Sorry I have’t posted any new stories lately.  I’ve been pretty busy.

I do like this one.

(Inspired by this feature article.)

Old white skin is loose and thin, flimsy between my fingers, like chicken flesh made human. There’s only one patch of skin on a young white woman’s body that even compares to nearly every geriatric inch of an old white woman’s skin — only one… one remote, discreet patch that I can’t recall right now. The first time I stroked old white skin, it felt like the discarded pork fat that killed my pappy. I yearned for it more than Marion Berry craved an 8-ball of cocaine. That singular phrase, “I’m on it like white on rice,” can describe the transparent look and feel of that skin.

Oh, but I had reasons for my craving that were socially sound. For years, I hid behind the notion of young black men leaving their black women under the age of 40 for any white woman with a pulse. A black woman hitting puberty is like Kryptonite to a black man, so I thought. He goes young or younger, average girth or big, average-looking or UGH-LEH or drinks a 40 with his homeys and looking for trouble. Old white women are thrilled to get the black man that they couldn’t get with in their younger, baby-making years, for Civil Rights done happened. It’s not my fault; it’s those black women that wanted me so much that I had to run away.

Well that’s a damn lie. Truthfully, I attract a decent percentage of black women. Heck, some of them aren’t too shabby on the eyes

More than enough black women want me that I could split my paycheck for alimony for a fortnight, but I don’t want them.

I want old white women. And they want me. We look at each other and exchange a sultry glance of lust and fear, passion and purse clenching in those fertile few seconds. And our attraction is based first and foremost on race. Oh, we aren’t one of those pairs who “tear that ass up” with one of a different race or dutifully come together but out of a greater feeling of interracial brotherhood and sisterhood. Not as liberal hippie men and women do we seek each other out. The welfare lines has made it easier to get the mad hookup. Women advertise: ivory frisky for ebony. Men text: I WANT 2 HIT THAT OLD WHYT ASS. We aren’t the same people who cry: Race ain’t all there is, y’all. It is all there is. We want to get with the swirl.

Despite the fact that some amount — I can’t remember the source… let’s say 94 percent — of single Americans have dated outside of their race, that purposeful seeking of the specific other makes some, especially white men, more uncomfortable than Brokeback Mountain.

We are what they blacken and whip: black men and old white women who come together because we want that pasty and dark ass. They are bitter about us taking their unwanted women. Old white women are seventy six and a third times more likely to marry a black man than a white man is to marry one of those… black women. White men can grab statistics out of their air, too, in representing their argument. But in truth, white brothers, we’re after that wrinkled ass, not the commitment and they aren’t long for the Earth anyway.

Yes, that ass!

The men who go after the old white women is a spin-off of black-woman connoisseur Thomas Jefferson’s (also a U.S. president) “always take hold of things by the smooth handle,” for the black man’s handle is large and the old white woman’s handle glove is cavernous. According to some unnamed school of thought, black men turn to white women when baby’s lookin’ fine and they wanna — as the poet Ginuwine once said — “jump on it.” It’s a “damn, girl, you easy” reaction.

When we get to the “damn, girl, you easy” place, they know it, and they are already halfway in the grave. Old white women are more grateful, accommodating and easier to shut up than black women. They know how to cook meatballs, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. An old white women is so damned fine because she knows how to make some meatballs.

Old white women have something black women don’t have anymore: shawls. They clearly know that their necks are delicate. Black women appear to be waiting to catch their death of cold to learn whether they are resilient. Yet old white women know that they are fragile, one step away from fatal pneumonia, something black women would name their child. They make you feel like a man that needs looking after, after you grip it and rip it. I can go all out when I am with them. How many black women can treat a man like a gentleman and a succubus of life energy?

