Just got down to the local coffee joint in time to see some monthly swingers’ group vacating the premises. Of course, I was hoping to get a gander of what kind of people do the naked pass-around circuit these days. Probably the same people, minus the mutton chops and the beehives and the leisure suits, and plus some tats and piercings. But, hell. I don’t know. Contempt prior to investigation and all that.
Not that I feel like investigating. I’m pretty square in that department, like some old-school goofball who keeps hoping to walk into his own personal Frank Capra movie and instead winds up stumbling into a celluloid hellhole written by David Mamet on a laudanum speedball bender and directed by an unholy collaboration between David Lynch, John Cassavetes and Luis Buñuel. So maybe putting on some smooth jazz and seguing into character as that oiled-up libertine who can quote Rilke in Barry White sotto voce to pretty real estate agents may be what’s what.
I’m just writing shit to make today’s post time, really. And now, must find dinner. Chow. —Jackson Griffith
Addendum: The people I saw from the swingers group coming off the patio were like, well, imagine those Dungeons & Dragons kids from the 1980s, all grown up now, with the excess pounds the years add, plus lots of random tats and pink hair. If they had group sex, I’m not sure I’d want to watch the porno tape they made, unless it was narrated by Sir David Attenborough or something. But at least they’re getting laid, unlike one blogger who comes to mind.