Johnny Wraith Stories - Latest Forum Posts

Anyone Tried Great Exercises? - David Hill

Mon, 27 Oct 2008 03:39:17 -0500

I found a website that has free penis exercise videos to watch & download. Anyone tried this method before? Does it work?

Try these Exercises
http://www.enlargepenisguide.com/download_videos.htm

Too much wine - Johnny Wraith

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 10:08:55 -0600

I drink too much wine. For the longest time I didn’t know why I can’t survive, each night after work, unless I pop yet another cork and pour an entire bottle into my belly. The warmth and comfort that flows into my veins, the sense of well-being, is a part of it. I am escaping the cold, dead reality of mundane life. Everyday life. But I am only treating the symptoms.

What is the cause? Why is mundane life – or shall we say sober life? – cold and dead for me? Many people out there are seemingly satisfied with tea alone.

The cliché, pop psychology answer is to blame my rough childhood. As a young boy I was incessantly punished, confined, deprived, and spanked with the WOODEN SPOON. I spent my childhood in a dark room devoid of any toys, contemplating my sins. It lasted for years and didn’t come to a stop until I finally grew big enough to beat the hell out of my father. I won’t bore you with the details. It was a bad childhood, but it could have been worse. However, I think the answer is deeper than explaining the situation by claiming my childhood worldview has become my adult worldview, and that by coming to terms with my childhood, I’ll fix my adulthood, or something like that. And then I’ll no longer need wine to kill the pain. It is something deeper.

Did you know Christianity has roots in the rituals of Bacchus? Bacchus was the God of Wine a long time ago. People, especially Athenian housewives, used to head for the hills or mountains of ancient Greece every once in a while, get very drunk and naked, sing and dance around, and give one another cunnilingus. It was a way to get away from the cold, dead reality of their mundane lives, because back then, a good Greek woman was not allowed to leave the house without her husband or male escort. For them, the occasional partaking of wine in the hills or mountains filled them with the Spirit. It allowed them to escape their everyday confinement. It was a spiritual experience. And knowing this makes the fact wine is called a “spirit” make sense. I think this line of thinking is called etymology. Perhaps I appear to be digressing, but stay with me. I’m explaining why my turning to the Christian Bible as a child turned me into an alcoholic. In my cold, dark room devoid of toys, I was allowed to turn my light on, but only to read the Christian Bible.

Yes, like I said, Christianity has roots in wine orgies. Wine is prevalent in Christianity. Jesus turned water into wine at parties. Wine is the blood of Christ. Somehow, these days, and the explanation is too long-winded for this article, we went from feeling the spirit of Bacchus by drinking a lot of wine to feeling the spirit of Christ by partaking of just a little bit of wine, or in some cases grape juice, or even water. In the sacrament of Bacchus we drank his blood by the keg, but with the sacrament of Christ, we settle for a modest taste. The difference is that with Christianity we feel the “Sprit” by provoking our drunkenness with prayer, song, fasting, etc. – all internal means. If we read the Christian Bible diligently enough, we will become drunk on the Spirit of Christ without taking a sip. We will feel the “burning in our bosom,” as the good book says. It is true. I have felt this burning, and I have been drunk too, and both sensations are very, very similar.

The part I didn’t tell you about my childhood was that while I was locked up and abused like a Greek housewife, I escaped from the cold, dead mundane, headed for the hills or mountains, by reading the Christian Bible, praying, etc. As a child I became addicted to the blood of Christ, for I survived by the Spirit, the burning in my bosom. I have a long story about how I once suffered Christianity withdrawals as if I were a long-time junkie coming off heroin... I became a better, happier person by casting Christianity aside, though it hurt a lot.

The point is I am an addict, always will be, and it will be a lifelong fight. My childhood is to blame. I am addicted to the Spirit, in its sundry forms. It started with Jesus and turned into his wine. It’s only recently I realized I’ve been feeding my addiction by swapping scripture for booze. In fact, I have become more primitive by seeking out and finding the original drug.

