Thursday, January 15, 2026

WE DIDN'T START THE FIRE

Maybe I pissed off a facebook friend by writing "That Israelis are upset over Iranians is so moving. I'm grateful that they aren't saying shit about what's going on here. Because heaven forfend" , followed by "at present I don't give a rats ass about Iran, okay?" Turns out that the FB friend doesn't care about Minneapolis. But has his knickers in a twist over Iran.

Please understand that Netanyahu and our alleged friends in the gulf have all asked Trump to back off, so the official line now is that the Iranians can go suck an egg. And given that that has always been the case, because we don't talk to the Iranian government, and bombing them will accomplish precisely nothing (unless we go completely overboard, in which case the top, having been erased, will be replaced by far worse people), none of us should care very much either.

Those Israelis should just shut the F up. We're not pulling their imagined sore nuts out of the fire on this one. We're far too busy arresting Anne Frank in Minneapolis and threatening to take over Greenland and destroy NATO for lebensraum and White Christian America.

It will be better than the Sudetenland.
Trust me. Murica!


Yeah, mm, okay, what the ayatullahs are doing is truly horrific, up to twelve thousand people may have been killed surpressing the protestors, but Minneapolis is in the United States.
Those people there are our fellow citizens being brutalized by Trump's goons.
Our people should be more important to us than any number of hypothicals elsewhere.

Unless they're Republicans and support Trump. In that case they can go F themselves.



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AN EVIL PLACE

According to Kristi Noem, people should be prepared to prove US citizenship. Because we moved overseas when I was two years old, I have an accent. Ever since I returned, people have called me a foreigner. Usually it's "real Americans" that do so.
In any case, I don't react well.

One time an HR director held up my paycheck for over six weeks because she was convinced that I was in the country under false pretenses. That accent. you know.

One side of my family originally came from the East Coast, another is from the Mid West.
I have absolutely no desire to see where they were from, because there are just too many people in the United States whom I do not want to deal with. That goes double and triple for areas that they weren't from, like the entire South. And ten times that for Texas.

Nah, I don't need to visit New Orleans, Charleston, or Miami. I'm good.

Also, I don't care how they make pizza elsewhere in this country, which is like totally unique dude and a tradition that outranks everyone else's pizza all of which ain't shit. Or their hot dogs. Kan me allemaal gestolen worden.

Kristi Noem represents the overwhelming majority of Americans.
Total Karen bitches.
Also, I'm totally okay with the rest of the country never visiting the Bay Area. There's nothing here you want to see, we have no edible food, we dress funny, talk foreign gibberish, and everything is too expensive. Plus most of us aren't Christians by your standards.
And there is patchouli everywhere, oh suffering humanity!


Stay away.
For the love of Baby Jesus, stay away.


This whole place is precisely like the Tenderloin.
There are depraved criminals everywhere.
We'll kidnap your children.
Brainwash them.
Cthulhu!


The Symbionese Liberation Army, People's Temple, and The Grateful Dead are all examples of what can go wrong when nice normal Americans visit Northern California.
Really, you should head to Texas instead.
Grits.



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WAH, SMELL GOOD

Naturally, it didn't offer either cuisine. The American Peking Restaurant (美利堅京菜), in Wan Chai on Lockhart Road (灣仔駱克道20號地下), served what was essentially a huge menu of Canto standard restaurant dishes with an emphasis on 1950's fine dining.
Fried appetizers. Fried main courses. Sweet'n sour. Potstickers.
Hugely popular with the expats.

Seeing as expats are usually drunken Aussies, one was hesitant. Drunken Aussies are a plague very common in tropical Asia, and no amount of common sense or penicillin deals with that effectively. Just give it more Fosters till it passes out.

The travelling Dutch, English, and Germans are nearly as beer sodden.
Americans do shots and pick fights.


Dang, makes me wish now I had gone there.
It might have been very exciting.


It closed in 2018.

