No Miracle on 34th Street

So, there I am, sitting at an outdoor table at Barrio’s, a local neighborhood coffeehouse-cum-cafe on the corner of South Land Park Drive and 34th Street. I’ve just ordered some pineapple green tea and a croissant. Nala, my gorgeous 8-year-old husky bitch, is secured to the table leg by her lead and she is giving me the husky equivalent of a Vulcan mind meld stare with those sky-blue eyes of hers that says (in my brain) “I’m waiting as patiently as I can for my share of that buttery thingie you are shamelessly stuffing your thoughtless human face with!”

It’s a drop-dead-beautiful day. About as beautiful as a Sacramento late summer, pre-fall day has any legitimate right to be (here, where summers are usually on par with Furnace Creek in Death Valley). The air is cool but not cold, there is a hint of a lovely gentle zephyr wafting through the leafy palm fronds and the sybaritic mood of the day is clearly reflected in the 10AM crowd that has gathered at Barrio’s to enjoy a late morning moment of weekend serendipity.

Across the street, the Land Park Community Church has a full parking lot. On the front of their lawn are two small tableaux. In one chicken-wire enclosure is a life-size figure of the baby Jesus in his crib. In a nearby enclosure (also surrounded with chicken wire…what a fowl idea, IMO) are two figures; one is Papa Joe and the other is Mom Mary. Both are kneeling in what could be characterised as plasterised prayerfulness. A sign, also adjacent to the two enclosures, says “530 children still separated from their parents”, an obvious allusion to the Trump policy of separating illegal immigrant kids from their illegal immigrant parents at the border.

They (the church members) obviously think that their 3D statement is rilly kool. I wish they could read minds like mine, who view this tacky bit of snow-flake street theatre and think: “That’s RILLY lame!” But surely, I can’t be the ONLY misanthrope who lives in this neighborhood?

This same church is the one that proudly displays a banner in the same lawn area proclaiming “We love our Muslim neighbors!” They might as well have added “…and homeless people, Black vagrants, Chicano lowriders in their execrably loud vehicles, and arrested-juvenile White trash, litterers, puppy abusers, cat killers, gang-bangers, child molesters, terrorists, antifa hoolegans, irresponsible parents, etc. (have I gotten them all in here, I wonder? Surely I’ve left out at least half a dozen categories).” The people who attend this particular church are all, I am guessing, good-hearted but simple-minded leftist liberal progressive democrats. I can’t imagine any conservative Republicans proclaiming such a blatant abnegation of reasoning ability such as that as being something to be proud of. Ah well. As his Less-than Holiness, the Roman Catholic Pimp keeps reminding us, we need to love our fellow misanthropes (no matter how brain-dead they may be), regardless of their faults.

But, that’s across the street (fortunately...yuk!). Meanwhile, there I am at my corner table, sipping my green tea and feeding odd bits of croissant to Her Royal Huskyness, Princess Nala, who is actually a distant doggie grandniece of Grand Husky Duchess Mishka. Behind my Ray-Ban Aviator shades (with G-15 lenses) I am the very essence of cool, former Peoples’ Republic of Berkeley inmate that I remain today, despite my right of center political sea change of recent years.

In my long-sleeved white T-shirt, desert sand cargo shorts, Keen sandals, ‘old guy style’ (that is, relaxed and unconstructed) white ball cap and FitBit Ionic watch I could be mistaken for an exceptionally fit man in my late 50s…not the over-70 geezer my birth certificate says I actually am.

Not too far from the coffee house’s outdoor terrace is the entrance to an Asian massage parlor. The signs on it proclaim it to be a place where legitimate Asian-style massage is rendered. I have my suspicions, however, since I frequently see a rather suspect range of clients drive up, park their expensive cars (mostly Bimmers and Benzes, poor deluded status-seekers and top-of-food-chain consumers that they are) and…after glancing around with some clearly apparent guilt…walk in the door to get an ‘authentic’ lomi-lomi special (‘Touchie’: $30, ‘Feelie’: $50, ‘All-in-one’: $100. I am only guessing here, based on experiences in Bangkok, some 45 years ago). One can only imagine!