I’m not sure what I’ll do next. Maybe I’ll go masturbate while imagining the lesbian action and frenzy of a Bacchic Festival.

I’m not an alcoholic. I’m addicted to Spirits.

Where did they all go? - Johnny Wraith

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 09:56:29 -0600

Tonight was a most therapeutic night for me. I got drunk on wine and started surfing the Internet. I looked up one old girlfriend after the next (or the names of their current husbands) with various tax assessors and county clerks. These days, almost all of my old girlfriends are living in million dollar houses. Likely they are trophy wives. Soccer moms. All that. I sit back and reminisce about them, relive the memories, laugh out loud, and feel worthy. While in poverty, I fucked them all, before their rich husbands married them and took them in.

I am the victor!

RE: Brutus: the Discussion - Johnny Wraith

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 21:49:06 -0600

Why is the story titled Brutus?

Brutus led the conspiracy to assassinate Caesar. Caesar, a tyrant and god, depending on who is telling the story, met his demise upon the final thrust of Brutus’s dagger.

“Et tu, Brute?”

Did Brutus kill Caesar to free Rome from hegemony, or were his actions sacrilege? Which is correct? Dante’s vision of Brutus being shoved feet first into Lucifer’s jaws, or the image of Brutus as a tragic hero, willing to sacrifice a power-hungry friend for the salvation of his fellow man?

And, the word “Brutus” turns to the word “Brute” when the “us” is replaced with an “e.”

Brutus is brutal, and unforgiving, bones snap and flesh tears, but with its destruction and ashes, it also offers Rome hope, a chance to finally and forever be freed from the shackles of the tyrants and gods.

RE: Workday - Johnny Wraith

Wed, 26 Dec 2007 21:46:58 -0600

Ronald,
This is your best work yet. I couldn't stop reading. Somehow you completely let go and just said what your heart and gut said, without any reinterpretation.
If you can capture the same spirit you possessed when you threw down these words every time you have something more to tell, I think you are set.
Johnny

Workday - Ronald Matthew Kelly

Wed, 26 Dec 2007 21:24:06 -0600

On The Job
by Ronald M. Kelly
Copyright December 2007

In the Parking Lot, Thinking of Life and Death

Friday morning, just before eight am, I drive into the parking lot, adjacent to the building where I work, stopping in my assigned space. It's right next to the door, and has a sign that says "Handicapped Parking Only." I don't get out of the Van of Doom right away. As is my usual habit, I have one more cigarette, and finish my coffee before going in to work. This is usually the time that I reflect upon my life. It isn't turning out the way I expected

For example, I never thought that I'd have an assigned parking lot. Or any reason to get one.

Except for the Chief Probation Officer, nobody in the department has an assigned parking space. Certainly not a Deputy Adult Probation Officer, like me. Level Two, to be exact. Not that there's much of a difference between the job of a One or a Two. Or a Three, for that matter. Just the size of the paycheck. And the time in grade.

But I'm handicapped, so I have one, right?

Not exactly...

A few months ago, I told my boss, John, Deputy Chief Probation Officer, Director of the Field Services Unit, that I had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Upon hearing the news he said that, legally, I was entitled to park in one of the two handicapped spaces next to door of the Field Services Office. So I do.

John's a good egg. He's a good man, and a real friend. I'm not absolutely sure of it, but I think he may have cried a little after I left his office. His eyes were watery when I saw him in the corridor a few minutes later. I was on the way into the Men's room, he was on the way out. Of course, watery eyes can also result from straining when you should be relaxing. Or painful urination. Which I don't have. Maybe John does.

But I do have a brain tumor. I don't consider it a handicap. It's not like I have a broken leg or a bad heart. Or Erectile Dysfunction.

Erectile Dysfunction... now theres a handicap. Unless you're a priest. Then it's a blessing. At least to all the little boys and girls of the parish.

But I am grateful for the special parking space. And for not being hassled over it by the people with whom I work.

