Boot Futures, Ltd.

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:               BOOT Futures, LTD.

   

    Sometimes, from the high plateau of Geezerhood, in rare times of quiet when reflection stimulates or even permeates the thought process, certain memories flow like torrents into the cerebral cortex of still working brain.  Memories such as...   "Boots."

    In the winter of an indeterminate time of life (specific memories aren't always all that crisp and clear!), I set my sights on a gift of Xmas for SweetHeart, a wearable product I felt certain she would love to receive, and to wear proudly and delightedly, subsequent to receipt of same on the day above referenced.  

    Off I motored to an (ugh) enormous shopping mall in a suburban location.  That particular shopping complex was quite popular among rabid consumers.  Though the center was considered highly attractive to the masses, it was not in its bloom of youth having been planted several years prior to the episode to which I refer.  It sported an enormous parking arena that circumnavigated the complex.  One could almost always find a space defined or demarcated by slanted yellow lines.  Never close, however, to the shop or store in which one hoped to focus her or his attention.

    I started my quest at a large department store that was named after an eastern seaboard metropolis.  It no longer exists, the store, that is.  Nevertheless, I'm certain that's where I began the search.  I went immediately to the footwear department.  I queried a sales person.  "I'd like to consider purhasing a pair of boots, of the stylish variety in vogue by today's modern woman.  You know, tall, sueded boots, in a brown-ish tone of color...  more brown than beige, I think..."

    "I see," the young man began, "and what size does monsieur wish to purchase?"  

    "Um," I stupidly responded, "and what size would you recommend for a woman of approximately five-feet-seven inches in height?"  

    He chuckled nervously.  "I haven't the foggiest notion," he replied.

    "Well, let me see now.  Why don't we say women's size 8-1/2, possibly 9.  Do you think that might be suitable?"  

    "Um, let me repeat, sir, I haven't any idea.  I don't know the person for whom you intend the boots to fit."

   

He delivered several sizes of sueded boots to the chair in which I had seated myself.  All of the proffered boots sported the same altitude and coloring.  I selected a pair.  He announced the price, turning the carton to my view to reveal the printed cost.  

    "How much?!" I nearly shouted at the young man.  He was taken aback.  A shocked look appeared like a frozen mask upon his young visage.  I tend to be somewhat frugal.  Some might prefer, "Cheap" or "Tight Fisted" or perhaps "Miserly."  After my own face lost its purple hue, I calmed, selected a specific pair of boots, insulted the young man, his management, commercial enterprises generally, offered grudgingly an instrument of payment and departed for my waiting vehicle.

   

Imagine two pairs of spanking new boots
having been placed foolishly atop a car, only
to "lose their footing" and slide off as the
car motored homeward, one pair never
to be seen again!  An expensive "hobby,"

    I fumbled for my keys, as if conducting a search for lost doubloons in a Caribbean shore-line cave; it seemed to consume an amount of time equal to such a search, amid cursing and patting my person in near panic and grumbling....  Winter weather tends to force ordinary mortals to wear heavy apparel.  Outside pockets, inside pockets, not to mention inner garments with many pockets.  In the search for said keys, I absentmindedly placed the boot purchase in its heavy carton atop the vehicle.  Having finally found the keys, I motored off toward my home.

    Upon my arrival, I looked throughout the vehicle, quite naturally expecting the package to appear, but with futility and growing rage.  "Oh shit," said I, "I left them on top of the damn car.  I'm a complete idiot!!"  More cursing produced no desired result.  I retraced my route, looking left and right, motoring slowing with angry motorists honking and beeping and uttering foul insults.  Arriving back at the shopping complex and its commodious parking area, I searched and found no package containing boots.

  

    Foolishly, as if shoppers during the Season of Good Cheer were completely infused with integrity, I found nothing.  I tripped into the department store shoe department and queried the young sales person who seemed displeased to see me.  "No monsieur, no one turned in a carton of boots."

    "Where is your lost and found department?"  He directed me to customer service, staffed by a surly young woman who reported that nothing of the description I provided was turned in.  I also quizzed the store's principal customer service desk.  Nothing.  I returned to the footwear department where the vapid young man was now serving another patron.  I waited impatiently, tapping my feet.  Finally he turned toward me, an annoyed and questioning look upon his insipid mug...  I asked for another pair of the same footwear.

