Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Geriatric’

 

 

 A. IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST:

 

 

As I type this, I am also watching Ethel Waters sing one of my favorite songs, “Happiness is a Thing Called Joe” in the 1939 movie, “Cabin in the Sky.” A little ego boost every now and then is a good thing.

Before turning on the movie and writing this, I had just returned from lunch in the Golden Hills with HRM, Jake, and Kaleb at their favorite fried chicken places — for me it is not so much a favorite.

This morning, we attended the Saturday Morning Coffee at the Nepenthe Club House. Gerry, our leader, who usually runs these get-togethers, had been taken to the hospital yesterday evening with a heart problem of some sort. Nevertheless, following an exchange of information about how to contact Gerry and express our wishes for her speedy recovery, we shouldered on. Someone described the elaborate Halloween party we were throwing for the young children who live in the subdivision and the much more numerous children of the children of the old people who live in it. Those sponsoring the party have created an entire Halloween town out of cardboard for the children to frolic in. Someone else discussed the problem of termites and described the free termite inspection service provided by the HOC. It is pleasant, every now and then, to be reminded that there are people everywhere trying to do nice things for no other reason than kindness — well, perhaps a bit of comfort, self-interest, and guilt come into it as well, but those are merely like spices added to a good meal.

There being no more announcements, we broke up into small conversational groups. There were only three males at breakfast. Each of us sat in chairs as far removed from one another as possible. None of us moved from our chosen fortress. The significantly more numerous female attendees seemed to comprise two sociological groups. Those who remain alone or sitting in small groups and those who moved around engaging the others in conversation. Naida and Winnie were of the latter cohort. They moved from group to group like bees gathering pollen.

Winnie eventually got around to me. She and I compared photos. She of her former home in Salmon Idaho and I of that portion of our trip to the same area. Winnie and her husband, a distinguished architect from LA, moved to Idaho when he was diagnosed with incurable cancer. He wanted to die someplace surrounded by nature. They lived there for over twenty years. He did not die. They then decided to move into the Enchanted Forest. I do not know why. He is now in his nineties and remains vigorous but cantankerous. Interestingly, he designed the Methodist church in Salmon who’s minister was Naida’s uncle, the children of whom we had traveled to Salmon to visit. He also designed the Sacagawea monument in the town.
img_7340-1
Sacagawea and I in Salmon Idaho.

 

Sunday evening, we decided to drive with Boo-Boo the Barking Dog to Discovery Park, at the confluence of the American and Sacramento rivers, where the Spanish explorers first landed in the mid-sixteenth century. There they discovered the largest Native-American settlement in the area. They also noticed that the grass on the top of the mesa was so cropped by the roving herds of Elk that they considered it park-like (This had some significance but I no longer recall what it was.) Naida told me the Native-Americans from the other villages in the area would periodically gather here for dances and parties. Now and then dances and parties are still held here. We walked around for a while, then set off for home.
img_7485
Boo Boo the Barking Dog and Naida Under the big Cottonwood Tree at Discovery Park.

 

On the way home, we decided to stop for dinner at a restaurant among a group of night-clubs on J. Street. We ordered squash filled ravioli. It was quite good. While we were eating, a young woman with very long blond hair and very short shorts sitting at the bar left her seat, came over to our table, and asked if we were married. I responded that this was only our first date.

After registering her squeals of surprise, we admitted that, in fact, we had been together for about one year and a half but had known each other for over forty years. Following a few more rounds of chit-chat, she returned to her place at the bar. After finishing our meal, we returned home where we watched a reality TV program about gangbangers who found redemption.

Last week, Naida was not feeling well so on Wednesday she stayed home while I took the train alone to the Big Endive for my immunology treatment at UCSF. It was the first time I had taken the train to my appointment. I wanted to see whether traveling by train back and forth every three weeks would be more convenient and less exhausting for Vecchi like Naida and me.

 

 

 

B. BACK IN THE BIG ENDIVE BY THE BAY:

 
The train trip along with various public transport connections took about three hours to get me from Sacramento to Peter’s house — about the same time it takes by car with moderately heavy traffic. I was more relaxed and rested when I arrived as well. Since Barrie was in LA visiting her sister who was quite ill, Peter and I decided to have dinner at Bacco’s. I ordered my usual Gnocchi. We were joined by my grandson Anthony and his girlfriend.
img_7418_2Gnocc

 

They brought me some product from the boutique cannabis store that soon will open in Dog-patch of which Anthony’s GF was manager. It consisted of samples of higher-priced, expensively packaged products that they hoped I would try and evaluate. They included a topical salve, a flavored drink, mints, chocolate, and the like. The cannabis industry is being rapidly veblenized. That is, marketing more expensive goods when there are cheaper alternatives available because most consumers think it will impress others in one way or another. One side effect of the Veblen Effect is that profits to the producers (growers) are reduced while those to the packagers and marketers soar.

The following morning Peter drove me to the hospital for my scheduled immunology infusion. Following my appointment, I walked from Mission Bay to the bus terminal where I caught the train back to Sacramento and home. The walk to the terminal was interesting. I had not walked around this part of downtown San Francisco in a long time. Some places I recognized, but most had changed beyond recognition.

 

C. TIME GOES ON LIKE IT OR NOT:

 

 

On Monday, Naida was depressed about forgetting her tennis match. So in order to cheer her up, I took her with me to pick up HRM from school after which she and I had lunch at Selland’s in Town Center. We sat at a table on the veranda overlooking the lakes. Following that, I gassed up the car and decided to have it washed. While driving into the washing facility, I crashed the car into a wall crumpling its left fender. On the way home, Naida was no longer feeling depressed, but I was. Upon arriving home, I went straight to bed hoping tomorrow would be a better day.

