1. St. Paddy's at the Wood 'n Tap

One of the great things about being a protective paternal figure is that I am sought out for advice, comfort, guidance, friendship, or all of the above by the occasional sweet young thing. This usually leads to a long acquaintanceship and, once in a blue moon, a sexual connection. Even without the latter, these experiences are ego-satisfying on many levels to me and helpful, I hope, to the young lady involved. Monday night was a good example of how this type of relationship is supposed to work.



We arranged to meet at the Wood 'n Tap in Southington for dinner. I arrived early and chatted at the bar with a fortyish couple who were sharing an appetizer and a lot of beer. I regaled them (people say I'm a great regaler) with an account of my family excursion the previous weekend to "Magic Wings" (this is for some other post). The only reason I mention this here is that the conversation turned to my description of a young couple that I had seen there in which the female half (dressed in tight jeans) resembled a walking stick. Why modern young women feel that this look is attractive is beyond me, and this opinion was shared by the couple that I was talking with ( that woman was what we used to call "pleasingly plump", which I found pleasantly distracting). Her companion looked at least equally pleased, so I left them to their evenings dalliance.

At that point my dinner partner arrived; mid-twenties, tallish, very attractive, and definitely not a stick figure. She is one of those women who for some inexplicable reason is totally unconscious of both her own attractiveness and her effect on the opposite sex. This leads to a lack of sexual self-confidence (or maybe shyness) that obviate some possibilities that might be available were she to project a more aggressively confident manner. We had a discussion of this latent attribute over a drink.

We then, over dinner, went on to review her recent life decisions and her happiness with those results, and her unhappiness with her unsettled future. I gave her the advice that any person would from my prospective: (1) untangle yourself from your family, (2) figure out what you really want to do, and (3) do it. It is amazing how clear to me solutions to other people's problems are, especially those of beautiful young women. You might even say I've made it my chosen specialized field. This specialty includes gazing across the table into limpid eyes (didn't I tell you she had them?), which is a condition that I find moves the conversation right along. Results of the dinner appeared to be mutually satisfying.

The interesting thing about this whole shtick is that actual sex between us is not, and probably never will be, a part of our friendship. (I should be shot for saying that, as it goes against my philosophic bent). Although this SYT is a huge turn-on for me (and the world), I left the dinner perfectly content with the way things were, with no Machiavelian manoeuverings dancing in my brain. I credit this to the young lady herself, perhaps I've underestimated her sociosexual abilities. Wouldn't be the first time.

Later..

Yojimbo

This week in my Western Cinema course we are studying Japanese "Westerns" (Directed by Kurasawa), which are actually Samurai movies which were later reinterpreted as Westerns. One of these is Yojimbo, later redone by Sergio Leone as one of his "spaghetti westerns". I originally saw Yojimbo over three decades ago, and the following is why it made an indelible impression.

In those days I was working my tail off as a young stockbroker in New Haven. For 3 or 4 nights a week I stayed at the office and made "cold calls" to attract clients (you could do that then because the public was actually being called by professionals rather than being bombarded by minimum-wage flunkies with no knowledge about the subject of their call, so a lot of people actually enjoyed being called). I quickly discovered however that dinner hour was a bad time to call, so that meant that on several week days I had to kill the hours from 5-7 PM. Since drinking was not an option (I had to stay somewhat sober to make calls), there was very little else to do at that hour in New Haven except go to the movies. The only theater open in the late afternoon was a little art theater which presented for my enjoyment risque European films and samples of a burgeoning art form...pornography (still relatively new to middle-class consumption).

I therefore became expert in several fascinating new (to me) sexual gymnastics and grew conversant with the new genre. I saw such classics as "Behind the Green Door" (Marilyn Chambers, the Ivory Soap girl, was magnificent) and the infamous "Deep Throat"(I've never seen so many men wearing raincoats, and in their laps yet). Then I saw an announcement that the following week the theater was playing "Yojimbo"

I assumed of course that this was some Japanese form of soft porn, complete with Geisha girls sinuously removing their obis. So in the theater I settled back in a semi-tumescent state, anticipating the imparting of fresh edification from my newly discovered movie genre.

But wait, here in this dark Western-style street was a dog trotting toward me with something in his mouth. Then, instead of being some sexual device of pleasurable enigmatic purpose, the object that the canine was carrying was.....a severed human hand. Now, the viewing of any severed body part is a shock to the system, but when one is expecting something prurient, it is downright mind-shattering.

After that experience, it took me several days before I could even think about sex. Trying to explain why to my wife was just too embarrassing. Now I can understand why women fake headaches. Of course whenever I see Yojimbo, all this comes back to me. Maybe the professor will let us see "Green Door" instead. (Marilyn really should have gotten an Oscar nomination. Hollywood politics, you know).

Later..

Gone

As I advance deeper into this veil of tears, I realize that the memories that I possess will die when I exit. This could be tragic. On the other hand, many of the things that happened to me (or that I caused to happen) deserve to disappear permanently from this earth when I do.

One example of this is my music. I love to sing and play the piano. I even used to get paid for doing it because I'm a ham, love an audience, and can "sell" a song. My appeal, however, is definitely not to afficionados. My fingering is atrocious and I'm faking it most of the time. People like to listen for reasons which are unfathomable to me. My songwriting is the same, formulaic, banal, but somehow it catches the ear. It needs to be purged, and fortuately will be when I'm gone.

Another thing that will go is the memory of my treatment of women in my early years. The things I did and said for the sheer purpose of maneuvering a female into bed, the lies I told, the manipulations I pulled, all the ploys used by a predatory male. The tragedy is that the more vulnerable a woman was the more likely I was to succeed. Worse yet, I became so adept at leaving relationships that the "victims" actually felt good about the whole thing. I wasn't even honest enough to let them hate me as they should. All this will pass when I do, leaving only a fond memory, if anything at all.

It's strange that the human mind remembers vividly the mistakes and gaffes that we make and that no amount of effort will erase them. The compulsion to go back decades and try to fix the hurtful things we've done is overwhelming, but of course impossible. The good news is that as I move along in years I seem to be getting better at not repeating them. Women (of all ages, apparently) are still drawn to me without all the effort I used to put into it. I don't think that I'm really getting nicer, I've just got a better memory.

Later