The Treatment

There are two Bellagios, as far as I know. The Han took me to both of them. At the first, we drank fine vodka, which brought back memories of a nice Russian man.

I wish that I had loved him. He was so handsome, with a nice beach house, and fancy car equipped with a lovely vintage cell phone. He had such a charming and dashing air and was involved in a business I’ve always enjoyed, namely, importing and exporting, especially when I am the commodity being shipped.

I felt like such an idiot when I screwed up at a party he took me to and someone asked me which fabric swatch I preferred. Can I help what I like and don’t like? However, the Russian didn’t mind because he had been acclimated to much worse behavior from my predecessor. Public tantrums to be specific. That’s not my thing, but if that’s our thing, then have your people call my people and they can screech all through your lunch like hyenas.

Mostly, he imported Russian vodka and condoms. He wanted so much to treat me to the first but not to the second. However, since I did not love him, I just liked him a lot, I selected both options.

Silly me. There have been a fair number of Russian men in my life, even before I started using “Caprizchka”. I think I have a thing for them. Or maybe their thing has a thing for me. I’m never sure.

My Russian magician’s story appeared to have a very happy ending because the girl who he ended up with after me seemed to be perfect for him. I was so happy for them both especially after having known the woman who had preceded me, and who ruined every man she touched, or so it appeared.

She touched a lot of men. I don’t even know if she is still around. I’m afraid to even say her name. What a toxic person she was.

One of the men who she touched was my first Master. I should just leave this story at that because I have great sympathy for him today, particularly after my dealings with a woman one degree of separation from Carlos Castaneda. The two men had a lot in common and so did the two toxic women.

Besides, I am only now just starting to forgive him, my Master that is. It would seem that he had a harem far larger than he was capable of either managing or protecting, and this made other men very angry. Anger does not help these situations. Neither does one woman going around damaging men left and right like some sort of ghost in the machine. Naturally, she put me in her cross-hairs as well in terms of psychotic behavior. However, she was a fine seamstress and for people obsessed with costumes and pageantry, she was a fine asset. None for me, thanks.

I’d rather wear a dress made out of feedbag.

It would seem that the male victims of toxic women always seem to find me, and on a good day I can help them recover. On a bad day, they seem to assume that it is my fault that they have been hurt, even if it is a role I did not choose. Fortunately, I have more good days than bad days. If I didn’t hurt them in the first place however why do they expect me to pay for it? I assume that they believe that I must have had an easier life than they did. In the case of most women, that’s probably true.

Of course, regular readers of my blog know that for me sympathy is not an aphrodisiac. If tears are yours then I’m going to need something to cry about. It will take some doing. It’s a game I like to play with men who I like. First one to cry buys the drinks. They all expect that it is going to be me. If I really really like him however then I’ll choose the beverage around which the evening is to be centered. It might be a bit salty and perhaps even a little bit dirty.

Time for a little music:

Love that song. Reminds me of that run down Alligator Alley I had to do regularly in order to get my flower watered.

Flowers need to be watered and are grateful for the watering. One flower in particular.

My Russian magician (not really, but, there’s a funny story there as Los Angeles readers probably understand) treated me the way that he found that women liked to be treated. It was a good system. Lots of women like spa treatments. It’s a nice gift. Unfortunately, for me, that gift backfired. However, if Carlos Castaneda were there he would have said something like “the spa incident” meant that I was not in the right place at the right time. It was not because aforementioned ghost in the machine had poisoned the mud. It was all a misunderstanding.

Some people are like that. I believe the line goes like this:

“If I can’t have him then no one can!”

Imagine this woman plus psychotic screaming and you’ll perhaps get the right idea.

It was at Lake Como, not at Bellagio, but at a tiny restaurant near there where I had my first up-close-and-personal contact with a live Nazi. Yes I know that they don’t like to be called that, but, do you expect complete historical accuracy here? There was a civic sculpture within walking distance that had been horribly defaced but I could still make out some of the words, in… I forgot to count how many languages.