Among the popular items there were various dishes served on a sizzling iron platter with sauce or gravy poured over at the table, a very dramatic presentation which always smells wonderful from two or three tables away. There are a few restaurants here in SF that do it also. Teppanyaki (鐵板料理,鐵板煮食) is originally Japanese semi-western food, which caught on in a minor way, and is visually appealing and dramatic.
However, it often looks better than it is.
Two chachanteng where I eat occasionally do it. I love the fragrance of meat, onions, grease, and gravy when someone else has it, but really it isn't that good, and people order it probably because of the smell, theatricality, and as a special treat.

It's almost pointless without observers.


Sometimes other diners have food that when it comes to their table prompt one to think that that is what one should've requested oneself. Next time. And mentally that spurs one to go there again, even though one doesn't remember to get that dish.
One was subconsciously primed.

I still remember the porkchop someone else had two years ago.
It looked absolutely beautiful and delicious.
But I've never ordered it.



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Wednesday, January 14, 2026

THE SMELLS OF VICTORY

As a smoker, I've always been somewhat sensitive about possible stenches. Combine that with the well-known Asian opinion about white people being a bit whiff, and the times I've gagged on Patchouli or Aramis in office building elevators, plus the soggy dog odours on public transit when it's full of wet office workers during rainy days, and you can understand that there is a situation here. I worry: do I smell bad? Am I so rank that people gag?
Are little kiddies frightened by me? Do I offend shy young ladies?

Well, that last is a given, seeing as I'm an older man who smokes a pipe, eats meat, and am rather Anglo-looking. So I smell, and I probably support child-labour in the Congo and vote for Senator Bedfellow. All of which are manifestly horrible evils.

[Plus I growl. Which is neither here nor there.]


Never-the-less. This morning my apartment mate used too much cologne. Oh boy. Place still reeks like a rose garden crawled in here and died. And I've already had my first smoke of the day, so my nose buds should be dead to nearly everything right now.

Having an apartment mate whose sense of smell is below par is a blessing. I'm going to light up my pipe inside, fully confident that she won't notice a darned thing, even though she is a refined Cantonese female and therefore programmed to assume that we Caucasians are richly gifted in the compost heap fragrance department.

That said, I do need to do laundry.
Stinky stinky.
For obvious reasons I almost never go to Japan Town ten blocks away. I remember reading passages in James Clavell's 'Shogun' which were unflattering to our physical fragrances, and the Japanese are far more neurotic about that than even Chinese and South East Asians. They turn green.

Cantonese aren't. Any group that shops in places where salt fish is sold, combines shrimp paste with fatty pork at the drop of a hat, and has a fondness for deep-fried mystery objects to rival the Dutch, is not nearly so fastidious. Vocal, perhaps, but not obsessed.

One Cantonese smell that may startle the outsider is liniment for bodily aches, common for older people. Camphor and menthol, often combined with minty elements and cassia, rubbed on arthritic joints with wild abandon. White flower oil, rectify the bones water, and black devil oil (白花油,正骨水、黑鬼油 'paak faa yau', 'jing gwat suei', 'hak kwai yau'). All available at every herbalist and general grocery store, the dominant smell on the Number One California bus rocketing down Clay Street, and what everyone remembers their grandparents smelling like when they visited them in their pokey little flat above the bookstore on Jackson Street. Fresh, sinus-clearing, and pungent. Plus it's the perfume in high quality stick ink, so it also recalls the scholar's study, book rooms, and those written taoist charms used to immobilize zombies ("hopping vampires", 殭屍 'keung si') in a popular movie from 1985 (殭屍先生 'keung si sin saang') as well as diverse scrolls to keep the ooga-booga away.

[In that last usage, it might no longer be effective; as a Caucasian I'm the quintessence of ooga-booga, and I head into Chinatown regularly. Perhaps my pipe-smoking has denatured it.]


Add sandalwood smoke and cooking smells to that, and a Cantonese person would easily overlook the slightly fishy odeur of masses of white people.

