IMAGINING DINNER FOR TWO

The other day Savage Kitten and I discussed the events of the last year.
Of course it didn't solve anything, and given that both of us typify Asperger Syndrome, we didn't communicate very well.
Evenso, I think we are a bit more understanding of each other.

Yes, we'll remain friends. And no, it is very unlikely that we'll ever get back together as a couple.
Just in case you were wondering.

The more than twenty years that we were together were very good years.
But the past cannot be recaptured.

Nor, actually, is there any reason to even try.


Of course, all of this does rather pose a problem, as for over two decades she was the fundament of my life. Now there's just a huge hole.
I've recovered from the imbalance of the first few months, and have largely gotten my bearings back.

Still, there's this giant hole........

Can't really avoid the hole.
It's rather big.
As holes go.


EMPTINESS REMEMBERED

A week ago a friend and I were lamenting that good old-fashioned pornography - full colour photos on thick stock - was a thing of the past. The delightfully smutty magazines that young lads once hid so creatively, so that their parents might never discover their disturbing predilections, have long since been replaced by the internet. Such a pity, it's a loss of a fine tradition. Teenagers today will never understand what their fathers, grandfathers, great grandfather..... plus uncles, family friends, plumbers, parish priests..... once so deliciously indulged in.
My, this IS fine paper! Feel the texture, the weight, the thickness! It's art!

I mentioned that the loss might not be so great, even though it happened while I wasn't paying attention.
I have a filthy mind.
My inner-eye can paint a better image than the finest printing.
My finger tips will feel the textures that I fantasize.
Need I even mention that my nose and ears are also involved?

I can picture a nice young lady sitting opposite me, fully clothed.
Bright lively eyes, and rosy lips slightly parted.
There is a plate of steamed fish, and some stir-fried mustard green with little dried oysters, and a platter of black-bean shrimp, on the table between us.
Her necklace sparkles in the candle-light, languorously she lifts her chopsticks.........

Well of course she lifts chopsticks! What did you expect? Did you really think I would have an interest, perverse or otherwise, in a woman who didn't know how to eat?

The rest of the world can make all the googly eyes it wants at damned big-titted beer-swilling hamburger-fressing types, I am not interested.
Tits, beer, and hamburgers do not make someone desirable.
Being good dinner table company does.

For some reason all of my fantasies nowadays turn into detailed recipes.
It's very strange, I'm not eating more than usual.
In fact, I've actually lost weight.
Haven't been so trim in years.



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PROTECT YOUR CREDIT CARD

You cannot always get what you want. Life isn't fair, nor is it realistic to expect that it be so.

This blogger is at all times a realist. That's why I've told the monkey that no, he cannot have a banana plantation, and I have no intention whatsoever of allowing him to fondle my "plasticky thing" (credit card). I know what he'd do with it. The moment I'm out of sight, he'll be using it to purchase a plot of land with bananas, from an outfit that normally sells parcels of submerged swamp in Florida. He also wants to run a wig shop.

See, the monkey has absolutely NO business sense.
He isn't a realist.
I am.


You can't always get what you want.

But you CAN get dinner.


Savage Kitten and I are going out to an Indian restaurant this evening.

She suggested it, which means that I will have to fight her for the honour of paying the bill. She's rather stubborn that way.
But she's the one that needs cheering up (boyfriend issues), so I'm determined to win this fight.
I'm paying. Me. No, I will not rochambeau you for it. Hush, small woman.
You insisted on paying last time.
My turn.



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JUST SITTING HERE WITH MY FRIENDLY COMPUTER

There's no point in going home early tonight, as I know what she's wearing.
She's seeing that fellow and won't be home till late.

Since our affair ended she has become a different person.
It's really noticeable in her wardrobe.
She was always *wow*, now she's.... steaming.

[No, I don't want her back. Ever. Not after what she said to me when she dumped me last summer. She expresses herself very well, WHEN she expresses herself. It wasn't deliberately harsh, but Asperger types are not known for tact. They're wired for blunt, and she had kept all of it inside for a while. It's conclusively over. But she remains a roommate and a friend. Comments about her looking good are just an observation.]


Living together is sometimes... painful.
Even if both people are on the spectrum.
What can I say - I'm the sensitive type.
I never thought I'd actually say that.

"Hmmmph!


For several months I've been having dark gloomy moods, usually on weekends, but they're becoming more frequent and pervasive, and are now occurring during the work-week too. Fortunately I'm pretty good at hiding such things from my coworkers, who would be too blitheringly oblivious to notice or pay any attention in any case.

[Savage Kitten wouldn't notice unless I actually said something. She can't read body language worth squat. Aspergers.]

The office is where I hide out when things are not 100% oojah cum spiff.

Today by around teatime grey clouds gathered. You might not have notice it, but we're having foul weather her in San Francisco.
Not at street level but a dozen floors up.
It's that weird climate of ours.

Quiet. Empty. Only one person here. Not hungry.


I could go to the cigar bar..... oh wait, 'R' has a new boyfriend, 'D' keeps mentioning his lover, 'E' was showing off her hot hunkum last week, 'M' and 'K' were kissing each other........
Seeing all those raging hormones is mighty frustrating. They will exhibit so!
Nor do I want to hear the music there, as almost all song lyrics are about love, sex, breaking up, lust, hair, boobies, domestic bliss, trailer troubles.
That, too, is profoundly irritating.

Must remember NOT to rub other people's faces in it if it ever happens again.


NOT FOR GENERAL CIRCULATION

For some reason I am reminded of something several years ago, when I was working on a project that was winding down. A few weeks before my contract was up, I became the proud possessor of a stamp which said "controlled copy, property of the ... department, not for general circulation."

I knew my contract wouldn't be renewed, even though they were trying to find slots for everyone. My boss had arranged for his beautiful spambrained boyfriend to take over what remained of my desk, you see. It was obvious and blatant nepotism, but no one was interested in making a stink, for the good of the department.

In the week before the end, I visited the dirty book store and bought several fascinating and educational paperbacks.
'Saigon War Bride's Adventure', 'Piledriver Chicken', 'Prison Heat', 'Second Trimester Blues', 'Pigtail Princess', 'Paddle My Canoe', and others.
Over thirty books.
In those days such things were still widely available, still cheap.

On the last day I came in at five o'clock in the morning, and distributed the books to various empty desks and coffee rooms. Each one stamped "controlled copy, property of the ... department, not for general circulation."


Even as they were shaking my hand and saying what an absolute pleasure it had been to work with me, they had no clue. They never wigged.
I'm actually prouder of that than I am of the excellent work I did for that company.