Since the tumor was discovered, nobody hassles me over much of anything at all. Maybe they feel sorry for me. What difference does it make? No one else in my world, or their worlds, for that matter, has a brain tumor, so they really can't relate to me on this issue. So they cut me some slack. Not that I give a shit. But I would do the same for them.

Not that I deserve it, but I'll take the consideration. And the parking space. I'm not likely to get much of anything else in the way of special treatment. Nor am I likely to feel much in the way of shame over taking it. Working in a government job, a man's got to grab his perks whenever, and wherever he can. Deserved or not.

But along with this one special consideration, I have the feeling that everyone in the office is a little afraid of me, as if a brain tumor can somehow be contagious. Or maybe they're just afraid for me.

I'm sure they think I'm going to die soon, and they feel bad.

But not for me, I'm sure. Or at least mostly not for me.

Mostly for themselves. For their guilt and their shame. For the relief they feel. Because they're happy they aren't like me, living in the shadow of Death.

"It's too bad he might die," they think. "But thank God it's not me!"

But I know the truth. Actually I know three truths. They're important truths. They're huge truths.

You need to know these truths, so listen up and pay attention. Take my word: if you miss these truths, you miss everything. Nothing else matters. Ever. Ever.

Here we go:

Important HugeTruth Number One: Everyone Dies. It's just a matter of time.

It's true. Nobody leaves the planet alive. You could ask Elvis to confirm this for you, but that isn't possible right now. Elvis has left the building. Leave him a message. He won't be getting back to you. At least not any time soon. His phone has been disconnected. He didn't leave a forwarding address.

Important Huge Truth Number Two: Thanking God that you're not the one who might die won't help you avoid it in the long run. And He just might be offended by your self-centered selfishness.

Everyone dies. Even you, soon enough. Sooner than you hope, given your perfect life, but later than you should, given all the advances in geriatric care. If you don't believe me, just refer back to Important Huge Truth Number One. Or ask Elvis. When you see him, I mean.

Huge Important Truth Number Three: The real key to happiness is a good, healthy bowel movement. My Dad taught me that. Elvis should have known it. I mean, given where he died and all.

I recommend you have a good healthy bowel movement every day. Relax in there. Read the paper. Catch up on current events. Work on the crossword puzzle. Laugh at the cartoons. But don't dawdle too long. People might think you're in there masturbating. It's okay to masturbate. But there's a time and a place. The bathroom really isn't the time or the place for jerking off. But it's your choice, really... just try not to get caught.

So, anyway, Death is the great equalizer. We'll all meet him sooner or later. The only difference between you and me is that I no longer deny that I'll meet Death someday. You, most likely, still do.

Here's a little poem I wrote, to kind of bring it all into perspective.

First we live, and then we die... that's all there is, brother.
Not nearly enough of the one, and way too much of the other.

Thinking About the Doctor's Office, While Still in the Parking Lot

In reality is, if I continue with my medications, I'm not really in any danger of dying soon. At least not real soon.

Or so says my doctor. But the Hell does that son-of-bitch know? He doesn't have a brain tumor.

He probably doesn't have Erectile Dsyfunction, either. Lucky him.

Of course, neither do I have ED. My twice-monthly testosterone injections eliminate that possibility. Why testosterone? It's part of the course of therapy prescribed by my doctor. The tumor killed my balls. So I would have ED if it weren't for the shots. As long as I have the testo, and the hard cash to pay for it, I'll always have a hard-on. Even when I don't want one. But I'd rather have an erection when I didn't want one, than not have one when I did. I like having the option. Lucky me.

Here's how a typical monthly visit with my Doctor proceeds:

First, I'm taken into an examination room, where the nurse, Wanda, takes my vitals, and draws what seems like endless volumes of blood. After placing a bandage over the wound, she says "The Doctor will be in soon, Ronald. As she leaves, she throws a "Have a nice day!" over her shoulder.

I'm not a real fan of the off-hand "Have a nice day" thing. But I forgive Wanda, though. She has a great ass. She knows I like the way her ass moves. She knows this because I told her that I liked her ass. It just slipped out of my mouth one day. She wasn't offended, though. She knew she had a great ass.