Directly adjacent to the massage place is an Asian beauty shop that seems to specialize in nails. It never seems to be very full of females suffering various stages of personal disrepair, however. On previous occasions, I’ve seen some of the employees that work in both establishments come and go and although most are not raving beauties, some aren’t all that bad looking.

This mental reflection reminds me of my predicament, seated there sipping my tea. Beside my chair, Princess Nala is doing her job, which is looking oh, sooooo gorgeous that younger women just have to stop and ask if she’s friendly…of if they can pet her. I mean, who can resist huskies? With their wolfish good looks, all that wonderful fur, their cutely curled tails and natural smiles…it takes an unusually inured, soul-dead person to merely pass them by as if they were simply another annoying little foo-foo dog some 300 pound, strappy-bra'd & tattooed fat woman in obscenely tight Lycra is dragging along in her ponderous wake.

After all, it’s a known fact that dogs (particularly huskies) are chick-magnets. Or at least that’s the common folkloric supposition (as found on page 33 of the ‘The Dude’s Handbook’, paragraph 2…the one titled ’How to meet ladies’).

Unfortunately, either Nala’s chick-magnet system is presently inoperable or the only people who frequent Barrio’s are rather coarse, dulled-awareness common types (i.e. descendants of the 1930s California ‘Dust Bowl’ immigrants) with ‘egesta’ (a fancy scientific word for sh*t) for brains, (according to science author & humorist Mary Roach in her wonderful book ‘Packing for Mars’).

Mulling this one over, I struggle to understand why this formulaic ploy doesn’t seem to be working today. It can’t be Nala, who is being her MOST appealing doggieness persona today. Glancing around at the others here at Barrio’s I am forced to conclude that since this area (the South Land Park Hills neighborhood) has disproportionate numbers of retired people, elderly, and lower-middle class families, it must be more the latter factor that is keeping me from being able to connect with a few suitably interesting local ladies. A momentary image of me as ‘The Big Bang Theory’ character Howard Wolowitz’s older and dumber brother flashes briefly through my mind.

Seated at the table behind me is a small claque of middle-aged women, apparently fawning on one of their group who seems to be enthralling her followers with advice on how to shop (this I gather from some ‘ear-pimping’ I’ve been doing, while sitting here, looking coolly disinterested). Near them are a few others, including several ‘older-looking’ men and the usual fat woman or two (or three or four, good grief!). None of them look as if they have any interesting secrets to share or tales of high adventure to impart. And nowhere about are ANY women that I would consider ‘eligible’ peers. Certainly not any slightly younger ones, anyway.

Since I am inordinately attracted to women of the Asian persuasion (it’s my fatal character weakness), I had hoped that the recent opening of a new SF Market store (a SF Bay Area grocery chain specializing in Southeast Asian specialties and foods) at the Land Park Hills Shopping Center would result in a few of them coming ‘round the corner (the SF store is on the same end of the shopping mall) to have some tea & pastries.

How wrong that assumption seems to be, based on my observations! The SF Market is very SEA in terms of its clientele, apparently, since even the checkout clerks inside the store speak only broken English; their clients aren’t much better off in the English department. SF Market shoppers typically consist of the markedly SEA flavored crowd (Vietnamese, recent China arrivals, etc.), all of whom seem to be typically Asian in that they don’t ‘recreate’ (as in doing things purely for recreation), don’t squander their time enjoying the White European proclivity for wasting time people-watching at sidewalk cafes, and are usually only there (at the market) to get food to feed hungry families.

As they might say in the streets of Espana, ‘Que lastima!’ (Spanish for the German expression ‘Wie Traurig!’).

But, of course, we’re neither in the streets of Spain or those of Germany. Rather we’re stuck here in a small, hincty, podunky village called Suckatomato that is also coincidentally the capital of the state of Californica (sic). What irony here! All the sophisticated cultural appeal of a country village and also, just coincidentally the capitol of the world’s 7th largest economy.

