dear ndugu

i am not a nicholson fan, per se (though he does not offend me in any way, save for his turn in 'the departed'--barf!), but i love the bit in 'about schmidt' wherein he writes regular, copious letters to his sponsored child ndugu. it all starts out appropriately as an introduction from warren [nicholson], the lonely benefactor, to a 6-year-old tanzanian boy, eg: hi, i'm warren, i send you money, so you can stay alive, i can mention i have you at cocktail parties, etc., etc. soon, warren is unloading in his letters details about his wretched wife and miserable existence, and, if i recall correctly, expletives (but whatever: the dude is tanzanian, and 6). the letters become a journal for this journal-averse sad sack. the movie, readers, is not a good one, but i must note here that also screen siren kathy bates gets naked (and, imo, that's worth a netflix).

ladies, i have had ndugus. i mean, i have not sent relatively negligible sums of my own currency that would make a profound difference to a skinny, naked child in a third-world country--but i did write lengthy, frequent emails to cute boys. and similarly, i expected/received nothing in return and talked about them at parties.

i met my first ndugu during a particularly beautiful autumn in northern california. he traveled most of the winter and i wrote him, fully believing that he would not respond, being on the road, but i cared not. all i endeavored to do was amuse/entertain him, even if a little. he replied on occasion (which i faithfully celebrated with an extra vodka or two), and, since i too traveled, our paths crossed several times. we always had a rollicking time--skiing and partying--he'd even gushed about my witty--yet poignant--emails. so operation ndugu proved a wild success. in the end, i even wrote a story about that winter fling, which was later published in a ski magazine (the editor hailed it as 'the perfect mix of skiing, drinking, and chasing tail'; my friends called it 'ski porn'). ndugu #1 was less pleased by this, but by that time the season had ended and, with it, my affection.

i don't plan ndugus; ndugus happen. i do not meet dudes and say: self, you're gonna barrage this man with emails and messages and, reply or no reply, you're gonna be tenacious like suckling--let the lonely drunken inanities begin! readers, i am not so masochistic, or pathetic. (well....) dammit, the point is: don't be discouraged if a man refuses to acknowledge your existence, for it is not up to him alone: it takes two to commence to tango, two to tango, and two to end the tango. diligence is a virtue, and sometimes men just cease resisting: they fatigue--they can't run (or disregard) forever. sometimes men get so weary they just plain forget they don't find me particularly attractive or likable (yay me). yes--men are no match for us women, with our innate loquacity and predilection for denial. maybe i'd even feel compunction if the act didn't have a slight element of altruism to it, for to give something in order to receive in return, if you ask me, isn't giving at all. when people talk of karma, i say, 'smarmy bastard.'