Certainly my apartment mate puts up with it. And she's refined and ladylike. Albeit this morning reeking of roses. Over the top and good heavens.


Catonese women also seem to be fond of house cleaning with strong-smelling substances.
My apartment mate uses a concoction which contains fragrant herbal oils and alcohol, and the downstairs lobby is minty from the landlady's efforts. I would imagine that whole areas of Asia have a lingering nose-echo of antiseptic, lemon, and citrus-fresh chemicals.
In addition to salt fish, sandal wood incense, and old codger liniment.




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IT'S ALL ABOUT THE POETRY, MAN

When I got home I noticed the elderly gentleman who always seems out of it up ahead. I had seen him earlier wandering around the neighborhood, which he often does. He has kinfolk who take care of him I suspect because he's always clean and has different clothes, but most of the time he's definitely lost. I have never encountered him quite there. Not on the same planet.

He's moving much slower than before. Old age.

Whenever I see him I always wish him a good day. I'm not sure whether he speaks English or Cantonese best, so I've used both. His response is usually something mumbled indistinctly, and I've heard him talking to invisible people in Cantonese, mostly.

There's always an air of things not having worked out as planned about him.


The other elderly Cantonese person I've encountered twice today is Tat Yee, whom I've known for decades. The first time was after my tea, when I was strolling down an alleyway smoking my pipe and he was loitering outside a nearby drinking establishment smoking his. When the bookseller and I went there for whiskey and a glass of tea he was still there -- over four hours later -- which seems like a productive way to enjoy one's retirement. Things probably didn't work out as planned for him either, but he's coping with it differently.

My friend the bookseller and I are somewhat anomalous, comparatively. We have things going on. He hosted the young poets last week and fed them crabs. He's more culturally lively than I am, by a very long mile.
While he was telling me about that dinner, I came up with an entirely new form of sonnet; two limericks, each with a longer third line to make them four liners, followed by two haiku.
I bet I could irritate bucket loads of people with that.
More than I already do.


One thing I mentioned which fair upset him was the recipe for the tobacco mixture called 'Hobbits Weed' (two parts BCA, one part Lane's Very Cherry, and one part Sutliff 1M), which is three quarters vanilla aromatic and loved by Gandalf wannabees who own churchwarden pipes. Smoked at every damned renaissance faire between here and Tierra Del Fuego.

If you puff it around me I might recite sonnets to drive you away.


Tolkien was undoubtedly a very silly bugger.



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Tuesday, January 13, 2026

SEVERAL OF MY BEST FRIENDS

One of the things that keep me from arguing that Dutch Americans are the best thing that ever happened to civilization is that so many of us are working for the puffy-faced Orange anti-christ. I myself am Dutch American. And I do get along with several other Netherlandish Americans, some of whom are splendid people, despite occasional glimmers of caveman tendencies or an upbringing rooted in the peat bogs of the back country somewhere near Groningen. But that's very much like saying that not all Irish Americans are always drunken savages or even problem cases, some of them, perhaps the majority, are only moderate drinkers who can quote James Joyce or George Bernard Shaw, who weren't alcoholics.

Not all Scots are manky gits.
By no means!

Despite seeing killer rabbits when it's just a fluffy bunny. Silly buggers.


Basically, I'm trying to be a good Christian here, and attempting to demonstrate the tolerance for which my people are supposedly famous. As well as forgiveness for crazed individuals who despite their good beginnings have strayed into perversion and degeneracy.
May their eternal souls rot forever in hell.

Problem is, I'm having a damned hard time forgiving Christians.

Very many of whom are utterly repulsive.
And have a vicious streak a mile wide.

