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From Irwin:

well, the last two emails from you are from the cuz joe that i enjoy =
hearing from. methinks you have conquered facing the storm of the last =
few weeks and are now on your way to calmer days and nights. happiness =
may be just around the corner;of course there could also be a speeding =
truck.

i know better than to volunteer to aid you with the children’s tales =
as much as i would like to be of assistance. although i have been =
informed by more than one person that i have a “simple mind” i fear =
thinking like a child (which is what is needed for proper editing) is =
not in the cards these days – i am thinking more like a mad man than a =
five to ten year old. you can ask my grandchildren who were here all day =
today and will be with us each day next week. this of course in no way =
means that my behavior is not childish at times, so say’s my last wife, =
repeatedly.

for a reason unknown to my subconscious i seem to have slept better =
last night than i have for weeks (albeit i had several short dreams of =
an unpleasant nature but nothing painful). i’m trying to think if it had =
to do with something i ate or didn’t eat. or maybe it was a matter of =
attitude. actually i suspect that it had to do with ham transmission =
that was so funny i laughed out loud for at least 1/2 an hour and maybe =
even ventured a giggle and guffaw. that probably made me forget my =
misery and thus i nodded off without much tossing and turning. it would =

be nice to repeat the scenario however nothing funny to hear at least =
not yet. then too, my schedule for tomorrow calls for completing the =
2009 federal and state tax organizer for the pretty lesbian accountant =
who handles my yearly taxes so my thoughts as i drift off to sleep may =
have to do with how am i going to come up with the tax money (i’m still =
paying off 2008). now that i think about it, tonight for dinner i cooked =
(for four hours) a sixteen pound turkey – perhaps the tryptophan i have =
ingested will bring me a good evening’s repose.

swimming in a pool is good exercise. try to spend at least thirty =
minutes doing so. of course if those big breasted nazi ladies show up =
poolside again you may accidentally swallow some water and fall out of =
stoke rhythm. by the way speaking of lesbians and of massages is the =
pool water in thailand safe for an american to swallow?

Pookie’s response to Irwin:

I would find life insufferably odd and boring without events like those that occurred in the past few weeks.

Anyway, right now I am still basking in the glow of the four hour massage. (what the hell is it to bask)? Only an hour or so was spent in the penetration of orifices and the ebb and flow of bodily fluids. The rest of the time I was semiconscious.

In one of your emails you asked me the meaning of chronic. My specialized research reveals that, chronic comes from Chronos the father of the gods, who was killed by his beloved eldest son Zeus who cut off his beloved fathers dick and testicles and shoving them down his throat before beheading him. Now you may be wondering what would cause a beloved son to set upon his beloved father so. I suspect that one day Chronos gathered all his children (later to be known as the gods) and announced to them,”now I know you all are defective, maladjusted, greedy creatures who like nothing more than fighting with each other and raping whatever turns you on whether god, human or beast, but thanks to me you get to live forever”

Now old Chronos invented time, which is another reason he should choke on his own testicles. Remember who you have to thank for the interminable slowness of time as you sit in the waiting room for your doctors appointment.

Now chronic as in chronic pain, I believe, means the slowing down of time while you writhe in agony after all what use would it be if time speeded up in those circumstances. Yea, Zeus.

Irwin responds:

many thanks for the greek-gods history lesson. i now understand that pain. decades ago i was in greece and spent the evening at a country fair (where a band played greek music and one rendition of hava nagila) almost missing the last bus that would return us to the city. just when i was putting my right hand on the floor of the bus and my left hand on a map of that area of greece orally struggling to convey to the driver in english and sign language where i was and wanted to go, a dark car pulled up and a man with slicked-back hair got out. he asked me in english if i needed help. i explained the situation and he spoke to the driver. we were returned to the plaka in central athens where we had a bottle of ginger ale and stumbled back to our hotel room.

i think the personage with slicked-back hair may have been one of the gods, or a messenger thereof. but i’ve wondered ever since that time, for what was i saved?

Pookie’s reply:

He could have been none other than Mercury messenger of the gods as well as their pimp, sneak-thief, hit-man and all around scoundrel, Mercury is also probably gay. He has been known to sometimes leave presents for those he favors before he does them in. He supposedly can bring good health but can also bring bad. Did you notice if he had little wings on his ankles? He probably saved you for this email correspondence. He is known for doing things like that. He likes practical jokes.

Irwin’s comeback:

come to think of it, he was wearing some rather large-looking footware and it probably was to either, (1) suggest to women onlookers that he had a long shlong; and/or (2) that he indeed had wings on his ankles and was hiding them from my view lest i uncover the practical joke – although i thought that the guy with wings on his ankles was brad pitt in some sword movie.

today i dozed off in an uncomfortable chair three times. the first was when my granddaughter was on the internet before me, the second was when my grandson was on the internet, and then finally when my granddaughter was once again on the internet; however, i am still sleepy. i have taken no drugs (except a baby aspirin and a no-doze antihistimine) and swollowed no alcohol.

perhaps i was bored/ i don’t think so. i bet that there is a santa ana (winds) condition in our immediate future…those always play havoc with my sinuses and could be what mercury had in mind..

