Business-Minded Individuals Who are Absent



(If I take my shirt off, then I will be supplementing my personal-type memoir/memo with sexiness.)

May I start this blog post with not only an official excuse but a serious matter that demands inquiry? Put the tardy slip aside, and allow me to proceed to the exact issue that we hold in our hands here – today – on The Duncan Galaxy. Where are all these video-game playing guys and art-fag sci-fi nerds when they’re not playing Tom Clancy? Because if you are married to one of these, be they a dude or a lesbian, I figure that it is about that time that one emerges from his man-cave and admits, to a fault, that all they are doing is playing XBOX One maniacally and evading all household members and loved ones – except for the lone single guys, who can always figure out how to manipulate daytime tactics to prevent their mailman from becoming suspicious.

WIN_20170403_19_00_58_Pro(Here exists further photographic evidence of my near-Sasquatch like rarity, only in my tight white briefs. All right!)

I would like to make a statement, as well as a personal confession, in the defense of those who score anti-socially high on Tom Clancy XBOX games. Here, please listen – while you invite me out to movies, dinner, coffee, and even for a few kisses and hugs, regularly, I admit that I have been less than satisfactory, in that I have really been shy of your company and displayed an obtuse lack of interest in casually galantavorting around in your company. Still, you must report that the cheeseburgers I cooked for you just the other night were spectacular. I have been sharpening my sense of appetite and control over hunger in a private survivalist paranoia. So if I look real skinny, that that is why I come to you to eat. Otherwise, if I look comfortably fat and overweight, perhaps I need a tip to trim my sail.


(I must admit that when you’re not here, the more you’re absent, I fantasize that you are secretly the Rebel Alliance, and that I have been sent on a dark mission by my Lord Darth Vader to destroy you. Oh my god!)

Where is your excuse, your official tardy slip? I see – even though I am cute and warm, you find me invalid, catatonic, uninvolved, and shallowly affectionate? I have only one official reason for not being as present as I once was- before Tom Clancy designed video-games, and I thought I could fight terrorism at home, with my Microsoft XBOX console – and that is that I was kicked out of West Hollywood by Los Angeles Fags – in my mind, the depths of my insecurity, my psycho-traumatic inner monologue, I am straighter than I think. Or I admitted. So I have been emotionally withdrawn and very touchy. Well, I guess that leaves room for a girlfriend! Yeah and bisexuality, right you swinging Y-Generation losers? Finally, and pleadingly, would you just return Princess Leia to her rightful Jedi? Who ever is the master of this princess, front and center!


Make-Believe… — My Sword and Shield…

I love this – just like I love role playing games. There is some of my heart in fantasy and sci -fi, and I think this is why. Please enjoy.



I wrote this a long time ago.. for some friends of mine, in my late high school and college years… you all know I am a geek and a nerd and into all things that have the suffix of “game”. Being a writer, I know you will not find it hard to believe that I […]

via Make-Believe… — My Sword and Shield….

The Infinity of Labor Day Week Vacation


Hi from vacation – you know, pack your bags, wear some nice shoes, bring a paperback, spend money, travel to desirable destinations. I’m actually back home from this sparkling vacation, but let’s pretend I am still there in a mist of excitement and designer scent.  I don’t mean to sound sarcastic or ungrateful – I’m just aware that the manufactured, retail atmosphere we seek and find on our vacations is another dimension of living, an elevated reality. The pictures I’m including in my post are all taken live during my stay, so let’s pretend.

The Marriot’s Newport Coast Villas is a yearly retreat for my parents and I. We commute from Los Angeles and when we meet others who are staying there too, we admit “we are from Los Angeles, it’s not far really.” I met a family from Europe in one of the hot tubs, and I understood how this worked – within the Vacation Club, you are able to choose any destination at any Marriot in the world. I keep coming to Newport Beach, and that is because I am from Los Angeles.

img_20160916_090009 img_20160916_090114

Let’s go out for breakfast! At the Crystal Cove state park on the Newport coast is a great restaurant named The Beachcomber. The Beachcomber has character (like a pirate ship), location (a moment from the sand and surf), and flavor (offering fresh seafood in many dishes). I have been here to dine several times, and I always have fun – and eat well. So this is a good story about a good restaurant, that is always full – I recommend reservations (don’t even worry about trying to book a cottage at the Crystal Cove state park). Here’s my admission: Breakfast for a vacationing guy who’s hungry – and whoops! An adult beverage for an alcoholic. Just for identification purposes, I ordered Huevos Rancheros, and also a Bloody Mary. I actually am made of these two items, for I ate and drank them both. They were greatly satisfying.


