once weekly, usually on Saturdays
Let’s see what happens when your host (me) has nothing to say, and instead it’s open mike night. Step right up, speak your mind, tell a story, sing a song, whatever.
6/28/2025
Anything goes #34
29 responses to “Anything goes #34”
-
THE SEDUCTION OF SAMANTHA
I was dancing with a big sexy gal named Samantha at a party out in the hills. Between songs we talked about children, she had one and I was in that baby-crazy phase. We drank beers, danced, and then Sam decided that she’d like to spend the night at my house! We left the party hugging and kissing to the car. We drove toward the Junction but I was starting to get a little nervous about taking this stranger home.
“Why don’t we just get a motel in town?” I asked.
“No! I want to see your house!” she said.
“Well…er…I…uh…”
“What’s the problem? Oh, you have weed there? Pot plants? Well, who doesn’t around here?”
We drove out to the house stopping often to share sweet hugs beside the road.
“Do you think we could go out again after this?” She asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. It was during my almost three years on the wagon. “You love pot and I just don’t think people can have a healthy and stable relationship if they’re doing drugs or alcohol.”
“Well, my parents smoke and they get along fine.” There was a coolness, no, an iciness after that. She never hugged me again.
Well I could see how things were going, when we got to the house I rolled her a joint.
“Okay, you can sleep here on the couch,” I said.
“No, I’ll sleep with you.” She took her Micky Mouse pajamas out of her overnight bag.
“Look, I’m a man, if I sleep with you I’m going to try something!”
“No, we’ll keep our pajamas on.”
We went upstairs to bed and I reached over and slid my hand along her leg. She brushed it aside and we went to sleep. The next day I awoke intoxicated by that delicious morning pajama smell and my hand wandered up her leg with no resistance. I played with her titties, I reached between her legs and stroked her. Her hand found me in my boxer shorts and we groped each other for a few minutes.
I ejaculated, orgasmed, and creamed my “jeans,” and my next thought was “Now how fast can I get this woman out of my bed and house?!”
-
If someone’s jammies smell delicious, they’re first-night fresh from the laundry. By even the second night, that sweet smell has been sweated away.
Thanks for another fun story, but I like this dame, even without the hot picture. I’m America’s most reclusive hermit, but if she stayed the night and took care of me in the morning, I’d at least do the same for her, then take her to breakfast.
And any females reading this, yes, by golly, that’s an invitation.
Also I don’t think drugs and alcohol are unhealthy, in moderation. As if I know anything about anything in moderation.
-
“by golly”
such a sweet talker…-
Talk is all I got, and I types better than I talks.
-
-
-
-
Sag, Drag and Fall by Sid King and the Five Strings – 1955
jtb
-
Snapping. I like the old stuff.
-
There was a time when it was new. Rock was a synthesis of Western (not quite Country & Western), Hillbilly, Black Boogie Woogie, Gospel, and work songs (Rule 13), and traditional Pop (see also: Andrews Sisters). Sid and the boys didn’t know many work songs, but they sure got it down on “Who Put the Turtle in Myrtle’s Girdle”. On the Grand Ole Opry. And got invited back. Several times.
jtb
-
I should point out here that Sid King and the Five Strings, after two decades of imposed retirement, cut a few records in the 1980s. Yeah, you were around then and didn’t hear them. Neither did I, but people in Europe sure did. The records charted in The Netherlands, Denmark, France, and several small European nation-states that still have castles. The boys undertook a sold-out tour of European countries that had missed them, and were a little surprised when they returned stateside and heard only disco music on the radio. Sid went back to cutting hair and, at 88, still gets knocks on his door asking for a haircut (his backup occupation) or just a couple of whoops.
John
-
That’s keeping it real, as the kids say these days. Reminds me of old-time but big-name ballplayers who needed a second job in the off-season.
I’m briefly startled that Sid’s still alive, but I guess the math checks out. Chart hits in the 1950s and you’d be pushing 90 today, or dead. I’d choose pushing 90, unless it comes with pain. I’m a wuss about pain, Or heat. It’s in the low 80s today, again, and I’m half-wishing I was dead, or had air-conditioning.
-
Well, Sid lives in Texas, which doesn’t have many downright cool places. His brother, who was also in the band, just died a couple years ago. I’d say they inherited the longevity gene and managed to avoid smoking. Rockabilly keeps you young. He really had two music careers and one barbering career. He played all over Texas for nearly ten years, and was a hit act in that state. He never caught on nationally, and I have no idea why.
