POOKIE’S ADVENTURES AT SEPTEMBER’S END (2022)

“I am reflecting that while God may have a plan for us, He has a certain humour about its implementation.”

                Wragg, David. The Righteous (Articles of Faith, Book 2) (p. 88). HarperCollins Publishers

 

 

It is about 10PM Wednesday evening mid-September 2022 as I write this. A few hours ago Naida and I walked the dog. The evening was cool, perhaps in the high 60s. There was a bit of a breeze blowing and the air was clear — Autumn weather. A welcome respite from the almost 60 days of of temperatures over 100 degrees F. We will probably have another brief spate of hot weather before real Autumn settles on the Enchanted Forest.

 

This afternoon, I drove into the Golden Hills to have lunch with HRM (Hayden). We ate pizza at our new favorite pizza place in Town Center called Formaggio. We sat outside by the lake and talked of this and that —of shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings — and things like that. After lunch, we walked around the lake, visited the book store, and another store that sold various things at one time perhaps even shoes ships and sealing wax, but not cabbages and kings. Alas, now it seems to have gone upper class and sells mostly jewelry. We ended up at the coffee shop where I had a cafe latte and Hayden had a mixed pudding of some sort. I had a taste of the pudding. It was very good. We then walked back around the lake, got back into the car, and returned to his house. My lunches with HRM are some of the most pleasant times of my life. 

 

In the evening, back in the EF, I watched episodes of Bosch and Daiziel and Pascoe on Amazon Prime. Later besides walking the dog, Naida and I danced and sang together. All in all, a good day.

 

Today’s Collective Noun:

 

“A regret of ghosts”

Moore, Christopher. Secondhand Souls (p. 50). HarperCollins.

 

It is time to speculate on mornings. Not all mornings, just this morning. And not all speculations just mine… this morning. Why, for example, after waking, do I lie bleary eyed staring at the ceiling for as long as I do? Or, why do I always have the same breakfast of a bagel, cream cheese and gravlax, coffee with milk – no sugar- every morning prepared the same way and in the same order? Why do I sit in the same place, eat my bagel, drink my coffee, read one chapter of my latest novel du jour, and when I finish eating give the dog my plate to lick? Am I alive or dead or just still sleeping? And, if I am still sleeping, when do I wake up? Do I ever wake up? So many questions, so little time. I feel like I need a nap while I mull all this over.

 

I am reading Christopher Moore’s book, Lamb. It is about Jesus Christ or Josh as he was known and his best friend “Biff” as they maneuver through those difficult years blacked out in the four Gospels. Those years from one’s entering puberty until at about thirty or so when you get the first glimmers of the inevitability of death and the limits to your dreams, fantasies, especially of the sexual kind.  Of course, Mary Magdalen, their mutual love interest, Mary, Josh’s mother, a woman with a mysterious past, Josh’s sisters and brothers, and his long suffering step-father Joseph also make their appearances. 

 

Naida continued to work on the story of her life for the Carmel High School graduates 65th year  reunion we will be attending before we leave for Italy. She had been working on it for about a month, five hours a day or so. This morning, we labored on the paragraph about me.

 

During my readings, I keep a list of quotes I find interesting, curious or absurd. This morning while reviewing the list I came across the following:

 

“Never was a rough road smoothed by looking backward; never was a great height shrunk by looking down.”

Bancroft, Josiah. The Fall of Babel (The Books of Babel) (p. 290). Orbit.

 

I have never aspired to smooth any rough road or shrink any great heights. I find life’s rough roads and great heights rather cool. Anyway, if it is too rough a road or too great a height, I prefer to take a nap rather than attempting to do anything about them. I consider myself a Nappist rather than say… a Buddhist. I sleep rather than meditate. Remember children, “When the going gets tough sleep and maybe it will all go away.”

 

A new neighbor just moved in across the alley from our house. A couple from India who live in San Francisco bought the house for their traditional Indian drum playing son to live in while attending Sac State so that he could walk to school and because they had heard that parking on the campus was too difficult when they come up to visit. His drums, of all shapes and sizes and beautifully decorated, take up much of the garage not occupied by his parents automobile. I cannot wait for when the sounds of drums blending in with the noise from Boo-boo the Barking Dog descend over the quiet evenings in the Enchanted Forest.

