At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Monday, March 04, 2013


Chivalry is not dead in San Francisco. Recently a fresh-faced young adult tried to offer me his seat. AND he called me sir. After being startled, I demurred and thanked him for the offer. I shall now insist, for the record, that I do not look old. Just a little older. Yes, there is salt and pepper in my beard.
But I am far younger than Sean Connery, and a hell of a lot trimmer.
Repeat: not old. Not at all. And certainly not yet.
I'm barely past my juvenile delinquence.

I think of it as sprightly mature.
Still young, quite vigorous.
But no longer stupid.

Feel free to agree!

I suspect that factors contributing to the perception of 'old' are that I dress properly, and have no tattoos. That is rather 'old school'. In my day, by the way, we did not refer to that as 'old school'. I'm trying to show how hip I am by consciously using a locution from the teenage subculture. Hella yes.
No piercings either. Positively retro.

Still, rather sweet of that young fellow to be so gallant.
But I'm far too used to standing on the bus to avail myself of that opportunity. Possibly because the bus line I use most often has so many passengers much more deserving of a seat that it would be ungentlemanly of me to plonk my carcass down. That's something that the folks commuting from the avenues to jobs in the financial district do.

This blogger is far too healthy and fit for that. Ancient folks, and young mothers with infants, should sit. Pregnant ladies should sit. Young ladies with book-filled backpacks should sit.

I've still got a bathing suit body.
I shall stand.

*bathing suit body: please imagine one of those one-piece striped jobs that Edwardian sportive types wore in illustrations by Ogdred Weary or Eduard Blutig. Precisely so. But minus the obligatory handle-bar mustache.
Sort of the slightly reprobate country curate.
Un émeutier avec une odeur de tabac.
Alors, où est mon vélocipède?

Y at-il une boîte-sordide à proximité?

I'm only fifty three, in case you were wondering.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


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