Pookie again:

The freaky thing about this particular correspondence is that I recall either reading a story or seeing a “Twilight Zone” like episode in which a traveller in need (I believe an automobile breakdown)is befriended by Mercury. I seem to recall that it all ends badly for the traveller.

Irwin one more time:

partially right. i think the twilight episode was that this couple were driving in a 1956 mercury when it broke down. the couple never survived,

From Irwins blog sent to me on April 4:

SUNDAY, APRIL 4, 2010
Email To Psychiatrist
to: shrink@nuts4us.com
from: goofy@whitsend.com

.
Got your email. Thanks very much for the prescription. I’ll pick the drugs up at the pharmacy this Sunday after I take care of my mom – when I see her she always ask who I am. Like mother like son.

I may be a fool, but I am not stupid. You didn’t have to send an email to me and write that your recommended Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (“CBT”) won’t work if I don’t believe in its “potential” to help me. Duh! As to the merits of CBT as a form of treatment for anxiety-ridden and mostly depressed folks, having taken CBT sessions in the past I know first hand of its beneficial value. I just think that in my case I need one-on-one mental health attention of a different nature and not group therapy. Also, the licensenced social worker therapists you mentioned who handle the group, Jason and Judy, may be as you have written superior to you at leading CBT sessions but I question whether they possess a psychiatrist’s medical education, training and analysis abilities; it is from the latter qualities which I believe I would most benefit, rather than sitting around and hearing from women going through menopause and a confused man whose fiance will no longer talk marriage because even though he passed the bar he decided not to practice law – besides I am not going to remark to Judy and in front of other group members, especially female, that I sometimes feel as if my penis is going to fall off even though my past CBT training and of course common sense tells me it won’t. At least I think it won’t. Shouldn’t I?

I am trying to follow your recommendations. Please cut me some slack.

More from Irwin’s Blog:

I Went To The Doctor
I went to the doctor for a check up. After extensive tests the doctor told me, “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. You only have six months to live.” I was dumbstruck. After a while I said, “That’s terrible doctor. But I must admit to you that I can’t afford to pay your bill.” “Ok” says the doctor, “I’ll give you a year to live.”
I Went To Another Doctor
I went to the doctor. He said, “I can help you, but it will require many sessions.” “O.K,” I said, “how much is this going to cost me?” “The twelve sessions, without drugs, will cost you two thousand dollars” replied the doctor. “Oy,” said I, “I’m not a wealthy man, doctor. Couldn’t you make it less?” “Well, as a favor I could do it for seventeen hundred dollars” replied the doctor. I told him, “It’s still more than I can afford doc. I’m out of work, my finances are in terrible shape and a Jewish wife to support. Besides, she wants to go on an expensive vacation before I die.” “O.K.,” said the doctor, “how about fifteen hundred dollars?” I told him it was still too high. “I lost all of my clients and I haven’t paid last year’s taxes.” “Alright already” said the doctor, “I’ll do it for one thousand dollars.” I said, “Thanks doc, I can accept that.” “Good,” said the doctor, “But why did you come to me for treatment when you know I’m the most expensive doctor in the area?” “Well,” I said, “you have a marvelous reputation and when it comes to my health, money is no object.”

Somemore from Irwin:

joseph – wow! was it tough to get up this morning. all the muscles in my body seemed frozen, like a popsicle. can’t imagine physical labor might be the cause as all i did yesterday was wash the dishes and watch seven episode of “house”. perhaps i need an appointment with your specialist masseuse; although i don’t think i want any of my orifices touched at the moment nor have the desire to touch anyone else’s. it’s too cold.

in a few minutes i will start completion of the tax organizer notebook for the year 2009. when filled in to be transmitted to (i think i mentioned in previous email) lesbian accountant. once this is done, my next big project will be to arrange to have the house tented before it falls down from forty years of termite infestation. i expect to accomplish this by the first week in may, if i live so long. somewhere in between i will also have to face going to the dentist.years of neglect plus the radiation treatments have left me with three or four molars which now all hurt; the rest which i was born with have long since departed like a lesser known jack nicholson film.

given the nature of this morning’s historical meaning, i am eating for breakfast some unleavened bread left over from the last supper. i have also smeared onto it some very bad tasting margarine which i had to defrost in the microwave and i suspect was derived from old goat’s milk. i hope my lunch prospects are better.

it’s now 10:25 am (sunday) and i have already managed a last gasp effort to issue a new post on my blog “oy1’s omissions” (http://oy1.blogspot.com) hoping that it means i have accomplished something, perhaps what you call “work”. in the event you find your beginnings today to be somewhat of a struggle, remember when it comes down to it probably no one cares, except for me of course and maybe an elderly aunt in up-state new york if you have one.

crush your enemies.