Next, after Wanda, leaves, Dr. Alex comes in. I'm not being familiar. Alex isn't his first name. I don't know his first name. I'm not sure he knows my last name. He's never used it.

"Don't worry, Ronald," he always says, after reviewing my file.

"All the tests that we've run show that the tumor is responding well to the medications I've prescribed. It seems to be under control. You really don't have anything to worry about. Just take your meds as directed, and you should be fine. Unless you have any problems, and need to come in sooner, I'll see you next month."

As he turns to leave, he pauses.

"By the way," he asks, "Do you want a refill of the pain medication?"

"Thanks," I say, "I do."

Not that I need them. I rarely have the headaches anymore. But I want them. I'm building up a stockpile of the little buggers. An emergency reserve. Or a pleasant way out, if need be.

"Fine," he said. "I leave it for you at the front desk."

Walking out of the exam room, as Wanda did, over his shoulder he says, "Have a nice day, okay?"

There it is again.

"Sure Doc. See you next month. You, too."

"Have a nice day?", I think to myself. "Have a nice day?"

Breaking my usual routine, I light up another cigarette. Maybe it will kill me before the tumor does. But I doubt it.

In my head I continue my soliloquy...

"Yeah, Doc, I'm gonna have a nice fucking day. Why the Hell wouldn't I have a nice day? Unlike yours, my life is fucking perfect."

"Don't think so. Well, Doc, listen up, and let me set you straight!"

"At the end of the day, I don't have to drive your BMW to your million dollar house on the fairway at your country club. I don't have to relax next to your swimming pool, kick back and have a few drinks out of your liquor cabinet. Top shelf booze only, I'm sure. It's not like I have to fuck your bleached blond trophy wive with the tanned trophy boobs. She probably fucks the poolman. You know that, don't you? You ever think about that while you're fucking the maid?"

"Like I said, Doc, my life is perfect. I get to drive my minivan to my house in the suburbs, have a few beers on my porch, kicked back next to my pool. My wading pool. I get to play with Max, my dog. He's not a trophy. He doesn't have giant tanned tits. But he is a faithful friend. He might piss in the wading pool, but he doesn't fuck the poolman. But he does know what love is all about. He proves it every time he humps my leg."

"Then, after a few beers, I talk to the tumor. He doesn't say much these days. Maybe the meds really do have him on the ropes. Or maybe he's just resting up, ready to come back with a vengence. What do you think, Doc? Am I really gonna beat the bastard? You're pretty confident I will, you cocky son of a bitch. I'm not so sure. He's not living in your skull. He's living in mine. Rent-free, I might add."

"Hey, Doc! Unlike you, I don't have to think about the fact that your opulent lifestyle is financed by the medical misfortunes of your patients. Do you? How does that make you feel Doc? Do you feel anything after a few martinis? Can you feel anything at all, or are you numb to the realities of my world?"

"Yeah, Doc, I'll have a nice day."

"I hope you do too, motherfucker. I hope you do, too. Say hello to your wife for me. Don't forget to tip the poolman."

Each time before I leave the office, I make another appointment with, Sheila, the office manager. As she leans over to write in her schedule book, I look down her dress. Nice boobs, slung in a sexy black lace bra. I'm pretty sure she knows I'm checking out her rack. She probably gets a thrill out of it. The cock-teasing little bitch. Her chest is the high point of my day. That particular day. I can't wait till next month.

Maybe I'll ask her out. Maybe she'll say yes. Maybe she won't. Maybe she'll fuck me, maybe she won't. It really doesn't matter much either way. I still think about her when I masturbate. But not while I'm in the bathroom.

Still in the Parking Lot, But No Longer Thinking About the Doctor's Office

So I'm not dying from a brain tumor. I think everyone knows this, but when you say "brain tumor" people start to treat you differently. As if you're somehow damaged goods.

