The Diddley Bow is an Instrument

A friend of mine, a millennial, seeking, one presumes, a safe harbor, came to me with a matter of some plaintive concern to her. Without going into the details, except to say that it involved dating, fumble fingered ineptitudes and dissatisfaction, I have considered the matter and herewith the result.

Bringing to bear my multitudinous decade’s worth of observation and experience, and the cognizance that the experience so garnered is a result of lessons learned from bad judgment, this is what I have concluded; I offer it as a nostrum, a scheme, a remedy, for bringing about social reform and improvement and is offered for the benefit of those of us still involved in dating, efficiently fingered aptitudes, and the concomitant satisfactions.

In the pursuance of Love, Lust, and Happy Endings (LL&HE), we, the male gender, as a sub-species, are essentially single string instruments.  Not, perhaps, as limited in our capabilities as a Gopichand, described authoritatively as a one-string instrument plucked with one finger; to put it into the common parlance, a One-Trick Pony (O-TP). We are more like a Diddley Bow. I am reliably informed that the Diddley Bow, although also a single string instrument, consists of baling wire tensioned between two nails on a board over a glass bottle, that is used both as a bridge and as a means to magnify the instrument's sound; in short, young gentlemen, we are an O-TP, but, capable of nuance.

Our female partners in that LL&He pursuit are considerably more complicated. If I am to continue with the musical instrument analogy, and I feel so constrained, I’d describe Woman as a Guitar, a 6-string instrument with a multiplicity of frets requiring dexterous fingering to fully appreciate the tuning and tonal options on offer; more succinctly, a Fender Stratocaster Classic.

The problem, as I explained to my millennial complainant, is not in the awareness of the differences between women and men. That there is a difference in the way the genders respond to stimuli, of various kinds, enters the consciousness of us XY types fairly early in the process. The problem lies in the methods used in implementing those differences to a mutually satisfying conclusion.

As the goofy guy in the TV show Coupling reminded me, the advantage gay folks have is the familiarity and concomitant expertise, (born of many hours of pre-coupling solo practice), with the relevant instruments. Heterocoupling, to coin a phrase, requires expertise ab initio. Aside from the aforementioned 6 strings and the multiplicity of frets the abecedarian lover is faced with, there is the need to combine those into the trills, arpeggios, and strums rising to a climax to which all makers of good music aspire.

So, understand this you young aspirants to guitar godhood, while the notes playable on a guitar are, in order, E, A, D, G, B, E, they are not arranged in alphabetical order on the body nor are they, (the notes), exclusive to their assigned unfretted strings. [The sharp eyed will have noticed that the C and the F are conspicuous by their absence, the successful soundings of which require specific and considered fin...er, fretting. A further examination of the matter, in all its manifestations metaphorical and actual, is beyond the scope of this particular bit of Old Coot Advice (OCA) and may well be addressed at a later date.]

 To sum up, young Lothario, Diddley Bow nuances notwithstanding, it behooves you to learn, nay, master, the complexities of Woman and her POV of LL&HE. The strings, the plethora of frets, the strums, the trills, and the arpeggios with their appropriate fingerings have to be considered and utilized if music is to be made. It is important to remember that the happy ending is the coda, not the symphony.

p.s. Finding the spot where the G can be sounded and incorporated on all the six strings is an indispensable skill in making great music. And, good luck with that.

Cheech & Chong

Cheech and Chong, recreational marijuana user icons, have a page that shows up on my FB wall with a regularity that is puzzling. I'm told such happens because I have subscribed to the page. I do not remember having done so, but then, y'know...blush.
But that's not the reason this was started. The thing that precipitated this particular, um, status report, is grammar. Well, not grammar, per se, more like the shining of it by Cheech and Chong. Not even that so much, actually.
Okay, here's the thing. I am not exactly shy. or silent, in my cavils about the dissonances of poor grammar. More not silent when those dissonances are on my FB wall,  quite often in bold and upper case lettering. I use that as a sort of mental emesis, a ridding the self of toxins and contamination. But, not when Cheech and Chong err. They, and I'm assuming that the page is a collaborative effort, split infinitives, misuse collectives, ignore punctuation, and generally ignore the niceties of literate communication with nary a peep out of me.
I got to wondering about that and to aid the process lit up a smoke. Clarity ensued, the purple haze notwithstanding. [Yes, I know Hendrix said it was love, but, y'know he was probably stoned and trying for PC when he said it.] So, anyway clarity..yeah...okay, wait... I have to exhale. 'S, like this, y'know, ahmean, what's an apostrophe or two among friends. After all, whats grammer, a chimera of existance lurking in th shadows of unnerstandin.