He had a second career twenty years later in Europe, where he got the band back together, and they toured from country to country. They played to sold out houses and I guess he made enough money to keep him in barbering.
He doesn’t seem to have a Web presence, but if he did, I’d say thankee.
John
-
I’m on board with the idea of not having a web presence. It’s a passing fad, but post cards are ready for a comeback.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
Doug,
Here is a good version of the reading of Hammett’s “The Scorched Face”. It is read by Winston Tharpe, who is not a droid but a real person and a good reader. About an hour and a half. Worth your time.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=867JwN7NsGA
John
-
Is this the same reader who wears the 1950s tweed outfit? Doesn’t sound the same. I like this guy’s voice…
-
Different guy. This guy has read other Hammett stories, but also plays the guitar and banjo and sings, alone or in duets. He’s here and there around the Web, but I think he lives in San Francisco. Could be wrong about that last part, but that’s where the Op works.
John
-
Usually I wait until bedtime, but yesterday’s heat was oppressive and I wanted the escape, so I hit play and listened to the whole thing, while doing others things as well. Excellent writing, read excellently — thank you, sir.
-
-
-
-
-
Excellent, I finally get to see something with Timothée Chalamet in it.
Hungry as hell, no food to eat
And Joe said that he would sell his soul
For just a piece of meat
Water enough to drink for two
And Joe said to me, “I’ll have a swig
And then there’s some for you.”Timothée, Timothée, Joe was looking at you
Timothée, Timothée, God what did we do?
-
-
Truly moving horror film – a rarity. Also totally about class and any other attributes that stigmatize people as “outsiders.” A film about loneliness, finding the one other person like you, and losing them.
It’s like Twilight Saga but made by Bergman, etc.
-
Downloaded yesterday, which means it’s not merely on the abstract ‘list’ but it’s physically on a thumb drive and queued up to be among the next few hundred flicks — thanks!
-
-
Fourth of July Flashback
Diary of a Lonely Socially Inept Guy (2004)
Yesterday, I went down to the 4th of July celebration at Benbow and I lasted fifteen minutes. Everyone was in their little subgroups, family groups, friend groups, all in their little security groups. Is that just how life is? Everywhere? But I was a wanderer, just vaguely looking for my two friends so I too could inhabit a subgroup?
(I have never had a “group,” though I did experience the little security group feeling last year at the Salmon Creek Halloween party where for the first time in my life I stood around with people I knew for no other reason than the “social security” of that moment. I remember a young blond woman walked by dressed up only in her bra and panties. “You’re my dream girl,” I had said.)
Last year when driving up to a party at the volleyball scene up Seely Creek with a friend, I was stoned and insecure. “What do we do when we get there?” I asked.
“Just spot someone you know and go up to them and start talking,” he said.
Maybe I’ve never really accepted or liked myself enough to believe I really belonged, in a group or anywhere. Is it just me (probably) or is there something fundamentally shallow or boring about stomping through the picnic grounds looking for someone I know? Why? To have an inane conversation about nothing?
I drove away from America’s Independence Day celebration and felt like crying, but I didn’t. It must have been loneliness, four months now since my sweetie flew away: it had been a long distance relationship to Mexico, a frustrating set up, getting together every few months and now feeling the loss of that intimacy?
Could that be it? I drove into Garberville with appropriately dismal thoughts such as, “No one’s going to come to my (50th birthday) party anyway,” but then I counted up the “very probables,” over twenty, so what was I worried about?
I just wanted to get stoned, then maybe I’d feel better. I went outside and watched the guys on the riverbank blow off their fireworks, a mini-version of what was happening over the mountain in Benbow. I could hear the Benbow explosions and saw the shimmer of light at the top of the mountain, and with a stoned smile on my face I walked along the road enjoying the mini-version across the river.
Maybe turning fifty is starting to get to me, three more days at 49, its a countdown: I’m a mess, thank you and good night.
-
Meeting Doug Holland
I was going to be up in the Seattle area and wondered what it would be like to meet Doug Holland, who chronicles his daily life with a blog (Diary Of A Fat Slob), a recliner, and his name on the Anderson Valley Advertiser’s masthead. (He also writes a whole lot of movie reviews at http://www.itsdougholland.com)
I sent him an email.
“Hey, how ya doing?” I said. “Another good one in the AVA, way to go! Passing through Seattle this weekend and wondering what it’d be like to meet the guy who viciously stole my spot on the AVA masthead, and my role as designated crank in those pages. I could meet you on my way back through Sunday, but with your anti-social tendencies, umm, are you anywhere near I-5?”