Irwin commenting on an article in the NY Times about Toscanini:

joe – i wish i had the musical understanding and analysis reasoning expressed in this article. but then again the author is italian and i’m not and he probably is also musically schooled – but then jan peerce was jewish; he even sang in the synagogue. i’ve always felt a sympatico relationship with many italians and things italiano, which doesn’t necessarily explain my facination with pookie of phuket.

Following Irwin’s sending him a news article regarding a possible tsunami hitting Pookie responds:

I went to the beach as soon as I got your message, but no tsunami.

Since then my masseuse from BKK arrived to add some spice to paradise and I have been far too…busy to write. Today, in spite of my objections, she persuaded me to spend a few hours on the beach. I have included a photograph below of us at the beach. Tomorrow she has to go back to BKK. I think it might be a good time to return to Chiang Mai and retrieve some of my things especially my cigars and my remote hard drive since my attached hard drive I am sure will be flaccid by this evening. So, I will probably accompany her to BKK and fly on to CM from there.

As luck would have it, just as my masseuse arrived and got down to business, I received a telephone call from the 25 year old wife, begging me for forgiveness. I told her I was busy and would get back to her in a few days. Do you think she is looking for money? I expect the story will be that her mother, the one who was dying, needs an operation to save her life.

Irwin comments:

joseph – i am so very happy for you that you were able to spend some “relaxing” hours at the beach with ms. funny hands. thanks for the picture. i have saved it along with the others you have emailed to me and am contemplating producing an indie-travel-picture-book in which photographs (i’ll cover male faces) will likely stimulate sales – also, i have a perverse liking for pictures of those things i am missing particularly when they are being shall we say thrust upon one of my better acquaintances.

i dunno what to make out of the telephone call from your wifey; however, notwithstanding things called genuine affection i suspect that you are correct in your assessment of her motives. so, oh, play it for all it’s worth – but hold the pursestrings ever so closely. tell her you have faced a financial calamity of unseemingly momentous proportions (i’ll draft a fake dunning letter from schatzman and schatzman, esquires) and ask her for a loan to tide you over. whatever you do don’t put anything in writing, unless it’s a lie that will hold up in divorce court. suggest euthanasia as the best treatment for her mom, and ask if the mother has a will and any funds. tell her that. by the way the doctor has told you that you have a social disease and she should have herself checked out at the doctor even tho’ they report that kind of thing in bkk and certainly wouldn’t ever let her into the usa even if she is the wife of an american citizen.

i leave you to your women troubles. i now have decided that i have an abscess in one of my remaining very few molars. through the pain i was feeling sorry for myself until today when i took the grandkids to mcdonalds (“welcome to mcdonalds, may i take your order? big mac, curley fries, soda pop, apple pie.”). i don’t eat there. well, maybe i’ll have a coke. anyway sitting in the next booth was “mr. fabulous” – he who use to perform feats of prestidigitation at the now defunct and shuttered for years “magic island” once located in cannery village in newport beach – a cousin of the magic castle in la. magic island was my delight and that of my clients for whom i spent big bucks and transported in large white limos. unfortunately between the drugs and an unwise expansion into a franchise in texas dear old magic island went bust (sigh. the only private club of which i was ever a member and groucho marx notwithstanding enjoyed every moment of it – jews were allowed unlike the jonathon club, which wasn’t nearly as much fun anyway even if i could have joined). i found magic island and laughter. aside from a play “el grande de coca cola” i saw in a bar/club in la at which the now dead comedian dick shawn was laughing like crazy at the table next to me, it was that evening and the evenings at magic island where i busted a gut at the jokes of the comedian magicians and thought i would surely die i was laughing so hard. can you remember the feeling? poor dick…poor me.poor you. but then again now having to dine at mcdonalds is mr. fabulous. poor him, most of all.

More from Irwin:

someone from Cote D’Ivoire visited my website. i don’t even know where Cote D’Ivoire is except i’m guessing that france had something to do with it. maybe it’s the ivory coast of africa. too bad they didn’t leave a comment i could have emailed them back (trying to recall one or two words of swahili) and found out more. now don’t be a smart ass and look it up on the internet and try to one-up me. i could look it up too, but i don’t wanna’. i’d rather dream about some mysterious place where words of mine were seen rather than find out it’s either some seedy village of impoverished and malnurished hiv natives or a wealthy enclave of blond haired men bordering the wine drenched sea. i could use a new friend today.

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I decided to post some of the more amusing stories that Hayden and I shared during our travels together through life.

 

Today while driving HRM to school he told me that it was Star Wars Day. “May the Fourth be with You.”

May 4, 2016

 

When she was not too much older than Hayden, my daughter Jessica suffered fears of the night and of sleeping similar to his, and for similar reasons. So, every night at bedtime, I used to tell her long involved tales within a never-ending story. To her great annoyance often the stories would put me to sleep well before they did her.

With Hayden, I make up separate shorter stories every night in an effort to avoid nodding off during the telling. Last night’s story was a tale in a series about Danny, a boy of about Hayden’s age, and his pony Acorn. Danny had ridden Acorn to school where the Good Princess Zoe (the same name as Hayden’s teacher) sent him on a quest to the Mountains of the East to free the Prince of Words from the evil witch Miss Spelling and prevent her from turning the world into a dark place of unreadable books and a babble of unintelligible speech. Danny had to spell his way to dispatch Miss Spelling, free the prince and save the world. When I finished, I asked him what he thought of the story.

