Roll Call of Those Who Died in 2012

Here is a roll call of some of the people who died in 2012. (Cause of death cited for younger people if available.)

JANUARY:

Kiro Gligorov, 94. First democratically elected president of Macedonia who shepherded his nation through a bloodless secession from the former Yugoslavia and narrowly survived an assassination attempt. Jan. 1.

Bob Anderson, 89. Olympic fencer and movie sword master, he donned Darth Vader's black helmet and fought light saber battles in two "Star Wars" films. Jan. 1.

Keith Little, 87. One of the most recognizable of the remaining Navajo Code Talkers, whose code helped confound the Japanese duirng World War II. Jan. 3.

Lowell Randall, 96. Pioneer rocket scientist who helped launch the U.S. space program and tested intercontinental ballistic missiles. Jan. 3.

Jessica Joy Rees, 12. She became a nationally recognized face ...

read the rest month by month via YAHOO NEWS

2012 in Review - 9 Important Archaeological and Paleontological Discoveries

Great things happen every year, but it never fails that by the time we reach the holiday season, most of them have been forgotten to all but a few die-hard news junkies and history buffs. In case you weren’t obsessively poring over the details of this year’s archaeological news, here’s a year-end round-up.
Read more at http://www.geeksaresexy.net/2012/12/10/2012-in-review-9-important-archaeological-discoveries/#PxhqDO4jAsWB65bY.99 

Donatello (1386-1466)

Donatello was the finest sculptor of the fifteenth century. He revived and refined the art of classical sculpture in the round, and many of his works are explicitly homoerotic. His David is lissome and his St. George became emblematic of beauty for admirers of the male form.Donatello was notorious for ... there is more and there are pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site. 

David Mamet (born Nov. 30, 1947)

David Alan Mamet (born November 30, 1947) is an American playwright, essayist, screenwriter, and film director.

Best known as a playwright, Mamet won a Pulitzer Prize and received Tony nominations for Glengarry Glen Ross (1984) and Speed-the-Plow (1988). As a screenwriter, he received Oscar nominations for The Verdict (1982) and Wag the Dog (1997). Mamet's books include: The Old Religion (1997), a novel about the lynching of Leo Frank; Five Cities of Refuge: Weekly ... read the rest with pics and links at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site. 

Walter Jenkins (March 23, 1918 - November 23, 1985)

Walter Jenkins was a top adviser and chief of staff to President Lyndon Johnson until he was arrested for homosexual acts in a YMCA in 1964. A major scandal erupted and Jenkins resigned. Johnson was unable to replace Jenkins, and instead divided his responsibilities among several staff members.

Read the rest with pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site.

Eleven Weirdly Spelled Words and How They Got That Way

Courtesy of MENTAL FLOSS

Spencer Henderson III

Spencer Henderson III was a Broadway dancer and choreographer. Credits include Steel Magnolias, Footloose, and TV's The Love Boat. He died on November 14, 1993, at his family's home in Fort Worth. He was 44. (Picture: Spencer Henderson (left) with Kevin Bacon during the filming of Footloose (1983). Photo: courtesy Betty Alvarello)

See the picture(s) and read the rest at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site. 

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales V

Frank Jenkins and Harold Tripp are U.S. Army Air Force, World War II airmen who are slowly starving to death inside a Nazi POW camp. In this snippet they are preparing to be marched deeper inside German territory.

 Our barrack was a buzz of activity. Men who had belongings gathered them. Some rested on their beds. Most joined us in huddling near the stove, and within half an hour, whistles blew in the yard. Assembled, we listened as the Commandant addressed us in his well-spoken English.

We would march seventeen kilometers to Dorsten, be loaded onto a train and taken to Numberg. From there, another march of six kilometers to our final destination, Stalag Luft 13D. March to commence at fourteen hundred hours. Of course, the speech was laced with promises of better conditions, medicine, plentiful food, etcetera, all of which we figured was bullshit.

As we rushed inside for a few more minutes of shelter, I asked Harold, "Numberg's clear across the country, isn't it?" 

"Far south and east. Past Frankfurt for sure."

 We huddled near the stove, other men with the same idea made for a crowded gathering. "Hell, we'll almost be in Czechoslovakia," one of them noted. "Might as well just hand us over to the Rooskies."  

Harold and I backed away from the stove. Our eyes met and we both cracked a knowing smile. The Nazis planned to take us far away from the western front, from our liberators. Somehow, somewhere during our eleven-mile march, Harold and I had to make our break or die trying. 

With pairs of Army and prison-issued socks on our feet, Army-issued trousers, shirts and undergarments, leather flight gloves and jackets, and prison-issued woolen blankets folded double, draped over our heads as hoods, wrapped around our necks as scarfs, and the remainder tucked inside our zipped-tightly jackets, we lined up in the yard for our final count. 

At two pm Friday, February 2, 1945, we said goodbye to Stalag Luft 6J. The Commandant and his officers led the way in a luxurious-looking black sedan, which promptly sped off and left us all behind. A single-lane road plowed clear of snow exited the camp and headed south, soon connecting with a wider, east-west road where we turned left. 

Heading east, we marched in loose formation three abreast, Harold in the center, me to his right, the prisoner on his left unknown to us. One truck carrying German soldiers led the column. Supply trucks took up the rear. Sets composed of one dog and its handler accompanied by one guard paced on either side of us, two sets at the head of the column behind the truck, two sets in the rear directly behind prisoners, and four sets spaced evenly between the front and rear.

Harold and I carried nothing, as we marched in a row about thirty back from the head of the column. Talking was forbidden, so we silently trudged forward with our hands stuffed into our pockets, occasionally reaching up to tighten the blankets wrapping our heads. Relatively flat terrain dotted by an occasional tree gave way to a rolling hill. Upgrading slightly, the road curved a bit to the right, and on our right, patches of old-growth trees became thicker as we progressed. 

With the road meandering a bit to the southeast a shadow fell upon our column, the forest on our right blocking the late-afternoon sunshine. Harold and I weren't the only ones eyeing this forest. Several heads in front of us turned as well. Gauging possibilities. Distance from roadbed to tree cover ten, maybe twelve yards. Too far through snow too deep for one man to make it. Guards on the march would easily shoot him down. The only hope would be if dozens made a break. Safety in numbers and some might get to the cover of forest. Dogs would chase. Soldiers in the truck would pile out and pursue, but at least there'd be a chance.

