I have to apologize to you, the people of the Internet, about my tirade on last evening’s episode of CostasNow. It was completely out of character with who I am as a journalist and as a human being.
I respect writers trying to make a name for themselves online. I really do. I just think a lot of that gets lost in all the crassness and hatred that gets spewed out there. And my concern is that, as this sort of filth becomes more and more prevalent, it will soon be accepted as the norm, and overshadow some of the great work that hard-working journalists, such as me, do.
I don’t want that to happen. I put 40 years of hard work into writing books and articles. I don’t think it’s fair that I be branded part of a “dying medium” when a lot of the writing I see online is just random name-calling and thoughtless invective. Does it make me a relic to fight for what I believe in? Perhaps. But I say, to hell with it. Maybe I’m a relic, but I have principles, dammit. And I’ll fight for relics like myself to the very end.
Still, my actions at last night’s roundtable were out of line. I stooped to the lowest common denominator to defend my craft, which I should not have done. I couldn’t help it. I was angry. I was frustrated. I was trying to make a point.
But, more critically, I hadn’t fucked a horse in over a week.
There’s a stable near my home out in the stick named May’s Riding Stable. As you walk towards the stable, you can see the horse patties littering the road. Some of them are fresh. But many of them have dried out. Deprived of all their moisture, with much of the fecal matter stripped away by the rain, you can see their remains disintegrating, turning back into the chewed up hay it once was. And this chewed up hay soon rejoins the earth, becoming part of the soil and growing new hay for the horses to eat once more. It’s a beautiful cycle of transformation and rebirth. It is an everlasting symbol of renewal.
And it makes me wanna fuck a horse so badly.
Man oh man, do I love to fuck horses. With their long legs and firm, rippling bodies. I could fuck a horse for hours and hours on end. Sometimes, when no one is at the stable, I sneak in the early, early morning. I slip through the electric fence and walk at a brisk trot (yes, I trot!) to the main part of the stable. As I walk, I kick up a lot of the dust surrounding the barn. I find this horsey dust, this shit mist, absolutely intoxicating. It’s so earthy, and profound. God, just thinking about it now makes me want to jam my dongbone right in an Arabian.
Once in the main part of the stable, I find my favorite horse of the pack. Her name is Daisy Blue. She isn’t the biggest horse in the joint, but she’s got a lot of fight! She’s got a sort of milky gray coat, almost like a cup of Earl Grey tea. And when she flares her nostrils, I am at a loss for words. I stare into her eyes, which must be the size of tennis balls. And in her eyes, I see only the purity of existence. There is no fear or anger. Daisy Blue is simply BEING.
That’s when I know she’s ready for the Buzzcock.
Quietly, I grab a bit and bridle and slip it on her. That’s the thing about horses. They don’t mind letting me be in control. I get the extra long reins so I can handle her from behind. Then, I stroke her mane gently, to let her know that I want to know the secret to her uncommon grace. Then I horse-whisper in her ear:
“You ready for a little hot Derby action?”
Quickly, I grab a three-step footstool from the corner and place it behind her. You aren’t supposed to walk behind horses. It’s dangerous, which is why I find it so engorging.
Then, I grab my riding crop, pull my pants down and prepare to MOUNT MY STEED. At first, she bucks a little. But after stroking her majestic horseadonk a few times, she settles back down. Eeeasy, girl! Then, it’s equimounting time. I rip open my flannel shirt and begin to thrust in and out of Daisy Blue, my cries of pleasure rattling the stable walls down to the ground.
Sometimes she poops, but I love a mudder.
After just a few minutes, I’m ready to deliver my “sugarcube” to her waiting maw. And she gobbles it right up. Soon, my seed will come out of her and rejoin the ground, nourishing the plants and wildlife below. It is an ever-going circle that cannot be unbroken, and it is beautiful.
Once finished, I feed her some oats, because she’s such a good girl.
So you see why I was so ill-tempered last night. When I go over a week without that kind of powerful horse-fucking experience, I tend to go a little bonkers. But I still stand by the sentiment of my comments. There needs to be a place in the world for REAL journalism, practiced by men who have been there, in the belly of the beast, doing the hard work, and plowing the occasional mare on the side.
That is all.