tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5494559193806153492024-02-02T15:43:21.003-08:00NOETIC THYMUSJim Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09953757902620830364noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549455919380615349.post-24837151328642849212010-07-24T17:28:00.000-07:002010-07-25T00:54:33.681-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkHCCWLVusspNObvLV98FTwgBwu5iHqHHrvQ1iKTaQ_bIhLfNVUyTdcNR_VRs8NDDgN_8CQsI0Y875vMtOcGb61fI45sEA8W_wvAKihp_n75PRDaA42-mcKNadIucPKzS0fqsRF2Q-vI/s1600/JimLopezHockingGobsOfPhlegm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 292px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkHCCWLVusspNObvLV98FTwgBwu5iHqHHrvQ1iKTaQ_bIhLfNVUyTdcNR_VRs8NDDgN_8CQsI0Y875vMtOcGb61fI45sEA8W_wvAKihp_n75PRDaA42-mcKNadIucPKzS0fqsRF2Q-vI/s400/JimLopezHockingGobsOfPhlegm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497634434254957314" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><b>Hocking Gobs of Phlegm</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">With a Queen of Heart embedded up a symbolic sleeve of the poorly written pages of thematic arts, uttered in the black hills of controversial words, echoing the need for a home and spiritual eyes, Mikey lost his way and walked the streets of Hollywood.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He spat in the milk of growing children and pulled his pud in front of nursing mothers, who sat out front of Starbucks sipping organic soy lattes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Mikey had one ambition and one ambition only, he was writing a book titled, “The Adventures In The Unleashing of Conventional Modes of Perception & Behavior,” only he had no intention of ever putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboards.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No, Mikey was the living pages of the title of his book, and it all started with a commercial and a bowl of cereal called LIFE that he was manipulated into peddling onto the rest of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When Mikey was old enough to develop some awareness of himself he discovered that his life began with him being the cute and cuddly kid who hated everything and wouldn’t try anything, yet he had to drink endless amounts of milk and shovel corn crisp day in and day out, while sub-mental kids spurred him on, saying, “Let’s get Mikey to try it, he hates everything,” after which they cheered, “He likes it!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He likes it!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But Mikey didn’t hate everything he just hated everyone; nevertheless, he tried just about everything and now he had matured into a cynical masturbator and a phlegmatic. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">As a child Mikey was forced to drink so much milk that he embodied a never ending factory of phlegm, and he hated milk, as well as LIFE cereal, neither of which were delicious nor nutritious.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was constantly hocking loogies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And when he felt the urge, which was more often than not, it was no big deal for him to whip out his wang and blast a wad of jizz on some unsuspecting passerby or on some mannequin displayed out in front of the GAP, J. Crew, Ann Taylor or any other business establishment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I mean, he just gooed his spooge anywhere and anytime.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Mikey refused to accept the line that was drawn between the public and private sphere.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He urinated on dogs and in lady’s purses (actually he pissed on whoever and whatever).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He shit in mailboxes and on ATM machines, wiped his ass with cats, farted in the mouths of decrepit old people, knocked cripples down and out of his way, insulted and mocked the mentally challenged, slashed the tires of low-riding gang-bangers, punched business men in the face, ripped the underwear off of college students by giving them a rough wedgy, rebuked drug dealers and pimps while being a drug user and a whore monger himself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mikey blew his nose on the pages of Walt Whitman’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Leaves of Grass</i>, <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>he reviled Woodie Guthrie, Bob Dylan, The Beatles and anyone who could capture the spirit of humanity in song, he did all of this and terribly more.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But what he did most was hock gobs of phlegm and chronically masturbated.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The first time I met Mikey I was having a bite to eat and a drink at the Pig and Whistle off of Hollywood Boulevard between Las Palmas and Highland.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mikey walked right up to my table, dropped his shorts, took a big shit directly on my mushroom burger and spit in my beer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And it served me right for eating in the fucking stink-hole of a place.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Now some tough guy might challenge me, asking, “Why didn’t you stop the fucker or kick his ass?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Well, I’d like to see someone not look stupidly surprised and shocked when some unsuspected freak flops a load on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">your</i> food while <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">you’re</i> reading the newspaper and enjoying a cigarette in between bites and drinks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There was no time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was like, “What the fuck, there’s a turd on my burger and a loogie in my beer.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I mean Mikey was the Pig and he went whistling down the street after he pulled some bald guy’s wig off his head and wiped his ass with it after he shit on my mushroom burger.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The sheer nerve and the audacious spirit of the guy was awe inspiring.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He left a stench that lingered the distance between La Brea and Vine.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It made no difference what he wiped his ass with as long as it remained wiped.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That was his only concern, and he didn’t lose any brain cells trying to succumb to conventional or acceptable forms of material, like toilet paper, when it came to wiping his ass.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was a strict utilitarian. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Mothers crossed busy boulevards and avenues to avoid walking on the same side of the street as Mikey.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When the news papers published that Mikey grabbed a swaddled infant out of her walker-crib and wiped his ass with the newly-budding baby Hollywood Boulevard went up in arms.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mikey argued in court that it was Hollywood herself that supported, even encouraged, his obscene behavior.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>According to the tabloids Little Mikey killed himself by ingesting too many Pop-Rocks while downing mass quantities of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">RC-Cola</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’m not even here. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t exist.