None of us knew what started the commotion behind us near the middle of the column. At least two of the dogs barked and growled. Harold and I took one look back. He slapped my shoulder to prompt me at the same time I reached for his arm to pull him, and we streaked to our right with me in the lead. Dozens more did the same. I could see them all when I suddenly dropped into snow up to my waist. A damned ditch beside the roadbed. I struggled to gain my footing with Harold just to my right, as rifle fire popped from behind us and prisoners fell. We made it up from the ditch, snow about calf-deep, and sprinted for the nearest line of trees. Once in the forest, we moved quickly with snow at ankle depth. 

"Go to the left," Harold spoke calmly, as we darted between trees spaced a few feet apart with trunks anywhere from one to four feet in diameter. Sounds of bullets smashing into wood echoed to our right. A good sound, I thought. Most of the men were running toward the west, while we tried to stay east. Machine gun fire came from the road, sounding more and more distant as we made our way through the forest. A quarter mile. A half, and the rifle shots to our right seemed far, far away. With me a few steps ahead, we covered a mile or better before Harold said, "Hold up, Frank." 

I stopped by the trunk of an older tree four feet round. We leaned against it. Caught our breaths, the frigid air jabbing inside my chest like somebody had crammed icicles down my throat.  

"You all right?" Harold huffed and puffed. 

"Good. You?"

He nodded, his mouth agape as he sucked in air despite the pain. We adjusted our blankets so they again tightly wrapped our heads. Listened for shots. Heard none. Barking dogs. None. A slight breeze whistling through the barren tree tops was the only sound. "Damn, Frank. I could barely keep up with you." 

"Baloney," I grinned, my heart rate slowing, my breathing almost normal. "Thanks for covering my backside."

"Sorry, pal. I was covering nothing. Just running for my life, that's all." 

"Same here, Harold. Run and pray." I gathered a handful of snow and stuffed it into my mouth, swallowed as it melted. "I'm ready to move whenever you are. Still going east?"

"Let's try more to the south. Deeper into the woods gives us a better chance. You think?"

"Sure. Come out the opposite side we came in, and head west if it looks safe." 

"I'm with you. We can walk easy now. Keep our ears and eyes open."

"It's a plan. Let's go." 

We traversed from one tree to the next. Paces taken in between trunks were anxious moments, out in the open where bullets could take us down with no warning. I silently cursed the snow for freezing my feet. Thanked it for muting our steps when we crunched dead leaves or fallen sticks. Every fifth tree or so, we'd look skyward. Try to gauge our direction by angle of the sun and the shadows it made hitting the high branches. Harold and I estimated it to be at least four, maybe five o'clock. On the ground it looked like dusk. 

Deteriorating visibility created phantoms. Everywhere I looked, I saw a Nazi in uniform hiding behind a trunk with rifle waiting. A split second, a skip of my heartbeat until my eyes and brain recognized the shadow or undergrowth was not human. The mind plays tricks when adrenalin constantly flows, but a dark form next to a tree trunk ten steps ahead was no joke. I stopped in my tracks, and so did Harold. A German Shepherd, big and male, sat quietly on its hind quarters. 

* * *

The Good Shepherd is historical manlove published by MLR PRESS. It is also made for the KINDLE at AMAZON. Links to more excerpts in text and audio can be accessed at Jardonn's Erotic Tales. 

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales IV

A Viet Nam-era Navy veteran gives me an orgasm I'll never forget.

"Damn right!" He viciously rolled us over and put himself on top, causing our bodies to nearly slip off the side of the bed. Keeping me firmly wrapped in his bear hug, he lifted me up and shifted me to the pillow, then slammed me down to the position he had just abandoned. With my chest cavity still clamped in his vise, John rapidly planted kisses all over my forehead, nose, cheeks and lips. My face was assaulted with frantic pecks, while my ribs were crushed between his chest and forearms.

I was manhandled. And I loved it.

Every part of me was useless, completely under his spell, except for my dick. It was fully charged. Had been ever since I’d awakened atop his belly, and because John knew I loved his middle-section as much as he loved me loving it, he brought it into play in a manner unexpected.

John rose on his knees ever so slightly. With his arms still encircling my back and pressing our chests together, he slowly thrust himself forward, rubbing the head of my cock against the skin of his belly. Hard kisses relentlessly peppered my face. Powerful arms mercilessly crushed my chest, while John’s erotically smooth and talented abdominal cavity masturbated me.

My hands clasped onto his back, racing up and down his undulating muscles, and although I said nothing, I thought plenty.

Oh, my God, you rough-ass son of a bitch... what the hell are you doing to me? God, your belly feels so good... so fucking soft... and hard... and just the right pressure... ooh... what the hell was that? OOH! There it is again... oh, geez... are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s his belly button... ooh, God damn... it’s clipping the head of my dick... ooh, shit... there it goes the other way... where the hell did you learn how to do this? Oh, man... there it is again... God, I can feel his tits scraping me, too... you beautiful mother... ooh, that navel... skin’s so tight... fuck an A... you talented piece of work, you... I can’t believe this shit... beating me off with his God damned belly button... ooh, there it goes... oh, God damn, John... I love you... damn you to hell... I love you...

And at that moment I did love him. Would never say it though, even in the heated passion of a belly button jack off. Learned that rule on my own. People say all sorts of silly things when they’re busting a nut, and a single man telling a married man that he loves him definitely qualifies as silly. And useless. Besides, actions do speak louder than words, and John knew I was enamored with him. He had to know, just as I knew in my heart he fancied me. Why else would a twenty year old and a forty year old take up with each other in the first place? 

* * *

The Elevated Man is one of two stories in a manlust book of same title. Made for the KINDLE at AMAZON. Also can be seen at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales III

Henry Mitchell is an active Navy man during World War II. He pilots a Grumman fighter plane from an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific... that is until he is forced to bail from his crippled fighter, parachuting down onto an uncharted island. His fear of capture by Japanese soldiers is soon replaced by a reality perhaps worse. He is stripped to his undershorts, strung up and suspended between two trees, crucified Saint Andrew style, and subjected to tortures at the hands of a female Christian missionary-gone-mad and her tribe of brainwashed pygmy followers. Here's his current predicament:

 I hurt. Bad. Felt like my arms might rip from their sockets. Hands and fingers were going numb from tightness of vine roping my wrists.

I had no clue as to how many hours had passed since they plucked me from my tree-top perch. The angle of the sun said early afternoon, but I could only assume it was the day following my dusk-time landing into their island tree top. For the moment, both the white woman and her pygmy friends were ignoring me. Her “little ones” staggering about with their arms stretched to the sky and eyes closed, while moaning and crying as though someone had died.

Death would have perhaps been preferable to suffering through the farce being presented below me. The preacher woman had truly been struck with the spirit and was speaking in tongues, the ridiculous babble used by hucksters to convince the gullible of their religious superiority. God speaking through them in a language of gibberish spoken only in heaven.

