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, July 15, 2013

FONDLING BOOKS IN THE DARK

There are three lovely waitresses at restaurants I regularly visit who seem to have a yen for me, which of course is mighty pleasing. And all three of them are intelligent and temptingly youthful. This blogger, as you may have realized, has a perverse streak a mile long.

The problem is that I am not what they think I am, nor what would be best for them. In many if not most ways this blogger (me) represents the worst possible choice that they could make.
So, these are avenues I cannot pursue.


I will never provide them with a dwelling in the suburbs.

There won't be any pirate adventures on the high seas.

I can't speak their language as well as they think.


My perverse streak, which is a mile long, must take a backseat to decency, common sense, and realism. I'm just not the type to settle down in Mountain View or South City, mowing the lawn and diligently saving for retirement. Or even out in the Richmond or Sunset districts, tolerating my drunken Irish neighbors and purchasing a year's supply of toilet paper and fabric softener at Target.
Not gonna happen.
Too much insane optimism is required.

I'm a city dweller; realistic dreams amidst urban decay.

Plus you don't want me near a car. I drive like bomber pilot.


And while I may look like a rascal, with my devilish little beard and moustache, and distinguished middle-aged man good looks -- like a younger brother of the most interesting man in the world, but with cleaner habits and far better taste -- I never drink Dos Equis, I shall not raft down the Amazon to wrestle a grizzly bear or a Scotsman, and both Skydiving and Icefishing are not part of the programme.
Perhaps I'll goad suburbanites into doing something stupid.
But that's only impatience, as they'd do it anyway.
Cruel opportunism, really, but so easy.

My rascality is not standard-issue rascality.


The language thing is the real stumbler. My first language is English, Dutch is a close second, and everything else is a distant third.
Sound relationships are built on being able to communicate, and without speech fluently held in common, that just isn't possible.

This blog is in English. The people with whom I communicate best are native speakers of that language. And I should expect that they express themselves primarily in that tongue, else why would they come here?


American English is fundamental.


My mile-long streak of perversion appreciates the attractive appearance of a large spectrum of womanhood, but both sanity and practicality demand that we be able to talk to each other.


What if there's a black-out?



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