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You killed me, judge,” he told the Honorable Magistrate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And as stupid and as asinine of an argument as it was, the fact of the matter remained, in a city like Hollywood, Mikey was, for all intents and purposes, dead: the little boy that America grew up with and ate breakfast with every morning was indeed dead.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And the only way Mikey could affirm his existence was to use a runt’s face to wipe his ass because Mikey had grown tired of people trying to convince him that he was no longer among the living.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Hollywood even produced a watered down version of the adult Mikey (played by Michael J. Fox), depicted as a well-mannered slob, who stumbles into becoming a foster parent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mikey contended that it was the press and concerned parents who initiated the rumor of his death.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Someone with a lot of money wished to wipe out Pop-Rocks’ profits, labeling them as dangerous when enhanced by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">RC-Cola</i>, as this person wished to protect the pill-popping, speed-freak industry, which lived up in the Hills.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Mikey’s trial was the headliner to a bill that included Isaac’s fight with the City of Los Angeles. Issac was a black Jewish cabbalist, and could numerologically pinpoint who a person was and what a person would become.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He also claimed to be one of the original GAP Band members, but was screwed out of his money and his job.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He wasn’t too pleased about being jilted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Isaac was also a regular at the Brass Monkey karaoke bar.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I never saw the cat do karaoke, in fact I suspect he avoided it, but he could be found shit faced and acting up by 4:00 pm at the Monkey.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Isaac came into the courtroom, wearing torn-up pants and a dirty, white T-shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was shoeless and had a potato sack overflowing with cotton slung over his back with a plastic ball-and-chain shackled to his ankle, shouting, “MASSER, why you always trying to keep the black man down?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The press never got a whiff of Isaac’s performance.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But if you were there you were among God’s true stars of Hollywood.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The judged dismissed the case the moment Isaac came through the doors.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He didn’t even require him to pay the petty ten dollar charge for simply being granted the privilege to stand and be judge by an Honorable Magistrate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Isaac had been booked, charged and released for ripping up a citation issued him for jay-walking and throwing the shredded ticket in the cop’s face, shouting, “I’m a fifty-five-year-old man, if I don’t know how to walk across the street safely you should lock me up, mother fucker!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I’d like to see you try.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m a master numerologist. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ll fuck-up your celestial noodles!” <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(And Isaac could, but he never could figure out how the GAP Band screwed him out of his money.)<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Popo thought Isaac was threatening to kick him in the balls, so he arrested Isaac for terrorist’s threats.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Mikey came into the courtroom wearing a six-hundred dollar pair of Romeo Gigli spectacles, a tailored white dress shirt and soiled boxer shorts, which depicted a stencil of Jake La Mada’s busted-up face on the crouch.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mikey’s extra-large balls could be seen periodically sagging just below his shorts, resembling a wad of chewed-up bubble gum.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His feet were shod with florescent green flip-flops and his head was wrapped in a beach towel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He pleaded, “Not Guilty.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The judged refused to issue Mikey a trial date but called him into his chambers, after which the case was dismissed when Mikey gave his word to never again wipe his ass with a child or any other featherless, two-legged creature.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The mother of the child went bat-shit crazy, shouting that the judge was biased because Mikey had been a childhood star.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It took every ounce of self-control that Mikey had to not grab the distraught mother and wipe his ass with her, but he gave his word, and whatever Mikey was he was no liar.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I followed Mikey out of the courthouse and onto the subway.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He got off on Hollywood and Vine and then walked over to the abandoned World of Books store, where he and the one-legged Vietnam Vet, who daily polished the stars (one of which was Jimi Hendrix’s) out front of the no longer existing World of Books book store.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The two of them discussed how Mikey’s case went that morning, and then they transitioned into a violent and bitter rant against the new developments of Hollywood Boulevard.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They were about to head over to Grauman’s Chinese Theater to defecate on John Wayne’s and Bogart’s hand and shoe prints but I talked Mikey into having a drink with me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The Spot Lite was the hangout for convicted criminals, who happened to be transvestites, queers, and powerful prison queens, who could start full-blown prison wars.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mikey frequented the place, in fact, he would only have a drink with me if I agreed to buy him no more than two drinks at the Spot Lite.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had never been in the joint, but I had walked by it numerous times throughout my life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On more than one occasion I witnessed a burly transvestite pounding the shit out of some loud mouth, corn-fed redneck.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had also seen two, bearded transvestites bashing each other’s head on the pavement, into parked cars and against a steel garbage bin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>These fellas were as tough as they were charming.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had also been catcalled a few times by a transvestite smoking outside the Spot Lite, and I was always able to deflect the gesture with a little flirtation of my own or pleasantly ignore it, but I sure as hell wasn’t indifferent; rather, I was slightly terrified by the place.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once, I’d even seen a prison-bus stop in front of the Spot Lite and drop off a number of transvestites and queers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The place was dark and damp.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The vinyl barstools were cracked and crusty.