So goes the claim, but of course it’s just another trick in the arsenal of those who pretend to possess a direct line to the Almighty.

Since the white witch and her doe-eyed followers were busy, I figured it to be an ideal moment for me to relieve myself. With any luck, it might even snap her out of her hamma-gamma-goo tongue-speak.

I let go a long stream and soiled my already dirt-soiled briefs. Ahhhhh! Yes! What satisfaction. My hot urine stinging my legs. Dripping off my toes. Even washing away some of my sweat. Praise be to Jesus, and my bladder gave thanks as well.

My urination festival brought about the desired results. One of the female pygmies saw what I was doing and shrieked in horror, causing the rest of them to stop posturing and drop their jaws in shock. The female shyster, however, was unstirred. In fact, she turned my little act of defiance to her advantage.

“Praise Jesus, my brothers and sisters. Our faith in his power has driven out the first demon. Bit by bit, we will chase the devil out of this pitiful man. Give thanks to our lord and savior, Jesus Christ. His work has just begun.”

A hushed awe fell over the congregation, as they collapsed to their knees, clasping their hands together in prayer. Their lips moved to obediently display their devotion, their high-pitched mumblings sounding like a disorganized chorus of deranged chipmunks.

Couldn't tell if their reverence was for the woman or her god, but without a doubt, her brainwashing techniques were most impressive.

This squeaky prayer session allowed me to listen and read lips, as I focused on one of the female pygmies near my feet. “Thank you, Jesus,” she mouthed. “Praise be to doctor Wilma.”

“Ocka Wilwah?” I laughed in my garbled tongue through painful gag. “You gah be ki’ing me!”

The woman in white robe knew exactly what I had said. She instantly transformed her expression from that of the serene minister of goodness to the enraged purveyor of evil. Seemingly concerned that her pygmy faithful might have understood my words, she quickly solved her problem.

“Go, my children,” her calm expression of piety accompanied her orders. “Go to your homes. Now we pray in solitude. Pray for the wayward soul of this pitiful man. He is our fallen brother. Deceived by the devil. Pray that he can know the love of Jesus as we do.”

Although it was impossible for me to admire this woman, I had to admit that she was a slick one. Not only had she taught them her language, but she also used that language to effectively transform them into robots, and like zombies did they drift toward and into their huts.

Doctor Wilma waited patiently for the last pygmy to disappear before turning her attention to me. Casually strolling to the stone altar, she lifted a large wooden bowl and brought it with her to me. Water was in the bowl, and Wilma splashed the cleansing liquid onto my groin, watching it cascade down my shorts, legs and feet to wash away my urine.

“I do declare, Captain Mitchell. You are a disgusting pig.”

The gag made it too hurtful for me to speak, but I had to mock her best I could. I repeated with a pained smile. “Ocka Wilwah,” which brought nothing more from her than a malicious grin.

She turned away from me, moving toward the hut with steeple on top. Before entering she spun to face me and shook a long-distance fist, but as she did another human of normal height appeared as a shadow behind her, still inside the hut.

The form blocked her path, and when Wilma quickly turned to pass through the doorway, she collided with whoever was standing there.

“Get back, you fool,” she barked, and with a violent thrust she forced the shadowed figure inside and out of her way.

And then, before disappearing into darkness, the good reverend lifted her robe above her head and briefly revealed her backside nakedness to me. It was only a five-second glimpse. It came from a distance of at least thirty feet, but it was an effective tease. A bit of pressure bulged my wet underwear, as doctor Wilma vanished into her hole.

* * *

I Was Tortured By the Pygmy Love Queen is one of three stories in Jasper McCutcheon's book, Phallicacies. It is made in paperback and for Kindle, both versions posted at AMAZON. Another excerpt from Phallicacies can be accessed from the Jardonn's Erotic Tales web site. 

JJSaid 1112 - Soldiers in Tales II

Forrest Barton and Wilton Zukel are cousins, both veterans of The Great War, WWI, and while nearly 25 percent of U.S. workers in 1933 are unemployed, Forrest builds roads for the highway department and Wilton runs locomotives for the railroad.

The third party in this scene, Roger, is employed in a rather demeaning sort of way. He is Wilton's homo house boy. Here, the trio sit at Wilton's kitchen table playing with a newfangled lighter while Roger serves them lunch.

“Do yourself,” Wilton handed it over. “Flip open the cover and turn the wheel.” Sparks flew and a triangular flame waited. Forrest repeatedly sucked the fire into chocolate-colored flakes wrapped in coffee-colored leaf until his face nearly disappeared behind a shroud of smoke. “Now,” instructed Wilton, “try to blow out the flame.” With cigar held in his left-hand fingers and Zippo in his right, Forrest exhaled a vociferous puff through pinhole lips. The flame wildly flickered forward, extended nearly an inch toward Wilton, but could not be extinguished. He tried again and again, but each time the flame returned full-strength to its vertical triangle.

“Well, I'll be God damned go to hell!” Forrest flipped shut the lid, opened it again and the flame was gone. “Now my life is complete. What more could a man ever need than this?”

“How about if I suck on your pecker?” Roger offered. “Will that make you more complete?”

Forrest's enthusiasm vanished as quickly as the Zippo's fire. He gently set Wilton's lighter on the table, stuck his stogie between his molars. “Sorry, bub. I think my pecker's worn out. Got me a woman over at the boarding house where I'm staying. I poked her good last night, but she suggested I come back for another before leaving town."

“Oh,” Roger picked up a slice of onion, severed it with a chomp of his incisors. “Good for her.”

With Wilton doing his best not to snicker, Forrest removed his spit-saturated cigar from his mouth, took a sip of coffee. “Besides, you ought to be saving your strength for this one over here. Seeing as how he'll be on the road for... how many days, Wilton?”

“Five. Barring any unforeseens.”

“And what will you be doing with all that free time, Roger?” Forrest puffed his cigar and turned the screw a bit tighter. “Looking for work?”

Roger dramatically stood, the backs of his knees shoving his chair, its wooden legs squealing as they scraped on wooden floor. “There isn't any work.” He stomped toward the sink with plate in hand, slamming it onto the counter and bouncing his remaining food in all directions. “I've got laundry to do,” he barked, storming from the kitchen without a look toward either of them.

As they listened to his footsteps tromping down the stairs, Wilton grinned and Forrest shook his head. “Did I rile him up good enough, Wilton?”

"I think so."

"Had any action since you got home?"

"Oh, he sucked on me a time or two."

"When are you going to replace him with someone who appreciates you a bit more?"

"Beggars can't be choosey, Forrest. I do have mirrors, you know."

"Bullshit. There's a hundred out-of-work youngsters who'd line up at your door if they knew..."