It commemorated The Holocaust. It was sobering to read some of the graffiti. ‘Wow,’ I thought. ‘I guess there really is a Neo Nazi movement in Europe. Christopher Hitchens was right!’

I got to meet Hitchens at Berkeley or should I say, “Cal”. He looked like he had had a whole lot to drink and had stopped wondering when the smart coeds were going to throw themselves at him. I think that was 2003 or 2003? I’m not sure.

If he hadn’t looked quite so much like he had just had a spa treatment I probably would have introduced myself to him. I’m not talking about an ordinary spa treatment here, I hope that my readers understand why I must be coy about the specifics.

The Han was what is known in Hong Kong as a “Rice Catholic.” He was mildly perturbed about the humiliations he had suffered in his life at the hands of Westerners and some other people more near to where he had been born. I’m kidding of course. He was so consumed by rage that it is a wonder his head didn’t blow off like a cannon. He found a way to blow off some steam however and I suppose I am the whistle.

In this particular case, that is the “rice” part, these Westerners were Irish Jesuits who ran the school he attended. They could have been any of a variety of extractions of Irish. They might even have been Scotch-Irish. (I know that this particular spelling offends some people and I’m sorry. The next Scotch is on me, OK?).

However, The Han’s resentment reached back a lot further in time than his own tumultuous life as he explained to me during our travels. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art he brought me to his ancestor’s scroll, and yes, I was impressed. In fact, the two of us got the full treatment. Access does my heart so much better than diamonds and pearls. I like to go deep. That’s just the kind of girl that I am.

It was some time later when he switched the resentment he had for Westerners to Jews; however, not such a radical switch that he let me keep my money!

Chinese peepo don’t wike it when Westners weep der mawney!

At Lake Como, The Han and I were having lunch indoors by the window and sipping frizzante. The Han explained to me that the reason that restaurants always seated us by a window was because we were such an attractive couple. We were “window-dressing.” It was a similar system used in China and Japan when it came to where employees were positioned within the buildings; except in business, it was a matter of honor for the aged rather than beauty. The Han had, among many other consultations, worked for an American automobile manufacturer. Some politicians too! It’s a little bit too close to a certain season for me to be more forthcoming about that last.

We were such an attractive couple that at every pharma junket we attended (usually by getting ourselves invited by another Chinese doctor), we would always win the raffle. We were delighted to be photographed accepting the prize. It was fun and with a beautiful portrait as a souvenir!

While having lunch at Lake Como, along came a very old man of German descent, handsome, tall, and erect. He saw the attractive couple in the window and I looked deep into his eyes, which were behind glasses that looked sort of like this (except cleaner, of course):

I will never forget that moment because the rage behind those glasses chilled me right down to the bone. What is with me and vampires? Why do they always find me?

I understand, old man, but, you see, California is a nice place where every extra woman gets a husband because they all have pure hearts free of artery-clogging saturated fats, with beautiful teeth white from lots of brushing, fresh breath, and no smoking.

Not the bad smoking I mean. Only the good smoking.

Don’t forget the spa treatment. You remembered! Flowers for me? Thanks!

Having had my own permaculture farm, I know what flowers look like. I also know what mud looks like. A lot of other liquids as well mixed in there, nice and rich.

If you’ve never had an extra special spa treatment like what I have experienced then you don’t know what you’re missing. That is probably just as well.

Somehow I made it out of that particular spa with a little mud of my own. Not a lot. I don’t need a lot. I don’t need what every other woman it would seem says that she needs. For me, having friends is all the wealth I need, but sometimes my friends need to be soothed and mere words aren’t enough. How can I be in more than one place at the same time?

Not so long before I posed for a series of beautiful photographs with The Han, I worked for a company which had a contract on the midrange computers which ran the digital machines one sees at bars in certain nice places. Most bartenders at those places do not understand why I prefer to buy my own drinks while perched at the bar engaging the other patrons. Neither do most Dicks. I have wasted a whole lot of men’s time in my life.

Why is everyone today always in such a hurry?


One thought on “The Treatment

  1. Pingback: The Acid Reflux Earring Collector | caprizchka

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