Tuesday, July 05, 2022


Unlike my apartment mate, I do not hate watermelon. But I distrust it, as I have been informed by reading manga that panda daemons frequently take the shape of watermelon. This is a well-known fact. That may account for the large number of tourists in Chinatown today, the poor misinformed souls are ethnically confused and ignorant, and probably searching for watermelons. Which are considered desirable in parts of this country.
I am very often astounded by the ignorance of visitors to this city.

There were a huge number of them where I went for lunch. Which is where I did not expect them. Or so many of them. Usually they go to "Hunanese" restaurants, for fried rice, chow mein, and General Tzo's hot glazed lumps in tangy gravy. Not to a chachanteng that serves Hong Kong western and specializes in porkchop on top of spaghetti bolognese covered with bubbly melted white cheese hot from the oven.

Maybe they expected to find watermelon. I don't know, I'm not foreign.
The reason my apartment mate hates watermelon has to do with little old Chinese ladies desperate to get the biggest freshest sweetest watermelon, and willing to fight for it.

As a well-brought up Cantonese American female, my apartment mate will not elbow one of those old biddies in the tits or kick them in the kneecaps, as might be necessary, but just politely resents them and their competitive bloodlust.

I myself am on the fence. Watermelon once or twice a year is okay. Leastways, it's not objectionable. What I wanted when I went to that chachanteng was something warm over rice, a hot cup of Hong Kong milk tea, and that bottle of Sriracha.
Lunch was excellent, despite all the tourists.
Kind of like dining with Special Ed.

The pipe afterward was totally delightful.
One of the most enjoyable smokes ever.

Yeah, okay, I didn't find out until today that she hates watermelon.
Now I cannot get that startling fact out of my mind.
I keep thinking about watermelon.

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