Thanks again!

For jostling around my neurons with words.  With the spark to open the can of worms again.  There will be worms all over the place,  worms are all protein, eating and sex. Worms on the sidewalk, stuck together in asexual bliss.  (musical interlude)

THE WORM MORRISSEY.  I wriggle with you, asexually on the sidewalk, on a rainy day in Bristol, oh whoa whoa oaaaaa.... It's heaven on a sticky Bristol sidewalk in the rain with you, ooo ooo ooo. whoa ooo oah oah oah aaahhhhhh

I borrowed Morrissey's muse there for a while, he wasn't using it.

So I was chatting to a hottie from my past, sharing music and her insight into the weird music I shared with her opened up fifth grade for me again.  1974, the year baseball cards started to look lame, the first year in the BIG middle school.  Time for the well-meaning Health  teacher to help kids adapt to this sprawling mega school  Get them ready for Industrial  schooling.  Interest Inventory.  Write down five things that  you like to do in your spare time on this index card.  This is Private and only for the other kids to see, there is no grade or anything, we just want you to see how many other girls and boys in this big new school are just like you.We will pass them around to all the other new students who will then decide if you would be a school friend, a friend to invite home, or someone to eat lunch with, something like that.."won;t this be fun?"  ("eat lunch with" is a clear case of my mind synthesizing and editing a bad lesson plan, I do it automatically, making things better, more stream lined, unless its a stream of Conshy burst)
So I was in a bit of a dark place and I wrote that I enjoyed S.W.A.T.  There was a song  with a cool synthesizer bit in it.  And a TV show about how cool cops could be if only they had more and bigger guns.  Brainwashing was so much simpler then.  When I was ten.
I wrote S.W.A.T. because it was in my head.  Pop music as a control system back-firing?  Or was a chicken coming home to roost?  I changed it to Street War Against Teachers.  I also said I loved nuclear war, radiation, baseball cards, reading and the  Beatles. 
The Psychiatrist hauled me into his office and sat behins his big  desk  asking me if I had anything I wanted to talk about.  "Nope" Was there anything that bothered me? "Unh -uh", he was patient, and I was missing math. so I stone  walled him and read magazines until he got to the reason for my visit to his office. He took out the PRIVATE index card for kids eyes only and told me that another student had alerted the teacher to my card... BUSTED, down on Bourbon Street,  set up, it gets to wearing thin, if you got a warrant I guess you better come in..
The shrink said that I still had time to do the  card "right" and circulate it among the remaining health classes.  The card was flagged the first time around, there was still time to be normal I guess.  So I put in the expected stuff about soccer and chess and the Shrink was happy to help me adjust to this scary new school.  The scary new school that separated me from the love of my life, Susan Black.  I was in Orange house, she was in Blue.   My teacher, Mrs. Smith was an institution,  Whe had been my mothers teacher.
I am proudest of the fact that I beat the shrink  and did not crack.  I kept the family secret. I boiiled and  stewed in juices about skies full of Russian missles and cringed every time at noon when they sounded the air-raid siren.  That's some very un-subtle conditioning right  there. Teach the kids to Duck and Cover  and blast the air raid sirens a few times a day.  You hear, you fear, you hope the tone ends.  The long unbroker tome is  the  one they will play when the nukes are in the air.  No wonder I am crazy.

Thanks

     Thank you for trying to "cure" my virginity 33 years ago or so.  I am sorry for my primitive Neanderthal mind and libido.  At he time, at the raw age of 18 or 19 years old, my brain was unable to process what was going on.  The selfless nature of your act.  Your beauty was all I was able to fathom.  I was in awe.  The way you looked in your blue jean shorts.  The way you filled your sweater up so nicely.  Your brain, your evil laugh, you GOT me.  So of course my mind had to race to fuck up what should have been a beautiful moment.  This was was supposed to be the culmination, my graduation into adulthood, my moment.
     What was going through my brain on that night was far from sexy.  All I could think was, that is where Pee comes from.  Why in the world would this beautiful, perfect girl, want anything to do with my pee hole?
At this point in my development as a "player" I had never had a conscious orgasm.  I programmed myself to wake up in the middle of wet dreams, but usually just missed them.  I had no facial hair.  I used to sit in awee and terror of the kids in highschool who had to shave, the primtive brutes.  Even Todd Sherman's gay-ass peachfuzzstache was intimidating to me.  When he asked me if I had ever had sex, of course I lied.  The beginning of a lovely pattern.
     I remember one awkward moment with my father.  The famous 'bird and bees speech". A real hallmark moment.  "son do you know?"  "Jeez Daad, come on, yeah"  End of discussion.  Again lying about something that was terrifying to me.  Terrifyingly opening a closed bedroom door.  A mistake you only make once.  You learn the sounds of Love.  And associate the terror with those sounds.  And your life goes the way your life goes and this minor trauma is nothing in the big picture, but everything really.  Shaping part of you life forever.
But I am a piker, compared to my father's journey of love and women folk.
     Abandoned by his drunk Irish father at a very tender age.  He just threw his laundry in the front seat one day and left.  My grandmother was a tough old broad.  She didn't take any shit.  Obviously, neither did the woman my father married.  He was raised as the only male in the hen house.  Two sisters, two maiden Aunts upstairs, Vera and Marguerite.  His adolescence forever scented with Estrogen and God.  He was going to be a priest.  That was the only true calling for a man.  A natural people-pleaser and  "good boy" Something happened.  He never shared the details of his big decision to leave the Cloister, or whatever you call that closet that priests and young men live in, training the altar boys in the ways of God, the ways of the Father, On Earth as it is in Heaven. 
     I tried to bust my cherry in high school.  In a cornfield with a willing girl.  In another cornfield with her.  An Intellectual type.  That's my type, they get me.  But nothing is more embarrassing and technical than busting another intellectuals cherry, sober, in a cornfield.  There is no greater struggle than that of the smart ass genius faces with a condom in the dark.  Where was my love assistant alcohol?  Nowhere.  I was a rebel.  My parents were hippies.  They enjoyed the social lubrication of alcohol.  My piety at the time revolved around abstinence, and a good healthy fear of sex (because of my accidental eye full of awful when I was a wee lad.  As a rebel with cool parents I almost had to turn republican.  That's what kids do.  They rebel.  It took me decades to understand the beauty and commitment and selflessness that kept my family together.
    My mother gave up the freedom of the sixties to be up to her elbows in me and my three brothers feces.  All she wanted was a little ballerina to dress up and talk to.  My father's sperm had other plans.  The years of estrogen overdose turned his testes into alpha male machines.