Gettin' back into the advice game.

So, I had a couple old advice letters that never got answered in 2004 (I'm talking about my once-defunct advice column, Ray's Place, which you can find on the Achewood website). They'd been kickin' around in my inbox for a while just doin' no one any good, so the other night after a little Braveheart and Blue Label I was in kind of a noble mood and decided to take a stab at them. Funny thing is, I really got a kick outta it! Guess I just needed a little time away to help me realize that I really do enjoy tacklin' the messy situations folks get themselves into.

Some tips for writing in to Ray's Place:

1. Brevity is best. I got like a five page email from some dude with fifty thousand details and I could not read it. If it's too long for me, then it's definitely too long for someone who doesn't want to help you. Try to write about a paragraph. Don't know what a paragraph is? It is three sentences maximum and none of them involve a self-estimation of your particular level of "skill with the ladies." I'll decide that, Mr. Writes-to-a-Cartoon-Cat.

2. Have a clear problem. This one letter I got was all about a long-distance relationship gone sour, trouble getting baseball tickets, and car trouble based on snowy weather. In the end the guy just thanked me for reading and signed off. No question mark anywhere. What?

3. Don't just copy-and-paste the latest Letters page from Nugget Magazine, Mike from Seattle.

Okay, I got a pretty good bag of questions this week and I think I will use some time to answer them soon. But not here. You have to go to Ray's Place for that.

-=Ray=-

Treasure.

Dang, I nearly forgot to say anything about Treasure, the high class escort I had recommended to me by Imaginationn, that dude at the club. Last week I called her up and we arranged a little rendezvous at my crib, and I was six kinds of ready to mack. I was Clooneying in this crisp new Battori Uomo and my classic Tom of France.

I guess I was expectin' kind of a Tina Turner-type black stockings chick. Treasure was this little tiny person who seemed like a teacher who was real anxious to get done and leave. She was already taking quick glances back at her car while I said hello and let her in. Her enthusiasm did not improve. Her car was this kind of bad purple Ford Tempo with minor sun damage to the roof and hood paint.

When I suggested we have some Moët and cool it on the King-Size she got real nervous and said she didn't know about that.

Now, I am not a stone cold psychologist or anything, but I could tell right away this wasn't the same chick I had talked to on the phone. I took down a few suds and said as much, in a pretty nice way. I slapped her on the shoulder real friendly and said, "admit it!"

Since she obviously wasn't a pro she broke "character" and started to cry a little bit while she held her purse real tight against her chest. I handed her my handkerchief and said we could talk. I like when afternoons get weird, and I was ready to roll with this.

Apparently Treasure had been double-booked (she was having a bad time with her new scheduling software) and so she asked if her cousin, a third grade teacher (!) would turn my particular trick. She (the cousin, my guest) had never done that before, but her class was on a field trip with a different class, and since teachers get paid flat dick, she acquiesced. Turns out she don't drink and she only ever been with this one guy who left to go into the Army and he was coming home in six months and he had proposed to her on AIM during a latrine break.

I ain't a homewrecker, so I swilled some more Moët and gave her all kinds of pep talks about life. I said it was great to be a good person and obviously she had what it took because she was even willing to help out her cousin Treasure. We even laughed a little bit about how Treasure might have made some bad decisions in her life.

To keep from having to do awkward kisses or hugs or even any contact at all when she left, I carried down the mostly empty Moët bottle and both glasses and also this one couch pillow that I said I had been meaning to wash. I showed her to the front door and said Good Luck In Life and that Treasure didn't need to call me back. She kind of said a small squeaky "Bye!" and walked with her head down toward her car. I closed the door.

Through the door I could hear that the Tempo's starter was bad. Her engine didn't turn over for about ten tries, then she gave up. I watched out the window and about a half hour later this AAA truck showed up and gave her a jump, and she drove off. I think her crappy little car even left an oil stain on the flagstones.

Oh well, every idea for a good time can't necessarily turn into a good time. As for me, I ain't plan to call Treasure anymore, 'cause that was a wack-ass move to sub the lay out to an untrained amateur, so I guess I got to head down to Napoleon's or the mall and see if I can't bungle up some thonky bootay.

I am horny.

Man, lately with my crud luck and the rainy weather, I am basically a member of the Klondike Club! I said that phrase earlier to Beef and he didn't have any idea what the Klondike Club was. Basically, the Klondike is like this area of Alaska or somethin' and it was mainly an area without women, mainly bein' explored by extremely grizzled dudes who had no outlet for sex for months or years at a time. That is what I meant by that. Beef said he understood and said something about Jack London and a mink pelt, but I didn't catch most of it 'cause he was mumblin'. You know how he is, all intellectual.