"Now, look here, cousin. Roger serves his purpose," Wilton fired up his Zippo and added his own cigar smoke to the kitchen. "He keeps my house going when I'm on the road. I like having someone here watching the place, and I don't mind helping him until he can get back on his feet."

"I know that, but he ought to show you some respect. Makes me feel rotten, since I'm the one who..."

"You've got no cause to feel that way, Forrest. I made the decision to bring him here, and I'm perfectly happy with the way things are. Roger knows how far he can push me. He also knows when it's time to put out or get out."

"Is the rent due, Wilton?"

"Overdue, Forrest. He likes you... or I should say, he likes your willie. Something he can handle without having to scream for mercy. Ready?"

"Yep. His room or yours?"

"His."

There was no love in the exercise. Three men stripped, and with shades drawn in the upstairs, northeast bedroom, they connected upon a mattress. Wilton sprawled on his back while Roger, above him on all fours, slobbered on his landlord's monster dick. Behind Roger, Forrest, on his knees, poked his wood into Roger's anus. None of the men performing their functions paid much attention to the men in their presence. Wilton thought of the recently-released movie, King Kong, substituting Fay Wray for Roger and himself for the ape. Forrest thought of himself, replacing a naturally-lubricated and tight vagina for Roger's cold-cream lubricated and tight rectum. Roger thought of how he would enjoy having Wilton's house all to himself, plus, he hoped this would fulfill his obligation for another week's stay.

* * *

GRIT is about railroaders and hoodlums in the Dust Bowl of the Great Depression. Co-authored by Jardonn Smith and William Maltese, it is published by MLR Press and can be seen at their web site, at AMAZON, and at the JARDONN site, where you'll find more excerpts in text and audio. 

Pete Townshend - Slit Skirts

For post-election... on YouTube

Alice Cooper - No More Mister Nice Guy

A sentiment for the voting booth on YouTube

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales I

Several of my stories involve soldiers either active or discharged. With Veteran's Day upcoming, I'll let some of these characters talk their talk, so to talk.

 Boris is a retired legionnaire, and here he tells to his young lover, Gregoric (narrator), of an incident when he was soldiering in Rome's Eastern Empire, third century CE...


"Palmyra had once been a great city. An oasis in the desert. On the trade routes linking Persia and India with the Roman Empire, but that all changed when a certain queen revolted against Aurelian around 272. She declared their independence from Rome and was on an expedition to take Antioch when she was captured. Sent to Rome in chains. As for Palmyra, Aurelian ordered the leading citizens be slaughtered and their city destroyed. This queen, named Zenobia, had a glorious temple, and Nepotian and I liked to hang out in its ruins. We'd get a jug of beer, sit, drink, talk, and eventually pass out. This was after we'd chased off the crazy lady who lived there. She claimed to be related to Queen Zenobia. Claimed Zenobia was a descendant of Cleopatra, you know, the Egyptian queen who seduced Marc Antony."

"I remember. The Triumvirate, Julius Caesar, civil war, Octavian, end of the Republic and beginning of Emperor rule... Augustus."  

"Damn, I am one fine teacher. Anyway, we'd always have to chase her away. She wasn't someone you could have conversation with, but she was by far the most beautiful woman in town. Always prancing around babbling her words of insanity wearing nothing but a tight strap over her breasts and skimpy one around her waist. There was a brothel in town. Nothing but gnarly-toothed hags with leathery skin. Little satisfaction. We'd had our fill of them, and one night we were just drunk enough to take on the crazy lady."

"Did she babble while you screwed her?"

Boris coyly chuckled, "You know me too well, Gregoric. No, I kissed her foul mouth to shut her up while I poked her. She was a wild one. Her loins were like her brains. All kinds of crazy stuff going on inside her. Anyway, I came, pulled out, and promptly passed out. Left her for Nepo to poke. Guess who woke me up."

"Who?"

"Bacurius. I had to shake my head. Thought I was having a nightmare at first. About three feet away from me was the crazy lady. Knife in her gut. Just past her, Nepo. His throat cut."

"Dead?"

"Dead as the city itself."

Stunned, I had nothing to say. No expressive damn, or my god. No words of sympathy, and no need to ask him for details of how it happened. I knew Boris well enough to know he would finish when he was ready. And he knew when my tear fell onto his chest that his pain was now partially mine.

"You know," he started, stopped, took a deep breath, tensed his chest to suppress breaking down, and then continued with quick pace to get through to the end. "Part of her babbling had always been about how she was going to run us Roman swine out of her city. How she'd kill every one of us. That's why we always chased her off. It got old real quick, but the beer made us drop our guard. She must have had the knife hidden nearby. How she got it into her hand without Nepo seeing it I'll never know. My passing out made it easier for her to do what she did. Bacurius hiding out and watching us is what saved me."

"Do you ever wonder why he bothered? I mean, you weren't exactly best of friends."

"Well, at the time I thought maybe he'd been connected to us for such a long time, charged with watching us, he felt the need to intervene. After all, despite our many personal battles, we were Roman soldiers. A brotherhood, if you like. Needless to say, that incident brought about a major change in me. I will always be grateful to Bacurius, and I told him so. I asked him to forgive me for all the times we'd tricked him. Told him I owed him my life, and that what he'd done for me would never be forgotten. It also ended my days of drinking for sole purpose of getting drunk. Made my decision to honor Lupicinus and Nepotian by bettering myself, learning as much as possible so I could do something worthwhile."

"And here you are stuck in a Tervingi cave with only one student who will listen to you."

Danube Divide, a novel-length tale of war, romance, political intrigue and religious conflict, is available in ebook or paperback at its publisher's web site, MLR PRESS, or at Amazon.

More excerpts can be accessed at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.

Twelve Actors Who Have Belittled their Own Films

Courtesy of Newser dot com

I Only Have Eyes for You

A classic song of love recorded by dozens of artists. Written by Harry Warren and Al Dubin for the 1934 Busby Berkeley film, Dames, the performance includes a visually bedazzling "Berkeley Girls" sequence and comprises over ten minutes of film time.

Original version on YouTube  

As for versions that have followed, I think this one from 1959 is tops:

The Flamingos

The 25 Worst Passwords for 2012

Courtesy of THE WEEK

Aligning Alexandria with the Sun

Ancient Egypt City Aligned With Sun on King's Birthday

The Egyptian city of Alexandria, home to one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, may have been built to align with the rising sun on the day of Alexander the Great's birth, a new study finds.

The Macedonian king, who commanded an empire that stretched from Greece to Egypt to the Indus River in what is now India, founded the city of Alexandria in 331 B.C.

