I'm about to go out for an evening of dinner and libations with a couple of pals...but first, let me hoist a Jameson's on this St. Patrick's Day to the fine Irish writers who, over the years, have meant so much to me.

James Joyce, whose tale The Dead completely blew me away with its snowy melancholy...

Frank O'Connor, whose short stories were so absorbing I felt as I were standing in the same room with his down-to-earth characters...this was the power of great storytelling unveiled!

James T. Farrell, whose Studs Lonigan trilogy, set in Chicago, remains one of the best books I've ever read about lost dreams and city life...

And William Butler Yeats, whose poem "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death" I long ago committed to memory, and which continues to inspire me with its psychological truth and irony. Its phrase "a lonely impulse of delight" has never stopped giving me the shivers...

Thank you, gentlemen. And being a Jewish boy, yet with an Irish middle name, let me add as I raise my glass: "L'chaim!"

Ah.

Mighty refreshin'!

Oh, it was nice to see my favorite dancer Lily again last night at the stripclub! It had been almost two weeks since our last meeting. She’d had to miss work last Friday because she’d been helping a friend again with a crisis situation, and she told me she felt guilty because she knew I’d shown up at the club. When I asked her if someone had told I’d been there, she said no; she just knew that I would have been there since I had promised to come.

I like being seen as reliable. To me, it’s a virtue.

I’ve been going to stripclubs for more than thirty-five years, but I can’t remember the last time a dancer said she was guilty that she hadn’t been there when I showed up. It may have been said before, but it’s now lost in the miasma of my memories. At the very least, her unnecessary guilt shows that Lily is a person who likes to keep her own promises and not let people down. She had said she was going to work, and she felt bad that she couldn’t show up.

I told her I’d missed her, and I was just glad to see her now. I called the waitress over and bought Lily a drink.

Now, I vowed when I started this blog six months ago that I wasn’t going to have experiences with strippers as fodder for writing, and I certainly don’t hang out at clubs to write here. The blog grew out of my life in the clubs over the past three decades. Also, I give virtually no identifying details about Lily or the other dancers, and change names and descriptions. I respect their anonymity with the same commitment that I preserve mine under the name “Sir Cranky.” I need the anonymity in order to write honestly and freely. Anyway, specific details are usually not crucial, and if they are, other details can be substituted to obscure the dancer’s identity. Rather, the truthful details of my feelings and impressions are what I’m concerned with.

But I have to say I wish I could write more about Lily, to describe to you exactly how sweet-natured she is, the lovely way she looks, the things she likes to do away from her job, the gentle captivity her perfume casts over me, the food she likes to cook and eat, and the little accessories she wears that accentuate her beauty. Yes, in conversation she has shared real glimpses of herself.

She’s probably close to thirty years younger than I am, and when I’m with her, I don’t necessarily feel younger, but I do feel more at peace with the curmudgeonly core of Sir Cranky. I forget my cluttered apartment and relentless work schedule and worries about money. Yes, more at peace; calm. Now, I’ve written here before about how I have difficulty with silence between myself and other people, that I always want to keep a conversation going--but yesterday I felt okay with it for a little while as Lily and I sat in companionable quiet watching the other dancers onstage.

She had said she had no way to contact me when she wasn’t able to show up at her scheduled time last week, so I gave her an email address so from now on she can easily let me know. She seemed very happy I did this.

She went onstage three times in the couple of hours she hung out with me on the main floor of the club (I never go in the champagne room), and she lapdanced for me a few times too. It was very sensual and exciting. She whispered a few of the naughty, sexy little fantasy things I like. I can’t get as many lapdances these days as I did back during the Christmas holidays, because as a self-employed worker I have tax to pay in the few weeks and I have to save dough; but she understands this and still spends a nice bit of her time with me.

