Wednesday, February 07, 2024


Several years ago, after my break-up, I joined a dating site. It was depressing, and it didn't lead to anything. I am much happier now since I deleted my profile there, and gave up hope. And admitted to myself that I would never enjoy rafting down the Amazon, taking moonlight walks on the beach with a golden retriever, or even think of getting meaningful tattoos.
Any tattoos, really. I thoroughly despise tattoos.

It's raining, life is dark, I am a sour young bachelor.

Also, I do not like sunglasses. They hide the eyes.
Eyes can betray so much about a person.
Sunglasses hide psychopaths.

Plus I've realized that many people have neuroses which eventually make their company fraught. Today I shall go have lunch in Chinatown and shop for foods, quite unencumbered by discussions of the vegan lifestyle, meaningfulness, recyclables, saving the planet, how precious little kiddies are, plans to get a golden retriever (or daemonic French bulldog), and how pink is the most flattering colour, or going to Las Vegas for the food and shows.
I shall be armed with two pipes. One of which may be a Dunhill or Charatan.
And a small pouch of aged Virginia tobacco.
And I'll have a pastry.
This train of thought is pursuant Valentine's Day, which approaches. The swamp is alive with alligators. Nothing says "romance" better than booking a seat at a famous restaurant and spending a fortune on roses. Plus a precious little gift. The reptiles are awake.

Women all over Northern California are wondering what to get him.
A power saw? Tickets to the Super Bowl? Havana cigars?

Cigar-flavoured icecream and lederhosen!

A friend spends his Sunday mornings having a cup of tea in his garden, with a pipe, his cat, and the coyote across the stream eyeing the feline, as it's just the right size for breakfast. It sounds ideal. I have suggested that seeing as they all live in Marin, he should talk to the predator about the vegan lifestyle and tofu. I'm sure it will be receptive.

Men of any age, if they have survived past their twenties, enjoy nothing more than a cup of tea, a smoke, early mornings, and the presence of a ravenous predator.
Either the cat or the coyote. Both types have plus points.

By the way: the twenties, for some men, last till they are sixty or seventy.

I have a ghost cat, over one hundred briar pipes, and nice pottery items.
The pottery items are a fun collecting hobby. Glazes and shapes.
Any walks I take are not on the beach or in moonlight.
And there is no Amazon to raft in SF.
I don't want power tools.

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