Wednesday, September 30, 2015


While I was in the process of Googling vintage Halloween stuff (a pathetic example of how I waste my time) I happened to come across this ancient ad for Wowe-e. It immediately ignited a burst of childhood memories.

Candy and childhood are synonymous and the Wowe-e wax harmonica whistle was one of my all-time favorites. Actually, it wasn't candy at all. It was made of sweet wax that could be chewed like gum. Most kids, however, liked the whistle so much that they didn't want to ruin it by chewing the wax. The Wowe-e whistles were 5 cents - which was a little out of my price-range - but I did manage to buy a few during my recklessly indulgent wonder years.

The wax whistles were patented in the 1920's and made by Glenn Confections. The above ad is from 1948, which was before my time. I remember them from the 1960's.

The original Wowe-e whistles are no longer made, but I think reasonable facsimiles are available. When I was a kid, it wasn't Halloween without them. I still remember the distinct fluted sound of the whistle.

 These are the exact whistles that I remember
with the same Halloween labels

I was crazy about the wax novelties that always appeared at the beginning of the Halloween season. Big red wax lips, black mustaches, vampire teeth, and wax fingers. I seldom chewed the wax, but rather preferred to keep my treasures preserved in a small box in the refrigerator. Naturally, my father would inevitably throw them out. 

The height of my childhood candy career came between the ages of 8 and 11, when we lived in Pomona, California. There were two stores where we kids would always buy candy - Ted's Liquor Store and Roy's Liquor Store. Both were located on Fifth Street, the street on which I lived (Fifth Street has since been renamed Mission Boulevard).

Ted's was a small store. We went there very often solely because it was conveniently located on our way to school. Unfortunately, Ted was the meanest son-of-a-bitch in Pomona. An incredibly grouchy old man who hated children (it's bitterly ironic that I can fully relate to his feelings now).

He would grumble under his breath as we dug out our pennies to purchase candy. He also always checked our pockets and lunch boxes to make sure we weren't stealing.
When I was a child, I was so impeccably innocent and unbearably honest, that the thought of stealing never even entered my mind.

Roy's Liquor Store was twice as big as Ted's and much more child-friendly, but we only went there on weekends because it was much farther down the street. Roy's had an enormous selection of candy. And comic books.

Is it only the sweet nostalgia of my memory, or was the quality and taste of candy really better back then?

There were so many varieties of candy favorites that my faulty memory can't contain them all.

Bit-O-Honey and Good & Plenty, Sugar Daddies and Black Cows, thin Necco Wafers and jellied Chuckles. Turkish Taffy in chocolate, banana, and strawberry. Impossibly hard Jujubes. Root Beer Barrels. Hot Tamales. LifeSavers. Tootsie Rolls. Abba-Zaba. Pay Day and Clark Bars. Chunkies. Giant jawbreakers that had different layers of colors.

Black Jack chewing gum, Chiclets, Dubble Bubble and Bazooka Bubble Gum. Not to mention candy cigarettes and cinnamon-flavored toothpicks. And bubble gum cards.

I remember when a little Mexican girl in our class accidentally swallowed a cinnamon toothpick and had to be rushed to the hospital. Our teacher Mrs. Butler immediately gave us a harrowing lecture about the dangers of cinnamon toothpicks.

Returning to the wax theme, I used to like those little cartons of tiny wax bottles that contained colored sugar liquid. They are still being manufactured under various names and variations.

The present infuriating restrictiveness of political correctness has inspired the ban of the once-popular wax six-shooters. They were pistol-shaped and (like the little wax bottles) were filled with a sweet colored liquid that you could drink.

I also recall the now obsolete and politically incorrect Nigger Babies. The startling name inspired me to do some research, but information is vague and very conflicting. They are mentioned in a 1945 issue of Confectionery & Ice Cream World, vol. 33, page 34.

Many people remember this candy but even the description varies. The original candy was supposedly made of licorice, but later the little baby-shaped candies were made of a caramel chocolate. I distinctly remember the chocolate-type ones.

My guess is that different candy companies manufactured similar black "baby" candies under various names at  different times - including Chocolate Babies and Tar Babies.

In the innocent age of my childhood the name wasn't considered offensive and we kids never thought of it as being racist. I actually thought the little babies were cute. Things are entirely different in the present era of intense racial awareness and extreme hypersensitivity. At any rate, the candy was never particularly popular.

