Sometimes I wonder who reads my rambling. A few of them are people whom I know in real life, some are folks with whom I share one or more interests, and many are temporary tourists satisfying a burning curiosity.
Of which one or two are persons I would not want to meet, ever.
The individuals who find this blog by looking for kittens, feminine underwear, and how to be a filthy old man in particular.
I mention kittens rarely, have virtually nothing complicated to say about bras and panties, and as far as elderly perversion goes, all I can tell you is to embrace the child within. Either you have it, or you don't.
I myself do not. The child within ran away.
I must digress.
With absolutely no evidence whatsoever, I suspect my last girlfriend of leaving me several years ago because I was not perverse enough. She was younger than me, and exercised regularly. On the other hand, her current beau is in a wheelchair, so who knows.
Maybe I was just too lively?
It could have all been a bit much, what with talking long walks to smoke my pipe, and grumbling about the modern era. Which leaves a lot to be desired, oh what sad times are these when passing ruffians can say 'ni' at will to old ladies. There is a pestilence upon this land, nothing is sacred. Even those who arrange and design shrubberies are under considerable economic stress in this period in history.
It's a shame is what it is.
This blog is several years old, has survived the implosion of my love life, a change from Balkan blends to Virginias and Virginia Perique mixtures, the end of a longtime job in the downtown, and some major changes in both my life and my life-style. Throughout that time it has attracted some quirky visitors, who have left their traces.
Probably the most magical comment ever posted underneath one of my essays was this:
"The petite Asian schoolgirl blushed prettily when she realized the wombat had made off with her panties... what would she do, with an elderly rabbi about to arrive for Torah study (which, under no circumstances, would involve Jeebus)."
The person who wrote that is a married woman of a Talmudic bent, who is also familiar with history and archeology. We've never actually met, but we went from blog colleagues to Facebook friends, and we have several people and a number of interests in common.
It paints an interesting picture, doesn't it? Why is a petite Asian schoolgirl hanging around wombats? Maybe she's in Australia? And this impending rabbinical visit suggests that Chabad has expanded their net considerably.
Maybe he is moonlighting as a teacher of philosophy and comparative religions at the local high school.
Possibly she is in possession of the best egg salad sandwich recipe.
He's looking for a match for his son the manga-fanboy.
Or perhaps she has a magical pet-rabbit.
They share a fondness for sushi.
Both of them know Yiddish.
Outer-space aliens!
Wombat pals.
The possibilities are endless. And that, in short, illustrates why I blog.
Somewhere a wombat is resting on a pile of underwear.
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