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The walls were black and sticky.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Jimmy Boyd’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Jelly On My Head</i> was playing at a pleasant volume through the jukebox.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span>(<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dehipZ850O0&feature=related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dehipZ850O0&feature=related</a>)<span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Mikey ordered a glass of Lagavulin Scotch from his private stash, which the Spot Lite kept for him behind the bar and only charged him five dollars a glass.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He kept a bottle there attempting to acquiesce to his doctor’s orders, who demanded that he stop drinking.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once a month he would buy a bottle of the Scotch, walk over to the Spot Lite and hand it to the bartender, who would open it for him, pour him a glass, charge him the additional five dollars and then place the rest of the bottle on the top shelf behind the Jim Beam.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mikey had one glass of Lagavulin every four days but today he wanted two.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I ordered the only top shelf Bourbon the Spot Lite offered, Jim Beam. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“So, what the fuck do you want?” Mikey asked me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“I’m not quite sure,” I answered stupidly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Last month, at the Pig and Whistle, you shit on my mushroom burger and spit in my beer.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Yeah, so what, you shouldn’t have been eating at the fucking cunt-hole of a place.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You’re not a sensitive twat are you?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’d wipe my ass with you right here and now if I hadn’t given my word to the judge this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Piss me off and I’ll have one of these butch skag-draggers turn you into a sailor’s cup of tea as they cornhole your saddle.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Hey, Lonnie, come over here.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I want to introduce you to someone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Fuck you, Mikey, can’t you see I’m busy,” Lonnie shouted as the she-male was bent over the pool table, attempting a three-ball-combo in the side pocket, with his sundress hiked up to his waist, and his sweaty ass hairs dangling out of his ruffled panties, which were stretched tight around his fat ass. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The jukebox switched to John Rox’s<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas</i> (</span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yywq7a6Hvho">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yywq7a6Hvho</a>), <span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">sung by the child star, Gayla Peevey, who became a whisker on the Easter Bunnies chin, hiding eggs from children, and never growing larger than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Thumbelina</i>’s toe .<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The Spot Lite was getting moist and ornery.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“No, you’re quite right.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I thought the same thing myself: the burger stunk, the beer was shit and it was all well over-priced,” I nervously but whole heartedly agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Like a fucking Hollywood film or Bore-ack My Bottom’s bailout.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">After a long silence Mikey asked, “So you don’t know why you asked me for a drink?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Well, I guess I’d like to know what sort of women find you a attractive, I mean…”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Take a look around this place.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s fair to say that the omens have foreshadowed bad fucks for Little Mikey.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There ain’t no Haley’s Comet blazing a path in my sky,” Mikey answered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then he wrung his drink and asked me to order him another one.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">A buffed-out Austrian transvestite, who didn’t make the cut for the Viennese Boy’s Choir answered a call from Warner Brothers, but found himself in an entirely different line of work than he expected, was going around the bar showing off his scrog scrapbook, which depicted the she-male getting screwed by politicians and Hollywood producers. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was singing and whistling, “I only cost a nickel and if that’s too much for you, take me for a penny and I’ll thank you kindly.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“I’m sick of the Hollywood prattle, where permeability saturates morality and is hypocritically regarded over aggressive penetration,” Mikey muttered irritably, as his eyes turned gargoyle green.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He spit a loogie over the bar and onto the cash register.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Miley was visibly growing more-and-more agitated, quoting Mark Twain, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">A monotonous career of violence and bloodshed</i>, then he pounded his second drink.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I didn’t understand what he was getting at. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">All of a sudden Mikey jumped on top of the bar, ripped the towel off his head, tugged down his Jake La Mada boxer shorts and flopped a turd right on the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“God-damn-it Mikey, not again!” Ernie, the bartender rebuked him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“My freedom demands it this time, Ernie, so fuck-off!” Mikey shouted, flipping everyone the bird (like Flipper the Dolphin), bulging his eyes and smacking his butt cheeks, as he pissed in the bar-well.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then he dove on a man, who strangely resembled the famous Hollywood Producer I had recognized at Mikey’s courtroom hearing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Hollywood Producer looked more amorous than frightened.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mikey unashamedly shit-fucked the man, who unashamedly offered up his rump for all to take more than a gander; and there was indeed “quite” a number of “quite” large and greasy tranies pounding their meat across his face. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The tapestry devil was doing a pirouette, fanning flagrant fellatios.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then I saw something that baffled me all together: the judge, who presided over Mikey’s case, had slipped into the Spot Lite undetected and was now jacking-off in a dark corner wearing a Mickey Mouse hat. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I snuck out of this bestial ballroom, which was reminiscent of a Greek Philosopher’s after party, as the jukebox dropped another Jimmy Boyd 45: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">There’s A Little Train Chuggin’ In My Heart </i>(</span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lwCBm7rpZio&NR=1">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lwCBm7rpZio&NR=1</a>)<span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">copyright 2010 Jim Lopez</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://paraphiliamagazine.com/books.html">First Published in PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE Issue Seven</a></p>Jim Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09953757902620830364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549455919380615349.post-79404531310885965492010-07-24T14:39:00.000-07:002010-07-24T17:34:45.901-07:00<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyYBuZcgBIE42wPsC6kLjSrZI4HPNf91zXLfk67A7YWP5XJ44CD2-eHtzEOJWcqItn4k-jfD0jaMBLFxNPUCsBhOV90x9FmAZG0YQFHKUw3Q1WJFan8Zx5Iyek0zLEKXxY05UwPeMcHo/s1600/JimLopezMongrelGunSlingers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyYBuZcgBIE42wPsC6kLjSrZI4HPNf91zXLfk67A7YWP5XJ44CD2-eHtzEOJWcqItn4k-jfD0jaMBLFxNPUCsBhOV90x9FmAZG0YQFHKUw3Q1WJFan8Zx5Iyek0zLEKXxY05UwPeMcHo/s400/JimLopezMongrelGunSlingers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497591107196028370" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">THE MONGREL GUN SLINGERS</span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The last time Georgia (a Yankee Doodle, donkey milking skag dragger) escorted a college girl (who had been featured in an episode of Girls Gone Wild and had trouble pronouncing her vowels) to an abortion he drove her to a Methodist Church, walked her up to the pulpit, made her say her prayers and then pushed her down a flight of stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That was a week ago, but now he and I were sitting in a cantina, listening to romantic songs in Cuernavaca, Mexico.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Rumors were circulating that the Mongrel Gun Slingers had crossed the border and were now themselves in Cuernavaca.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was said that they had massacred a patrol of Border Control Officers and a number of cartel members in Ciudad Juarez. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Mongrel Gun Slingers were the Darkness in the heart of Light.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They were the arm of justice, ruled by one law: the prayers that cried out for vengeance loosed the Mongrel Gun Slingers into this world.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t think much about the rumors but Georgia couldn’t stop talking about the Mongrel Gun Slingers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He had some deep, disgusting desire to go out with a bang and get tag-teamed by them and, well, Georgia was getting closer to his dream.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I shook my dick, zipped up my fly and walked back into the cantina to order another Havana <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">tres aῆos</i> rum when I saw the Mongrel Gun Slingers for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t know exactly who they were, but I felt an eerie crawl down my spine as I stood next to a large women sitting next to a large man at the bar.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No one had ever lived to tell what the Mongrel Gun Slingers looked like for certain, but a few who lied dying on gurneys whispered that the Mongrel Gun Slingers were hermaphrodites, that they were the Fifth and Sixth Horsemen left out of the Ultimate Apocalypse and forced to be the hand of tragedy in all the ‘Penultimate’ Apocalypses throughout the ages, and no ancient scribes had dared to write about them in public scrolls; however, I had come across a manuscript while screwing a Jewish girl from Beverly Hills (who was attending the Kennedy School of Government) in the basement stacks of Widner Library.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">A copy of a pamphlet titled, “A Short and Unauthorized Account of the Burning of the Alexandrian Library” by a Bonetavio Puccini had been rattled out the shelves and fell between my pelvic thrust and this Jewish American Princes’ ass.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was four pages in length and contained a drawing, which depicted the initials MGS carved into a fallen pillar next to the smoldering rubble of the Library of Alexandria.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Supposedly a Sumerian had cursed Alexander the Great’s general, Ptolemy I Soter, for killing his family and stealing his secret cuneiform tablets, so the Mongrel Gun Slingers crawled out of a Wormhole and sacked the Library of Alexandria. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When I mentioned the pamphlet to a Jesuit at Weston Theological Seminary he dismissed it as a myth, a hoax, a sort of bogie-man story told to peasants by the Church to keep those who were marked for slavery illiterate and submissive.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But the Mongrel Gun Slingers were no myth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They were real <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Chupacabras</i> and I was standing right next to them. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The Mongrel Gun Slingers were the devils of the Shakin’ Quakers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They were the corporeal image of Animal Magnetism.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Ouija Board would not even speak with them and when they made their presence known they were the only ones left standing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now what did that mean for me?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Was this my last drink, my last few minutes of life?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Not only did the Mongrels kill, but they engaged in the oldest and most feared form of warfare: they fucked their victims.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Was I about to end up a raped carcass, left mutilated, and soaked in the love juice of the Hermaphroditic Fifth and Sixth Horseman, who were too vicious, brutal and obscure to be mentioned in literature? <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I had been unemployed before being unemployed was popular, and I had grown quite irritable with the fraudulent and hypocritical unemployment statistic that were spun by the United States.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You see the United States does not count everyone who is out of work; rather, it only considers those who are "eligible" for unemployment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There are more people out of work than there are those who are qualified to register for unemployment and I intended to kill someone worth killing, but the Mongrels would beat me to the blade. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Jeffrey Skilling, Enron’s x-CEO, had defrauded the State of California and ripped off thousands of retirement funds from hardworking Americans, and he had just been released on early parole from prison.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He and his wife, Rebecca Carter, were vacationing in Cuernavaca and I was going to kill him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I paid the barmaid and walked over to Georgia, placed his drink down in front of him and sat with my back towards the Mongrel Gun Slingers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Georgia, you see those two biggies sitting at the bar?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Honey, I had my eye on them since they walked in while you were tugging your pud in the alley.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Well, I’m not certain, but I suspect they’re the Mongrel Gun Slingers.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Really,” Georgia said, leaning forward, seductively whispering and sipping his rum through a straw, “I sure hope so.