 

Speaking of oddities in the Enchanted Forest, about two alleys away from ours lives a family of Archery aficionados. Most days one or another of the family members can be found standing in the alley fully equipped in archers’ gear happily firing arrows into their garage where I imagine (hope) there is a target of some sort. One of the family of archers is an Amazon appearing young woman with I would hope two breasts. I could not tell with all her gear. She often appears angry or annoyed at something. Anyway, sometimes as I drive or walk by the alley I hear the pleasant thwunk or thwack of the arrows striking the target or whatever it is in the garage.

 

Speaking of pleasant things, it is Friday today. Although in my retired quasi-somnolent life one day is a good or a bad as another, I still recall those days when I approached weekends with trepidation, knowing  whatever excitement I felt at the close of business on Friday will have degenerated into malaise and disappointment by the time I fall asleep Sunday night. Life, I have learned, is little more that a succession of irritations, usually limited to a light nag, now and then exploding into a world of hurt. On the other hand, and there always is another hand, unless they had exploded into that world of hurt, most irritations immediately disappear from memory leaving the good to rattle around with the very bad as you stagger on until not even staggering remains an option.

 

Anyway, at about 5PM Naida suggested we go for a walk. So, I broke from my rumination and navel gazing, did my much delayed morning ablutions, dressed, and along with the dog set out for a long stroll through the Forest. Eventually, we circled the lake, sat on several benches, talked about many things, discussed the status of Naida’s presentation to the attendees at the Carmel HS 65th or so reunion later this month, watched some guy fishing and some other people swimming, waited while the dog did his business, and finally when I began to feel exhausted and started staggering a bit, rambled our way back home. 

 

 

 

Back at home, I watched the latest episode of Rings of Power, an episode of Bosch, and another of Daiziel and Pascoe and then went to bed. Naida spent the evening further refining her reunion missive and later joined me. The dog spent most of the evening sleeping until we both had snuggled together in bed at which time he woke up long enough to join us. The domestic bliss of the old and exhausted.

 

Saturday, brought the Saturday Morning Coffee around again after which I fell asleep on a lounge chair by the Nepenthe pool while Naida spent some time swapping stories with some of the Coffee regulars. Pleasant Autumn weather accompanied us as we walked to and from the Nepenthe Club House.

 

“I am a concept. I’m not human. You are probably a concept as well. All of us are structured fragments of information.

                Sergey and Marina Dyachenko. Vita Nostra (Kindle Location 5895). Harper Voyager.

 

I disagree with Sergey and Marina. I may not be human I’ll grant you that and while I may be fragmented, structured I clearly am not. And, it is fantasy, not information that completes the equation. In other words, I consider myself an unstructured figment of fantasy.

 

Today, Sunday, was a novelty. It rained. That night was Jazz by the Pool Night. Since it was raining they moved in indoors to the clubhouse. The three person band, a local group, played mostly Sinatra and Darrin songs from the 50s and 60s along with one of two by Louie Armstrong, Dean Martin, and of course one of Tony Bennett’s most famous standards. The songs brought back memories of friends’ basements in the Bronx in the fifties and early sixties. The lights are low. Six or eight couples dancing to the mellow sounds of Sinatra covering the room like a fog with a soft jazz beat. You and your date, bodies pressed as close to each other as the laws of physics allows. You press your leg between hers at each languid beat feeling the embarrassment as your member swells and drops of moisture runs down your leg. Good memories. 

 

Although, almost everyone there was of that long ago age and sat dreamy eyed with reminiscence, no one danced. Naida insisted we do so. Having drunk enough wine and nibbled on enough gummies to diminish my embarrassment and common sense, I agreed and so we danced — and then a few others joined us.

 

“Do the thing that makes you sing!”

                 Hearne, Kevin; Dawson, Delilah S.. No Country for Old Gnomes: The Tales of Pell (The Tales of Pell Series Book 2) (p. 206). Random House Worlds.