And it was. I got to drive HRM to his dental appointment where he had six cavities filled. In the evening, Naida and I, having given up on the day’s news, watched several movies none of which I really recall, but I do remember that I enjoyed them.

On Saturday, Boo-boo the Barking Dog, for some reason failed to wake us up in time to attend the Saturday Morning Coffee at the Nepenthe Club House. Naida and I decided to spend the morning in geriatric hanky-panky. I find geriatric hanky-panky superior to juvenile hanky-panky because it lasts longer and one never knows what can or cannot happen. Later we had a breakfast of pancakes and then watched Andy Griffith ham it up in “A Face in the Crowd.”

I do not recall what happened between Wednesday and Saturday except that on Friday night I dreamt I was dying. Strangely, I was neither unhappy nor frightened but instead content and resigned. Naida who woke me up during the dream told me she had done so because I had stopped breathing. Strange.

Saturday evening, Naida, Boo-boo the Barking Dog and I went for a walk along the American River. As we walked along, we noted the extensive blow-down of trees and tree-limbs throughout the Enchanted Forest and along the river caused by the heavy winds of the past few days. When we got to the clearing by the river where we like to stop for a while and take in the view, we sat on a log and watched while some people in the picnic area across the river tried to get a car that was half-submerged out of the water. After several failures, they did. A little later, flocks of Canadian geese flew in and out of the setting sun and paddled their way to the little wooded island in the middle of the river where they would spend the night.
img_7542

 

Monday, we spent the morning doing what has become our favorite pastime, sitting next to each other holding hands, listening to Boo-boo the Barking Dog bark at anything that moves within 50 feet of the house, watching television and reading or playing on the computer. Perhaps it is just our age catching up with us. Still, we sit here passing the hours singing at times and laughing a lot. It could be worse.

 

 

 

D. NEWS STRAIGHT OR SLIGHTLY BENT:

 

 

On Tuesday, Naida spent the Morning playing tennis and I sat alone fooling around on the computer. After Naida returned, we turned on the news and learned about the killing of nine people six of them children traveling in an American car caravan in Mexico. The news reports initially seemed to blame a Mexican drug cartel connection to the murders. Naida commented that she believed the caravan was composed of members of a fundamentalist Mormon family traveling from the US to their home in one of the sect’s communes that had been set up in the area by polygamous Mormons following Utah admittance into the Union as a State at the end of the 19th Century on the condition polygamy be banned.

Naida told me about a writer friend of hers who was a “sister” wife at one of the communes. The friend, Irene Spencer, the second of 10 wives and mother of 14 children, wrote a book about escaping from the community. Spencer also wrote another book about the almost ceaseless violence among the sects. She told Naida about the horrendous carnage between the communities that began by a falling out between two brothers (each claiming “Prophet” status), one of whom was her husband, They commenced an internecine war with each other over control of the sect. Over 50 people have been killed during the past 25.* Both brothers now are dead but the feud continues.

Sometime later the news broke the name of the dead and of the community they were heading to for a wedding. It was the same community as the one her friend fled from. She tried to call her friend who had moved to California but discovered she died two years ago.

(*In the 1970s and 1980s, Ervil LeBaron, brother of the leader of the LeBaron community, launched his own Mormon offshoot sect in which he and his followers believed they had a right to kill those who had sinned. The group murdered at least 25 people, one expert told the LA Times. (https://news.yahoo.com/more-hundred-years-ago-mormons-205004653.html))

Later, while walking the dog through some of the dark pathways of TEF, we met another elderly couple who recently moved into the area after spending much of their lives living in the woods beyond Nevada City. They invited us into their home. While touring their kitchen they suddenly forced us into their large-sized micro-wave, cooked us on high for 90 minutes, placed us in a pie-crust, added a bit of cinnamon and sugar, baked us in the oven for another hour and had us for breakfast the next morning.

It’s Friday, neither Naida nor I recall much about the last few days other than they have been mostly pleasant. I think, given my general inactivity and shredded memory, I should give up writing T&T (https://wordpress.com/view/josephpetrillo.wordpress.com) as a journal. Maybe I should just write strange short-short stories. You know, like this old fucker who is so distressed about being old, forgetting everything, immobile and dyspeptic, he spends his days on his computer sending emails to the friends about sitting in his chair and sending emails to his friends or better yet weird Facebook postings to his Facebook friends. Can one have electronic friends one either never sees or never met? I have a Facebook friend who I know has been dead for six years. Children used to have imaginary friends. Now that they are aged decrepits more and more of their friends are just electric pulses.

Ah, one day later, things changed. Well, perhaps not so much. Let’s begin with my receiving an email from one of my dearest friends in Thailand with two little stories about recent events in his life. Much like the stories I write about here in T&T. Stories far far better than I could ever hope to write. Here they are:

The other day I was sitting with Sultan Ishmael Nasir at the bar we frequent watching the R. Crumb characters file past when a young man, built like one of those muscularly overburdened bare-knuckled tattooed cage fighters wandered in. He was hopping on one leg and asked to join us.
Seems he is a mercenary doing the devil’s duty in Fallujah Iraq. It is easily believed. I asked him why he is limping?

Turns out he tripped on a curb in Bangkok and tore a ligament.

Sheesh!

The other night we went to a movie theater here to see Joker. The theater was black with only a semblance of light on the stairway. My hands were full with a tub of fresh buttered popcorn and a cold Singha Beer. My eyes hadn’t adjusted and I fell tits over tea kettle down the stairs. I wondered if I had hurt myself, but stood upon the well-padded stairs and realized the beer was intact and I had lost only a small scattering of popcorn.