While I'm on a roll, who could forget Pez? Let's face it, Pez candy was absolute crap but those dispensers were immensely appealing. They are still being manufactured and the old ones are collectibles.

Childhood trends come and go, but the intrigue of candy will always remain....

.......until, of course, the Government-appointed deputies of the Candy Control Commission will raid our homes and ban sweets forever.....

Jon, your inexhaustible sarcasm never fails to amaze us. 

 My photo blog: 

Sunday, September 27, 2015


 Me and my heavy equipment

I've ingested a few beers which have served to loosen the restrictive chains on my main source of public communication.

I'm semi-drunk and ready to ramble shamelessly and aimlessly in my blog.

I had a talk with myself yesterday, the gist of which was this:
Jonathan, if you mention anything about Shostakovich or videos, you're gonna scare your blog readers into the realms of constipation.

Against my better judgement, I scared my readers crapless. I pimped my new video.

Golden Rule: never blog about anything that you have to Google beforehand to find out how to spell. My Shostakovich video took a nosedive like Manfred von Richthofen.

Richthofen deserves a Google. 

After devoting untold years and intense research trying to discover how the hell to hold the interest of my blog readers, I've come up with one solution: Announce that you're gay (even if you're not).

Gay blogs are always the most popular. People absolutely love gay men. As long as it's not your son or your husband of course.
Gay men are handsome, witty, charming, intelligent, colorful, intriguing, dramatic, funny (funny HaHa, not funny Strange), and non-threatening. Did I mention artistic?

None of these traits describes myself, of course - it was merely a generalization.

Don't try to look for irony. It'll be too much of a strain.

I have big plans for my next video. I'm gonna do a medley of show tunes in drag.

As a grand finale, I'll do my Judy Garland impression, while singing You Made Me Love You to a photograph of Anderson Cooper.

I'll wait for a moment while you absorb that and laugh.

Heavy  equipment?
No, I'm not trying to describe my private physical attributes. I'm describing what I'll need to eradicate the 25 foot mega-monster weeds that have taken up residence on my property.

This is the very back part of the property.
The front isn't as bad. I don't give a crap about mowing, now that it's nearly October

Good news:
After weeks of endless strain and struggles, I finally fixed my ailing lawn mower. When it actually started this morning, I almost keeled over from the shock.

Bad News:
The wild weeds and grass on my vast, unlevel mountain property are so high and obstinate, that no lawn mower this side of hell could ever possibly dare to confront it. My mower kept screaming and stalling in protest. I finally had to give up.

I need a tractor. Or a Sherman Tank. Or an exorcist. Hell, the Pope is performing miracles in New York. Why can't he pop over here and splash some holy water on my property?

Is there a satisfactory resolution to this blog post?

Naw. I'll just gently encourage you not to be afraid of my Shostakovich Autumn video. Here's the link:

And go outside tonight to gaze at the full Harvest Moon. Rumor hazzit there will be a total eclipse.

A post script:
It was cloudy ALL night here in Tennessee so I didn't get to see the damn eclipse!!


Saturday, September 26, 2015


I've often described myself as having an autumnal soul. It probably seems like an obscure description by a shameless romantic. I can only justify it by saying that the intense beauty of autumn perfectly reflects the depths of my inner self.

I was cursed with a profoundly melancholic nature: moody, sensitive, sentimental, self-absorbed, tinged with an undefinable yearning and sadness that has haunted me since childhood. These feelings most often surface at the end of summer and are nurtured under the spell of the autumnal equinox.

Don't expect this to make sense. I'm babbling to myself.

Last night I made a video tribute to autumn. I had no trouble deciding what music to use. The Andante from the Second Piano Concerto by Dimitri Shostakovich is one of my all-time favorite pieces. Ironically, I was never a staunch fan of Shostakovich, but I think this Andante is one of the most superbly beautiful compositions ever written. 

Composer Dimitri Shostakovich with his cat
(all good musicians love cats)
Shostakovich wrote his Second Piano Concerto (in F major) in 1957 and dedicated it to his nineteen-year-old son Maxim. Maxim performed the premiere of the concerto at his graduation from the Moscow Conservatory.

My video is 6 minutes long - which might seem an eternity if you don't like classical music. 
If you love autumn I think it's worth watching. Full-screen is definitely best.

available on my YouTube channel Jayveesonata

Thursday, September 24, 2015


 I took this photo last autumn when I first moved here, at the Sgt. York State Historical Site

First full day of autumn! My favorite season. Superb time of year, perfect weather. Golden sunshine and temperature in the 70's. The trees look weary and withered, shrugging listlessly in gentle breezes and slowly shedding leaves. The foliage hasn't yet assumed brilliant autumn colors, but the green has faded - replaced by pale yellow.

