HOT JUICY METAPHORS AND MILK TEA TO FOLLOW

It looks like spring. And it even sounds like it. No, not the apartment mate clattering around while she prepares herself breakfast, nor the smells of fry food hot coffee, but that rackety bird outside trying to attract a mate.

Loud boastful squawking, and vibrant giddiness.
The little bastard sounds happy and young.
Like all such, it's very irritating.
So early in the day.

By eight thirty she was off to work, so I prepared myself some coffee and retired to the television room to read the internet, drink my Java, and light up the first pipe of the day, filled with Dunhill's Elizabethan Mixture, in homage to Adrian in Oxford who has been indulging in that fine blend an awful lot over the last two or three months.

Yeah man, life is good.



I kind of envy that damned bird. How does he do it? At any hour of the morning I am nothing without caffeine, and if there is caffeine, there must be a smoke. Badly masticated (beaked?) earth worm will not achieve the same effect. It's a natural progression. Coffee. Tobacco. Shower. Another smoke. Toe-twiddly thoughts of porkchops. And only then squawk.

My apartment mate is wide awake the moment she jumps out of bed in the morning -- she animatedly argues with her stuffed creatures as she moves around her room -- and has a typical American breakfast -- except when she wants noodles -- right off the bat. Only sometimes a hot beverage. After which she exercises for half an hour (tai chi). Either one of those would send me back to bed almost immediately afterwards.

Imagine the following monologue: "I ate too much, I wrenched something, my knees hurt, going to nap now .... is there perchance any coffee?"

The behavioural patterns of middle-aged men are vastly different from the daily practices of women. Even though I do not know many women, the few that I am familiar with shall stand in for the many.
It's a representative sample.

Actually, because I like pork chops, or pastry and a hot milk tea late in the afternoon, most of the women with whom I am familiar are Cantonese and work in restaurants or bakeries in Chinatown. So they might be a bit more vibrantly alive and quick-witted than Suburbanites.
But no matter, they're chemically similar.
Morning people, full of beans.
And not pipe smokers.


I can only imagine what living with one in the same bed would be like. At six o'clock in the morning a sharp finger would poke me in the ribs, and a dulcet voice would sweetly lithp: "honey, go fry me some porkchops, I'm hungry!" Then, as I groggily stumble around the kitchen preparing breakfast and setting coffee, I would hear her snoring. She's gone back to sleep.

[I'll set the porkchops aside for later and eat them myself if you do that.]

That's what it's like for the rest of you, right?


On working days I like to smoke a cigar outside one of the local health clubs, because it triggers the morning people there, sanctimoniously working up a saintly sweat. They're glowing with virtue!
They're prigs. Nobody enjoys that.

[It's illegal to smoke at bus stops. In front of the gym is better.]

There are not enough decent eateries in this neighborhood. Perhaps every one else enjoys badly masticated earthworm, but I crave porkchops.

Today I shall go over to Chinatown for lunch.
Porkchops, porkchops, porkchops!




PS: No earth worms were badly masticated in the writing of this essay.
We always chew our food, and only vegans should eat earthworms.

Earth worms are just a metaphor.
So don't get triggered.

We eat porkchops.




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