It’s very important for me to remember that Lily is a person and not just the embodiment of my sexual fantasies; I do know it, obviously, but it’s easy to forget when my glands get into motion and the Infant Eternal within me starts asserting himself with silent cries of “Me! Me! Me!” Two weeks ago, having initially dealt with her friend’s crisis, Lily had every reason to be kind of quiet, and that’s probably why she was somewhat low-key with me. Last night she was in a better mood, and I was able to see and understand the difference. This insight only took me nine years of therapy in the 70s and early 80s, and two subsequent decades of other self-improvement regimens to accomplish!

Now, I recently saw the 1957 movie Island in the Sun on DVD, with James Mason, Harry Belafonte, Dorothy Dandridge and Joan Fontaine. It’s one of those multi-character big-screen melodramas so popular in that era, and the story is about a fictitious Caribbean island full of erotic passions and racial conflict. Although it kept my interest for two hours, it wasn’t a great flick; but there was one sub-plot that I found memorable, and is pertinent here.

Mason plays the scion of one of the oldest plantation families on the island, a neurotic man very much in love with his somewhat younger wife, played by Patricia Owens. In the beginning of the film, she acts distantly to him, which inflames his jealousy; this unexplained disposition of hers eventually spurs him to disastrous action. Later, however, it becomes apparent that Owens has a lot of affection for Mason, and that her earlier attitude was temporary. Nonetheless, Mason’s inability to understand that his wife has different moods, AND THAT HE SHOULDN’T TAKE IT PERSONALLY, leads to the most dramatic crisis of the film.

The film’s then-controversial and more promotable racial angle is treated tepidly and stereotypically, but this interpersonal drama between husband and wife is gripping--and the best reason to see the movie now.

At first I was puzzled by Owen’s show of love towards Mason in the second half of the movie, and thought it was a weakness of the screenplay or direction, but then I realized that whether or not it was the result of craft or incompetence, it made an memorable point: because Mason was blinded by his insecurity, he couldn’t understand that the way she felt one morning towards him wasn’t the way she would feel EVERY morning. As a result of his blindness, he gets into some very hot water...

Like James Mason in Island in the Sun, I too am insecure--and I crave consistency in people. I have a very hard time accepting that folks are not always just one way. I have to consciously remind myself of this fact. In watching poor Mason get derailed by his immature passion for his wife, I myself was able to remember that Lily’s mood one day was not necessarily going to be her mood on another day.

I may have said this here before, but I once dated a psychologist who said I lacked a feeling of “object constancy.” This is the emotion a maturing child feels when he finally understands that although Mommy has left the room, she has not permanently left his life. For some reason, I have a faulty feeling of “object constancy,” and have to continually remind myself that I am not going to be abandoned by people I care about if I don’t do exactly as they say, and give them exactly what they want. Perhaps as a child I was threatened with abandonment if I didn’t conform, and it left a permanent scar on my psyche; I don’t recall. My point is, with Lily and everybody else I know, I have to work at remembering they are not extensions of my shaky ego, but people in their own right.

In this way do strippers and DVDs provide both the experiments and the data for Sir Cranky to continue in his wobbly evolution towards the often-elusive state of being a real man--a mensch!

I finally got a full night's sleep...that goal had eluded me the last three or four days. I decided to postpone going to the out-of-state office again until next week, so I didn't have to get up at dawn and could sleep until a later hour.

I guess when things weigh on your mind, your sleep is disrupted. An old childhood friend in Chicago--let's call him Ben--with whom I've always kept in contact, invited me to his daughter's bat mitzvah early next month. Although I would enjoy attending, this is a bad time for me to go away. Between work deadlines and paying taxes, dealing with the anxiety of air travel and also seeing my testy mother (as I also would if I visited Chicago) would just be too much right now. I called Ben last night to offer my apologies, and he was understanding. I think this relieved some of my tension.

His ability to understand and not judge my inability to show up was to be expected; he's a warm-hearted guy. The fact that I feared his criticism was irrational, but I always tend to do that with people when I am not going to give them exactly what they want. This is a bad habit I developed from dealing with my mother, who judges people fiercely when they don't do as she pleases. From this comes my reluctance and care in planning my visits to her.

