question is that to ask the Secretary of State of the United States of America?”

And then Kissinger admitted to a longtime crush on silent screen star Zazu Pitts: “She gives me major wood” Kissinger said.

By now lots of you have already no doubt seen Firelight, the Twilight Parody on SNL this past Saturday, but have you seen the show intro? TayTay’s light and funny little monologue song? It’s called “Monologue Song (La La La),” and I for one think she should consider putting this little diddy on her next album, I’m thinking bonus track.

While I was traveling with my colleagues at the MMSU-SHS Debate Society in our trip home here in Ilocos Norte, they were singing the chorus of the song If Ever You’re In My Arms Again by Peabo Bryson. When they sung it, I joined them in singing the chorus.

Yup, I know the chorus of that song. But ever since I sang it during our travel, it was restored on my mind. There is something in the lyrics or rhythm that made me fall in love with this song. It was something that was called the last song syndrome – what you will sing when you want to sing will be the last song you’ve heard.

Do not get me wrong, but while listening to it, I picture a scene. I’ll not just tell the scene because it is quite personal.

Am I falling* again or is it just me?

_______

* I think you know what that word means.

POST-SCRIPT: It’s Dref’s birthday on November 19!

Sometimes I think about how much more content this blog would have if it was more of a collective, with multiple contributers, rather than just me but eh– you wouldn’t get “the full JP experience” (Are you experienced?) this way. Ha. Doesn’t matter now. Here’s another music/video dump: this time — stuff from October that I’ve had on lock for a bit, but haven’t gotten around to posting on here. I’m hoping that you’ll get fresh November content within this month. So here we go. This is my October Isht.

George Michael’s “Freedom ‘90″.
I remember watching this on MTV, and then later on VH1. I remember watching the Pop Up Video episode that this was on. I know every single word, and I can still do a pretty good imitation of Naomi’s dance with combat boots and headphones on.  I pretend to be Cindy Crawford when I crawl out of the shower. I still kinda want Linda Evangelista’s haircut. 4:36-5:35 is my favorite part. Clearly, I can name every single supermodel in this video– god I love this song.

Frente’s “Bizarre Love Triangle”.
It’s so simple. While this cover is a stripped down bare bones version of New Order’s single, it really works.

Earlimart’s “Unintentional Tape Manipulatoins”.
Fuzzy is sexy.

Bishop Allen’s “True or False”.
This video was selected purely on its visual elements, as it’s a little twee for me to be honest. But man do I have such a wide-on* for those fringe dresses. And I really want a lace minidress because I secretly want to be gothic version of Nancy Sinatra — so would that make me Anita Pallenberg?

The Beatles’ “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)”.
One of the few Beatles songs I actually really enjoy. Just listen to it and let the sense of yearning and urgency roll over you like waves.

The Stone’s “Sister Morphine”.

My Bloody Valentine’s “Only Shallow”.

Young Love’s “One to Ten”.
Another vid pick where the actual tunez are a little whack, but the visuals are so good. Broken glass, blood everywhere– ah! It’s like a Dario Argento softcore film, or a Skinimax snuff film.Yes, I realize I’ve got a sick sense of humor and turn ons that I’m sure only Eli Roth would enjoy. Sue me.

Marvin Gaye’s “Sunny”.
Probably another cover that I prefer over the German disco original.

Holy Ghost!’s “I Will Come Back”.

Thin Lizzy’s “Emerald”.

Pentagram’s “Sign of the Wolf”.

And that’s been it mostly. I know you’re like wait– what about the Halloween jams? I listen to that year round. And I think I posted some great stuff from last year. What? You want at least one Halloween jam? Well here you go:

KXVO’s “Pumpkin Dance”.

Enjoy.

* Wide-on’s been a term that I’ve been borrowing/trying on from Ned of Boner Party. I’m still trying to see if it sticks, and whether or not I like it.

Charles Pickney Fellers stepped through the gate and perused the midway. From one side to the other he saw people — big ones, small ones, thin ones, tall ones, young ones, old ones – strolling down the midway, stopping at the hot roasted peanut stands, pausing by the clowns selling pink clouds of cotton candy, laying their quarters down at the tent of the Amazing Samson who lifts anvils like barbells, or ducking into the tent of Madame Zindra who reads palms and sells love potions for only fifteen cents, and hesitating before  the world’s smallest horse and the snake with two heads, sideshows that will make them believe in fantasy or make them shake their heads in wonder tomorrow when they recall their night at the greatest show on earth. Farther on he saw the tent, the big top with banners flying above the center and balloons waving in the air, and he heard the music, the Calliope that beckoned him forth, like a siren. He smiled the smile of a boy mesmerized by the now familiar tune and recalled the last two nights he had spent here, waiting for Dardanella.