A favorite time of year for insects of all denominations. Fields and forest are busy havens for bees & butterflies, wasps, dragonflies, & spiders. Spider webs are everywhere in unexpected places. I had a very rude encounter with one today.

Let's preface this by saying that vanity inspires me to wear contact lenses much of the time, but when I'm home alone I sometimes wear my glasses. Heck, there's nobody around to see me but my cats, the 'possum who resides under my porch, and the coyotes. And possibly Bigfoot.

Today I'm outside, stumbling through the unlevel terrain, wearing my glasses. In a vulnerable moment, while I'm squinting from the sun, I collide with an alarmingly large spider web. As I'm desperately trying to disengage myself from its unwholesome snare, I suddenly notice that my vision is obstructed.

My eyes instinctively cross to see what's on my face. It's a spider on the bridge of my glasses, straddling my nose!

Holy Geezuz!!

I yank the glasses from my face, frantically shaking them with such force that the spider launches into space like a Frisbee and crash-lands somewhere in the weeds.

I'm trembling like a pansy in a zephyr. When I regain my senses I realize it could have been worse. If I wasn't wearing my glasses the damn spider would have probably gone into my mouth. 

Pansy? Zephyr??
Hey, I thought it was quite poetic. 

I'm still trying to fix my lawnmower, which has no desire to start. It's nearly new. I only used it one time in Texas before I moved. Methinks something went awry during the transit to Tennessee. The movers delivered it without a handle!! I kid you not. Some bastard removed the handle and didn't replace it. I had to order a new one.

The weeds on my property are now about 20 feet high and I can only hope that an early freeze will eradicate them. I can't afford to buy a new mower. And I sure as hell don't have a scythe.

I'll never buy another Briggs & Stratton.
Ironically, my father had a Briggs & Stratton mower that lasted for twenty years. Mine lasted two days.

Drastic change of subject

So tell us, Jon - 
why the heck did you write your previous blog post ? Venice, gondoliers, unrequited love, ambiguous sexuality,.....what's the deal with excavating ancient history?

My present image is that of a being an old rural hick in Tennessee. Every now and again I like to establish the fact that I was once a young city hick in Hollywood (*smile*)

I've had an unusually colorful past and - - to be uncharacteristically brash and blunt - - I occasionally like to brag about it. What I reveal in my blog is merely a condensation, a paltry fraction.

Perhaps I yearn for the past simply because I've fallen so far from it.

I was once young and desirable - my life brimmed with adventure and fascinating things that most people have never experienced.

Now I'm a dilapidated country hermit, stumbling through weeds with spiders on my nose.

Life's ironies are a bitch.

My photo blog: 



Monday, September 21, 2015



I was twenty-four years old that summer. I'd never been to Venice, never intended to go. Yet, somehow, it became a recurring theme in my life during those yawning months of youthful indolence.

I had seen the Luchino Visconti film Death in Venice,  which has since become one of my favorite films.  At the time, I didn't grasp the significance of the theme. I saw Gustav von Aschenbach merely as a perverse older man lusting after the fourteen-year-old boy Tadzio.

 It wasn't until I read the novella by Thomas Mann that I considered the story with a new perspective. Tadzio represents the youth that Aschenbach is so desperately trying to recapture. In pursuing Tadzio, he is pursuing his own elusive youth which - in the end - proves to be a pathetically futile effort.

Later that summer, I read the book again, in the original German from a copy loaned to me by Clara. Clara spoke German fluently. I could speak and read it, but only with heroic effort.

Clara was the sister of my best friend Anton, 
a musician who was in several of my classes in college. He was an enthusiastic admirer of my pianistic virtuosity and later became a staunch and shameless promoter of my compositions.

Anton and his sister came from an extremely wealthy and influential European family and their father was well-known. For many reasons, I'm hesitant to say exactly who their father was - but I will reveal that he had a highly esteemed personal connection with the Pope at the Vatican.  

The entire family liked me immensely and I visited them often. I was a frequent guest at their Los Angeles home and also at their weekend house in Newport Beach. I played the piano at the family's private soirees. We would spend pleasurable hours reading poetry, discussing music, art, literature, philosophy. I treasured those blessed times of intellectual stimulation and escape from my often tumultuous existence.

