Virtual Bohemia

Blognovels by Anonymoses Hyperlincoln

Saturday, January 08, 2005

Chapter 14 - Camp Dave & The Laws


Charlotte, like most cities, has talk radio. Interesting talk radio. Not as good as New York, but pretty darned good. Mike Collins, Brad Krantz, Bob Raiford, John-boy and Billy…the list goes on. It is a conversation taking place on the airwaves, and in my case, it serves as a daily source of inspiration, as I listen while surfing the blogosphere and net looking for yet more inspiration to take with me to the writing table, which is just an Alt-Tab away. And thanks must go to Ra Bourbon, who taught me how to use it.

On the Right, there is a fellow named Lewis who has come down from Minnesota to poke fun at Southern Democrats and Liberals. Same old pap, mostly. Not in the same class as, say, Mike Collins, who brings on guests that reflect a wide spectrum of opinion, art, information and culture.
Tomorrow’s guest is one of my favorite film makers, who also happens to be from Charlotte. Think I’ll pop him an email, since I may sleep through the show, which comes on long before the crack of noon.

Email to Mike Collins at Charlotte Talks:

First Brush with Ross

I was so excited recently to hear that Ross is back in bidness, especially since he was basically the first Michael Moore. That and so much more.

I'd also like to share a memory I have of him at a preview of Sherman's March at Carpenter Center in Cambridge back in the mid-'80s, and just how interesting it was to be in the room with another Charlottean (unbeknowst to him) while Cantabrigians soaked in, and were most delighted by, the offering. I assume he shared my exuberance of the moment. Especially since it was his baby he was putting up for display and criticism.

I also think I was in one of his films, if he did indeed shoot one at the Charlotte pad of the colorful Ms. Charlene of Sherman's March fame. Background drunk. Incidental extra.

"Backyard" was also tremendous, but I wonder if his family ever recovered.

Ross McElwee is certainly one of Charlotte's most illustrious and gifted sons, and I am so glad you are showcasing him on your remarkable show.

Thanks abound,
Anonymoses Hyperlincoln

Polar Express: Allah Bored!

Well, the must-see Christmas movie, “Polar Express” came out today, and the headlines of al-Jazeera read: Polar Express: Allah Bored!
OK. So there’s not much for the Muslims to chew on in this sweet, yet tender piece of angel food cake. Can’t they use cameras? Go shoot your own movie if you don’t like it.

Just kidding. Don’t launch a fatwah. A sense of humor is a good thing. Grow one.

November 16, 2004
Button Day
Have a Party with Your Bear Day

It is halfway through the month already. Not sure how I got here. Might have been that Microwave at the Caribou. Alls I can say is that my word count is still surviving, at, let’s see, um, hold on a minute, there…35,153. About ten thou ahead of the game. Feeling good. Relaxing into it. Ready to plow ever onward. Ever onward.
On words! On Vixen! Oin cooking! No difference.

Everyone remembers that stupid commercial. You know, the one with Marie Claire raving about Blue Bonnet Margarine.

“On bread! Oin cooking! No difference.”

I just love saying that.

“On bread! Oin cooking! No difference.”

Something about that, so reassuring. Especially this month. So much killing in Falluja. And today, with the Care woman being beheaded. I think I will think about margarine for a while thank you very much.

Things aren’t any better, folks. I don’t see anyone celebrating Bush’s great victory. I see dead people.

And there are a hundred thousand I am not seeing, nor are you.
As we enter into the holiday season, we really do need to consider the log in our own collective eye. Are we really worthy of world emulation?
What if Germany or Japan were behaving like we are around the globe? Would we cheer them on?

We need to improve and raise ourselves, and allow others to raise themselves, without us presuming to be able to somehow raise their being. No one is any better, intrinsically, than anyone else. Time we started acting on what we know. Or profess our beliefs to the contrary.

Colin Powell stepped down as the first black Secretary of State, and today Condoleeza Rice has been chosen to succeed him. She will be the first black female Secretary of State. From a racial standpoint, these are clear victories. One hopes that Ms. Rice will be true to the conscience of her forebears. Or was it five?

Another landmark day in this, the most important November.