“Everything is near I-5,” he said. “Jeez, I hate meeting people cuz I’m a hermit and always a disappointment to others. I have nothing much to say in person, which is why I write, but fuck it, if your standards are low enough, then why not? If you’re buying I’ll google around and find an expensive restaurant. If it’s BYOB there’s a good cheap burrito place. Lemme know.”
“Great,” I said. “I want the fool tour: Meet your annoying roommate Dean, confront a rat, and take a bus ride. It will be epic!”
“Guarantee you will be disappointed in me,” he said. “Everyone is. No meeting anyone from the house, or my mother for that matter, just me. Last chance reminder: being a hermit I will probably be awkwardly silent and have little to say, unless you catch me in a weird mix of biometric loops…”
“Awkwardly silent? So I would have to launch my egomaniac thing? Easy. Your hermit thing is similar to my can’t-handle-cities-thing, traffic, parking etc, so we’ll see if I even make it off the freeway,” I said.
I arranged to meet him at a donut shop in South Seattle on my drive back south from the wedding in Bellingham. “You’re going to be disappointed in me,” he had said, but why would I have any expectations or care? (And why would I want to meet his annoying mother?)
We both wrote for the AVA but I had fallen out of favor after submitting an uncensored story about the Editor, my name had been taken off the mast head within a week, and replaced almost immediately with Doug’s.
My brother-in-law had put my revenge fantasy on Chat GPT: kidnapping Doug, holding him for ransom, and trying to wheedle a hundred bucks or so from the Editor. Within about four seconds AI spit out a 600 word story with a happy ending, not what I was looking for.
Before my drive down I got very complicated directions to Lucky Donut off the internet, drove through the lightly trafficked Seattle Sunday afternoon, and quickly found myself profoundly lost. I composed the next text in my head, a two-word message: “Lost. Cancel.”
Then I saw a familiar name, First Street, and soon 152nd Street, the exact location of Lucky Donut! I parked in the shade with a view of the front door and watched the jets glide in for landings, about one a minute skimming over the buildings, a very entertaining thing to do, although I avoid flying myself.
His last text said, “Fat guy. Tie dye,” and as I read it he came walking across the lot with his famous belly leading the way, carrying a laptop and a bag with a few back issues of the AVA bulging out of the top.
I had seen a couple people leaving the donut shop while watching the planes making their approach to SeaTac but there was no one except the proprietor inside when we reached the front door. We shook hands, he apologized for no outdoor seating, which I had requested, and ordered our coffees. I knew I shouldn’t, having trashed out during the three-day wedding party, but I got a donut while Doug chose two cheese Danish and said, “I’ll probably get a dozen to go.”
We found some ridiculously tiny plastic chairs but then I saw a couple more comfortable-looking bigger ones stacked in the corner, covered in dust. I went up to the Asian donut-maker, asked him for some paper towels, and he handed me a damp washcloth that was sitting on the counter. I wiped my chair while Doug cleaned his with his tie-dyed shirt sleeves.
I sat in my chair, he sprawled out in his, long legs stretching across the tiny room, and while we munched on the delicious pastries with the okay coffee, we started to talk.
Doug was owed a $400 a month annuity generated by a job he had had for ten years but whenever he tried to get it he was drowned in red tape. Same with Medicaid, the application process was too convoluted, complicated, and difficult for him, so he just gave up. “When I really need it I’ll get it,” he said. (Later I found out he was eligible for Social Security also, but refused to apply because he “didn’t want to be treated like a trained circus animal.”)
“But by then you might be too weak to go through with it,” I said.
“This friend who just died recently was helping me do it,” he said. So he was done with all that but he said it triumphantly, as if he had won! He’s not going to play their game.
(I offered an analogy about a weed dealer: There was this buyer in the neighborhood who could be abrasive, pushy, and nasty. After another one of her tirades my neighbor said, “I’m never going to deal with Catalina again!” And he never did.
“Micky,” I had said, “you expect the best from people, but I know how people are, and I’m willing to eat a little shit to get paid.”)
I told him about a few scams I had pulled and got his interest up. He wanted to hear what my best one was so I told him about when I had exploited a grey area, cashed in, and they’ll never know it happened. He enthusiastically approved of my scheme, how I had won one for the little guy. (Being a working man, he had never heard of SSI and I explained it to him.)