Maybe there are sharks in the deeper part of the crashing waves. Hmm.


Woo! I had better not get wet. I just came for breakfast.


Abandon ship! We’re taking water, and we’re taking it fast!

I basically slept in bed for most of my stay in Newport. One night I snuck out and hunted down some tacos at about four in the morning. I really find quality, restorative, deep sleep here. I could say it was the bed, but more likely is the price tag, the resort, the room and its furnishings, and my psyche shifting and happily adjusting itself to a recreation mode. What else do you get? Well, there is a Starbucks at the ‘marketplace’ in the lobby where you can order pretty much most Starbucks espresso beverages, not just Starbucks brand coffee. Yes, you have completed John’s Newport Coast Villa circuit.


Aside from sleeping into the morning and during the day, then refreshing myself with caffeine, I was able to bake dessert for my family and some of my mother’s friends. Here is pictured the line-up of ingredients that come together to make Paula Deen’s recipe of Southwest Georgia Pound Cake. Honey, it just crisps up like sugar candy, and fluffs out like a pillow spun of cotton candy. Yes, seriously, I have a go-to recipe for pound cake, and yep – it’s just me and Deen again. So then I caramelized some pineapple slices and just bathed her in hot tropical fruit syrup. You’re dead meat – because I return from the grave over and over to serve this dish.


Don’t try to steal my recipe – just Google her and this fabulous sin.


Thank you mom and dad, thank you Marriot, thank you Starbucks, thank you Beachcomber, and thank you Paula Deen. Transporting to this secret location of extreme pleasure and exotic luxury is now the realm of your experience too. I didn’t mention the 50 minute Swedish Deep Tissue massage (Marina is the most incredible masseuse!), or the quick workout in the fitness room (John is the most handsome stud!) because I don’t want you to get jealous and find me in modern civilization. Trust me, I face the same horde of zombies everyday!

John the Alcoholism


I have a confession to make, and it is not revealing the results of my recent UCLA Health Saint John’s sexually transmitted disease screen. Should you go on (reading), you might (depending) encounter adult themes and horrific tragedy. Not to say I would curse you, but to say, as my readers I hope to rub off on you (I care).

The admission is one of terrible loneliness and reckless rage. My story is one of danger, injury, and consequence. This admission also features some interesting individuals, some of whom I know to this day, and some of whom I have not heard from in ages, and accordingly I do not know if they are still alive.

Dramatics and warning aside, my story is a far too common one – one maybe some of you have experienced first, second, or third hand, and for the rest of you – really, I think you will know what I mean when I say you are well on your way to understanding what happened to me.


If you like refreshments, if you like to sauce it up, if you like to put the lime in the coconut, you are 21 years old, and probably still able to stand (if you are reading this on a tablet passing out on the floor any second – no fair). I have alcoholism. Yes, self-diagnosis is partay and self-important and a neat social defense mechanism, but when the music turns into that creepy interdimensional antique time travel horror moment type (or whenever it becomes loud and foriegn) you have got a secret. That secret you won’t reveal, and won’t want to because it will stop a drink from finding your mouth. Who are you when a drink finds your mouth? You might know, and this a private bloggy moment to recount your sexiness’ bravado and unusual behavoir.

I am a functional alcoholic, and a rehabilitated drug user. Not telling you which drug found my mouth. Only fair. Functional means that Alcoholic Anonymous meetings find my rear. And as a former drug addict, I find these twelve step meetings with my soul, my heart, and an ability to return health and happiness into my life and those in my life. So there you go – you have my secret, and if you don’t want to drink with me, okay. If you do want to drink with me, great! I understand – only I am trying to stay sober. Do you care? Maybe you’re interested, but don’t actually care (for whatever reason). Maybe you do care, and I want you to read what I have to write. Maybe you are a fellow twelve stepper – but greater still you can drink, you do drink, and you like to drink. Have a seat.