Read the rest with graphics at LiveScience

XTC - Wrapped in Grey

A musical invitation to create something, from album NONSUCH

63 Vintage Ads for Alt-Rock Classics

Courtesy of BUZZFEED

JJ Say 101212

This Jardonn story will be a Kindle book in a week or two. Here's a scene where an older guy sprawls on a mattress, surrending himself so his wet-behind-the-ears partner can practice the fine art of body worship.

“You’ve sure got hairy legs.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Like everywhere else I’d been, John’s body hairs were made darker with my painting tongue, his dried sweat replaced by my spit. Both shins, both calves, both knees and both thighs, I spared nothing until reaching his golden V where two delectable balls lay waiting.

“What the hell are you... a man or a bull?”

“Just a dog, Jason. That’s all I am.” And just as a dog does when sunning his belly in afternoon rays, John drew up his knees and spread his legs into a butterfly. His nuts were fully exposed.

Here is where my master’s thesis was written, for here is where a man is won or lost. His gonads, so sensitive, require great skill to properly stimulate without threatening discomfort, but once conquered, the man is completely under control. My control. From then on, I can do just about whatever I want to do with him.

I took my time learning how to love John’s nuts. I practiced with my fingertips, delicately scratching, pinching and twisting. I tested with my lips, gently kissing, pinching sensitive flesh while tugging on testicle hairs. I scored high marks with my tongue, slavishly flicking and licking, and by the time I’d graduated this course, John’s penis frantically bounced on his belly in an erotic ballet of syrup-oozing delight. By the time I was finished with what I needed to know, John had nothing more to say other than mesmerized groans of happiness and pitiful moans of wanting me to finish him.

“Well, John, you know that I’m certainly no expert on the matter, but damn, that dick of yours sure is handsome.”

“Um hm... mm.”

That was not much of an answer, but it was an invitation to continue. Because John had so recently shot me full of his semen, he wouldn't be getting off again anytime soon. I was allowed plenty of time for learning. Time for mastering my sucking skills.

“Give me that beautiful piece of equipment,” I demanded upon snatching his cock with my lips. My first move was to engulf the entire thing. Get it nice and wet. From there, I trained myself. Experiments graded by his tones of voice. John’s grunts, moans and groans, high-pitched, low-pitched, medium-pitched, told me what worked and how well. Such a generous teacher was John that he suffered countless near-orgasms while I filled my head with knowledge. I did eventually catch on as to how I was torturing him. I came to the realization that when he tensed up and his balls shrunk to peanuts it was rather cruel of me to change tactics and try a new technique. Bad timing? Perhaps, but even after I knew what I was doing I kept doing it because I now had good reason. John was no longer in control. I was. This was my classroom, John my guinea pig.

When I finally let John blow his load, this hard-assed tough guy whimpered like a baby. But I will say that for a man forty-something years old, his second coming that came an hour after his first was quite impressive. Thanks to me by my way of thinking, by my way of doing. My hour with a surrendered John taught me how to properly stimulate every body part necessary for good orgasm. I’d also made great strides in becoming what I now knew I wished to be – a professional cock sucker. The best ever.

That’s all John wanted from me. He wanted me to be my best – for myself, and for him.

10 Great Performances in Truly Terrible Movies

Good narratives and trailer clips for each, courtesy of Flavorwire

Graham Chapman via Elisa Rolle

Graham Arthur Chapman (8 January 1941 – 4 October 1989) was an English comedian, writer, actor, and one of the six members of the surreal comedy group Monty Python.

Chapman was born at the Stoneygate Nursing Home, Stoneygate, Leicester.

Read the rest and see pics at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site.

JJ Said 100112

Imagine yourself a female citizen living in the Roman Empire before punishment by crucifixion was outlawed. By foot, you're traveling the countryside from point A to point B on one of the stone-paved highways, and you come upon three naked men hanging from their crosses. Strangely, no guards are in sight. No people of any sort are anywhere near. The prisoners are abandoned, their dicks hard, and a ladder lies nearby.

You have access to three, defenseless, fully-erect men. Would you be tempted? Would such a rape be legitimate? 

The scene is set for a snippet from one of three tales in Jasper's book, Phallicacies. 

I admire the magnificent forms of three crucified men. I absorb their beauty, for there is nothing more glorious than a naked male suspended from the cross -- his muscular chest, arms, and belly flexing and straining against his torture, his phallus unnaturally inflated with blood, majestically piercing the air. Sad to think of it, such opposites of emotions, for even though his defiant struggle is a sight for lustful eyes, his pain and lingering death is a tragedy beyond compare. It causes the witness to wish natural law could be temporarily halted, to wish beauty such as this could be enjoyed without the pain and suffering that comes with it, without the inevitable and horrific end that awaits a crucified man.

But it is not to be. Natural law suspended would create chaos. No gravity to keep humans and all they have built clinging to the ground. No rotation of earth to generate oxygen for all creatures to breathe. No retribution for those who do evil under the guise of good.

We must have all of it or none of it, and so, these three men -- despite their beauty, despite their purety of heart and honor and duty to Empire -- these three men will be tortured and they will die. I do not want these men to die, but natural law says it must be so. Nothing can change this, but something can work with natural law to hasten an end to their suffering.

Taking that broken ladder, I prop its longer, four-step end to the vertical stipes of the centered cross. From my travel pouch I retrieve a coin, and three steps bring my face to the chest of my soldier.

"Here, loyal citizen, mighty warrior. Open your mouth and lift your tongue. It is for Charon, the ferryman, he will take you across the river for eternal rest."

My soldier takes his coin as I raise myself one more step to kiss his lips. "You are a true Roman. The gods will welcome you; your fellow citizens will remember you; I will honor you."

As I descend one step at a time, I linger where I can reach to kiss his sweat-drenched and heaving chest, peck his horrifically stretched nipples with my lips, lick his tightly flattened and hard-muscled belly with my tongue. One step up, I raise my gown and impale myself on his engorged penis. I take his full length to the back of my vaginal wall, crush him there while wrapping my arms around his back. My hands slide up his shoulder blades. My fingers clutch his trapeziums and I step off the ladder.

He shudders, my soldier does, his body taking my full weight as I rapidly and repeatedly slam my pelvis to his. He groans in agony and ecstasy. His body, further stretched, quickly weakens. His chest and diaphragm lose their battle to fill his lungs with oxygen, and as his testicles contract to jettison his semen from his penis into my vagina, I send my loyal soldier on his way. He orgasms. He expires. He takes Charon's coin with him, leaving his magnificent seed with me.

(end of excerpt)

Phallicacies is three erotic tales in praise of the penis, and made for the KINDLE READER at AMAZON.

  

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It's the Conan Audiency Awards, including an appearance by the Fashion Assassin, James Sinclair St. Wallins.