Oh Dardanella, the girl who teased him unmercilessly with promises of kisses and beckoned to him from the plate-glass window at Jenner’s Rexall Drugs and Dry Goods Store. Blonde hair encircled in blue ribbons. Blue eyes that summoned him closer. Pink lips puckered in a kiss as she stood arabesque with her right hand poised, ready to blow the kiss to him….He sighed; there she was the girl of his dreams on the back of a dappled gray Percheron plastered in a poster taped to a plate-glass window at Jenner’s. How long he had stood there, breathing in all the details of the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, he did not know, but he had stood there every day since the poster appeared, finger counting the loose coins in his pocket, till Mr. Jenner, being uncomfortable with the spectacle of Charles’s pant leg moving in such a way, would bang on the window. “You can’t do that here, young man! This is a respectable place. Stop that now! Shoo! Go ‘way.” Charles startled from his reverie had then looked at Mr. Jenner, slightly perturbed by his intrusion, given him a quizzical look, but moved on down the street just the same to another store where another poster of Dardanella was propped up in the window. He counted the days till the circus arrived as often as he counted the coins in his pocket, always figuring to have enough for a ticket as well as for roses and chocolates. So he continued to take more deliveries at Whitman’s Floral and Confectionary House on Main Street and to save for the day the circus came to town.

That day was two days ago. And true to his dreams, Charles Pickney Fellers was here — again. Only tonight he would not leave till he had met with Dardanella. Tonight he would sit close to the ring. He shifted the bouquet of roses and box of bonbons he held in his hands and took another step into the midway. Tonight was the night, he was almost sure.

 He took a seat as close as he could get to the center ring, the ring where he knew Dardanella would be, and waited. He counted the petals on the roses when the acts he had seen last night and the night before became too long to watch yet again. He opened and closed the flap on the box of bonbons when the ring master was too wordy. He shifted in his seat but dared not leave…. Finally the band struck a waltz and out on the back of a dappled gray Dardanella arrived. He watched her, mesmerized by her slow, enfolding movements, by the silver tassels around her hips that when caught in the spotlight shimmied with fire and delight. He caught his breath as he had done the nights before when the layers of ribbon cascaded down her body as she leaped in grand jete fashion through the silken hoop and touched down on the back of  the Percheron. He watched her dismount and twirl her way to the ring’s edge, arabesque, and blow a kiss just as she had done before, but this time, she was so close, he could touch her, touch her hand, touch the kiss…. and when she smiled at him, he felt it in the depth of his chest, a tug as if she herself were pulling him toward her. He stood up. She waved – she had seen him – and motioned behind her. Charles looked to the back door. This was what he had hoped for. Yes, he would meet her ’round back. He nodded to her and picked up his bouquet of roses and the box of bonbons he’d bought at Whitman’s and made his way out to the midway and then around the big top, where if he hurried, he could greet her as she exited the arena.

The back of the big top was dark with only a few sporadic streams of light peaking out from nearby tents and trailers. Cables from generator trucks and guy lines for the aerial rigging cluttered the pathway, complicating his walk so that he had to slow down in order not to fall. More and more, he found himself  looking at the ground, trying to avoid the dangerous cables. When he looked up, he saw two men waiting at the back door. They had brought no gifts though one man held a towel in his hand. Charles ducked back into the shadows and hoped he had not been seen. He needed time to think about this. He saw one light a cigarette. He watched them, standing there, anticipating Dardanella’s arrival. As they paced the ground, occasionally pulling back the flap and standing in the escaping light, he recognized them — one was Patches, the white-faced clown who had earlier been in the stands, calling to the crowd to “get yer program here.” He held the towel in one hand and the cigarette in the other. The other man was taller by a head and displayed muscles that bulged under his costume. He would occasionally swipe at his mouth where a handlebar moustache rested on his upper lip. This must be the Amazing Samson, Charles thought, the strongest man in the world, the man who lifted anvils like barbells, the man who had made ladies swoon with his prowess. Charles grimaced. More than Patches, Samson worried Charles. Who loved a clown, anyway? Charles looked at his own silhouette and as he suspected he saw no bulging muscles anywhere. For the first time in his life, he was sorry he did not go out for wrestling. He was more of the cycling type guy anyway. Whitman’s had the fastest delivery because of him. He won races at the county fair. His muscle was lean, like a racer’s, or like what he imagined a racer’s muscles to be.  He bowed his arms in front of him, stiffened the bicep in mid-flex, and let out a low “Gr-rr.”