I suspect that several of the engineers snatched whichever exemplar they discovered, and took it home to read at leisure. Several of them were bachelors, you see.
And keenly aware of that condition.


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WHAT DO YOU WANT TO EAT?

Saturday and Sunday are a problem nowadays. And this coming weekend promises to be a doozy in that regard. Savage Kitten is preparing for a family event - the yearly grave cleaning - and will therefore be out of the house most of the time.

[The cleaning of the tombs is a traditional Chinese practice known as Ching Ming (清明節) observed on the fifteenth day after the Spring Equinox. Chinese-Americans customarily do it on the nearest weekend before or after that date.]


Last weekend she assembled the dry provisions, this Saturday the wet things are on the list. Sunday morning will be when she gets the boiled chicken and the buns, before driving off to meet her siblings in Colma.
After which she'll certainly spend whatever hours are left of the weekend with her sweetie (aka "Wheelie Boy").

Yes, I am quite as tired of hearing about her new boy friend that pissant as you are. Sorry.


EMPTY LAIR SYNDROME

Point is, the house will be empty.

I'll probably flee to the office for the duration.
By one or two o'clock on both days I'll start feeling ravenous and wondering whether I should head into Chinatown for a bite - it will have been several hours since 'coffee-shave-shower' by that time.
Around four o'clock I may give in and do exactly that.
Teatime, breakfast, lunch, dinner - it's 'tinksher'!

Noodles, pastries, or dumplings.

Good, but not really a meal.

A meal, pretty much by definition, is shared. Rice and various dishes.
The closest a restaurant comes to that paradigm for the single diner is a riceplate. And there are TWO things wrong with that! The first is that ordering a riceplate advertises your inability to share - either because you're the only one at the table, OR something far worse.
The second thing is that riceplates are boring.


A meal consists of RICE, various SHARED dishes, and ANOTHER PERSON.

Anything else is a snack, or mere fuel.

Imagine, if you will, that I sit down and order something approaching a meal by myself. In addition to the rice, that would be a meat dish and one or two vegetable dishes. For instance steamed fatty pork with ginger, stirfried yau choi, and perhaps some mussels or oysters or a fish.
You can see the problem, can't you? There's only one of me.
That's WAY too much food for one person. And one person by himself will not have a great appetite to begin with.
A meal like that would also highlight the solitude, both for the person eating and for the restaurant staff.
That isn't the kind of 'attention' I want from myself or from others!

In addition to having no one to talk with while waiting for the 'feast'.


"Mmmmm, these shrimp are delicious, aren't they?
Go on, have some more of the gingered eel. Oooh, have you TASTED this pork and bittermelon? It's deeeelicious! Yummy, squid with black beans, miuchoi with garlic and oyster sauce, and dry shrimp mushroom taufoo egg custard!"


There are no real restaurant dishes that come in minute portions.
Outside of pretentious overpriced nouvelle places, that is - I rather doubt that such a place would even know what to do with real food anyway.

When I cook at home, two or three dishes seems like an awful lot of work for just one person. I usually just slop something together, if I bother to cook in the first place.
Fish doesn't even come in a single portion size.

There have been some weekends when I didn't bother to eat until I got home, and then simply had some cookies and tea in front of the television before going to bed. Which is the often what I do on weekdays also.
But at least during the week the lunch places in the financial district are open.


DINNER IS A METAPHOR FOR..... DINNER!

Now, I know what you're going to say.
Either you're going to suggest that I have an unhealthy obsession with eating Chinese food, or I should simply grab someone, anyone, to go out to eat with.

To the first statement I will offer that the problem is far worse when it comes to other styles of food - one order of rice pilaf and one order of murgh makhni equals one major serving of acid indigestion - and to the second I will object that merely sharing a table is NOT at all the same as sharing a meal. If each person is merely eating their own stuff, you might as well not eat together at all.

Very anglo Protestant people act like that - and can you say 'maladjusted' and 'dysfunctional'?
Kinda like carnivores snapping the moment another wolf comes near.

Mine, do you hear me, mine! My dead moose!
G'wan, git yer own! Snarl!

It is an intense pleasure to yield the better piece or the tastier morsel to someone else.
Here, please have some more of this. I'm so glad you like it.
Pass me your bowl, I'll scoop you some more rice.

The words 'yes please' and 'oh thank you' embody positive social interaction.
Contrariwise the phrase "I ain't touching that, it's WEIRD" is no fun at all.

Food tastes better shared.

That's just the way it is.


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FEELINGS, NOTHING MORE THAN FEELINGS.....

At times Savage Kitten notices that I am despondent or downcast, despite my best attempts to hide it from her. She then concernedly asks if there's anything she can do to help. There is, but then again, there isn't.

[Well yes, honeypie - kindly roll the clock back to BEFORE you met him. Earlier than that even, BEFORE you decided our relationship was no longer viable. Before you became convinced that affairs that have lasted twenty years are like old clothes too worn to keep. Roll the clock back to when I was happy and oblivious to any cracks on the horizon.]


She often says that I should learn to let people do things for me. It's hard for my friends if I turn down help and comfort. I should just reach out.

[My dear, what help and comfort can I ask of you at this point? I do not want you back, as you gave up on our relationship and have moved on - should I wish to make you unhappy? Could I really ask that you toss your own happiness just because I'm being a gloomy old toad? Do I really want to dwell in a perpetual past? It cannot be like it ever was again.]


It's true. I've always had a hard time showing vulnerability.
In Holland, showing vulnerability usually meant glee and gloating from the little cannibalistic savages with which I attended school. So also in the hot-house sneeringly superior "intellectual" atmosphere of Berkeley.
And among the young and savage hipster crowds of San Francisco, vulnerability simply indicates suckertude. Today's young adults are rather like piranhas in that regard. I'm fairly self-reliant in any case.


I stave off depression by thinking of tea, tobacco, and sex a lot.


Tea and tobacco are fair constants - nothing depressing there.
Thoughts about sex, however, are both bittersweet, and emotionally trying.
And completely hypothetical, dammit.

Despite tea and tobacco being 'emotionally' safe, they do present certain problems. Too much tea, and I'll stay up all night hacking up hairballs and munching plate after plate of buttered toast. Consequently ending up even more emotionally unstable - exhaustion has that effect - and showing up at work pretty much stir crazy and gibberant. With digestive problems to boot.

[Really, you can't have more than three cups of strong black tea with milk and sugar without at least one plate of buttered toast. And maybe a smidge of thick peel Oxford marmalade. It compliments both Assam and Ceylon. And that requires another bowl of something heavy on the smoky Syrian, while you make another pot of tea.]


