Tuesday, January 16, 2018

My personal war: The show must go on

Hell of a way to start a book, right? Talking about sex?

Someone once told me one of their pet phrases: "Love makes the world go round."

I love word play. It is like foreplay. The words mean many things to many people. And for many of is dyslexic folks, love could the evol or evolve. Live could be evil. And sex makes no sense. Until you realize its a union word.  Like pop reversed is still pop.

I don't agree that love makes the world go round. 

Sex does. Or more specifically se with the x in the middle.  You could put the se to the top and bottom and left or right of the x -- making sure of course es goes to the right and on the bottom.

Makes a perfect circle. I argue that since it makes a circle that it is the only word which can make the world go around.

I also argue that since men needed X to mark their targets, all women should have one tattooed across their vaginas with glow in the dark ink to ensure in total darkness that their dumb ass boyfriends put their sharp shooter in the correct slot.

Resulting in less pain and misery for everyone involved. Including the large flat surface pancake iron pan that she currently has stashed conveniently under the pillow just in case her red neck boyfriend tries to drive his thick oil rid drill into her ass.

"Just do that wrong, one more time."


"Ah, mama, do that again, that was one hell of a climax!"

"No you crazy, corn huskin, whiskey drinkn, certified red niken dick head, that was a frying pan."


Okay, I making this shit up as I go.

Ever notice how beautiful the woman are in the south? It ought to be a law against them living only in the south or California. Ever wonder why? Your not going to like my answer. They got balls. War hero kind of balls. Hank Williams Jr country boy kind of balls. And a hell of a lot more common sense.

Women have got to compete against trout lines, honing their knives, cleaning their guns, skinning a deer, feeding the cattle, blowing the chicken coup to smithereens with a nitro-glycerine tipped arrow and  just plain enjoying life they way we all should be enjoy it.  And it is all done by the time 4am hits the city slickers clock to the time Starbucks coffee is served.

Personally, I like the flavor and the kick the country boys like: Community Coffee. Don't even start talking about Seaport. That one is just plain over the top.

What does that have to do with sex?

Probably nothing and everything.

We humans want the square pegs to fit square holes. Round ones in round holes. Its called order, logic and a sense of community.

Mention the name Edwards and Moorestown, NJ and anyone that's left living who was a teenage or an adult between 1949 and 1953 will tell you that he was the manager of the Criterion movie theater there. Owned by Melvin Fox, my father was tasked with filling the seats and keeping the old house running, making money while new fangled theaters like drive ins could be built to replace them.

So, the Mr and the Mrs by 1953 and pretty much made a name for themselves. The Mr buying two acres of land and then telling the founding fathers to purchase the rest of the land in what is still called Memorial Field.

The Mrs. working the ticket stand at the Movie Theater so the couple could purchase a home in town and that they did at 250 S. Church Street. With them came one girl -- the oldest and two boys, the oldest already becoming somewhat of a child hero saving the toddler's life by taking a fall off a 2nd floor stairway.

Not to worry, I inherited a thick skull from my mother and woke up staring down Dr. Stokes mansion wonder how I got there.

Normally, you would expect to have an agreement by association that your parents would tell you who they really are, where they came from.

Not so with this crazy. First, two generations back Edward Steen came to this country, changed his name, had 7 boys and  one of them Adolph E. Edwards had a single son from a second marriage and named him Eugene R. Edwards.

Now this is where it gets really crazy. Edward Steen's father Adam Steen also had another son named Adolph Steen and he became a very famous mathematician in Copenhagen. Okay, that's a little sketchy.

But this is even harder to swallow: Edward Steen became a doctor, ran a Field hospital for the US Army and married a Mary Ann Dare. Transpose the er to re and replace the a with a y you get

Mary Dyer

Mary Dyer was an English and colonial American Puritan turned Quaker who was hanged in Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony, for repeatedly defying a Puritan law banning Quakers from the colony. 

The family would go up to Boston to celebrate her historical event.

