Shootout at Critique Circle

Have you ever been on an Internet writing forum? My experience is similar to a Samurai suicide where you insert a dull blade into the lower left portion of your belly, tear up to your chest, turn right, cut across and allow your guts to spill on the floor.

Not many do it anymore because something more painful than that is available. Writer forums are the new in of painful deaths. The added plus is there is no mess to clean up. All the blood and guts are eaten while alive. So simple!

I had a review of a chapter on a place called Critic Circle. Wonderful place to bud out any masochistic tendency. And here's the bonus, you pay to have it done. How masochistic is that! Actually I've a number of chapters from the book I'm working on posted there. Not one, has gone by without some bozo reviewing it. I did meet a few people who gave good critics and we had worked together but for some reason, they took summer seriously and opted for vacations or surgery. Who else but a writer would have surgery in August.

So there I am stuck with one critic from a guy who broke down the first paragraph into musical beats, with a graph that he couldn't explain, with the words translated into beats. Gee, interesting but huh? Then he decided not to go any further. Why? Well, the dialog between two characters who are high school dropouts, heavy dope smokers, dead-end jobbers and called each other dude made him think I was one of them so no reason to critique further. Obviously I was in high school with a limited vocabulary and why should he bother finishing the critique.

It cost me three points to post the chapter. That means about three critiques I have to wade through to make three points. And I do a good job with high marks for my critiques. I go to a forum and bitch about the quality of the critiques at the site.

That opened a can of worms by a Candance. That's her name on the board. Shrew is her real name and she proceeded to call me a bully and everything else you can name Satan. Nothing about the quality of the critiques given. Not a fucking thing, apparently a bad critique at Critique Circle is a good critique. Just drool something and send it back for a point, why bother to read what someone else wrote.

It may have turned out okay, it forced me from my comfort zone and in search of someplace to hang my hat. I did and ended up at Scribophile. They have more than one, gay and lesbian group there. They have a strict policy about critiques and from what I hear from the members, they do rid the rotten apples.

But, I haven't turned over the money for membership yet. I'm still on the freebie side of things. That's what worries me, once they get the moo-la will they throw me to the clowns? 

Gaza In August

There has been changes for us this August. Prince Albert has built his castle, and I might add, quite cheery and inviting. The greyish curtains now are pulled back by black tassels, giving the windows an inviting look. The walls are bright with the lower section on the wainscoting still navy-blue, but with the larger white area above, it has a sea cabin look to the whole thing.

Prince Albert likes his castle and is content building great warriors with magic weapons for his conquests of ether worlds. Gaza has help now for Wally seven days a week. It has made a big difference in the quality of life for us all. And harmony, there is life here once again with people who like living in Gaza and with each other. Golden Boy now an ugly, fading memory.

 The garden is bearing all manner of produce, grapes, tomatoes, squash, both yellow and buttercup, peppers, cactus pears, which are pretty good in a morning meal. The girls are almost through their molt, their coop cleaned, the garden tidied, the heat not too oppressive. In fact, damn good for August, and I'm hoping stays that way.

There is a tropical storm heading up the coast, with a little luck it will stay on course until coming inland here and giving us a good soaking. We all need a good soaking now and then.

Gaza's Paparazzi

Pete With The Meat has left Gaza with his suitcases filled with photo equipment and props. We in Gaza can now relax without the constant stare of a lens in our face. We can scratch our butts, let our tits down and face the day without the beady eye of a lens staring us in the face.

But it wasn't just us in Queer Gaza that face the gaze of the one-eyed, others had their moments in history as well. Female porn stars dressed in burkas and scarves, their private areas exposed for all to see were captured on a digital surface as well. Every kink examined, photographed and displayed.

That was one of the problems. Pete With The Meat enjoys his photos a great deal and nothing more captivated him than to show everyone else. Watching a baseball game, there was Pete with his bevy of tied up women on a stick. Out to dinner, never fear, Pete is there to show you rope bondage, flowers, whipped women, bent women, women in leather, naked women, and women hanging from trees with sparks blazing all around.

In the morning, while he sat in my favorite reading chair going over his latest display of women in various what-knots. I would sit on the couch, missing my chair and, while trying to read the paper, be shown more women.

It's not that I don't appreciate the human form but hey, I'm queer, in the sense that womens just don't ring by ding-dong. But that doesn't stop the show, Pete With The Meat goes on and on until he leaves. And for some months, Queer Gaza is once again queer before the paparazzi returns.  

Butt Pirates Of The Raging Queen Invade Gaza

Does anyone know these two? Colorful, yes but be careful. Be very careful. They are marauders from the Raging Queen that  invaded Queer Gaza looking for booty. The one in the background is known for his particular kinks. The other one will eat anything given to him. It looks as if he is polishing off a leg or arm from one of their latest forays into Gaza.

They take no prisoners and violate every atrocity known to man or beast. It is difficult to predict their behavior. Once satiated from their latest invasion, they blend into the crowds of Queer Gaza, smoking grass, drinking in excess, leaving empty vodka and gin bottles strewn everywhere--that and banana peels. These two are guaranteed to ruin baptisms, weddings and funerals if given half a chance.    

Beware. Be careful, for once Queer Gaza has been stripped of every last vestige of decency, they will move into your hood and do it all over again.

