There are certain phrases one would prefer not to hear, and normally does not expect to hear in the first place. My apartment mate is a genius at uttering them. It's a talent.
She was on the phone with Wheelie Boy (the man she's been seeing for a number of operatic years) when I returned from Marin County.
"No, she didn't make herself up like a hooker!"
This was said indignantly. Apparently Wheelie Boy had expressed the opposite opinion. It's sometimes an odd feeling being witness to two Aspies communicating; there's a peculiarly focused intensity.
[A third party and their appearance were being discussed, as near as I can gather.]
Unlike them, my conversations never cast aspersions on other people's lipstick and eye-shadow. I'm far more likely to remark that "he looks dumb and brutish, like a line-backer" (no, I do not know what a line-backer is, btw), or that so and so has "a peculiar air of bovine vacuity".
Not a value judgment, but a statement of fact.
So it is with disarming honesty that I will inform you that many cigar smokers in Marin County are complete and utter idiots.
Besides being insufferably right-wing.
I spent the day holding them at bay with a forked stick.
I am rather fascinated by the concept that someone mis-applied her face-paint so badly that it could be interpreted amiss. The young ladies at the cigar-club yesterday evening didn't have any at all, and so could not help but look fresh and innocent.
A smear of crimson lipstick would have made them seem refreshingly naughty, which in that environment might cause a riot. Delicious.
On the other hand, the bloated pig-man who split from his patient and kind companion recently should not be encouraged to stay for another drink and one more cigar. Which any suggestion of naughty could do.
We do not want that.
I wouldn't mind taking a young lady there at some point, but I would have to warn her in advance about cigar smokers. Some of whom are pig-men. Some of whom are dumb and brutish. Even bovine.
And some of whom are utter idiots.
And I would give her a forked stick.
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QUIET STEW
Figuring out where to have lunch some days is a bit problematic. Not today -- that's already mapped out -- but specifically Mondays and ...
3 comments:
You've written a fair amount about your appreciation of certain smells, and loathing of others, so I was wondering whether you could please write a disquition -- a post, please! -- regarding the following article. It could answer the questioner's question there (perhaps in a way different from that of the advice columnist), or it could merely riff on the idea, to tell us what you think of this brilliant thing.
This
That is something I wont' touch with a ten foot pole.
Perhaps "sponge-on-a-stick"(TM) would help.
Sponge on a forked stick? Like in your post?
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