Sunday, February 20, 2011
The February blues of a long distance lothario
The cliche is true.
You feel blue.
It is a dark, cold, stormy February night.
I am, as they used to say in the Air Force, lying "tits-up" on my rumpled bed with its sleeping bag for a duvet. Daydreaming.
There used to be hot and cold running women under that bed, but now in February, all I can look forward to is the semi-annual event of my erection, which, even now in this February night, will probably be the last one. Never mind finding the compatible woman. What're you gonna do when you find her? And with what?
I have a lawyer friend who used to vacation with Charles Shultz. He tells me of Mr. Schlultz' wonderful, celebrated art.
Oh how that Charles Schultz could sublimate his broken heart, his libido. And in the process, enthrall the world.
I imagine myself as a Peanuts character.
Snoopy holed up in his doghouse. Snoopy's nemesis, The Red Baron dasn't fly in today's February storm. It is snowing heavily. It is quiet in the barracks. There may as well be skis on the undercarriage of Snoopy's Sopwith Camel.
There had been a raid on the barracks in the better weather leading up to this storm. The Red Baron helemeted and long -scarved in the propwash. Richthoffen's Flying Circus. .
Snoopy had been caught lying down atop his doghouse, cutting zees.
...Strafe marks all round the doghouse. Snoopy rudely awakened. "Curse you, Red Baron!...Are those Fokkers?
Someone from he barracks answered, "No, those Fokkers are Messerchmitts!
Snoopy yawns...Wrong war!
Like Snoopy, like many another old dog now nearly reduced to chasing imaginary Fokker Triplanes, or worse-- cars-- I am now reduced to sublimating, at best, dreaming...
I am Walter Mitty, romantically unemployed. Dead Thulu liies dreaming? No, nothing as morbidly mad genius gay as that.
...More like Freud.
But my fantasies seem along the lines of aeronautical engineering, probably the result of a technical university education.
The Messserchmitt l09E had a 20mm cannon that could fire through the propeller hub, because the engine was actually hooked to a higher -ratio spider gear which left an extra driveshaft though which you could fire a cannon. The cannon was shot almost pistol-fashion, actually placing your hand on the pistol grip and blasting a Spitfire out of the sky...But because of engine heat, the cannon would often jam, and you would be ambushed by the other Spitfire behind you and peppered with eight rifle-calibre .303s from his wings...But you had steel armor behind you; the Spits had not yet acquired their 20mm cannon and it might as well have been buckshot hitting your tail.. You were at least alive to bail out.
I wanna bail out of reality on this February night.
...And what's with that 20mm cannon fantasy?
Old Freud might say, "Ach, that is not just a mere fantasy. Das is Ganz Schlecht! Psychopathia sexualis!"
A cannon that could drive right through a propeller hub. German technology, synchronization.
Durn. Maybe I've got occuaptional hazard. Too much specialization.
I definitely need to get out more. Certainly to find another job, not one of placing black marks on white computer screeens.
I go to the employment agencies. I fail Roscharch Inkblot tests. I keep seeing vaginas, not bats, as the personnel shrinks expect.
And yet, psychopathia sexualis.
This blocked lothario simply isn't me.
I have probably had more sex, laid end-to-end than anybody my age. This is not braggacio. But like for a character in a French novel, probably Picasso at seventy, the world has passed me by. "Get lost, creep!"
Ah, they're not making the girls the same this year.
Think I'll turn queer?
Oh godawful February. What're you going to do with an umemployed sexual acrobat, or, at least one who had thought himself so.
What's with that Messerchmitt pilot fantasy and his not alway reliable cannon which, because of engine heat, wouldn't work half the time? Oh Mr. Freud!
Seems one is I'm not just over the hill, but on top of everything else, turning gayer than Richard Simmons in a sportswear display. What is happening to the old libido?
Nothing coud be finer than to shack-up with a miner?...Worse still, a minor?
Frantically, I go to Google for information as to my condition. Is there hope? Could this at least be a leap year? That could explain the Richard Simmons fantasy. I check the Farmer's Almanac.
Calendar Year 2011 is a non-leap year, with 365 days [Gregorian is the date system for
this, as well as for the rest the site]. The year for the next leap is in 2012
Two thousand and Twelve?
It will take that long to get laid?
The Mayas said it'll be all over by 2012!
And even then, it might end up as February Blues, 2012.
But wait. Something already stirs.
Now, what am I going to do now with this?
Take it to my doctor.
"There isn't anything wrong with it".
I know. But isn't it a beaut?
"It's Febrary. And you're already crazier than a March hare."
Is that your diagnosis, Doc?"