I often felt in my Black period that only during lustful sessions of freakin’ it that the connection between me and the world was as light as cornbread, encompassing my intimacy like a cast iron skillet. It takes a lot of sexin’ for two black people to be in the same room together. These old white women, so alive by the waning days on their calendar, slice through that cornbread and latch on with their delicate bodies, freeing me and I can truly get with it. I am like the driver of a Cadillac hooptie with a fine-ass bitch that can shoot a gun out the window. I know I can yell, “Move bitch, get out the way!” but there’s no need. On the other hand, the last time I waxed some black ass, we chugged along on a crowded bus, and she was like Mabel “Mama” Thomas from What’s Happening, Raj and Dee’s mother that disappeared sometime after the first season and never came up in conversation for some reason.

My current girl, a spry Medicare recipient, seduced me via butterscotch candy at a senior center while I was doing community service. Without saying a word, she felled me under her spell, presented with her drawn-in eyebrows. She didn’t motion me over or ask me to see pictures of her grand kids until she knew that I wouldn’t take her Social Security check. Both quaint and hip, she has a butt that won’t quit. I was asking her if she wanted to go downtown 30 minutes after that candy.

Another afternoon, in that same senior center, a different old white woman, a spry pensioner, asked me to help her off of her feet.

I don’t doubt that there are some old white women who can’t get down on it or make meatballs. Personally, I have not experienced one that can’t. (True, I am not dating some broke-ass woman, but I didn’t do that when I dated black, so clearly and without doubt, I am an equal opportunist.) They look better than black women, they hold, coddle and top it off better than black women. Statistically, their vaginae are only a fraction of a meter larger on average, but they seem friendlier and whiter.

Black women under 40 still have their waistlines and standards — if they ever had them. They carry youth, courage and firm breasts above their plump asses. Perhaps a good part of that firmness is their courage. Even the youngest ones look courageous somehow and deeply fearless. They soldier on despite any setback that would fell the whitest of women. Surely, our culture as much as biology has made them braver, grittier, less-pushover versions of themselves just at the point where black men and old white women and Eskimos are browbeaten within an inch of their lives. Society undervalues the black woman, leaving her scrappy and bold when she realizes under the age of 40 that she’s all that.

With the exception of some college women at Freaknik after a few Mad Dogs, black women don’t turn me on anymore.

That admission put me in the same grouping as the unpopular geek only interested in Asian women. While black men my age will shake their heads at me, not understanding why I’m not chasing down a young, thin white woman, I feel a kinship with the dorky nerds. We are the same, me and that awkward geek, drawn to the exotic object of lust, not caring that the forbidden fruit doesn’t know about the term “baby mama” or prenuptial agreements.

Break down the roots of attractions all you want — like so-called scientists will do, just because — and you won’t be able to formulate a good answer why we want to sink the canoe. Desire pours out like a 40 on Dre Day, and it is delightfully oblivious to others who just don’t know. Yet until just now, I opined that my passion was like affirmative action, because it was a reward for my suffering.

Halfway through my last booty call with a black woman, I realized that little smoke rings of courage and audacity were escaping her ego like fur from a wolf shot down from Sarah Palin’s helicopter. This woman was at least mildly secure in herself, and I wanted to tell her to go fix me some food, submit to me and cater to my every whim. I would have climbed off her and told her to get her ass out, but she seemed to expect that — like she wanted to start a fight. I couldn’t give into her desire and make her louder and angrier. My Northern cousins would describe her general aire as “uptight” or “like the president.” Into the second double dip of ass-freakin’, I wanted to get my ass out and I didn’t notice that she said that she was late because she stopped taking her pill.

What did she think would turn me on more: That I didn’t know she was late because of her not taking her pills since Clinton was president, or that she wanted me to be the father of her baby because we already had three kids?

I cannot even imagine an old white women having a baby without the horrific black magic of modern medicine.

That was my last token black women. I recently came out of my race-exclusive closet and told my friends, “I love old white women. I’m not attracted to uppity black women under 40 and I am not dating them anymore. Really, I don’t love them hoes.”

Nobody was dumbstruck.

I’m an introvert.  It took me a long time to admit that.  Well, that and it doesn’t really go with being manic (which, totally under control, thanks).  So after years of being “bubbly”, “perky” and “smiley” kill me now I’ve evolved into someone who laughs, is happy, smiles and who needs a minute, please.