But I've always been damaged goods. It just that until I started on the medications, I'd been able to keep it under control. As far as I know, I'd always appeared to the rest of the world to be normal. Whatever the Hell that means. Maybe the people that let the crazy out for the world to see are the true normals. I hope so. I'm finding it more and more difficult to hold back the crazy.

But every now and again, a little bit of it leaks out. So far as I know, nobody of any importance has noticed. Only the whores, masquerading as titty dancers. God bless their dead, black hearts, and their hot, wet pussies. Hot and wet if you've got the cash. Cold and dry if not. But as long as I've got a credit card, and a handy ATM nearby, they'll always be moist for me. And anyone one else with a fifty dollar bill.

But all in all, life is good. Compared to the alternative.

Gulping the last of my coffee, I take a long last drag of my cigarette. As I get out of my car, I flick the butt to the ground, and step on it, grinding it under my heel. I pretend it's the tumor. I'm sure it pisses him off. I don't care. He doesn't have to work.

He just waits. He 's very patient. Tumors are like that, generally speaking.

After checking my shirt for coffee stains and cigarette ash, I straighten my tie, hunch my shoulders to settle my jacket, and go into the office.

Passing through the doorway, I throw a "Have a nice day!" over my shoulder. Not to anyone in particular. Just to the world at large. Maybe it will have a nice day. but I doubt it.

It's time to clamp down on the crazy. I have to go to work.

***** more to come
Scene Two - Office
Scene Three - Courtroom
Scene Four - Field Work
Scene Five - Minivan Miles

Trucker Hat - Ronald Matthew Kelly

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 00:10:11 -0600

Johnny,

I love the new trucker hat. Maybe Santa will throw one down the chimney for me.

So when do the T-shirts, Sweats and Hoodies become available? I'm sure everyone will want one.

How about something like, "I posted a story at 'Johnny Wraith Stories' and all I got was this damn T-shirt!" An instant classic, I'm sure.

Or maybe even a cooperative effort like, "I saw Johnny and Ronald at the Heart Attack Grill, and those bastards wouldn't even give me a cigarette!"

And how about a private label wine, Chateau Johnny Wraith. I know you like a good cabernet savignon. But like the man said, "We ain't drinking no fuckin' merlot!"

Just wondering...

Ronald

RE: A New Dawn - Ronald Matthew Kelly

Sun, 16 Dec 2007 23:58:05 -0600

Johnny,

I have re-read "A New Dawn" several times since I wrote it. Even though it is my own, I think it is a good story.

However... although I cannot quite put my finger on it, I am somewhat disturbed by my characterization of Ronald. Do you think that Ronald would really be this eloquent so early in the morning, after being jarred awake in this fashion?

I think am too close to the subject. You've seen him early in the morning, after a ruinous night of debauchery. Is this really him? Or am I second-guessing myself?

You know where I am going with the "Group Therapy" epic, and how I hope it will turn out in the end. Any input will be greatly appreciated.

Ronald

RE: A New Dawn - Ronald Matthew Kelly

Thu, 13 Dec 2007 10:11:30 -0600

Johnny,

No, probably just dandruff.

Ronald

RE: A New Dawn - Johnny Wraith

Mon, 10 Dec 2007 06:56:36 -0600

Or perhaps we are just flies on the scalp of flies in someone else's bedroom?

RE: A New Dawn - Ronald Matthew Kelly

Sun, 09 Dec 2007 23:24:13 -0600

Johnny,

Sometimes I wonder: are we but flies in someone else's bedroom?

Ronald

RE: Brutus - Johnny Wraith

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 06:01:42 -0600

True enough. Just cutting the story down and posting it a bit at a time will be quite the journey. It will also be cathartic because I've been wanting to share this tale for a while. Now I have the means by which to publish it. And the courage.

RE: A New Dawn - Johnny Wraith

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 05:45:07 -0600

I liked this story because it captures the mundane but agonizing act of waking up to the alarm clock in the dream state when more rest is needed, how our minds will try to rationalize away the nonstop BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ! This story turns the simple act of waking up early into a heroic and epic feat. Lately you've been reading Bukowski and it has reflections in this tale.