So what's a fellow to do? I'm probably one of the few guys who doesn't j/o, and I ain't that into the idea of a plain old alley b/j from a chick who just ate barf on video tape for heroin, so I'm thinkin' maybe a high-class escort is the name of the game. I met this player at Seven Pines who rolled cognac large, usually with a posse and always travellin' to St. Moritz or Bath. You know the type. I hit him up for the lowdown on how to get in touch with a classy escort and cool as day he flicked out a business card and wrote a private phone number on the back with a delicious Mont Blanc fountain pen (yes, diamond on the nib, tha Qínky). Dude gave me a wink and said to use his name when I called. Twenty-four hour service, anywhere, anything. Then he and his dudes smoothed off and got into this sick Bentley, his man at the wheel. I tucked the card into my pocket and privately canceled that afternoon's round.

I sent Little Nephew to the arcade with a little roll of Jacksons and poured myself a glass of Moët. I wanted to be primed and in the luxurious mode. I put on my Prada sandals and sprayed some Tom of France.

Here's how the phone call went:

RAY: [dials new Nokia hands-free]

[RECIPIENT OF MY CALL]: This is Treasure. What can I call you?

RAY: Hey sweet thing, this is Ray. Imaginationn sent me.

TREASURE: Aww, that's nice. He's a real good friend of mine.

RAY: Maybe you and I could get to be friends?

TREASURE: You sound like a real nice man, Ray. I'd like that.

RAY: So, is there a hotel where we could see if we are friends?

TREASURE: Your choice, player. [giggles]

RAY: [EXTREMELY horny at this point] come to my house

TREASURE: Ooh! I'd like that. I'll be there in half an hour, Ray.

RAY: I'll ice the Moët, Treasure. Wear something black that shows you off a bit.

TREASURE: My pleasure, Ray. Byyyyyye.

Five minutes later she called back to get my address and that was that. I'm expectin' her any minute now. I got another Moët on ice and a couple jimmies slipped in convenient places around the bedroom (under pillow, under glass of water on nightstand, hidden in sock on floor by dressing table, taped to bottom of Aveda soap bar in shower, etc).

No luck with the gardener lady.

So I was pretty sure I could move the beans with my gardener, who is this cute young chick that comes and handles the basic maintenance of my bloody mary vegetable beds. She's kind of intriguin', in a not-Ray's-typical-date type of way. Sorta mousy and skinny, like vegan-lookin', but with real worn-out overalls and real plain hair and Ben Franklin glasses. I don't know why that turned my motor, but I guess I'm just a sucker for the female in almost any form. She has this special quality of a real nice ass, I should mention. Despite her mad-skinny and no boobies frame, she got some phonky hippo buns jumpin' in the back of those overalls. It is crazy that a chick who is so skinny could have such a luscious-seeming ass. I guess that's one of the main deals in life, though: there is often a good surprise.

Anyhow, I managed to get up before she left one day, and I sauntered out with a nice little pitcher of mimosas and a few Atlas flutes on a wooden tray. I was all about quenching her thirst as she finished her shift, and I was decked out in a pretty fly Brooks Brothers spring tennis sweater and slacks. I was an ad, basically, for the high life. Right there by the vegetable beds. If you showed a person me, they would want the high life.

So I set it all down on the teak picnic table I had installed by the garden and sat down to light a Nat. Soon she sees me there and I wave and say "Come have a tipple with old Ray!" She stands real quiet for a few seconds, then points at a little jar of sun-tea she's got brewin' on the birdbath.

Now, I felt like she might be just feelin' shy, and not want to interact with the master of the house. I assured her it was okay to join me, wasn't no photographer watchin' in the bushes. She came over to the table real business-like and asked me what I wanted.

I am not usually accustomed to someone doing that. There was a tray of cocktails, and I was decked out, and it was a lovely springtime day, and there was a seat for her. It was like watchin' two Hydrogen molecules not bond with an Oxygen molecule. Rules just wasn't bein' followed, you know?

I could tell this was gonna be tricky, so I asked in a real polite voice that she have a seat. Any decent person has a seat when offered, right? Not this dame. She said "No thank you, I think I'll stand," and crossed her arms. What did I ever do to her? Would I act that way down at the dump co-op she lives in with a bunch of gutty old hippies and 19 year-old dudes who throw nails on the highway? You bet your ass not! Ray Smuckles is the cream. He has decency.

Since she was standin' there and it seemed like we were about to have a conversation of official sorts, I collected the situation and said that we had no choice but to let her go. She did kind of a vegan snuffle-type thing and turned and walked out. She banged the gate real hard and yelled "capitalist pig!" at me.

In my mind, as I sat there with my mimosa in my fresh-pressed sweater, I thought: if I am a pig, they why did you come and do what a pig wants. Why did you do work for me. What does that make you. If you are so principled, then why did you take bucks from a pig in order to make him happier and I suppose more pig-like. Also, I am sad I never got to press my junk between your goddess ass cheeks.

As it was, I went inside and fried up an awesome piece of leftover Easter ham and did a pretty fine Eggs Benedict with a ton of french fries on the side. My drink? You guessed it! A fine bloody mary. Life is good on my terms...that's the only way to live.