As you can guess, that is NOT an optimum condition. The ideal would be a correct balance between tea, tobacco, and sex. Moderation in all things. Heck, some emotional support, and just affectionate hugging from someone who was mine and mine alone would be nice.

While I smoke, swill more tea, and prepare the umpteenth plate of hot buttered toast, I often day-dream about a hypothetical young woman with a pleated skirt, a physics text book, small comfy shoes, broad-range interests, a vocabulary to match, and laughing eyes.

A young lady with warm cheeks.


Toast. Something intense about toast. And molten butter.
Oh yes. Baby, baby, baby.
More tobacco.
Latakia.
Tea.


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GRUMPY OLD TOAD SEEKS WOMAN WHO LIKES FLIES

Most men going through a mid-life crisis acquire a sports car and a trophy wife. Either that, or like Hollywood celebrities they do something particularly stupid and tacky. So by that definition, I am neither most men nor going through a mid-life crisis.
Boruch Hashem.

There are, however, a few things that I would seek to change. For one thing, my social life. There isn’t anything really wrong with my social life, other than that it basically doesn’t exist. It wasn’t that extensive to begin with, it’s gone now. My calendar is wide open, my evenings are free, and my weekends are entirely empty.

Every weekend for a number of years I would head into the Eastbay for conversation and coffee. After a few hours of that I would return to San Francisco and take Savage Kitten out to dinner at an Indian restaurant.

Then I found out that many people were there only for the free coffee, so I stopped going. I still gladly associate with the “rational fringe” (Rabbit Mom, Betelnuts, Snack, Bridge-playing Toireh Leyner, and a blogging woman whose last name sounds like a mythological beast).
But there is no reason to go to the East-Bay anymore.
At least not frequently. And I really dislike Oakland.

Savage Kitten broke off our relationship in mid-summer last year. Consequently I no longer go to an Indian Restaurant on Saturday night, and now almost never have dinner with another person at any other time either.


About the only thing that has stayed fairly constant is visiting a local bar for a cocktail in the evening. Which, if you think about it, is a piss-poor excuse for a social life. It’s neither conversationally fertile, nor conducive towards any intimacies or real friendships.
Sort of the generic Scotch-buy of human contact.

Obviously, my sex life has also changed - it no longer exists at all.
In any way, shape, or form.
And I live in San Francisco.

I used to really enjoy the weekend. Coffee, snacks, Indian Food, Savage Kitten. Tea, cuddling, dinner together, and snackies.
Now, the only good thing about the weekend is that I can catch up on sleep.
I spend several hours by myself at the office.
There isn’t anything else.
I’m glad when Monday rolls around.

HELLO, ANY OF YOU NICE YOUNG LADIES READING THIS LATE AT NIGHT WHILE YOU’RE TAKING A BREAK FROM WRITING THAT RESEARCH PAPER, WANT TO GO OUT SOMETIME TO A RESTAURANT FOR A QUIET STRESS-FREE DINNER, JUST THE TWO OF US, I’LL GET YOU HOME AT A DECENT HOUR? HELLO?
I’M CLEAN AND NEAT, I KNOW HOW TO ACT LIKE A GENTLEMAN, I CAN AFFORD A TAXI, AND I DON’T HAVE ANY DISTRACTING TATTOOS OR EMBARASSING NERVOUS TICS. I SHAVE EVERY DAY, TRIM THE BEARD REGULARLY, BRUSH MY HAIR, AND KNOW HOW TO USE A KNIFE AND FORK, HELLOOOOOO?!?

ANIMAL PROTEIN, SATURATED FATS, SALTY THINGS. SEAFOOD!

Why did I even put that up there?

Well....... It works in movies?

Perhaps on the off-chance that it might succeed. Maybe there actually is a nice young thing reading my blog, charmed or intrigued by my quirkiness or interesting character traits. Not particularly likely, quite doubtful even.
Nor really a statistical probability either.
Realistically speaking the thinnest of likelihoods, but, like the odds of winning the lottery, you don’t stand any chance if you don’t play. And by shouting out the invitation above, no matter how misguided and desperate the attempt, it feels like the possibilities have already increased exponentially.

In any case, the chances of finding someone with whom I can get along are probably slightly greater among the readers of this blog than among the general population. That they are here at all shows that we have some interests in common.

I just hope it isn’t some of the more disturbing things I’ve written about.



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IT AIN'T EASY BEING GREEN

Over the past few weeks the changes in the relationship between my roommate (my former love-interest) and myself have become much clearer. And I've realized something which is somewhat disturbing.

I'm far better at being an older brother than I ever thought possible.

I never knew that about myself.

You see, for the past fortnight she's been in a state of high emotion.
Anger at her boy-friend (variously describable as either 'Wheelie Boy' or 'That over-sexed Russian Jew'), plus despair, agony, exultation, girlish joy, and the warm happy glow of "He's so CUUUUUTE".

This bubbly teenage enthusiasm is something I have never seen in her before.
Perhaps during the two decades she and I were lovers it was barely above the shadow of a whisper.
So from one perspective, breaking up has been liberating.

Now, as merely a roommate and friend, I am probably better able to notice things. A certain emotional distance improves perspective. My voyeuristic side is getting quite an earful.
During all this excitement I am providing her with patient consideration, plus cups of tea when necessary. Nice hot tea.
Precisely like an older sibling would.


"It ain't easy being green"
[------Kermit the Frog]


For many years I was as stable as I could be, to such an extent that I am now more comfortable NOT voicing my own feelings, nor entirely at ease when others volunteer theirs. It is a protective skill. She was dealing with a labile family situation, and digesting the emotional scars that her upbringing bequeathed her. So my staying away from operatic forms of self-expression seemed like the best thing - the idea being to ensure an island of calm and sanity.

[Sanity is of course a relative term. Some people, including her, would probably not describe me and my environs as, strictly speaking, sane. Or even arguably normal. Opinions may validly differ, though mine is probably the right one. ]

Kermit the Frog never had to endure so much drama as there has been at 'Chez Toad' recently.
But I never-the-less have more respect for that little green dude now than ever before.

If I look like I'm flapping my flippery arms frantically, there are very good reasons.
The star performers in the show are being "themselves".
Expressively so.
And that, you will understand, will stress out any amphibian.
Especially one who must act 'mature', and 'nurturing'.

[Mature and nurturing? Some people would be mighty surprised at this self-description. It's a matter of opinion. Just remember that I'm growing into the role of rational frog, and as with all new things, observers may not recognize what they see at first.]