And if that's not enough craziness, lets slip over to my mother's side:


 Hold up. Stop the presses. REALLY? Because what we boys were told was we had three aunts, Elizabeth -- who once tried dressing up as Santa Claus (Sorry we saw right through that one), Aunt Cele, and Aunt Clara. The grand mother was Mary Fralinger. According to this thing, that isn't so.

Also, if Mary Fralinger was 80, the 4 foot 8 inch woman who had muscle control issues that caused her to shake her head uncontrollably was 112 years old when she died. Even if you take 20 years away from her and she was born in 1880 instead of 1860, she would have been 6 years old when Elizabeth was born.  And even if you made Elizabeth being 48 at the time of the 1940 U.S.Census, Mary would have been 10. 

So, I'm thinking the way this family writes their F's could have been miss read:


And to answer the relationship, no. It we were kin, it would have read Fralinger Bros. I just know that's how they wrote their F's. At this point none of it matters. What does are the lies. What we knew as Grand Mother was actually our Great Grandmother and our Grandmother was aunt Clara.

And technically, that was wrong, too they would be great aunts. 

Why the secrecy? 

Catholic religion.

Anyway, I began wondering why I was born in Bound Brook, NJ when all my other siblings were born in Mount Holly, NJ. My second question was if the family was following the 4 year gap between children which 61 days short of it was no big deal, when, then would they want to have another child 1 and a half years later.

My mother answer was, they wanted me to have a sibling of my age I could play with. On the surface that was a good excuse as any. But then they waited until 1957 to have another child. Exactly 8 years after I was born.  Did they try for another child a year and a half later? No.

Even if they wanted to use the Korean War as an excuse, it was over in 1953. They could have easily had a baby in 1954.

Also, how would they know my younger brother would be a boy? If it had turned out to be another girl what would they have done? Take their chances and try again?

These are the same parents who took out life insurance policies on their children. Their approach to parenting was wind them up and let them figure out. If you complained about not being able to read, you were ridiculed as being lazy.

How do you do this, through osmosis?

No, you have 3 nurturing Aunts who helped and encouraged her every step of the way. And one was really your mother.

So, having a lazy left eye, being dyslexic, and having to go to Our Lady Of Good Counsel School -- which was an oxymoron, without the help from parents more interested in my big sister's life than mine, I was lucky to survive 1st grade.

By the way my big sister was silver spooned just like my mother.  Only problem, she wasn't as smart as her.

I was.

Fact is, my two youngest brothers ended up as truck drivers were married multiple times and named the only child they created -- both females --Jennifer.

Why did they do that?  Because the farm down in Bridgeton, NJ is a hundred acre farm worth millions and will be passed to one of them and since my sister's name is Jean yeah, you know what they were going for when they named their kids.

As for me, I have 5 children, all from the same woman I married back in 1971. My oldest holds 2 bachelors degrees from McNeese State University, the second oldest got married and has three of the smartest kids I've ever had the chance to watch grow up -- besides mine, of course, My third oldest has a BS degree at Washington State University is a Material Science Engineer, has worked for Boeing and on the 787 Dreamliner, holds a patent shared by Boeing, and is currently writing novelettes with instant acceptance under Amazing Books.

My youngest daughter is currently enrolled at Washington State University and is pursuing a degree in Computer Sciences.

Like me, my son has worked for Microsoft, plans on getting a degree "someday" and is a consultant with a specialty in Microsoft Dynamics CRM.

I specialize in Microsoft System Center Products and since I am of retirement age, last year, I only made $72,947.00 for 5 and a half months of $49,079.00 and the rest from social security.

As for my sister, Two Masters degrees one in Library Sciences and she was head librarian in Bridgeton, NJ.  She raises Alaskan Huskies and coops the farm out to some people from Puerto Rico.

I never talk to any of them. When I did try, they never ever tried calling me back. I never did like their condescending attitude towards me. 


Okay, now that I have that out of the way. I was always billed by my aunts as the one that would go places. And the one who looked more like my father than anyone else in the family.