Clara was frequently present during my visits and we began a casual friendship. I didn't know, until Anton finally told me, that Clara had secretly fallen in love with me. She was six years older than myself but looked very young and was extremely attractive. She was also highly sophisticated, had been educated in Switzerland, and spoke four languages. Her parents adored me (God knows why) and the entire family undoubtedly thought that - with a little spit and polish - I'd make a suitable husband.

I was talented, reasonably intelligent, occasionally charming, and - some thought - good looking.

I was also extraordinarily emotionally immature, wild, unpredictable, and promiscuous. I wasn't good husband material - - and I knew wholeheartedly that I wasn't ready for marriage and probably never would be. I dated Clara occasionally. We went to concerts, museums, art galleries, upscale social functions. 

Clara and Jon
at an event in Beverly Hills

That September Clara and her parents went to Italy and spent a month in Venice. They invited me to come along but I declined. I had resumed my college classes and started performing publicly again. I received letters and postcards from Clara, long descriptions of an enchanting place that (according to her) would have been enhanced by my presence.

Ironically, one of the piano pieces in my concert repertoire that autumn was the Gondoliera from Annes de Pelerinage ( The Years of Pilgrimage) by Franz Liszt. It is a beautiful song depicting the gondolas on the Grand Canal - - sentimental, quite haunting. It still invokes echoes of sadness when I play it.

Later, after her return from Italy, Clara surprised me by proposing the idea of marriage with earnest seriousness. I panicked and declined. That was always my instinctive reaction to all serious relationships. I balked at the idea of permanent unions. I never realized (or cared to consider) how deeply hurt she was. 

There is a lot more to this story, but it's too long to relate in a blog.

Was I in love with Clara? No, but I did like her immensely. Were we ever sexually intimate? Don't underestimate my sexual potential. And she was eager.

My sexual past is an intricate complication that would have baffled Freud. Trying to simplify it is a daunting task . I've been in love with women. And I've been in love with men. Tip the scales and my male conquests have far outweighed the female ones. Think what you like.

In a rash, very thoughtless rebound, Clara married one of her best friends - - her gay hairdresser. If you're looking for some kind of irony, don't strain yourself. I knew it was a big mistake. She did, too. It would be a spring wedding. Clara had serious doubts and begged me to attend the wedding. She said that she desperately needed me "for moral support".

Never one to valiantly face unpleasant situations, my instant reaction was to escape. I went on a wild drinking binge. Borrowed a boat from a friend. Sailed to Catalina Island. Didn't return to Los Angeles for a week.

Later that winter, I was attending a gala ballet performance of Tchaikovsky's The Sleeping Beauty at the L.A. Music Center (Cynthia Gregory was dancing the title role). In a major fluke of fate I accidentally ran into Clara and her husband. It was a profoundly uncomfortable moment. She was warm and gracious. I was wickedly delighted to see that her husband was short, unattractive, and completely charmless.

I also had profound guilt, because I had inadvertently been the cause of their loveless and peculiar union.

There's an interesting dimension to this endless story:
Clara's brother Anton had a semi-crush on me. He had gotten married at a young age, but the marriage lasted only a few months. I strongly suspected his wife was a gold digger and nothing more. After the divorce Anton had an increasing interest in bisexuality. He  surprised me by saying that if he ever wanted to have sex with a man, I'd be the first person he'd call.

I wasn't about to encourage him. And, in case you're, we never did.

I lost track of Anton and his family when I moved from California.

Today I only have memories, old letters postmarked from Venice, my worn, dusty copy of Thomas Mann's Death in Venice. 
And a tattered piano manuscript of Franz Liszt's Gondoliera, which I occasionally still play on the piano.

Saturday, September 19, 2015


weird photo
looks like a Halloween cat 

I've decided to write another crappy blog post because my bad posts always generate interest. When I'm brilliant and verbose, people run in the opposite direction.

Jon? Brilliant?? Surely you jest.

My brilliance is often overlooked because frantic people are too busy trampling one another to get to an exit.

Okay, Jon, dazzle us with a bad post. Whether you're brilliant or lousy, we can't tell the difference.

If I were a narcissist I'd take that as a compliment. 

Yes. Unexpectedly. 
I decided to make an early dinner about an hour ago. I eat whenever the time suits me. Sometimes it's late afternoon, other times late at night.