I ascribe this inane skill to being knocked on my ass a thousand times during karate.

Whatdaworld!

Richard Diran

 

It was Saturday again. Naida and I set off for the Saturday Morning Coffee. We walked from our house to the Nepenthe Clubhouse. We walked through brown, red, and gold leaves that covered the paths. Like kids we giggled while kicking them about, stepping on them and hearing them crackle. We both wear hearing aids. Although the hearing-aids may not work so well helping us understand what someone may be talking about, the snapping sounds of the leaves as we crushed them underfoot was ideally suited to whatever frequency the hearing aids were attuned to. We heard them like firecrackers a Fourth of July and we laughed.

About 30 people attended the coffee, eight men and about 22 women. More i Vecchi (old people) then I had ever seen at these events. Gerry, our leader, had returned from whatever hospitalization prevented her from presiding a few weeks ago. Announcements were made. I could not make out what they were about so I just sat there smiling like the village idiot. Later Naida told me she could not hear much either.

After the announcements, Paul the architect, Winnie’s husband came by and described at length how he designed the Sacagawea park in Salmon and picked out everything in it. I recalled that except for the two statues, everything else seemed to be just rocks.

Then off to the Golden hills. HRM called asking me to drive him and the Scooter Gang to COSTCO in Folsom so that they could eat their pizza for lunch. They think COSTCO pizzas are “the best.”

It is autumn in the Enchanted Forest. Naida, Boo-boo the Barking Dog and I went for a walk through the forest this evening. We walked further than we usually do along paths I had not been on before. It was a lot longer walk than I had attempted for many months except for that trek in SF from the hospital to the bus station a few weeks back. It tired me out, but I was pleased I did it.

 

 

All youse guys take care, ya hear….

Read Full Post »

IMG_4088

Three aging gentlemen and the youthful HRM

One of the more significant problems that arise upon reaching my age (78+) is that I often soon forget whatever I may have been recently up to. Like now — I am sitting writing this in a nondescript Starbucks somewhere in Folsom, not too far from the prison made famous by Jonny Cash. It is raining outside. A few hours ago, I met with my oncologist. He declared me still in remission from cancer in my neck that I had been treated for about a year ago. Hooray for me. I cannot remember what else I have done since my return to the Great Valley a few days ago. Perhaps, I napped a lot. I recall that about a day or so ago, I had a late lunch-early dinner at Subway with HRM a 13-year-old pre-adolescent young man. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: How are things going with you?
HRM: Good.
Me: Anything interesting happen in school recently?
HRM: Everything.

And so on — the conversational rhythms of the emerging adolescent.

One evening, we went for dinner at a nearby Ethiopian restaurant. It was enjoyable, especially accompanied by honey wine. That night, I had a dream so loaded with Jungian overtones that to attempt to describe it could lead to madness. I struggled, eventually successfully, to wake myself up but could not get back to sleep again for fear the dream would return.

Read Full Post »

apollonio_ulysses1435

I think here I should interrupt my usual narrative and share with you (well to be honest, impose upon you) my recent musings about traveling.

My approach to traveling is somewhat like my approach to life; it is not arriving at your destination that is important but what happened along the way. I call it Pookieism.

For example, assume that I depart from San Francisco intending to travel to, say Rome to visit the Vatican and see the Sistine Chapel. If that is what I efficiently did and returned home equally efficiently, I for one would be unsatisfied indeed.

If on the other hand I were to depart on that same voyage and along the way be diverted by circumstances outside of my control or through my stupidity and thereby facing perhaps danger, or passion, beauty or tedium and return home without ever getting to see Michelangelo’s frescos (the chapel would probably be closed anyway, for repairs or for some obscure holiday), I would consider my trip a success.

I guess, one could consider Pookieism something like Buddhism, but from somewhat the opposite viewpoint. Where Buddhism urges one to withdraw from the unreality of perception, Pookieism suggests you revel in it.

When I look back into my life, anytime I single-mindedly pursued a goal and overcame many obstacles to achieve it, I almost always came away dissatisfied, became depressed and soon decided to spend my time doing something else. On the other hand, whenever I was diverted from my path or failed in achieving my goal or found myself hopelessly lost, I often was overjoyed. Why, because there was so much experience, so much pathos, and so much joy. And, oh the stories…

Yes, of course, there were things that to this day I wish never happened and if I could I would want not to have occurred, but they did and the exquisite if odious memories of the experience accompany’s me like tattoos on the skins of generation Xers.

For those males of a certain age, some of you may recall that time when you were a kid and in your imagination played the announcer of your life. “The great slugger stands at the plate. Here comes the pitch. He swings. He misses….” Or, “Here is the world-famous runner running through the woods. Will he break the record? Oh no! He trips. He falls. Will he be able to get up, finish the race and break the record? Stay tuned.”

Well, I still do that.

“Here is the aging hero walking along the side of the road recalling past loves, triumphs, and failures. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a small yellow flower, stops and contemplates its beauty for a moment and then walks on, crosses the street, the freshly painted striping glowing so whitely in the sun it hurts his eyes. Suddenly he remembers he forgot to buy that bottle of milk. Should he return to the store or proceed on toward home? He stands there at the edge of the road, like the brave Ulysses on the beach contemplating whether to return home to the aging but loyal Penelope or spend another night in the arms of the beautiful Calypso?”

Speaking of Ulysses, Homer’s account is not quite how it happened.