    He disappeared into an apparently secret inner sanctum where probably thousands of pairs of shoes and boots sat on absurdly high shelves, approachable only by rolling ladders (I imagined).  He reappeared carrying nothing.  "I'm very sorry, he said, with no expression of sincerity upon his smug face.  "We sold the last pair," he added, a nasty smirk creeping along his lips as his jaw line began to crinkle.

    I left that accursed store and trekked in an easterly direction, then entered a shoe and boot emporium that specialized.  I asked the same question of a young woman, she being unoccupied in a somewhat busy shop.  She appeared with several boxes.  "These should do nicely," she offered, "seems to be exactly what you want, and they're all the rage in this market."  

    Once again my frugality reappeared as a wild beast in a shrubbery profused jungle!  I tamped down my ire and agreed to pay the exorbitant price for the boots.  The nice young woman packaged them, I paid the freight and went somewhat satisfied (maybe, partially dissatisfied?...) along my way.

    Upon reaching the automobile, having at first been lost, having circled the parking area a few times punctuated by angry cursing, I searched for keys in the manner described earlier, having already placed the boot package upon the car top.  Impatiently, I scrambled in and motored off homeward.

    "Oh my god, you complete and utter buffoon," I announced to myself.  Once again, I had driven off with boots on the roof of the car.  I repeated the same search on my way back to the shopping mall, feeling like a demented tennis spectator, craning my neck left then right (a crane...  a goose?), slowly following the progress of the roadway as it disappeared beneath the underside of the vehicle.  Beep...  Hook...  "Move it along you stupid sloth..." and other more vehement insults.  (I could spy the "F" word being pantomimed by trailing motorists in the rear view!!)   

    Back at the rotten, stinking mall, I returned to the shoe and boot shop where I had purchased Pair Two, and re-purhased the same boots.  On this occasion, the shop had another pair.

    Then, on an impulse, and thinking to my tired brain, "Well... why not, one never

knows."  I repaired once again to the primary customer service area.  A miracle!  Someone had found the package in the parking lot and turned it in to the lost and found department.  "This is extraordinary," I tried to explain excitedly to the woman who staffed the counter, telling her the remarkable tale of the "Boot Futures."

  "Aren't people wonderful," I exclaimed.

    With a bored and completely disinterested look upon her face, she merely announced in an exhausted monotone, "Next, please."  With that, I left carrying two pairs of boots, nicely boxed and packaged in brown paper sacks.

    Stupidly, I couldn't help myself.  On Xmas eve, I presented both pairs to my sweet and wonderful spouse, SweetHeart.  "Two pairs of boots," she said as she unwrapped the parcels.  "I mean, very sweet of you, but two pairs, and they're almost identical."

    "Wouldn't you like a spare pair," I suggested inanely!   

   

    "We'll just return one of them, and get our money back.  Then you can buy me something else," she offered, eyes bright with promise and excitement.  I had quite possibly created the original "Pug Dog" paradigm.  What an idiot, I thought to myself about myself.  Alas, I suppose I brought this on my own head.  However, everyone in our family thoroughly enjoyed the tale, as each in turn laughed heartily and looked at me as if to state, "You poor, dumb, hapless numbskull!"

    "Well," said I, "Boot futures...  An investment, sort of..."  (That Pug Dog thing, however, continues to repose in a troubled brain...   a sort of haunting ghoul...  as if we jointly created an economic demon, determined, from time to time, to wound the psyche as it stuns the pocketbook!!)  

(Special Note of Dedication:    This posting is intended to amuse and possibly even entertain SweetHeart, Alie and Bethie, who always seem to enjoy "Pug Dog" tales, even though they tend to wound the heart of the writer's fragile, economically-delicate psyche.  Sigh!  But, one supposes that laughter is a healing balm, something that supersedes other emotions!  Thank You!)   

Humbly Submitted for Viewing Pleasure, 02-13-2024 -- Joel K.

  

     

     

            

In Turkey -- the "En-Chant-ed" Sounds of Street Sellers and their Wares!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:                     In Turkey -- the "En-Chant-ed"                                       Sounds of Street Sellers and their Wares!  

When the sounds of memory crawl back into our consciousness, do we, in our GeezerHood, hear them faithfully?  Or do we embellish them in an effort to enchant and enlarge our fragile psyches, our imagined statures?   Do we hope to impress others, those with whom we share the ancient times and tales of our youth?  One does one's best (most of the time?!) to render with integrity the stories and legends we want to believe are true!