I've known Ben since seventh grade, and although our lives are much different now, we have always had a good bond. When we get together, either in Chicago or if he visits the East Coast, we just pick up where we left off last time. We talk occasionally on the phone to keep in contact as well.

He has always been a much more daring and adventurous person than I am; I serve partly as the voice of reason in our friendship, although I've certainly had my daring moments. In fact, I think he's always considered my moving to New York to be something of a continuing adventure. Although well-traveled, he's stayed close to our roots in Chicago.

Our friendship in seventh grade was cemented by our common fascination with a beautiful girl in our class, and a shared admiration for the 1963-65 television series about World War 2 bomber pilots, 12 O'Clock High. Ben picked out the program's title music on the piano--an unusually compassionate theme for a war show, but quite in step with the mood of this drama. It was written by composer Dominic Frontiere, who also worked on the original Outer Limits.

I really wish they would put 12 O'Clock High on DVD. I have VHS tapes off broadcast tv, but this is a great show that deserves a boxed set already! Between Robert Lansing and Paul Burke, it had two fine lead actors (although Lansing was by far the more memorable) and the stories were always well-written and involving. One reason I wish they would come out with this on DVD is that I would love to buy two copies, and send one to Ben as a surprise gift.

Speaking of gifts, I treated my platonic writer/designer/musician friend Diana to dinner for her birthday last night. Although she's had some ups and downs lately in her life, one of which is that she is looking for steady work, she seemed in a good birthday mood. She'd just taken the test for her real estate license, and she's also got a good freelance art design gig lined up. When she showed up at the restaurant, she had just bought a vase to brighten up her Brooklyn apartment tomorrow when she and her boyfriend have some neighbors in to toast her b-day.

She picked the restaurant last night, a fun and unpretentious Southern-style place that we've been to before. The portions were large. We shared a macaroni and cheese appetizer that was quite tasty, but filled me up so quickly that I couldn't finish my steak sandwich. Then of course we had some cake for the appropriate birthday salutation. No candles were available, although I did offer to light one of the wooden matches I had in my pocket and stick that atop the piece of cake. I've been carrying these matches around since I picked them up a few weeks ago at the Japanese sake bar I visited with my writer/bodybuilder/streetfighter buddy Rexx. Diana passed on the match, as the cake itself provided plenty of sugary fireworks--it was made with chocolate and Coca-cola. I gave Diana a card and a gift certificate to Barnes & Noble too, the kind of thing I know she likes.

When I got home from dinner, I called Ben, and then I went online for a little while to see what was up on Blogstream. But I was tired so I called it an early night.

Today marks six months since I started this blog. Diana asked if I still have the same enthusiasm for writing it, and I said, "I have more now than ever before." I want to thank everyone who's read it so far for their interest and comments on my musings, rantings, memories, and opinions. I am writing this blog with the same fervor as I had when I wrote short stories and short novels for hours on end in high school, self-sequestered down in the basement of our house for hours, my pages growing in a stack on the ping-pong table. That is to say, blogging has made me feel an excitement in writing again that was one of the great pleasures of my horny, dream-addled adolescence, and is now one of the high points of my daily life as a horny, movie-mad, middle-aged mug.

I am very hard on myself. Last night I reviewed what I actually did at the out-of-town office, and I realized I did get some stuff done. Maybe not a heck of a lot, but despite the fact that my entire body yearned to take a nap right at my desk, things WERE accomplished. They just weren’t the major things that make me feel like a whirlwind whiz. Instead, I did some paperwork and Xeroxing, and reviewed plans for upcoming projects, and discussed an ongoing piece of work...did some schmoozing too, to keep up on new developments on the job. All necessary activities, and yet I wrote last night that I didn’t get much of anything done!

I tell you, working for myself can be hard--when I'm judgmental like this, I am the toughest boss I've ever had.