Gaza On The Mend

Pete With The Meat is busy fixing pipes, and such here in Queer Gaza. We've been patched, mended and calked. Our ship is tight once again and ready to sail. Prince Albert has said goodbye to Mr. Daniel and that's good. We need our Prince and he needs Queer Gaza. A sanctuary from a world ready to sabotage queer nations if given the chance. Religion wants us dead, but we refuse to bend our heads. Proud queers we are in Gaza, so proud that we shake our fists at these gods of others and laugh. They hold no sway over us with their threats and rants of hell's damnation.

The Muslim Brotherhood has quieted down, their plan to destroy Prince Albert foiled. Now that the Prince is safe in his castle, rebuilt from the ruins Golden Boy left before being dragged away for servitude in the Muslim Brotherhood. We can faintly hear the screams of anguish of Golden Boy in the form of Facebook messages that show up on the screen. Pleas from his pals to go to Magic Mountain and meetings with other Queer Christians. They are dark messages to entice fallen Golden Boy into deeper depths of despair.

It's nice here in Queer Gaza, our summer cooled by morning mist with grapes that hang in abundance ready to pluck. Tomorrow, after the ride, I'll select choice clusters to eat. Tomorrow is another day.

Gaza Takes In Refugees From The Outside World

Pete With The Meat is coming in tonight with his gal, Sal. Actually, I think he said Joan. He did say she's nice, I'm not sure what that means, he is a fetish photographer and deals with people into some very strange fetishes. Balloons for instance. There is a group that gets the thrill of their lifetime from balloons and popping them. Okay, annoying to me, but it floats their boat.

I'm not saying his gal Sal has a balloon fetish but I do know one thing, she will be slight, good-looking, most likely with dark or black hair, and willing to take her clothes off and pose in unusual costumes and gear. Okay, Queer Gaza is accepting, and Pete With The Meat, and his gal Sal can both sleep in the foldout bed.

David, is coming at some point tomorrow. Depends when he wakes up, which can be at anytime. David requires a cigarette to be lit constantly. Doesn't matter if he smokes it or not, but there must be one burning, so far, in the ashtray, at all times. He may be dead from his habit one day and not show up, or drive off the road from a coughing fit for that matter, I almost expect it at this point.

Then there is the Irish computer geek who has ADD by the tenth power. Do not hire this guy to fix your computer unless he will take it to his home and do it there. He's bringing me my lap-top back after failing to be able to repair it here because he got involved in a screaming phone argument with his roommate. He's welcome too and fortunately has a blood test scheduled at Kaiser after dropping the computer off.

Queer Gaza will take in refugees and give them refuge from the outside world. Guess that's why they call them refugees.  

The Muslim Brotherhood's Trojan Horse

Prince Albert has a friend sent to him by the Muslim Brotherhood. Mr. Daniel, a sour man from Tennessee, introduced himself to Prince Albert one night. The relationship has blossomed since. Jack, Mr. Daniel, dilutes himself in secretive ways and toward the evening, becomes close to Prince Albert.

It is of concern. For Mr. Daniel is no friend. He has been sent by the Muslim Brotherhood to trip Prince Albert. Now that they have Golden Boy, Prince Albert is their new target of terrorism. For Mr. Daniel poisons Prince Albert's drinks and brings out the Great Warrior Priest trapped inside Prince Albert. Loud and boastful, full of anger and harsh words, the Great Warrior Priest yells and shouts about himself and his thoughts. It's not pretty. It's actually, ruinous to the peace of  Queer Gaza.

 It is like two different people inhabit the same body. Prince Albert is a nice man, a kind man who listens as well as talk intelligently--and helpful until Jack shows up.  And I'm hoping that the Trojan Horse sent by the Muslim Brotherhood does not kill the Prince, or worse, turn him into The Great Warrior Priest, left to wander the streets of a strange city, boasting and screaming at passer-byes like other urchin madmen.

There is nothing we can do. We have to wait to see if Prince Albert wakes from the illusion of this Trojan Horse. Does he not see the danger waiting inside, waiting to trip the Prince into leaving the safety and harmony of Queer Gaza?  We have caused the bells of harmony to ring. We have perfumed the garden with nature's scents and made peace offerings. But only time will open destiny's door for the Prince of which road he will follow.

Battle Rages In Gaza

There is something quite sinister festering in Little Iran. The Muslim Brotherhood are up to their tricks again, their eye this time on Prince Albert. Noble warrior of a far-away land and a threat to the Brotherhood and their burka bitches, Prince Albert might rescue the burka bitches from their slave labor of bomb making.

The thought has crossed their mind for just the other day, while flooding the southwest field of Gaza where peppers, lemons and butternut squash lay ripening, I heard them marching. Back and forth a Muslim Brotherhood jihadist paced every inch of Little Iran, his burka bitch close at hand and obedient.

It was weird, every section, step by step, was measured out in paces. He came so close to the fence, I could smell the heady aroma burka bitches carry. They have to be ripe for if they get caught with the smell of gunpowder on them from their constant bomb making, it could foil the whole operation and place Little Iran in jeopardy of financial ruin.

Prince Albert is loud, he boasts of his many conquests, while smoking tobacco, when he was a warrior chieftain in his far-away land. They hear everything, the Muslim Brotherhood--everything.  So they know what he is capable of and are frightened he might invade them to steal a Burka Bitch.

We know he has no interest in their Burka Bitches, but the heavily clothed women hear things and that sets them wild. Wild for freedom to cuss and swear at the world and their plight in it. It is why Prince Albert should be careful of the long knives and sabers that lay hidden in their loose fitting clothing of linen of the Muslim Brotherhood when they casually greet you on the street.