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“We better get out of here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“No, honey, we’re not going anywhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“We’re sure as hell not going anywhere if we stay here any longer,” I said with a quivering, hushed tone.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Baby, don’t worry, Georgia’s here to protect you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“What the fuck are talking you about you dozy queer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They’re going to kill everyone in the place.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Now, now Jimmy, don’t exaggerate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If you’ve never hurt anyone so badly that he nor she pleaded to God in Precatory Prayer you’ll be fine,” Georgia said eyeing the Mongrels, sucking on his straw.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This overweight transvestite was flirting with the Mongrel Gun Slingers. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Are fucking out of your mind?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Have you gone mad?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Precatory!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What the fuck are you talking about?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have to get out of here.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I took a big swig, my heart pounding so hard I could have been impaled on a stalk of sugar cane.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Georgia had studied Patristics and Byzantine History at Gregorian University in Rome, and he received a perverted education from the priests. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now this Transvestite Princess was thinking about getting throated and crowned by these two ‘mythical’ lunatics.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But as I mentioned before, the Mongrel Gun Slingers were no myth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They were sitting right behind me drinking Havana rum. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Honey, didn’t you study the book of Psalms in Seminary?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“What?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yeah, I fucking did, and I know what a goddamn Precatory Psalm is.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s when some jilted fuck cries out, asking God to torture, maim and kill some vicious bastard who has it coming.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I don’t give a shit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I want to get the hell out of here, now.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Isn’t that Jeffrey Skilling and his wife, Rebecca Carter?” Georgia asked, pointing with his lips.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I turned around and sure enough there was Skilling waving the barmaid over with a CitiBank Titanium Visa Card.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“I’m going to ram that fucking Titanium card down his throat,” I said forgetting the Mongrel Gun Slingers, slamming the rest of my drink.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Go get ‘em, honey.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The vein for murder was pumping blood so fast through my heart that I was experiencing True Rage for the first time. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I walked up behind Skilling, grabbed his Titanium card out of his hand, pulled his head back and was about to shove my fist down his trachea when I felt a hand twirl me around.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was the ‘female’ Mongrel staring at me with twinkling black eyes. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She lifted me off my feet and sent me skidding across the floor only to be halted by the boot of the ‘male’ Mongrel, who heeled me right in the back of the head.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Excuse me, but this is God’s business not yours,” he said with a voice that resounded like a bolt of lightning thrown from the hand of Zeus.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He lifted me off the floor, shoved my face in his armpit, which didn’t smell as bad as I thought an Apocalyptic Horseman’s pits ought to smell, and commanded, “You mustn’t watch,” ringing my head tighter into his armpit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But Georgia was watching and he gave me a blow by blow account like a queer Howard Cosell, sucking down Cuban rum with an umbrella garnish.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“The Mongrel just pulled an HK USP .40 millimeter out her panties.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I love those panties, Big Lady,” Georgia said complimenting the ‘female’ Mongrel and then continued, “Skilling isn’t looking too happy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ooo.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I heard a bang and yanked my head out of the Mongrel’s armpit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My head was bleeding into my eyes but I could see clearly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The ‘female’ Mongrel had stuffed the barrel of that HK so far down Skilling’s throat that she blasted his tongue and pieces of bone and various fragment of organs and tissues out of Skilling’s ass, who was now lying in a lump of his own dismembered body parts, blood and feces. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Rebecca, Skilling’s wife, went screaming across the cantina.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The ‘male’ Mongrel grabbed hold of her, bashed her head on the bar, and shoved his enormous cock right through her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He didn’t even bother to raise her dress or pull down her panties before he raped her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Rebecca’s dress and panties wrapped around that Mongrel’s member like an alter-boy’s lips wraps around an ice-cream cone before a priest shoves the boy’s face into the cream behind the confession booth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Rebecca screamed so hard that one of her eyeballs popped out of her head.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then the Mongrel blew a load with such veracious force that it blew off the top of Rebecca’s head and plastered it to the ceiling.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The ‘female’ Mongrel was simultaneously fucking a Federale and two of Arturo Beltrán Leyva’s men (Leyva, one of Mexico’s most violent drug lords, had himself been recently killed on December 16, 2009 by Mexican Special Forces).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>These three men had murdered the mother, the mother’s son and daughter, and the mother’s sister on the same day (December 21, 2009) that that poor mother was burying her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">other</i> son, who was a Special Forces soldier who had been killed during the Leyva show down.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Well, now these three men were getting raped by the ‘female’ Mongrel, who was looking more and more like a burly Mexican dismantling a roof with a pitchfork.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Mongrel had both tools to execute the hand of justice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was stuffing one guy’s face so deep into her snatch that he started to resemble the tail of a shrimp in a taco covered in cream cheese and guacamole.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That was the Federale, who was kicking a little bit and was about to expire.