RE: Brutus - Ronald Matthew Kelly

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 22:31:14 -0600

Johnny,

Having seen the sheer size of "Brutus" in it's binder, I cannot wait to see what you'll give us here in this forum.

Ronald

A New Dawn - Ronald Matthew Kelly

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 22:19:07 -0600

A New Dawn
by Ronald Matthew Kelly
Copyright 2007

buzz buzz buzz

"What the Hell is that noise," I think to myself.

"Is there a fly trapped here in my bedroom?"

That's all I need! Here I am, trying to recover from a night of drunken debauchery, and a fly is trying to keep me from sleeping. I hate him. I hate him, his mother, his father, and all of his little fly brothers and sisters.

buzz buzz buzz

"Persistent little bastard, aren't you!," I call out to my flying bedside companion. "Why don't you settle down somewhere, relax, and catch a little shut-eye yourself? I'm trying to sleep here!"

My entreaty is to no avail. I still hear him, or possibly her, flying around the room.

buzz buzz buzz

I try to ignore the noise, but it is no use. I can't seem to shut out the noise. I cover my head with my pillow, but it doesn't work. If anything, the noise seems to get louder.

Buzz Buzz Buzz

Try as I might, I cannot ignore the noise, and return to the land of dream-time slumber. The noise becomes louder still.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

With murder in my heart, I fling my pillow away. I have a plan. I'm going to hunt down that little flying bastard, and end his life prematurely, allowing me to return to the sleep I so desperately need!

I'd rather live and let live, but the fly won't let me sleep! And I so desperately need my sleep! I have to be up in a few hours, to go to work, to earn my daily bread, bread I so desperately need to fund the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed: drunkenness, degeneracy, and debauchery.

In the company of my faithful friend and blood brother, Johnny Wraith, I have elevated drunkenness, degeneracy and debauchery to high art. But I must have sleep, so that I may be regenerated, to enable me to further partake of the of the excesses of life. I must stop the fly from interfering with my sleep! He is interfering with the natural order of my life, and for this he must pay!

Flinging the covers from my body, I hurl myself out of my bed. Standing in my darkened bedroom, I begin to rant at the fly.

"I'll kill you, you lousy sonuvabitch! Where are you? Don't hide from me, it will only prolong your agony when I finally catch you!"

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

"It's your choice," I scream, enraged by the fly's lack of respect for my person.

"Give yourself up peacefully, and I will make your death easy and painless! Continue to hide yourself from me, and I promise a slow, agonizing death, starting with the removal of your wings, and ending with you begging for mercy, longing for the instant death of my thumb crushing you. Which will be denied you! Once the torture begins, there will be no turning back, no mercy! Only endless pain and sorrow! It's your choice!"

"Reveal yourself, fly! Be a man, and take your just punishment!"

I take no notice of the absurdity of telling a fly to take his punishment like a man.

The noise continues.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

"Right!," I calmly say, "So that's the way you want it."

I turn slowly towards the source of the noise. I do not want the fly evading me at the last minute.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

Through my peripheral vision, I begin to see the area that where my ears tell me the fly must be. I continue to turn towards the source of the noise.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

A blinking light captures my attention. Continuing my turn, the blinking light begins to resolve itself into an coherent image. The noise continues.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

Focusing my eyes, the image leaps into clarity.

This is what I see:

"6:03 AM" (blink)

This is what I hear:

"BUZZ"

The image, and noise, continue to repeat themselves, completely synchronized:

6:03 AM (blink) BUZZ 6:03 AM (blink) BUZZ 6:03 AM (blink) BUZZ

Then a change in the image:

6:04 AM (blink) BUZZ 6:04 AM (blink) BUZZ 6:04 AM (blink) BUZZ

Slowly, I become aware of the fact that I am looking at, and listening to, the alarm clock at on the table at the side of my bed.

6:04 AM (blink) BUZZ 6:04 AM (blink) BUZZ 6:04 AM (blink) BUZZ 6:04 AM (blink) BUZZ

Apologizing for my mistake to all flies everywhere, I reach over, and turn off the alarm.

