CURRY AND PERFECT COMPANY

Several days ago, I woke up with raging acid indigestion, a splitting headache, gout, and a state of what can only be described as a "teenage boy" characteristic. The indigestion and the head problem were both the result of Jameson's Irish Whiskey -- a mighty fine product despite its links to frightful bog trolls -- and the other issue was a middle-aged response to a full bladder.


Years ago, one of my friends said never to ignore those things; their occurrence was unreliable, unpredictable, and didn't crop up often enough.
Given that he's screamingly gay, he may have meant something else.
Maybe random chance in dark alleys off of Polk Street.
Beer, shared cigarettes, and titters.


The problem is that the body provides certain stock responses to a full bladder as one gets older that may seriously sabotage any attempts to solve the problem.

Then the sleeping mind responds by filling in the blanks. The unconscious or sleeping mind is the spoiler in this scenario, as it is filled with all manner of wonderful memories (mammaries, yay!) and visual images of an "aesthetic" nature.
Put differently, the middle-aged male is multi-facetedly perverse.
Our subconscious is both our best and our worst friend.
All in all, a randy-pantsed reprobate.
Non-apologetic about it.
Confident, too.
And our dream companions, as our non-rational selves instinctively know, have velvety characteristics, healthy appetites, and infinite charm.
Besides being sexy and brilliant.


I spent nearly ten minutes deliberately thinking of nasty frigid swamps, cold blasts of arctic air, car crashes on frozen roads in the Midwest, orc carcasses on snow-covered heaths on the trail to Mordor, howling storms, and wolves gnawing off my leg to get away.
But I still remember the golden moments filled with sunny cheer and subtle charms before I woke up.

No, dear readers, this has nothing to do with being single and unfulfilled -- please do not leave intrusive comments suggesting I date your distant relatives in trailer parks or shopaholic Filippinas from Daly City -- but everything to do with the nature of the mature male bladder. Especially one trained by long hours of not going to the bathroom because I did not trust my coworkers at the Indian restaurant years ago not to promptly make several monetary errors and mistakes if I stepped away from the cash-box for even one moment.

That engagement with the purveyance of subcontinental cuisine endured for several years.

Because the hot air from the beer chest blew straight into my legs at my station guarding the cash-box, I required hydration, commonly swilling down five or six pots of weak tea between five and twelve o'clock. After the last dinner bill had been totaled up, collected, and the days' take had been counted -- twice, for accuracy -- and the till balanced, tips counted out, and expenses paid, I would frantically dive for the head like a madman. While never-the-less maintaining the composure and phlegmatism for which we Dutch are known.
It would be a calm and patient dive, with dignity.
But inexorable; do not dare intervene.

This Dutchman has to pee.


The other evening I had a few cocktails (aforementioned Jameson's), after which I compounded my errors by snarfing down a perfectly nasty mutton curry with greasy naan at a Pakistani place in the Tenderloin.
It was a mistake, and I should've known better. The combination of whiskey, slightly rotten pack mule, and a bucket of ghee, plus salt, was what caused all my problems the next morning.
In all honesty, I would have vastly preferred it if there had been wonderful mammaries (ah, memories!), aesthetic appreciation, health, velvet, and a brilliant female mind. Golden moments, subtle cheer, and sunny charms.
Instead.


John Jameson's, stringy Pakistani boiled cat, and a ten-gallon jug of ghee are not conducive to female companionship.
They aren't even the equivalent.


I am an adult; I know this now.



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