Viewing Member - manlycornhusk

My NN mentor tbjones is correct. Germans are, in general, very reserved with people they don't know. But, the Rhine runs deep. I can't remember a warmer, cozier time than spent in my Oma's home. Oma is German for Grandmother. The front of her home was actually a small store filled with nooks and crannies filled with everything a young boy needs to spend a whole day exploring. Only problem was, it was verbotten, forbidden. It didn't stop me from trying. It was 6 steps from the back door to the candy containers, 8 steps to the cakes, pies and bread, 12 steps to the front door. When I think about it now...it was just a small store but it was a wonderland to a 10yo kid.

I had friends there...my terrible German, their terrible English but we communicated well enough. My Aunt, Tante Trauta made the mistake of asking me if I'd like to share some of those awesome pastries with my friends one morning. The next think you know, I was behind the counter taking the entire platter of them and heading out the front door. My mother told me that my Grandmother and Aunt stood at the front window and laughed at my overzealousness but all I remember is being the center of attention and the local child hero for about 10 happy kids. Oddly, I was never asked by my Aunt again to repeat that act...go figure.

Onkel Otto, Uncle Otto. I'm not sure that he really ever did anything. Sometimes he puttered around in the garden and sometimes he cleaned the pig's pen but mostly he just sat around and smoked his pipe. Dressed in his warm farmer's clothes, his eyes twinkling like someone had just done something funny. His cheeks and the tip of his nose that rosy red that belies a long flirtation with cool weather and a tipple or two. His voice was slow and relaxed and you just felt that everything in his world was in perfect order and he wanted for nothing. My favorite memory of him is the times it was just he and I in the livingroom. He would look at me and wink. That was my cue to reach behind the couch and grab the big bottle of orange drink. That was for me...reaching back once more produced a bottle of Schnapps for him. We would pour ourselves a health glass of our respective beverage and then toast each other with great gusto.

My Grandmother was a great, stern looking whirlwind of activity. I think it was my first love/hate relationship. She knew how to stop you in your tracks with just a terse word but her hugs were warm medicine for any real or imagined maladies a kid could come up with. Her food smelled and tasted of home. To this day, German food has the ability to wrap me safely and cure my ills.

Now, my Aunt Traute....she was a soft, round, healthy woman with a pure heart and the curly tresses of an angel. She worked her days away in the local dairy and brought home truckloads of yogurt when it was close to expiring. We took advantage of that situation with exuberance. Why truckloads...didn't I mention the pig pen? Yes, they had one pig. It was the largest and best fed pig in the world. All the kitchen scraps were mixed with yogurt and offered to this pampered porker. I think he started out as an investment in some later dinner but eventually became part of the family. He wasn't the only odd addition. In the same building as the pig pen was the rabbit cages. Fat, happy rabbits dining on all the best produce from the large garden next to it. My brother and I used to sneak into their area and enjoy feeding them carrots fresh from the ground. There rabbits would never see the dinner table either. They were paired of so that they wouldn't be lonely and when their mates died, it would be replaced by a ......Guinea Pig! I didn't mistype. They got along fabulously.

Sorry, I guess I'm feeling a bit homesick for Germany and definately a bit nostalgic. Hopefully this didn't bore you to death but I'm probably going to write some more on the subject...just can't stop myself.

So, Peace and Love und seliges Glück

As some of you know...I now have a half-brother and sister in my family. It's too bad it took so long to finally meet them. The first meeting was a little reserved. The fact that they're German and not fluid in their command of the English language made communication slow but we got through it. They return to Germany this Friday so I hope to see them as much as possible before that happens.

It really is a dream come true. I'm now the middle kid, the middle brother and my lifelong ambition is nearing it's fruition...to be the reincarnation of Curly. Nuk, Nuk, Nuk....Lahdadeee, Lahdadaaaa!

It's the 50s. WW1 is still raw and bitter in the worlds memories. Germany is a nation torn, fragmented. My father, a young Air Force noncom. babysitting the line in the sand that would become The Cold War. East Germany, West German, East Berlin, West Berlin. A man meets a woman. They fall in love. They marry and have two children together. They divorce. End of story, right.