 

 

I do not believe there was a Monday this week unless I slept through it or it was so uninteresting that I simply forgot it ever happened. Tuesday, however, I remember. I remember because in the morning I recall watching Sophia Lauren in De Sica’s Two Women, one of the most memorable movies ever made. I also purchased tickets for the Villa Borghese Gallery for when we get to Rome next month. It is one of my favorite art galleries in the world. After that, the day was drowned in a not too unpleasant meringue of malaise.

 

Wednesday recently became my favorite day of the week because it is the day of my weekly lunch with HRM. Today was made even more special with the announcement by the NY Attorney General’s Civil Fraud suit against Trump and his family. Ugh, I forgot it was Uncle Mask’s birthday today and HRM will be spending it with him. So we put off lunch until Friday. It was raining today anyway. In the afternoon Naida and I got our COVID booster shots in preparation for our trip. We spent Thursday in misery and mostly in bed.

 

Friday we felt a lot better. It was warm and sunny. I drove into the Golden Hills for lunch with Hayden. We ate a good Neapolitan pizza at Nugget Supermarket while sitting in the balcony overlooking the floor of the market. I had a good time with him. I always do. It seems as though he is beginning to recognize that he is entering the age when the major decisions he makes now often exclude others forever. No more endless possibilities of childhood, he is entering a world where choice is not synonymous with freedom but the diminishment of options. I do not worry about him too much. His is someone of amazing empathy always helping those often shunned by the rest and usually winning the school and work award for deportment. Despite his dislike of schooling, whenever he engages in something he enjoys at work, school, or hobbies he seems to be able acquire a high degree of knowledge. He seem to be someone who responds better to mentorship than schooling.

 

Later on the drive back to the Enchanted Forest, I thought about the similarities and differences between my experiences at that age and his. Like him, I hated school. As I indicated previously, it interfered with my reading. I would fake illness in order to stay home and read. As far as deportment goes, I was not disruptive in class in the all boys high school I attended as were some of the thugs and children of mafiosi with social ambitions who were my fellow students. I reserved my ire to smart ass responses. This allowed me to sit a the back of the room and read while the more aggressive thugs were forced to be seated in the front. The the male teachers, or brothers, or priests had them near at hand to punch silly whenever they acted up. At some time during that period, I was involved fist fights almost every day, Not because, I was a bully, but because I was usually the shortest, skinniest, and weakest kid. Red meat for bullies. But I would never run away or give up, not out of any courage or bravery, but because if I ran I feared they would catch me and if I gave up I expected they would beat me again. Later some of the other prey would gather about me. I would like to think they believed I could protect them, but in fact the realized my penchant not to run away and to continue fight beyond being massacred gave them time to run away and hide. As for empathy, being solitary for most of that period I have no recollection of any special acts of kindness on my part to anyone. I did, however, usually step in whenever someone subjected someone else to what I believed was excessive verbal or physical abuse. I was always surprised that when I did so, the aggressor would simply walk away.

 

After high school, Hayden hopes to spend a year traveling through South-east Asia. This is something I fully support. Usually it is something reserved for after college, but he is pretty levelheaded and careful. He, also, is bi-lingual in Thai and English and experienced with both cultures. I guess I hope he realizes:

 

You don’t have to understand life. You just have to live it.’

                Haig, Matt. The Midnight Library (p. 283). Penguin Publishing Group.

 

Later, after driving home and taking a nap, Naida, the dog and I went for a walk through the Enchanted Forest. It was dusk. As we walked along, we ran into a rafter (flock) of Turkeys. It was getting on toward Autumn and the Toms were strutting their stuff while the objects of their affection fled but not too swiftly.

 

 

After watching the goings on for a while we trundled off to continue on our walk. Naida decided to sing It’s only a Shanty in Old Shanty Town. I joined in.

 

It’s only a shanty 

In old Shanty Town 

The roof is so slanty it touches the ground.

But my tumbled down shack by an old railroad track, 

Like a millionaire’s mansion is calling me back.

 

I’d give up a palace if I were a king. 

It’s more than a palace, it’s my everything.

There’s a queen waiting there with a silvery crown 

In a shanty in old Shanty Town.