One night the short, bandy-legged, scraggly bearded young man named Ulysses, who lived in a subdivision on a small island in the Adriatic, left the home on a cul-de-sac he shared with his wife, young son, various hangers-on, and a pack of dogs, telling everyone he was going to the store to buy a carton of milk, or an amphora of wine or new sandals or whatever. Now twenty years later he stood on the corner of the block down from his old home, broke, hungry and older. He contemplated the excuses he would tell his wife for his long absence. He concocted stories about ships and strange wars, jealous gods, wooden horses, one-eyed monsters and to cover up the long periods of time he spent living with a succession of comely young women, he fell back on the tried and true excuse of philandering husbands of the time, bewitchment.

On the other hand, the also aging but still zaftig and supposedly loyal Penelope wanted no part of the smelly midget bastard’s return. She had happily spent the past 20 years screwing the Theban pool boy and every young stud in town. The assholes return would only mean she would have to give up the good life and return to working on that goddamn loom. Besides, she needed an excuse of her own to explain why for the last 20 years the same old piece of cloth hung on that machine with no further work done on it since he left. She told all her boyfriends that she would choose one of them to settle down with when she finished weaving the cloth. They were so stupefied with the thought of getting into her toga whenever she lifted its hem for them they forgot all about the status of that rotting rag.

She believed however that she would need something better to convince the crafty asshole of her unbelievable 20 years of fidelity. She decided to elaborate on the story and planned to tell her returning husband if unfortunately, he should ever return, that she weaved at the loom all day and every night she tore out what she had done during the day. If the simple and unbelievable story had worked on her lovers why wouldn’t this expanded version work on that scheming lying bastard Ulysses?

Nevertheless, she still was surprised when the testosterone-poisoned dwarf suddenly and unexpectedly showed up at her door and started killing all of her boyfriends and the Theban pool boy as well.

Sadly, Penelope was forced back to working all day at the goddamn loom and at night diddling herself while the drunken scumbag lay snoring among his dogs after buggering some prepubescent boy-chick.

As Holden Caulfield would say, “Crummy.”

Read Full Post »

Dunes at Sandy Neck Beach, West Barnstable

Dunes at Sandy Neck Beach, West Barnstable (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This was one of those remarkably beautiful mornings. So as I sat in the cafe sipping my café latte and gazing at the yellow sand beach and the stippled water reflecting the almost empty blue sky, of course, my thoughts wandered off to ruminating on death and dying.

This is not such an odd juxtaposition at my age, especially when recently I began to wonder if my preference for drifting through life requires some adjustment when faced with the inevitable decline of my physical and mental faculties over the next decade or so.

On the other hand, as I so well know, the end may occur while simply standing on the sidewalk looking forward to the future. Or, as the Great Dane mused whether “..to take arms against a sea of trouble..” is really worth it.

This led me to think about my grandfather who bore the same name as I. People called him, “Big Joe,” “Old Joe,” “Pepino” or just “Joe” as the situation required.

I often think about him because I believe, the great dark shadow cast by him stunted the growth of all members of the Petrillo family caught in its gloom.

Big Joe approached life as something to be beaten into shape with his fists or accepted with neither emotion nor regret. When he was a young man he killed another man for calling him a guinea. Convicted of manslaughter, he served about a year in jail. After his release, he fought his way to head one of the first and certainly the largest construction companies in the US owned by an Italian immigrant at that time. When during the Great Depression caused him to lose everything he did not complain and eventually went back to working as a common laborer.

In his nineties, he lived in a nursing home. There, he developed the obsession that were he to lie down on his bed he would surely die. So, every night he sat upright in his chair facing the door to his room ready to fight death to the death so to speak. No, there was no going silently into “that dark night” for old Joe. He was prepared to beat death into submission were the caped skeleton so foolish as to walk through that door and into his room.

One night when he was about 85 years old and working at night directing traffic in the parking lot of one of his son’s restaurants on Cape Cod, he called me on the phone. He said he might be arrested and thrown in jail (not for the first time in his life). When I inquired as to what it was that made him think this, he told me that evening he directed an automobile with two young men and their dates into a parking space. The young man driving ignored him and parked instead closer to the entrance to the restaurant and got out. Grandpa (as I called him) went up to the driver to remonstrate with him and ask him to move his car into the space where he had directed him to go.

The young man responded by saying, “Get out of the way old man,” and pushed “Big Joe” aside.

Shortly thereafter the ambulance took the young man to the hospital suffering a broken nose, the loss of a few teeth, a couple of broken ribs and various contusions and abrasions as they say in the legal trade. I  later learned that the young man remained in the hospital for two weeks.

“Don’t worry grandpa,” I laughed, “If you are arrested, I will take the case, put you on the stand and ask you one question, ‘How old are you, Mr. Petrillo.’ Besides, I suspect the young man will be too embarrassed to press charges.” I was right, he did not.

Anyway, one night midway through his 98th year, a kind-hearted nurse, after giving him his medicine watched him doze off. Believing that he must, at his age, be uncomfortable sleeping upright in a chair, she lifted him up  into his bed. They found him dead the next morning.

That is the way it is with old man death, he may not be strong enough to wrestle you into your grave but close your eye for a moment…

Read Full Post »

Last afternoon of the Geriatric Knights in which the Knights Get Down to Business (Cont.).

The virile member, to please women, must have at most a length of the breadth of twelve fingers, or three handbreadths, and at least six fingers, or a hand and a half breadth.

There are men with members of twelve fingers, or three hand-breadths; others of ten fingers, or two and a half hands. And others measure eight fingers, or two hands. A man whose member is of less dimensions cannot please women.
The Perfumed Garden, Richard Burton, trans.

Giufa Comes Home.

So, Giufa, fortified with the “Blue Pill,” a “Gold Pill”, Density’s magic Chinese “Black Pill” and a testosterone shot, felt he was more than ready for the celebration of the festival of coitus.

So, that day he reserved one of the “Love Temples” located off of the pool room at the Kennel Club and took Selma with him into the room to assist him with the rites.