I tried to relax when I got home last night. After I blogged, however, I was wired, even though I was also exhausted from lack of sleep. I went out to the stripclub, hoping for a little chat-and-dance with my favorite stripper, Lily. She wasn’t there, though. I couldn’t warm to any of the other girls until I noticed my old buddy Misty onstage--I was her regular customer for awhile about two years ago, she's a looker with a great sense of humor. I tipped her and said hello. She was friendly but unfortunately (for me), when her set was over, she had to go back to having drinks and lapdancing with three guys who looked as if they were doing the bachelor party thing.

Delia, that sexy but somewhat condescending stripper whom I met last Friday night when Lily didn’t show for work--see my post “Good stripper vs. bad stripper?” if you want more on this saga--came over twice and asked to dance for me, but I said no. I have to admit that I took pleasure in turning her down. Why? Because I kept hearing in my mind the various little ways she patronized me last Friday as she tried to hustle me out of as much money as possible. In addition, when I said after three dances (and sixty dollars) that I didn’t want more then but would have her dance for me another time, she said we couldn’t sit at the banquettes anymore if we weren’t going to lapdance. That was totally untrue. She just didn’t want to sit there for a few more minutes and schmooze! Well, her hurried attitude probably cost her the sixty bucks I would have been willing to spend last night if I’d looked forward to seeing her. Instead, I could just think of last Friday and I wanted to show her that I’m not as susceptible as I may have seemed the previous time. Yes, I too can play stupid mind-games.

When I opt out of a dance with anybody, I don’t act rude, I just say politely that I don’t want a dance right now, maybe another time. But I know that sometimes a real detachment can come into my heart, a feeling of aloofness. And you know where I picked it up from? The women who cut me dead on the street.

I was walking over to the club last night, almost there in fact, when I saw a very pretty redhead, about thirty. Good-looking gal. She knew I noticed her, but she made this big show of looking off and up into the distance. Okay, lady, I get it. You don’t want to acknowledge that I’m appreciating you.

She gazed off into the distance so intently that I actually turned to see what she was staring at. Nothing special.

You may ask, “Is Sir Cranky a creep to avoid on the street?” I would answer that I am a normal looking person and that my appreciation is expressed so mildly in just glancing (and never vocally) that it’s more that many women in New York are so paranoid and incapable of understanding that not every guy who is struck by their beauty is going to hit on them.

Yes, I know, New York is a very tough place for females. And maybe they feel it’s too risky to look at a guy on the street and acknowledge with a friendly glance or smile that they appreciate his appreciation.

It’s just another thing that makes life in this burg tough for everybody.

I recall, the last time I was in Chicago, seeing a very beautiful gal coming up the block. Only a eunuch could have looked away from her and pretended she wasn’t a stunner. When she came close, we just simultaneously smiled at each other and continued on. I knew I wasn’t in her league, I was too old, too average--but she graciously acknowledged that I was a human being with dazzled eyeballs. Obviously, I still think about the smile she gave me.

So when I’m sitting in a stripclub, and find myself for whatever reason not in the mood to socialize, I sometimes feel like I’m giving back to these dancers the aloofness I get from women on the street. Mind you, I make a point of trying to disguise this chill feeling with my politeness, but I wonder if it still comes through. And perhaps I want it to come through...so they too can feel the rejection that I endure on the street sometimes.

Maybe it just goes back to what I was discussing in my previous post, “Why is Mike Wallace barefoot?” about how gals in New York size men up and eliminate them as worthy prospects. I’m sure this goes on in other places too, so it’s sort of unfair to single out the Big Apple. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that the redhead on the street last night might have acknowledged me IF I were up to her rigorous standards. So it all comes back to my self-esteem, or lack of it.

Sometimes the battle of the sexes seems bitter indeed, and that’s why I feel attached and loyal to women, whether they be strippers or platonic friends or lovers, who treat me with kindness and respect--which I enjoy giving them in turn.

A writer friend of mine recommended the short stories of Mary Gaitskill. One of her tales was made into the movie Secretary a few seasons ago--about a troubled young woman (Maggie Gyllenhaal) who gets into a sadomasochistic relationship with her boss (James Spader) and finds personal redemption and emotional healing through spanking and humiliation. Except for the bizarre spectacle of its mainstream actors doing naughty scenes previously only seen in porn, it was a forgettable film.