When stationed in Turkey in military service, specifically on an air base near Yalova, a

port city on the Sea of Marmara, leisure time was a precious commodity for the curious, the tourist and the traveler in many of us.  Like Marco or Vasco we imagine ourselves as wandering camels, ships, vessels of discovery, boldly curious and bravely adventurous.    

Some of us, those who chose to embrace the opportunity of living 18 months in a beautiful foreign land with an extraordinary major city, spent a great deal of time in Istanbul, a 90-minute ferry crossing over the blue waters of Marmara.  We'd pass two beautiful islands along the way, drink a bit or a lot of vodka with "lemone," munch fresh pistachios.   Finally we'd cruise into the port, past Maiden's (Leander's) Tower in sight of the port of Uskudar on the Asian side of that remarkable city.   

Our usual route into the heart of the old town required a crossing of the Golden Horn

over the Galata Bridge.  In the early to later evening hours we'd visit a series of Pavyons (bars / nightclubs), drinking too much and "talking treason" to mates and native patrons alike, including young Turkish women who had little interest in us or our inane ramblings and boastings.

In the "yellow time," the early morning hours, as dawn assaulted our blood-shot eyes, we'd trip along the narrow city streets to a basement apartment lended by a friend to my friend.  The friend of the friend's name, I recall was Thom (the "h" is silent!).   She had a delightful, sort of musical family name that I can't recall.  

The apartment was at basement level.  We had a perfect view of feet and lower leg portions from our street-level windows.  In the still early hours of the morning, usually beginning about 6:00 AM, the street vendors would begin their daily chants, or shouts.  Among the words that pierced our injured and hung-over ears was "Sicak, Sicak," (sounds like "Cee-Jak") always repeated at least twice.   It means Hot!  The words would travel up and down the brick-paved streets until patrons spilled out of their doors to breakfast on the sweet and savory offerings of the loud and energetic street-food merchants. 

The word for cold was also heard echoing along the pavements -- Soguk (sounds like So-ook).  And then we'd often hear "Eskigee" (I paraphrase or "para-spell"?).  It means "old" or old clothing for sale or other ancient articles for sale or barter or bargaining.      

If we could actually rouse ourselves from peaceful slumber -- profound, like things long dead -- we'd crawl or stumble our ways into the streets and purchase a hot breakfast.  We'd "Yemek" (eat) our ways through the pain of aching heads, or drink the soothing cold brews on offer.  Strong, hot and thick enough to chew Turkish coffee, or "Chai," a wonderful Turkish tea.   And Oh yes...  Can't forget to mention, "Chitir" -- Fresh Rolls.  Those we'd also "Yemek" voraciously, like wolves devouring a fresh kill! 

A favorite meal was "Ekmek" (Turkish bread) stuffed with lamb (Kuzu) balls sprinkled with powdered salt.  Delicious!  The Ekmek was huge and crusty and flavorful, and the meat inside was equally tasty.  This was often our lunch or dinner of choice.  One had to hold it with both hands, as it was as heavy as a long-eared rabbit or a large river stone!

If a day was to be filled with exploration, we'd take the local bus to Yalova and await a different bus, this one to Bursa.  The call was powerful and resonant -- Boo-sah, Boo-Sah, Boo-Sah -- always shouted three times, accent on the second syllable.  Yes, actually, "Bursa," but it sounded like "Boo-Sah"!  Bursa was another beautiful Turkish city, located in the northwestern corner of the country, a hilly nearly mountainous region.  

   

Not long ago, I was telling the "Chants" tale to certain family members, those who'd listen!  One has to wonder why certain thoughts and recollections suddenly appear in the mind, like a film clip accompanied by the distinctive sound of a 16-mm projector, re-running frequently, a recording stuck on "Memories."  

 

Enough!  All that remains is to post an image of a Pavyon and then to end this posting, but hoping that Travelers and Turks and other devotees will enjoy this retrospective, the thoughts, ideas and flashbacks it may (or may not!) evoke.  Thank You!  

Humbly Submitted September 5, 2023 -- Joel K.

 

    

      

The Roles We Play, and Accept, in Our Changing Lives!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        The Roles We Play and Accept in Our Changing Lives!

One might suppose, if one is in one's GeezerHood, it could be a bit dangerous to become overly contemplative in times of quiet.  Non-productive, possibly even foolish thoughts might tend to flood one's consciousness.  

However, inasmuch as we've started this conversation, may as well plow ahead.  Certain metaphors -- or are they similes? -- spring into the cerebellum like.................................