They began with the customary removal of clothing and proceeded to the ritual of the “Fondling and Kissing of the Nipples”. This was then followed by the ceremonial “pee-pee” by each of them. The shower service followed with the formal “Soaping and Washing of the Genitals.” Thereafter they entered upon the “Altar of the Bed” and proceeded to the “Laying Out of the Condom on the Nightstand” ceremony. Then following completion of the liturgical foreplay, they performed THE SACRED SHTUP that ended with Giufa shouting “Oh God” as proscribed in the literature.

After the completion of the ritual during which they attempted to exchange bodily fluids in every orifice they could imagine and after a brief period of rest, they commenced to perform the rituals in reverse, to unwind, so to speak, the completed ceremony; first the shower, then the pee-pee, the final “Fondling and Kissing of the Nipples” and the donning of the clothing. At last there was the obligatory wait while she put on her make-up.

They left the quiet of the temple and emerged into the raucous noise of the pool room. Density and Harvey looked up from their game of pool with several of the “Ladies-in waiting” smiled and nodded to Giufa.

Giufa now sanctified, threw back his shoulders, smiled, nodded and passed out from the Kennel Club and into the sunlight, eager to begin his quest.

Next issue, “Harvey gets his wish”.

Read Full Post »

 

Last Afternoon of the Geriatric Knights in which the Knights Get Down to Business (Cont.).
“The impossibility of performing the coitus, owing to the absence of stiffness in the member, is also due to other causes. It will happen, for instance, that a man with his verge in erection will find it getting flaccid just when he is on the point of introducing it between the thighs of the woman. He thinks this is impotence, while it is simply the result, may be, of an exaggerated respect for the woman, may be of a misplaced bashfulness, may be because one has observed something disagreeable, or on account of an unpleasant odor; finally, owing to a feeling of jealousy, inspired by the reflection that the woman is no longer a virgin, and has served the pleasures of other men.”
The Perfumed Garden, Richard Burton Trans.
Giufa Finds his Groove again.
Now on that last afternoon of their fellowship before departing on their individual quests,  several of the Knights were gathered at the Oval Table eager for one final shtup in celebration. Although the Knights were not particularly inclined to be religious they were committed to perform their duties religiously, for as the old Arab wrote so long ago,”Do you not know that women’s religion is in their vulvas?”
Spy’s girlfriend, the Princess Oy arrived. She is being played by Joan Chen. (I know, I know what I said about Asian woman celebrities unwillingness to appear in a production like this, but then again, I warned you to never trust the storyteller.) This cheered Spy up a lot. After a drink or two they, made their round of the table saying their farewells to anyone within range of an air-kiss. They left, probably to have dinner somewhere then off for some trolling to find a Waiting Lady willing to join them for the night. Tomorrow morning Spy will disappear into the Indonesian jungle for three months or so as a knight-errant  assuring safe forests for the Resource Lords. Will he stumble across the Magic Vulva in those benighted wilds. The remaining Knights thought not.
A short while after Spy’s departure Density and Harvey announced that they were going to explore the other rooms to see if they could find the Waiting Lady of their afternoon’s desire.
“What are you looking for” inquired Giufa.
“I’m looking for a woman who can rapid fire her ass like a Brazilian dick milker”, responded Density. “I may however have to wait until I get to the Philippines to find one of those. Meanwhile, I just saw the greatest screamer and squirter in Pattaya go into the other room, Maybe I can get her together with Harvey”.
And so they went off leaving Giufa alone at the Oval Table like the cheese in the nursery rhyme. Well not alone exactly, Selma was busily applying hand and ample butt to his physical rehabilitation.
The previous evening Giufa contemplated the next day’s celebration anxiously, he did not want to fail at this important event. So, he consulted the writings of the Old Arab for help.
The Old Arab suggested, “The virile member, rubbed with ass’s milk, will become uncommonly strong and vigorous. ” But  he was sure that asses milk not something one would typically find in a Thai supermarket. He would have to send away for it and that would take too long.
Further on he came across  the suggestion that one should, ” wash the member in water until it becomes red, and enters into erection. Then take a piece of soft leather, upon which spread hot pitch, and envelop the member with it. It will not be long before the member raises its head, trembling with passion. The leather is to be left on until the pitch grows cold, and the member is again in a state of repose. This operation, several times repeated, will have the effect of making the member strong and thick.”
 This however, while tempting, was a bit much for him to contemplate besides where could he find some hot pitch at this time of night. So instead he took out a pill given to him by Density supposedly obtained from China that promised to work like magic. Giufa suspected that  the pill contained the ground up remains of some endangered species thought to induce super-human virility by sympathetic magic. But he was desperate. He also took out a big blue pill that has become the drug of choice for men everywhere today and the source of untold wealth for the company that owns its patent.
These he placed, carefully on his nightstand like sacramental offerings to be consumed tomorrow before departing for the Kennel Club. He then went to sleep and dreamed of two men with the same first name, Abou, who had consumed sacred foods before embarking on their labor:
“The member of Abou el Heïloukh has remained erect 
For thirty days without a break, because he did eat onions. 
Abou el Heïdja has deflowered in one night 
Once eighty virgins, and he did not eat or drink between, 
Because he’d surfeited himself first with chick-peas, 
And had drunk camel’s milk with honey mixed. “
“Maybe onions and honey” he thought as he dreamed, “I have them around here somewhere.”
To be continued as, “Giufa Comes Home.”

