HELL, HOT TEA, AND BIRIANI

The contrast could not be greater. During football season the backroom at work on Sunday afternoon is filled with the howling, Monday mornings at home are quiet, peaceful, serene. Given how much joy a victory for their team would give the rancid old stodges, I rejoice every time the local pride comes a cropper. Once last year whenever Minnesota scored against the Niners Jeffy was practically weeping, ever since then, to show my team spirit (or an utter lack thereof), I holler "Minnesooota" back there at suitable intervals, whichever teams are playing. Eventually it will haunt his dreams. Perhaps he'll foul his shorts periodically.

I take pride in adding bumps to his retirement disharmony.
He used to be a liberal, but he's changed.
Marriage does that to a man.
Apparently.

{He married a Trumpite two years ago.]

Yesterday afternoon was a happy happy happy day in Kansas City.
Marin was filled with weeping old farts.
Good.


My Sundays are filled with hellish racket, foul smells, and operatic drama.
On Monday I relax and if I think about "them" at all, it is with distaste.
The only constants shared are caffeinated beverages.

Fittingly, the only sounds now are The British Grenadiers, sung in Japanese. It must confuse the Indian phone centre wallahs when they call to rope me into some nefarious scheme allegedly involving "American Senior/Benefits Services/Office/Bureau".


"Hello, this is Kevin, calling from ... how are you today?"


Like one of my fellow pipe smokers, I simply answer "I am" to that question. And today I am allowing The British Grenadiers to continue the conversation unintelligibly till they hang up.
I have no idea why that song was translated into Japanese.
It's one of life's great mysteries.

[Always use speaker phone. Keeps the hands free for the pipe.]

Eleven spam calls sofar. Eight of them hung up, three of them went dead and I disconnected. There must be mass confusion in Hyderabad. I am presently dreaming of a nice lamb biriani somewhere close to the Char Minar, perhaps with a side of shami kebabs, and a refreshing raita. Or mirch ka salan. Perhaps I should rent a suite at the Shams Hotel? Oh wait, that's actually a restaurant that does lamb biriani! Hotels in that part of the world are not really hotels. Maybe there are lodgings or a serai nearby.

It is currently sixty seven degrees Fahrenheit in Hyderabad. Precisely the same temperature as San Francisco, where I live. But it is in the middle of the night there, and will go up to the eighties shortly after lunch. Given that hot weather is far less bearable than it used to be, because of my legs, I shall need air conditioning. Do 'hotels' have delivery service?


NOTE: The most recent call was from "Jack Morrison" who wanted to tell me all about a new insurance programme that would economically take care of all my burial expenses.
I said that I was not interested in burial. He seemed disappointed.
He must keenly want me dead.


And I want biriani.



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