Photographic proof, they walk among us!

Religion is for those who believe in hell, Spirituality is for those who have been there.

David Bowie

Busy doing another blog, here:

http://ellieguitarstwo.blogspot.com/

Here's what I do to keep out of the mental hospital.

Native Wildlife, Semi-nude, 1979

Rockin' Even Harder MoPrim Babes

Rockin' Motor Primitives Women

At the Portal Music Cafe, Summer 2005

Toothy babe

True beauty cannot be kept hidden.

Monumental Hand Job

Sometimes, it takes both hands to handle some big phallic object.

The Hand in early 2003

Early in March 2003, Joel met the Hand. Now he's living in Berzerkly CA, and is an out Heterosexual, and a Unitairan High Preist in Training. Hint of Dementia disavows any involvement in this "lifestyle" choice of his, but respects him for having the courage to admit his formerly latent Heterosexuality, if not his choice to become a man of the cloth.
We actually prefer black leather.

More Hand Job Momentum

The hand sometimes squeezes french Hobbit heads.
This is not one of those, although at first glance it appears so.

The Hand Strikes Again

We here at Hint Of Dementia Brain Stretching Research Labs apologize for that last image, it was in good taste, offered no gutwrenching wierdness or even a trace of sardonic and bile filled intent.
To rectify matters, we offer up the following images. Please accept our profound apologies for that moment of clartiy and beauty.

Sunrise, Kitty Hawk, December 2004

Sometimes it's worth getting up at dawn and walking down to the beach.

Don't tell me you're a dyke, Dude.

I been thinking about all those guys I've met who tell me they're really a dyke inside. I think they're full of shit.
You hear it a lot. "I'm really a lesbian inside" they say, but rarely do they ever think long and hard about how dumb that statement is.
They enjoy the hell out of sex with women, or claim to, and proclaim that this somehow makes them a lesbian. Right. Sure. Tell me another good story.
I love Mexican food. Does that make me a Mexican?
I want to know a few things when they say that.
Do they spend long hours doing things without penises when having sex? Weekends in bed having sex during the early stages of the relationship that don't involve them panting, squirting and rolling over and snoring?
Can they even imagine that sex is something that does not have to involve Tab A going into Slot B, programmed as they are with their errector set approach?
The penis is a fine thing, although I think it's overated. They can be fun and feel good, but they're attached to things that smell wrong to me, and are covered in stubble and wierd urgency. And they usually make a big mess. I've known a few in my life.
But I doubt few of the guys I know who claim inner lesbian status ever thought about what sex, or a life without a dick would be like.

Scary love

You should be scared if you're paying attention
the sex may be great, but so is the tension
she carves your initials in her arm with a knife
she fills your life with pleasure and strife
you never know what's coming next
she works without scripts, a text or a net
you would be running scared it it didn't feel good
but you think she might snap so you knock on wood
she's dangerous and dark
not a walk in the park
but she's alive in a way
that takes your breath away
faster than sunrise on a tropical isle
scary and weird with reckless style
you know it will end but you can't tell how
and you'll hang on to her till it all turns vile
You're hanging by a thread
so very alive but feeling half dead
you think of the things left unsaid
and replay the tapes inside your head
there are moments stuck on a permanent loop
things lower than you ever thought you could stoop
pleasure or pain mixed up in your brain
you hope when it happens that it happens quick
the thought of her leaving makes you feel sick
still it's better than nothing to feel so alive
but you just need a break from the squirming inside

Huldah Erickson, My Grandmother

She died 20 years before I was born, at least. She spent her life thumping bibles, raising babies and arguing religion with my grandfather, two jesus freaks, one from Norway, one from Sweeden, both fighting over the same repressed dead guy nailed to a stick.
I see her face and hair in mine, I see her dark eyes too. I'm afraid I see my future figure too, although time will tell. I'm glad my father was immune to the Jesus virus, and I inherited that immunity.
She was older at 60 than my mother is at 78, and I wonder just how freaked out she'd be by today, my "lifestyle", our strange family and a world filled with sex and violence and opportunistic hacks masquerading as concerned politicians and self declared "family values" issues.
I hope she's resting in peace with her lord, because my long dead father described a life of strife in the house he grew up in.

I dreamed you were here again ©1993

chalkboard nailbrain

Sometimes I think the rest of the world can hear the scracthing of my fingernails as I slide down the chalkboard of my mind into a gibbering state of burnt nerve endings and bad tape loops of memory.
Sometimes I know they can.
Self control is over rated.

Her Mom's Bathroom, 1977

Toxic Geese and a New Year

Step outside
Bright stars, cold air slaps my face
drunks babble on the street like toxic geese
cheap trick screams from the speakers in the townie bar
"I want you to want me"
Seems like a desperate mantra to me
nobody wants to go home alone in the cold
my ears are ringing,
my feet are sore
Last set's over
tear it down and pack it out
point the big mercury home
keep an eye out for the drunks and cops
a strange new year is here.
another spin around the big fireball
it's 3 AM, my bed calls.