Wednesday, February 28, 2018


When first I passed the bus shelter I could see him, but the details weren't clear and he appeared, in the dark and from across the street, to be a weird ethnic woman waiting for the bus. Which isn't running at this hour.
I had stepped out for a pipe and a stroll around the neighborhood. The only people out so late were largely drunks, a few couples stumbling home, a restaurant cleaner, and pavement sleepers.

It is quite beastly cold.

Nearly freezing.

A few hours after dinner in Chinatown I had a nap. Got up again well past midnight. Cup of strong tea, grab a briar, and go outside. Two sweaters.
Darkness, crisp air, slight chance of rain. And relative silence.

The soup had been a little salty, but the roast pork was truly excellent. The waitress there treats me like family, more or less. Okay, I am a white guy, middle aged, and possibly a bit smelly due to the tobacco. And she will naturally never exclaim, in any language, "I love the smell of a pipe, it reminds me of grandpa". But undoubtedly it does trigger memories.
All Chinese people have family members who smoke.
And consequently whiff a bit.

Unlike Caucasians in San Francisco, many of whom shower obsessively, grease their pits and crotch with anti-perspirant stick, never smoke (except illicit substances), and don't even eat meat, dairy, and gluten, all three of which are known to make you reek to your fellow yoga-classmates.
That's where the second or third shower of the day comes in.
Lest the rest of us angrily push you off the bus.
It's been known to happen.

Many Caucasians in the Bay Area are special people.
As well as sensitive and entitled.
Very unique.

I'm not. I enjoy tobacco, eat meat, do not fair-trade source a blessed thing least of all my coffee or tea, don't own any ethnic rags, and did not vote for Bernie Sanders or Jill Stein.

HONG KONG: 16 hour time difference. Presently 7:24 PM.
BOMBAY: 13.5 hour time difference. 4:54. Snackies, yaar!
AMSTERDAM, ANTWERP, MUNICH: 9 hour difference.
LONDON: 8 hour time difference. Time for elevenses.

It's time for deepfried stuff. Somewhere.

When I passed by that stretch of street again, the person in the bus shelter had moved to a stretch of pavement nearby. It was evident now that he was a white man, wearing a tasteful striped cheungsam over everything else. While finishing my smoke in the portico of the apartment building, I could hear him having a fit further down. Panicked grunts, weird thumpy sounds. Possibly he was triggered by the gentle whisps of tobacco, though he did not look that type. More than likely the faint smell reminded him of his grandfather. Or maybe some other relative.

Good golden Virginia flake; it brings back memories.
Especially meat, dairy, and gluten.
Slinky striped sheaths.

I'm on my second cup of tea for the night now. Pu-Erh, rather than the Assam from earlier. Thinking of having another smoke.
I am 'Ongus Pongus'.
Ooh, stink!

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