At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Friday, June 22, 2018


The problem with getting up in the middle of the night, after a six hour nap, is that it inculcates tunnel vision. Especially when the only thing you'll see on the internet is bad news and the outrage of Facebook friends.
And please note that by 'middle of the night' in this instance is meant three thirty in the morning, and also that I have over the years assiduously trimmed political and social heretics from my Facebook page.
Because life is too short to argue with yutzes.

At shortly before six I went back to bed. Right around the time my apartment mate in her room was getting up, and the various furry beasts on that side started arguing -- the small blue-faced sheep is still intent on holding a little girl hamster hostage (evil lamb!), and outraged that we josh him for speech habits that he's clearly learned from the one-legged monkey (a gibbon), who talks like a Jamaican -- and, necessarily, one must holler out a remark or remonstrance when something too outrageous is said.

When I retired to my quarters earlier in the evening, my intent was to wake up shortly before twelve, and go out for a last smoke of the day. I kind of overshot the mark, as when the time came I merely turned around and burrowed deeper.
Didn't know which tobacco (either of two simple Danish blonde flakes) or which pipe.
One of three or four briars I associate with Chinatown, probably.
Not the pipe for watching rats in Spofford.

[Simple Danish blondes are made by two companies under various labels: Orlik or MacBaren. The brand names are both of those, plus Dunhill ('ready rubbed', soon set to disappear), McConnell, Peterson, et autres. Mostly Virginia leaf, with a little Burley, Fire cured, or Perique.]

Those tentative choices still remain to be made. The day is yet young, and a lunch at the porkchop place is a definite possibility. The sun is out, and before tea-time there is hardly any wind.


The porkchop place is at the end of Becket Street (白話轉街), by the way, across Pacific. One must get there well before two thirty, as they do breakfast and lunch, but not dinner.

Someone has been 'committing nasty' along the curb on the Ping Yuen side of Beckett, leaving precisely spaced evidence in a line down the street. This establishes that at least one of our pavement-dwelling fellow citizens is completely anal, and orderly in his anarchy.

The city will do nothing about that.

It's not in their back yard.

Probably a tourist.

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