Exhibit A: Trump's entire cabinet. B: The Republicans in Congress. C: The Red State voters. Many of whom are racists, bigots, crypto-nazis, and good Christians. Ready to make our little brown brothers in Venezuela ready for Christianity -- as long as they don't come here -- and the poor benighted trolls in Greenland subjects, because we need lebensraum. As well as a Gaza-type resort in a place where there are no pesky Arabs.
The Greenlanders are not Arabs. God is good.
It was clearly meant to be.
Hallelujah.



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ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

At this point all of us have seen videos, several videos, of ICE agents behaving violently and breaking laws. Which, if you are a conservative, probably thrill you, and if you are human nauseate you. All of this is applauded by Republican politicians and a great many True Christians. This is an unstable situation, and there might be pushback.
Which the government will neither expect nor respect.

A popular incendiary document encourages, supports, and predicts it.

And dammit, that's dangerous.


CITE:
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.
END CITE.


Nowhere in that document are Molotov Cocktails mentioned. So pre-emptively, the American people should be banned from owning Molotov Cocktails on the basis that we hold no truck with such Communist devices, which had been used to great effect in resisting the Nazis in hell-holes like Eastern Europe during World War Two, Delhi and Bombay during riots there, and Plaisance-du-Touch near Toulouse in France in March of this year against Elon Musk. Foreigners! Americans are NOT foreigners. We don't do such things. And we say 'baa'.

The ONLY legitimate use for flammable devices is to keep warm when it's forty two degrees Fahrenheit during the day, going down to mid-teens at night, snow on the ground, wind chill factor, and icy conditions. The human body does not survive long under those conditions. Individuals with higher body fat may retain heat longer, insulated or layered clothing provides some protection against hypothermia, and a person's fitness level and health affects survival time. Staying still leads to faster heat loss, movement may help maintain body temperature.

Fortunately there aren't many places in the civilized world with those precise conditions.
Here in San Francisco it's far from that. Temperate weather, and it's always sunny here. That famous mediterranean climate of ours, you know. Additionally, we would never use Molotov Cocktails ourselves (horrid foreign devices), because we are men of peace ("baa"), and, additionally, in California there is an ever-present fire danger. Which is bad.


Conditions right now are almost tropical! It's fifty plus degrees (twelve Celcius), and sunny! Beach weather! We run toward the surf in slow motion in our scanty red swimming togs, as David Hasselhoff and his girls have shown us. We are blessed.
We are suntanned pacifists. We often say 'baa'.
It is the mantra of happiness.
Christian!


Please never go postal, boys and girls.
Doing so is against the law.
Remember that.



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Monday, January 12, 2026

ALMOST MAMMALIAN, ISN'T IT?

According to my blog stats there are far more readers of my scribbles in Hong Kong than in the United States. Which is fine. Unlike Jonathan who lives in Israel, I have mostly given up on the United States, as many people in this country are illiterate neo-confederate bozos.
Who wouldn't know a text if it came up and bit them in the flabby grey rear end.

Here, I have a few pipe smokers and angry Dutch Americans.
There, it's probably the occupants of office blocks.
Desperate to look busy for a while.
After ten in the evening.
Boss still there.

The work culture in Tsim Sha Tsui (尖沙咀) is in some ways insane, dictating that while your boss, who doesn't want to go home to his wife and kids and dissatisfied mother in law just yet stays at his desk playing poker on his computer with the sound off looking grim, you stay at yours perhaps eating instant noodles (公仔麵) and shuffling stacks of paper occasionally.
All of you would far rather be at the karaoke lounge.
But that got you in trouble last time.

You're wired to the tits. Tea and instant coffee. Plus ginseng drinks.
And you miss that curvaceous lady at the karaoke place.

For some reason, you don't know why, you cannot remember if she sings well or not. It might be an awful screeching sound, but your mind is a complete blank in that regard.
Which is actually very American of you.
Almost redneck.
Please admire these curvaceous hills. Don't even think of what they may look like, try to continue looking like you're working on a spreadsheet. Serious. As if your mind is fully absorbed by the import-export numbers. Gently rolling hills.....

