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07. THE LAND OF MILT AND HONEY

May 9, 2017 Leave a comment

Chapter 7

A courier delivered the invitation. Milton Korn took it from the old woman at the door, signed her pad, and opened the envelope. Honey Freed had enjoyed some creativity with her idea to invite Milton for dinner. The date was the following Friday evening. The invitation was made of a photograph of one of Milton’s best-known paintings. The text read, “The artist will appear in person, for a discussion of his future plans.”

Milton took a taxi to Honey’s apartment. The building was high on the side of a hill, with a view of the busy city, spread to the horizon. Her apartment was a small penthouse, with direct access to a small garden on top of the building that she cared for. A houseboy answered the door. He was perhaps 5’2” tall, a bit plump, and shockingly, an albino. It was not possible to discern his age, because his hair was white as was his skin, and his eyes were almost transparent, with a hint of pink.

He showed Milton through to the garden, where Honey was waiting, looking out over the city. Brightly lit bridges spanned the river, beyond which a multitude of buildings lined a complex network of streets.

“Honey,” said the albino. Honey turned and smiled broadly when she saw Milton. Milton was surprised when the man addressed her by name. A servant wouldn’t do that.

“Welcome to my nest,” said Honey. She strode to greet Milton. “This is my friend, Mitch. He’s my assistant.” Milton shook hands with Mitch, who went inside. Honey led Milton to a garden table that was set for two. They sat across from each other.

“I didn’t see much of your place, but it seems very comfortable,” said Milton.

“I’ll show you around after dinner,” she said. “What do you like to drink?”

“Coffee, thanks,” said Milton.

“Coffee, before a meal?” said Honey. “No aperitif?”

“No thanks. I don’t drink.”

“An artist who doesn’t drink,” said Honey. “That’s rare. Do you at least smoke grass?”

“Yes, I do. Do you?” said Milton.

“Would you like cappuccino?” said Honey. Milton agreed to have cappuccino. Honey pushed a button on the edge of the table, and said, “Two cappuccino, please, Mitch.” She released the button, and Mitch’s voice came back.

“I’m on it,” he said, cheerfully.

“You have a very nice life here, Honey. Why do you want to leave?” said Milton.

“I’m just ‘making do’ here, Milt,” said Honey. “Do you mind if I call you Milt?”

“No, it doesn’t matter,” said Milton. “Why leave here, when life is so nice?”

“We each have just one life, Milt. I want to live mine in my ideal way. Don’t you?”

“Alright, I’m with you, Hon. Do you mind if I call you Hon?” said Milton.

“Actually, yes, I do mind.”

“Okay, Honey. Call me Milt, I’ll call you Honey,” said Milton. “Now, let’s get down to business. Let’s see the paperwork on that wonderful piece of country.”

Honey went across the room, while Milton noticed her very attractive shape in the tight jeans she always wore. He was intimidated by the thought of being alone, in the country, with this beautiful, bright woman, living under the same roof with him. Time will tell.

Honey returned with a file folder full of papers, and an ashtray with two joints and a lighter in it.

 

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The (Drudge) Lady of the House

May 1, 2017 Leave a comment

We all knew that Claire’s home would be perfect, as always. I confided in Lois that it was difficult to understand her horrible personal taste in clothing, considering the flawless design and colour pallet. Her home is the epitome of aesthetic perfection, yet her wardrobe seems to be made of dishtowels and drapes.

“I suppose it takes all kinds,” Lois said

“Some kinds of aesthetic decisions should be stopped,” I said.

“How could one do that?” Lois said. I paused a moment.

“I’m going to confront her with it,” I said. “I’m going to ask her why her home is so perfect, yet her fashion sense is lacking.”

About ten days later, after I had confronted Claire about her aesthetically perfect home and less attractive garments, I phoned Lois.

“What did she say?” Lois said.

“She dropped her clothes off, right there in the kitchen,” I said. “Then she said, ‘What do you see?”

“What did you see!” Lois screamed into the phone.

“I see a stunning body, a gorgeous face without a speck of makeup, flowing black hair and legs that are long, and beautifully shaped, as is all of her. That’s what I told her. She said that she used to dress in fashion, with good aesthetic designs and fabrics. Men would not take her seriously, nor would they leave her alone. She shows herself to men that she chooses, and the rest of the time, she lives her life unmolested.”