The noise abates. My bedroom is eerily quite. I sit back down on the bed. I resist the urge to lie back down, and go back to sleep. This I cannot do. I must prepare myself for work. I have to go to work. It is the natural order of things.

Head pounding, I rest my chin on my hands, staring balefully at the clock.

6:04 AM. 6:05 AM. 6:06 AM...

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

My eyes fly opened, startled. The snooze time elapsed, the alarm clock had begun to scream at me anew.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

I reach over to shut the alarm off completely. Standing up, I stagger to the bathroom to completely my morning rituals.

A new day had dawned.

"Shit," I exclaimed aloud.

The last one had barely ended!

Brutus: the Discussion - Johnny Wraith

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 20:31:00 -0600

I wrote Brutus, a fantasy novel, many years ago. It was my first journey into literature. I won't carry on about it, but will let the condensed version I intend to publish herein, a part at a time, do most the talking. Long story short, Brutus is a gothic, violent, profane, but sensitive Christ figure and it is up to you to decide if the world is made a better place when it all comes crumbling down.

Slot Machines - Johnny Wraith

Thu, 22 Nov 2007 15:44:19 -0600

I'm playing around with the Doodlekit Form Builder. So, I've asked a question about slot machines to see what sorts of answers I might get:
http://johnnywraith.com/forms/show/111

RE: Blog "Stories" Comments - Ronald Matthew Kelly

Fri, 26 Oct 2007 12:24:15 -0500

Johnny,

Well, okay, I understand what the Doodlebit-ers are saying but am a little confused, because I can still edit my own stories, and my own comments to my own stories. I'm not sure, but up until the time you upgraded (is this the proper term?) the site, I seem to remember being able to edit my comments to your stories. But maybe I'm wrong about this.

Anyway, thanks for the info.

Ronald

PS - This is weird: after I posted my message, I read it, and saw it had a typo, which was a little frustrating. Then I saw the edit button, which allowed me to fix my typo, and append this PS. So I can edit my comments?

Oh wait, I see the difference: I'm editing a comment I made to a posting in the "General Discussion" forum.

But this still begs the question: How come I can edit my own story, my own comments to my own story, or my own comments to a forum posting, but not edit my comments to a JW story? What's the practical difference?

PPS - Okay, okay, I get it. I reread Johnny's posting regarding editing, and I see the difference. JW's stories are a blog, everything else is forums. I didn't tweak to the difference before, maybe because the general look and feel is the same.

I won't say I'm sorry for wasting everyone's time, because this process has allowed me to learn something, and gain valuable insights in the works and intents of blogs, forums, etc. Thanks, Johnny!

Blog "Stories" Comments - Johnny Wraith

Fri, 26 Oct 2007 07:42:51 -0500

The other day, Ronald asked me why he couldn't modify the comments he made to my stories and I didn't know the answer. It was a good question, so I asked the Doodlebit guys and was given this answer:

"You cannot edit your post on any blog - that is what makes it a blog! If we set it up where you could edit your post, then we would have to implement some sort of security - else peeps would be changing each others comments. If we implemented security, that means you would have to have a user name and password. If we did that, well, then you would have a forum! In forums, users can edit their posts.

Sorry to say, but the point of a blog is just straight out comments with no security - the only thing you can do is change it for them."

Said another way, because I like to keep the blog, the "Stories" section of this site, open for any and all readers to comment without logging in or identifying themselves if they choose, comments can only go in once because the site doesn't know who is making the comments.

A wise man named Miller once told me that when writing for any forum or blog it is always advisable to type out your contribution in a separate document, edit it, save it, then cut and paste it where it is intended to be. Since I have started following this advice, I've never lost an intended posting and have usually not made postings with a lot of typos.

Site Update and Doodlekit - Johnny Wraith

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 08:28:26 -0500

So, what do you think of the site update, my putting ads on the thing, or otherwise? Or, give the free Doodlekit a try and post your site address here so we can take a look at what you've created.