DOES IT SMELL GOOD?

What did I do last night? I did precisely what any normal (and rational) person would do. On a Saturday night in San Francisco. Which is one of the most exciting cities in the known universe.


FOOD. ALCOHOL. INDULGENCE.

Enjoyed a simple dinner with a cup of Hong Kong style milk-tea.
Followed by a pipe-full of flake tobacco, and a slow amble through Chinatown down to the cigar bar.
Two glasses of Scotch whisky dawdled over for several hours.
More smoke, and small talk with rational people.
Then off to bed in the darkness.


There aren't too many normal (or rational) people in San Francisco. Judging by the ruckus in various spots. Inebriated young folks eating bacon-wrapped dogs. Large women with spike heels and cleavage, trolling for attention. Florid-faced middle-aged financial district types yowling over sports on the television. In between oggling cleavages.

"My breasts are better than your breasts, bitch!"

I often wish there were a quiet place somewhere on an alley, without television or any mention of the game, where the music was permanently off, the light was bright, and one could have cups of Hong Kong style milk-tea till two in the morning while reading.


As well as light up a pipe without getting yelled at.


RESTRAINT AND GOOD TASTE

You know, all of you exercise club yuppies and tofu-snarfing fashion plates really should consider that prowling for sex and greasy food in between fancy cocktails and loud yelling scares away nice people.
You are not nice, despite your expensive cologne. Perhaps they tried out that cologne on seal-puppies, thousands of suffering seal puppies, before they finally found a recipe that didn't eat through the flesh and cause howling painful death. All those seal puppies, killed just for you.
It cost one hundred dollars a bottle, but is it worth it?
The smell conflicts with the reality.

Maybe the key to being nice people is turning off your cell-phones, acting normal and rational, not getting drunk and ambulatorily sleep-barfing, and totally ignoring sports and cleavage.

This blogger does not watch sports, or stare at cleavage.

I do not like sports.

Cleavage is something I can keenly appreciate, in the right place and at the right time. If it's presented as a "look at me I'm a tacky ho" window display, I shall not bother.

I'll admit that cleavage can be far better than sports.
If it's demure. Private. Secret. Intentional.
Deliberate and selective.

In fact, demure private cleavage might make me forgo the Hong Kong style milk-tea, pipe tobacco, and quietly reading in a bright place till two in the morning.

No exhibitionism, no public spectacles.

Private cleavage; very tasteful.

It's just a thought.

Cleavage.



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