The Top Whores

April 19, 2017 4 comments

We’ll list eight presumptive whores. The eighth example will be the least whorish. We’ll work our way down to the number one whore in our survey.

  1. Jacqueline Siegel is no spring chicken at 46, but she happily married David Siegel, who is 77. In this case of least whorish of the eight whores might have real feelings for her husband. He’s a nice looking man, and a billionaire. Would she have married him if he was of average worth? It’s possible in the Siegel’s case.
  1. Joan Dangerfield is a gorgeous woman of 59, not a youngster, to be sure. However, she gladly married the fine looking gentleman of 95, Kirk Kerkorian. Might she have married him if he did not own sixteen billion dollars?
  1. Kristy Hinze is like a ray of sunshine. She’s married to a Silicon Valley billionaire named Jim Clark. Does she love only Jim, or Jim plus his billions?
  1. Tamiko Bolton is a yoga instructor, age of 40. She has a lovely Asian look to her, and is married to a man named George Soros. You have probably heard of him. He’s 82 years old, and possesses several billion dollars. Love and money is a rich mix.
  1. Wendi Deng was a Chinese American successful businessperson when she married Rupert Murdoch. She was 48, he was 87. She didn’t need the money, so why was she a whore anyway?
  1. Kristen Georgi, a 23 year old manicurist married morbidly obese oil billionaire Joe Hardy. He was 85, and he married another youngster not long after this one walked. Are they whores, or do they just like old, fat men?
  1. Ricki Schenk withholds her age, although one can see she’s no youngster. All the same, she’s marrying Karl Wlaschek. Karl is 94, and I’m sure Ricki is much younger than half that age. It seems whorish to me.
  1. Milania Trump is the number one whore. She’s married to one of the shittiest people on earth, and her regret is etched on her lovely face, in repose. He’s not even as rich as he claims, but is getting richer every day. It’s YOUR money he’s stealing, Americans!

An Outstanding Ass

April 5, 2017 1 comment

Meant as a compliment, the woman took offence at it. She was leaving the health club, where she exercises. Walking to her car, she passed a young man that was leaning on his pickup truck, smoking a cigarette.

“You have an outstanding ass,” he said, watching her as she walked away from him. He did nothing more than utter a few harmless words. I wonder, should the woman feel harassed, or flattered. I don’t know, but I do know the woman, personally.

To begin with, the young man was correct; the woman does have an outstanding ass. She is about six feet tall, with long, nicely shaped legs. At the tops of her legs, they swell into a much more nicely shaped butt than most women possess. She’s in her early forties, and the mother of three. She’s the kind of woman that likes to ride her motorcycle when her car is not required.

She grumbled, on facebook, that she was offended by the compliment. She is the kind of woman who, like her mother, likes to post items that celebrate or support women’s successes or problems. Usually, there is an overtone of ‘anti-men’ in most of the pieces.

If I was a woman, and I was complemented on the superior quality of part of my body, I think I’d just smile furtively and say thank you. She could have elevated her self-confidence and given the young man a nice feeling.

I expect most women will be offended by my suggestion. I guess it would be even more offensive if he’d complemented her bust line. Hers is very small for her size. I wonder if he had said, “I like your hair,” would it also be offensive to her? Was it because her ass is outstanding, and she didn’t want it to be noticed?

I just don’t know. Political correctness is ruining a good amount of verbal bantering that can lead to friendships and romances. The young man hoped to give the woman something nice. On the receiving end, it became an insulting harassment. I am never going to express a passing compliment again. If I think your eyes are gorgeous, you’ll never know how I feel about it.

Imagine Your Second Life

March 27, 2017 2 comments

A second life does not mean an afterlife or reincarnation. I want to imagine being me, with the opportunity to live an additional life. I think I’d like to begin at eighteen, knowing everything I know now. I’m eighty years old, and I’ve always lived an interesting life with many challenges and many changes. Changes are naturally traumatic to most people, but I seemed to flourish amid many changes.