Adagio of Keith Jarrett comes on the radio. WDAV. Ted Koppel is talking about Falluja. What will happen tomorrow?
I am not feeling all that good about the near future. It is as if my intuition is as a dowsing rod, only sensing danger instead of water.


I wanted to have a separate chapter for Dave, but he was such a minor character, I reasoned otherwise. But there are a couple or three things I’d like to say about him, just so he doesn’t get snitty and call me names.
People had come to call Dave’s domicile, Camp Dave, since most people know him by that name, since he was a descendant of a few King Daves, and was also born with that name. True to the name, he was also a slayer of Goliaths. As most Daves are. Particularly Dave Bs for some reason. Consider: Dave Byrne. Dave Bowie. Dave Brock. Dave Brooks. Dave Broder. Dave Boies. Dave Bloom. Dave Brancaccio…all slayers of Goliaths in their own way. And there are more. Scores more. But that is not why I brought you to this meeting. I brought you to this meeting to discuss two theories of Dave’s: The Law of Social Triangularity and The Law of Siriotropism.

The Law of Siriotropism

Dave Beckwith was always looking toward the stars. He felt his home there. Often was the time when he said that he had come from Sirius, and was dropped to earth as a microbe in the rain left by a closely traveling comet. Comets, he felt, were cosmic gardeners. And it is a fact that comets are composed of ice, so I suppose they could well shed their water, which could well contain such microbes…and so I never try to prove him wrong. Dave enjoyed his imagination, said life was play, and humans, players. Homo Ludens. Man, the ludicrous.
And Dave was as ludibund as the next guy. And the guy after that. No. The other way. Yes. And also the two girls beside him, but not the little old lady fixing her dentures. She is not ludibund. She is moribund. Dave had little use for moribundity. He wanted to live while he was alive. Like Thoreau, one of his spiritual mentors.
Dave loved flowers, and had a collection of flowers that rivaled the famous Glass Flower collection at Harvard. Not really. But if he could he would, although his landlord would probably suggest that he upgrade to a two-bedroom.
OK. So he didn’t “own” many flowers. He did love them. Or at least liked them. Tolerated them. Would try to avoid them while mowing. Could recognize a sunflower.
Actually, Dave needed to bone up on his flora before espousing theories involving them.
Like this whopper!
Dave says that some plants will actually tilt toward a star, open itself, and receive energies from that star.
Amazing! Imagine that! A flower that would completely shun the Sun, so to speak, and then go and point at a star! How stupid can you get?
(Excuse me. I am being handed a note.) Oh! No Sh*t!

Please forgive me folks, but I have been handed a note which says that the Sun is actually a star. Are you sure? (“Oh yeah!”) Hmm…Thanks Jesus.
Well how about that! So that means the Sun is a star, so some flowers (“sunflowers!”) point toward it and receive energies from it. Interesting…
Well, anyway, Dave says that some plants point toward Sirius. Morning Glories for instance. And that the energy they receive from Sirius is qualitatively different from the energies of many other stars because Sirius is actually a dual star. Sirius A and Sirius B. And he says that because of the way Sirius B revolves around Sirius A, something about Ying and Yang, I dunno, you’d have to ask him. Anyway, he says that the energies travel through such a great distance in the cosmos to infuse but a little of its energies into what he called Siriotropic Plants, that the energies pick up cosmic energies along the way, and all that is eaten, sucked down, by the plant, and because it does it, plus the special energies created by the yingyang of the spinnings stars… that the plants, necessarily take on a strange property – that being that if one eats or smokes or digests these plants, they too will experience some of this cosmic energy, but that the energies are so potent and strange that they will induce hallucinations, cosmic concurrences, synchronicities. A sort of cosmic trigger if you will.

“Cosmic Trigger?” a student spoke from the back of the room. “Robert Wilson wrote a book with that title once.”
“The Einstein on the Beach Robert Wilson?” I asked.

“No no no. But he’s awesome. My folks took me to see “civil warS” at the American Repertory. Awesome fucking show, dude.”

“And your point was?”

“Oh nothing, teach. Just that he was talking about how certain substances DID have a triggering effect.”

“Oh yes. The eight circuits, tunnel-realities…”

“You do know it. Ossum ain’t it?”