Wrong! The man was my father. The woman wasn't my mother. I didn't even know of her existance until long after she had died. A couple of years ago we were contacted by a German woman asking about our father. The Air Force had helped her find contacts in the United States through one of it's reunification programs. And then her story.............

After 45 years, I found that not only was I not the oldest child of my dad, I wasn't the second oldest. What I am is the middle sibling. That explains a lot.

My father and their mother loved each other at a time that communism was beginning to grow horns and become that fearful demon that television scared parents and children with well into the 60s. When the military found that she was East German they stepped in to stongly suggest that a seperation would be the only option open to my father. They branded her a spy because of her nationality. My father left her and two children. She eventually succumbed to a long illness and the two children were placed in foster homes. When they became adults, they searched each other out. In the late 50's, my father remarried and hid all of it from my mother and we three kids until the day he died.

In seven days, I will meet my older sister for the first time. We have corresponded but finally I will get to actually hug my older sister. Sadly, my older brother will not be able to make it this time. It scares me a little but I'm happy. I hope it turns out well.

To make a long story short. I have forgiven my father for what he did to them. I have set aside the betrayal I felt when it was exposed for the first time. 45 years, damn. All the time lost. So much to talk about, to make up for. I'm so glad I live to see this day.

Peace and Love and The Inevitable Reunion

"Come to the dark side" is a catch phrase that never felt truer than last evening. I became that which I have always detested. A mindless morass of anger.

All you most notable despots of history, move over. I have touched that low, sickly sweet cesspool that created you. I have felt anger, hate and I am lesser because of it. Perhaps it is in the nature of man. Perhaps it is that lingering memory of distrust, intolerance, hatred, anger, violence clinging to us, harkening back to the beginning of our accention. Perhaps this is the desperate rambling of a man eager to find succor for his sin. Perhaps.

The truth is, it was unexcusable. Can a person have empathy when they also harbor intolerance? I think not. The human experience was cheapened by my actions and it's dead weight plagues me with questions and guilt.

Like layers of a sandwich, I've piled that which is me between two slices of vanity and delusion. I've added a leaf of pain, a ring of venom, thinly sliced mania and looked to cover it's distasteful flavor with a slathering of love, a dash of hope and a final dab of sacrifice. Cut on the angle with a shaft of spite, like a sword thrust through the heart, as decoration. Tastefully presented on a plate of appearance and accented with a sprig of charm, I fool no-one.

In failing others, I have failed myself. The regret betraying the action becomes my own worst accusation. No mirror shall hide that dark, berry stain on my heart and its punishing glare is that high garden wall I must scramble over in order to begin a journey of re-creation.

I do not even attempt to ask for forgiveness. Change will be the only medicine that will cure this ill. I must make that attempt before it is forgotten. Here and now, upon this rock, above this land and under the ponderous heavens, let it be known that, incomplete and flawed as I am, there will be no tolerance of my own failure, no congratulations at the half-way point. I am to be purified in the self_imposed fires of failure and will emerge when my molten remains have flung of the impurities.

This is testiment to that goal. The price of failure is not something a man should want to unveil. It is loneliness, cold and death. It is the theft of the greatest gift....the ability to love unconditionally and it is not something that I wish to belittle.

Are you reading this and thinking to yourself, why are we put upon to be confessor to this unremarkable man? For that, I do apologize. The very nature of this place seems the answer. Nakedness. Unabashed, openly forward nakedness. Not only of the flesh but of the soul. Yes, confession is the healing touch and my torn heart begs to be understood. I just ask for that which I befouled..tolerence. I wish to be reborn. I beg for rebirth.

Peace and Love, not so lofty a goal as to be unattainable...

There's only a few redeaming qualities to the third shift lifestyle. One of them is contemplative solitude. Contemplative Solitude..sounds a little lonely, a bit introspectively dark but what it really is made authors like Jack Kerouac famous. It's that time when it's just you and the road and the road doesn't feel like talking. It's that hour drive with the radio turned off and the throaty vibration of tires on tarmac sending your thoughts off in thousands of different directions. I relish those times. Hell, I come close to blasphemous worship of those times. The road let's me clean my closeted mind, kick the cobwebs out of the corner and start with an uncluttered roadway through the weighty grey matter.