Everything was going perfectly. The meal was almost ready. I stepped outside to empty a pan of hot grease. I don't know how the hell it happened - perhaps a ghost pushed me - but I lost my footing, nearly tripped, and the pan of grease spilled all over my left arm. The worst part of the burn is on my wrist.

After extracting a few choice foul words from my X-Rated vocabulary, I decided to Google first aid treatments for grease burns. 

"Run cold water on the burn and see your doctor."

I'll bet the author of that helpful tip was a member of the American Medical Association.

Let's put it bluntly:
There will be Ice Cream Parlors in hell before I'll see a doctor for a grease burn. I don't have medical insurance and - unlike those who do - I don't make a career out of running to doctors. I've known many people who thoroughly enjoy spending 95% of their lives in doctor's waiting rooms. It's a great American pastime.

The only time I'd ever think of going to a doctor would be if a rabid coyote bit me on the ass. Or a grizzly bear chewed off one of my legs.

What a rant, Jon! Do you feel better?

Naw, my arm still hurts.

I mean emotionally better. Did you release all your pent-up emotions?

Hey, Kemo Sabe - -If I ever released all my pent-up emotions, the hurricane force would be powerful enough to wipe out Central Asia. And the southern part of Russia.

Let's move on to some more mundane things. How about if I post a few boring photos that I took this afternoon?

There are still lots of butterflies around here and I enjoy harassing them with my El Cheapo digital camera.

Strange yellow weeds
(Okay, Anne Marie told me it is goldenrod)

 Trees in my back yard
with afternoon sun 

 Glimpse of the front yard

A very rare moment when my 10 year old cat Scratch is playing with my 1 1/2 year old cat Scruffy.
Scratch is showing off rolling on the floor and Scruffy is teasing her from the chair.

Thursday, September 17, 2015


I've always disliked the title of this blog but I don't plan on changing it. I thought my old blog, Lone Star Concerto, had an appropriate title for Texas and I liked it. When I moved to Tennessee I couldn't come up with a suitable title for my new blog, so I simply changed one word - star to wolf.

I suppose the title is fairly apt. I am somewhat of a lone wolf - - living alone in the wilderness, surrounded by the great symphonic sounds of nature. Howling at the moon. I'm definitely a loner.

Unfortunately, the American news media has turned "loner" into a dirty word. Whenever a horrendous crime occurs -  serial killer, child molester, deranged gunman - they immediately announce that the perpetrator was a "LONER". 

I suppose the underlying indication is that there are no criminal elements among gregarious party animals.

 What the hell is the exact description of a loner, anyway?  

Member of the John Gacy Fan Club
Manufactures pipe bombs in the basement
Wears a T-shirt with the inscription:
a zombies worst nightmare 

Okay, it wasn't funny.

I used to be out-going, friendly, adventurous. My life was filled with excitement, romance, and intrigue. Now - in my declining years - I've become a pessimistic introvert. Hermitized, reclusive, misanthropic. I prefer my own company because I'm the most interesting person I know.

Wow, Jon - you're a regular Little Miss Sunshine. I'll bet your dour attitude could sink the Good Ship Lollipop.

Hey, you caught me on a good day. Don't ever come around when I'm in a bad mood.

A change of subject is in order,
but I'll maintain the recurring howling theme.


Lots of coyotes last night, roaming in wild packs. The first ones came soon after dark and seemingly surrounded the house. My three cats quickly dispersed and went into hiding. The cowards abandoned their posts, leaving me to fend for myself.

I went outside on the back porch. It was very dark and I only got a glimpse of them near the woods. Their howls are fierce, blood-curdling, eerie. Intimidating enough to make me go back inside. Very often their screams sound human.

I'm not nearly as intimidated by them as I was when I first moved here. I actually like the raw wildness of their intrusion. When they are farther away, in the hollow depths of the forest, their howls echo and reverberate.

Coyotes sound similar to wolves, and yet there is a distinct unrestrained savageness about them. Perhaps they sound more like wild dogs.

Late at night I often hear the nearly-demonic sound of birds screeching and screaming. Owls? 

The neighboring cows moo a lot, in organized unison. Sometimes at night. More often during the day. I like to hear them. Far away, across the meadows, roosters start crowing long before dawn.

What the heck is this, Jon - Old MacDonald's farm?

I'm just trying to verbally convey the rural setting of where I live to my readers. This will enable them to be mentally transported to my environment, and to vicariously experience all the wonders of nature that surround me.