Read Full Post »

He who boils asparagus and then fries them in fat, and then pours upon them the yolks of eggs with pounded condiments, and eats every day of this dish, will grow very strong for the coitus, and find in it a stimulant for his amorous desires.
The Perfumed Garden, Richard Burton, Trans.
Fabula Interruptus
Now I know that in my most recent issue I promised to continue with the Last Afternoon of the Geriatric Knights in which the Knights Get Down to Business, but as any reader of fiction knows, you can never trust the storyteller.
I thought it would be a good idea to break in here now, because I was worried that the reader may see the individual Knights as mere shadow figures around which to build a tale. While that may be true, I thought it would help the narrative if we put a little flesh onto their bones, so to speak.
Not a back story, for that would be irrelevant even to the Knights themselves. Instead I thought it would be helpful to the reader for me to provide an insight into the essence, if you will, of each Knights character.
We will begin (as we usually seem to do) with Jerome, who prefers to be known as Horace, because he is the least interesting and because of that also the most compelling of the Knights. The reason for this apparent conundrum is  that  to some people Jerome, who prefers to be known as Horace, seems to have no soul. As a result, of all the Knights of the Round Table (upon which our tales are very loosely based) he seems most like Galahad, the most boring and soulless Knight at Camelot. What Galahad did have going for him however is that he gave off a strange light that really freaked everyone out. Consequently no one wanted much to do with him and so compared to the other of King Arthur’s Knights we know next to nothing about him.
Now our Jerome, who prefers to be known as Horace, lacks the freaky light. In fact, for him it is sort of the opposite. Instead of giving out light he appears to be where light goes to die and so he is easily the most fascinating of the Geriatric Knights because he can be all things and nothing depending on the storyteller’s mood.
Density on the other hand is certainly the strongest and most knowledgable about practical things. But beneath that tough seeming hard-nosed, sagacious exterior beats the heart of an incurable romantic and he knows it and it worries him.He knows sooner or later he is going to fuck up. In this he  most resembles  Lancelot du Lac, the peerless and dread Knight of the Round Table, dauntless in war and strategy and prudent in all things except for his need to dick half the women in England.  When he finally got around to playing hide the salami with the King’s wife, Guinevere, the shit hit the fan.
Our Harvey on the other hand, is not romantic at all. True, he is optimistic and a good companion. In that he is a lot like Sir Gawain, ever optimistic and always running off to somewhere or other for a good time. But, Gawain was a constant screw-up. Not our Harvey though. Harvey is more cautious. For an example of that feature, one has to turn to another set of tales about a brotherhood, the Merrie Men of Robin Hood. There we find that old Friar Tuck bears a similar cautious trait to our Harvey. If one reads the tales closely, one realizes that Tuck never completely bought into the bullshit of Robin of Locksley. Sure, if there was good food, tasty wine and a roll in the hay now and then, he was happy to join in the fun, just as long as it did not get him into too much trouble.
Now Spy, he most reminds me of Parsifal, who no matter how badly he fucks-up always comes out smelling like he just fell into a vat of the world’s most expensive perfume. You can be assured that, among all the Knights, he will be the one to stumble across the Magic Vulva and probably not recognize it. But, not to worry, like Parsifal he undoubtedly will end up chosen to guard it, either that or in charge of renting it out.
Giufa is the opposite of Parsifal, he is the eternal Kingfish. No matter what high hopes he begins with, it will turn to shit in the end and he will be lucky if he escapes with his limbs intact. In this he most resembles Merlin minus the magic and the dress (He kept the funny hat though). As I am sure you recall, no matter what Merlin starts, it all falls to pieces in the end. Take the Sword in the Stone, it begins pretty well but everyone soon ends up dead at the Battle of Camiann and the Sword gets tossed into a lake like a crushed beer can. Merlin even ends up imprisoned in a block of ice or something, deep under some mountain somewhere, his magic gone along with all his money, taken by his girlfriend who runs off with it so that she can fuck her brains out with Mordred and his Golden Armor.
Now this may all sound pretty squalid and depressing but that is not so. Like Camelot, the story of the Geriatric Knights is a tale of hope in the face of the inevitable.
When we were  young with our peers about us, we dreamed and hoped for that which we had not yet experienced. Now in our old age we dream and hope for one last chance at  that which we will soon no longer have.
Symmetry is a beautiful thing.

Read Full Post »

“[A praiseworthy] man is liked and appreciated by women; this is because the woman loves the man only for the sake of coition. His member should, therefore, be of ample dimensions and length. Such a man ought to be broad in the chest, and heavy in the crupper; he should know how to regulate his emission, and be ready as to erection; his member should reach to the end of the canal of the female, and completely fill the same in all its parts. Such a one will be well beloved by women…”
The Perfumed Garden,
Richard Burton, trans.

The Last Afternoon of the Knights.

Now it has always been, whether with the Fellowship of the Ring, The Knights of Camelot or the Mystic Knights of the Sea, that periodically the membership moves on to other things for a while. These voyages are sometimes referred to as quests. We really do not know for sure what they are looking for and for this reason the object of the search is often called the “Grail.” Now no-one knows what the hell a “Grail” is. Perhaps more ink has been spilled on explaining what it may be than anything save that which has been spilled on explaining “God.” I believe, however, that what men have explored the by-ways, and roads of the world and braved its oceans deserts and frigid wastes in search for is “The Magic Vulva.” As the poet said:

“The person who dreams of having seen the vulva of a woman will know that if he is in trouble God will free him of it; if he is in a perplexity he will soon get out of it; and lastly if he is in poverty he will soon become wealthy, because…[it] will mean the deliverance from evil. By analogy, if he wants a thing he will get it: if he has debts, they will be paid.”

So like the gathering of other brotherhoods prior to departing on their quests whether in “The Shire,” at “The Round Table” or in the “Lodge Hall,” the Geriatric Knights assembled at the Oval Table in the back room of “The Kennel Club” for a final get together before going their separate ways.