Well, I not only don't look like my father -- Paul does -- I don't act like him either. Yes, I inherited my mother's bad ass temper. But I don't have a girl in every port, I don't have or never will have sex with my daughters or my son. I've done everything humanly possible to support my children's needs and have put up with more than enough to BS to know what it smells like.

In-other-words, I'm retired.

But what happened between entering the world to exiting it can be treated as both fairy tale, romantic and captivating.

Name me one person on this planet who has 2 images in a collection of 135 photographers that a collector and donor provided the Savannah College Of Arts and Design stating these photographers have had significant impact on photography.  Combine that with a huge collection of military images published in Soldiers Magazine, Army Times, Stars and Stripes, EurArmy Magazine, Fort Campbell Courier, Clarksville Leaf Chronicle, Hopkinsville New Era, Front Line, Pillars and Posts, and Rendezvous With Destiny Magazine. Sprinkle in pictures stocked by Black Star Publishing Agency, a thousand times more bylines from 1980 and 1995 and references to articles that were published in American salesman in the 1990s, and you have some idea of what I've been able to accomplish with my writing and photography.

I also have my personally creative work, too. Short of Penthouse and Playboy, my makeup and photography work was published world wide and my makeup was on stage with Jefferson Starship in 1993.

And I'm also directly responsible for Riverboat gambling in Lake Charles, LA.

While it is nice to have talked to Bob Harris, Robert Olen Butler, Shirrel Rhoades and Bruce Helford over the years, none of them have been more impressive, interesting or friends then those who I had the pleasure to work for and with at Microsoft. People like David Sceppa, Jim Hogan, David Caldwell, Sam Carpenter, Mathew Harmon, The angel of death, Joseph Tekkie, Warren Halcott, and the rest of the gang that worked in technical support I would have never been able to handle 3000 cases and have had a satisfaction record of 87%.

Going from putting my foot down in 1995, living on the streets and then the back part of a used muscle and antique car dealership in Maple Shade, NJ and learning VB3, VB4 and Windows 95 enough to land a job at Microsoft one year later was quite an accomplishment in itself.

But I did have a dark side. Well, okay my dad had a dark side. I had a cat like curiosity.


No real love expressed by ether parent over the preteen years. Lots of laughs with you being the brunt of their jokes, elongated lines of communications between infractions and punishments. No patience for working with a child with disabilities save that ridicule: "You're just being lazy."  

Promises for nice things taken immediately away at the slightest infraction. Basically, the crime never equaled the punishment. Working for the family as a front for working for free. No desire to share common sense tricks and tips on the educational process. 

And that was on a good day.

My father was exceptionally moody. When he got his feelings hurt or when something didn't go his way, you wanted to pack your bags and leave country. Otherwise, you were going to get a whipping.

Laughing was against the law.


If you feel a certain way -- overly sensitive to everything and you want to tell your parents that you cry and cry and cry and anguish out loud based on the pain in the pit of your stomach because your feelings get hurt that just might be an indicator that you aren't what the birth certificate says you are. And your mother should be the one you should be able to go to explain it.

When you want to wash dishes, clean the house, learn how to sow and absolutely hate a messy house, that might be something you want to talk to your mother about.

When you decide to skip rope with the girls because the boys are stupid, aggressive idiots, that ought to be something you should be able to talk about.

When you're riding your bicycle from Mount Holley, NJ back home and pressure is placed by the seat on a spot right above where your but hole is and you find a round little hole there sealed off by skin, that ought to be the time you talk about it to someone. 

When you look at yourself in a mirror and you see a body beginning to form an hour glass, that ought to be something you should be able to talk to your mother and father about.

When you get your hands tied together by two girls and your body tingles. That's something you don't talk to your mother or father about.

When your father asks your mother if it is okay for you to go upstairs with him and wash his back and she says okay, that is when you should pack your bags. 

So why didn't I? 

Let's put it this way, when my brother of 11 showed me a picture of a naked girl in Playboy, I was totally repulsed. At the same time, just the site of gold painted Goldfinger Girl sent me into never never land. 