To: Joe Biden; Candidate, US President 2020
From: A Voter with an opinion.
Dear Joe,
I know you’ll forgive the familiarity of address inasmuch as you are pleased to be known as Uncle Joe but I am of your generation and ‘Uncle’ sits strange on my tongue, so, thambi (Tamil, little brother, translated for the linguistically challenged)...
Here’s the thing, while I will admit to your credentials as a fighter for the rights, and the responsibilities, of the Citizen and grant you that you have, for many decades, fought for those rights and their implementation, the fact remains that you have not been all that successful. Your struggle against the depredations of the Republican Party uses a playbook that the Republicans know all too well and have countered all too successfully and is one of the reasons Trump wants you to get the Democrat nomination. I think it is time for you to retire into the advisory, read avuncular, role for the upcoming battle for the soul of the Nation. You strike me as a reasonable man as is evidenced by your ability to work across the aisle, so here’s an idea...
Why not form a group of men and women of good faith, Democrat and Republican, and offer yourselves as an advisory group and bring to bear your collective wisdom and experience in the service of the, and I’m sorry about this, younger aspirants to the White House? If for no other reason than to bring to battle a knowledgeable perspective to the fight. Please note that Trump is the President because he was, is, willing to question and flout, the modes and mores of campaigning and governing. Advise the youngsters on the counter moves without lowering themselves into the gutter Trump likes to play in. Elizabeth Warren, Kamala Harris, ‘Beto O’Rourke, (even though I think he’d make a better Senator than a President), Jay Inslee, et.al. seem to be speaking truth to the substance of the issues that are threatening the very existence of a nation to which I owe a considered, (I am an immigrant and not to the manor born), allegiance. Take your ability to talk to the opposition and work in the grayscale of ideology and put it at the disposal of the youngsters. Use your non-candidate freedom to speak unvarnished truth to corrupt power without the constraints of campaign decencies. Use your experiences, garnered from the good and bad judgment calls you have made, to arm whomever, we, the voters, choose as our nominee. Trump is a formidable enemy because he has no problems fighting dirty. You know how to handle pitch with minimal defiling. Trump’s battle plan is Emotion, the younger Democrats are using Reason, and you can be the Coach. To paraphrase Crosby, Stills, & Nash – Teach our children well, their fathers’ hell, can go by. Please.
Politically
I am
A Citizen

HAIRCUTS AND SUCH.

Dunno ‘bout all y’all’s hair, (head-hair, he said hurriedly), but, my hair behaves quite oddly in the aftermath of a haircut. Wait, that’s not accurate. I had more than one hair cut...Hairs cut? Sounds odd, but I’m going to go with...wait...hair cutting? Let’s try it. My hair behaves oddly in the immediate aftermath of a hair cutting – yep, ‘cuz, y’know, process; or, more accurately, in the aftermath of the post-tonsorial ablutions.  Hairs that had meekly stayed in their assigned places as I left the barber’s are, asserting their independence. Hairs that had defied the rabble rousing vortices in the back seat of a homeward auto rickshaw are, post-shower, deciding to strike out on their own; refusing direction and distribution. Hitherto unseen cowlicks making their haphazard presence annoyingly known; not unlike the fellow in the row in front who stands up and has a leisurely stretch and look around while a crucial moment on the playing field passes unseen.

Bad hair cutting, I hear you say. No, I assert. My barber is a gentleman of skill and art. His cutting of my hair has been honed by more than a decade’s worth of familiarity with my requirements. His work cannot be faulted. No, the fault lies elsewhere, and, having pondered the matter I believe I have understood the issue.

Adolescence, that’s what it is. Adolescence, that time of discovery and exploration, that yearning for a glimpse over the horizon, that search for identity, that’s what has the cowlicks defying my stylist instructions. Can’t be blamed, really, Imean, it’s a phase, innit? Imean, we’ve all been through it, haven’t we? Growing from a subcutaneous bud into the heady freedoms of early maturity only to be held in place by the weight of older tradition and order, we’ve all been there.

Then one day, a sharp and sudden liberation from the weight that has been pressing down, and...cowlick.

I now no longer try to tame my cow licks. Time, and aging will kill that spirit soon enough.

A Horny Dilemma

So, here’s me, dealing with yet another horny dilemma.

To shave or not to shave, that is the question.

That is to say, do I shave the beard I have grown? Or do I endure the niggling snipping and snapping necessary for a neat beard and occasioned by a wholly unwarrantable desire to appear well-groomed?

In the one hand, a well trimmed, mostly salt beard, although, I’m told, with enough of a serving of pepper to make things interesting. Whatever that means (told, but not explained); a presentable marker of my age, experience, and wisdom (putative).

In the other, a clean shaven mien that, I’ve been told, belies my chronological age, which, according to researched reports, is a good thing, bordering on an Official Good Thing.