 Mystic Pronghorns.  (Please see image, above!)  A chain, for example, can have many links, but still it is a single entity.  A tree sprouts a great many branches, but remains a single unit of living flora.  A Venetian blind contains many adjustable slats, but the whole is one thing, one product...  You get the idea, eh?

You see where I'm going with this nonsense?  (I wish I did!!?).  A human being has many

parts and many roles; it's the latter, life's many roles, that leads us into a more interesting discussion.  (One might suppose that "interesting" could be a bit of a presumption, depending on how this meandering plays out!)

When born I became a child of parents.  In the passage of time I realized I was also a brother to a sister and a brother, (the latter a bigger and stronger entity who'd pay me a dime or a quarter if, when he practiced his jujitsu on me, I would become the injured party, so to speak.  Not sure if he ever paid off!  Not really important in the scheme of this dissertation...  but I digress!...)

Next, student in a class full of students, then member of the US military services in a squadron or a flight or a phalanx full of a "GI's."  Student again in a university setting...  lots of different classrooms with instruction in many different disciplines.  Friend, companion, confidant, member of society in general, one who, with a certain degree of intelligence and understanding,  is able to accept and embrace diversity, making friends with those of different beliefs, colors and creeds.  

Then, on to what many consider the more important roles in the fascinating diversity of one's lifetime.  Marriage partner, father, uncle, grandfather, granduncle, great granduncle...  Paternal and avuncular roles can be critical, and crucial, to those over whom we have influence!

Where we going with this?  Each of us, I believe, is a composite of many different parts, possibly many different stages of life, even, I guess, many different or changing personalities or identities.  Was I a compete idiot as a teenager?  Quite possibly.  Do people improve with age, like cheese or wine or fruit pies or leftovers from a holiday feast?  Hmmm...  a ponderous question, indeed!  One hopes the answer is "YES"!

I'd like to think that we human beings actually do become our better selves as we age, as we grow in maturity and experience.  Parents seem to improve as grandparents. Although their children may disagree when grandparents return grandchildren to their parents, the kids wired and crazed with sugary treats, and overly stimulated with rough play as grandparents regress into childlike foolishness.  (Better selves, better angels?)

So what's the point?  I don't know...  Life is a series of stages and roles and change, of course.  As the brilliant Carl Jung suggests, "Life behaves as if it goes on (and on forever)"...  It's the illusion of immortality, something many if not most share, at least when we're young...  in middle life...  or even older and healthy...!  And we as human beings have the capacity to accept our varying roles, we have the power to change and enrich our lives if we choose to do so...  possibly the best path or direction or trajectory a human life can pursue (follow?)!  Change!  Change for the better!  Improve with time, but only if the changing road we travel is paved with the macadam of our better selves.   

I guess we all continue to evolve, if we're fortunate enough to live long and productive lives.  Sadly, so many lack that good fortune that allows the "blessed" among us to enjoy our roles, accept them, and change, grow in wisdom and improve, while pursuing knowledge and truth along the way.

(Dedicated to my beautiful and talented nuclear and extended family.  Thank you and Good Morrow...  Happy Days Ahead as well!)       

Humbly Submitted 08-30-2023 --  Joel K.

        

How Do We Become and Identify as Cultured Beings?... Are Some of Us Already There... Possibly?

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:     

How Do We Become and Identify as Cultured Beings...?

Are Some of Us Already There...  Possibly...?

cul·ture  [ kuhl-cher ] 

Is There a Common, Universal Definition?.......

"...All the ways of life including arts, beliefs and institutions of a population that are passed down from generation to generation. Culture has been called "the way of life for an entire society." As such, it includes codes of manners, dress, language, 

religion, rituals, art."

As we progress along the great journey of human existence, ultimately -- if we're fortunate and if we truly hope to achieve advanced age -- we arrive at a railway stop some, including myself, prefer to term, "GeezerHood."

Many sentient creatures like to think of ourselves as being, well, call it "cultured."  That is, we tend to believe we have reached a certain plateau along the intellectual growth chart.  It's somewhat like a pencil notch on a natural, unpainted wooden plank in "everyone's" kitchen where mothers mark in pencil physical attainments in height, an achievement many parents deem vitally important to record.  

Returning to the theme of this frequent foolishness, SweetHeart and I recently witnessed Shakespeare's superb comedy, As You Like It, in an outdoor, forested setting.  Wonderful ambiance.  And the cast, crew and overall performance, including the use of a live tree, were superlative.  We left feeling terribly cultured, almost erudite!  I walked from the play feeling quite superior, with a sneer on my silly face for those who seemed to be staring at me askance!!    

