It’s a Fine Vintage
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From time to time we receive contributions from our many fans. Here’s one from Francis in Bangkok.
Francis is a cat trainer, a highly successful one, which has gotten him onto the A list for charity functions attended by very old ladies with lots of money but decreasing amounts of time…
Here’s Francis’ letter from an octogenarian gala in Bangkok:
Today I’ve been out and about. Went to a concert again this afternoon. This was attended by the big & blue haired ladies of high society – and yours truly. About a hundred of them, I was the only swinging dick in the place. Probably the only one who wasn’t bothered about soiling the adult undergarments after the mushy buffet spread. The concert was a hodge-podge of gawd knows what kind of sappy Thai songs from an era even before their time. Prehistoric, in other words.
There I was, dying in my seat. What was I doing there, sandwiched between two of the oldest relics I’ve seen in a while? I was interacting with my clientele, all of them very old and powdered. I think I saw moth balls in their ears. I told myself had to get through this thing without going unconscious – I’m a robust snorer. I was also only two rows from the front and the only whitey, male, non-octogenarian, and there were cameras trained on me…
I spent the first two hours mentally recounting this morning’s funnys, redesigning my kids’ bathroom, balancing the checkbook – whatever I could do to stop myself from a self-inflicted case of strangulation on my own tongue. Finally, the audience’s Prozac must have been starting to wear off because the people near me began clapping and singing along. The coiffed and bejeweled performers began aiming the microphone at audience members. No! Not a sing-along, Karaoke style…
The band started up with some old American favorites and I realized that things might go from bad to apocalyptic very soon. The grandma divas in the next rows began trying to catch my eye, the wireless microphone was brought out, and beads of sweat formed on my upper lip and brow.
I had to get out of here, I had to run.
I spent the next 20 minutes shrinking in my chair, chanting quietly, “I’m invisible” like Dustin Hoffman in Little Big Man. It worked. Mercifully, the MC introduced the last singer and the final song and I knew I was out of the woods. After all, what were the chances of me being dragged up on the stage for the Green, Green Grass of Home, especially when it was being performed so uniquely? I let out a deep sigh of relief, and quieted my trembling guts – I had made it through this concert without making an ass of myself…
No! Oh my god, they’d started into a spontaneous medley! Halfway through the first chorus of I Am A Women In Love my relief turned to anxiety, but it was a false alarm. “I am a woe-man in ruv, annai do iny ting do getchew into my hut” echoed around the auditorium – and without my help. I spent the last 5 minutes of the concert choking, coughing, praying for my own pair of diapers so I could wet myself…
Well, I made it out alive to the dinner and was rewarded for my efforts when our table was served a bottle of 1963 Baron Philippe Rothschild Paulic. Apparently there was some concern whether the alcohol could be safely consumed with whatever meds were being used to make it through the fading twilight of the days, but that was okay with me and I drank the whole bottle and thought how lucky I was to be still young enough to think this was all amusing.
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