Will My Two Dreams Ever Come True?

if you haven't already guessed. I really do not feel comfortable (a sensitive social phrase started by some twenty-something's) at starting this sad story with a photo of myself. But frankly, a photo of a dog, cat, fish or peacock would not do it for me. So here I am.

I give my good friend, Delores Millican, Hamilton, Al., credit for this photo of me. She snapped this photo (circa, I have always wanted to use this term), 2009, in her restaurant in Hamilton, Ala., The Huddle House. I used to visit Delores, the manager, and friendly crew a lot back then, but nowadays, I do not have the money to eat there often.

But the fact remains, I want to do my followers justice by doing as best I can to bring my "three cheap dreams," to life and ask, (coining phrase ahead), "the powers that be," will these cheap dreams ever come true?

While some people dream of making a ton of cash, legal and illegal, be chauffeured from place to place in one of their ten Rolls Royce automobiles, never speak to their wife and die lonely and without purpose. These people have children who know how to manufacture "crocodile tears," at their funerals held in huge (but beautiful) cathedrals and then start blowing the millions they have greedily-inherited.

Although most of this sounds nice to my mortal side, but in the honesty I have, I would love to spend about two months alone, except for a regular dog named "Spencer," on a beautiful island far away from greed, hatred, two-faced Christians, and most of the politicians we know and cannot love for money. I am serious.

"Spencer" and I could sleep all day if we wanted. We could play until our hearts content in the sand and water and I could be a playful sea monster named "Zeke," and pretend to attack "Spencer," but not hurt him. I have always hated violent sea monsters. But I always loved "Cecil, the seasick Sea Serpent," when it was on television.

of my two-moths of solitude, except for "Spencer," on this gorgeous island, I know me better than citizens of all regions of the free and confined world. I would be so bored, (no offense, "Spencer"), that I would be at the point of tears.

Then something else amazing would happen. A mysterious-but-friendly chap (a word wealthy people use a lot) man from only God knows where, would pop-up out of a pretty cloud of gold and say to me, and "Spencer," now you can have a surf-side picnic with any female famous or non-famous with any type of food you want and all you and the female of your choosing can eat."

"Spencer," being the good dog would bark as if questioning our friendly guest. Hey, maybe it was God. Now I wish I had brought a more-respectable wardrobe than these khaki shorts and University of Alabama gray tee-shirt (see in my photo at top) that I really love.

I think for a few minutes while our mystery guest stands patiently and watches the waves break at his feet. Between you and I, I am just stalling in hopes that this friendly guy from parts unknown will really turn out to be Morgan Freeman or Anthony Hopkins.

With that not happening, I finally say, "Okay. Sorry to keep you waiting. I would love for a young Rita Hayworth to be my surf-side picnic guest."

And as most-mysterious people from the unknown say, "Very well, Ken. I shall fetch her in a flash." And he disappears in the same gold cloud that brought him to "Spencer" and me.

The beautiful and sexy, Rita Hayworth, dressed (as she is here in this photo), perfect for any picnic if you ask me, literally drives me nuts for about four hours--talking endlessly about herself, her career, her love life, and never asking me how she came from 1937 to 2014 and still looking "drop dead gorgeous."

And some nerve she had in not touching the wonderful grub that my mysterious provider gave us. Foods from all-over the world. Delicacies like truffles from France, honey-baked ham from Virginia, fresh shucked oysters from Baton Rouge and Maine lobster for Rita. I knew she was watching her figure along with every man in America.

She just nibbled a salad cracker, just half of it, took one sip of mineral water and kept on talking. Little did Rita realize that I had mental-communication skills and could summon my mysterious man who resembled Sebastian Cabot, best-known for his role of "French," Brian Keith's man servant on CBS' "Family Affair."

So I just brought my good friend back from where he came from and asked him, "Could you maybe give me an everyday, non-celebrity female guest. Rita got on my nerves."

He quickly apologized. I told him it was not his fault. And just look (at photo to right) whom he sent to me. Oh, we ate, talked, played with "Spencer," until daytime was just a memory.

Yes, she spent the night, but "Spencer" and I slept on the beach. I have my morals. In the morning before she woke up, my mysterious friend allowed me to serve her breakfast in the native hut that came with this dream package.

She was so happy. She ate. I had coffee. "Spencer" gorged himself on the 50-pound bag of Purina Dog Chow I had sent to him. Finally, the nameless gorgeous girl had to go. I looked sad. But she said that she was a college professor at New York University lecturing on Early American Literature.

She disappeared and like Rita, never asked how she got to visit this isolated island with "Spencer" and me.

This dream is cheaper than dream number one. In this dream I do not have "Spencer," or my mysterious friend who is the exact-replica of Sebastian Cabot. I do not know who designs these dreams, but I liked my powerful friend. And "Spencer," of course.

This dream is in my opinion, very practical and economical. All I want is to eat with a friendly, beautiful woman, maybe a woman of my age, rich, maybe, A writer, yes. Brunette, of course. And an out-of-the-way outdoor café. The French term is Al Fresco, I think. I heard Cary Grant say this to a woman in one of his sophisticated films.

All we do is eat a simple meal of grilled cheese, fish sticks, and coffee. Oh, sorry. This is my meal. She, we will call her, "Jayne," will have a New York Strip, a salad, warm French bread with garlic butter and a bottle of cold champagne which she just sips a glass or two because her brother, a film critic, died a ghastly-death due to abusing alcohol.

Do we experience romance? Not much. I am way too careful to just "have" romantic moments with a woman who has just stepped into my dream. Oh, "Jayne: is a pure delight, intelligent, well-spoken, charming and so witty that I laugh more than I am romantic.

"Jayne," has hazel eyes and naturally-long eyelashes. She wears very little make-up with is fine by me. I think most females look great without a lot of make-up, and to not offend any female on my follower's list, there are women I love who wear a generous-share of make-up for it gives them that sultry and mysterious classic-movie image. I love those movies.

Hold it! My dream suddenly goes up in smoke. Literally. The clouds of cinnamon-scented smoke billow all around us. I am scared, but do not scream just in case "Jayne" and I do have a romantic moment such as a kiss.

The smoke clears. Now I am with another woman, "Teresa," a nice American. I like her immediately. She does not talk as much as Rita Hayworth did in my surf-side picnic, but just sits and seemingly takes-in this dream I am having and enjoying herself.

Then it happens. I am angered when I should be glad. Our waitress, "Billie," strolls up to our table and asks for our drink order.

"Teresa," orders water. I order the check. I am angry. "Teresa" knows I am angry and tries to soothe me. Even "Billie" tries to soothe me. But both women fail.

Why I am so angry is having a female waitress. Before you get "up in arms" with me. I am old-fashioned in fantasy or reality. I do not think God put women on earth to serve anyone, especially a man. This was taught to me at age six. And grown stronger with my age.

Nothing against female waitresses or hostesses in 2014. I know that times change. And females who are working their way through college have to work somewhere, and this is not hard work, it is the feeling that angers me.

To me, "I" always want to be the sophisticated waiter who serves the elegant ladies. This is the truth, friends.

Oh no. I was about to start writing about my third cheap dream: "Being a waiter in early Hollywood."