“Who is Miss Spelling’s mommy?” he responded.

I could not answer him but promised to reveal it to him in a later story. I could use your help. Does anyone out there know Miss Spelling’s mommy?

February 14, 2011

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At the beginning of his comments on my previous T&T post  (https://josephpetrillo.wordpress.com/2018/10/20/this-and-that-from-re-thai-r-ment-by-3th-12-papa-joe-0007-september30-2018/), Peter reminisces on his time in India.

Back from a week in Grosse Point Woods visiting old Indian friends, probably for the last time, before they return to India. Met them at first in 1964 just after we arrived in Bhubaneswar, Orissa (now Odisha), where I was to do my city planning field research. Bhubaneswar is the post-Independence state capital, a planned town drawn up originally by a Swiss planner named Otto Koenigsberger, who Nehru asked to do a low budget version of Chandigarh. The scrub jungle site was across the Calcutta (now Kolkata)-to-Madras (now Chennai) railway line from the ancient Hindu temple pilgrimage town of Bhubaneswar. The temple is a Siva temple, visited by Hindus from all over India. We were not allowed within the precinct, had to look at the 165 Ft tall temple tower from a raised viewing platform.

We rented a small house midway between the two settlements and lived there for 18 months or so. My faculty advisor, Harvard’s Zemurray Professor of Anthropology, was Cora Du Bois, a contemporary, colleague, and friend of Margaret Meade, Franz Boaz, and other notable anthropologists. Cora was also a close friend and near neighbor in Cambridge, MA. of Julia Child; the two of them were in the OSS in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), during WW2. Cora’s own research focused on the “confrontation of traditional and modern values,” and Bhubaneswar old and new presented a fabulous physical analog for such a study: old Brahmin temple town, filled with over a hundred superb temples (in the old days there were thousands), and newly built western-style planned government town (think New Delhi, Canberra, Washington DC). Besides her own research, Cora arranged for her Harvard anthropology phd students to do their respective thesis researches in Bhubaneswar (serially, not all at once, or they would have found a Trump surrogate to push to evict the swarm of academic immigrants). She also got three students from the local Utkal University to do likewise. Then I walked in and she added me to the mix. A unique venture!

The friends we just visited were a South Indian couple, he a senior IAS officer (Indian administrative Service), posted to Orissa and at the time head of the Orissa Mining Corp., a public corporation. His big things during our sojourn were developing manganese mines in the interior and overseeing development of the new port of Daitari, where they would export the ore to Japan to earn foreign exchange. He just finished writing his memoirs; his daughter just edited it for him. I’ll be very interested to read that. His wife looked after their two very young children, played the veena (south Indian cousin of the sitar), learned to fly a plane, and later took up sculpture, which she still does a bit of. The Ramchandrans are now in their early 90s; their children are grown, married with families, and live in Houston and Detroit area.

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I decided I would post here some of the more amusing stories that I shared Hayden during our travels through life together.
Hayden and the Naked Chef.

Like in the US where urban private schools tend to locate in transition zones (the rent is cheaper there), so it is with Hayden’s pre-school here in Bangkok.

This morning as I walked Hayden up to the gate of the school across the street along an extended cement platform in front of some shops, a beefy fourtyish bald farang, naked to the waist, reeled about obviously stoned and perhaps also drunk. He had scars on his head and body but was surprisingly bereft of tattoos. Accompanying him was a naked lady-boy clearly showing the major points of her conflicting sexes (known as “pre-op”) and a woman who was, I surmised, a local professional. It appeared that they had spent the night there. As the lady-boy put on what seemed to be the man’s shirt to cover the most conflicting parts of her, the man himself staggered across the street and tried to enter the school grounds.

Now like most private schools and important buildings in BKK the school grounds were rife with security personnel. Every morning and evening, four or so regular BKK police are stationed by the gate in order to direct traffic and provide rudimentary security. The School also has its own set of uniformed security. One spiffy dressed cop (all BKK cops dress spiffy), upon seeing the man approach, held up one hand palm vertical to the ground in the universal sign of stop and with the other made a no-nonsense gesture that the farang should return to the other side of the street.

Now, it is important to understand that at no time did the Thai cop in any way indicate he would touch the farang nor did he evidence any demonstration of anger. In Thailand that would cause him to appear less than human and lose face. Imagine what people from this culture must see when they view western entertainment that shows uncontrolled fury and violence as a manly virtue. John Wayne must appear to them to be like a circus clown (come to think of it…. ) American football with its glorification of anger and violence probably appears to be played by water buffalos rather than humans.

Anyway, the bald farang took the hint, returned to the other side of the street and after a short period of slack-jawed milling about the trio ambled off in the general direction of the gates of hell (Nana Plaza, the local den of iniquity).