Or, it will bore them beyond redemption and put them to sleep.

 My Photo Blog: 


Tuesday, September 15, 2015


 September Mists
my back yard yesterday morning

I saw old autumn in the misty morn
stand shadowless like silence, listening
to silence, for no lonely bird would sing
into his hollow ear from woods forlorn....

Thomas Hood

Some blog posts shouldn't be published and this is definitely one of them. I wrote it solely for myself. 

A melancholy mood, this early morning, when mountain mists filter the light of the rising sun - gently fusing with unexpected illusions of sunlight and bittersweet echoes of distant autumns.

The quote from Thomas Hood is one that I remember from my school days, when I was deliciously young and California autumns stirred the restlessness and romanticism in my uninitiated soul.

Somewhere in my collection of memorabilia, I have a letter written by Thomas Hood that I got at an auction. I've been meaning to frame it for years.

I've always loved autumn, for as long as I can remember, but it wasn't until this morning - while gazing out at the foggy back yard and drinking a cup of hot tea - that I suddenly realized the significance of autumn in my life. Many of the major events of my existence happened in the autumn.
I suppose I should mention my birth date, December 13. It seems much more like winter, but was in fact technically the end of autumn.

All of my autumnal memories have come rushing back at once, and in the crowded fervor it's difficult to put them into reasonable perspective. 

During my childhood in Southern California, autumn only existed in mild, tempered versions - usually marked by wildfires and magically potent Santa Ana desert winds. 

My maternal grandmother died in New Jersey when I was sixteen. It was mid-October and my parents and I drove back east for the funeral. I remember how breathtakingly glorious the autumnal scenery looked on that drive across country.

Only a few years later came the surrealistic autumn of eternal fires. Southern California was burning with dozens of wildfires. The small rural town where we lived at that time was completely surrounded by fire and there was no way out. My parent's perpetually turbulent marriage was in Crisis Mode, and my father was more violent than ever.

For some insane reason, after the fires died down, my parents decided to take a trip. I went with them only because I feared for my mother's physical safety. We went to the Grand Canyon and Utah, and I can't remember where else. This diversion restored my father's sanity. At least briefly.

These memories are worthless to anyone but myself, yet they are haunting my thoughts, demanding release.....

Then came the monumental autumn, the turning point. I was nineteen. It was September. My father - my mortal enemy - and I had one of our worst blowups ever. One of very many. He pulverized me, choked me into unconsciousness. No exaggeration - I was out like a light. I later got a gun and was going to kill him. I've written about this in previous posts; no need for rehashing details.

It took weeks for my physical wounds to heal. The mental wounds never heal - but I was very used to that. 
By early October (Oct. 3rd, to be exact) I took off for Hollywood, immersed myself in the intoxicating ecstasy of self-destruction.

My metamorphosis took place during those weeks in October. I was absorbed by the sheltering darkness of the midnight streets, stifling reality with booze and drugs, quenching the loneliness with unspeakably illicit pleasures.
My eternal reign of darkness began in that distant October and I savored it.

The following summer my Mother moved to Reno and filed for divorce.
In September I drove up there to stay with her for a few weeks. Another autumn, more poignant memories.
It was a rare respite without the threatening shadow of my father. We hiked, explored the mountains, scoured the shores of Lake Tahoe, visited Virginia City.....

My father, ever the thorn, found out where Mom was - drove up to Reno, begged her to come home. She foolishly acquiesced. 

I remember driving back to Los Angeles on a chilly October night, leaving the healing respite of the Nevada mountains, entering the smog-drenched purgatory of Hollywood.

I'm overstaying my welcome. I've said enough. But there are so many more memorable autumns......

Someone I loved very much was killed in the autumn.
Soon afterward, I left California for the final time in autumn, when I was 34.

Moved to the Missouri Ozarks in October.
Later moved to Texas in September.
After a dark eternity, I finally emerged from Texas and moved to Tennessee. In October.

Autumn, for whatever reason, has always been a very significant season in my life. I have no doubt that it holds a great future finality for me.......

I hear the echos of those distant autumns- - they haunt the present silence and solitude of misty September mornings.

New post on my photo blog, Unintentionally Gay 


Monday, September 14, 2015


My back yard this afternoon

"Why, it's such a perfect day that it must have been specially ordered from God's Personal Catalog!"

Imagine that being said by me in a Southern accent borrowed from any one of Tennessee William's plays. I'm in a divine hillbillyesque mood today.
I just made that word up.