“Yes indeed. I used some of it in my book, “The Great Chain of Conversation”, only I called them “tunnel worlds” I think, and “circuitrons”. Suckmycat.”

“Suck my what?”

“I’m sorry. I just spent a week in sunny Gastonia and people were saying that left and right, everywhere I turned. Suckmycat! Suckmycat! I finally learned that they were saying “Something like that”. Live and/or learn!

(“Earth to Narrator!”)

“I think we’ve covered Mister Beckwith enough for one day…”

“But what about his theory of Social Triangularity?” Robert Littlejohn, always a precocious student, always wanting to learn more, would not let the Narrator off the hook.

“OK. Quickly, then it’s time to play Word Count.” This brought yawps and yowls of caccination.

“OK. Calm down. (Pause) In a nutshell, Beckwith’s Law of Social triangularity states that if two people know the same person, but not each other, there is still a subtle connection between them, and people are statistically more likely to befriend or approach someone whom someone they know…knows. OK. Word Count!”

The room exploded with delight. But the delight was cut short by the loud blast of a rape whistle.

“Eleven more damn words.” A look of devastation befell our narrator.

Circuitry we live by

We live by metaphors. But we also live in tunnels. My tunnel might not be your tunnel. We may completely miss one another. Even though we live on the same planet.
This is beginning to disturb you. I can tell. I can smell the very fear that seeps from your asshole as you attempt to seal it off from intrusion, extrusion.

November 17, 2004

The news is not too bad so far today, as I can tell. Yes, Russia is going Nucular, and the Muslims are really pissed that an American atrocity was captured on film, within a Mosque of all places, and the film is being broadcast throughout the Islamic world…but other than that, it is simply beautiful outside today. It’s World Peace Day! It’s also Take a Hike Day! The leaves are arrayed in autumn dress, and the sky is a deep September 11th blue, none of that déclassé sand and blood at the nexus of Bush and Rummy’s policies…and so it is with pleasure that I get to talk about Billy, the Blogging Poet of Greensboro. He was one of the good fellows with whom I shared a meal and conversation, a few months back at Ed Cone’s Blogger Conference held in Greensboro, a place I once lived a very good life. Recently, Billy launched a Wednesday Poet Series, and honored me with the first poem, which went like this:

The War Song of G. Dubya Bushrock
by Anonymoses Hyperlincoln

LET us vote then, you and I,
When the evening news is spreading lies
to the patients etherised upon a fable;
Let us go, through a certain half-deserted mind,
The muttering unkind
A mindless knight in one-night crack-ho tails
And cornpone restaurants with taco-shells:
Sheep that follow like a tedious dittohead
Of insidious portent
To feed you all a dose of healthy koolaid...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and drink this sh*t...
From the boom we men come aglow
Walking from Los Alamo.

The yellow blog that wipes its back upon our window pains,
The yellow news that rubs our nose in blue dress stains,
Licked its lips upon the money of the evening news,
Lingered upon the fools that stand to gain,
Let fall upon his face the pretzel that falls from skies,
Slipped by the congress, made of sullen lies,
And seeing that it was a soft September morn,
Turned around the plane, and fell to Sleep...

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow dust that billows down the street,
Wiping its ass upon the window-panes;
There will be Time, there will be War-
To prepare a place to meet the presses that you meet;
There will be time for Russ and Rush to bloviate,
And time for all the worthless ways of glands
That lift and drop a dollop on your fate;
Time for Dick and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred distortions and revisions,
Before making toast of Cheney.

In the gloom the warmen come aglow
Talking of Guantanamo

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I care?"
Time to turn my back and nude-descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my chair--
[They will say: "How his chair is growing thin!"]
My morning coke, my dollar mounting firmly to boy Ken,
My bolo is immodest, but inserted by a marking pen--
[They will say: "But how his arms of war are sin!"]

Do I dare
Destroy the universe?

In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minuteman will reverse.

For I have blown them all already, blown them up:--
Have known the evening, mourning, darkest noons,
I have mangled up my life with cocaine spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying thup!
Beneath the building from a farther plume.
So what should I consume?

