NIGHT OF THE MOCKING BIRD

This is disturbing: less than half an hour ago I had a charming curvy and cuddly Hunanese woman hanging on my arm. Who informed me in Mandarin that I was, in every way, perfect boy-friend material, and quite likely magnetically charged. Because I spoke Chinese.

There are three possibilities:

1) I have reached the stage where I just radiate loveable middle-aged white dudeness. In irresistible bucket loads.
2) I project vulnerability.
3) I am totally non-threatening.


The first is problematic because it suggests that I am old. Which I am not. Like Portnoy the Groundhog in Bloom County I am still very very youthful. Springy. Non-arthritic. Full of piss and vinegar. AND a liberal. Loveable is okay, but forget the middle-aged part. Young.
I voted for Obama.

The last two possibilities present issues right from the git-go. I am neither "vulnerable", nor "non-threatening". I am a wicked man, miss, and you had best take care. I am evil. Just look at my calculating eyes. And please completely forget that for a moment I looked quizzical and baffled, like a deer in the headlights.
It is extremely risky to hang around me.
If you are cuddly.

Again, I am NOT old.

Not.



AFTER WORD

The title of this post refers to the wildlife audible on my way home. At Jones and Pacific the bookseller and I heard a mocking bird from an alleyway, and deduced that it had nothing to do with the portapotty outside the defunct laundromat. The portapotty and the noisy fowl were separate issues, the gas lines had been removed, and their proximity tonight was just coincidence.

At Pacific and Larkin I heard a second mocking bird -- tweet tweet tweet tweet tweet -- which undoubtedly was keeping several people awake with its cheerful joy-making.

Passing the pit where the church once stood at Clay and Larkin, there was a third mocking bird.

The pyracantha berries can't be fermented yet; there must be something in the air.

Other than prickly moisture. I just sneezed. An allergen.


The bookseller and I have a few drinks together every week. This is a well-established tradition, of several years standing. We always end up at a bar in Chinatown, for the last Jameson of the evening, way past closing time. The owner of that place is someone I have known for years.
The young lady from Hunan is a recent addition to the bar. A nice person, but quite mistaken in her assessment of me. I am not perfect in any way, my Mandarin sucks eggs, and I am an all-round scoundrel. Trust me.
Please think of Rhett Butler.
A dangerous man.




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