A pig is an animal with dirt on his facehis shoes are a terrible disgrace
He has no manners when he eats his food
He's fat and lazy and extremely rude
But if you don't care a feather or a fig
you may grow up to be a pig
(Old Broadway song)
"Pork-ois?" I said to the landlady when she inspected my quarters and sniffed at me for being a bachelor and a pig.
Portrait of the Artist as a young-old pig.
One was disgruntled.
"Me, a pig? Me? God's chosen?"
She may have been part of the Chorus in the famed Charlie Brown, song:
Okay, so the walls are sooty with cigarette smoke, the bathroom floor leaks to give the poor Chinamn downstairs a tsunami--and that's a landlord problem; my kitchen walls are greasy and my floor carpetting mays as well be from The House of the Rising Sun. Paisely and stained with something. Old crow lives here. No chick.
Egad. I hope she didn't see the dirty videos.
She did see my old Jane Fonda exercise tapes and asked, casually if I did those exercises.
"Faithfully, I had answered. " The young Jane Fonda does her thing I and I exercise right along with her.
"How was I to know you would be in this morning to inspect, with me rolling cigarettes from butts, and beer bottles all over.
"Okay, okay, you have arrived at the Bay of Pigs, but please, next time, give some notice."
The pittrice said nothing. And finally, "You'd better get this cleaned up before the Super comes tonight.
Migod. Treated like a young porker.
This is what I get for living in a Seniors' apartment.
They treat us like children.
And we may grow up to be pigs.
How to explain?
I have become a blogging addict, a serious addiction.
Blogging is my crutch.
I do not feel good all day if I don't blog all morning.
Blogging builds up my optimism, makes me lose my sense of my awful self. It is a great enemy of the blues.
So while I blog, and blog, things build up. Dust gets into the rug. The beer bottles pile up. It is like an alcoholic relationship, though there is only bouncy Jane Fonda on the old video for company.
I did for a while write some letters to an old girlfriend in the tradition to Proust writing his letters to Marie Collette,
complaining of the difficulties he had with his own Madame Bovary and saying all the time that he missed Marie.
Marie, having read the letters, soon showed up at his doorstep.
"F*ck off," she grand master was supposed to have said. It was the Marie in his head that he had been writing to.
And so, here I was, in my not-so-magnificent obsession, blogging, blogging, blogging letting things around me go to helll and the naughty movies in my rack. My own sort-of girlfriend showed up and I hardly noticed. She added a line or two to my blog and went home...Maybe it was because of my filthy apartment.
Certainly disgusted the landlady.
Come to think of it, a man really is a pig.
You only need to know one to find out his disgusting sexual habits.
"All men are perverts," the old girlfriend used to tell me.
"Guilty," I had admitted, realizing that I was talking to her feet.
Ah, but one likes to think of oneself as a classy pig. I mean, I actually studied Classics-- got in through the back door of an Oaktree- studded university--Toronto. Here, it was explained to me that the greek phrase Peri-oi-koi meant "those from around here."
Well, here I am. A peri Oink-Oink. And I'm from around here.
I have become a singer of The Bay of Pigs. Swine Lake is in my repertory.
An astronaut contemplating the constellation Pig-asus.
Chubby, porky surfer.
Looks like I'll have to get busy with the mop and pail instead of Jane Fonda.
Makes me think somehow of The Globe and Mail, where I have been sending some of my pig stories. About a clean-living man forced by financial circumstances to be a pig.
One story was taken, the rest rejected.
She didn't say or write it, but I swear I heard between the lines of her rejection letter, "You did what?
"Why, you swine!"