After it was all over, I asked Hayden what he thought about what happened.

He said, “The girl was naked and the policeman had a gun”.

Just in case you may think that Hayden is too young to know the meaning of the word naked, I a few nights ago while we were preparing for bed, he took off all of his clothing and put a paper bag on his head like a hat, pranced in to the bathroom where I was brushing my teeth and announced, “Look at me. I’m the Naked Chef.”
February 12, 2014.

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During my several visits to Costa Rica, I met an artist named Miguel. He was well known in the country for his heroic actions during the Costa Rican War of Independence and for establishing many of that nation’s wonderful ecological reserves. He was in his mid-eighties then. He told me he used only his current nine girlfriends as models. They all would gather at his home most days to cook and take care of him and watch him paint.

I liked his painted images very much. He painted primarily in a pointillist style — applying small points of color rather than brush strokes to build up the images. I took photographs of several of his paintings, cut out those images that I liked and applied them to my canvas replacing the pointillism with brush strokes. I eliminated Miguel’s more colorful backgrounds, exchanging them for solid black as in this photograph.

I created about 15 or so paintings this way, including a triptych that hung in my bedroom. The lower quarter of the center panel contained a woman lying with her back to the viewer. Only that portion from her hip to just below her shoulder appeared, producing an elongated S-curve between it and the blackness. The panel on the right contained the same woman’s back but above it, I included Miguel’s image of a forest fire, all reds, blacks, and yellows.

The left panel had the same S curve but in the space above were painted three women I called the graces. This panel was a disaster so I never hung it hoping to try again sometime later but instead, I gave up painting.

The painting here contains images from two separate works of Miguel’s that I joined together. The elongated shoulder of the woman on the right occurred because I had photographed Miguel’s painting at an angle. When I projected the image onto the canvas I noticed it but left it that way because I thought it looked cool.

I was never happy with the black backgrounds. They looked empty. I wanted them to appear full the way Rothko’s do in his paintings, but that was far beyond my ability.

Now that I think about it, I could have just let the black brushstrokes feather off towards the edge of the painting leaving it with the color of the canvas showing through — sort of like someone painting the side of a barn and walking off with it unfinished.

I got a similar effect by using the matting control on the photograph.
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The weekend passed by quickly — mostly waiting for the biopsy on Tuesday. Not having an automobile (it is in the shop having its crumpled fender and other maladies attended too), cuts down on my activities. I had to turn down an assignment from the Scooter gang over the weekend. So, I read and went on walks through the Enchanted Forest. I get all the angst and despair I can handle from social media and television news.

Well, well, — I went for my biopsy yesterday and for the third time during my age of physical deterioration, the doctor, in this case wielding his sonogram, could find no reason for a biopsy. In other words, he could not find a mass in which a malicious deranged cell would hide. I do not know whether or not to be embarrassed after spending a month or so in gloomy speculation and endlessly disclosing my fears to all who would listen — I guess at my age I should not be embarrassed by anything I do anymore. Anyway, I know it is, at best, only a temporary reprieve.

Onward and upward as Terry always advises. Lack of a car limits my mobility and the awful air pollution from the fires restrict my walks and swimming. So, I sit at home, watch Naida work on her memoir, read as much junk as I can, and nap a lot. So goes the winter of my life. It’s not too bad. I could still be sitting around wondering about the results of my medical tests.

This evening was spent watching Janette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy movies. The last movie ended with the Canadian Mountie and the Opera star in an embrace and singing:

You belong to me
I belong to you.

We then rolled up the stairs to bed singing, one with a professionally trained voice and the other with a throat ruined by radiation therapy:

When I’m calling you, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh ooh
If you answer too, ooh, etc.

That means that I offer my love to you
To be your own
If you refuse me, I will be blue
And waiting all alone

But, if when you hear
My love call, ringing clear, ooh, etc.
And I hear you’re
Answering a call so dear, ooh, etc.

Then I will know
That our love will be true

What could be better than that?

The next day I swam in the Nepenthe pool. It is my first time swimming in over a month. It felt good. While sitting by the pool a woman got out of her car and started banging on the gate demanding to get into the pool area. Eventually, she somehow got in. She was hugely pregnant. She took off her shoes, then jumped, fully clothed, into the pool, swam its length, got out, picked up her shoes, returned to her car and drove away. I did not realize it was that hot out. Life is wonderfully surprising even when you are doing nothing but staring at the leaves of some trees.

Today I spent the morning watching Doris Day — Gordon MacRae movies. Listening to them sing “Tea for Two” is an experience I rank somewhere between being drowned in a vat of medicinal cannabis or smothered in meringue.

Later I went to the pool and fell asleep in the shade only to be awakened by the sound of ten-year-olds doing flips into the water. I did my laps while trying to determine if I was in a good mood or bad. Gave up and went home.

My sister Maryann and her husband George dropped by on their way back to Mendocino from Nevada City where they were making arrangements for the wedding of their son Brendan to Ashley his intended. A few weeks ago, I discovered that a friend of mine from my childhood who I haven’t seen in almost seventy years, Snookie Salerno, now lives in Nevada City. I have been told he never returns calls from his old friends (Would you return a call to someone who called you Snookie?). He did not return my calls. So I left him a message inviting him to the wedding.