This week has zapped every last ounce of energy I have.  Being that it’s only Tuesday, I’m afraid the rest of the week is going to be a little long and/or deadly.  My wife deserves my eternal gratitude (or at least tonight’s gratitude) for letting me come home, head to the basement and quietly sit under a blanket while the tv hummed.  You wish you were married to me, I know.

Those 30 minutes of quiet made a tremendous difference in my attitude.  My headache faded (more on acupuncture coming later), my mind relaxed, my shoulders loosened up and inside I folded in on myself.  That sounds a little like crumpling but it was more like being a morning glory, tucking away the blues and purples at night and folding wide open in the sun.  Today was about the tucking.  Maybe also tomorrow and the next day and the next and…

Me and a friend have created a new online tv series just to pass the time and to do whatever we please with it. The premise is of course being a parody news station (like Onion News for example..which is fucking great) and here’s the video below of the pilot episode

To subscribe to the YouTube channel just click on the link below:

www.youtube.com/jimmywooderry

Picture Courtesy http://www.frenblog.com/illusion/wp-content/uploads/2006/12/young-old-woman.jpg

Personally, its hard for me to see the  younger woman in this picture. Older women always overshadow younger women. I know, men always leave their wives for younger women and all that, but older women always, always, find a clever way out of things. They are more manipulative and quick on their feet. As a result, they are taken more seriously. I always pretend to be older than I really am

The above picture is the world famoue illusion, showing a picture of both a young woman and an old lady. Personally, it took me ages to find the youngun, it really wasn’t that obvious. Which brings me to my point earlier than I thought it would – old women overshadow young women.

We always hear stories about husbands dumping their wives for a 20 year old, actresses despising the teenagers who seem to attract much of the limelight, and the list goes on.

However, I strongly believe that once you are out in the real world, it is always the older women who are one step ahead. They are smarter, more clever, vicious, and what not. I must give credit where it is due – the little ones are pretty devilish too, but they fall flat on their face a million times before they learn how to manipulate the right way. Thats where the older woman takes the cake away – they know exactly what to do, and when.

At work, I have always found while you get more attention, nobody will take you seriously if/because you are young, good looking (6.5+ on a scale of 1-10) and smart. The older woman can sense danger miles away, before even the new beaut realizes that she has the power to shake the ground under someone elses feet. So beware of sharp edges, and play detective at all times.

Picture Courtesy http://www.frenblog.com/illusion/wp-content/uploads/2006/12/young-old-woman.jpg

I think these two make a lovely pair.

Source: superbomba

Chestnuts with my morning paper

Pancakes for no special reason

Bamse said “if you’re big and strong, you have to be nice”  (Om du är stor och stark, måste du vara snäll)

I was skimming through my twitter page, when I saw my professor sending the most HALARIOUS news report I have seen in my entire life.  A 107 years- old woman is about to leave her 22nd husband and thinking to get married for the 23rd time !!!!!

Age never matters with many people- CNN.com

First, I just started laughing for about five minutes, and then I just stopped for a while. What a 107 years old Egyptian woman could do??? how the elderly people in my country do after they turn 70 or even 60 ??? When I started thinking, I saw it extrmely shocking, old people in my country are waiting to die the minute they turn 65 or 70. Why is that?? Look at how old people live in other cultures. In US, retirement is the best time ever to go out, travel the globe, after performing all duties either at family level or professional life.

If this woman was in Egypt, how the society would react to that. Widows in Egypt, even if they are still in thier 30s, are looked down upon if they remarried  (not stereotyping, this is from several experiences I have seen). Women are expected to bury themsleves with thier dead husbands . In some parts of rural Upper Egypt, if women get off thier black cloth, they would be considered unfaithful, they should wear it for thier entire life, although in Islam, the maximum time for a woman to wear black is only 3 month!!!!

Halarious as it seems, this article just showed me how different people are, and how we are not appreciating the old’s right to live, those ones whom we owe so much …..