I could get turned on in rolling around in clay, cover myself in grease, paint, Elmer's glue but a nude in a magazine does nothing for me. 

For that matter, no woman or man in a magazine gets me turns on clothed or otherwise. They have to be oiled, rolling around in clay, sinking in "quicksand" which is never real quicksand, or painted with a metallic makeup.

While I'm pretty sure that the reason all the above coatings turns me on is because because of hugging, kissing, and enabling the warmth of the mother's love to radiate through me.  I got all that but why did the coating of makeup make the gold girl turn me on and not her natural skin tones.

I boiled that one down to two possibilities. My mind and my body for the first time in my life were in sync. The image gave me a symbolic representation of my inner self. I was encased, after all, by the notion I was socially seen as a guy but inside I was all girl. A Tom Girl.

Sucks, doesn't it?

The other possibility was the image provided me with some very important visual queues that I had not seen until then. Only problem with this theory is the fact that I had already imagined myself turned into a gold statue long before Goldfinger came out.

Then it came to me like an electric switch, I was female. My mind constantly wanted me to be saved by a male. But what happens when you get saved. 

And more importantly, what if I started imagining a girl in the mud and me saving her? I still had no way of knowing what happens when either I get saved or I put a girl in mud just to watch her sink to her doom.

And there it was. The cat was beginning to come to life. You  are either a guy in my fantasy world saving me or you are a girl in my fantasy trying to take him from me and, for that, you shall be gone. 


Warm the small the small of the back of a male and he will follow you anywhere. Especially if you know he wants more than a kiss, hug and a promise of paradise.

Funny, isn't it. In the movie Goldfinger the hype said leave a patch on the small of her back so her skin could breath.

Put a lid on it, movie propaganda.  Just another ploy to sell another sea of sexual "can't touch this" sensuality.

Fact is death is death.  An incident few people return and tell the tale of the after life. Truth is, muscles relax, your bladder and colon muscles relax and you pretty much pee and crap on yourself.

When play dead, you are dead. So why has Eaton's body look so sexy? Because it represents compromise. And if you want to get romantic, sexual submission. The intoxicating trance money does to the will of a women desiring to submit all including her life to a man able to pay for it.

And Bond is also bound to the symbolic submission of having a dead girl in his bed. Filled with his semen and covered in a skin tight thick coating of gold paint.


If you want to get technical, the girl the actress plays, sees Odd Job knock out  James Bond and says nothing, never screams, and never fights for her right to live -- if you believe painting the body will kill you -- and it will not.

Just like T2 and T3 in the Terminator. The actress's much easier to clean with white clown grease paint. Now, that would indeed, be shocking, simply shocking.


I have a penis issue at the moment to deal with. So there it was amidst the soap bubbles and my yellow rubber ducky. His didn't look like mine. There was a covering over the head of it. 

Mine was catholic. His was sacrilegious.

He didn't throw at me the we're doing something bad card until the very end. At time moment when we were face to face doing it my way.

I stopped at this point because of what he said. 

I don't condone what I did or even remotely suggest it. What I do want to say is that I only did it because I wanted to know what it felt like being a girl and what I needed to do to seduce a women.

I now understood why the female will kill for her stake in a male and drive one through his damn chest when he no longer finds her attractive enough for his dick to stay home.

As for the child abuse -- sexual or otherwise -- I wish I could get to them before he or she gets hurt from his or her parents. It isn't right.  Children are not toys you wind up and leave them to their own demise. 

They aren't a tax write off and certainly will be a handful. Each one represents a new and precious life. Each comes with his or her own personal users guide. You just have to help write it along the way.

And above all, each deserves personal love and attention only two nurturing parents can give them.

Yes, there are going to be rough times. Yes, they're going to shout at the top of their lungs that they wish they were never born. But in the end, when it is time to say goodbye to them and their world, when you've been polite the inscription on your Tombstone will be your eternal reward.

Still, as time goes by the show must go on.