Anyway, I took Mary and George on a walk around the Enchanted Forest and along the banks of the river. Mary seems well recovered from her bout with breast cancer. I am well recovered from my bout of hypochondria.

I did not watch movies of any sort this evening. Instead, I went to bed at 8PM. Tomorrow the automobile comes out of the shop. I am relieved. I now can drive aimlessly about. I like that better than “tea for two.” Check that, it depends on whom I am having tea with and what kind of tea.

Picked up the car. Have not yet driven it aimlessly but have driven it between the shop and the house with great determination to avoid another crushed fender.

The days pass on — driving the scooter gang around, walking through the Enchanted Forest, swimming in the pools, singing show tunes, drinking margaritas, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, petting the dog, crying over Aretha Franklin, watching old movies, laughing at old jokes — the wheel turns on. And then there is this:

“For the past 2,700 years we have been evolving through the ascending Kali Yuga, and this Yuga is coming to an end in 2025. The end of the Yuga will inevitably be followed by cataclysmic earth changes and civilization collapses,…”
Bibhu Dev Misra

This morning when I left the house I ran into one of the TURKEY GANGS right beyond the front door. Yes, the Enchanted Forest is plagued by several TURKEY GANGS. They lounge along the pathways, mumbling threatening sounds and forcing residents to walk around them. They litter the sidewalks and don’t clean up after they leave. They terrorize small children and small dogs. They are huge, hulking, ugly creatures often four feet tall or more. Something needs to be done about them by the HOA. Perhaps once a year say in November we could have a community Thanksgiving Party and eat a few. They are so large they could each feed several families.

Speaking of Thanksgiving, isn’t that the celebration of a group of immigrants saved by the citizens of the area who in turn demonstrated their gratitude by slaughtering their rescuers and taking their land? Instead of Thanksgivings Day shouldn’t the day be called something like Ingratitude Day?
On Saturday morning, we attended then weekly Saturday Morning Coffee put on by the Nepenthe HOA in the Enchanted Forest. The usual group had assembled. I had a lively discussion with the 93-year-old architect about our various maladies. Later the woman that seems to run these things announced she was not going to run the “Sock Hop” in September (don’t ask — I think it is some attempt at replication of an ancient mating ritual that everyone believes existed and they experienced but it didn’t and they only imagined it. Ask yourself, “Did you ever attend a ‘Sock Hop?’” And if you did, did you think the experience was such that you would want to replicate it in your old age?). This set off a flurry of whispers. Later I learned that there is a conflict between the Nepenthe HOA and the nine other HOAs over the running of the social events. I did not understand the politics involved but agreed with Naida who leaned over and said to me sotto voce, “It seems pretty silly to argue over who gets the right to volunteer.”

There are three Ages of Declines:

The first Age of Decline is now. It is the first time in history that a majority of a generation lived to old age together, declined together and ultimately will die together. As usual for the past 80 years or so, we have, for better or worse, been the pacesetters.

The second type of Age of Decline is the end of an era. In our case, the end of the greatest Golden Age the world has ever seen.

The third version of an Age of Decline is experienced by all of us that live beyond 75 or so years. Not only do our bodies begin to undergo the inevitable physical and mental failures faced by all biologic creatures who have exceeded their use by date, but also our functions in society at large begin to dissipate. Oh yes, some of us keep on working and striving — and good for those of us who do. Others of us can sometimes pass through a brief period where we are consulted (not very seriously) or honored (weekly or monthly visits) by younger relatives or friends. But really for most of us, we ultimately gather in homes for the elderly or periodically meet with other elderly friends where we attempt to create a small replica of the society that we strode through in our past life — much like the members of the Nepenthe morning coffee, complete with its politics, petty annoyances, and amusements. Lucky are those of us who instead fall in love and experience a decline no less painful but much more blissful.

For the second time in a little over a month, I have been attacked by a Russian Bot. Three critical comments from the same person appeared on my Blog, Trenz Pruca’s Journal — https://trenzpruca.wordpress.com/. This is unusual because almost no one ever comments on my blog. Two of the comments were general criticisms of my writing competence in two of my blog posts. A criticism I believe fully justified. In the third comment, this time on my blog about Vladimir Putin (https://trenzpruca.wordpress.com/2018/08/07/petrillos-commentary-who-is-vladimir-putin-and-why-is-he-an-enemy-of-the-united-states/. Also, reproduced below.),

He not only objects to my writing style but included an example of how it could be improved by changing my criticism to a justification of Putin’s behavior.

I am so proud to have been noticed.

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The imagination and inner force of Shakespeare’s villains stopped short at ten or so cadavers because they had no ideology…. It is thanks to ideology that it fell to the lot of the twentieth century to experience villainy on the scale of millions.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

 

 

 

 

It has been only three days since my return, jet lag lingers on and worries about my health persist, but hey, I’m home and that’s a start.

