ROMANCING THE FOSSIL

A fellow pipe-smoker on Facebook is moving to Hong Kong, where his company will house him near the home office. He's being well-housed.
No, shan't mention where. Walking distance from both Goose Neck and Man Mo. I suggested that there are stretches of Hollywood Road which are good for lunting.

[Lunting: a verb of which I was unaware until about a year ago, meaning to stroll or wander about while smoking a pipe. From sixteenth century Dutch 'lont', which in context was a slow fuse or wick carried as a source of fire, rather than requiring flint and tinder. Even then there were anti-smoking nebbishes and shmendricks chasing the civilized man out of the house.]

A few years ago I posted a brief essay about Hollywood Road ("a place where all visitors end up at some point"), describing the meandering stretch from Aberdeen Street (鴨巴甸街) to Lok Ku Road (樂古道).
The Man Mo Temple is in that area, and there are antique shops.

Today I shall lunt.


I have no choice. My apartment mate took the day off, and is presently in her room sleeping while clutching her teddy bear. Surrounded by monkeys and very personable giant spider.

I am presently wondering if I should bring a book to read, as the place where I wish to enjoy a big bowl is facing the tennis court at Willie "Woo Woo" Wong, and one cannot spend half an hour just blanking. It's a nice quiet area on Hang Ah, and other than a rare wandering weirdo, and the constant clackity clack of mahjong tiles from the social clubs, there is nothing. Peaceful. Shaded. Benches.

I may not bring a book; it would be an encumbrance while grocery shopping afterwards, and it looks dreadfully old-hat and pretentious in this modern age. I already have one strike against me, as instead of fashionable sucking on a vape-instrument like a hip young fellow I smoke a pipe like an elderly relic. Add a tome to that, and the effect of a total dinosaur will be complete.

Gravitas coming out of the ears.


"Hi. I am old. I read Wittgenstein. Respex my authoritay!"


Followed, of course, by coughing in a pretentious manner, while making sure that everyone knows that I have suffered for my art, and am filled with existenz-angst. Mit einem sehr großen profundität.

Mostly, though, it's because it will be too damned warm to do much, it's a day off, and I wish to be lazy and day-dream about sex, rain, the typhoon season, the cooler parts of the world, panties, and what would happen if Donald Trump wandered into the La Brea Tar Pits.
Plus I am NOT old. Heaven forfend.
I have piss and vinegar.
I'm full of it.

I am the sprightly young buck gambolling in the mountain glade, the veritable hamster or bunny rabbit frisking in the tall grasses.
Insert an appropriate youth metaphor here.
And I am not at all grumpy.



Pastries. Milk tea. A gentle whisp of Perique tobacco on the breeze, combined with supportive Virginias, the smoldering leaf presenting a mysterious perfume, alluring incense from a previous time.



There are four types of bird by which the North-East quadrant of the city is marked: pigeons, crows, parrots, and seagulls. They each act different, and show character traits that identify them and make them charming.
If a relative of the dinosaur can be considered 'charming'.

Hang Ah has pigeons. TransAmerica Redwood Park has crows. Bierman and the Embarcadero have parrots and seagulls, and also a crow family keeping a watchful eye on an elderly relative who flies slow.

There are almost no pigeons in Portsmouth Square. Mostly just card-playing grannies and cheeky sparrows. And the occasional loon.




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