More recently, we traveled to Spring Green, WI, to the American Players Theatre, a gorgeous outdoor playhouse, and witnessed Romeo and Juliet, one of Bill Shakespeare's remarkably fine dramas.  The performance was spectacular.

The character of Romeo was played by a deaf actor, beautifully and sensitively performed.  Another deaf actor played the priest or confessor.  Both actors signed their roles while hearing actors spoke the lines, somewhat offstage.  Wonderful concept!  The principal props were wooden partitions that actors could climb, sit atop or use as props, such as a prison-like enclosure.  All four of the props, or partitions, were set on castors to be moved about as needed by the actors and the scenes being portrayed....  and for climbing, perching atop! 

At a point in this outstanding performance, the wooden partitions play a key role in the slaying of Mercutio.  Romeo steps between Tybalt and Mercutio causing the latter to become distracted, thus causing the fatal blow from Tybalt's saber, through an opening in one of the partitions.  Before succumbing to his fatal wound, Mercutio cries the fateful lines, "A curse on both your houses," referring of course to the long-feuding families -- the Montagues and the Capulets.  (Editor's Note:   Not the Hatfields and McCoys!!)

Earlier on in the adventures of SweetHeart and "Geezer the Kid," we attended a performance of A Midsummer's Night's Dream, another outdoor performance in the forest, beautifully done using the ambient setting as a sort of "character" in that well-known Shakespearean comedy.  (We sat in the "Royal Box" and were revered and applauded by the more rustic attendees!  Please don't take offense!)  

Well, golly, whether we have become cultured individuals as a result of our, now, intimate relationship with Will and other prominent literary figures, it matters little, 

I suppose....  But I am beginning to use such terms as "forsooth" more frequently in my everyday discourse, and "Fie Upon You"...   I guess that's better than the nasty words used by many angry combatants in modern society.  Whither goest thou?...

In any event, I give thanks to my legions of faithful readers and devotees...  both of you!??  And I take my leave with this thought:   (Soon) Comes the Winter of Our Discontent, Made Glorious Summer by This Son of (Milwaukee...  with profound apologies to purists!!).  (We plan to hire a snow removal crew so that I don't have to strain my aging back!!)  A Final Thought:  We hope that Winter takes an early leave of us, but looking forward to our next encounter with high culture in whatever season it presents itself!!

(Dedicated to all who seek cultural outlets in this increasingly bizarre and lunatic society in which we find ourselves, with apologies to those who may mistakenly and undeservedly believe they are included, or lumped!!)

Humbly Submitted 08-27-2023...  Joel K.

 

       

        

 

The Atheists' Picnic!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        The Atheists' Picnic...

Every pivotal moment in life begins with an epiphany, a cathartic event.  Is that the same as a revelation...  I guess so?!  Or maybe not, but sometimes fortune shines, or it doesn't.  Depends on the individual, the objective and the specific overarching demon.      

Like finding a $20 bill or a rare coin in the gutter on an overcast morning, a pleasant discovery can replace gloom with a nugget of hopefulness.  In my / our GeezerHood, we found an exit, a means of escape from the vise of addiction, a program we could embrace.  AA was not an option for us.  We could not, would not surrender our personal responsibility to a "higher power," as if to announce to our weaknesses that we were powerless, thus permitted to drop back in a murky pond of toxic semi-consciousness, or blackout, each time the seductive lure of "spirits" beckoned.

There happened to be a chapter at a particular church, its own traditions or form of theocracy, its religious or spiritual concepts hitherto unknown to us, or at least not to me!  The church symbolized by a Question Mark, not a cross, burning or mounted symbolically, or a star or thin towers with enclosures protected by parapets.  

Had anyone ever heard of it before?  That new and different method...  I certainly hadn't.  Secular Organization for Sobriety (SOS), a new idea, at least to us, an idea that proclaimed one's personal power over addiction.  Extraordinary.  For us it worked, as for many others, we soon discovered, to our satisfaction.  Kindred spirits occupied chairs and tables, as opposed to the potable kind of spirits!  

(SOS included a concept known as Rational Recovery; an excellent book described its process and its effectiveness for combatting addiction.  Many in our group embraced its rationale and its well-reasoned path to sobriety.)  

Nothing's perfect.  We had to absorb a brand new paradigm.  And we had to listen to a number of, in fact too many insipid "drunk-a-logues," as well as, admittedly, a number of fascinating tales of deep depression, hopelessness, ultimate victory over demons, abysmal failures as well.