As the trip back slowly recedes and disappears from memory, I try to think of the high points that I can write about but, except for tasting with Nikki the various after dinner drinks and chocolates served to First-class passengers on Alitalia’s flight between Milan and New York, nothing comes to mind — except, perhaps, hearing “A Hard Rains a-Gonna Fall” and a rousing version of “Try a Little Tenderness,” on the planes audio.

It was good to see Naida again and hear the soothing whispers at night and the sighs of pleasure and feel the handles of home drifting back into my hands.

I guess I should begin by telling about my latest health worries since at my age they have the ability to crowd out a lot of life’s greatest pleasures. It may develop into a saga, maudlin or boring, tragic or comic, who knows.

I came home with a numbness of the skin on my throat along with pain underneath. Yesterday some swelling appeared also.

Today, I visited with my primary care physician, a man not ranked too highly in his profession by either his peers or his patients. At the appointment, he was giddy with anticipation of his pending retirement from the practice of medicine within the next two months and insisted on spending some time with me discussing the travel options available to him in retirement before getting to the purpose of my visit. Following my description of my symptoms and a lot of feeling around my neck and some hmms and ahhs, he said that he thought it could be a blockage in a vein or artery and prescribed a sonogram and a chest x-ray. This, of course, did not alleviate my anxiety because if the blockage is caused by a clot of some kind and is lodged in my vein then it is an arrow aimed at my heart and if in an artery then it is aimed at my brain — the choice between a potential myocardial infarction or a stroke seems to be not much of a choice at all. But what else can I do but go through the tests and wait for my appointment with my oncologist next week and hope that, in the meantime, I do not keel over and collapse somewhere along the overgrown paths that I walk on in the evenings beside the river?

I apologize for writing about my health so much but when we reach this age it is often the most exciting and interesting thing we have going — an adventure, but not one where “no one has gone before” but one where everyone has gone before who have gone before. It may be boring for you, but it is new to me. It’s a lot like being that person early in a horror movie who decides to walk down the dark hallway alone or like waiting for Freddy Kruger to show up for dinner. You can either laugh or scream. I prefer laughing although a good scream now and then can do wonders for your peace of mind.

The next day, I was X-rayed and sonogramed. They showed that neither vein nor artery was clogged. So by the end of the day, I was back where I was before walking into my doctor’s office — with a pain in the neck and lost in hypochondriaville. I now wait a week more before my oncologist can see me and after feeling around my neck and a lot of hmms and ahhs send me off to be probed by large expensive machines tended by smiling people dressed in blue or green outfits and looking a little like the crew of the Starship Enterprise.

Walked the dog to the dog park this evening. There are three benches in the dog park each about as far away from the other as can be and still be in the dog park. There were two other people at the park with their dogs curled at their feet. They sat on two of the benches, I sat on the third bench with Boo-boo who promptly curled up at my feet. We sat there unmoving. Time passed, a lot of time. Then one person got up, hooked the leash onto the collar of his dog and slowly left the park. We remaining two and our dogs sat there, silently, in the dusk, until the other person finally got up and left with his dog. I waited until it was almost dark. Then, Boo-boo and I also left and went home. It all felt like an Edward Hopper painting as a slow-motion uTube video. Ennui at the dog park — life in the second decade of the 21st Century.

Naida is off to the California State Fair presiding over the booth featuring California authors with books to sell. The temperature is expected to hit 104 to 105 degrees in this part of the Great Valley. I remain home with the dog, pecking away at my computer and now and then listlessly reading various blogs on economics and dozing off when the words blur and their significance sounds in my mind more like the buzzing of mosquitos than packets of meaning.

Not so good a night though — crumpled part of the fender on the car trying to get into the garage after dinner, followed by scary nightmares that even frightened Naida. Perhaps, I am unraveling. The next day was not so good either. There are just some days like that. But, as the time grows shorter, I certainly can use fewer of them. Perhaps, those are the days to catch up on my sleep.

Anyway, HRM called me to drive him to the skate park. So at about 3:30 that afternoon, I took off for The Golden Hills in my car with the crumpled fender.

The boys were waiting alone at the house. Dick was at work and SWAC, who only within the past few weeks had criticized him for leaving HRM alone as a latch-key kid, was gone to rummage around at the mall. So, I picked him up and drove him and his friend Jake to the Citrus Heights Skateboard Park where some sort of competition had been planned. There they were to wait for Dick to pick them up and take them home.

During the ride, they excitedly told me about their adventures so far this summer. It seems this was the first vacation that had impressed upon them the possibilities and joys of life. They have a few years yet before being introduced to its sorrows.

They talked about their plans to buy two vans after they graduate high school and drive them around the world living off the proceeds of their professional scooter careers and a uTube video program they would produce about their adventures. I said, “It sounds like the Sixties all over again.” They asked, “What’s that?”

It is difficult to comprehend — no, more likely, accept — that to these children The Summer of Love is as far in the distant past as World War I was to those flower children gathered on old Yasgur’s farm in upstate New York on that warm summer afternoon in 1969 — as far distant as “Over There” is from “Bad Moon Rising.”