It struck me that this intelligent writer just couldn’t get in the mindset necessary to fight the system and get what he deserved, some healthcare. Maybe he had ADD, AHDD, or some PTSD? (I wondered if I could help him on that application?)
I told him that the AVA only published about one out of every five essays I send in and he seemed surprised.
“You’re on a roll,” I said. “Just about every week recently I see you in there.” (Two months after meeting Doug I’m on a roll again, four straight weeks. I may have finally figured out what the Editor likes: Not too much deep self-reflection, not too much weed, not too much Mexico. A little less me, and a little more just what happened?)
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m trying to send them in once a week.” His recent ones were about doing someone’s laundry, a confrontation with a rat in a trap, and observations about the constant construction in his changing neighborhood. All were the type of interesting real life stuff that balances the AVA’s serious politics, my goal also.
I told him that a story I worked a lot on had been rejected, I’d cut out huge chunks of personal interactions and complaints, had resubmitted it, and then they ran it.
“I never change anything for anyone,” he replied.
“Oh yeah, I’ve written a couple letters-to-the editor where I disagreed completely with the Editor but never sent them, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered,” I said. “Once I had a sort of risque story but before I sent it in I removed the word ‘clitoris’ and replaced it with ‘breast.’ They ran the story but I noticed that ‘breast’ had disappeared.”
The proprietor said the place was closing.
“Just five more minutes?” I asked.
“No,” he said emphatically.
(As we were leaving I asked when he started making the donuts and he said at 1:00 am. Just you I asked? Him and another guy he said.)
The display case was empty, we walked across the parking lot to my car, and I asked Doug if he knew of a sports bar nearby. The 49ers were playing the Rams and I wanted to catch the end of the game, but he had no idea where to go.
I gave him a copy of my children’s story compilation and my English-Spanish dictionary and headed off to look for the game. He left to find his bus home, stopped and turned, and said, “Thanks for not kidnapping me.”
-
Thanks again for not kidnapping me. That might be your only story I’ve read where you didn’t get boned, semi-boned, or at least aroused (to my knowledge).
-
-
Not even 50 yet and hanging out with old folks here? How did you get in without getting carded? Oh, I see — 2004, so you’re actually an old fogy same as everyone else here.
As always, you tell a good story, man. You can be part of my group any time, if I ever find a group.
4 gorgeous dames, too. The one who’s flying looks very much like my long-lost Margaret.
-
the flyer is a fun one, came to visit with her kids last year, highlight of my year…
this is the memory:
***A friend visited from out of state with two teenagers and we had a lot of fun, inventing games like “nerf dodgeball/hula hoop/ haiku.” We played a “Poetry and Prose in Motion” game where we write something, read it aloud, and then dance our interpretation. That was before the adults smoked a joint on the deck (the girls didn’t need drugs), we caught up some, and then the mother said, “Dance party!” It got pretty crazy with the hula hoops, at one point I had all three of them dancing inside one, and other variations like two holding the hoop and dancing together..
In the morning the mother joined me for coffee and agreed to read aloud a few of my dialogues. (We read “Harvest Time,” “Lingerie,” and “Eureka: A Trip to the Medical Marijuana Doctor.”)
-
She still looks like Maggie, and she’s still about to leave the ground.
Nice of the kiddos to smile, but they’re just being good sports. No child has ever in human history enjoyed tagging along on visits to their parents’ friends.
-
maybe so, on to # 35
-
well, also they came for a funeral and
to check out colleges for the girls, one was hers
and the other was her daughter’s friend…
we had a great first night, then they
sort of disappeared the next couple days…the funniest part was the first night:
we were hula hoop dancing and first
i captured the momma in my hula hoop,
and we danced like that, then i captured the
friend and we danced like that, and THEN i
captured her daughter and it was just as fun,
and the momma came rushing in and separated us!
“Oooh, Mama Bear!” I said…
somehow i kept my cool throughout, not my M O usually…
anyway…
(Day 4 off all news, try it sometime…)
-
I am not a highly moral man, nor even lowly moral often times, but I wouldn’t squeeze into a hula hoop with a teenager. Any young woman has a lifetime of interactions with creepy guys ahead of her, and I’ve been one of those creepy guys, and heck, I’d be one again if opportunity wasn’t finished knocking, but I wouldn’t want to be anyone’s *first* creepy interaction, or even one of the first.
-
She was in the hula hoop, not me too, but that would have been okay…
-
-
-
-
-
In defense against spam and bots, comments with attachments or multiple links require my approval, which might delay things.
Leave a Reply