Was Anna just a dope?
Those disappointed yesterday when I trailed a whiff of pot smoke but otherwise didn’t follow up on this tantalizing reference will today have their patience rewarded.
The Virgin Lungs Club, sorta
It was Sunday afternoon. Following my finally-we’re-just-friends chat with the Captain (complete with high-fives over our mutual abandonment of dating the freaked-by-Jesus, and consultation over a current love-life dilemma*) I went down to Brooklyn to collect some church friends’ rent subsidy. Then since I was already in their neighborhood, I called up the friends who are long-time intimates of the Geriatric Gent. We had previously planned to hang for drinks and dinner, emphasis on the booze.
One flick led to another, and I found myself hanging there through one Poirot movie after another, followed by Bond and at last a chunk of the new-and-touted Peter Sellers biopic. Midway through we were joined by the Groovey Geezer himself, who brought butter for the apple crisp I made (God forbid I should fail to bake for a possibly interested man ... I mean friends! Of course. Nothing else at all). Under other circumstances I’d say he also brought his wit, but Sunday night he so swiftly downed a magnum of merlot (nearly on his own) that all conversation was swiftly reduced to proclamations that he had “a good feeling” about 2005. And so on.
The closest to a trademark epigram came when our friend started in on her third joint of the afternoon/evening and he pronounced: “You’re smoking dope!” At which he promptly took a drag of it himself before holding out the smoking roll to me. Before I could even get full refusal out, our friend had jumped in to explain. Telling him that I’ve never smoked anything was probably our last coherent exchange of the trippy evening. Indeed apparently when he left the next morning, his thank-you note concluded by asking if Bond had “won.”
Animals, in the sack or otherwise, need not apply
By the time I finished the cobbler and returned to the table to watch the end of Bond, Gent’s eyes were nearly closed and I (mis)took his occasional mutteries for an old man talking in his sleep. Later, however, he grumbled at me for totally ignoring him. Apparently the declaration, “I am Geriatric Gent!” had been meant to restore me to a proper level of attention. Seeing as how this failed, he later felt free to growl at me, as if he were some ferile cat (no, I am not making this up).
Cross that one off the flirty-flirt list, I guess! And no more hand-holding for him either, except for shaking. Briefly. I could bring an egg timer ...
You see, if Oh-Five is all about your slogan (as the Comedian tried to assert last Thursday night), it has to be a new slogan compared to the one in Oh-Four. You might say last year’s was “Try not to bore, in Oh-Four.” Or, “Get on the floor, neglect your core, create some lore, maybe date a boor! ... in Oh-Four.” (Well, OK, I exaggerate slightly. That applies more to the first part of the year.)
But Oh-Five, baby ... I’m gonna survive without beehive, will not contrive but really thrive — all without a man to help me stay alive (unless I get a new purity ring, of course).
Something about my time out West has given me a clearer sight of things. “I’m like very zen, man” ... Oh wait. OK, no, actually I’ve become what you might call ... (pauses for dramatic silence) ... an even-freakier Jesus freak. Besides coming to grips with a less-interrupted life of, um, celibacy, that means establishing new boundaries. Subtle changes you may start to notice around here:
The Virgin Lungs Club, sorta
It was Sunday afternoon. Following my finally-we’re-just-friends chat with the Captain (complete with high-fives over our mutual abandonment of dating the freaked-by-Jesus, and consultation over a current love-life dilemma*) I went down to Brooklyn to collect some church friends’ rent subsidy. Then since I was already in their neighborhood, I called up the friends who are long-time intimates of the Geriatric Gent. We had previously planned to hang for drinks and dinner, emphasis on the booze.
One flick led to another, and I found myself hanging there through one Poirot movie after another, followed by Bond and at last a chunk of the new-and-touted Peter Sellers biopic. Midway through we were joined by the Groovey Geezer himself, who brought butter for the apple crisp I made (God forbid I should fail to bake for a possibly interested man ... I mean friends! Of course. Nothing else at all). Under other circumstances I’d say he also brought his wit, but Sunday night he so swiftly downed a magnum of merlot (nearly on his own) that all conversation was swiftly reduced to proclamations that he had “a good feeling” about 2005. And so on.
The closest to a trademark epigram came when our friend started in on her third joint of the afternoon/evening and he pronounced: “You’re smoking dope!” At which he promptly took a drag of it himself before holding out the smoking roll to me. Before I could even get full refusal out, our friend had jumped in to explain. Telling him that I’ve never smoked anything was probably our last coherent exchange of the trippy evening. Indeed apparently when he left the next morning, his thank-you note concluded by asking if Bond had “won.”
Animals, in the sack or otherwise, need not apply
By the time I finished the cobbler and returned to the table to watch the end of Bond, Gent’s eyes were nearly closed and I (mis)took his occasional mutteries for an old man talking in his sleep. Later, however, he grumbled at me for totally ignoring him. Apparently the declaration, “I am Geriatric Gent!” had been meant to restore me to a proper level of attention. Seeing as how this failed, he later felt free to growl at me, as if he were some ferile cat (no, I am not making this up).
Cross that one off the flirty-flirt list, I guess! And no more hand-holding for him either, except for shaking. Briefly. I could bring an egg timer ...
You see, if Oh-Five is all about your slogan (as the Comedian tried to assert last Thursday night), it has to be a new slogan compared to the one in Oh-Four. You might say last year’s was “Try not to bore, in Oh-Four.” Or, “Get on the floor, neglect your core, create some lore, maybe date a boor! ... in Oh-Four.” (Well, OK, I exaggerate slightly. That applies more to the first part of the year.)
But Oh-Five, baby ... I’m gonna survive without beehive, will not contrive but really thrive — all without a man to help me stay alive (unless I get a new purity ring, of course).
Something about my time out West has given me a clearer sight of things. “I’m like very zen, man” ... Oh wait. OK, no, actually I’ve become what you might call ... (pauses for dramatic silence) ... an even-freakier Jesus freak. Besides coming to grips with a less-interrupted life of, um, celibacy, that means establishing new boundaries. Subtle changes you may start to notice around here:
- Previous partners in the flirty-flirty may get “crossed off the list” ... or put on a loose restriction. Since, you know, I no longer have the ring to help me do that (sniff).
- Anecdotal entries may increasingly include behavior in men beyond those I’ve liked or dated (for example, Mr. Flirty Pants).
- And Anna may start to wear high-collared shirts ... just kidding. That will never happen as long my neck remains unwrinkled. ;) It’s been far too strategic in attracting male attention. Which we all know I can never go completely without.
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