Will you regret the things you are doing now when you grow old?

The glory of young men is their strength: and the beauty of old men is the grey head.

Proverbs 20:29 King James Version, The Bible

I have to share this story. I ran into an older lady at the store today while I was doing my Thanksgiving menu shopping that made me blush and feel twelve years old. I watched her coming down the aisle towards me. Gray haired and I’m guessing about 85 years old. A sweet grandma outfit and a smile on her face. She pushed her cart right up next to mine, and leaned over.

“Dear, how long did it take you to grow your hair that long? It’s just beautiful.”

I’m used to the attention my hair gets. It’s the one thing that everyone comments on. I swear I could have warpaint all over my face and no one would see it. Yes, my hair is down to my waist, it’s blonde, it’s thick…sue me, I’m Swedish.

“Pretty much my whole life, I just trim it occassionally to keep it out of my pants,” I said.

She reaches out to stroke my hair and her ring gets caught in the strands. She apologizes. I laugh. What she said next surprised me.

“I bet your husband gets tangled up in it too when you have sex.”

lol What was I suppose to say? She smiled, winked, and pushed her cart away. I’ve thought of her all day. We often think that the older generation is out of touch with the “real” world. They didn’t experience the freedom we had growing up, choosing what paths we walked, or what kind of social life they’d enjoy. I bet you that this sweet grandma was a wild woman in her time. She gave some man a run for his money. Maybe she dared to go skinny dipping, or snuck out of the house to secretly meet the boy down the road. I could see the young woman in her eyes when she winked.

She gave me a gift today that she doesn’t even realize. Somehow she showed me a younger version of her and I connected with that woman. Bless her!

To note, these shots were all taken this past May.  I am not in Colombia, as many have asked, but I will be back to explore Colombia’s Caribbean coast for the winter holidays.  For now, there is still much to see from PASTO!

We have an old lady that lives above our apartment. She is so old that she needs live-in help. Help to walk and help with everything! This morning she is moving furniture! HOW? she is an old old old woman? She is often moving the furniture around and it always boggles my mind.

If you need a Super Granny to move the things around in your house, I know her and will be renting her out by the hour. Contact me for details.

November 1^st. 2009

Supported by Film London, the Phoenix cinema in East Finchley started a series of monthly events consisting of a matinee screening of a film featuring an older woman, followed by a panel talk and a discussion.

The first film shown in January 2009 was Fassbinder’s Ali, Fear Eats the Soul (1974). The session was very well attended. Unfortunately, the panel did not serve this great classic very well. Two out of the three were not familiar with the film or the director. As is usual in Q & A the audience were extremely articulate in expressing their opinions. But did they learn anything about the subject of older women in films in general or about this film in particular? I ask this because the day was advertised as a Study Day.

I could not attend the September showing of Sokurov’s Aleksandra (2007). This film was billed in a very well produced flyer as ‘Older women and younger generations’. I will comment on this inaccurate and misrepresenting title at a later date.

On October 28^th the audience was small. Only one member (U3A) of the panel turned up. The film shown was Bertucelli’s Since Otar Left. The flyer describes this film as ‘Women in a changing society’.

I wonder to what degree the expectations raised by such a simplistic and misguiding categorisation spoil the cinematic experience. During the discussion the contributions of the audience concentrated mainly on the relationship between Paris and Georgia, the two locations, the use of the French language in Russia and the history of USSR and Georgia, the role of Paris as a construct, the difference between East and West. This left little time to explore the depth and complexity of this very special film directed by a woman.

The narrative depends on the presence of an absent male in the household composed of a 90 years old woman Eka, her daughter Marina and her granddaughter Ada. Otar the son, brother and uncle has gone to Paris to find work. In the first part of the film Otar writes and phones home. In the second part Marina and Ada conspire to hide his death from Eka.