And I have known the ayes already, known them all--
The ayes that fix you in a formulaic phase,
And when I am formulaic, scrawling with a pen,
When I am penned and scribbling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit on all the butt-holes of my days and ways?
And who should I consume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are daisy-cut and grossly unfair,
[Caught in the gunlight, downed without a care!]
Is it blue stains on a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie are sold at table, with talk of shock and awe.
And should I then consume?
And when should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gunned at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the ruins
Of lonely kids in tatters, pouring out of windows...

I am just a pair of ragged shoes
Scuttling across the floors of silent news.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, creeps so peacelessly!
Scorched by hot zingers,
Asleep ... wired ... or country singers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you Cheney.
Should I, after koolade, coke and icees,
Have the strength to force the world to its crises?
But though I'm inept and blasted, inept and crazed,
Though I have seen many heads [grown slightly shorn] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and I'm no mad hatter;
I have seen the speeches of that city slicker,
And I have seen the eternal Bushman hold my coat, and Snicker,
And in shorts, I was DeLayed.

And would it have been worth it, after Oil,
After the kegs, the candy bar, the T,
Hugging the porcelain, a lonesome walk with you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have snapped at the batter with a towel,
To have squeezed the universe into a booger
To roll it toward some overstating question,
To say: "I am Nazareth, book of the dead,
Come back to sell you all, I shall smell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not how I vote at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the fun set and the shipyards and the wrinkled sheets,
After the novel, after the hiccups, after the nose that trails along the floors--
And Kos, and Media Whores--
It is impossible to know just why I'm mean!
But as if a manic slattern slew the pervs on ladders in a screed:
Would it have been with child
If one, settling a pillow or throwing up on call,
And turning toward the window, should spew:
"That is not it at all,
That is not how I vote, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am no ham omelette, nor was meant to be;
Petrol attendant, bored, one that will screw
To stifle progress, start a war or two,
Advise the Dick; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to disabuse,
Lunatic, caustic, and supercilious;
Full of false sentence, can't define "obtuse";
The times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
I am, for you, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I prefer my money rolled.

Shall I kiss your left behind? Do I dare to be impeached?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and strut upon the stage.
I have heard Travolta singing, to my age.

I do not think that he will sing of me.

I have seen them hiding leeward in the caves
Bombing the dark hair of the slaves blown back
With my thoughts forever white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the star
By star-whores wreathed with seafoam green and crown
Till human votes awake them, and we drown.

Laissez nous voter alors
Okay, so it was a little long. The reviews were not that bad…

"This is the most brilliant f**king thing I have ever seen."
- Ra Bourbon, Journalist

"That was truly an amazing work of genius."
- Kevin Hayden, The American Street

"Fantastic! Great work. TS would be proud."
- Billy (the blogging poet) Jones

"Thank you for creating such poetry that allows us to "Feel" such Truth."
- Patty Ann Smith, Hope4America

"A brilliant poem."
- Iddybud

"T.S. would be proud...and probably flattered."
- Tom Priest

I’m pretty happy with how that turned out, although I wish it could have made a difference in the outcome. I am growing weary of all the killing, and know that, under the current regime, it is likely to only get worse. Feel free to look back on this date, and see if my hunch is correct.

So yes, one likes and saves one’s good reviews, and burns the rest. One of my favorites was this one, from a gentleman-author who lived in the mountains of North Carolina:

"It is the best writing I have read there (Writer's Home Page) or anywhere else this year, or maybe for several years. It is bright, fresh, intelligent, and the best comedic writing I have found in ages… "You have that mystical spark. You have the ability to inform and entertain at the same time...a gift that is a pearl of great price. Something mystical tells me you must have a direct connection with that great humorist, Robert Benchley. Your thought processes and command of language of worthy of his great reputation."
- Jim Sauls, author of "Children of the Same God"

If you are so moved, please feel free to send your own review, but only if it is good. Life is already overflowing with bad news. No need to add to it.

I typically suck at reviews, although I did write a good enough Amazon review for I and Thou that an author sent me his book, upon reading the review, and wanted me to review it as well. The book was no Buber. This is what I wrote about Billy the Poet:

“His skill set includes the ability to expand the size of a blog ten thousand fold. And he does it with his hands. Quite remarkable really, when you consider that in just one day, his productivity was 600,000%. And this is why he is not a lackbeard.”

