FEEL THE BURN

Without being fully aware of it, middle age has crept up on me. Which is disquieting, as it imposes limitations which I did not wish for.
There are reading spectacles on my nose, and white streaks in my beard. Occasionally, in the middle of the night, I listen to a creaking sound and realize that it is a joint somewhere in one of my limbs.
Gout sometimes sends me a twinge or two.
To remind me of the years.

Young people offer me a seat on the bus.

That last part is VERY disturbing, as it says that in their innocent eyes, and from below where they can see all the white in my beard, I look impossibly senior, why I might even remember when Jesus landed the Ark on the moon or whatever. When colour hadn't been invented yet, and everything was televised in black and white.

Actually, I am easily disturbed; that more than anything is a sign of middle age.

And by the way, I define middle age as forty plus, but hella time before thinking about retirement. So don't try to guess, and don't ask any questions.

[Young, as in "young people on the bus", means college age, plus bright and fresh-faced. It could also mean sweet and yum-yum, but let us not veer into dirty old man territory, there's time enough for that.]

I have not yet grown up, I've just become a bit more stubborn.

The words "pissy old git" are NOT in my vocabulary.

Certainly not any part of my self-definition.

Neither is the word "fossil".



This morning I woke up with a song in my head. It is an appropriate tune for a day when I shall travel north to deal with the savage self-impressed heathens of Marin County, who are gluten intolerant, spiritual, artistic, and ever so bollocky enlightened about everything.

Whose food is often damned well inedible.

Lunch there is severely protestant.

Nothing good near work.


LET US BURN IT ALL DOWN!

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTjxqZWWmgc.]


Fortunately, the suburban convenience store near my place of employ sells Sriracha sauce. Which goes on everything. Life, for a vibrant youngster of refined food sensitivities such as myself, would be nigh unendurable in Marin without Sriracha sauce.

Chicken salad sandwich. Tuna salad sandwich. Diablo chicken sandwich. Breakfast muffin with fried shit. And salad in a box.

In the suburbs, texture and jalapeños are anathema.



Fortunately, tomorrow and Thursday I do not work, and can stay in the city. I shall read, wander around Chinatown, sneer at tourists, ogle the charms of random female persons of various ages, and explore holes and alleys.
I will watch sparrows and blackbirds, and pet stray cats.
My pipes will be filled with stinky tobacco at times, roast meats may cross my plate and palate, and inappropriate smiles may twist my lips, rude giggles will be stifled.

Urban life is also better with Sriracha.
But it isn't absolutely essential.
There are other things.




Curry. Sardines. Anchovies. Milk tea. Cappucino. Lo pou bing, flaky charsiu rolls, egg tarts, red bean pastries, lienyong bing. Charsiu bao. Marzipan. Chocolate. Mango pudding, pork floss buns, pork siu mai, rice sheet noodle with shrimp, chive and pork dumplings, chicken buns, rice porridge. Crème brûlée. Rice stick noodles, five layer pork cooked with salt vegetables, bitter melon stirfried with pork or chicken, fish-flavour eggplant, steamed fish. Decent French fries. Béarnaise sauce, mustard stalks with oyster sauce, steamed pork patty, roast duck, steamed fish, grilled pork, steamed fatty pork, long beans, spare ribs, and little bokchoi. Asparagus. Italian meatballs, Spanish sausage.
Philippino food. And pizza with clams and garlic.
Second hand bookstores. Coffee shops.
Volumes of Calvin and Hobbes.
Bloom County

A cup of milk-tea, followed by a stroll and a smoke.

More Sriracha sauce.


Just think of me as a friendly badger, keenly interested in the sparkling personalities of people I encounter and the need to eat good things in a friendly environment. Sometimes full of piss.

Mature, but perky.
Not adult.
Yet.



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