A journey through my time at A.A. twelve step meetings would actually be very trite and very immature and very embarassing. Maybe you all ready know this, or have a second nature of insight (or are an arcane truth-sayer). I do not want to drag this name into public controversy – so let any organization fade and begin to understand my disease, as classified medically in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manuals of Mental Disorder as “alcohol dependence” or “alcohol abuse.”

You drink socially, casually, successfully, I will both assume and imagine. Socially, as in with and amongst friends and family, both at home or at eating or drinking establishments. Casually, as in after work, with a meal, during brunch, or when relaxing. Sucessfully, as in you make it home if you come from a bar, or you mean it when you lie down to sleep, or you enjoy responsibly and avoid yakking up the last two days’ worth of eats. I drink to nuclear annihilate the enemy. Or, like that, as in style. The enemy is a list of demons that psychologically suffer my life, and only find relief when I soak my soul in something alcoholic. Inebraited. Possessed. The difference may only lie on the other side of the bottle.

Speaking of which, that which resides in the bottle, if not demonic, is of a nature which is cruel and damned. I guess I had luggage when the first drink found my mouth, so if it took a while to unpack my things, it also took some time.


I actually feel better when I am sober than when I am drunk. But this dictates the definition of two separate entities – John the man and John the alcoholism. I learned to feel confident and optimistic from accomplishment and capability. I also learned oblivion and forgetting from Budweiser and Jack Daniel. They don’t mix, they fight. Hold up! Here we are in the same John. I love being accomplished and capable, two traits that are infinitely desireable and rewarding. I also love being oblivious and forgetful, which are two traits that are unfortunately, finitely painful and disasterous. So, there is a problem here, within me, and that we call alcoholism.

I drink alone, and I drink a lot. I drink beer, liqour, and turn my nose up at wine. At my best, I seem to drink beer and liqour together – in the same glass at the same time. Every bar has secrets, and some of those are the patrons (alcoholics that drive them to madness or either provide or dictate mixtures of incredible strength). I also can be found in a pile of empty beer cans completely knocked out cold, as if I wanted nothing to do with you, and did not care if you existed at all! Oh no! My judgement – I need help. I can find it, I am offered it, and I take it. Only I can find, offer, and take a drink – I’m trying to say to an alocholic, a drink is help. Unfortunately.


Does this drink pictured above look potent? Well, it is actually non alcoholic. It is a picture of some crystal elixir I made at home. And drank. Wiccans and witches know of such libations. Now, could you say how alcoholic can you get? Hmmm. Could you say, John, is the sickness so bad that you are fighting demons and maybe possession? Well. By the magic of crystal elixir – and the potency of alcohol – I have to admit some curiousity and also some madness when it comes to drinking.

Do what you want. You are legal. We all do, pretty much (as in our life goal). But I understand help for alcoholism (even attitude adjustment or better education). When you’re still doing what you want, and that is good for you and even great for others, battling this terrible disease can be something that you might want to do for those you love.

P.S. For those of you who like, or are in, happy hour, here is a scene stolen from deep in my mind. It’s just my imagination, matey.




Four Decades of Styling

20160628_162555If, in the above picture, I look happy, then it would have been my birthday. However, I am born on July 1st 1974. This year that turned out to be Friday. I think I look great for the age of 42. The more important birthday, as in every year, is our nation’s – The United States of America!

20160704_144922And the fourth of July 1776 being the more recognizable of the two dates mentioned so far, I feel it is necessary to mention this holiday as our country’s most important – and plus we all get to see fireworks for free! Let’s gather on the front lawn and drink wine. Yes! Happy Birthday!

20160704_213340Spectacular, like my 42 birthday – since, all day, I prance around all over my bedroom in my underwear and take selfies – brilliant. I did have a cake and party later in the night, thank you guys!20160709_164027I now wish I wrote this blog entry about how I spent my forty-second birthday with my wife and how our night went, but since I am not married, and I sleep alone, you’ll just have to use your imagination.

