At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Friday, March 02, 2018

LATE NIGHT WITH SOMETHING

It is late. The drunken business men stumble toward the cars they have called, the rain speckles their Shantung suits. They are bald, fat faced, and perfect exemplars of middle-America; well-fed, and probably dyspeptic. Anglos eat fried stuff and 'bad-choice-foods' when they party.
It is a tradition, the gilded heritage of centuries.
Cheese, dough, garlic, salt, grease.

They had sung much, earlier.
Now they will vomit.


In contrast to these fine gentlemen, who have managed to insult the women and offend the men, I am still quite sane. I have had only one drink. I got up shortly after one o'clock, after a restful nap at nine. I was not really intent on drinking -- heck, in this weather all I really want to do is sneeze, and whet my whistle, one of you repulsive turds is wearing some cheap aftershave to which I am allergic -- and I fear the squalls of rain, wind, and frigid wind.
But though late, I brave the three block walk to say 'hi' to a bartender.
Whom I have known for far more than a decade.
The bouncer greets me; "hey, O.G.".
Original gangster.

I don't know where these f*ckers are from. But they live here now. They sing off-key, loudly, drunkenly. And they keep dropping the microphone.
Don't do that, bro. The KJ wants to kill you.
Damned foreigner. From Kansas.
Where-ever the heck.
The Midwest.


In nearly twenty years I have sung karaoke five times. Twice "all my exes live in Texas", when Dildo Bob insisted we do a duet. And also two times a lovely Teresa Teng number (月亮代表我的心 "youtube link").
Once 'Ni zenme shuo' (你怎麼說 "youtube link").

Be glad you have never heard me do so.
I'm an incurable romantic.
I sing horribly.



The rain will only get worse. The druggies that normally infest Polk Street are sheltering at a donut place, from doorways here and there slumbering feet still stick out. The last of this Pease tobacco is fragrant and soothing in my pipe. Say, what is this anyhow? I believe it is Fillmore (a thick-sliced broken flake; red Virginia tobaccos combined with Louisiana Perique, then pressed, sliced, and gently broken), but possibly I misremember.
I opened the tin, then ignored it for two or three weeks.
After which I rubbed it out and dried it.
It is very nice.



One of the waitresses at the chop place intrigues me.
She is not the most visually appealing.
But the most intelligent.
Curious.

I shall smoke another pipe while remembering.
Men should make passes at women with glasses.




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