The weather for the past few days has been absolutely perfect. Perhaps even beyond perfect. The weekend was invigoratingly cool. I had to trade my usual T shirt for a long sleeve flannel shirt. Last night I needed an extra blanket. It was 40 degrees but felt cooler.

I am in the throes of Pre-Autumn Ecstatic Anticipatory Bliss Syndrom. That's a politically correct term for "I can't wait until autumn".
Don't ponder that for too long. You might hurt yourself.

My previous blog post got over 100 views yesterday, which is  beyond belief. I usually get three and a half views, if I'm lucky.
Since my previous post was crappier than a herd of elephants with dysentery, I can't figure it out.

If there is a lesson learned, it's probably that I should continue posting worthless photos and writing about mundane mindless stuff. People can strongly identify with mundane mindless stuff.  
And sex. Whether they admit it or not, people like to read about sex.

I admittedly posted a horrible-looking photo of David Sterry (in my previous post) so that I would look good in comparison. But I still think if we were both in competition for earning the most cash as a male prostitute I would win. No contest.

I've always wondered why the unnecessary prefix "MALE" is used when referring to male prostitutes. I think it's a politically correct invention.

David Sterry (former male prostitute) is on the left

That's the best photo of Sterry that I could find, and it's still unimpressive........

Did you notice that my photo has been filtered and retouched, in order to make me look as cute and angelic as possible? And it was taken 150 yrs. ago. At least.

Just to set the record straight - I was never a male prostitute. Or a female one, for that matter. 

Was I promiscuous?
Let's just say that I've been around the block more times than a '57 Chevy.

Despite being loose and easy, I never had an inflated ego. In fact when I was young and hot I actually thought I was ugly. I'm 6'1", blond, blue eyed - - and I was jealous of guys who were 5'3", had bad teeth, wore lifts in their shoes, and stuffed socks in their crotches. Go figure.

My profound insecurities have diminished slightly in my old age.  That's why I'm eager to write my memoir and reveal my Hollywood sexual conquests. Sterry's disgustingly egotistical, unrelentingly brash memoir has inspired me (*smile*).

Change of subject.
And not a moment too soon.

I hear gunfire outside in the forest as I'm writing this (been hearing it for the past few days). Some of it is unnervingly close by. It's undoubtedly hunters. Or somebody who doesn't like my blog.

trying to look innocent and sweet 

Scruffy (my feisty cat) got loose again this morning and ran into the forest. I had to wade through shoulder-high weeds to retrieve her and bring her inside. 

Why not let her stay outdoors and have some fun, Jon?

Because there are ticks and fleas and cooties and jitterbugs outside. I don't want Scruffy to infest the house (and the other cats) with them.

Did you know that the 1939 movie The Wizard of Oz initially had a song in it called The Jitterbug? It is absolutely awful and was mercifully deleted (you can find it on YouTube).


Bosco slept on my legs last night and stopped the circulation. After I crawled out of bed this morning I was shuffling and limping like a bad imitation of Quasimodo.

That cat was so frail and tiny when he was a kitten that I thought he'd never survive. Now he's so damn big and heavy that he could be used as an anchor on the Lusitania. It was the only analogy I could come up with.

Did you know that male cats have nipples? It's astonishingly true. I never knew this fact until the other night.

Bosco was on my desk while I was working at the computer. He rolled over to have his tummy scratched and I suddenly saw two long rows of nipples. Holy shit! It freaked me out.

I had Bosco neutered nearly a year ago. Did that nasty and unnatural procedure unwittingly inspired nipples to grow??

I did the only thing I could. I quickly Googled male cat nipples. Sure enough, I learned that male cats have them. I breathed a big sigh of relief. 

Okay, Jon. Your female readers are blushing, and your three blog "Followers" have abandoned you. Find something else to write about.

Well, my ten-year-old cat Scratch is doing fine. She still secretly resents the intrusion of Scruffy and Bosco, but she plays with them now and then.

taking a siesta 

Bosco just sat on my computer keyboard and somehow managed to turn on the Airplane Mode with his ample ass. I didn't know exactly what happened but it took me ten minutes to get reconnected to the Internet.

I'm thinking of hiring a Feline Hit Man to take care of the cats. 

.....make it look like accident.....maybe an electrocution....?

Anyone remember the scene where the cat was electrocuted in the film The Postman Always Rings Twice.......??