I'm off today, and while I too like looking at gently rolling things, I do not pursue it at karaoke bars, because I remain keenly aware of the horrid noises, and I'm probably too old anyway. So instead I will head into Chinatown (six blocks away) for lunch in a short while, perhaps the chachanteng with the Toishanese bint who seems to hold me in scant regard. Which I do not mind. She and I have little in common, and she probably thinks that I smell nasty because of my pipe-smoking. But the food is decent, and it's fairly comfortable there, plus it's located close to where I'll be puffing away afterwards. Quiet alleys. No out-of-town tourists.

No downtown office workers screaming that I'm ruining their lungs think of the children you horrid tobacco fiend it's people like you that ruined this country and you're probably a meat eater puppies kittens butterflies evil bastard! Cough cough cough.


You know, Americans.



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MICROWAVE IT ALL!

In between angry doomscrolling one can read about Italian food. Which is a good way of decompressing. It's the moral equivalent of going ultra-violent on Republicans, but a hell of a lot better for one's mental health. Think happy thoughts. Think pine nuts, olive oil, and Parmigiano Reggiano. Your mental arteries will like that.

Add more garlic.

I am surprised, given all the maladjusted people we have in this country -- military vets, self-important yuppies, drugged-out suburban moms, and dutch Americans in the Midwest who fled religious freedom because they were too constipated, whose grandchildren vote the solid fascist ticket in fond remembrance of relatives (uncle Hendrik, his wife auntie Elsie, great grandcousin Koos-Paul's kids) who were collaborators during the war -- that we have not, as a society, gone full postal. We should be shooting each other, instead of debating useless symbolic acts supporting the Iranian people by bombing low-value targets in Tehran as many right wing settler Israelis moistly think we should because of oh boy whatever goldarned stupid rationale is current.

Maybe they're all holding onto their hats and holding off because the fast food franchise near their gated community is closing down and jobs are vanishing. How will they survive if they can't go to Darkeez and have a fry-burger cooked by underpaid illegals? Oh no they'll starve! It will be canned liver pâté and Hormell's chili just like in college! Over spaghetti noodles. Which are difficult, but they mastered that by reading the instructions on the package.
At work, the old rightwing pro-Trump hosebags in the backroom, when they weren't wetting themselves over televised sports, spent the entire weekend justifying the killing of Renee Good by Jonathan Ross in Minneapolis. Because god hates Somalis. And by gum, there ought to be many more such shootings. Why, they'll cheer it on and morally support it!

Myself, I morally support the burning down to the ground of all of Tiburon and Kentfield. That doesn't mean it's any better, though given the current situation much more desirable and minutely more likely. But only minutely. Sad.


Guillotines, firing squads, stringing up Mussolini upside down by his balls and pummeling him to death with rotten eggplants ..... these are all beautiful things, and the sounds they make are lovely. Definitely more garlic.




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Sunday, January 11, 2026

BUT LET US NOT SPEAK OF THAT

In addition to screaming rowdy pissants in one part of the building, there were a number of quite well-behaved gentlemen at the other end. Members of the local pipe club had a social get-together involving very moderate drinking and a selection of lovely meat products while discussing tobacco and an aortic stent which one of the members is having installed later in the month, among other things. On the whole we're all getting older. Even though we like to think of ourselves as vibrant and energetic exceptionally clean cut teenagers.

Spiritually I am young and hale and hearty.
Not past fifty in the slightest!


And I think I speak for the other members present in that respect.

Though we may not look it. I doubt that any of us ever resembled staggering he-men or highschool jocks, being more into textual athletics and fact-based studies than feel-good track and field nonsense. I was probably the most sporty person there, seeing as I was wearing a football sweatshirt for a yeshiva which I never attended with a college football squad that actually doesn't exist. And as far as I'm aware all nearly ten thousand current bocherim in the body are into Mishnah Gemarah Talmud Torah.
They probably wouldn't know a pigskin from Adam.
Imagine a library filled with people.

