The scandal does not seem to be with Stormy, but one that is generated by a host of people that think there should be a scandal.
by Gabreal Orgrease
When I was up to page 58 in Stormy Daniels' book, nothing much salacious had happened, but my preliminary conclusion was that if Trump ever learned to background vet people then he would have never ever have tangled with her. In short, she has more smarts, grit and class than he will ever have. I now purchase books on pre-order for political reasons, that I want the sales to go up on the charts by my one AG-Fa (against fascism) vote.
One quality with Stormy Daniels' writing is that she has a post-DH Lawrence kind of freshness about her body, and about sex. I remarked recently how some Christians seem to think that something happened to atheists to make them that way, when the reality is that with most atheists they simply never had a life to make them feel guilty or sinful or in need of salvation. Stormy is like that with sex. One after another. Like, who cares?
For a whole world of people that have either stuck up sexual attitudes, or endured a growing up of sexual repression, or feel a need to secretly do kinky stuff, she simply does not exhibit in her prose any guilt, angst or regret.
She even does not seem to regret meeting up with Trump's dong (it is not gold gilt). Though I did read recently that she regrets having made fun of how it looks. She is more concerned about his behavior of months of leading her on about a potential but never realized appearance on The Apprentice. She relates the non-relationship as kind of on the level of being bit by a nasty cockroach in the vitals every month or so for a few years. A nuisance readily forgot once hung up on. But one that keeps calling with coy but inane nothing much to say.
The scandal does not seem to be with Stormy, but one that is generated by a host of people that think there should be a scandal. Pretty bright lady. Though I'd not go so far as to say she is writing high literature, it is worth reading for contemporary context. If she comes out with a book of sappy poetry I'll reconsider.
I experimented by reading her book on the train. When surrounded by a gaggle of chatty young preppy ladies I put it away, but otherwise I have nothing much to report for the social science.
A friend who knows about these things says the he once paid her twenty dollars for a lap dance. I asked my friend if he was participating in the Make America Horny Again Tour. This friend also says that he can pay a hooker in Key West $100 to call my wife and say something incriminating. I’m still waiting.
In chronology, Christine Blasey Ford’s recent encounter with Kavenaugh came after Stormy had written her book. There is a whole lot of reflection on the manner in which a noticeable number of males in our culture behave like little shits.
When I was younger, and lived in Maryland, we had a friend who was in the habit of crawling all the strip joints he could find in DC. Since he knew where all the good, and bad, places were I would on occasion go out with him and he would show me around. Fourteenth Street headed up from the Capital was always busy at night. What interested me though was that the closer you got to the Capital the more stunningly beautiful were the ladies of the night. Breathtaking.
My stepfather it was said, by some and not by others, spent some time in California working on set for porn movies. I always imagined that he had an important support job, like a fluffer. But growing up pornography was what showed up in the brown envelope in the mailbox, was often black n’ white, or those little eye tubes you could look in and wiggle while the naked lady danced, some exotic stuff hidden in secret places, or the Marquis de Sade, which is not recommended on my list for pre-teen readers.
I end off after reading Stormy’s book much
more interested about her horse stories.
IN THIS ISSUE–––
• DAVID S. WARREN
• MICHAEL CHAPPELL
• GEORGIA E. WARREN
The Woman Who Wore My Hat
• DAVID S. WARREN
The Third Leg
• FRANKLIN CRAWFORD
Dear Diary, 10,000 B.C.
• DANIEL LOVELL
• DAVID ROLLOW
Glad To Be Unhappy
• RHIAN ELLIS
•NANCY VIEIRA COUTO
Lily, Mister Bluebird, and the Beginning and End of My Singing Career
• GABRIEL ORGREASE
Stormy Daniels, Full Disclosure
• DYLAN THOMAS Before I Knocked
• MARY GILLILAND Vertical Before Dawn Strips the East
• FRANKLIN CRAWFORD
Burn the Timeline
• CHRIS MACCORMICK Disremembrances of the Russian Twilight
• PETER FORTUNATO
• MEMORY NUTS
OREN PIERCE Memory Nuts
R. Saminora, - Paris
Before I knocked and flesh let enter,
With liquid hands tapped on the womb,
I who was as shapeless as the water
That shaped the Jordan near my home
Was brother to Mnetha's daughter
And sister to the fathering worm.
I who was deaf to spring and summer,
Who knew not sun nor moon by name,
Felt thud beneath my flesh's armour,
As yet was in a molten form
The leaden stars, the rainy hammer
Swung by my father from his dome.
(the entire poem)
by Nancy Vieira Couto
"Nancy, I want to ask you something," my cousin Lily said. By the look on her face, I could tell it was important. "How would you like to be a flower girl at my wedding?" she continued. I didn't know what a flower girl was. I had heard people talking about sweater girls, and I sort of knew what they looked like, but I didn't think I could look like that. I was only four years old. "You would wear a pretty gown," Lily said, as if she were reading my mind, "and you would carry a bouquet of flowers." I was still worried about the sweater, but I liked Lily. So I said OK.
(go to story)
by Steve Katz
I was fifteen when my father died. He’d been sick for seven years already, was rarely home, usually bed-ridden in some dreary hospital in the Bronx, or upstate at some rest home. That was treatment for a heart condition at the time — stay in bed! Had my father been around, my fate might have been different. Without a father to slap me into the future I felt like upcoming life had been placed on the far side of a high slick wall. I couldn’t bust through it, nor could I scale it, but against its unyielding concrete I constantly slammed the enigmas of my adolescence.
(go to story)
by David Rollow
The writer sulked. She wasn’t wrong. In the flush of inspiration he’d typed up a report of her most recent visit, while still at the office (he had a day job to support himself), and he had unthinkingly left by the typewriter a second sheet for all to see. He didn’t use a carbon, so to anyone not overwhelmed by curiosity it would have seemed to be only a blank sheet of rough yellow paper. (go to story)
by Annie Campbell
I had gained only five pounds during my pregnancy, but walking in that oven-like heat made me feel like I had gained two hundred. My toes were so hot and swollen they looked like red potatoes and felt like they might explode. I could hardly wait for the heat wave to be over and my mysterious baby top reveal itself.
(go to story)
Review by Gabreal Orgrease
(go to review)
Before I Knocked (go to)
Vertical Before Dawn
Strips the East (go to)
Burn the Timeline (go to)
CHRIS MACCORMICK Disremembrances of the
Russian Twilight (go to)
1984 (go to)
I’d already been in bed four hours before I found out what the mattress pad was for. You don’t ask too many questions about hospital beds, in general, and I didn’t ask any about this one. They let me have a laptop, and the hospital has free wifi. My assumption is those things are supposed to make up for the horror I’m sitting on right now, just barely covered by the ratty mattress pad. (go to story)
The focus of our next Metaphysical Times will be
"Weird Tales" (see full size)
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