 

There’s a shanty in the town on a little plot of ground

With the green grass growing all around, all around

The roof’s so worn, so badly torn

Til it tumbles to the ground

Just a tumbledown shack and it’s built way back

About twenty-five feet from the railroad track

Lingers on my mind most all the time

Keeps calling me back to my little old shack

 

I’d be just as sassy as Haile Selassie

If I were a king it wouldn’t mean a thing

Put my boots on tall, read the writing on the wall

And it wouldn’t mean a thing, not a doggone thing

There’s a queen waiting there in a rocking chair

Just blowing her top on Gaiter’s beer

Looking all around and I’m trucking on down

’cause I’m glad to get back to my shanty town.

 

As we headed home through the Forest, we heard several owls hooting to one another. Naida joined in the conversation keeping it going until we got home. 

 

In the evening, I finished another Christopher Moore novel Bloodsucking Fiends about vampires running amuck in San Francisco, The Emperor Norton and his two dogs, some police men and a group of dopers who work nights stocking supermarket shelves save the day. I also watched the latest episode of Rings of Power. As magnificent as its photography and settings are, it needs to get into some more bloody war action before it begins to lose its audience. 

 

Saturday broke sunny and warm. We walk to the Saturday Morning Coffee. I sat next to a man who had not attended the Coffee before. I asked him what he had done prior to moving into the Enchanted Forest. He said he has been a high school athletic coach. I then introduced him to the only other high school coach attendee at the Coffee who’s name I only knew as “Coach.” They then fell to talking about things coach and ignored me completely. The jokes were as inane as usual. I did however catch one punch line and remembered it: “What did the two horses say to each other when they met? Hay you.”  

 

The two coaches talking and ignoring me.

Naida (in the hat) speaking with the woman who helps Afghan refugees get settled in Sacramento. Next to them is the man who told the awful horse joke. I believe he used to be a spy but now he is retired. The horse in the photo is not the one he referred to.

 

It is six more days before we leave on our trip to Italy.

 

Sunday Naida and I went to see the Van Gogh exhibit in West Sacramento. It was very enjoyable.

Naida and I sitting in Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles.

 

  There were flowers in vases.

 

And colors in nature:

 

And stars at night and sunny days

 

And portraits of Vincent:

 

And much more:

 

There was even a dancer:

 

Following that delightful experience, we had dinner at a place we had not tried before. We ate pizza with peaches and prosciutto. My ancestors must be turning in their graves. Alas, it was quite good. 

 

The Niners lost again so I turned to watch about six episodes of Bosch in hopes it would cheer me up. They primarily covered the plot in Michael Connolly’s book Angel Flight. After six episodes Bosh’s ex-wife had died, his partner was shot, his daughter was distraught, almost everyone hated him, he hated himself and none of the crimes and mysteries that he was working on seemed close to resolution so I went to bed and had nightmares.

 

The next day, we began preparation for our Friday departure to Monterey and on to Italy.

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MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES: “POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THAILAND IN DECEMBER 10 YEARS AGO.”

 

 

 

December 3, 2010

 

My masseuse likes to watch the Thai soap operas on television while she administers the various pains and pleasures of her therapy during my weekly massage.

 

Now, as I am sure we all know, soaps are a window into the dark, twisted soul of a society, and so it is with Thai soap operas.

 

To me, they all tell the same stories with the same characters. There is the beautiful innocent heroine and the equally beautiful though not so innocent young woman. You can usually tell them apart by their eyebrows. The innocent heroine’s eyebrows are somewhat rounded, while her evil counterparts are straighter. They are accompanied by two equally attractive young men, one good and the other not so good. These four then are supported by a cast of actors and actresses of varying ages often playing family members of the protagonists. There are also one or two comic characters, usually played by ladyboys.

 

Although the plots are generally all the same, their location varies. I have seen Thai soaps set in the homes of the rich, and others in the homes of the poor living beside a klong somewhere. I have also seen them set in grocery stores, health clubs and farms. Some are set in modern times others in old Siam and still others are set in times of magic or in some guerrilla campaign somewhere.