My boyfriend dumped me, and all I could find to eat was old teriyaki baste


You’re so sorry. You’re so smart. You’re so righteous and rhetorical. You’re so single. I have to hate you, Rick, because you no longer qualify for any recognizable emotions except repulsion. I have officially been dumped – for the fourth time, I might add. How? Through an SMS text message. Then a voice mail. Then in person. Finally, to top off your baked potato to add the chives, you emailed me. So, in my sorrow, I ate you whole.

Actually, I am just kidding. I fed my sorrows and kissed goodbye actual entertaining, dinner parties, cooking dinner together, and sharing out of the same pint of ice cream. You know, I should have guessed what was coming when the onslaught of micro-dairy artisan gourmet ice-cream flavors cascaded through our freezer like a litany of guys bigger, smarter, cuter, and wealthier than me. Not a single one of the brands or flavors was actually any good – and when the cartons lingered for weeks, even months, growing freezer-burnt ice-crystals that spelled “doom,” all I really should have done to turn things around and keep us together was spoon a bite of mint-chocolate chip into your mouth. That is my favorite ice cream.

Perhaps it is better now that I don’t have to silently suffer through a series of coffee and espresso flavors containing actual coffee grounds sprinkled through out like fairy dust – I mean spilt garbage. Or the obvious obession for french vanilla – as if ‘french’ vanilla was enough variance to stop the ubiquity of vanilla ice cream, and offer an endless array of vanilla varieties. How many french can there be? Yes, some french vanilla ice-cream contains little black specks of vanilla bean. So, we were actually doomed by dessert.

I know I am suppossed to be sobbing in my budwieser and sticking forks in my hands and darning needles in my eyes, but I guess reclaiming my space has brought me a breath of fresh air. Picking your undies out of my laundry is over. And I can sleep all over the bed. And in a day or two of night sweats your smell will be eradicated from the pillow sheets. Plus, alcohol is now twice the quantity, and twice the value. And think of all the money I will save on toilet paper. I will never wipe my ass in front of you again. Yay!

So, I actually met someone who was interested in me, and Paul – who is at least two inches taller than me and for now at least, ten pounds heavier than I – is willing to meet again. And now that pre-sex coffee is done, we can go out to dinner with each other. And order something tasty. And observe our date’s order. And struggle with silverware. And deflect a cute waiter. Here’s a picture of the handsome guy, who really stirs up some deep sexual fantasies in me – mostly dream stuff like nocturnal emissions.20160526_171708

I think I’ll take him all the way. Just lubricate things with a few extra bills on the import liqour tab, and then lead him off to the comfort and safety of my bed by his muzzle. Yeah, do it – laugh out loud, swear and cuss, or just turn beet-red with jealousy. I’m pretty sure Paul is mine. I don’t care Rick, if you know or not! This guy is seriously filling some holes.

So I was in the misfortune of having to bear my ex-boyfriend Rick earlier today. He is a pissy, whiney, little girl that wants to return some of my affection and devotion as hatred and bitterness. We talked a bit about what we were doing now (I said laundry and I needed to clean my room up) and who we were seeing (he claimed complete independence and gratification because of my absence that was trancendental). But what really bruised my balls was the selfie he sent me, just to leave marks. I do have two marks, one on either side of my waist, but I’m not telling how they got there and who left them. Here’s the selfie – and don’t get too excited becuase this meat is expired, and definitely on the sale shelf.


Yeah, just like I remember, you grinding away on my jock and begging for more dick, my hands on your ass, and my tongue in your mouth. “Punish me! Oh, master, punish me! Hold my butt! Play with my pussy!” You are as ridiculous as your little idiosyncratic turn ons. If you’re reading this, and you’re with Rick now, or have had him in the sack, I only need to tell you this – he farts like water-works and is in need of extreme cuddling and nuzzling after coitus. Because he comes for what he needs. And he needs to be loved for whatever bad person he is when he isn’t stuck to my groin. Yep! That’s him.

