Saturday, July 09, 2011


It takes talent to be happy. Either that, or a sufficient quantity of whiskey.
See, the mature mind tends naturally towards a level of lugubriosity, and requires adequate distraction. People with a rich inner life (i.e. "insanity") achieve this naturally.
The rest of us must rely on companionship or intoxication.

For nearly a year I've been having a lot better luck with the intoxication.
Which is rather amusing, considering that I would far rather have the companionship of a young lady who abstemes.
But one does not run into temperate creatures in bars.

I could go back to school again, I suppose. Except at my age, Lowell High would look somewhat askance at my application.

"Mr. Atboth, are you SURE you're not a pervert?!?
We do have quite a number of innocent young ladies here - young ladies far too busy with academic pursuits to be on their guard against the glinting eyes of foxy middle-aged single men such as yourself!"

You don't say? I had NO clue! I'm just here to bone up on calculus. Honest!

Yeah, I know. Creepy. But not my idea.
Some well-meaning friend suggested I attend classes as a way to meet women who might like my company. But I believe he was thinking of basket-weaving at the local community college.
You can understand that facing the prospect of meaningful mid-thirties earthmother types wearing beads and tie-dyes (or, worse, serious Philippinas learning clerical skills and basic accounting), I would naturally prefer an academic high school just packed to the brim with bespectacled teenage Chinese brainiacs.
I don't know. The company of the brainiacs just seems so much more healthy.

Besides, meaningful earthmother types make me barf, and serious Philippinas put me to sleep (when they do not irritate the spit out of me).

Other than that, there's writing classes..... but listening to some nimnoo stutteringly read her badly written turgid spew is far less exciting to me than hearing myself stutter out my own turgid spew, odd as that may seem.

Book clubs..... mmmmmmmm, turgid spew?

Poetry readings?

Oh please! Turgid spew squared. In verse, yet.

I might do ball-room dancing.
Except that unless I bring my own dance-partner, I would probably end up clutching the sweaty arms of a rotation of breathless Philippinas wearing tie-dye and quoting turgid spew.
About butterflies, flowers, and little babies! more precious! than angels!

I wonder if any nice young bespectacled Chinese brainiacs out there want to learn how to walz or foxtrot?

Call me.

Until then, I will just be sitting next to my bottle of T. J. D.'S Aito Ruiz Scandinavian 100% Rye (a profoundly smoky Finnish whiskey imported by Atlantic Brands Inc. in Playa Del Rey, California), day-dreaming about doing the tango with a little four-eyed temptress quoting Shakespeare or Ann Rice.

Presently that appears to be the next best thing to a talent for being happy.

I used to have that, but it seems to have temporarily gone missing.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


Muslim said...

"S-x has become an increasingly popular topic among historians. Whether because of changing methodologies (social history, the anthropological and the postcolonial turns, gender and queer theory) or the shifting desires of popular audiences, scholars are finding more meaning in the s-xual interaction of their subjects than ever before. Some interactions, of course, are more interesting than others. Above all, historians seek s-x that destabilizes categories and violates taboos." -- David Nirenberg, "Christians, S-x, and Segregation: Jews and Christians in Medieval Spain", American Historical Review 2002.

That last sentence is quite, um, eye-opening. I've got a few friends who are historians, and I didn't know that they "seek s-x that destabilizes categories and violates taboos". Are they kinky, or something?

The back of the hill said...

My dear Muslim,

ANYBODY who specifically seeks “s-x that destabilizes categories and violates taboos” may not be in it for the wholesome fun aspect.
It actually sounds like for such a person, the act (whatever act it turns out to be) is a political statement of revolutionary intent. That is probably not the best reason to get involved with someone.

Whether the historians wish to participate themselves, duplicate the experience, or simply observe and over-analyze, is, ultimately, not nearly so interesting in practice as it is in concept.

I am a practical man. As such, I will freely admit that when practice is not possible, conceiving of the sexual-construct, albeit in at times hyperbolic terms, is also quite pleasing.

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