NEXT MEETING OF THE MIDDLE-AGED GENTLEMENS' TEA PARTY SOCIETY

You must know that this blogger seeks the company of his own kind. And, having read this blog several times now -- because there was absolutely NOTHING on teevee, and baseball bores you -- you rather wonder what that kind is. Does it consist of small stocky gentlemen with furry snouts who live in burrows out on the moors? Perhaps gnomish underwear collectors, boldly leaping with deft ability from highrise to highrise while stealing freshly laundered panties? Elderly Scots gits afraid of rabbits?
Or a sickening combination of all the above?

The answer is "yes". Or "no". And the point is that unless you are part of our highly secretive Masonic conspiracy, you will NEVER find out. We meet in darkness, in the dank corridors underneath your luxury apartment block on the upper slopes of Nob Hill. There are strange emblems on the wall. George Bush senior is a member. Except he wears a wig when he's here, because his security detail is stark raving paranoid.

The member roster is full. No further candidates will be considered till several of us croak. Don't even bother.

But on the bright side, the Women's Auxiliary is quite depleted. We're even considering accepting feminine personages of the barely out of high school type. Of course they'd have to be quite intelligent -- nobody seriously wants to have a conversation with a flighty blonde ditz, or a collector of Hello Kitty tat -- as well as perspicacious and habitual readers of good and interesting literature and reference books. Calm young ladies, more mature than their years would hold, with glasses and bright inquisitive eyes. Little misses who could feistily hold their own in any conversation, or with daemonic genius guide the discussion into realms that us crusty old farts know naught of.  Evil trickstresses!

If they're shorter than most of us, no problem. As long as they have sound judgement and an independent attitude. No bland little bitties! No spongy cottonwool brains! We demand stimulating women, who can sneer with the best of them, and back up their disdain with well-reasoned (or at the least eloquently impassioned) arguments! Women, in other words, of the small and huggable brainiac variety. Ladies who like hanging out with old-geezers because we are more hesitant about making a play, yet have utterly no reservations regarding verbal mayhem.

If you cannot hold your own, we will not hold it for you.
You've got a mouth and a brain, use them.
A witty wicked tongue is a plus.


In the long run, poinky tits like the real housewives of where-ever have are not an asset. They do not sustain a debate, nor hold a lengthy interest. As rhetorical attributes go, they just don't count for very much. We've been around, we've indulged in idiot college-boy fantasies, and we were excessively stupid once like most young men today.
That was once. This is now.

We're older, and more mature. Calmer, too.

The Women's Auxiliary needs members. If you join, we will give you tea. And a choice of cigars. Macanudo Vintage 97, Partagas double coronas, or Padron box-press. We have Toros, Perfectos, and Churchills.
More to the point: Assam, Ceylon, Darjeeling, Dragon Well, Ti Kuan Yin, Lok On, Jade Snail Spring, and Hairy Crab King.
And many many others. Plus cookies.
Lots and lots of cookies!


The next meeting might be a sparsely attended affair. I think all of the other members are desperately chasing blondes in Cabo. And I am shocked by their lack of resolve. I thought we had decided NOT to do that at our last meeting. Considering the disastrous results. Why, Dingo and Mutton have still not recovered from the wild animalistic behaviour of those bigfoots! Apparently I am the only mature man left in this city.

Short bespectacled brainiacs are warned.
I have plenty of teapots.
Plus cookies.



I may have to reschedule due to a lack of members in town.
Please let me know what time works for you.




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