DOUBTFUL MEATS

Last night I arrived home with a packet of chicken and pork Frankfurters in my coat pocket. Which, when you think about it, is a piss-poor refection on both culinary life in these United States, as well as my non-existent dating game. I had two, with pickle relish, Sriracha, and ketchup.
Fry-pan grilled, on toasted sour-dough bread.
Not the best mid-night snack.
I've done better.


Very much a mixed crowd at the cigar bar. Interesting people, nice people, dumbasses, and crazy people. As well as the world's cutest cigar smoker. With a bald guy. Whose name I do not remember.

Obviously I like the world's cutest cigar smoker. It's hard not to. She's just so lovable. So, like any rational human being, I worried about the bald guy. And suspected him of being a dangerous type.

That is entirely unjustified, I know. It's just that one cannot help feeling protective. Because most male-cigar smokers tend, more or less, to be dubious persons. Even if they are watching the game (Stanford won) and have trouble focusing on other human beings.


Further cause for worry was that the bartender tried to talk her into something new that was six-and-a-half inches long.
Which is at least an hour commitment.


She stayed for another cigar. Padron, a maduro of modest dimension.



I am presently regretting the chicken and pork franks.




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