Imagine, I and those of my generation have lived a full one-tenth of the time that has passed since the Fourth Crusade and the final destruction of what little remained of classical Europe; one-tenth of the time since Genghis Kahn released his hoards to plunder and subdue almost one-quarter of the globe; one-tenth of the time that has passed since the reluctant King John signed the Magna Carter and Marco Polo returned from his journeys to the FarEast. Either we of my generation have lived long or human history has been far briefer than we imagined.

For the next few days, little or nothing happened that raised itself above the gray morass of a deteriorating memory. We ate lunch at a nice little outdoor restaurant where I had an east-African hamburger (chopped-meat mixed with yams and African spices), watched a Tarzan movie on TV where the actor playing the lost earl was so unmemorable that his name was not even listed in the credits and the chimp hammed up all the best parts and I spent a lot of time fingering the emerging lump in my neck and worrying.

One day, I walked the dog along the levee in the blistering heat and the silence. Eventually, we turned back into the cooler tree-shaded paths of the Enchanted Forrest until we came to the small swimming pool shaded by the tall pines and redwoods that I like so much. There we sat by the water in the stillness but for the barely perceptible splashing of the woman swimming laps and the whispers of the breeze through the trees. I waited there until dusk then walked back home. That night, I slept well.

It has been several days since I have written here — not because I have been busy with things to do or adventures and not because life has become so boring that my consciousness has shut down in response, but because just moping around seemed to be as energetic as I could manage.

On Monday, I drove Naida to the State Fairgrounds to close out the California Authors exhibit. It was fun. There were a few other authors there packing up their books while hoards of workmen trundle about taking down the various exhibits.

Later, HRM called and to take Jake and him to the mall. The day seemed to be looking up so I put a turkey feather I had found lying on the ground in the Enchanted Forrest into my hat band and left for the Golden Hills. I looked jauntily idiotic.
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Jauntily Idiotic

I arrived at the house ready to push on but they first had to watch “Sponge Bob” on the TV and finish eating a pizza for lunch. I waited and watched the idiotic animated sessile metazoan his moronic Asteroidea buddy and his dyspeptic sepiida co-worker cavort across the TV screen until the homo-sapiens sapiens adolescents had finished their pizza. We then piled into the car with the crumpled fender and left to pick up the third member of the Scooter Gang, Graham.

The Scooter Gang, HRH, Jake and Graham (Tyson, the fourth member, was busy playing X-box games) asked me to drive them to the mall in Roseville so that they could shop for backpacks for school and some other things that I tuned out in disinterest. At the mall, I sat at the coffee-shop and played on my computer while they shopped. After not too long they gave up, having purchased nothing but some sour tasting candy. They then asked me to drive them to someplace near Denio’s where Jake was to be paid by someone for a paintball gun he had sold in order to finance his purchase of a bicycle. It all seemed fishy to me. The street was in one of the more down-scale parts of Roseville which is saying a lot since up-scale Roseville does not seem to exist. They told me to wait while they went in search of the house of the person owing Jake the money. After a few minutes, they returned with Jake clutching a $100 bill. Do you think I was an unwitting accomplice in some sort of illegal juvenile caper?

A few days later, I met with my Oncologist. After telling him my symptoms and him feeling around my neck, voicing a few hmms and ahhs, and shoving a long tube through my nose and down my throat, I said, “So tell me doctor, am I a dead man walking or will you have to tear out my throat to save my life?” He seemed to be taken aback a bit by that and when it turned out that his office had misplaced the CAT scan I had taken in May upon which he made his previous diagnosis that I was in remission, he began to stutter, explaining that he does not think there is a problem, since everything looks ok inside my throat, but to be on the safe side I should have another CAT scan and biopsy “as soon as possible” to be sure. I then mentioned my numbness on the left side of my face and asked how that affected his diagnosis. He explained that there is a nerve which could be impacted by the so-called “slight swelling” on my neck causing such an effect. I suspect he was guessing.

The next night, I went to the sleep clinic he prescribed when I was still in remission. I do not know why he prescribed it. At the clinic, they wired me all up. I was placed in a room with a double bed that would not be out of place in a Motel 6 except that it lacked a television. They put something around my nose they said would pump air into my lungs but I had to keep my mouth closed or the air would escape and they would have to replace the nose thing with a mask that covered my nose and mouth. Every so often during the night the technician would come into the room and jiggle the wires and things that they had attached to me. I did not sleep well.

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Pookie Wired.

Two days later I had a CT scan followed by a surprisingly enjoyable dinner at the Cheesecake Factory in Roseville. Next week comes the biopsy. I now realize getting old is not so different than being a soldier in war or an explorer in a dark jungle somewhere, every step may be your last. It’s all very exciting if you are one of those who finds shitting in one’s pants an adventure. Some people find all this terror something to approach with grim heroism, others prefer screaming all the way down. I am beginning to get bored and more than a little bit annoyed.

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