CALLING DISEASES DOWN ON GREAT AMERICAN PAST-TIMES

It soon became apparent that we came from different planets. That is to say, despite so many shared characteristics, we actually had almost nothing in common. Which seems to be a recurring issue when conversing with strangers. Set number of limbs, same number of eyes and ears.
Self-ambulatory, and arguably sentient.
But other than that.......
Nada.

My interests were just not his interests. I spoke of languages and food - both consuming fascinations - as well as history and geography. Yes, such matters are very limiting subjects of conversation, and will frequently bore other people to tears.
On the other hand, baseball stats, heck, any mention of sports beyond an insincere "oh jolly good show, what", will send me to sleep.
Unfortunately these were the only things that my interlocutor and his friends were both willing and capable of discussing.
I am a social man. But that was two hours from hell.


FLYING LEATHER CRAP

I believe that the baseball year has finally ended, and football season has begun. The continued prosperity of pizza-delivery services is consequently assured, along with corner liquor stores. No, I have no clue what the women do while their menfolk are busting groinmuscles cheering for the team and scarfing down cheese pie. They probably talk fondly of chili-cheese dip (served in a warmer which is shaped like a pig skin), and happily compare handbags and footwear.
I survived for years before knowing what a Birkin bag is, or what Ugs are.
Acquiring that precious knowledge did not enrich me.

I do not associate Autumn with sports. For me, Autumn means happy walks through streets littered with the yellow of fallen ginkgo leaves, haze over the bay, crisp air, a hot cuppa, and faint hints of woodsmoke.
Soon it will be crab season. That means crusty sourdough warmed up in the oven, fermented black bean ginger garlic scallion, papertowels, and bowls of hot water or tea to clean your fingers in.
The air will become chilly - cioppino, and other delicious seafood dishes.
A visit to a good steakhouse. Bearnaise sauce on French fries.
Crisp salads for alongside. Strong coffee afterwards.
A fond re-reading of mediaeval authors.
Poetry about cold weather.
Spot of sherry.


Somewhere an abandoned football is crying for the man that once so lovingly held it, caressed it, made it fly. Alas, no more orgasmic touchdowns, now that it is no longer youthfully taught and smooth. It will soar no more. Smudges of mud and grass still cling to it like dear memories, but its useful life is spent.

Now, if it were an expensive handbag, it would be carefully repaired and restored, by a professional who understood that pandering to the insanity of some women was mighty profitable. Especially if they had menfolk who would spend any amount of money to keep their precious wifey from whining during the most important part of the year, while the lads are vibrating on the couch, comparing tight male bun flesh in skintight buttock-sheaths, and swilling beer.
Female complaints can be SO irritating while the packers and the steelers and the niners and the broncos are engaged in homo-erotic behaviour on teevee.


From the above you may deduce that I have no interest in sports, shiny male yoga pants, expensive handbags, or shoes. You are right. Please vote me least likely to tolerate long conversations about any one of those subjects. But on the other hand, feel free to tell me what you are reading now, or what you ate recently that was utterly delicious. I know places where the ginkgo trees are gloriously yellow, and we can go somewhere to be warm while we read the New York Times.
Quiet streets, lovely vistas on hills, and peaceful sanctuaries.
Let us day-dream.



PS. The only worthwhile sports, in my humble opinion, are whist, ice-skating, and field-hockey. Especially the latter, if played by forty homicidal teenage psychopaths, of either gender, without a referee or physical education instructor in sight. A wooden ball comes whizzing towards you, followed immediately by a frothing horde, implements of maim and torture held high, eyes glowing red and animalistic, blood-speckled phlegm flecking their shirts and faces. Now that, gentlepersons, is what school sports are all about.

Ice skating is a close second. More suited to the solitary type.
Baseball, football, and basketball, are for deviants.
Doubtful types you wouldn't trust.

Ice skating. Trust me.



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