 

Anyway, this particular day the masseuse was watching a soap in which the straight browed beauty dressed all in black, carried a sword and had just done unspeakable things to a group of poor people locked in cages.

 

Viewing this through my western acclimated eyes that sees everything as a conflict between good and evil, no matter the atrocities performed by either side, I commented, “She must be the bad girl.”

 

To which my masseuse responded, “Good or bad, it makes no difference. She is beautiful and everyone cares about her and what she does. If she were not so beautiful no one would give a damn at all about her or anything she does.”

 

 

December 8, 2010

 

Earlier this week I took my morning walk along the strand. It was a bright sunny morning and I felt very good, much better than my 71 years usually allows me to feel. As I left the sand to return home, I noticed an old man sitting on a bench with his walker nearby. His face was deeply lined and spotted with stubble and he was overweight, quite decrepit and wheezing. Nevertheless, he happily would call out to passers-by and engage them in conversation. He did so with me.

 

He told me he originally was from Texas on the outskirts of Houston and was staying here at Paradise by the Sea with his son. We exchanged a few stories, he about his time in SF after returning from serving in Viet Nam and I about visiting my daughter while she attended Rice University in Houston. I then asked, “How old are you, old-timer?”

 

“Sixty-eight,” he replied.

 

My emotions suddenly closed down. I could not access my thoughts or feelings; embarrassment, pity for him or me, foreboding or something else? Every time I tried to examine my reaction it was as though a door was suddenly closed and all I was left with was a vague sense of fear of finding what was behind it.

 

A day or so later, when leaving my apartment for another beach walk, at the end of the driveway leading to the condo complex, I saw him again. He had fallen and was lying on the ground, his walker tipped over beside him. I rushed over to him and with the aid of two security guards we were able to pick him up and restore his to his walker.

 

“Out racing again this morning?” I commented jokingly.

 

He laughed.

 

I noticed that he had scraped his right elbow and it was bleeding, so I asked it he needed additional help.

 

“No,” he said, “I can make it back home by myself. I have suffered worse falls than this in my life.”

 

 

 

December 11, 2010

 

As the days go by, I become more and more pleased with my life here. Either that or I have begun to go senile. I walk along the beach, swim, exercise in the weight room, write eat and sleep. Once a week, I have my massage and dinner with friends. Bill has left and returned to the US already and Gary and David have also departed. As a result, my evenings are free so that for the last few days I have had time to prepare for my trip back to the US for the holidays, Christmas shopping and packing.

 

This morning I walked to the place where I usually have my double café latte before going on to breakfast. I like the place because it has a radio tuned into some station that plays golden oldies from Do-Whop to Disco. I think it is a Thai station although they mostly speak American English. I sit there every morning listening to Frankie Lyman or whomever… Actually I lie, I have not heard anything from Frankie Lyman in over 40 years. Who is Frankie Lyman you may ask?… In the late 50’s he was one of the first black cross-over teenage singers (“Why do Fools Fall in Love”), that is a black musician liked by a majority of whites of which Michael Jackson a few years later became the prime example. He was not a “Black” musician like Little Richard or Chuck Berry who needed white singers such as Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis to introduce their sound to white America. And anyway, at the time, almost all the early Rock bands and singers, white and Black alike were considered somewhat outlaw and not respectable. (Who can forget Pat Boone’s attempt to hijack this new music of behalf of racist America.) Jackson eventually bridged that gap and made black music mainstream.

 

At that time in the late 50’s and early 60’s my friend Bob Cavallo and I began producing concerts for college kids featuring a mix of Jazz and the new Rock music. Bob ultimately went into the business (I went on to law school — bad choice) eventually specializing in this crossover music (black music bought by whites) with his management of Earth, Wind and Fire and Prince.

 

Anyway, I sat there drinking my café latte and listening to the music and let my mind wander off to wherever it chooses to go. I will never understand why the meditation hucksters insisted on purging one’s mind in order to achieve an altered state when simply giving it free rein achieves the same thing and is a lot more enjoyable. (This seems like something for a Baba Giufa tale.)

 

As my mind rummaged through its detritus, for some reason it stopped and played around with my memories of my theatre programs during my early years at University. Perhaps it was because last night I watched a movie starring Denzel Washington who attended the same program I did. 