The more real-life starts to resemble the Muppet Show, the more I realize that Kermit as the one voice of reason among all the cast members was truly a great man. Great animal. Frog. Green person. Amphibian American.
How he managed to maintain his equanimity is beyond me.

It sure ain't easy being green.
This frog needs a soothing spot of tea himself.


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FLYING SOLO ISN'T ALL IT'S CRACKED UP TO BE

There are times when I no longer feel like I'm part of the human race. The other night I passed some of the restaurants on Polk Street, and everyone of them was filled with happy twenty-somethings of the Caucasian persuasion.

At such times the single diner is not welcome.

There's something so nice about going to a restaurant with someone else. The choices are greater, and you don't have to bring a book to keep from looking desperate. And you have company.

I could always try talking to myself........
Chances are then that the restaurant would be anxious to never see my face again.

Coffee shops outside of Chinatown are another dangerous place.
If you're by yourself there's an excellent chance that someone with a unique set of social skills will try to strike up a conversation. And you just know that no good can come of that. Either you've got a new best friend for life, or someone will remember your face and glare spitefully at you every time you come in. Accost you on the street and accusatorily continue a discussion that exists only in their mind, for which once they found you they discovered a face. Scream at people on the bus that you have cooties. Or unerringly locate you at a public event and get you both kicked out.

Obviously I don't go to many coffee shops.

At bakeries inside C'town there are enough normal people that I can just dawdle over my cup and observe. And if some elderly gentleman gestures at an empty seat near me, it's pretty much a guarantee that he merely wants to sit down, rather than tell me about the space aliens and free masons.
I don't think there actually are Cantonese who worry about space aliens and free masons.
Maybe they're just very good at hiding it.

Elsewhere? A crap-shoot.

On Polk Street or in North Beach I could always pretend that the empty place is occupied by my invisible friend. That would keep some people away. Unfortunately, others would then insist on joining the party and being introduced.

There's nothing quite so creepy as someone asserting that your invisible friend is the most charming, intelligent, and downright ATTRACTIVE person they have EVER met.

Especially when your invisible friend stubbornly refuses their attentions.

Really, I like humans. You might not think so after this rant, but I do.
Honestly.
I just wish I knew more of them.
I'm getting tired of being by myself.


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NIGHT MOORING

I guess it's a question of what I'm really comfortable with.
Your reasons make the most sense to you, the least sense to me.
But it wasn't my choice.

Late at night I occasionally look in at you when you're sleeping. You look so peaceful.
Ms. Bruin the teddy bear, your oldest friend and roommate, has a protective furry arm around you, as if to say "back off, boy, she's safe here".
And you are - I will always want you to have that security.
I enjoy the fact that you are still living with me, even though to a certain (large) extent it cramps my style.

[Purely hypothetical cramping, of course - I haven't found anyone new. Despite my screamingly butch and more than acceptable masculinity, this being San Francisco, I am S. out of L.
Not metrosexual enough, not artistic enough, and just hella not hip enough.]


I know that you still enjoy my company, because the various small critters (one-legged monkey, purple cat, rude little sock-sheep, Steiff Raccoon, et autres) still talk to me on the days when you are at home. Or try to steal my laundry money, while cheerfully insulting each other.
They are rather silent when you are gone.

At some point, there may be another voice or two.
Fuzzy additions to the raucous tribe.
A new voice, new conversations.
It's a possibility.

Even in this town there must be some folks who aren't into scarification, freakazoid clothing choices, punctured skin, carefully cultivated eccentricity, and studiously unique forms of self-expression.
There have just got to be real people, even in San Francisco.
Exceptional by reason of character, rather than by attempt.

In the meantime I will continue to look in on you when you are asleep. You look so innocent lying there........ all the worries of the day erased by repose.
A roommate now. Just a roommate.
Very nice, still. It's a comforting sight.
It says that this place is home.


You're a good friend.


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CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE

This post is essential. But not really meaningful. I had to post something – the previous post was attracting too much attention, and I want it to fade from view.

A reader has been giving me dating advice, you see.

"Well, if you're looking for classier, intelligent dates, don't look in sleazy bars. Perhaps Shul (Purim is coming!) libraries, symphonies, lectures, laundromats and upscale groceries in nicer neighborhoods (the old "which detergent do I use?" line might still work) etc. But certainly anywhere is better than your office! Get out a little. "


So that's why people attend the symphony - it's a giant meat rack!
I've always wondered.

I doubt that I could fool a young lady who habitually attended musical events for very long. My profound snoring would clue her in, fairly immediately, that I wasn't a serious music aficionado.
As a come-on, the phrase "shut that racket up, I'm sleeping" isn't very high on the list.


In actual fact, I am not looking for classier, more intelligent dates - that would suggest A) that there have actually been dates (there haven't), and B) that I have actively been looking (I haven't).

The idea of hanging out in shuls, symphonies, and laundromats, or scouring grocery stores, with as primary and only object chatting up likely females who have impressed me as being neither insane not attached has very little appeal.


Instead, I have several ideas of my own.
I would be grateful if my readers reviewed them, and gave them points according to likelihood, poetic license, 'interesting-tell-me-more', or "boy am I looking forward to reading about you in the newspaper".
Scale of 1 to 5.
And thank you.

1. Break into the Catholic Girls Orphanage with a crate of moonshine.
2. Jog along the waterfront covered in oil screaming about walruses.
3. Visit local hospitals to comfort weeping relatives of the dead.
4. March through Union Square every day with a "repent, bitches" sign.
5. Play the accordion.


I feel that these have much more chance of success than the current approach, which is basically non-existent. And certainly as much of a chance as the suggestions of a reader who seems fondly, strangely, and utterly convinced that I am bowed under a crushing weight of senseless "I'll hump anything along as it isn't quite dead yet" sexual frustration.

To recap several points I've made earlier:

No beautiful brainless twits.
No tipsy college students.
No chain-smoking party girls from Daly City.
No fratboy-bait trollops.
No drunken chance-met floozies.

No tattoos, no piercings, no keffiyehs, no alcoholics, no Christians, no druggies, no poetic meaningful existentialists, no radicals, no artistic types, no crazies, no grannies, no hipsters, no earth-mother types, no vegans, no French-speakers, no valley girls, no spam brains, no golf-players.



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SURVEYING THE WASTELAND

These past several months have been educational. Savage Kitten called an end to our relationship last summer. Since then I have learned several things. Amongst others, a straight man needs both body odour and tattoos to get laid in San Francisco, and that desperation leads to strange acts.