At this stage of my life, after 33 years of marriage to an inarguably and wonderfully supportive woman (who unfortunately is not my intellectual equal), I find myself desperately needful of some intelligent conversation from time to time. An old saying (that I recall from many years ago) has it that when you are looking for a wife, intellect is ultimately far more important that beautiful breasts, a perfect hourglass figure and legs that start at her chin. Reason being, that once menopause hits (usually with all the impact of a semi-truck and trailer colliding head-on with an AMTRAK train), you’d better hope that your lovely wifie has the collective wits about her to carry on an intelligent (and hopefully stimulating) conversation…cause any formerly delightful ‘sack-time’ you may have mutually enjoyed will then be about as rare as dinosaurs are in Africa today.

And as long as we’re at it, hopefully with someone who is as pleasing to look at as it is to mull over what she has to say. Is that really too much to ask for, I wonder? I suppose this last part has to do with the universal male insecurities that aging brings with it. Some deep-seated need for reassurance that although you’re now chronologically ‘up there’ in terms of years, you still have a vestige of the animal magnetism that you had so many years ago. After all, most men fire live rounds well into the last years of their lives…unlike women, who after menopause are using dud ammo.

Sadly enough, the odds in favor of something like this occurring are about as good as finding a prostitute in Thailand that doesn’t have STDs, since older women, regardless of how physically well-preserved they may be, are often functionally not much interested in men after the ravages of menopause have done their worst (and especially after having suffered through god-knows how many decades with an insufferable dipsh*t of a husband whom they were totally unsuited for, right from the git-go).

And younger women (say, those in the 40-and-below group), who are still ‘in the game’, as it were, look upon any man over the age of 55 the same way a girl scout might view the carcass of a very ripe dead badger on a hot summer day. That is, unless you happen to be a bazillionaire, or someone who has indecent amounts of money; someone like Donald Trump with his trophy wife, Melanoma (oops! excuse me…make that ‘Melania’). Naturally enough, when there’s money in the marital equation, all bets are entirely off. But if you either don’t have lots of money or are merely ‘le poseur’, fageddaboudit!

Overall, it’s a very sad stage of life for most men to be in, folks. No wonder there are so many ‘lonely old men’ out there…and so many ‘couldn’t care less about those male idiots’ women.

Further proof, I am convinced, that God has a very wicked, nasty sense of humor (or She wouldn’t have allowed this situation to come into being!). That thought makes me wonder if God is subject to menopause herself? If She is, us males in for a further load of big sh*t, comrades!

All of the above points probably constitute a good argument for dying young (as opposed to sticking around until some vital part of your body totally gums up on you and you croak with cerebral Osgood Schlatter’s syndrome), but when you’ve hit 70 that option has long since been closed!

I recently thought about all this again (something I am wont to do regularly, being an intellectually pessimistic person in the Schopenhauer/Eeyore mold). All my life I’ve been a runner, a bicyclista, someone who has always eaten the proper food groups, rarely had junk food and striven to stay extremely fit. For what? Why? What good has that done me, other than to keep me out of the cardiac rehab word? Not much, I’d wager. It certainly doesn’t seem to have improved my love-life any.

The thought of this is so potentially depressing on occasion that I now find I periodically develop overwhelming desires to OD on junk food, pig-out on ice cream and in general turn into a human cremepuff. Naturally, after a lifetime of eschewing such egregious behavioral notions, I resist these small devils and remain as I presently am…6 feet tall, 160 pounds, with a BMR of about 1487. That works out to a body fat ratio of 23.5, which is considered in the middle of the normal range. In fact, I can still wear a pair of jeans I wore in high school. Well, whoopie do!

And again, why? In fact, why not just let it all go and turn into another grossly obese baby blimp, like so many other Americans these days? I guess the answer to that is hope. The hope that after all these years of searching for that special soul-mate, it’s still possible. Even if by that time we’re both inmates at the local geezer skilled nursing facility for the hopelessly senile.

So, there I sit at my corner table, an aging Mr. Cool, all chilled out and no place to warm up. When I was writing this all up just now, it occurred to me that the perfect title of such wistful moping about as is this lament…given Barrio’s location at the corner of 34th Street…would have to be ‘Miracle on 34th Street’.

Or perhaps more precisely ‘No Miracle on 34th Street’, since it ain’t likely that I’ll be making that special connection any time soon at Barrio’s! Berkeley it ain’t!