Difference between pipe club members and regular Americans when stepping into a library is that pipe club members would exclaim "oh hey, books" and happily scatter all over the place, whereas everybody else would groan "oh crap, books", then hold their heads down and run for the exit. Most yeshivot, as you can well imagine, have books coming out the hoo-hah.
Sfarim to the rafters. Megilas, megilatum, dixit Ecclesientes, omnia megilas.
There was charcuterie, and fromage. Distillates and hot coffee. Several open tins of tobacco. Lively conversation that never once reached the loudness level of the sports morons at the other end of the builing. They go up to eleven.


Among the subjects we touched upon: Legends (an excellent pipe mixture formerly available from McClellands, recipe by Fred Hanna), Scott in Mexico who smokes both good tobacco and something indescribably nasty in his Sasienis and Dunhills, John O. in Georgia whose selfies aften feature his bespectacled visage partially hidden behind a massive beard, a large Castello, and clouds of smoke (Doblone D'Oro), Neil's fondness for Comoy Blue Ribands, Adrian who used to use a Dunhill or Dupont lighter to obscure the fright-warning on tobacco tins in the photographs that he posted, and of course the good old days. When you could smoke everywhere, and doctors lit up after surgery.


So I would say it was a good meeting. Not disturbed too much by the people at the other end of the building, who were all senile Republican dunderheads, very loudly having orgasms and soiling their tight tight TIGHT diapers when the local team won.



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THE COMING OF SPRING

One of the regulars, a sane man who is certainly not an idiot, came wandering in wearing what he usually does -- a teeshirt and jeans -- and complained that it was cold yesterday morning. Umm, ya think?

At that time, in addition to pants and two socks on each foot, I was wearing an A-shirt, a teeshirt, a plaid shirt, and a thick sweater-like garment. So I tssk, tssked to sympathize.

Again, I stress his un-idiotic qualities.


Sometime later a younger fellow with shorts and a teeshirt came in. I cannot say whether he was a non-idiot. He may have rubbed himself all over with bearfat before garbing himself as he thought best. Most other people who came in remarked that it was way too cold, a few waffled fondly about their vacation in Bora Bora. Cold affects each person differently.

A friend who lives in Singapore is presently visiting Amsterdam, where there is snow on the ground, people slipping on their ass on the street ice, and the little schoolkids are killing their taun tauns to shelted inside the cadaver surround by the warm wet pulsating flesh, like their ancestors did centuries ago. The Dutch normally wouldn't harm a fly, but this winter they are being driven to extremes.

He loves it. First visit. it's a fascinating place.

And there's cheese. He loves cheese.
Being a stoic phlegmatic type naturally I have nothing to say about current temperatures. It's all fine with me. I take it as it comes. Far be it from me to have any strong opinions positive or negative about weather patterns. I suspect that I've hardly ever said anything about the temperature either way.


Why, I hardly even noticed the piles of rigid frozen penguins on the way to the bus stop yesterday morning. Minor inconveniences! A man capable of gingerly stepping over streetpeople frozen solid would have no problem with stiff little tuxedo lumps.

Oh look, an addict perished in mid injection.
The needle is halfway to his lips!

There are no icebergs in SF Bay. None.
I don't care what you've heard.
Fox News falsehoods.



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Saturday, January 10, 2026

THE FEET

Today somebody claimed that their medications were messing up their mind, too many pills. Three pills. Blood pressure pills. Three medications I take too, same dosages. In addition to three other pills I've been prescribed. None of this messes up my mind.
Possibly because I actually have one. A mind, that is.

But we're talking special people here. Entitled Republican hosebags in Marin County.
So anything is possible. It's a blank slate.

Also, as a white person, I'm supposed to know all about Christianity.