Lets discuss the sex life of straight San Francisco men first. Tattoos are immensely attractive to the contemporary female. I have regularly seen what I thought were civilized young ladies swooning over idiots with tattoos, piercings, and dubious personal cleanliness.
Raggedy facial hair that screams "I am an artist" or "I am a rebel" also helps.
Consequently I must conclude that women in this city are insane. Stark raving bonkers. Out of their minds. Weirdo skank-sex maniacs.
What absolutely proves it is that NONE of the well-behaved rational washed straight men of my acquaintance have gotten any physical lovin' in years. Shaving, clean clothes, and a reasonable level of literacy - absolutely the death-knell for your sex life. Trust me.
It explains all the Mid-Westerners and Rednecks with stupid smiles all over their faces in this city.
Fairly decent men are perforce made monks.

No wonder this world is going to hell.


Now, as far as strange behaviour is concerned, let's talk about substitutes for sex. We are not Woody Allen.
So we engage in unusual practices.

Chocolate ice-cream with Tabasco? Check.
Poking myself in the ear with a writing implement? Check.
Jelly donut washed down with Crystal hot sauce? Check.
Personal grooming with fork and sand paper? Check.
Sriracha chilisauce and large gummy tapioca balls? Check.
Frying stale pizza face-down in almond oil? Check.
Habañero and spam sandwich? Check.
Painting torso with lipstick? Check.
Cayenne-dusted frozen apple pie? Check.

Trust me, it all works. Conceivably far better than an actual other person.
I can't remember what warm flesh feels like, but I remember the last capsaicin high I had.

I'd be surprised if the average clean straight man without piercings, tattoos, or highly individualistic clothing and hair gets whoopee as often as once a year in this city. Certainly knowledge of soap, and an avoidance of party drugs, criminal behaviour, and stupidity, don't lead to a mutually satisfying hot relationship.
Not in San Francisco.

There must be sane women here. Just wish I knew where both of them hung out. Or all three, if there's more.
Until I know, I guess I'll just admire, fondle, and stroke some fine fresh Jalapenos. Taught and green.
Maybe dip them in creamy bacon ranch and enfold them languorously, run their smooth tight narrow-ends over my pouty lips
Sing love songs to my well-built torso in the mirror while posing with them.

Green chile dance. Tres interpretief.
Skip, skip, and pose.

Caffeine and nicotine are also good. So is a juicy coriander-crusted chop just oozing grease.
Or cookies.
Just add sugar.
It all goes well with hot.
Like nothing else in this city.


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NOT THAT DESPERATE, NEVER THAT DESPERATE

One of my readers, distressed at the dissolution of my long-time relationship with Savage Kitten, has been encouraging me to have what might be called an intermediate fling.

So far, he (I assume it's a 'he') has suggested Philippinas, drunken college girls, and tattooed hussies.


QUOTE:
"For that brief healthful romance, it wouldn't even matter if she were a tipsy, red hot Fillipina shoe obsessed shopper, as long as she didn't talk about it, eh? Have you ever hear the slang word, "spinner"?"


It's an interesting, if quite appalling concept. Using the term "romance" in such a context is an extremely poor choice of words.

While I will accept that there might actually be Philippinas that are not vulgar semi-illiterate compulsively consumerist status-queens, and who don't apply the comparison-shopping methodology to everything in their lives, the idea of casual sex ("brief etc.") does not appeal.
Such a thing is best left to the lower-classes in any case - they need something to occupy their pretty little finger-nail painted hands in between American Idol and Oprah Winfrey.


As for drunken seduction of young ladies, I should mention that I am not a fraternity boy. Consequently, I do not have a yen for violent congress in puddles of vomit and stale beer.
That's not even taking the sleaze factor into account - teenagers might be forgiven utilizing alcohol as fuel for irresponsible physical acts, what with hormones, desperation, frustration, idiocy, and rebelling against the verkrampte Puritanism of their parents, as well as the pornographic effect of video-games on their spongy young minds - but an adult man who takes advantage of intoxicated women conceivably has Heffnerish fantasies and no ethics.

I may be a bit of a grouch, but I am not a douche.

The less said about the 'unique individualists' who have a compulsion to mark up their bodies like so many sides of beef, with tramp-stamps and tribal stripes, the better.
Bad graphics may indeed be improved by tattooing them on a tit.
But I would rather keep the immature superficialists who have so little self-respect at far much more than arms length.
Trash and tattoos - chos ve sholom!


To put it plainly, my depraved fantasies involve sensible intelligent decent women.
Nice people, or bust.



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RESISTING MY PETTY BONE

Hard to figure out what to think right now.

Don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...

Recently she and her boyfriend have been experiencing severe friction.
The situation between them isn't going well.

...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...

I won't go into the whys and wherefores of their issues, as that is a private matter. But of course I'm taking her side. I can't help it.
Even though our relationship is over, I nevertheless want that woman to be happy.

...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...

So I shan't gloat about this turn of events. She's not a happy camper right now, and it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.

...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...

I could've predicted that this would happen. I've never understood why she ended our relationship, but at this point I recognize the process. And I know what bugs her.

I'm still feeling burnt from how she broke up with me, what she said at that time, and the brutal finality of the cut.

So if her thing with him ends, there will be no attempt to pick up where we left off.

...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...

I'm not waiting in the wings.
I have too much pride and self-respect, and I have moved on.
It was wonderful while it lasted - but I was not able to read the writing on the wall, and it's completely over now. It has been over for quite a while.
The past cannot be recaptured.
When things end, they end.

...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...


So I am absolutely NOT going to gloat. Not a smile will crack my face. I'll be gentle and supportive, because that's what friends do. She's very dear to me after all these years, and I want to continue knowing her. Gloating isn't right, and would be quite destructive.
I'm attempting to be a decent person about all this.

Gotta keep trying.


I shall not gloat.


Besides, I'm way too tired to gloat anyhow.
She woke up at four this morning, and consequently I woke up shortly thereafter.
Had my morning coffee before it was even light out.
I'm in no condition to gloat.

Betcha the poor girl will be absolutely exhausted by this evening.
I should probably get her some soup.
After she's fallen asleep I will smoke in the teevee room.
Heh.


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REJECTION NOTICES

Communication is a two way street. In my case there's precious little traffic in either direction.
I should've realized this much earlier. I just don't communicate very well. I'm neither good at social chit-chat, nor brilliantly skilled at imparting much other than facts and commentary.

This may seem a rather a strange assertion from a reasonably literate and educated person, someone who has blogged so long and so much, who seems to live by the written text and the controlled sentence.
But please remember, you are reading these words. You aren't hearing me speak.