This family drama’s main characteristic is its lack of cinematic melodramatic features. There are no scenes of shouting and storming out, no hysterical explosions, no violent outbursts. Instead we have the love and tensions, the closeness but also the differences between the three characters and the effect of the death of the absent male on their lives. The mise-en-scene reflects in a masterful way the contradictions. There are nearly as many night scenes as there are day scenes. The lighting goes from the cold daylight to the warm hues of candlelight. The colours also express these changes in mood. The characterisation conveyed by superb subtle acting and an incisive script, highlights intergenerational relationships in all their complexity.

The old woman in this film is part of an ensemble and cannot be separated from the others. The different life trajectories of the three women, their different points of view, the past present and future, the quality of love and commitment, of caring, of dependance and autonomy, memory and emotions, secrets and protection of the loved ones  - so  many themes that could have been explored beyond the geo-political background that reviewers have tended to write about.

Once more I feel that an important film about women’s lives is neglected and in danger of being forgotten. Julie Bertucelli won the Cannes Festival Critics Week Grand Prize (2003), Best First Work Cesar (2004) and another 11 wins and 5 nominations for her film. Yet only 338,119 people saw it in 27 European countries. 8296 people saw it on the big screen in the UK as opposed to 183 978 in France. As older women we can give it the attention it deserves.

A festival traditionally celebrated on the 31st October each year, Halloween has ancient roots in the Celtic festival Samhain and the Christian festival of All Saints Day. The Celts, an ancient people thousands of years ago, inhabited the present day areas of Ireland, the UK and also northern France.  They celebrated a harvest festival, Samhain, on the 31st October. The festival was held to celebrate the end of the ‘light half’ of the year and the beginning of the ‘dark half’ of the year. This was a time of the year they associated with death and they believed on this night the borders between the realms of the living and those of the dead became thinner and spirits could pass back into the living world. They also held the ’spirits’ responsible for trouble caused and damage that would be incurred to crops, though the real culprits were probably a lot closer to home. However, they also held that these spirits enabled druids and Celtic priests to see the future more accurately. So during the festival these Druids and priests would be brought to tell the fortune of the coming year and also bring comfort to the Celts through the long, dark winter that lay ahead. Druids would also build large bonfires, the people would gather and walk between these as a ’cleanser’ but also to sacrifice crops and livestock. Costumes would be traditionally worn and fortunes would be told. Once the festival was over the celts would relight their hearth fires with the flames from these bonfires. The Celtic lands were eventually conquered by the Romans and they introduced two of their festivals which were combined with Samhain. One of these was ‘Pomona’ a celebration to honour the Roman goddess of fruit and trees, thought to be were the bobbing of apples comes from. The second was the October festival of Feralia, a day Romans had to honour their dead. Centuries following this, Christianity was spreading throughout the world and then Pope Boniface IV (550-615) introduced All Saints Day on November 1st. Today it is believed by some that this was an attempt to eradicate the Pagan celebrations and replace them with a related Christian, and church sanctioned, one. Eventually the day became known as All Hallows Day, with the day before it being known as All Hallows Eve and eventually, Halloween. Around 1000AD another festival day was introduced on November 2nd, called All Souls Day, a day to honour the dead. Together the three festivals (All Hallows Eve, All Hallows Day and All Souls Day) were known as Hallowmas. Today of course Halloween is celebrated by people dressing up in costumes and children going door to door ‘Trick or Treating’, which I used to love as a child. Though I remember one year, in 1983, my brothers and I were Trick or Treating in our new neighbourhood, having just moved to a new town, and when we knocked on one old woman’s door she threatened to call the police on us. At the time of course we just thought she was an old grouch. Looking back on it however I guess she was someone who was elderly and afraid. Anyway, Happy Halloween and thanks for reading.

What story comes to your mind when viewing the series?

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, but, whose shoe was it? Clearly it was either a really big shoe or a really tiny lady. Either way, it’s pretty weird. Is this the sort of rhyme that we really want to be teaching to our nursery-aged children? It sounds more like hocus pocus drugs talk.

This matter needs to be investigated and put to bed once and for all. I suspect the rhyme might even be a mere fabrication, but that’s just speculation at this stage. I’ll get my best men working on it.