Sometimes you’re on, sometimes you’re not.

Today is an exciting day over at Billy’s because he is premiering Iddybud’s new poem, cabin, which goes something like this:

by Iddybud

soul aroused by roaring elucidation
exhausts its remembrance of God
rumbling words like subway trains

junk of language cluttered
the greater the dignity of angels
the fewer the words they use

it’s said the Lord spoke to Hosea
“Allure the aristocrat’s soul to the
wilderness and I shall speak to her heart.”

moving our selves to move a world
striking out for new communion
emerging from an embodied quietude

we retreat to a cabin in the woods
pining for stillness, simplicity
we find Life is still Not simple

grey wolf stands atop the hill
motionless above the wooded glen
over a cabin and its complication

alone his breath blowing ice mist
meeting cold morning wan light
cryptic simplicity an unnecessary art

the jay unacquainted with compassion
or finding the safe haven of truth
is driven to toil for his gravid mate

his song jars us from reverie
Tull-ull the anvil call he makes
divinity dwells in dissyllabic notes

desiring enlightened days in fences captured
children of our jeweled intuition presently
fly like beams of light through our hopeful clutch

reflection too painful too loud
silence, caretaker of our wisest thought
haunts us like ghosts of the dead

wood floors sing their patterns
wind makes windows tell tales
Failed Solitude Cacophonous Elusion

any road will take us nowhere
if that is where we choose to be
this cabin is our last defense

the dead who make their world
in dreams safe from realms of fact
awaken us, recalling ancient dreams

faith is kept to the inner fires
we’ve carved the inroads to know
the cabin shall not burn to the ground

Blogwise, I was her Zvengali, or since I am in Mayberry country, perhaps I should say SwinGaaalee, Sargeant! Gomer would! But Gomer would do a lot of things.
But she has since taken off, and now does way more than I do in the blogosphere. She is, among other things, The Rational Liberal. I knew there was one!
I told her it seemed to imply that most Liberals were irrational, which is statistically not the case. And now that “Progressive” has come to be the preferred label for us folks whose only agenda is Reasonableness and protection of the common well, the term may well take on an obsolescent hue…although the writing will only get better, as she continues onward and upward in her journey back to God.

Evening Muse

Lea Pritchard of Queen City Music and The Evening Muse has been hard at work. Perhaps more than any other person in Charlotte, she has magnetized many of the leading lights in the Charlotte music scene. Because of her, I became familiarized with and subsequently a big fan of such tremendous musicians as Frocky Jack, Hudson Welsh, her own Ishi and Goldenrods, Mari Moon, Sabra Callas, The Spatulas, Chaucer Wells, The Superficials, Mercybox, Djinn, Mari Moon Band, Jason Hausman, Lindsday Smith, Ishi, Chakras, Crystal Armentrout, David Childers and more.
Her work prompted me to create a radio station at the MP3 site, appropriately called, “The Best of Charlotte”, where the above bands were featured, as well as other great bands like Bigger Than The Beetles, featuring Anonymoses, Naked Karma, Rose and Roland, and a few others.
I also created a station what drew from the avant-garde around the world.

It was called “Mandelbrot’s Brain”, and was listed as such:

The Most Experimental Minds on MP3 and in the world...
Enjoy the work of some of the best musical minds in the world as they weave themselves into an evolving fractal of sound and experience. Hailing from all corners of the globe, these generous creators have unwittingly gathered themselves into this soundtrack of the novel-to-be bearing the same name. And should, God-willing, the novel ever become a screenplay...the soundtrack will, with good fortune, be contained herein. I hope you enjoy these selections. They flow through my head day and night!
Music by Justin D. Scott, The Flaming Lips, Robert Fripp, Josh Joplin Band, Li Li, HarS, Frocky Jack, Adrien Belew, Gao Feng, Hudson Welch, Olivier Fuchs, David Cross, Lu Zhao, Ya Tung, The Push Stars, Infected Mushroom, Tom van Oostrom, Bassic, Raby, Metascape, doctorbinky, Diastereo, Fractalia, Carrie Lynn, Bowie and more...