 

The director of the program was an old queen with the improbable name of Vaughn Dearing. He always looked like he slept in his clothes and was slightly drunk. He also never remembered to zipper up his fly.

 

I liked Vaughn’s approach. (he also coached, Lucille Ball, Burt Lahr, Frank Fay, and Bela Lugosi.) My previously experience with auditions was that one auditioned and if successful was assigned a part. The director then spent most of the rest of the time in rehearsals making sure you learned your lines, remembered your cues and hit your mark on time.

 

Vaughn on the other hand, after selecting his cast through auditions, would not assign roles. Instead every day each actor and actress would assume a different role from the day before and work through the entire play (men played women’s roles and vice versa), You did not know which role you would play in the production until the last week of rehearsal. I eventually performed Bassanio in The Merchant of Venice and Lepidus in Julius Caesar.

 

 

 

 

December 13, 2010

 

This morning I learned that the english language “Golden Oldies” radio station that I enjoy listening to while I drink my morning café latte is indeed broadcast from Thailand, in fact just down the road from here in the Outskirts of Hell.

 

As the date for my departure to the US becomes closer, I become more anxious. Why is that? I become older too. Are they related?

 

Last night I went out to buy presents for people I plan to see during my trip. Haggling made me tired so I gave up, ate a pizza and went home to bed.

 

Recently, while I was walking to the beach for my morning stroll, I met the old man from Texas with the walker. After exchanging pleasantries, he mentioned that he felt that things are going bad in the US with unemployment and Wikileaks and the like, but as a result of the election he hoped it would get better and there would be lower taxes and more jobs. “I do not like that socialism,” he opined. “It’s a lot like Communism.” He is on Social Security, medicare and disability and receives a veteran’s pension.

 

For those who wonder about these things, Petey the Wonder Dog still mans his post guarding the sand against the tide.

 

 

 

The rest of December and a little of January.

 

I guess leaving Paradise by the Sea and traveling to the Big Endive by the Bay can be looked at as an adventure that at least began in Thailand and ended back there as well.

 

Some of my Impressions of America after a one year absence:

 

Following the adjustment of my system to the shock of the relatively cool and dismal weather, my initial impression was distress at the dark, drab, shapelessness of the clothing that everyone seems to prefer wearing. It was interesting to me that when I commented to others about my perception they readily agreed that the fashion was indeed dark and perhaps drab, but they denied it was shapeless. One person even went so far as to hold up a dark grey T-shirt as evidence that some people (himself in particular) did not wear shapeless clothing. And indeed I could discern that it had the classic shape of a T-shirt.

 

Although the Bay Area looked mostly the same as I remembered. The latinization of the Mission district in San Francisco continues unabated, extending at least another 5 to 10 blocks in either direction along that thoroughfare and the neighborhoods surrounding it. On the other hand the Sinoization of North Beach appears to have slowed in favor of the Sunset.

 

The Holidays were as usual a mixed bag and the serious illnesses and suffering several of my friends made almost everything appear listless. Nevertheless, my traditional Christmas Eve dinner with my daughter and seeing my son and his family as well as my grandchildren and my sisters family and cheered me up.

 

During my stay, I connected with many friends, Maurice Trad and his daughter Molly, Bill Gates, his daughter and his friend Tiffany, Peter and Barry Grenell, Sheldon Siegel, Terry Goggin et.al. and Bob and Charlotte Uram. Unfortunately I was only able to contact others by phone.

 

In Sacramento, I spent three lovely days with Bill Geyer and Naida West on their ranch and a day with Stevie and Norbert Dall. Surprisingly, I was asked to take Hayden with me during this time so that his mother could go off to the coast (Pismo Beach) with “friends”. He had just returned the prior evening from spending 5 weeks with a family he hardly knew in Seattle while his mother travelled to Thailand to have what appeared to me to be a face lift. Nevertheless, I enjoyed his company and was quite sad when I had to leave him and return to San Francisco.

 

Since I have returned to Thailand, I have spent of my time shaking off the effects of jet lag with massages and sleep.

 

 

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