Since Savage Kitten and I broke up, I have been spending several hours every weekend at the office.
She and I no longer communicate very well - I wonder if we ever did - and I find myself brittle in her presence, yet at a loss when she isn't home.

I don't like staying in the apartment, but other than the office where should I go?

Most other people aren't that enjoyable to be around. Especially not when their interests and activities baffle the crap out of me, and my own interests bore the heck out of them.


THE DISASTER OF OTHER PEOPLE'S COMPANY

Many men in San Francisco tend to be rather dull, speaking mostly of sports, occasionally of their wives or girlfriends. Other than that, they indulge in boasting, vulgarity, and crass humour.
Women in this city are very shallow creatures on the whole. They shop, they get tattoos, and they petulantly demand attention.

This is a very superficial place, whose unpleasant natives have far more attitude than is merited.
...

Actually, that's probably not it at all.
It's my fault, I just can't understand conversation.

What I rarely notice when dealing with other people is the subtext and the fabric of underlying messages. When people speak, part of the communicative process is always unstated.
Such things as contextual reality, body language, and subconscious evaluation by both parties are key elements; observation and instinctive empathetic responses are fundamental to smooth and rewarding social interaction.

I know all this, but it's still foreign to me.

My best conversations are hardly ever face to face.

That's why I'm sitting here at my desk on a Saturday evening, essentially talking to myself.


FRACTURED PARADIGMS

Two very similar activities express different aspects of sociability, namely eating together and drinking in company.
The difference between the two could well be likened to carnivores communally chomping down on the kill, versus the sometimes tense coexistence demonstrated by animals at the watering hole.

Voluntary socializing.

In a city filled with alcoholics like San Francisco, going to a bar by oneself is an easy way of being social. Drinking in a crowded establishment lets you remain semi-anonymous, you don't have to talk unless you want to. And as long as you don't misbehave or open your mouth too much, you are being a perfect member of the herd.
Just smile over your whiskey, and all we be well. You will be appreciated, and more than likely welcomed back.

Eating follows a different pattern, however.

Involuntary solitude.

Ever since I left the computer company over ten years ago I have gotten used to the idea that for many people lunch is private time and an escape from the enforced social-overstimulation of having to associate with other people in an office environment.

[Yes, I know that many of my colleagues go out to eat together on occasion, but I'm used to eating lunch at my desk by now. I am, after all, not that friendly anymore.]

It's quite different after the work-day is over. Eating dinner at a restaurant alone absolutely defines one as a reject. It's what sour old farts who live in residential hotels do, as well as people who are too eccentric to get along with civilized society.
Druggies, degenerates, and strangers, lone wolves and social lepers.

The sense of being on the outside is far worse at night.

Dinner by oneself has absolutely nothing to recommend it.

I don't know what is more irritating - the apathetic inattention given to single diners in some restaurants, versus the expedient service that tries to get you fed, paid up, and pushed out the door as quickly as possible.
Maybe it's the paucity of choices, and the aura of pariah status.

I had better go get a slice of pizza before my blood sugar plummets.
After all, man does not live by cups of tea alone.



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MUST LIKE MONKEYS!

I share my apartment with a simian. A robustly recalcitrant simian. Like the sock sheep, he attempts to steal my laundry money while I’m at work, and demands to borrow my credit card. He wishes to purchase a banana plantation on the internet.

He has never actually succeeded at any of his dastardly plots. The laundry money is safe, because, like the small blue faced sock sheep, he can’t climb very well. The laundry money is up on a shelf – when I return in the evening, I often find the two of them tuckered out at the bottom of the bookcase.

Recently the monkey has been tormenting the froad (“weird green flippery guy”) mercilessly.
He avers that the froad has bug breath, and a gas problem, bloats up like a balloon and floats down the hall looking like a blowfish. A froad about to explode is not a pretty sight.
And those smells! Really quite frightful - why DO you have a stinky amphibian living here, big guy?

The monkey is taking advantage of Ms. Bruin’s apathy and grumpiness – she’s been rather abstracted since relations changed at our house. Normally the senior Teddy Bear would call him to order, but she’s been grumbling to herself lately, and refuses to exercise her authority.
It has not been peaceful – the monkey isn’t the only critter to act up, but he is by far the worst.
I will not bribe him with bananas.


ABSTRACT RELATIONS

I mention all this because a number of people have remarked that I need a girlfriend.
They have read this blog, and they worry about my mental health and emotional well-being.
Either that, or my sex-life.

Perhaps I should start dating again?

The idea does indeed appeal.
Except that I have certain exacting “specifications”.
Not just any girl will do. She has to satisfy precise criteria.

Intelligent, with deep-ranging interests - I wouldn’t mind at all someone with a degree in mediaeval studies or studying some obscure literary field.
And a young lady who is capable in another language would be splendid - certain European and Asian languages are natural candidates.
Bright eyes, no taller than five foot five or six.

Other than that, I am not at all sure how else to describe the ideal woman.

There is ONE very important consideratum, however, that cannot be overlooked:
MUST LIKE MONKEYS!

The little guy is full of piss and vinegar, he’s running me ragged.
The other roomies would also appreciate some help.
Especially the weird green flippery guy.


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THE RECLUSE AT THE TOP OF THE BUILDING

As you know I’m spending more time at the office on weekends. Partly because I'm peevish, partly because I'm digesting the recent changes in my life.
Savage Kitten broke off our long-time relationship half a year ago. I've accepted that, and am moving on. But I still haven't fully come to terms with the fact that I am now a single man again.

It isn't the easiest thing to do. I haven't been a free agent in years.
How should I proceed? Women have changed since last I looked.
Aaaack.

It's nice and quiet here. I have a few pipes at my desk, in case I want to go outside for a long smoke break. Tins of tobacco. Tea. Aspirin.
A stuffed armadillo, a life-like plastic lizard, small wooden monkeys, and a cheerfully smiling Totoro-chan. Toys. Magazines. Rubber bands.
Plus books.

My cubicle is a home away from home.