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The ‘female’ Mongrel was also giving one of Leyva’s men a colonoscopy with a cock that actually roared and had teeth around its urethra.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That guy was just limp and dead, while this dragon-like dick was tearing up his rectum and blowing fire through his innards.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Leyva’s other guy was having his dick sucked so hard that his face was caving in.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then his head just disappeared into his neck, which was followed by his shoulders, chests, stomach, waist, hips, legs and feet.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His whole body was sucked into his cock.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then the ‘female’ Mongrel chewed it up and spit it out on the wall.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Meanwhile, the ‘male’ Mongrel, (I describe him as ‘male’ even though I wasn’t sure if he was a male, I mean he didn’t reveal his pussy or use it to kill anyone, but after what I had just seen of the ‘female’ Mongrel I suspected the rumor was true—the Mongrel Gun Slingers were hermaphrodites), was shooting people in the face as his cod dangled in plain view with Rebecca’s other eyeball glued to the end of it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then the ‘female’ Mongrel (who was half-naked) joined the ‘male’ Mongrel (who by the way had a double Havana rum in one hand and a John Moses Browning commemorative .45 millimeter in the other) and started shooting people in the face as well.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They killed everyone in the cantina except Georgia, me and the beautiful Mexican barmaid, who was so freighted that she jumped into my arms.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I held her waiting for the Mongrel Gun Slingers to rape the two of us or shoot us in the face.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Georgia was calmly sitting at his table gingerly chewing his straw as he sipped his rum.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">When the Mongrel’s were done, so I was hoping, they walked over to the bar.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The ‘male’ Mongrel reached over the counter, grabbed a bottle of Havana <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">cinco aῆos</i> rum and poured two glasses.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The ‘female’ Mongrel was composing herself in a presentable fashion.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then they lit a couple of cigarettes and peaceful drank their rum.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Georgia pursed his lips in frustrated disappointment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Is that all you two Herms have for us this evening,” Georgia huffed like Tinker Bell pissed-off at Peter Pan. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“This momentary measure of mercy better wind up with me in the arms of a coup de main.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Are you two Mongrel Gun Slingers going to come over here and fuck me, or do I need to call a bellhop to carry my luggage up to my room?” Georgia asked with a touch of demand in his tone and a whole lot of sass.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">I didn’t quite understand the metaphor, but I think Georgia was looking for absolution from some sins. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The Mongrels just sat ignoring Georgia, drinking and smoking like a couple of hard-working, unappreciated plebeians who missed happy hour. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Mexican barmaid and I were holding onto each other like a couple of huddling, uncertain characters in a Hieronymus Bosch painting.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Ewwhoo, pppp, mmwaa, aren’t you two the Mongrel Gun Slingers?” Georgia persisted, kissy-catcalling the Mongrel Gun Slingers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’m ready to go to hell now.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The Mongrel Gun Slingers continued to dismiss Georgia, who was growing impatient, so he shimmied his fat ass out of his chair, sashayed across the room and leaned into the bar between both Hermaphroditic Mongrel Gun Slingers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I said I’m ready to get fucked and go to hell now,” Georgia repeated, pouring another round of rum for himself and the Mongrels, who seemed pleased by his gesture.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The barmaid tugged herself out of my stiff arms, walked around the bar, and reached for a rustic bottle of Tequila that sat on the top shelf.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I followed her and sat at the end of the bar far from the Mongrels and Georgia.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She placed a couple of shot glasses down between us and poured two stiff drinks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We leaned into and over the bar (the barmaid on the server’s side, I on the patron’s side), and stared deeply into each other’s eyes, our breaths intermingling before we sucked down the cactus juice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then she poured us another round.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Do you know why we haven’t killed you yet?” the ‘male’ Mongrel asked me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The barmaid and I slammed our shots, peering into one another’s soul. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was rapidly falling in love with this beautiful, green-eyed Mexican barmaid.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“We asked you a question,” the ‘female’ Mongrel annunciated with a hallow voice that echoed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The barmaid and I ignored the Mongrel Gun Slingers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’d say we did so out of fright and wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What were the odds that Chaotic Chance would grace the two of us with romance in this bloody mess? <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And what did the Mongrels mean by “yet?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“Isn’t love precious,” the ‘male’ Mongrel commented to the ‘female’ Mongrel.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“I want to get fucked and go to hell right now!” Georgia demanded, poking the Mongrels with his umbrella garnish.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Now, come on, do me now!” Georgia was losing his queenie composure, morphing into a spoiled girl who was denied her sweets. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">“No one has ever cared enough about you to consider your actions worth a damn,” the ‘female’ Mongrel said to me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“And you little green-eyed lady, you don’t get out enough,” the ‘male’ Mongrel said to the barmaid.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then the two of them walked out of the cantina with Georgia storming after them, “Fuck me now, damn-it!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Fuck me now!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I want to go to hell!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">The barmaid and I followed them into the drizzling rain.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A Wormhole opened up in the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Mongrel Gun Slingers leaped in like super heroes. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Georgia dove head first.