I am setting a goal. It has something to do with me ditching my self-imposed shackles; dropping some of my self-imposed filters,and just being who I am.

It sounds so simple, but in a small community, things can get conservative on you - even in as liberal a town as Athens! Let's just say, as I continue to climb out of this years-long depression (that I refused to acknowledge I was in), as I reclaim the generally upbeat me that I am, I am not going to get lazy but continue to push the boundaries in my bubble. It's important that I do it. Otherwise there is no way for me to be creative.

I guess that's why I have a big thanks to the SG community. This is a place where I feel I can express myself in an unfettered manner. This is a place I can be my own perverted pseudo-intellectual self and no one will take me to task - except perhaps in a meaningful manner.

And I don't have to feel guilty for appreciating beautiful naked women! Geez! How terrible is it to have to repress that? I grew up with a mom that was a feminist, though she would never have guessed it. I want to rid myself of the residual guilt I occasionally feel when I am checking out the amazing women on this site. I mean, that's pretty much the main idea, right? It should be fine that I fall in love day after day with the women here. It's harmless. There are bigger problems to address before we bother with this site.

Everyone enjoys beautiful women. This site shares it all with respect, as far as I can tell. There are a million sites that do nothing to build respect for women. It seems there ought to be a way, and it seems that SG does a pretty good job of maintaining that.

I wasn't really trying to open that door, I just wanted to be a better part of the community. Thanks everyone for getting right.

- junebug

Goodness gracious. I've been gone so long I thought I'd never find my way back. Thank goodness the doors here remain open.

It's been winter here. We've had lots of snow, as have so many others. Our driveway is about a 1/2 mile long and a very steep hill. I've done some winter hiking this year. Most days I like it just fine.

I am moving into Athens soon, a townie again! Very excited about that. We'll have a whole house to stretch out in, meaning I get some studio space! Yah-fucking-hoo! I guess I am feeling very cabin fever-ish right now.

I've been Divining the Soup lately at Jackie O's, talking to the vegetables and seeing who is ready to meet their destiny. So far so good. The bread and cheesecakes have been coming out well and seem to be popular.

Glad to have a slow musical winter. It is a total pain to truck myself anywhere, let alone a bunch of gear.

I have new things awaiting the spring and my rebirth. I can't wait for the afterbirth party.

Wait a minute! Do I have to start a group, or am I the only one on this site with a pigtail fetish?

Thank you to my benefactors. You keep me alive here, and my poor ass is forever so very grateful! Hey, I'm a writer if SG (or anyone) needs some stringer work. I have credentials (somewhere), and a modicum of talent - and I own a dictionary! I am also president of the local chapter of the Semi-Colon Preservation Society.

I sat down to write the opening rant to my article and this little story tumbled out. I used it instead. I think it's called:

the Curmudgeon: Part 1


The Curmudgeon returns to his porch; he’s crusty, full of bile and mustard packets. He wears a scowl that insists that the world crawl off and die. He’s so old, he’s not even retro. He buys 30+ year old technology because it’s cheap, not for it’s ‘cool-factor,’ “Whatever that is,” he mutters irritably; he is pure sloth and malice.

Young, smiling faces make him mean. He scoffs at Health, which left him alone so many years ago. He plays a busted Harmony guitar that has drywall screws holding the neck together. He has to use a pair of vice grips to tune the strings - and to hold down the bridge. He sings his songs of malaise into an ancient Tascam reel to reel and a queer old microphone. The take-up reel has a bit of a swagger and renders the timing and pitch at piquant angles.

In disgust one day - with the process; with himself - he tossed the whole lot into the trash behind his garage. Two delinquent boys found it the next day while they were rummaging about, as bored young boys will do on long, hot summer days. They lugged all of it home, not quite sure what they had, but certain it was a treasure.

With help they figured out how to set-up the recorder, glued down the bridge and found a tuner in the Garageband program on their MacBook. The tapes, with their lopsided lisps, fascinated the boys, who listened to the old man’s rambling vitriol with growing curiosity and impish designs.

They grabbed a digital camera and stalked him, staging fake deliveries just to get him to the door for a photo. They took the photos and stylized them so they were unrecognizable. They digitized some of the songs and created a MySpace page, calling him ‘Arnold Pain’, and befriended every floozy and wingnut they could find. They never re-visited the page. They were high.

The Old Fart’s songs became a lo-fi sensation. There were thousands of people listening to them every day, some in horror, some with sheer delight. Friend requests multiplied, record companies sent emails. Sullen songsters quoted him and played his songs. He became a cult phenomenon.

One night the boys liberated a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and set out to destroy the evidence, among other things. They dragged the recording gear to the top of the garage. The first boy heaved the recorder into the air. The other boy waited, cocked back his arms and swung the guitar with precision, meeting the tape-machine exactly 3 feet from the ground, splintering the guitar into so many toothpicks, knobs and wires. Later: mailbox tag took on a new dimension with the aid of the microphone and its XLR cable. The first boy’s broken arm is healing well, though his pitching days are over.

The Curmudgeon didn’t bother to fix his mailbox. “Nothing but bills and junk mail,” was his acrimonious mutterance. The mail eventually stopped. When the royalty checks eventually came, they were all sent to the Dead Letter Office.