Suddenly, your vision is 20/20 again, your hearing keen edged, you skin aware of the swirl of midnight air upon it. You smell the dry goodness of crops ready for harvest. Somewhere, perhaps miles away, a woodfire burns, a skunk expresses it's dismay at discovery. The cresent moon hands heavy in the sky looking like a quartered Georgia Peach and you dream. Dream with your eyes wide open. That small part of your brain needed to keep the truck straight, busy in one corner of your head while the rest trades electrical discharges that would rival the best 4th of July fireworks. It's that precious, wide awake, vigilantly aware dreaming that has always allowed mankind to create, to astound, to come close to understanding the true meaning of life. All this and the trip has only just began.

I found myself at peace. My past swirled like a Ozian tornado until some black hole of memories drew it all in. I remembered "magic". Not the inevitable rabbit in hat magic but the virginal, unquestioning magic of childhood. It's good to know that it never really left me. It just became misplaced behind the accumulated refuse of being an adult, living in a crowded, busy world, thinking that "responsible" means no flights of fancy, no dreamy-headed philosophizing.

Santa Claus was everyone's favorite Grandfather. The Tooth Fairy has some sort of non-disclosure agreement with the San Francisco Mint. The Easter Bunny had an eye for color and Parents were mysterious gods that towered above us. The sound of the ocean in a shell, crying for it's return to some distant shore. That a prized baseball mitt really was worth a pair of beat up roller skates and a handful of marbles and everyone walked away from that trade sharing pats on the shoulder and appreciative banter for being such an astute businessman. A cold bottle of Coca Cola was a cure for sunburn, boredom, a reddened scrape on the knee and whatever adolescent distress that had come your way. "Magic"

I've come to the conclusion that my worlds magic took the lethal hit in Jr. High. Literature class, to be exact. The fodder for the fall. A slightly worn copy of "Animal Farm". Derailing my belief system...my teacher. Fresh from college, bristling with innovative intentions and laughing eyes hiding the sinister beginnings of adulthood for all of us there that day. The set up for the fall. What did you think the book was about? Simple, we opined...it was about a bunch of animals of which the horses had control issues and the pigs couldn't be trusted. Talking animals, indeed. It was almost enough to make me forget the half read copy of Mad Magazine waiting under my bed. Half a dozen of us signalled our approval for the assesment and the room quietened down as the teacher sat and looked out over our heads, her fingers tapping in perfect sychronization to the huge, round clock on the wall. The tension was palpable. Were we right? Could we congratulate ourselves on a job well done and celebrate with a breathless game of dodgeball on the recess grounds? Her eyes dropped and imprisoned our eyes and attention rushed back to the matter at hand. "No", she said. "This book is about a Communist society and how different groups interact in such a stiffling environment". Confusion, nervous shifting, raised eyebrows. What...there wasn't any Commies in the book. We all knew what a Commie looked like, their heavy coats, fur hats, the inevitable mole above their lip, their evil eyes heavy with hatred, their strange accent like someone with a popcorn hull caught in their throat. No Commies here, ma'am.

The next half hour was the beginning and the end. We learned that not everything is really what it seems. That blind faith isn't always the best policy and sometimes a horse just isn't a horse. It was in that aural pubescent moment that "magic slipped off the mantle of my life and fell behind the couch. In it's place was a glowing, neon question mark and I knew nothing would ever be the same again.

Well, sometime on that drive last night, "magic" got dragged out and deposited by a childhood pet that sometimes wanders my memories and I tripped over it on the way to the office, so to say. Cradled in my mental arms, it's smooth sides with garish carnival pictures and laughing clowns felt warm and inviting. The worn crank on the side made a long forgotten "clink" as I shifted left to right to see it's colors, it's charms. My hand found the wooden ball at its end and long forgotten instinct took over. The crank rotating, the geared clicks traveling up my arm, the music that signalled it's advancement toward a surprising finale. The tune was from long ago...Purple People Eater, the words coming back and bringing a smile. The top pops open and out jumps a deck of cards followed by a string of clothespins to fall on the floor at my feet. Is this all that's left of the magic, I exclaimed. What could it mean. The box forgotten as I picked the cards and pins up to examine them. Holding them closer, I swear I heard the burring of a motorbike zipping down a country lane. My hair flung back by the dynamic speed of my journey. An maniacal smile plastered to the front of my face and the sun teasing my forehead. Suddenly I understood what this gift was. My black hightops pushing the pedals faster and faster, the motorbike brrrr ramping up to match the flying spokes on my bicycle, I knew that the magic was back. Maybe it had never really left but what I needed to do was take those cards and pins and fasten them to the vehicle that was my life. From now on, wherever I go, whatever I do, my life would be accompanied by that stuttered roar and magic would be there.