Nazi-Acquired Buddha Statue Came from Space

as in a 10,000 year old meteorite... swastika included... from LiveScience.com via Yahoo

Jeff Wadlington via Elisa Rolle

Jeff Wadlington was a dancer for the Paul Taylor Dance Company in New York City from 1985 until his death.

Mr. Wadlington was a dancer with a sunny, boyish charm that was captured in the "Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy" solo Mr. Taylor created for him in "Company B." He trained in dance with Richard Kuch and Richard Gain at the North Carolina School of the Arts and danced in New York in the mid-1980's with the companies of May O'Donnell and Joyce Trisler.

Read the rest with pictures at Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings .

Brian Eno Julie With

Come down, Saturday night high, meditate... travel

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Stand-up comedienne Nikki Glaser is hilariously raunchy and raunchily hilarious.

Andre the Giant 1946-1993

Photo set courtesy of RETRONAUT

10 Wimpiest U.S. Muscle Cars Ever

Courtesy of Popular Mechanics via Yahoo

Adrian via Elisa Rolle

Adrian Adolph Greenberg (March 3, 1903 — September 13, 1959), most widely known as Adrian, was an American costume designer whose most famous costumes were for The Wizard of Oz and other Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer films of the 1930s and 1940s. During his career, he designed costumes for over 250 films and his screen credits usually read as "Gowns by Adrian". On occasion, he was credited as Gilbert Adrian, a combination of his father's forename and his own.

Read the rest of this amazingly researched post with tons of pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site.

6 Filthy Pieces from Ancient History

They say filthy I say eroticy... it's all good...

from CRACKED . com

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Bruise of the Century... Conan tried to ride a water buffalo, but said buffalo had other ideas.

Purple Pain

Wound Man

Surgical illustrations from the Middle Ages...

Courtesy of RETRONAUT

Six Strangest Previous Careers of Famous Musicians

Courtesy of CRACKED . com

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The Real Jesus defends lady in Spain who tried to restore a painting of him. Brian McCann as Jesus

12 Old War Photographs You Won't Believe Aren't Photoshopped

courtesy of CRACKED. Com

Overtreatment is Taking a Harmful Toll

A good example of how the uninsured often get better treatment. The uninsured are diagnosed, treated and released quickly, because hospitals don't figure to make much money out of the deal.

In contrast, here's what happens if you're covered, courtesy of the New York Times Health Blog

frequently felt*: The Facialist-Out Today!

A new book by my pal, Mykola Dementiuk:

frequently felt*: The Facialist-Out Today!: My book, The Facialist, came out this morning. 150 pages available in paperback from Amazon or e-book from JMS Books and this week the e-b...

Birthplace of most European and West Asian languages traced to Turkey

Using methods borrowed from epidemiology, researchers have identified Anatolia, a peninsula that is now part of Turkey, as the origin of the major language families of Europe and West Asia.

English is one member of a large family, the Indo-European languages, that are now spoken by a huge swath of the world. But where they originated is the subject of controversy, with experts undecided between two areas of western Asia.

Read the rest with pictures at the Christian Science Monitor web site.

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We like Iron Mike... and are stunned to learn he was once shot down by Brad Pitt.

Mike Tyson on Conan 04-03-12

Jay Leno's Monologue - Mad Magazine Version

It was announced this week that The Tonight Show is making budget cuts — which means not only a pay cut for Jay Leno, but also the loss of 25 jobs on the show. As much as we could argue that the real victims of The Tonight Show are anyone who’s been forced to watch an episode, this is still sad news.

Read the rest and see the captioned picture parody at the Mad Magazine web site.

Sergei Diaghilev via Elisa Rolle

Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev (Sergei Pavlovich Dyagilev, 31 March [O.S. 19 March] 1872 – 19 August 1929), usually referred to outside of Russia as Serge, was a Russian art critic, patron, ballet impresario and founder of the Ballets Russes, from which many famous dancers and choreographers would arise.

Sergei Diaghilev was born to a wealthy and cultured family in Selischi (Novgorod Governorate), Russia; his father, Pavel Pavlovich, was a cavalry colonel, but the family's money came mainly from vodka distilleries.

Read the rest with pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site.

People of Venice Beach, 1970's

Like, dude, it's a photo album. Dig?

Courtesy of RETRONAUT.COM .

Henry Geldzahler via Elisa Rolle

Henry Geldzahler (July 9, 1935 – August 16, 1994) was a curator of contemporary art in the late 20th century, as well as a modern art art historian and art critic. He is best known for his work at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and as New York City Commissioner of Cultural Affairs, and for his social role in the art world with a close relationship with contemporary artists. (Picture: Henry Geldzahler by Andy Warhol)

Born in Antwerp, Belgium, Geldzahler's Jewish family emigrated to the United States in 1940. ..

Read it all with pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site.

Six Famous Songs that Don't Mean What You Think

via Cracked.com...

Sometimes, the more you know about a song the less you enjoy it. You start out thinking the singer of some ballad totally identifies with your situation, then later find out most musicians are creepy sex maniacs, and boring at the same time.
With that in mind, here's six popular songs that aren't nearly as awesome once you find out what they actually mean.


Read more: 6 Famous Songs That Don't Mean What You Think | Cracked.com http://www.cracked.com/article_16442_6-famous-songs-that-dont-mean-what-you-think.html#ixzz23bSnGMIf

 

 

Steven F. Arnold via Elisa Rolle

Steven Arnold (1943–1994) was a California-based multi-media artist, spiritualist, gender bender and protegee of Salvador Dalí. His work consisted of drawings, paintings, rock and film poster art, makeup design, costume design, set design, photography and film.

Arnold also played an instrumental role in giving The Cockettes, the famed psychedelic San Francisco drag troupe, their first chance to perform on stage in exchange for free tickets to his "Nocturnal Dream Show"

Read the rest with pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal Site .

JJ Said 080612

The third and final part of the made for Kindle series, Erotic Tales from The Burrow, is finished and available at Amazon.

Based on the title and cover picture, it's plain to see that some men inside The Burrow are considered no better than livestock, and accordingly, they will be unmercifully milked.

Meanwhile, recruiters are busy screening for the next herd of cattle.

Here's a piece:

So, there he is sprawled atop Pete, his chest sticking up in the air. He's staring at himself in the ceiling mirror, helplessly watching as four, mature, beautiful (even though his morality training says they're not, his carnal instincts say they are), naked females work him over. Their tongues and lips and delicate fingers inundate him with licks and kisses and gentle pinchings to his pecs and nipples and stomach and belly. His legs and feet are worshiped, along with his arms and their pits, and finally, he shuts his objecting mouth and allows himself to feel.