BOOKS IN MY OFFICE LIBRARY

Subversion as Foreign Policy, by Kahin & Kahin.
The Abu Ghraib Investigations, by Public Affairs Reports.
Mahabharata, by Rajagoplachari.
Beyond Belief,  by Elaine Pagels.
Book of J, by Harold Bloom and David Rosenberg.
Everyman's Talmud, by Abraham Cohen.
Webster's New Geographical Dictionary.
Complete Guide to Credit and Collection Law, by Winston & Winston.
2002 Supplement, Complete Guide to Credit and Collection Law, by Winston and Winston.
Head Hunting in the Solomon Islands, by Caroline Mytinger.
The Message of the Qur'ān, by Muhammad Asad.
Emes ve Emunah - A Sfas Emes Companion, by Nosson Chayim Leff.
Igrois Pinky - Responsa and Other Scholarly Writings of Rabbi Pinky Schmeckeldtein, SHLITA.
Dictionary of International Trade, by Edward G. Hinkelman.
Rand-McNally Premier World Atlas.
The I-Ching, by Wilhelm / Baynes.
The Roots of English, by Robert Claiborne.Dictionary of Word Origins, by John Aito.
Nederlands Etymologisch Woordenboek, by Jan de Vries.
Chinese Characters - Their origin, etymology, history, classification and signification, by Dr. L. Wieger, S.J.
558 Easy-to-use Chinese/English Dictionary of Words and Phrases, by Edward PH. H. Woo.
Far East New Epoch English-Chinese Dictionary - The Far East Book Company.
English/Chinese Dictionary of Accounting - Wan Li Book Company Ltd.
正草隶篆四体字典 ('jeng chou dai suen sei tai ji-din') - Shanghai Bookstore Press.


That last item requires a little explanation. It's a dictionary of script-styles, with the main emphasis on the lesser-sealscript variations of the characters, which is of primary use to both the philologist and the calligrapher, specifically the seal-carver.

Chinese seals are often highly individualistic, reflecting both the sense of line and balance of the artist as well as the taste and education of the person who commissioned the seal.

To clarify what I'm on about, here is a close up of several entries on page 141 - all characters have the hand radical on the left side.

The modern form of the character is at the top of each cell, intermediate and calligraphic forms in the middle, and the oldest versions at the bottom of the cell, showing the shapes standardized in the era before brushes where used.
At that time the script had moved beyond divinatory markings carved on tortoise shells and cow bones to rounded characters painted onto bamboo slats with a type of felt-tip - a reed with a wick leading to an attached ink reserve. Once the fine-tip brush was invented, certain curves were no longer easy to make, but writing speed was enormously improved. Inevitably more fluid forms of the characters developed, and the two script styles co-existed for several centuries before finally the brush versions became the official standard.


When the Loma Prieta earthquake happened I was working temporary jobs through an agency. Immediately after the quake business dried up somewhat, and making enough money became a struggle. One day a friend whose father is a talented calligrapher asked me to make him two seals.
I was carving them at a coffee shop the next day and five more people requested seals. Over the next year I carved a few hundred chops, mostly for Chinatown customers, although several commissions came from Caucasians and Japanese-Americans.


Here are two seals with which I marked ownership of the above mentioned dictionary:


Early work, but maybe not too bad. Rather like drafting.

Seals are used to sign one's name, to identify a collection of books and paintings, or even to assert authorship, authenticate documents, express a particular mood.
Many people have several seals - correct personal name, literary name, nicknames, studio and book room names, even quotes from favorite texts.


The material is not very expensive, if you don't want chicken blood, longevity mountain, or mutton fat - those stones are much more pricey, and the Japanese and Taiwanese buy the best ones. For daily signature purposes the Japanese use wood or ivory chops, but stone reflects the calligraphic ability of the craftsman much better.


Perhaps I should bring in some stones and carve on weekends.



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RED RED LIPS

For the past week I've been obsessing about food. Now, my loyal readers may scoff at this point, saying "dude, you've been blathering on about food as long as we've known you, what's 'new' about that?"
But the past several days have been somewhat extraordinary in that regard.

Yesterday I gibbered on for several pages about a fish-salad, finally concluding with a recipe for a cracker.

When I got back to my neighborhood, I tried to find red fermented beancurd at the local store.

Really, I should've known better. They don't have that kind of stuff.

No dried fish. No dried oyster. No red fermented tofu.
No bitter melon, no yard-long bean, no loofa, no po-gwa.
They're nice people, but they don't cater to that crowd.

For any of those things, I would have to cross the hill back to Chinatown. Except that the shops in Chinatown would've been closed by then.


What I really wanted to eat was 南乳扣肉 ('naam-yu kau yiuk') - fatty meat chunks braised with garlic, naam-yu, soy, rice wine, and star anise.
What I had instead was 臘味粉 ('laap mei fan') - rice-stick noodles with preserved piggy products. And small green vegetables on the side.

Plus hot sauce.


Half a jar.


Hot sauce is a substitute for a woman at the table.

Life is far too short for ennui.

Food is companionship.

I'm eating less.

It's okay.

Spicy.

Lah.



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THE MALE MIND

My ex-girlfriend Savage Kitten has realized that after having known me for over two decades, and having been around people at least fifty percent of whom were masculine her entire life, she still doesn’t understand the male mind.
She has questions.

I too am at least fifty percent masculine. Probably more.
That also has lasted her entire life. Even longer than.
But I do not understand the male mind either.

A lack of introspection has nothing to do with it, I hasten to add.
I am perhaps far more introspective than the average male, whose unclouded mind ponders naught as he happily and superficially pees in an abandoned doorway before proceeding on his merry way.

It’s just that after several years on this planet, I can understand myself somewhat. Other people a little.
And the male mind, not at all.

She wishes to pick my brain when I get home.
Sweetheart, I am better at understanding the FEMALE mind.
See, it’s a question of perspective. Not that as a male I am too close to the male mind….. but as a male, I am much more interested in the female mind. Ever since I was twelve, women have fascinated me. I’m wired that way.
Women I observe. Men, I’m scarcely aware of.

That’s why I don’t understand spectator sports either.
Now, if it were healthy young women storming down the football field committing mayhem and grunting, perhaps I might watch.
Men, with padding and helmets? Completely not interested.
So I shan’t pay any attention to the Super Bowl this weekend either – what is it, the Pittsburgh Dolphins against the Back Bay Hackers?

I hope you aren’t going to ask me about the game, I shan’t be watching it.
But perhaps you should.
It might help you understand the male mind.


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TWILIGHT ON NOB HILL

She doesn't smoke, she doesn't drink. Yes, in her hometown dialect she swears like a dockworker - courtesy of her mother's rhetorical habitus - but she has never sworn at me.
In all ways except that she was seeing me, she was an exemplary woman.

And she still is. We broke up half a year ago. She's now seeing someone else, though she still shares the apartment.

Even when she told me it was over, she was as gentle as she could be.
I don't think she wanted to hurt me, but she never realized how deeply it did actually wound me. After twenty one years, she ended up believing that our relationship had run it's course.
It hadn't. Not for me. But she does not understand that.