Sometimes conversations slide very perceptably into quicksand and wildfire territory. There is a giant anaconda slithering around in the rhetorical underbrush. Which, it turns out, is stunted gimpi gimpi trees with microscopic sharp hollow hair on the undersides of the leaves that can inject a toxin into your skin if you touch them. It will burn for weeks, and recurr months later, because those microscopic hollow hairs are embedded in the layer immediately under the dermis, all fiery fiery fiery. You are distracted from the giant anaconda.

You sometimes wish that you were a capybara.
I don't know nuttin' about Jesus.
Never met the dude.
Also, I discovered that Mandarin speakers are in some ways very similar to American tourists in Mexico. Analogous, sort of. Remember how Americans believed that if you just repeated something several times, louder each time, the man with the donkey would eventually understand? Where is the hotel, señor, the hotel? Ho. Tel! Ho. Tel!

So, if you just shout repeatedly into the translation app on your cell phone, eventually it will translate more clearly. There was an hour plus of that. I'm sorry, my dear loud analogous northern dude, but have you considered learning Cantonese? Or German?

Something about production codes, inventory control numbers, the customs (海關局) office at the port of entry somewhere in mainland China, postal declaration forms .....

Yeah, my lunch was interrupted. It was late and short.
I spent too much time on my feet.
Which now hurt.



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Friday, January 09, 2026

PUBLIC TRANSIT CONSIDERATIONS

Yesterday's bus rides were all about hands. Three lovely pairs of hands, belonging to women between twenty and thirty years of age, I think. The youngest pair of hands had elegant nails, deliciously tapering fingers. I've seen her before on the bus. On the way back I was looking at the soft white hands of the Financial District commutress next to me, rapidly tapping on her cell-phone, then switching my eye to the charming appendages holding on for dear life on the other side. A veritable digital smorgasbord as we rocketed across the hill.


In high school art class one year we were told to do a pencil drawing of our other hand. It is surprisingly difficult to make it realistic or accurate. That year I became aware of artists' sketches and etchings of hands as a direct consequence.

I wouldn't be surprised if there were also many representations of feet.
But I haven't looked for them. Feet are seldom in view.
Though I'll admit that they can be nice.


I also tend to notice foreheads. And eyebrows.


These and other bodily elements hardly ever feature in my dreams while I sleep. "Did you get a good look at the woman who assaulted you, sir?" Yes! "What did she look like?" Well, she had hands.

Need not have been an assault on my person, it could have been a miscreant robbing a bank or sideswiping an official vehicle. She had hands. I just know it.
You should seize the serpent just below the head, so that it cannot twist and bite you. Sound advice from a wilderness expert involving hands. It will struggle and curl around your arm in desperate attempts to get away. But keep holding on tightly.
By no means relinquish your grip.

There are, as you probably expect, no snakes on the bus from the Financial District.
Wrong climate, wrong environment, and no tickets or bus passes.
Small rodents may ride confidently.


Naturally I pride myself on knowing what to do if there is ever a snake on the bus.
Jump up, scream, and get the hell off, is what.



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Thursday, January 08, 2026

YOUR OWN EYES AND EARS

By now every sentient being has probably seen all the videos, as also numerous current and former law enforcement officers analysing what happened. As well as the pandering bullshit from Texas Republican stooge Wesley Hunt, and the absolutely sickening spew emanating from notorious sofa-abuser J. D. Vance.

Given their own actions and conduct, DHS wouldn't know an act of domestic terrorism if it came up and bit them. And no one should trust Kristi Noem further than they can spit.

Panicking with your car isn't domestic terrorism. But shooting federal agents from ambush right in the nuts conceivably might be. However, that's just a thought.
And, given our insanely liberal gun laws, a possibility.

Which Pam Bondi probably welcomes.
Lubriciously.


Indeed, all right thinking Republicans and Fox News watchers keenly look forward to violence inflicted on American citizens. Especially the dastardly common folk.
With whom, like proper Christians, they cannot identify.