One of our new SOS companions was a mynah bird with a broken echo in his beak.  "I can drink pop; I can drink coffee and tea; I can drink lemonade..." as if repeatedly, each weekly meeting, attempting to convince himself that there was great joy in drinking non-alcoholic beverages.  And each week we heard the same litany of soft drinks he could

actually ingest without becoming inebriated.  We felt sorry for the chap.  He was something of a bromide, indulging in a sort of self-hypnosis.

Another of our group members was addicted to booze and cannabis, his brain addled by his twin addition that occurred over too many years, too much, too many days and nights of anesthetizing himself with forbidden or damaging substances.  His chatter was a stream of somewhat unconscious drivel, a prattle that often took a different direction, a new thread.   Each time someone in the group ended a sentence with a particular word, that word sent him on an entirely different course of nonsense.  Sad.  Sometimes so sad it was, in a way, pitifully comic, if one could actually jump aboard his crazed train of illogic, if one could find humor in his convoluted monologues.  We often did, while at the same time feeling badly for the poor chap.  

And then the young woman who announced each session she would never abandon her fifth of vodka a day habit, even if it meant losing everything, her marriage, her children, what remained of a working brain, her livelihood, her life...  Nothing mattered but the vodka, the perpetual buzz, the numbing elixir that shut down her mind and her pain, an inexorable devil that she had no words to describe or define.

One of our number called another of us an "amateur" in the hard-drinking culture.  He once said, "I wish they'd invent a pill that would allow me to have just one or two drinks, and then stop!"  

The woman responded, "I wouldn't take such a pill for the sake of one or two drinks.  Not worth it."  

"Then you're just an amateur..."  That made her angry, and she shot back at him with a suitable reply.

"That kind of thinking is dangerously inappropriate for impressionable young people within ear shot.  You're giving them an excuse to have a drink or two, as if they can do so without falling back into excess, deeper into addiction, diving back into alcohol abuse possibly without ever looking back!" 

Enough of the serious part of group support and therapy!  One of our members -- he having joined a multiple-addition group that we too joined at some point on our recovery journey -- was a loud, self-proclaimed atheist.  He wanted every one of us to embrace atheism.  He was an atheist proselytizer!  More frenzied and passionate than any door-to-door preaching lunatic -- Witness, Priest, Monk, Rabbi, Muslim, Mormon, Hare Krishnan, Buddhist, Church Lady, Whirling Dervish...  

He was continuously after all of us to come to the Atheists' Picnic.  He and his fellow converts and rabid proselytizers were frequently organizing Atheists' Picnics, reserving enormous swaths of parkland in and around the city.  "We always serve nice food," he said, "and lots of stuff to drink...  nothing alcoholic, of course, but yummy and fruity with vibrant colors, bubbly even..."  

We were not swayed.  We did not convert, possibly because some or many of us were already in that camp.  For the two of us, we were content to practice our own form of religion or non-religion, or spirituality, or the lack thereof...  No one's business but our own.  I hasten to add that we respect and admire all forms of religion, not-religion, spirituality and non-spirituality (if there are such terms!)      

Fearing the lack of alcoholic stimulants would kill our senses of humor, we once attended a multiple-addiction party, at which we were asked by our hostess not to tell her friends where we had met.  Ignoring her, we kept inventing ridiculous therapy and support groups and sharing them loudly with her friends as they arrived at the party.  One fellow entered, smiling broadly like a toothy dental commercial, and promptly dropped an entire platter of nuts.  On our hands and knees recovering the precious salted, mixed nuts, I announced to the latest arrivals:  "Oh, um...  Beryl, yes...  How we know her?  We met at a fear-of-standing-erect at parties group..."  

Possibly it's akin to riding a bicycle.  Maybe you never really lose your sense of humor, or "sense of silly," even if they take away your booze, your stout and porter, your former reason for living,  that of gleefully stumbling, belching and dribbling, assuming your daily role as the perennial buffoon in a galaxy of cocktail lounges and gin joints!  (Oh, that was really funny...  uh, wasn't it?  Wha-did-dat guy say again?...)  

Special Dedications:   To theists and atheists and all who struggle with addiction and demons, but who do their darn-dest every day to combat the imps and devils that dwell within their / our minds, hearts and souls!  Thank You, readers and devotees, for your kind consideration and indulgence, or at least your lack of scorn!!      

Humbly Submitted  06-15-23 -- Joel K.