Jerome, who prefers to be called Horace, was not with them this evening. He had departed a few days before for the mountains and valleys of Nepal to find himself. This prompted one of the other Knights to comment, “He’s been groping himself for as long as I have known him. If he hasn’t found it by now he’s not going to find it on any mountain.”

He has been replaced this evening, by a Knight from south of Thailand beyond Indonesia who found himself that night at the Oval Table in the Kennel Club just like that other besotted Knight from the South who stumbled into Camelot and found himself seated at the Round Table diddling Guenivire. For that reason, we shall call him, Lance, played or course by the aged Robert Goulet.

Tomorrow, Spy will be leaving for the vermin infested jungles of Borneo for three months. He appeared subdued. He drank Coca-cola, not his usual gin and tonic and ignored the various ladies in waiting who tried to cheer him up by rubbing his crotch.

On the day after that, Harvey leaves to return to America to resume his life as “Sword for Hire” and Density travels to the Philippines in his ongoing quest for “the Perfect Yoni.”

“it has the splendid whiteness of a forehead,
In its dimensions it is like the moon,
The fire that radiates from it is like the sun’s,
And seems to burn the member which approaches;
Unless first moistened with saliva the member cannot enter,
The odor it emits is full of charms.”

A few days later, Giufa also will depart in his never ending search for redemption.

But those are other days and other nights, tonight at the Oval Table, the Ladies in Waiting were waiting.

Lance offers Miley-maliwan 100 baht to take off her bra and toss it on the table to get the festivities rolling.

Miley, now an experienced Lady in Waiting, removes her well padded bra without a hitch, revealing the breasts of an underdeveloped 11 year old underneath. In perfect English alliteration she announces to all at the table “I have tiny tits.”

The Knights heartily agreed with her observation.

Giufa, however, pointed out, “As the old Arab observed, ‘Don’t be too eager for round-breasted women’.”

Miley smiled at this comment, revealing a pair of canines larger then her ta-tas.

“Perhaps she is a vampire,” suggested Harvey soto voce.

At which point Selma mentioned, “Carmine said, ‘She may have tiny tits but she has a good heart’.”

“Let’s then drink to tiny tits and good hearts,” proposed Spy.

And everyone drank a toast to Miley’s tits and heart, which pleased her a lot.

… “Last Afternoon of the Knights” to be continued, ” In which the Knights Get Down to Business…”

Read Full Post »

In order that a woman may be relished by men, she must have a perfect waist, and must be plump and lusty. Her hair will be black her forehead wide, she will have eyebrows of Ethiopian blackness, large black eyes, with the whites in them very limpid. With cheek of perfect oval, she will have an elegant nose and a graceful mouth; lips and tongue vermilion; her breath will be of pleasant odor, her throat long, her neck strong, her bust and her belly large; her breasts must be full and firm, her belly in good proportion, and her navel well-developed and marked; the lower part of the belly is to be large, the vulva projecting and fleshy, from the point where the hairs grow, to the buttocks; the conduit must be narrow and not moist, soft to the touch, and emitting a strong heat and no bad smell; she must have the thighs and buttocks hard, the hips large and full, a waist of fine shape, hands and feet of striking elegance, plump arms, and well-developed shoulders.
The Perfumed Garden, Richard Burton Trans.

Symposium Concerning Women Who Deserve to be Praised.

“Thai women are all sugar and spice and everything nice and smiles, we cannot forget the smiles, all wrapped around the heart of a thug,” commented Density one day to the other Geriatric Knights of the Oval Table.  

“That may be true,” said Giufa. “Last night I was reading some old Arab stuff and I wrote some of it down.” He then took out a small notebook. “The writer seemed to agree with you. it was his opinion that, ‘the stratagems of women are numerous and ingenious. Their tricks will deceive Satan himself, for God the Highest has said Koran, chapter xii, verse 28) that the deceptive faculties of women are great, and he has likewise said (Koran, chapter vi, verse 38) that the stratagems of Satan are weak. Comparing the word of God as to the ruses of Satan and woman, contained in those two verses, it is easy to see how great these latter ones are.'” 

“Nevertheless,” he continued, “later on that same writer pointed out, ‘When a meritorious man finds himself near to women, his member grows, gets strong, vigorous and hard; he is not quick to discharge, and after the trembling caused by the emission of the sperm, he is soon stiff again.'”

“Ain’t that the truth,” observed Harvey. “But I don’t get a hard on with every woman I run into.” “Some turn me on a lot and some not so much,” he added.

With that the discussion around the table turned to the diverse preferences in women’s physical attributes among the individual Knights.

It was quickly agreed by everyone that Density preferred what was described as “Tits on a stick”, skinny little women weighing no more that 95 pounds sopping wet of which a quarter of that weight was in her boobs.

Harvey on the other hand liked them a bit more stocky with a little heft in the hip. But he also conceded that he preferred them somewhat smaller in stature, no Valkyries need apply.

This prompted Giufa to look up from his gin and tonic, remove his arthritic hand from between Angelina’s thighs where it had been soaking up the warmth and quote again from the old Arab: “‘It has been observed that under all circumstances little women love coitus more and evince a stronger affection for the virile member than women of a large size. Only long and vigorous members suit them; in them they find the delight of their existence and of their couch.”

“So true,” the others agreed.

Harvey then continued on, “What I really look for in a woman is something different, a woman with short hair where all the others wear it long for example, or women with special talents like screamers or squirters.”

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Jerome who prefers to be called Horace and who had married the same women three times with the same results each time, “but all other things being equal, to me it is just a question of the lowest price.”

“What about you Giufa,” he said turning to Giufa, “What turns you on.”