His desperate straining to break free transforms into flexing undulations. Displays of his masculinity. Prideful exhibitions of his manly physique. His cock cannot lie. It fills with blood. Flips onto his belly, and whatever remains of his do-gooder mindset that says this is so wrong is completely obliterated when Brianne takes his dick into her mouth, rams it to the back of her throat, extends her tongue and licks his balls.

The Milking Tank Menagerie is 99 cents.

  

Combined, the three books comprising Erotic Tales from the Burrow total about 35,000 words and cost just under five bucks.  

See all three at Amazon

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Music: Jason Mraz - I Won't Give Up

Rudolf Brazda via Elisa Rolle

Rudolf Brazda (June 26, 1913 – August 3, 2011) was the last known concentration camp survivor deported by Nazi Germany on charges of homosexuality. Brazda spent nearly three years at the Buchenwald concentration camp, where his prisoner uniform was branded with the distinctive pink triangle that the Nazis used to mark men interned as homosexuals. After the liberation of Buchenwald, Brazda settled in Alsace, northeastern France, in May 1945 and ...

Read the rest with pictures at

Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings

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It's music. Rock 'n' Roll is alive and kicking...

thenewno2 - Make It Home

Inside the Lusitania

Luxury liner sunk by German submarine during WWI...

Pics via RETRONAUT

Maury Paul via Elisa Rolle

Marty Henry Biddle Paul (1890 - Jul. 27, 1942) wrote under the pen names "Dolly Madison", "Polly Stuyvesant", "Billy Benedick", and "Cholly Knickerbocker". Paul's coy approach and adeptness at personal badgering combined with a change in society standards produced a circulation-building type of journalism for Hearst.

read the rest at...

Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site

All the Nasties

His voice, recorded live forty years ago, right on pitch, full of emotion, singing one of my all-time favs.

All the Nasties on YouTube 

Crucified and Milked

A not-well-kept secret says I am into eroticizing male crucifixion. Most stories I've written have at least one scene of a man on the cross, and I suppose sometimes I do go overboard.

One such sometime was the second story in my book, The Crux of It - Erotic Tales of Men on the Cross and the Women Who Put Them There. Guess the title spills the beans, eh? Anyway, the scene takes place in an 1880 Montana mining town, and I had the audacity to crucify seven men at once, while another one is stretched on a rack and forced to watch the seven suffer. Here's what I wrote:


Seven females moved to seven crosses -- two on the west wall to Pete's left, five on the north wall straight ahead. One by one the women removed platforms from the crosses. Each naked man dropped into full suspension, groans of agony echoing the room. Strong men. Men who swung the pick axe. Men who lifted heavy rock by hand and shovel. Hard-bodied and rugged and in all shapes and sizes -- from the thick and burly to the slender and wiry, some smooth-skinned and some covered with fur -- seven strong men now struggled for air, struggled to keep their powerful bodies together.

Gravity tortured them, threatening to rip arms from sockets. Compression on their chests and diaphragms made each breath they drew more shallow than the previous. Their heart rates gradually increased in a losing battle to supply oxygen-rich blood to muscles and organs.

A scene of beauty. A scene of tragedy. The naked male form in all its glory. Stretched, arms flared diagonally left and right, chests thrust forward, abdomens caved inward, legs dangling, struggling feet planted to stipes or wall but unable to remain there for more than seconds at a time. As their lungs gradually lost ability to intake sufficient air, their hearts raced frantically, pumping oxygen-poor blood throughout their bodies. Each man's phallus filled with blood, but the blood was unable to leave, their involuntary erections adding to their misery. Their heroic battle was a losing one, a slow, torturous demise, and Pete could not bear to see it, could not bear to listen.

"Stop it, you evil bitch. Give them something to stand on."

Because of his smart mouth, the ladies torture him awhile before I get back to the guys on their crosses here:



Seven female mouths engulfed seven hard cocks belonging to seven crucified men. Pitifully they moaned, their failing strength unable to mount resistance. Humiliated. Degraded. Crucified. Naked. Defenseless. Mercilessly sucked.


The four remaining vixens further taunted, moving from man to man, poking their belly buttons with cruel fingernails, plucking hairs from their toes and legs. None of the men could fight back, none could kick, none had the strength. Each man summoned his last ounce in his struggle to breathe, as voracious tongues ruthlessly scraped engorged penises that could not come.

So, you can see how I do at times lay it on thick. I recently made the Kindle cover for this book match the paperback version, then I lowered the Kindle price by a buck to $5.49. Descriptions for all three stories and the book's cover pic are at AMAZON . com

Muscle Beach 1954

Vintage pics of a twelve-year-old strong-girl...

Courtesy of RETRONAUT .com

Merce Cunningham via Elisa Rolle

Mercier "Merce" Philip Cunningham (April 16, 1919 – July 26, 2009) was an American dancer and choreographer who was at the forefront of the American avant-garde for more than 50 years. Throughout much of his life, Cunningham was considered one of the greatest creative forces in American dance.

Read the rest and see pictures at...

Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings

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Eric Andre takes colonial Williamsburg to its unpleasant past.

Slave Escape

Godzilla Movies

Here's some fascinating on-the-set pictures from classic Godzilla films from 1954 to 1965...

Courtesy of Retronaut . com

Roberta Achtenberg via Elisa Rolle

Roberta Achtenberg (born July 20, 1950) is an American politician. She currently serves as a Commissioner on the United States Commission on Civil Rights. She served as Assistant Secretary of the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, becoming the first openly lesbian or gay public official in the United States whose appointment to a federal position was confirmed by the United States Senate.

Read all about her at...

Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings

JJ Said 072012

There are now two ebooks made for Amazon's Kindle reader from the Jasper and Jardonn series, Erotic Tales from The Burrow.

Here are the covers...

The Extractionators sets the scene and purpose for The Burrow's existence, focusing on the erotic tortures of Kyle Hitchens. Links to excerpts and the link to Amazon, where the ebook sells for $2.99, can be found at the Jardonn's Erotic Tales book page.

Book 2, Screw X Two, has Kyle crucified Saint Andrew's cross style, while he watches Pete and Brianne endure some horrific-erotic punishments. It's a shortie, sells for 99 cents, and can also be seen at the Jardonn site.

Meanwhile, here's a shortie excerpt from Screw X Two...

Her labia fought him. Clammed together trying to block him, but his swollen mushroom battered her defenses. Pounded her clitoris. Exactly what she wanted him to do, as she crushed him in her vise. Increased wet friction for them both. His cock. Her pussy. Working together toward their singular goal.