So, SAND DOLLARS and SENSE. Nothing more magical than holding a SAND DOLLAR in your hand and marveling at it's pristine whiteness. Imagining bartering for rum and coconuts with the natives on the edge of a sandy beach. SENSE..knowing that it's not really going to happen that way. That I'm going to have to earn my money the old fashioned way..work, work, work. But, now...there's always the possibility that those aquatic treasures will leave my accounts paid in full, isn't there. So maybe magic and reality can work together. Let's hope for all our sakes.

Peace and Love and Abracadabra, Alakazaam, Presto-Chango....

Monday, created by the reverse spelling of Yadnom, Vice Underlord of the Demonic Hell Hordes. He was especially known for taking an otherwise dreary and despised day and adding hot sauce to the mix.

Luckily, Monday is followed by Tuesday. Incidentally, Tuesday commemorates the battle of Yadseut which lasted till what is now called Wednesday. In that battle, Yadnom was defeated by Yadsendew. Yadsendew was also a notorious lothario, hense, the term, "hump day"

On the fourth day, what is called Thursday, Bob cleaned the entire festival grounds by himself and was remembered on that day because of his favorite saying. To every question, he responded, "it'll be done by thursday". Although nobody knew what the hell "thursday" meant, they thought it would make a good day of the week. Bob agreed.

The last three days of the week were known as "Finally" for the first few millenium but in the middle ages, a set of triplets were born that would soon change all that.

The oldest, Yadirf, or Dirf, for short, was commemorated on the first day of "Finally" for his creation of bottled beer and flip flops. His day was Friday.

His younger brother, Yadtas was a gardener of some fame. He is best remembered for keeping his grass at an acceptable height and enduring the very first honeydo list. In a drunken stupor, Yadirf penciled in his brother's name on every calendar he could find on the second day of "Finally". A printing error in the next year made it official and Saturday was born.

Lastly, the youngest was called Yadnus. He spent his time in a nunnery where, despite the odd fact that he dressed in a habit, he was a devout cleric and devised a stern disipline tool named the yardstick. Years after his promotion to Mother Superior and eventual publication of the fact that she was really a he, the third day of "Finally" was named Sunday and all were encouraged to ask for cleansing and forgiveness, especially the ones with a nun fetish.

That's my bit of historic trivia. If it offends anyone..please send me a naked picture of yourself telling my why and what you would like done to yourself.

Maybe next, we'll learn a little more about "Split Personality", the only horse to finish 1st, 2nd and 3rd in the same race and becoming the first self-contained trifecta the ever exist.

Peace and Love and Come on "Finally"!

I think my novelette scared a few people away so I'll try to keep it more abridged this time.

I've got to quit scratching my head. Why do people complain about getting noticed? Isn't that what this is all about. You drop into this site, you fill out a profile, paste up a couple of pics and sit back and hope someone notices you shivering in the corner. Yes, I do know that sometimes the attention is of the "let me shake your tree and you can coco my nut" type but ya gotta take the good with the bad.

Maybe I'm feeling a little trepidation that younger females will think of me as an old, dirty man just because I can still appreciate their sexual charms. I've seen 60yo women that can still make your heart skip a beat when they throw you a sulty eye. So why should I have to feel any different about a 20yo?

This whole thing has me confused. Somebody give me the skinny, will ya.

Peace and Love and How Old Are You, Ma'am?

Maybe this Header is a little bit misleading. I'm refering to my favorite season and women's fashion during the early 80s.

I was 21yo, attending college, had a curvaceous, sexy girlfriend and at the height of my glory. When the weather cooled, the dress of the day for the ladies was semi-tight sweaters over a wool wraparound skirt. Ok, I'll admit to the pink polo shirt and topsiders as well but it was all about the female persuasion then. The sweaters snugged against her breasts, falling down over the top of her skirt. The swing of her legs creating an almost organic flight of her hem. Her cute butt pressing against the back of the fabric. It may seem tame nowadays but then, to me, it was the sexiest thing on God's green Earth.