“Who goes there?”

Charles stiffened but said nothing. Samson took a few steps in his direction. Charles held his breath, dreading the moment Samson would find him.

“Here she comes,” Patches called out and threw his cigarette to the ground. Samson returned to the exit door. Patch opened the flap wider and stepped back, towel in hand. Dardanella slid down the side of the horse, grabbed the towel, and swabbed her forehead. She waved and motioned behind her so that the horse stepped back, and Samson took the reins and led the horse away. Charles breathed easier.

The band struck up a polka. “There’s your cue, Patch,” she said. Patch put on his clown grin and stepped inside the canvas, kicking at the flap as it fell behind him. Dardanella bent forward to unfurl the ribbons secured around her calves. She was beautiful. Her blonde hair pulled back in a side ponytail now draped across her right shoulder. The silver tassels along her hips shimmied to match the movement of her hands as she loosened the ribbons and then re-rolled them in her palms. She stretched her body full length, grabbed hold of her left heel, and pushed out. Charles gasped, becoming choked on the air filled with generator smells. He coughed, gulped, and coughed again.

She snapped upright, dropping the ribbons, and looked around. “Who goes there?” she demanded. She took a few steps forward and demanded again, “Who’s there?”

Charles quieted himself and decided to step out from the shadows, when suddenly, he felt a hand on his collar and a pull upward that lifted him off the ground and swung him round in the air.

“It’s a towny,” Samson said.

“A towny!” Dardanella said with obvious displeasure.  She walked up to Samson and scowled.  ”He’s a kid, Samson. Put him down.”  Her tone was direct; her voice unsentimental. Samson did as she commanded and glared down at Charles who was struggling to regain composure while also clumsily pushing at his shirt to get it back in its proper place without dropping the flowers or the candy. It proved to be more of a choreographic challenge than Charles was accustomed to and even more uncomfortable with two pairs of eyes watching him.  He glared up at Samson, who made a low rumbling sound. Charles took a step back, just to be safe. 

“Would you like an autograph?” she suggested like she was asking someone for a light. “I’ll be glad to sign your program.”  She sounded impatient.

Charles was confused.  Was this the same girl who moments ago had waved and motioned to him?

“No.” He shook his head. “No program.” He looked up at Samson who stood akimbo now. He was surely the biggest man Charles had ever seen. He looked over at Dardanella …. droplets of cold sweat trickled down his chest. Samson certainly complicated things. If it were just Dardanella and him…but the words wouldn’t come with Samson standing there so close.

She bent down to retrieve the ribbons she had dropped a moment ago.  He could see her slow enfolding movements, her twirling figure, the ribbons cascading down her body. He gasped. This was the Dardanella he wanted beside him.  He must act now, Samson or no Samson.  He leaned forward. “Dardanella,” he whispered. She grabbed his hand as she straightened and tilted her blonde head ever so slightly, scrutinizing him. His chest pounded; he could hardly breath now; they were so close. He chose his words slowly. “I want,” he whispered again. “you,” he paused. “to uh… to have…these.” He thrust the roses and the candy into her hands.

Dardanella was taken aback but eyed him more closely now. Then she grinned, hiding it behind the bouquet, drew in her breath…and let  out a long sigh. Her voice became as soft as the air and she whispered back to him,  ”What’s your name?”

“Charles Pickney Fellers,” he said in equally soft tones. She leaned forward to hear and their noses nearly touched.

“Well, Charley,” she whispered in his left ear. “I love… roses. Thank you.”

He jerked back. Her warm breath was like down caressing his ear…and he quickly cupped his hand there, holding in her warmth. Samson growled and took a swipe at his moustache with hands gripped in fists, a posture that reminded Charles too much of a boxer getting ready to throw the first punch. Charles breathed unevenly and tried not to look at him again.

 ”Here, Samson, hold these while I give Charley my autograph.” Dardanella handed the roses and candy box to Samson and then picked up Charles’s right hand, turned it over to the palm side, and kissed it, leaving an imprint of pink lips. She reached for the roses. ”I’ve got another show, Charley, so I’ll be seeing ya.” She blew him a kiss, then sashayed into the darkness among the tents and trailers and generator trucks.

