Saturday, November 11, 2017


A long in-depth discussion recently delved into the irrepressible anger of the authoress of Hothead Paisan ("Homicidal Lesbian Terrorist"), which was a seminal literary work of the post-Reagan age, and the keenly illustrated details of the scrote of Fat Freddy's Cat, that being a comic strip character whom I discovered while seeing the huggable Berkeley gunfreak several years ago. She was shorter than me, sweet, and tightly strung.
I am glad I didn't get my head blown off.

In addition to an obsession with kitty scrote, the artist who drew that also often showed too much attention to the feline defecatory zone. The curious and intellectually honest person reads a vast spectrum of things, some of which, upon mature reflection, are questionable.

Reading is a gift. It prepares you for dealing with the superficialist dingbats who don't read. Which is a valuable life-skill.

This is a cat.

A feline strutting high-assedly away flaunting his testicles is a metaphor for many things, but, in a sense, this is me leaving the karaoke bar around the corner from my house recently, after being there for two hours, without a single conversation happening. Going there hoping for social interaction was insane, of course. Even though there were over a dozen people there whom I knew. Who the heck goes to a place where people are screaming their heads off to the melodies of rap-artists and country western dreck for talkies?!? Or ANY civilized interpersonal connection at all?

Besides, I am "too old, too white, and too straight".
Among other middle-aged personality flaws.

There are two karaoke bars in my life. One of them has grown-up Chinese, mostly men, politely ignoring the stupid young white people squawling for attention -- conversation IS possible there, even though two of the most memorable discussions recently were about the derivation of certain pipe tobaccos, and the word in Cantonese for "cherry wood", as in cherry wood walking stick -- and the other has immature people playing air-guitar and acting out their fantasies of musical adequacy and star-dom.
Conversation is NOT possible there.

[車厘木拐杖 ('che-lei muk gwaai jeung') or 櫻桃木棍 ('ying-tou muk-gwan'). For beating heads.]

The first place leaves me happy, even though I dump half of the whiskey on the ground when no one is watching. The second boîte on busy evenings leaves me frustrated and depressed. What with being too old, too white, and too straight, and not musically inclined.

[Dumping half of the whiskey: the proprietress has the habit of trying to get the bookseller and me drunk, as well as encouraging us to stay after the other white people have left (been kicked out). The grown-up Chinese also stay past that time, and more whiskey is pressed upon us. I do not like waking up the next morning with a stomach that feels like a war zone, dull in the head, throbbing, and nauseous. So rather than rudely declining, I politely acquiesce after much persuasion, and then discreetly tip the excess onto the floor.]

Logically, I can expect conversations during the evening when we end up at the Chinese place. Sometimes they are peculiar. At the dive around the corner I should not expect conversations, and if they do happen it will involve inanity and a narrow focus.

I do not sing. If I sing, even the non-smokers go out for a cigarette.


Potential subjects for discussion: cheese, cat's arses, pipe tobacco, the president, food, other languages, life in the tropics, various authors popular during the twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties, printing technology, cartoon cats, designer purses, more cheese, why my apartment mate is sleeping in her room right now, fromage, pert nipples of any hue between rosy pink and dusky rose, bacon and melted cheese, dogs, the proper format for dictionary entries, noodle dishes, pavement, how to choose a briar (age, grain, weight, and stain), the heritage of colonial enterprise as reflected by business enterprises (coffee, tea, tobacco, and quinine), why religion is dangerous, or why we should still burn heretics, the wine cup of the navel and other enchanting phrases from the book of songs, sheep, cheddar, crazy manga heroines, and cerulean blue.
Plus Dunhill cigarette lighters.

All of these being subjects that were brought up recently at work.

My worst nightmare is that "Little White Nipple Dude" is going to show up at either the two drinking holes, or any of the several Chinese restaurants and bakeries I frequent. The idea of listening to him droning on about fancy lighters while I drink a hot cup of milk tea or try to eat is frightening, positively dreadful.

I do not wish to talk about little white nipples.
Been there, done that.

Psoriasis. The German cabinet.
French cheeses.

This is not a cat.

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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

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