In the third hand, the memory of behavior of mine, behavior, I’m convinced, that has its origins in the mistaken belief that youthful appearance allows for youthful licence. And that, that, makes me want to get away from my skin, from the inside. Knowledge of actions and behaviors; knowing that I gave in to impulses that read inelegant in anyone let alone in a man of my age and experiences, well-travelled and adequately scarred experiences, makes that particular handful somewhat slimy to the touch.

And therein the horny dilemma, the beard, for all its flavourful connotations, is a daily, quite often startling, reminder that I am not a young man. And that for all its charms wit, and/or wisdom, cannot substitute for youth and prospects. But, a well-trimmed, not to say manicured, face-lawn does, and has, facilitated exceedingly pleasant interactions (of the cerebral kind) India’s talented, bright, enticingly intelligent, single, – operative word heads-up – young,  women. [Side bar – Bengaluru’s beer, bullshit, and bonhomie, scene does not seem to include single women appropriate to my age.] A clean shaven misapprehension of youth and presumed vigor, jeez, that feels so, y’know, Trump-like.

Ah well, a long Sunday brunch, in a convivial caravanserai, exploring ideas and emotions with a woman who smells of spring evenings and whose laughter sounds like temple bells in the mist, can last for hours. What are we looking at with the other? 7, 10 minutes, tops, and that’s if I can remember my multiplication tables.

I guess this is why god made the incognito windows.

"That Ar****le in the White House"

Found myself thinking about words and how they are used and affects and such.

“Don’t be such a dick” we admonish each other; “that chutiya...” we say dismissively; “that asshole in the White House” we say, as though we are blameless.

Body parts, essential, fiercely protected, often times cherished, body parts, used to denigrate and degrade; that makes no sense.

Take my dick -- dear heavens, I’m channelling Henny Youngman and will now stop – as an example. I am, needless to say, quite attached to him. Our life long association has proven to be of mutual benefit and the occasional benediction. Oh, there have been moments of conflict, the odd involuntary spasm in our relationship, even the blessedly rare moment of incontinence, but, and I say this with some feeling, my dick and I have been happy with each other and have had no irreconcilable conflicts with the public at large.

Which is why I feel guilty when, giving into social norms and usage, I denigrate the behavior of a loutish Other as dickish. Dickish behavior, in a bottom line sort of way, is more descriptive of the release of internal pressures, the controlled release of Nature mandated imperatives; vide: bathrooms, courtship rituals, et.al; more to be applauded than reviled. To ignore that aspect of my dick is to do him and his brothers, (and sisters, of course, it’s just that I can’t be quite as authoritative...ah you know what I mean), a disservice and I shall watch myself closely.

“What a pussy” I’ve heard said, in describing timidly behavior. And that just ain’t right. Pussy, and this is a data based conclusion, is anything but timid. Shy and retiring perhaps, but that is not be misconstrued as timidity. When aroused, pussy can be a transfixing power that demands, in the most wonderfully pinkish kind of way, one’s rigid attention. An attention that can be enforced by her should she choose to, vide, Kegel.

Asshole as a pejorative makes even less sense. My personal asshole, whose name is none of your business, is a cooperative orifice, in close touch with an essential service to my internal systems and society as a wh..., as an entity. Does that sound like Donald Trump to you?

“Why are you not dating?” The Statuesque Young Woman (SYW), imperious in body and language, wanted to know.
“Ummm...” replied Uncle Old Guy (UOG), “The spirit is willing but...” his voice trailing off as he contemplated the end of that aphorism and its implications. He needn’t have bothered. SYM was not listening.
She was scanning him, silvered head to well shod, if a touch weary, toes. Her brow delicately furrowed, but imperial for all of that. Her gaze evaluating and...”You present well” she said. “We...that is to say, I, fail to comprehend why W...I, never see you in the company of an Other” SYM’s commitment to gender equality and choice unmarked by the momentary pronoun slip.
“I”, SYW said, firmly taking control of her hoi polloi mingling persona, “find you an interesting person. You are, by all accounts, well travelled and adequately educated. I’m given to understand you speak more than one language. Further, your presence in this place and time suggests a degree of discretionary income which in addition to your lack of encumbrances such as family or spouse should, in and ordered and rational universe, which, I assure you it will be when I...but...that’s the not the point. Why are you alone?” Her tone suggesting that if the reports she had received were somehow inaccurate, heads would, if not roll, at the very least they’d rock. The tangential implication that the fault is intrinsic with UOG remained unsaid but loud in the arch of the imperial eyebrow.
“I...” UOG started to reply.
He needn’t have bothered.
“Such must not be allowed to endure”, SYW said, her look pinning UOG to the barroom floor, “I saw you in the company of some chick, if I have the phrase right, earlier. Go and find her and see to it.”
The Statuesque Young Woman turned away from UOG to lend her attention to the presence of another courtier, not unkindly, but definitely.
UOG sagged with relief, his incompetence at ‘seeing to it’ a well established truth and the royal attention being notoriously, ummm, peripatetic.