This part is the most bizarre, but I happened to see my ex-girlfriend, the only one I actually had sex with (the rest being high school age or younger) speeding off right past me like I was invisible. I hate to say it was great to see you again Catherine, but I didn’t mind you ignoring me. I wonder what could have possibly aligned the stars that we should meet again after ten years right after I was dumped by Rick. You don’t know Rick. Rick doesn’t know you. Hmmm! Here is a quick shot I managed to scramble as she barreled right past me, without a single glance or word. I think she’s in denial that I was right in front of her.


Bye-bye, Catherine! And Bye-bye, Rick! Hello, Paul! Just kidding! I don’t have a boyfriend and I’m not dating Snake-Eyes. I fooled you pretty good, didn’t I dude? Well its not for real – now you know, and knowing is half the battle.

Put Your Meat on the Plate


I wrote a blurb for my own book – it’s not even finished, much less published! Hey almost like the real thing. Don’t laugh, I made it at home.

“Richard Trenton is every man’s psyche, he is every parent’s sweetheart, and he is every woman’s mystery. The proto-intellectual on a diet of upper-middle class privilege and nuclear-familial nurture, Richard poses as experienced and knowledgeable on a plane of existential discovery, yet his stance is one of vulnerability and distress. Repressed memories serve as subliminal instructions on how to reunite with his parents as they begin to reclaim their son. A family’s collective unconscious emerges through their son’s stunted emotions as extremely private and extremely personal codes to Richard’s nature as a son, a man, and more. Richard will rely on those who love him most to realize the truth about himself – which rests in the eternal acceptance of unconditional love.”


And then, he fully made up like a bio for the dust jacket to his non-existant book.

Bio: Dust Jacket


Having grown up in self-discovered obscurity, and then leaving the safety of the tidal pool waters to swim outward into the black depths of possibility without a single echo of recognition, I quickly and finally learned that my silence was actually a wealth of identity in a limitless personal space. I was not my own best friend, but yet my harshest critic, and the daydream surfaced to gasp for air. Between skepticism and competition lay a man – I was just speaking openly into the night, and no one could hear me.


Plus completely lied about his actual life accomplishments and embarassed everyone with this frank admission.

Bio: Future Accomplishments


After a long, self-serving period of ego stroking within an artificially innocent and secure isolation, I gradually began to give to the world. Yes, I met a mate and made him a companion. I went on to be welcomed at a world-class university where I still to this day give to the world. Maybe it was the blind inexperience of youth, or pure virile narcissistic ambition, or the gradual acceptance of the world’s attention, but it will always, forever, be one of my books – left on my love’s pillow at night.

Untitled, unfinished, unappreciated


This is a synopsis for a novel – you would definitely call it a first – which I have not finished. I do not have plans to publish any of my chapters as posts. But I feel obliged and welcome to air the project out here on WordPress. The greatest caveat is a lack of a title – so Blankety-Blank is the substitute. The scariest part of not having a title yet is the fact that my substitute functions on subconscious, Freudian levels which all qualify as gutterballs. I like what I have written – I beleive that is most important of all.




My novel “blankety-blank” is about a man’s journey through himself, posed between flashbacks of emotionally powerful memories and his present condition. This search for his identity as a man, a son, and maybe more is accomplished through a deeply psychological interaction with his mother and father. Framed with traumatic memories of his childhood, my protagonist Richard confronts his parent’s inner fears, one at a time. A loving man and a cherished son, Richard matures through the precepts of familial safety and security into a wiser, more accepting person. Beyond his own personal guilt, and the extra-authoritarian responsibility of his parents, Richard must fulfill his own needs and find satisfaction with himself.

Set in the present day of Richard’s life, as he returns to his parent’s home where he grew up, the novel confines my protagonist in a claustrophobic space created solely of Richard’s personal demons. That is, repressed emotional scars and totems, which are people in his life that represent complex ethical questions. Finally, resolutely, my protagonist Richard comes to understand those around him as they relate to him – not only as affectionate, but conscious, humans and mates in life. Through an intense personal inventory, not only emotional and honest, but also driving and doomed, Richard finds that who he truly is becomes enough for those around him, those who care for him.