In a way I can see her point of view - not that I agree with it, please understand - and I do not want to win her back. What's done is done. She needs to live her life her own way.
I am honoured that she still considers me her friend.
Possibly more than anyone else could be, she is my confidant, my fellow conspirator. She is someone whom I have trusted with things that no one else can know, and I am certain that those secrets are safe in her care.
Trust is not easily earned - and there are things she has told me I likewise will not divulge.

Whoever I have the good fortune to fall in love with in the future will also have her own secrets held safe, and will similarly be nicknamed rather than identified on this blog or elsewhere on the internet.
I excercise caution in my affairs (the horrible wordplay is accidental, NOT intended), and I am resolved that my attentions will not be aimed at someone lacking certain characteristics - characteristics which Savage Kitten in fact exemplifies.
Such people deserve privacy.

However, that rather leaves me hosed and S out of L in this town. Someone of moderate and reserved personal habits - who does not have tattoos, piercings, or a history of flamboyantly reprehensible behaviour - where does one find such a person?
Someone trustworthy and unflinching?
Someone who reads, thinks, responds thoughtfully, and tries to be ethical and honest - in San Francisco?
Decades ago it could have been easier. Behaviour was more controlled (or so it now seems), and even young people often had standards. Not standards that were exceptionally high for their era, but which are nevertheless rather rare in this day and age.

I also think that literacy was more valued then. My parents generation (or at least they and their associates) considered books to be worthwhile acquisitions, precious possessions.
Other than us 'eccentrics', does anyone STILL value texts?

When Savage Kitten graduated from college, with two degrees, summa cum laude, I was so proud of her. She had paid for her education herself, and had studied in the face of her parents' typically Toishanese insistence that academia (beyond something purely cosmetic, like 'secretarial skills') was wasted on a girl. Her brothers had been supported through college, but for several years she was actively discouraged from pursuing it much further.
Just graduate, girl, and then get married.

I was in the back row at her graduation, because her family was also in attendance. But at the ceremony for the dean's list, I was the only one she invited.
Even today, nearly two decades later, I am incredibly pleased that she asked me to be there.
I could not be more honoured.

I am still inordinately proud of her perseverance and her determination.
She is a woman of valour. Her new boyfriend is one lucky son-of-abitch.

I have been rather extraordinarily fortunate in my life. I know Savage Kitten.
I know several fine people in our little branch of the great conspiracy - rabbit mom and her husband and children, the doctor and his family, the Torah reader and his two sons.
Plus a book merchant and his educator parents, Rabbi P. and the ursine blogger, and several other people whom I shall not describe in any detail. Including quite a few folks who are fluent in Dutch, Yiddish, German, Russian, Lawyerese, Designer-gibberish and Engineering, plus a number of Cantonese, Hokkien, and Indonesian speakers.
All of these people are blessings - and I do not say that lightly. I'm rather picky, and I set the bar far far higher for my associates than I would ever do for myself.

[Yeah, quite unfair, I know. Though why on earth should I demand as much of myself as I do of others? These are the people with whom I really want to associate - a man is judged by his friends, and from the rabbit holders to the toireh leyner, it gives me great pride to know these people.]

But where and how shall I find a new helpmeet of whom I can be as proud?
How am I to find a thoughtful woman, who reads (habitually and with great enjoyment as a passionate personal enterprise), who does not think inordinately much of her sexual attributes, does not make a public spectacle of herself, or get tattoed like a hunk of meat?

Are there, really, any young ladies in this city in whom one can have such pride? Are there still women who value themselves too much to engage in conceited and self-indulgent misbehaviour?
Women with realistic self-respect?

Or am I just wasting my time even considering people who are decent, intelligent, and actually have standards?


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WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?

My dear, I shall not even pretend to understand what goes on in your head.
After twenty one years, I thought I knew you. Yet I cannot fathom why you dropped me (after 21 years, gddmt it!), and then started seeing that fellow.

It just makes no sense. I was there with you, and for you, during more than two decades.
You decided it had run its course, nothing more could be said. So you didn't even discuss what was going on in your mind, but presented me with a conclusion.

How the hell am I supposed to react when it's over? When you have already made a decision, regarding both of us, and thrown 21 years out the door?
Yes, I know you still like me, and that after all is said and done we share too much to break off all contact.
But we could've gone from the romance straight to the friendship a helluva lot faster.

And don't you think it would have been fairer to have at least involved me in the decision making process? My life too, you know - you've chucked two decades of it down the drain.

I haven't. I wouldn't do anything different. Those were happy years, many people don't ever have that much. I know your parents did not have it, they had fifty years of marriage, and ended up with less than we did. Your father faithfully watched "divorce court" like it was a religious experience.
My grandfather eventually considered the woman he married his personal insane response to the Bolshevik revolution - the photo I have that shows him and several other American officers, rail thin, celebrating his wedding in the American Mission in Kermanshah, probably represents the happiest and most normal day of his marriage. Their Russian cavalry swords are brawnier than they, it must have been an interesting time.
My own parents were not the best of matches - I've often thought that two such intelligent and complex people would've been far better friends than they were a married couple.
In the years that they were together, how happy were they?

But you and I had twenty one years, and those were exceptionally good years. Why did you not say anything? It was only in your mind, in the last six months, that it changed. You know I'm a bit oblivious, just like I know that you are neurotically obsessive.
I am certain that we could nevertheless have talked it out, you did not need to worry it to pieces. It need not have ended.
But it did. You terminated it.
Stubborn woman.
Your explanation still does not make sense.
I cannot ask you what really went on in your head - it's likely that you don't even know at this point, and too many months have passed - like all of us, you've reformulated your memories, and the thing is done.

Now you're seeing that man in a wheelchair. He has not known you for a fraction of the time that I have. What on earth will he give you that will last? Personally I don't see it. It's not likely I ever could.
I'm not betting on more than a year, though.

At some point I will find someone who is far better able to communicate with me. Someone who likes me for all the reasons that I like myself, the things that I admire about other people. Someone who herself is infinitely likeable and loveable, flexible, perspicacious and intelligent, and who can gently overlook whatever roughness that, after twenty one years of tumbling, I might still have.
Compared to you, I am a relatively easy person - I am socially functional.
And now worn smoother than I ever was before.

You and I will still be friends, my dear, but she may be better able to relate to you than I at that point. She'll have fewer raw spots and hard edges than me. Less grit in the emotional loafers.

I was a smooth man untill you decided that it wasn't what you wanted.
Did you really have to wait 21 years for that?
Sweetheart, my life could've been quite different if you had lost interest far sooner.

You're still a wonderful person. And I do want you to remain part of my life. But the next person who captures my heart will have precedence, that's just the way it will have to be.

You will always have a voice. But she'll have a veto.



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