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 11, 2013


I was standing outside the Tosca Cafe on Columbus the other evening when a group of lively blonde ladies stumbled past. One of them hollered "hey boy, am I right that SHE isn't thinking?"
I had to agree. For all of them.
The evidence said so.


The young lady who asked the question was half my age. On the one hand it's flattering that she used the term "boy", as that indicates that I can still be regarded as young and vibrant, despite my creaking joints, long elephantine proboscis, and ancient grey-furred skittery lobster claws.
On the other, I am a little too mature to appreciate the casualness of the compliment.
I am not hung up about my age. Yet I am neurotic about it.

In nearly the same way that a tipsy blonde ditz blithely calling me 'boy' is disconcerting, being called "ah sook" (阿叔 "uncle") by an equally young lady in Chinatown is somewhat uncomfortable. Testimony to the fact that she is much more astute, and has keener faculties of observation -- keener faculties period, as she is neither drunk nor in any way a typical caucasoid ditzbitz -- but also an indication that men of my years are NOT in the running for the steaming hot Don Juan she secretly requires.

Why not? I've still got all my marbles!

And more to the point, I know where to go for good food!

In movies, the trim dapper middle-aged gentleman with the gleaming eyes and rascally smile ALWAYS gets the sweet young thing. Not in real life.
In the real world, the sweet young thing is far too intelligent and perspicacious to be taken in by my cosmopolitan charm and sophistication.

She instinctively realizes that underneath my Chow Yunfat-esque or George Clooney-esque veneer, there beats the heart of a crusty old fart. Someone who would shock her parents and aunties if she brought me home. A lover that her friends, relatives, and classmates would consider most unsuitable, and far too fossilized to be a sure bet, if they were ever introduced to me.
"He's too old", they would say, "and he's clearly a dangerous sort". Just look at those shifty eyes! You can tell he's a passionate ladies man, who merely wishes to wine you and dine you, then sweep you off your tiny feet!
As knights go, his armour has gone all rusty, and his white steed is knackered and arthritic; time to put the old goat out to pasture!

The problem, obviously, is all those friends and well-meaning relatives.
Your kin are too quick to judge, they've got preconceptions.
Avoid the problem by never letting them know.

They're distressingly unimaginative; stuff like that just kills romance.

There's this lovely little eatery I know of nearby.
Candlelight, attentive waiters, good food.
Call me if you ever need to talk.
I listen rather well.

And I'm probably far too antique and dessicated to grope you anyway.

You can hardly get more avuncular than that.

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


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