BEST BOARD BAR EVER!

MY ex-girlriend is a "tobacco-rather-non-tolerating" type. But on the other hand, she is a 'myself quite tolerant person', so naturally we still live together, because I am an opportunist, and without her the stuffed animals would have far less of a voice. Besides, in this city you do not switch from someone you trust around your stuff to some stranger as an apartment mate. You would end up with a trust-fund schizo OR a multiple substance abusing seller of raw oysters. Some crazy drug-addled dingo in any case.
Or a sub-continental computer programmer.


"Oh Gora-ji, in MY village nobody smokes a pipe, and we do not imbibe Scottish liquors, oh no! Kindly please be adhering to Brahmachariya, for everybody's improvements of karma!"


"A pipe can borrow? We are going to indulge in ganj."


And he'd probably throw out my bacon and sausages, but unlike the person whose parents set him up for life, despite his insanity, OR the drug-addled recent college graduate, the volumes of Nabokov and tins of MacBaren's would be reasonably safe.

Savage Kitten knows not to throw out my empty tins even, because I might find a use for them. She doesn't mess with my stuff, I don't touch her stuff. We have separate rooms, but share space, utilities, rent, and expenses.

It's a good arrangement.

Last night while smoking two bowls of blonde flake I got to see people much younger than myself being stupid. One well-dressed fellow sleeping at a bus-stop. A woman in a lovely dress being kind, generous, humane, and staggeringly drunk. Bros huffing weed and arguing with a telephone pole.
A black man being threatened that if he drank more people would break his arms so he would have a valid excuse not to show up at work -- "sorry, but someone put me in the hospital for no reason last night, I am encased in plaster and can't work for six weeks" -- and a waitress storming around cursing the clientele. And someone with dreads from Nottingham.
Whose parents were Welsh.


I should mention that the bar to which everyone steered the Nottinghammer is NOT a skateboard bar. Imagine instead large middle-aged queens, butch cowboys and stormtroopers in tight leather, and fay young sailors, in a place with giant glowing gay penis teevee screens. Technicolour, orange, moist.

He'll have something to remember from his visit.
Two blocks away, west side of the street.
It's ... very very English.



When I came back into the apartment, I had had only two drinks, and smoked two pipes. She was asleep in her quarters, I finished the second bowl in the teevee room. All my stuff was still there.



I very much approve of this woman. She doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, never indulges in illicit substances, and is quite sane (other than creating imaginary lives for a bear, two sheep, several monkeys and penguins, and a vampire hamster), and we trust each other to be decent human beings.

If anyone acts Republican towards her, I will beat his ass.




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