Charles watched her disappear, mindlessly caressing the lip print she left.  She had called him “Charley.”  He wanted to bow his arms and growl again. Samson the strongest man in the world vs. the kid with the cycling muscles –  gr-r-rr. He beamed, slightly intoxicated from the thrill of victory, and peered up at Samson.  

A brown paper wrapper floated downward passed his nose.  His box of chocolates was empty.  Samson’s mouth opened, then closed.  The soft bonbons went flat.  The smile left Charles’s face as he took a step back. Samson smacked loudly…and smirked…then swiped at his handlebar moustache with the back of his fist.

Words, as any fool knows, are very important tools.  You can make, or break, worlds with the right, or wrong, words.

In school, I had begun having lunch with a shy boy I liked.  I wanted him to ask me to the Spring Prom (which is a practice prom for sophomores if your school didn’t have one).  He was Hungarian - his parents had moved here a few years after he was born – and his name was Kosmo.  In America, the land of the cookie-cutter people who all want to look, act, talk, and smell like each other, he was already having trouble being One of the Guys.  I liked his quiet ways and intelligence, though.  It was one of the first times I understood that what was inside a package is much more important than the package itself.

We’d been eating lunch together for almost a month when Kosmo gave me a love letter.  I’d been thrilled when I began to read his passionate declaration of undying love (the only kind of love one experiences at the age of sixteen) until I got to one sentence which read:  “I dream of your breasts quivering in the moonlight.”

WTF?  I was fifteen.  Quivering breasts?  I barely had breasts, and it horrified me to imagine them quivering like my grandfathers’ jowls in any kind of light…and, then, I began to laugh.

Young love does not survive such laughter.

I made the mistake of sharing the letter with my best friend, Rita.  She swore, of course, to never tell anyone a word about it…and broke land speed records  telling everyone who’d listen to her.  The phrase ‘quivering breasts’ made the rounds at the school, and I couldn’t walk down the hallway without boys saying things like, “Are yer tits quiverin’ yet?”  This made Kosmo and I come to loathe each other for all the wrong reasons, and we both suffered.

I whipped the snot out of Rita in the girls’ bathroom beside the gym as well, and I went to detention for it without regrets.

A little more than a decade has passed since that happened.  I have real breasts now, although I’d still be alarmed if they began to quiver involuntarily, and I’ve come to truly regret the cruelty that the other kids inflicted on Kosmo, but – teenagers are callous, bloodthirsty shits, aren’t they?  I can only hope that he found the woman he was looking for, and that her breasts quiver in the moonlight all night long just for him.

I, still, laugh, you know, but I have to admit that his is the only love letter I remember, and that’s saying something, isnt it?

I feel like sometimes this is the hardest thing for me to do. Release. Relieve myself from every single day’s torment of dementing me.

From here I fall up.
Into the sky.
Into the mouth of God -
my wet cave of sound(less)
heat, breathing,
revision.

“Until creation becomes
revelation,”
I said to her,
wishing, waiting for my own
message to transfer,
mouthing words in
no real vocalic symbol

when teeth close down -

“Safe-keeping,”
she said, looking up to
greet the tongue above.

“As long as you bring me,”
smiling all the while we jump
out of rubber seats.

[PRE-SCRIPT: For those who are not familiar with Dref, you may see this post from my blog: http://guiengarma.wordpress.com/2009/06/27/dref/ ]

On November 19, 2008, I had an alterego – it was a very different me; from looks to attitude, I changed. But that lasted for a day. And last November 19, 2009, I silently celebrated and mourned for the birth and death of Dref.

Yes, it has been a year since Dref – the person that everyone at II-Charles of MMSU Science High School loved because he was the “typical person” for them – emo music listener, music magazine reader, and the boy who could be liked by the one that he admired during that time.

When I had my alterego, I felt that many liked the new me.  They liked the idea that I would not read newspapers anymore, that I would not use technical jargons anymore, and that I could have a girlfriend. However, I felt that it wasn’t me. I was just doing that just for the sake of getting two things: my classmates’ attention, and that girl.

It has been a year and a few have changed. She and I became teammates at the Philippine Schools Debate Championship in Manila. We sat beside each other in the shuttle bus in going to the venue. We talk in school. We are in good terms.

However, I don’t feel anything now. It’s back to normal. Dref’s now gone and will never come back.