I am not someone who is often described as conventional. I seem to be bound by my nature to approach things in my own way. I only follow rules that make sense to me. I don’t engage in traditions or customs, unless I feel so inclined.  It isn’t that I’m proud of my unconventionality. I’m not waving a banner of how different I am. It just is who I am.

Disturbances in my social life combined with the responsibility of children forced me to adopt a conventional guise. No one who truly knows me ever believed it but for the rest of humanity, I played along. It became my prison but the sentence had to be served. Time passed and the bars faded. Now I find myself free.

Free to be unconventional again.

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unqualified and arrogant

I was not looking forward to work, on that particular day. For about a year, Michelle had headed up our office. It had been a good year. Before her, Big Joe had been our boss. That year sucked. Who would move into the position was anyone’s guess, but history would suggest that it would be someone terrible – unqualified and arrogant. Corporate seemed to like that in a boss. Michelle had been an exception. We would soon be back in the realm of the rule.

Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances

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Dick Moby

“Drink, ye harpooneers! drink and swear, ye men that man the deathful whaleboat’s bow — Death to Moby Dick! God hunt us all, if we do not hunt Moby Dick to his death!”

Chapter 1


Called me Ishmael.

When I’ve been at sea for a very long time, five years and three months and seventeen days, to be exact, I develop a longing to stand upon terra firma, to drop anchor and go ashore. When the Pequod sank, I was a long way from home and while I certainly had a desire to stop on the next bit of dryness I could set foot upon, I had an even stronger need to get back to where I started from.

When I finally reached New Bedford, the night had grown dark, so I sought a place to sleep and a bowl of chowder. The years that had passed since I had last been in port had wreaked a great many changes both is in the style of merchandise and the purveyors thereof. I had to try three lodging houses before I could be assured of having a harpooneer to bed with and I had to produce an extra piece of silver to secure a cannibal as companion. Although chowder remained a staple of the menus, they also offered meals with hardly any fish in them at all. Strange times we have come to know.

I thought my story would delight and intrigue the people back home but no one listened, no one cared, no one believed a word. They had accepted long ago that the ship was lost with all hands. I became an embarrassment to their sure grasp of the past.

But then one night, sitting cold and damp with a bottle of rum and a table surrounded by scurvy sea dogs, I happened to mention Ahab and the Pequod and our demise at the body blow of the white whale.

“Moby Dick?” one mate queried.

“The same,” I replied.

“That would make you Ishmael?”

“Yes it would.”

“I have a message for you. We ran into that white whale a few months back just after coming past the Cape Horn. He chased us for a hundred leagues and when we gave up he let us go with the words, ‘Tell Ishmael of the Pequod that I’m coming for him. All of Ahab’s spawn must die and he’s the only one left!”

“Shit,” I said. The world’s a big place but so is a whale.


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Somewhere along the way, I lost my voice. Not because I couldn’t speak but rather because I lost interest in speaking, fearing the ensuing conversation more than anticipating the joy of self-expression.

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One of my oldest friends, someone I’ve shared a great many good times with over the past fifteen years has decided to take a stab at being normal. I don’t blame him for he has a son and parenting is when the responsibilities of life overwhelm everything. What we want, the parents, the adults, is forever subordinated to the well being of our offspring. So he’s moved in with his baby mama, who he has never gotten along with, and it giving conventionality the old college try.

The problem, from my perspective, is that this is generally how I lose friends. Not because we fight or anything but because any life that is fundamentally normal excludes me. I am not compatible with normal. I represent, I know, a wild chaos, a Dionysian force, a pull toward hedonism and devil-may-care excesses.

But he’ll be back. They always come back.

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Mambo Kings

I just purchased another copy of The Mambo Kings Sing Songs of Love by Oscar Hijuelos after Bookbub let me know that Amazon is selling kindle copies for $2.99 today. One of those stray novels I picked up at a used bookstore when a blurb or something caught my eye. I had certainly never heard of the novel or Hijuelos at the time, neither had I paid the slightest attention to the film that had been made. It looked like an interesting read and I spent the $2.00 asked to give it a try.

Some books come around and just the right moment and open a whole new world and Mambo Kings did just that. I poured through the book in hours, savoring every word of the beautiful, emotionally trying novel. Once finished, I raced back to the used bookstore and picked up a copy of every novel by a serious latin author I could find.

John Rechy’s City of Night broke open gay literature for me in the same way. Reading something excellent from someone in a culture different from what I know always compels me to explore the culture further. And keeps me searching for new cultures to read, to try to learn to understand.

The movie struck me as strange, although not terribly so, for like so many film versions, it stopped in the middle of the book. Hollywood is so weird.

Anyway, just thinking as I further stock my overstocked virtual shelves.



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above all

Mistrust everybody, your friend, your brother, your mistress — your mistress above all.”

Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers

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