Ladies, I know skirts can be a pain in the ass sometimes but from a males perspective...it's simply "the serpent in the Garden of Eden". Just knowing the treats hidden beneath it's billowing cover. Flashed glimpses of knees and thighs. The way the fabric draped when sitting, outlining the leg and falling to a valley between. Ok...maybe I'm obsessing a bit here. Anyways, why Fall and 80s skirts will always be one of my fondest and more erotic memories.

That day, she was wearing a grey and white plaid wraparound and a white cableknit sweater. She looked beautiful. Her eyes were a dark sparkling brown with the slightly upswept corners and lips always the color of burgany wine. As we drove together to our first classes, I couldn't help noticing her perfume, the way her hand covered mine on the bench seat, her shoulder brushing my own and oh, I was so in love.

Reaching the parking lot, she reached into the back seat to retrieve her backpack and I took the opportunity to swoop in and steal a kiss. The first time we kissed, we ravaged each others lips for hours before I finally broke off, jelly legged, my mind trying to remember where I left my car or even where the hell I lived. The kisses after that were never of a lesser quality so when her lips met mine, the warmth of her face, her heady scent..well, needless the say, school was forgotten in that moment.

My hands traveled up her legs, under the skirt to explore the darkness finding yielding flesh and familiar contours. She came to her knees and laid against me as my fingers began to tease the edges of her panties. Her breathing betrayed her eagerness, her short bursts of breath sweetening the air in my nostrils, my finger slipped under the soft cotton cloth and I slid it up and down the length of her warm cleft. Already, wetness urged me on and my finger slid into her accompanied by her sigh. I could have gone on forever but she signalled the end of foreplay by sitting back and sliding her panties down and off her legs. Next, my belt and zipper were dealt with post haste. I slide over in the seat, my pants around my ankles and she positioned herself over me. My hands sliding under her sweater to grasp her soft breasts, she lowered herself onto me. It felt so naughty, doing it out in the open, cars coming and going around us, students walking by. It was just a short time before both of us were ready to climax. It was the first time we had come together and it was more than I could have dreamed of. The feel of her tightening around me, the tremors, the feel of her wetness against my skin. Heaven would have fallen short on that day.

We did make it to class...a little late, of course and we did make it through the whole day without sneaking out to attack each other behind some bush or in a broom closet. But that sparkle, that twinkle in her eye stayed bright the whole day and I felt she really and truly loved me and I never wanted that moment to end.

And, so, there you have it...why a wool skirt and falling leaves will always make me quietly sigh and smile a secretive smile.

Peace and Love and Moments That Should Never Be Forgotten

I think I have Perv Block. I've been in here a couple of times thinking to update my blogs and ended up playing around in the forum because I only had semi-witty one-liners...sheesh.

Here's something I've come to see lately...the surprise in Newbie blogs that this place actually has real, flesh and blood and brains human beings. After my eyes finally stopped bulging out the first time...I felt the same way.

When I'm gone for a while, I start feeling like I've abandoned a part of my life that was filled with really wonderful people. We all know them..the ones that have transended the "omg, look at that ass" stage and become more mature and accepting of others. Believe me, it's a relief for someone as abnormal as myself to find a group that give me a moment to prove my worth before judging.

No, I'm not going to be on anyone's drool list but I've got a good ear..errr..eye to see that sometimes people just need to unload. I say..go for it. I've actually become more accepting of myself because of this site. I try to hide the shy part of me but it's always there..peeking out from behind the floral curtains, sitting on the bleachers wishing he had the cojones to ask a cute girl to dance. In a way, I'm a healthier man when it comes to sexuality and individuality. For that, I have many of you to thank. I ought to thank your tolerance of my really dry, obscure humor as well...perhaps that is the true burden you bear...lol.

Anyways...Thanks for being there and I love you all for that.

Peace, Love and Big ole Bear Hugs all around....

p.s. seems that perv block has dissapeared..go figure

1900: the first automobile is manufactured in Flint, Michigan....the first sit down strike is still years away.. Go Figure.

Today's holiday presented to you by organized labor..nuff said