Porn is like a persistent rash that you take to the grave.
Jim and I contracted said rash more than 40 years ago. It has mutated significantly, and remains with us.
We prowled a beat those many years ago, one best left unexplored by most people, the two of us indulging experiences now vigorously condemned by members of the morals squad, often with good reason; we shared unusual adventures, and we’ve somehow lived long enough to tell of them.
We completed a yearlong, crazed trek together, through a netherworld colored by monumental substance abuse (mostly mine), engagement with both certifiably dangerous and achingly sad characters, and exposure to enough sleaze to lube a legion of Sybarites. Continue reading
Not long ago, deep in the Amazon Basin, lurking in the waters of a small tributary, there swam a piranha. As piranhas go, he was nothing extraordinary, but you have to remember that piranhas rule the waters, so even a lesser piranha is imposing.
Piranhas are the Spartans of the fish world; every little piranha is brought up by mommy and daddy to be a ruthless carnivore, dominant in its murky universe. As members of a powerful group, a piranha and her pals can reduce a mature steer to a heap of scrap in a matter of minutes. Our piranha was understandably haughty.
One day, the piranha was swimming with a school of buddies, on the prowl for flesh, when he was scooped up and plopped in a bucket of water. That was OK: the piranha was now the overlord of the bucket; he was important, and being important matters a lot to a piranha. The bucket was smaller than the river, and the piranha quickly adapted. Ego fills the space made available to it. Continue reading
Every now and then, a novice prompts a breakthrough, discovers something previously unknown to a professional community, and provokes a significant leap in our knowledge of our universe. That’s me: an aged version of the bozo who could make neither heads nor tails of physics, and who barfed when trying dissect the fetal pig in high school biology class.
And now, I’m going down in the books as a groundbreaking researcher!
I discovered PTRD.
My laboratory? A rectangular commercial space located in a tacky shopette in southeast Denver. My lab assistant? My brother, Kurt.
PTRD? Post Traumatic Restaurant Disorder. Continue reading
I wake one morning a week ago, and realize I have few clues as to who or what I am, other than present, old, and anatomically male. I’ve been busy with other things, for a very long time.
I turn on the bedside lamp and attempt to locate my self in order to plumb my depths, reckon with my character, assess my qualities both fine and foul. I realize I’m trapped in a bizarre, bifurcated scheme in which the self attempts to contact itself, but I don’t care. Neither am I troubled by the idea that a “self” might not exist. I once taught philosophy; nonsense is my specialty.
Nothing lights up the brain screen after a few minutes labor; I draw a blank. I sense nothing but the furnace coming on in the basement, prompted by the timer on the thermostat. Continue reading