My First and Only Love

Physical Description


I think I look friendly. Not to get emotional, or to abstract ideas out of my appearance to qualify for a best-personality contest. I mean, there is the first prize, and then there is a booby prize. A physical description of one’s self can either be sympathetic and tragic or ground shaking and fantastic. If both techniques are employed, maybe there can exist a medium of truth – for perhaps in the end truth lies only in the eye of the beholder. I am average height and weight, which for measurement purposes fall in line at five feet ten inches tall and about one hundred and sixty pounds. So far, so good – I am happy out of conformity and the safety it affords, and satisfied with some sort of evolutionary approval.

To start with, a set of brown eyes comes with the reputation for being, what do you call it, loveable, so more regular is great. My nose, while offering moments of complicated touchy-feelies in my hand, post argument in the mirror, is interesting enough with a bridge, or hump, high on the center, and a low hanging septum. My lips, while being on the smaller side, are rosy in color and have a shapely formation – never mind the bizarre area on either side of my mouth where they seem to disappear and stop working, because I get irritated between shaves and have to lick around here often with my tongue.

I have muscles, and fat, which make my frame attractive. Of course, my chest could be bigger in the pectoral sense, and my shoulders will never be big enough for my head, as in deltoid/ego relativity. But, on the plus side, I have a nice set of love handles, which for a single guy, is the next best thing to having a hand to hold. I think so, parts of me are hairy. And I do not necessarily mean my groin or behind. My stomach is a forest of thick black hair. My forearms are pretty much blacked out. And to finish, my legs are too hairy as well.

Let’s finish with the most important parts, that is, aside from my smile, which you will see if the following is to your liking. My private parts, including my member, are not only satisfactory, but also realistic, meaning my penis is heavy and fleshy, soft and sensitive. My rear end is cushioned and full, being enough to sit on comfortably while taking up most of one hand if grabbed.

So, there I am. If I left out any superlatives, please feel free to extrapolate them for yourself from my sympathetic yet tragic, only ground shaking and fantastic physical description.


photo is of Michael Alig

Destructive Ego and the Preservation of Narcissism

Love is a Necessary Evil


Love is a necessary evil that evil people love to need. Where hatred, manipulation, greed and jealousy thrive, the warmth and generosity of the heart is a scarce resource that when encountered is merely a sharp reminder of the icy frostbite that creeps through my heart. There are then two types of people in this world, those who take advantage of the needy and those who dishonestly peddle their wares to the soon misfortuned. I however am a skilled enough romance to have filtered through such tired pedantic role-play, and am now ready to find someone on a similar level; that is someone who doesn’t always know what fulfills them but persists in accepting what comes their way.

It has not been more than a few hours literally since we touched – hugged, held hands, kissed – but since you seem to have ignored all forms of communication from body language to French swears, I find myself free to peruse the cafes, shops and streets of my heart. Here, if you will, I am available for blank stares, catcalls, cheap feels, and a pen and paper to write my number down for you. I don’t expect you to do anything wild like follow me into the restroom, but just in case, I might visit a few.

Then, when we reach an understanding of our own, you can listen quietly, repeat highlights, and smile while scanning my body with your eyes. If you want, I will grasp your hand, clutch it in mine, warming you and maybe even rubbing a bit. If you want, I will lead you off, hand in hand, and we can find my car or something. I won’t get into the scintillating details of how I want to be your activity. But I do like foreplay and I don’t have any boundaries that weren’t meant for breaking.

As far as your afterglow, please do endeavor to express yourself. I take compliments of all kinds, including on your knees pleading and family curses. You can stay in my bed, crumpled in the twisted sheets and covers, and maybe I will just leave you there. If you like inter-personal dynamics and sexual politics, we can talk. Or, if you would rather just doze, I understand.

Move in, yes, and ask for help when it comes time to unpacking your possessions. Please don’t stop there, I would appreciate your asking me for help on where to put everything. As far as expenses, love hurts, but it’s not costly. If I find a pair of your shorts on the floor in a location and manner that suggests infidelity, I will merely be amused and anticipate a renewed vigor in our horseplay.

Roses, steak, suites, business class, yes all of this is nice. But if I really want to impress you, I will just lay it on the line – you need me, and I need you to know so. Subtle clues and key hints show panache, brio, and class, but the voyeur in me is beckoning the exhibitionist in you. Let’s get committed.


drawing by Patrick Nagel