I crank myself back about sixty-two years, and I am immediately stuck between a rock and a hard place. As I have grown old, I have learned of lifestyles and career potentials that never entered my mind. In the 1950s, television didn’t present such wonderful insights into the Earth and the Universe.

In recent years, I find myself sitting in front of a television screen and watching wildebeest plunge into rivers amid crocodiles. Cheetahs chasing elegant antelope were also stunning videos. Somebody was there, witnessing and preserving splendid events. I could have been that person, had I chosen to educate myself for that.

But a naturalist cinematographer was not the only thing I’d like to have been. I met people, ‘starving artist’ types, and realize I could be that way, living day to day, being creative among eccentric friends. I could have lived in Paris, and been one of the characters on the streets. But that’s not all.

I would have loved to be a sailor. I would have enjoyed being a steward on a private sailing yacht, or a crewman on an international freighter. I would have loved being an architect, designing buildings. I would have loved being a Park Ranger, living alone on a fire tower in the forest. I would have enjoyed living alone as a lighthouse keeper.

Now I realize that it would be difficult to live another life. It’s been tough enough living this one. However, after stumbling through a couple of decades of ignorance I was led to the creative field by a wonderful YMCA Guidance Test. Thereafter, I became a happy, satisfied writer and artist. All the same, filming on the Savannah…

We Geezers Were Men

March 23, 2017 3 comments

You probably don’t know this scrunched old man. When you a see an old person who looks feeble and weak, remember that person was not always that way. This old man is Jack Brabham, and he wasn’t always old.

jack

Jack Brabham was a simple mechanic in his youth. He sometimes worked on racing cars. He had a better idea: he designed and built his own racing car. When he wasn’t satisfied with the performance of his drivers, he decided to drive himself.

Many old people achieved great, daring, difficult tasks. Some people were driven by need. Some were driven by desire. Some of us just love a challenge. Australian Jack Brabham went after challenges as if they were necessary for life. For him, they were.

jack 2

Formula One Grand Prix racing is the ultimate level and maximum challenge above all other forms of automobile racing. Jack Brabham is entitled to be a geezer… and so am I, although my achievements were much smaller than his were. Jack Brabham was a world champion driver/designer/builder in that most exacting sport.

Terrorists Have Changed My Mind

March 22, 2017 Leave a comment

I’ve enjoyed my life as an adventure. I never took anything too seriously, except my obligations and commitments. Those I took very seriously and fulfilled them promptly, to the best of my ability. To make certain I did the right things for my obligations and commitments, I refrained from wasting time and energy on things that were not my responsibility.

Recently I have been bothered by urges to care about things that are not my responsibility. The behaviour and the words of the Murderous Muslim Fanatics make me care about things that go on far from me and my loved ones. I don’t like to feel that I want to do something to stop them.

Of course I can’t do anything about it. That’s frustrating and irritating. I’m old ‘way beyond my ‘best before’ date, and I’m a peaceful, non-violent person. I can draw and write, but I don’t have access to media distribution. What a feeble thing it would be to write blogs about how I feel about the present state of the world.

The USA is totally nuts. The Eastern areas of the world are totally nuts. The cops are trigger happy. Billionaire sociopaths are ruining morality among lawmakers and courts.

Wealth is an addictive commodity. People who are addicted to it become sociopaths under the illusion that they’re correct about everything and are more important than other people. They are wrong about that, obviously, and must be taught a lesson.

I believe that the pen is mightier than the sword, and the only thing I can do for the resistance against the oligarchs is write. Unfortunately, I haven’t the patience to figure out how one ‘promotes’ their blogs. More importantly, I just don’t want to waste time promoting when I could be writing… which I enjoy very much.

Here I sit, safe from some kinds of attacks. We live in a tiny village of small homes. A wide, former highway runs through the middle of the village. Now it’s just an enormous road that is a quiet ‘main street’. There are no stores, markets, gas stations or restaurants from end to end. There is, however, an enormous, cathedral-like church, and a delightfully picturesque, ancient cemetery behind it. The village is virtually like a little cluster of homes in the midst of broad, fertile farmers’ fields.

We live a lower risk way of life, so we feel fairly safe compared with our former ‘big city’ homes. I can now only fight the oligarchy with my pen. I would never take up a sword.