Wednesday, April 17, 2013


My apartment-mate is a long-suffering woman. Not only did she agree to continue living with me (and thus continue sharing the rent) after we broke up three years ago, but twice, TWICE! since then she has been exposed to my dried fish.
Now, you might think that continuing to live together would be inconvenient, uncomfortable even. But if people can remain friends, it isn't strange. And she's always had her own room, so ...
Besides, there are also all of the stuffed animals to consider.
We could NEVER break up a dysfunctional family.

At least, I couldn't. She channels for them.
They'd be mute without her around.
I like the racket.

Yes, we time our visits to the shower just right to accord with our current standards of propriety. That is far less hazardous than it seems, as I will be in my room grumblingly waking-up with my first cup of black sludge while she finishes her breakfast and bounces around getting all clean and stuff.
Consequently I haven't seen female nudity in years.
I've never quite understood people who eat at sunrise -- that time of day is best suited to a smoke, quiet contemplation, and removing lint from one's navel -- but without all the morning people there might be nothing for lunch. All those eager beavers make the tasty sawdust sandwiches which we of slower metabolism crave sometime around three in the afternoon. They serve a necessary function; someone has to unlock the donut shop.

In the evening she'll retire to her own room while I am still full of beans. Once I hear her snoring, I start dreaming of an ideal world. One in which I could light-up a late-night pipe or cigar, while pontificating to an eager audience of one concerning philosophy, literature, cooking with chilies, and odd linguistic stuff. Or engage in something else; we need not go into that. Suffice to say that I am wide-awake at night, and likely to bore another person senseless, were there actually such.


That's one of the reasons I no longer go to the cigar bar during the week. Too many senseless people. The Saturday crowd is far more sane, and much more flexible.
That being primarily three people: a charming couple who both drink rye whisky and have his and hers cigar cases -- she prefers a slightly smaller ring gage than her husband, and he has a fondness for dark leaf -- as well as the bartender who smokes box press coronas while listening to Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. Or is it David Allen Coe or Merle Haggard?

We all sit in appreciative silence while the music plays.
Unlike morning people, we're into art.

The first dried fish was a flounder, which was used for making soup stock.

The second fish is a (misc. item, weighable) dried croaker.
Good for steaming as an additional flavouring.
Think of it as Chinese cheese.

The critters like it.

Each time I've bought a fish, I waved it at her.
I do not know what point I'm proving.
But it's got to mean something.
Dried fish, man, dried fish!
Possibly a dude thing.

I've also boldly waved it at the bar, as I went over right after purchasing it at Bug Grass City on Stockton. There was an appreciative audience there.
They're more sensible and broadminded than the weekday crowd.

Dried fish means good things! Everyone knows that!
It's a blessing.

There's nothing nasty at all about dried fish.
Unless you want there to be.

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