But first, an offering to "Testosteroni" -- since I've been so rough on him, lately:
I believe it was when I first saw this image, that I gave the person now also known as "The Mad Hatter of Manhattan", his first moniker.
And after my rousing expenditures of emotion and intellect in writing, yesterday, then last night, I've needed extra time on my meditation porch:
This morning light does not show it to best advantage, but I LOVE looking out at how light plays on the back of St. Mary's Catholic -- especially late afternoon into twilight. The bricks and roof become what is most lit, and the "Louisiana swamp cottage" in the foreground -- where my friend Neal Duffy, who was once carried home by Sen. Robert F. Kennedy while Kennedy was campaigning for President, lives, recedes in the shadows -- except where light spills from windows.
If only I were Claude Monet.
Just now, I heard a choir practicing some Baroque Sacred Music -- but I could not tell the direction, it could have come from First Presbyterian, as close but on the opposite side. I have always loved Sacred Music -- from Gregorian Chant, to Plainsong, to the Baroque.
>>> ANYWAY, THE STORY OF MY CORRUPTION BEGINS WITH ROY ROGERS AND DALE EVANS, WITH AN ASSIST FROM UNCLE AL:
Roy's first cousin lived next-door to us on Ebenezer Road in Cincinnati -- the first house my parents bought and moved to when I was 2.5 years old. Dale and Roy visited about twice a year and dressed up and entertained the kids in the neighborhood, back then.
And for my fifth birthday, I was on the Uncle Al TV Show, telling Al I wanted to be a FARMER when I grew up (you had to tell to be allowed to slide down the slide).
You see, my father was always into planting plants -- but had NARY A SHRED of garden designer in him -- planting everything in "soldier rows". But one day when I was quite young, I asked him where babies came from, and Dad said "Daddy fertilizes Mommy in the night."
Well, Dad always fertilized his rose bushes in spring, with denatured cow's manure from a one-pound Maxwell House can -- so SOMEHOW, I always have had the image of Dad filling my spread-eagle-on-bed Mom in the right place from his can. And that's the LAST thought of heterosexuality I ever had (not counting the pregnancy scare of my girlfriend over Christmas break my freshman year in college).
New Hanover County District Court Judge Lindsey Luther (Republican)
And it PROBABLY inspired this recent posting, as well (please pardon any vulgarities which I have since renounced): http://theweathercontinues.blogspot.com/2015/08/i-squeezed-judge-lindsey-luthers-pussy.html
Judge Luther, a Deacon at First Presbyterian, has convinced her husband Evan Luther to CLEAN UP his Facebook page, somewhat (deleting the following image as well as the one of BURGEONING arsenal of heavy guns and ammo), since I reported finding THIS image there:
But here is something Evan Luther posted more recently, so maybe he has returned to his senses:
The Prejudice Paradox
This taken two years before The Village People came to Tux restaurant in Key West (that I managed before working for Tennessee Williams), and Glenn Hughes (the Biker), STOLE my best bartender, Gary, whom he stayed with for years and years.
NOW, I live in Wilmington and look forward to Randy Jones doing his annual Charity Fund-Raiser at Carolina Beach!!!
The TWISTED view of Jesus's ministry -- championed by those who refuse to grow up.
Christian Homosexuals ALWAYS have tortured each other.
It is TIME for the Institutional Catholic Church to CONFESS ITS SINS.
Scott
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