“Well, I have been giving it some thought, and seeing as how Angelina looks a lot like of one of my several ex-wives, and given how all my affairs seem to end up, I would have to say that I am probably most turned on by someone who reminds me of one of my wives, constantly lies to me and steals all my money.”

“Well” laughed Density, “You certainly came to the right country.” 

“What about you Spy?” He asked turning towards Spy who was thoughtfully listening to the conversation.

“As you all know,” Spy responded, “I tend to like smaller woman also and while breast size is nice and all that, what is most important to me however, is her willingness to go out with me and pick up other woman so that I can watch them fuck and then join in.”

“Well I guess  what this all shows,” Density summed up, “is that all men have different tastes or we five here are pretty fucked up.”

“Tell us Giufa if your Arab friend has and thing to say about what woman look for in a man,” he inquired.

Giufa read from his notebook:

“The tale goes, that on a certain day, Abd-el-Melik ben Merouane, went to see Leilla, his mistress, and put various questions to her. Amongst other things, he asked her what were the qualities which women looked for in men.

Leilla answered him: ‘Oh, my master, they must have cheeks like ours.’ 

‘And what besides?’ said Ben Merouane. 

She continued: ‘And hairs like ours; finally they should be like to you, O prince of believers, for, surely, if a man is not strong and rich he will obtain nothing from women.'”

“In other words,” added Giufa, “as they say here in Thailand, no money, no honey.”

Read Full Post »

“If you are lying with a woman, do her business several times if you feel inclined, but take care not to overdo it, for it is a true word that, ‘He who plays the game of love for his own sake, and to satisfy his desires, feels the most intense and durable pleasure; but he who does it to satisfy the lust of another person will languish, lose all his desire, and finish by becoming impotent for coition.'”
The Perfumed Garden, Richard Burton, Trans.

IN WHICH ANGELINA (TAI) AND HARVEY BECOME INVOLVED IN CONFLICTING ECONOMIC THEORIES

“Ugh, a blow-job tastes better,” exclaimed Angelina-Tai after downing in one gulp the entire contents of a small pony glass containing a concoction called B-52, made from a mixture of bitter and sweet liquors with a little cream floating on top.

Giufa, who notices things like this, saw a sudden gleam spring into Harvey’s eyes when he heard Angelina. Giufa knew that his friend was falling in love or something like that.

“Why don’t you take Angelina into one of the discussion rooms?” suggested Giufa to Harvey.“I am sure you both have a lot in common.”

This made Harvey a bit uncomfortable because he was aware that his friend was experiencing temporary testosterone deficiency and currently was being treated for his malady by Angelina, mini dress hiked above her waist, vigorously applying her ample naked buttocks to Giufa’s trouser encased flaccid member.

“I don’t wish to interfere with your therapy,” he explained.

“Think nothing of it, my friend,” replied Giufa. “Sometimes not even the Goddess can raise the dead.”

So assured, Harvey and Angelina retired to one of the small laboratories adjoining the room with the pool table, there to undertake joint experiments in hydraulics and fluid dynamics.

As he left the table Harvey promised, “I expect this will be brief and I’ll soon return.”

After they left and with the vision of Angelina’s ample breasts and buttocks fresh in their minds, the other Knights began a discussion on the relative merits of silicone and its effect on ones physical and emotional equilibrium. During the discussion, one of the other independent contractors joined the group at the oval table; Moo by name, played by Selma Hayek.

Giufa pointed out to everyone that Selma-Moo looked to him like she could be Angelina-Tai’s younger sister.

To which Selma-Moo agreed there was a resemblance, but added, “However, everything I have is natural.”

Upon hearing this, Jerome who prefers to be called Horace said, “I’ve heard that silicone in addition to affecting ones equilibrium also causes difficulty with co-ordination. So I suggest we determine the extent of your naturalness as follows. I will buy you the drink of your choice. You in turn will have to drink it with one hand and with the other grab my crotch and if you can get my member to rise at the same time as you are downing your drink we will hereafter call you, ‘the Natural’.”

Selma-Moo agreed.

After her successfully passing the test, Jerome who prefers to be called Horace suggested that she try two out of three.

“As long as you’re paying,” Selma-Moo said,”We can go on for as long as you like.”

After a while Angelina and Harvey returned.

“How was it,” inquired Giufa?

“We explored every dark, damp passage into her soul,” Harvey responded.

“Ahh,” said Giufa appreciatively, “Dante had his Beatrice, but we have our Angelina.”

Unfortunately, Harvey having paid $10 for the use of the laboratory and equipment and more for his bar bill assumed he had also paid Angelina’s consulting fee, and although he had given her a good tip it was substantially less than the agreed upon base fee.

As a result, Angelina experienced an adventure movie moment and exploded (a regular occurrence when anything intervenes between a Thai woman and what she considers her money), prompting the mama-san, Cher, to intervene in an attempt to resolve the crisis. When Harvey realized his error, he paid his fee and explained to Nat-Cher that he did not want her (Algelina-Tai) to be upset.

Cher-Nat responded, “You paid her what you owed her, why should you care what she thinks or feels?”

After Harvey left the Kennel Club for his appointment to interview another consultant who’s place of business was located deep within the Outskirts of Hell, Giufa feeling the pain of arthritis in his left hand, placed the throbbing appendage between Angelina’s warm thighs and pressed it firmly against her yoni. As he felt the soothing heat drive away the ache in his fingers he asked her, “Why were you so angry with Harvey especially since he eventually paid you what you wanted?”

“Sometimes,” she answered, “when I go off like that it is difficult for me to come down again. Besides, I was especially angry in this case, because I knew he is your very good friend and I put in extra-effort to please him, so that you will be happy.”

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: