DO I LOOK LIKE THAT TO YOU?

As usual, I was high as a kite, hepped to the gills, when I got home after our customary pub-crawl. Three caffeinated beverages during, and coffee before I left the house. And the water was hot enough for decent tea at the drinking establishments. They are learning. But unlike the spry old fellow opposite me on the bus I wasn't clenching because of bladder pressure. See, after a decade part-time at the Indian restaurant, where I dared not abandon the cash register for even a moment during working hours because the waitstaff would make ghastly mistakes when I was otherwise occupied, my bladder is the size of Texas. It can hold, comfortably, for several hours of tea-drinking. It's positively English in that regard.

Small elderly Cantonese gentlemen are not as lucky.
He exited the bus at a remarkable trot.
I guess he had it in him.

Yes, I'm gloating about my bladder.

The karaoke joint was screechy mayhem, so we went to see miss Vivien. A much calmer environment. And I now understand why people watch ice hockey. It's for those moments when the goalkeeper clobbers some member of the other team who keeps bogarting him. Dude, I told you to get out of my face.

We love big violent Belorussians on skates.


While waiting for my friend to arrive I had been in conversation with a chap who believed that I was a spy, and was concerned that either I or he himself looked exactly like someone on Mission Street who had been stabbed.

After my recent haircut I look less bigheaded than normal, but my head feels larger and colder than before, especially in the arctic breeze this evening. Almost like it belongs to someone else. Who also smokes a pipe.

There were fewer people about, but more crazy folks than normal.


One of the things my friend the bookseller and I briefly discussed was an entirely new category of literature, neither sci-fi nor fantasy, but something which should properly be named "whatever the hell that is that he writes". Maybe a subset of pretentious poofle.

Likely to be banned in many parts of the country, I think.
Especially if it mentions New Yorkers.
Favourably.


By the way: I am not a spy.
Nor reptilian.



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