Some of the musicians hailed from such far away places as Israel, Syria, China, Chile, Japan and all over Europe. It was a place and a way for people of all cultures and walks of life, around the globe, to mingle and listen to each other’s minds, as it were.
Some of the composers were working on what they called “Fractal Music”, such as Justin D. Scott…which fit right into my Mandelbrotian theme.
This went on for several years, until MP3 made one of the stupidest decisions in the history of the Internet. They dumped a million musicians down the toilet. Think of all that Human Capital!
Look up stooopic in the dictionary and it will way: “See MP3”.

Sorry if I sound bitter, but I really do miss listening to some good, original music, democratically distributed and produced. Sans gatekeeper. It is all just a fond memory now, and I doubt I will ever forgive that stooopid stooopid company.
But all is not lost. Ms. Pritchard still has many of these bands at her Queen City Music site, and they will occasionally play at the Evening Muse. So next time you’re in Charlotte, stop and give a listen!

I give a listen whenever I can, but frankly don’t get out much these days. Not sure why. Poverty I suspect. Thoreau probably never got out much either.

I did hear about a concert recently though, at a club called JB’s Lounge, although I think he may be changing it. He is going through some major renovations, I hear, and I hope he plays off the fact that the club is right next to the train tracks. There is even a patio out back where one can almost touch the train as it passes.
“Music Depot” may be a good name. Suckmycat.

Surreal McCoy, after years of public silence, decided to break his silence, and to do it at JB’s, over on Sugar Creek road, just beyond where it intersects with Graham Street. On the left.

Surreal was still in his techno phase, and so the performance was heavy on electronica. It was his Jimy Jamz tour, he called it, although I never really understood why Jimy Jamz wouldn’t be pronounced “Jymee Jamz”. Something about grammar that would seem to dictate that. But what the hell. De gustibus non est disputandem.

Jamz was in rare form that night too. You could hear the people gathered around tables talking about it, and during intermission, Jamz himself came out and talked to the crown, himself. Said it helped build a loyal customer base. I couldn’t argue.

The show began with Surreal, who had been setting up the equipment dressed in workers clothes, retired to the restroom.
Within the span of but a few short minutes, out burst Jimy Jamz dressed in White Elvis, and donning a huge white afro wig. No, it is not White Elvis, it is Spaceman. Jamz is a spaceman! The crowd was cheering as the spotlight turned an illuminated the star of the show.

Sadly, this is all hearsay, as I had gone out to pick up some food, and was late getting back. Judicael relayed the intro to me.

Judicael’s girlfriend, Maria Magndela, could not come, so Jude invited a few of his other friends to come, to make up for the gaping vacuum of her absence. McKenkie was there, as was this feller who looked amazing like me, only twenty years ago. I knew when I saw him, that he must have been one of Jude’s friends, and sure enough, he turned out to be his best friend. And he brought his girlfriend, who was valedictorian at Queens University, and was now doing humanitarian work, which is to say that I forgot just exactly what it was she actually did. I do remember that it was a good thing. A good use of her education.
Jamz played from his greatest hits, which, sadly, were only in the hands of one or two people, I being one of them. So should you want to get in on the magic, write:

Jimy Jamz
302 Austin Drive
Charlotte, NC 28213

And request a list of CDs, or purchase a grab bag of aural goodies.

He played from X-Ray, Gold Rush, Techno Prisoner, Teknova, and others the titles of which slip my mind. I’m really gonna hafta check on this memory loss I am experiencing lately.

My friend and taskmaster, Druthers, is telling me that I have to write a hundred and ninety more words before I can move on, but must stop soon thereafter. But tis hardly gives the time or space needed to say all I wanted to say about the concert, and the brutal rape that took place on the patio during the third set. Nor can I go into any real detail about how people started stripping down to their thongs and such, ending in a rampant orgy of lust and sexual hunger. In a hundred and ninety words, I cannot begin to describe how Harriet Hoover and John Dark, wandered over to the sofa in the dark back corner and how he ran his hands up her dress only to discover that she was unpantied, wet and swollen-lipped. I can’t even tell you how she, for her part, parted and allowed, even encouraged, his explorations, and at one point even went so far as to unzip his pants and claw at his empurpled royal staff with her rape-me red fingernails, while licking out his ears with her probing tongue. 40,000!


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