I picked up a paperback copy of Because They Wanted To, Gaitskill's 1997 book of stories. The cover features the bare legs and feet of six young women, photographed from the knees down and somewhat intertwined. Bare feet have long been the media's visual shorthand for truthfulness in general, and female empowerment in specific. It seems to me that whenever celebrity photographers want to give you a sense of the authenticity and honesty of their portraits, they take off their subjects' shoes and socks. Have you ever asked yourself why they do this all the time? Why don't these people just keep their footwear on?

Why is 88 year old Mike Wallace barefoot on the front page of the New York Times today to announce his retirement from 60 Minutes?

As if people--and women in particular--are perceived as incapable of presenting a false front when they're barefoot.

Well, it says in the accompanying article that Wallace had planned to retire only "when my toes turn up,” so perhaps in this case the Times is offering its readers visual evidence as to whether this is actually happening.

His toes look fine to me.

Anyway, I read one story in Gaitskill’s book called "Tiny, Smiling Daddy." If you plan on reading it yourself, don't read the next few paragraphs until afterward, if you feel the need for my cranky musings.

The story was about a middle-aged man who discovers that his lesbian daughter has published an article about their crummy relationship in Self magazine. This spurs his introspective examination of how she changed from a lovely young girl into a homely angry adolescent into a beautiful if distant young woman. It's a well-written if coldly detached story that finally and firmly places the blame for the estrangement on the father's shoulders. This happens in a climactic flashback that is supposed to be moving but is actually manipulative and unaffecting. A gesture of the daughter's--her fist placed against her weeping eyes--seems like a symbol of both her anger and her heartbreak as her father rejects her for being gay, but the scene feels schematic and contrived.

Throughout the story, Gaitskill shows misdirection skills worthy of a closeup magician--the tale is so skillfully designed and the words so smoothly crafted as to almost to conceal its lack of compassion--or perhaps even its hatred?--for its main character, the father.

Although it is shown that the father was wronged by his own dad, and that as an adolescent he idealistically hoped for perfect moments in an imperfect life, Gaitskill seems to punish him at the end by showing his wife physically turning away, as if joining their daughter in rejecting him.

On the back cover of the book, Gaitskill's stern visage looks out from her author's photo as if to defy the reader to question her integrity as an investigator into the human heart. I suppose it's the next best thing to showing her both stern AND barefoot, but you know how thumbnail-sized these author pix are: no room for toes. My take on "Tiny, Smiling Daddy" is that it mostly does a sterling job of reminding men (and women too) of all the reasons not to ever have children nowadays, in particular daughters. It is one of the most depressing stories I've ever read.

The narcissism implied by the book's title, Because They Wanted To, represents to me the epitome of the current view that insists that modern females are only really women if they are impatient, aggressive, impulsive, and self-centered. And how can foolish, brutal, reductive men--addled by grandiosity and testosterone, ever out of touch with the mysterious and impenetrable miasma of the Eternal Feminine--dare to ask for rational reasons in the realm of human behavior?

As in, “Why are celebrities photographed barefoot??”

On Monday 3/13/06 in the New York Post, columnist Elizabeth Hayt wrote about city gals who have long lists of requirements for their "perfect man." She writes about women who might dump an otherwise decent guy because he doesn't like golf as they do, or doesn't dress exactly the way they prefer. It was another gloomy thing to read, but it only confirms what I often see on the streets of New York: women walking around with a posture and arrogance that seems to indicate they think they are Cleopatras, rather than average Janes encumbering their average lives with too many damn mind-games.

Baby, you can’t fake being Cleopatra! And I don’t mean you gotta have a barge on the Nile. You can ride the subway, but still rule if you’re really a queen.

But the Royal Feminine cannot be faked!

Sir Cranky knows the real thing when he sees it.