Their pace intensified. Snorting through nostrils with hearts racing and saliva streaming, mucus spraying upon their upper lips. She was close. He was in synch with her. Her milk and his about to spew. A dual orgasm eminent, until he felt something rigid and fleshy poking him between his butt cheeks. "What the?"

A bright light suddenly flooded the room and they were jettisoned from total blackness into a high-sunshine beach. Their bodies froze while eyes adjusted and a voice blared from an unseen speaker in the ceiling. "Pete Barclay! Have you lost your mind?"

Kyle withdrew his pecker, caught a glimpse of Brianne beneath him before turning to see Pete behind him and a quartet of men in black pants and white t-shirts streaming through the door. They pounced upon naked Pete before he could even remove his greasy paw from his oiled dick. Lifted him by his arms and carried him out crucifixion-style, two trailing with his ankles in their grips.

As they exited, four more entered and the male voice from above spoke again. "Hope you two enjoyed yourselves." Kyle didn't know the speaker. Never heard him before, but he did know Brianne.

He stood and looked to her. "Why did you and Pete come in here?"

"Couldn't help ourselves, Kyle," she explained, rising to her feet.

"Well, thanks a lot," he sarcastically voiced his displeasure, as the second quartet secured his arms, preparing to haul him out the same way Pete had gone. "Get me in trouble on my first day." They stretched his arms side to side, lifted him up while the other two grabbed his ankles from behind him. Offering no resistance, he looked over his shoulder, his heart softened toward her. "It's okay, Brianne. I loved every minute of it."

"Me, too, Kyle. I love a man who talks with his dick, not his mouth."

This book and The Extractionators can be seen on Amazon .com.

Thomas Quinn Curtiss via Elisa Rolle

Thomas Quinn Curtiss (June 21, 1915 New York City – July 17, 2000, Poissy, France) was a writer, and film and theatre critic.

The son of Roy A. Curtiss and Ethel Quinn, he graduated from the Browning School in New York in 1933. He went on to study film and theatre in Vienna and Moscow, where he was a student of the film director Sergei Eisenstein.

Read the rest with pictures at...

Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings.

JJ Said 071812

This paperback book...

is now also an Ebook for Amazon's Kindle Reader, and sells for $3.99 (USD).

There are a few revisions from the paperback version, and I think it's only fair I post an excerpt to go with this BFD announcement. Here it is...

"All right, Harvey, you and Dr. Ben get your marketing people on it. Shoot me some emails if you want, or just go ahead with your campaign. Hell, you know what you're doing."

"Yes, we do, and now, we have some interesting information for you."

"What."

"You tell him, Ben."

"It's about Randall Hughes."

"What about him?"

"His time is up end of April. Sentence served. He'll be released from Petersonville."

Damn it to hell, I thought. Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. "Damn it to hell. That means he's my star for only two more months? Then what?"

"You mean, then who? Dr. Ben and I already have a dozen or so picked out. Trust me, Brad, by then we'll have audiences hooked. All you'll do is plug in new players. No big deal."

"So you say. I'm not so sure."

"All we can do is our best," Dr. Ben consoled. "But let's take it beyond Petersonville and think on this. Everything you need to make movies is right here."

"That's right, nephew. You'll be getting a tour of the basement shortly."

"Now, consider this," Dr. Ben continued. "Do you think a paroled Mr. Hughes will have any better prospects than to do what he's doing now? He will be a bona fide star, if he isn't already. There's a ton of money to be made with him. Not for Petersonville. Not for the state, but for us. You, me and my gals, Harvey and JoAnne, and of course, Randall Hughes."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And, he's all for it, but only if you're his director."

"Which brings me to this question." Harvey drifted between me and JoAnne, put his arms around us both. "Why in the hell do you want to live in that backward state of yours producing cooking shows for doe-eyed morons, when you can live right here in our progressive state, make enough cash to last you four lifetimes, and shoot films that make your dick harder than concrete?"

"Hmm..."

"He's struggling for arguments, Harvey," giggled JoAnne.

"Of course he is. Come on, Bradley. Get it while it's hot. Get it while you're young."

"I'm not exactly young, Uncle Harvey. Nearly forty, you know."

"Boo fucking hoo. You're expecting sympathy from me? Sixty-five with a heart barely alive?"

JoAnne reached for Harvey's underwater privates. "His peter doesn't act sixty-five. Does it, Bradley?"

"Not even close." Funny thing is, with all the amenities offered to persuade me, my only thought was Randall Hughes. Hell, that had been the case ever since I first saw him in that home movie Dr. Ben made in his office chair. No arguing that. Knowing he'd soon be strutting around the Crawford complex free (and naked) as a bird, nixed whatever feeble protests I had to offer before I even came up with any. "I'd like to give my employer three weeks notice. All right?"

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Comedian Cristela Alonzo makes her television debut, and it is good. Cristela Alonzo on Conan

Thomas Eakins via Elisa Rolle

Thomas Cowperthwait Eakins (July 25, 1844 – June 25, 1916) was an American realist painter, photographer, sculptor, and fine arts educator. He is widely acknowledged to be one of the most important artists in American art history. (Picture: Thomas Eakins, Self-Portrait) For the length of his professional career, from the early 1870s until his ... read the rest and see pictures of his art at... Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal Site.

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It's music, and this band has three things going for it: great songs, talented musicians, and a namesake lead singer who's sexy as hell. Grace Potter and the Nocturnals

JJ Say 010412 (Pt. 2)

Later from the same story, there's this bit involving a red robe, a white robe, two brown robes, a loin-clothed man and a quartering rack.

They tell him to repent.

He says, "Up yours, you phony hypocrites."

They say he must renounce Satan.

He says, "There ain't no Satan. He's something you made up trying to scare people so you can manipulate 'em."

They order one more click on the cranks. Tell him to beg God's forgiveness.

He says, "God is with me now. My God. That's why I feel no pain. He's my God. Inside me. I made Him for me because that's what He is. For me and me alone. You have your God. I have mine. I don't force you to accept mine, because He's not for you. He's for me. How come you can't go off and live with your God without forcing Him onto everybody else? What makes you think your God is the only God in existence? What makes you so high and mighty with all the answers? Where do you get off..."

A lever built onto the table's side, pushed down by red, effectively, temporarily, stifles the prisoner's sermon. It connects to a square cut out on the table's surface. Square encompasses the space from victim's shoulder blades to his butt cheeks, and when lever is pushed, square rises ten inches above table's surface, taking the already-stretched victim with it.

Hughes gasps, and then groans, and then grits his teeth and deals with it. His chest, abdomen and crotch are elevated, chest highest of all, belly dropping from his ribs stretched tight and hard as a board. His head dangles back, suspended in air. His sockets of arm pits and thighs ache, as white robe orders a new wrinkle to the torture. "Thrash him!"