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And the three of them disappeared.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I noticed a soggy, paper rose in the gutter, so I picked up and handed it to the beautiful Mexican barmaid. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then the two of us strolled hand-in-hand through the muddy, cracked cobbled streets making our way to the Motel Canario. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And as the clouds began to disperse and the crescent moon shined bright in the black sky we could hear, in the faint and distant yet ever-so-close parallel universe, Georgia not whistling Dixie but nagging, “I want to get fucked and go to hell, right now!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">copyright 2010 Jim Lopez</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="line-height:115%;Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><a href="http://paraphiliamagazine.com/magazine.html">First published in PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE Issue </a>Six<o:p></o:p></span></p>Jim Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09953757902620830364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549455919380615349.post-17380173223271752592009-07-25T09:19:00.000-07:002009-10-21T21:11:40.841-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsq6wFF0i-1zUo7P4QhMScwbTPGGBQ6MTSq83kBHEQkIY5Pi83uCBnErxmTsokVJ82JYfT3QQpVp0pIjHMxFtraYXNKwqb-ZEu1sdbW0mx8VgCSRr7Ac9q6hmgnO7s1Jz9Fyo38XWKzXs/s1600-h/%236.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The Ontological Friendship of Surrealism</span></span></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCx8nZHimUUN8X72qHshUfRNgu3rm9lpuSO9eOhprEo2K1N0J65Uwtv-fY6t7hjtDC3NpwLjxuB2UUI6mlQMdcHY5DugO9QgGzmsaK2tPjhdSQGVr5K1FXb_7eUunZFDfrIyWqRnEv8rc/s1600-h/%237.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCx8nZHimUUN8X72qHshUfRNgu3rm9lpuSO9eOhprEo2K1N0J65Uwtv-fY6t7hjtDC3NpwLjxuB2UUI6mlQMdcHY5DugO9QgGzmsaK2tPjhdSQGVr5K1FXb_7eUunZFDfrIyWqRnEv8rc/s400/%237.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362433430387659554" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When two people come together and form a Friendship, this Friendship evolves into a separate entity and takes on a life of its own, which is oftentimes more influential than the two individuals who have conceived it; this relationship exists within the realm of the Ontological. The relationship abides in the memory of those who bore it, as well as of those who witnessed it. The essence of Friendship is imbued with an individual existence that is separate from the two or more individuals who create the relationship. Therefore, it is possible to argue that the existence of the Ontological may be revealed through the incorporeal, yet perceivable nature of Friendship.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Maurice Blanchot, in his </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Infinite Conversation</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, identifies the essential quality of the existence of Surrealism to be rooted in Friendship as the Other. Surrealism does not exist due to the created artifacts of each individual artist; rather Surrealism is the two or more who are gathered together in the name of Friendship.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“Surrealism—we cannot sense its destination otherwise—is and has always been a collective experience…making surrealism each one’s Other, and in the attraction of this Other taken as a living presence-absence (a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">beyond the day</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> at the horizon of a space unknown and without a beyond), of living it with friendship in the most rigorous sense of the exacting term: making the surrealist affirmation, in other words, a presence or a work of friendship</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“…Were the surrealists, then, no more than a group of friends?...Surrealism is always a third party in friendship; an absent third term through which passes and through which issues the relation of tension and passion that effaces characters as it gives rise to and motivates initiatives and attractions. ”</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Surrealism came into significant fruition only through the expressed participation of each individual artist engaging the group as a whole. From the onset, a variety of collective experiments were undertaken by the Surrealist. The grounds for which were made evident when the Surrealists crafted a poster comprised of 16 portraits, one of each artist with his eyes closed, encircling a painting of a female nude by René Magritte.</span></p></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvK9a2_-0rxiivopGJjOGti4VwQzvm8Cc17dI9gRG7xPxyHNOfClKTCRe_9gPyyG4UXNURTf8Fe1LJsCzcNKZq5xjqJl38FiKW33-i_hCVPDDSrwSJ9ZaMsq5dVQPGio_cALGhqX05l4/s1600-h/surrealism.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvK9a2_-0rxiivopGJjOGti4VwQzvm8Cc17dI9gRG7xPxyHNOfClKTCRe_9gPyyG4UXNURTf8Fe1LJsCzcNKZq5xjqJl38FiKW33-i_hCVPDDSrwSJ9ZaMsq5dVQPGio_cALGhqX05l4/s400/surrealism.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362433232959539154" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A possible interpretation of this poster is that the Surrealists are in a hypnotic trance, communicating with the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ontosophia </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">–a term coined in 1647 by German philosopher and theologian, Johannes Clauberg-- designating the existence of being only through the continuous conscious existence of an Ontic Being, where thoughts are often forced upon human beings. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Regardless of whether the Surrealists believed in an Ontological/Divine Being or not was irrelevant to their practice of creating occult techniques, in which external supernatural forces--possible evidence of the Ontological Friendship--influenced and guided the conscious development of their artistic crafts; by which was disclosed in their grand creation, the Surrealist's Friendship. The Surrealists’ prevailing designs were due to their participation with one another, and were ultimately manifested in the Ontological Friendship that wielded influence, through the whisper of the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ontosophia</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, over the conscious expression of each individual artist within the artifact of the collective work. But the group could not maintain itself in the faces of success and fame; thus the suicide of Surrealism, but not the suicide of the Surrealism’s Friendship that resides within the magnetic memory field of the Ontic Reality. André Breton, by systematically excommunicating each member and ultimately concluding with himself, euthanized Surrealism in the natural world. And yet Surrealism continues though not in a new expression, but rather in our memories of their relationship with one another, which created the Third Being known as Surrealism. And it was this Surrealism that signified each individual member as a Surrealist, finding their significance in the collective Friendship; while the artifacts of prose, poetry, paintings, photographs, and sculptures were merely an expression of Surrealism; whereas, the actual existence of Surrealism was solely made evident in the Ontological Friendship of those artists engaging each other within the collective body and spirit forming a unified, singular entity separated from each member of the Surrealist, who by the very act and nature of their coming together created the Ontological Being known as Surrealism. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It, therefore, may be argued that Surrealism and Ontology are intricately connected, and that the bond of their affiliation is rooted in the Being of Friendship.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Localizing the free mandate of friendship within the Ontological</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">(Photography by Jim Lopez)</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The following photographs depict two clothed men and a Third Being representing Friendship. </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></p> <span style="font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US; mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Photograph #1 portrays one of the men handing a toy rocket to the other. The toy rocket symbolizes the relationship and its propulsion into the unknown.</span></div></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia;font-size:16px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4sKpkrjD2MOFv6QT0FgDoV6tNULD75MqWKRF67b0z44PDYBi5entoFQYfRaSIsDOg6gxVijSc_P_JK49L6PfAOMJ8OJIkyNWsw24Ru_9YjZEc_R5OEpEKWLThT0BJaxH2iEcYyOb_uIE/s1600-h/%231.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4sKpkrjD2MOFv6QT0FgDoV6tNULD75MqWKRF67b0z44PDYBi5entoFQYfRaSIsDOg6gxVijSc_P_JK49L6PfAOMJ8OJIkyNWsw24Ru_9YjZEc_R5OEpEKWLThT0BJaxH2iEcYyOb_uIE/s400/%231.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362435196724538626" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 400px; " /></a></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the remaining photographs the incorpreal Friendship is given an unclothed body solely to illustrate the existence of the Third Being, who is the Friendship.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-MyJhXFCkELLcRcFNbs58vHOR4UypkhgtXzjLXWTLif8TPe0uzY-Fgf5sLO7UzLOo8-3Dr1wLzRRjBipymB9aURYWcU3X3ZofNdtBd_-ybHFo52WwbBJqgJQNhf5LSkuvEgb9BEN7cC4/s400/%234.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362443611712736418" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 279px; height: 400px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:16px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJlKrFO-xTOhJzBHkKrQax5XFfFIk65tTjCx2s88ePJdToGZUR3OAMmvhyphenhyphen3sFe4TzMeuC9a7o2Sv6dzA_oov_y5ueN_ivR1tNPmLUjFi7gpk3cvtg-PvhA7pW-PXMuBNtKCHL8_J98wTU/s1600-h/%235.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJlKrFO-xTOhJzBHkKrQax5XFfFIk65tTjCx2s88ePJdToGZUR3OAMmvhyphenhyphen3sFe4TzMeuC9a7o2Sv6dzA_oov_y5ueN_ivR1tNPmLUjFi7gpk3cvtg-PvhA7pW-PXMuBNtKCHL8_J98wTU/s400/%235.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362438268442592738" style="cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 400px; " /></a></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJJouCIWgwyMK4ynDSXFrV7pEkJ3mgLnk4xRRTk4r5K4KGVtG2AAIaPQG6TKl1cY1aAZT19vyTc48ViXvZu3NdriLNgGUV6ku2GqDlaOnormpvUoulVTLxl4GNw3lxnVLFQ1m69sM_Yc/s400/%232.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362445446954269938" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 400px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsq6wFF0i-1zUo7P4QhMScwbTPGGBQ6MTSq83kBHEQkIY5Pi83uCBnErxmTsokVJ82JYfT3QQpVp0pIjHMxFtraYXNKwqb-ZEu1sdbW0mx8VgCSRr7Ac9q6hmgnO7s1Jz9Fyo38XWKzXs/s400/%236.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362451860189724178" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 295px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:16px;"> <img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FHwThTZpwOjvnpggHABqxnJmWGRVKObpzNV-yW-1n28iJmX_tqYzKVvVbt8NdLLcHoVIcs247rwkKvn66XzJCXJ6DBy9U2d6Mo2LdJ9lAAy8g0xG6hVfb1ppMIO-6TMvc_kFNvirArI/s400/%233.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362446657437449570" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 400px; " /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Jim,<br /><br />I like the general direction in which you're headed here. For the most part I am in agreement with the general hypothesis; it seems entirely feasible and indeed realistic to me to suggest that the Surrealists' friendship resulted in the existence of an ontological entity which has since transcended the concerns of those particular figures to become an being to be encountered and communicated with via "the magnetic field of the the ontic reality". As you point out, the entity of Surrealism is something which claims our collective psyche with an identifiable shape and texture of its own, wholly irrespective of the artists involved and work produced under its influence. Also, the evidence of unconscious contemporary Surrealists who do not discover their own links to Surrealism until at an advanced stage in their lives/careers is considerable, and might be taken as further evidence.<br /><br />I consider myself of this mode for a start - I knew virtually nothing of Surrealism until independent studies of my own, post-high school, at which point I recognised the connection I already shared with those artists - that I was arguably expressing the experience of witnessing the ontological entity borne by the Surrealist friendship.<br />I also remember, some 25 years or so ago, David Lynch professing that he knew next to nothing about Surrealism prior to his filmmaking and only much later did he appreciate the relationship he shared with those artists - one perhaps forged by the ontological Surrealist being itself.<br /><br />There are a few difficulties in defining this however; Surrealism was/is a movement based on the expression of the subconscious and, as such, there's no reason to be surprised that artists who pursue that impulse almost invariably produce work which is at leat quasi-surrealist in nature. Is there solid enough reason to think that any ontological being might claim a monopoly on these modes of expression? Or is human subconsious homogenous enough to ensure such accord without its influence? (I know this is moving slightly away from the main thrust of the piece, but if one's concern is to prove "that the existence of the Ontological may be revealed through the incorporeal, yet perceivable nature of Friendship" then the proof of those perceptions and the extent of them in a larger cultural context are worth examining).<br /><br />I think you've argued the case here exceptionally well, but it does strike me that the statement "Surrealism and Ontology are intricately connected" may require some backup. I actually agree with the statement, but I'm wondering how one might prove or illustrate it in more concrete terms.<br /><br />For instance, are there reasons why Surrealism bears a connection to the ontological in a way in which the products of other Friendships do not? To take an almost diametrically opposed example, is there any reason why the Friendship represented by the inner circle of the Nazi Party might not have resulted in a similar connection - a (heaven forbid) Fascist Ontological Being transcendent of the concerns and activities of Hitler and his co-conspirators? Could it be that the rigid, authoritarian nature of that kind of ideology negates such a connection to the ontological, or is that a facile assumption?<br /><br />In other words: what specifically gave the Surrealists the advantage (if indeed they had one) in forging this ontological connection?<br />These are questions worth considering.<br /><br />Bringing it down to our own sphere of experience: Are we currently forging an Ontological connection via Paraphilia? Could there be a Paraphilia Friendship Entity; a unified, singular being distinct from the individual contributors? It already seems quite logical to think so. Perhaps a little further inquiry into what kind of Friendships provide the most fertile ontological soil (and as such, why Surrealism presents such a fine example) might be in order.<br /><br />Craig Woods</span></span></div></div></div>Jim Lopezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09953757902620830364noreply@blogger.com5