The Girls of My Dreams

When I was young - younger, I mean - I dreamed of girls.  Quite a lot actually.  As I became older - not older than now, but older than younger - I dreamed of women.  I felt this a sign of maturity and hormonal well-being.  God's plan in action, at least for us heterosexuals.

So I came to be even older, albeit younger than now - I mean "even younger than now," of course - and I dreamed again of girls.  Well-being continued its hormonally eutrophic meander, for I knew then I had become a dirty old man.  I liked that.  "Dirty old man" has become a term of endear-
ment, of sorts, among the objects of my dreams.  They told me that.  The "old" part of "dirty old man" is surely hyper-
bole, and the term commonly applies, less endearingly no doubt, to 30-somethings.  Among more mature males, dirty-old-mannism is a sign of enduring virility.  Last night I dreamed I was shopping for a file cabinet.

I was unprepared for file cabinets and, in one of those out-of-dream experiences, it seemed like I had better things to dream about than file cabinets.  In truth, I don't even need a file cabinet.  I just emptied the one I have - quite triumphantly I might add - so my dream was no mere artifact of an unresolved to-do list.

Perplexed, I chased the question through sketchy dream-venues.  We - I don't know who "we" are, but I am not alone - anyway, we break into that classroom where I sit perpetually unprepared for a final exam in a course I forgot I signed up for - usually Fourier Analysis or some equally opaque topic.  Then we swoop and soar though that flying place of mine, waiting for the inevitable moment when I remember I don't know how to fly.  File cabinets, indeed.  Where the hell are the girls?

Eventually, we come to that lonely stretch of road where I park the car and get out to walk, surprised yet again to find myself stark naked.  As always, the deserted road morphs into a downtown sidewalk on a busy afternoon.  As always, I stroll whistling back to my car, hoping no one notices.  No file cabinet out here.  I don't know where my shadowy companion went.  Embarrassed to be seen with me, I suppose.

I'm not going to tell you whether I ever found the girls of my dreams; some things should remain untold.  But I have a nice file cabinet for sale if you need one, practically unused - it's only been dreamed about once.

Newt

Scene on the Beach

It's crazy season in Pinellas County - Spring Break - when the beaches fill with sex-crazed, nubile coeds who have flown or driven in from colder climes.  It's a happy time for those of us who cruise the sugar-soft sand wearing mirrored sunglasses and trying not to look like the dirty old men we are.

If you come - I'm talking to you, you dirty old man - here are some things to look for.

Ground zero for nubiles is Clearwater Beach.  It is no coincidence that Gulfview Boulevard, which parallels the beaches, is heavily laced with pedestrian crosswalks.  The road was, after all, laid out by dirty old civil engineers.  And the sovereign law of Florida requires motorists to yield to pedestrians pedestriating the crosswalks.  I can burn off a gallon of gas at a crosswalk, just waiting to yield to nubile pedestrians.  My wife gets impatient wondering why we are standing still in the road for no reason she can discern.  Motorists behind me get equally antsy, with blue-haired old ladies anxious to get on with it and their dirty old husbands wanting to take my primo spot at the crosswalk.

Walking the beach is far more scenic, of course, and I develop an acute sunburn every year about this time.  Do you know that if you hold your cell phone out in front of your face and talk to it, people never suspect you're really taking pictures? At least, I don't think they do.

For newcomers - dirty old men on their first visit, that is - you should know about the beach volleyball courts set up near Pier 60.  All the static sunbathing in the world does not beat nubiles in motion. In teams of six or eight.  One man's opinion, all right?  Well, no, actually.  You see, beach volleyball is a game whose rules are made in France (I'm not making this up).  If you subscribe to the Official Rules, as most dirty old men should, you get a rule book with this picture on the cover:

Well, as you can see there are a lot more nuances to Spring Break than meet the eye - or maybe not - but I must be getting on to it.  Till next time.

Newt