Understandably.
If, through some queer mischance, you find yourself shooting a federal agent right in the nuts from ambush, I sincerely hope that you do so while praying for his immortal soul and giving him candy. It is absolutely crucial that you make a positive impression.
Also, don't be a single mom or write poetry.
At that time.



Besides, anti-authoritarian vigilante tactics are a terrible and deadly idea, unless, like America's military thinkers advise, you use overwhelming force. Shock and awe.
Precisely like we're telling the protestors in Iran to do.

A four door sedan is just not a tank.


And always remember that Fox News welcomes your opinions.
Please express them in a "news-worthy" way.
Enunciate clearly while filming.


Please note that I am not adivising you to shoot anyone right in the nuts. It's unhealthy.
RFK Jr. says that it causes autism. Precisely like acetominophen.
And the meningitis vaccine.



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TACITURN GRUMBLING

It went below fifty degrees Fahrenheit during the night. Absolutely horrid. I know that I seem obsessive about this, especially compared to the situation in the rest of the world, where the weather is far worse. Africa and Amsterdam, for instance, where the streets are covered in snow, public transit is faltering, and children are starving. Thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Two good friends who moved there to get away from Trump's Americans and because they love Surinamese music though they don't know it yet, now have a lovely view of grachten and tall canalhouses underneath frigid blankets. Also, they've got the flu. Their boys have the run of the house, mom and dad aren't leaving the bed, but spend the whole day sniffling, hacking, and wheezing. Which I can assure you is the epitome of Amsterdammishness.

Here, because it's San Francisco, we don't need to do that. We manfully stride through frigid conditions hovering around fifty Fahrenheit with occasional freezing rain that closes four lanes at Lucky Drive in Marin with joy in our hearts and smiles on our faces. Rictus.

Because rictus is a way of life.


Sometimes we have great optimism about the weather. Which at this time of year is entirely misplaced. What with being colder than dammit Cleveland. For which I blame Republicans.

For the first pipe smoked today, after a strong cup of Java, one needed an A-shirt, a T-shirt, a plaid shirt, a heavy sweater-like garment, and a coat originally purchased for Canadian winter conditions. Plus two layers of sock. And pants, of course.

As well as a stalwart and resolute character.

Mild insanity.
This morning I strolled past the glue works on top of Nob Hill where the orphans labour, past the municipal poor house and the shelter for indigent migrants from the interior, and froze my wobbly parts off while enjoying some fine Virginia flake in my briar. Because my apartment mate is a complete non-smoker. If I weren't such a considerate man, I should be in the teevee room underneath my pile of leaves, all warm and toasty.

But that will be the second smoke of the day. After she has gone off to work, I've shut her bedroom door, opened a window or two for ventilation, and there's either a second cup of coffee or perhaps a spot if tea.


In Amsterdam it will get even colder than it presently is. The weather reports are end-of-times in their severity. Far fewer bicyclists on the roads, even more phlegmatic muttering about the temperatures, and because they're mostly Dutch over there, more cups of coffee and fried hot snacks. My friends who have moved over there are probably not yet fully accustomed to grease bombs as a survival strategy. They may even be sticking to a restrained American coffee schedule, not realizing that being wired to the tits makes everything better.

The Dutch, by the way, are not into frothy overly sweet American style coffee drinks with zero fat dairy, syrup, and sprinkles. Small shot of high octane with a tiny cookie on the edge of the saucer, and a ryo ciggie made with dark shag tobacco (a reminder of the days of colonial exploitation), in an oud bruin café that smells of damp clothing and various fumes.

The word for mildew, in Dutch, is 'gezellig'.
It's a national characteristic.
Like snert.



I think I need to stress again that I am a considerate man.




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Wednesday, January 07, 2026

THE COLDER BLOOD

Both of them eventually showed up at the bakery, and complained about the cold. With which I can understand and sympathise, as I am sure that in recent years it has gotten significantly colder. Despite what tee-shirted young people may lead you to believe. They're just commies who want to show off their piercings and tattoos. They also want you to freeze to death, but that's neither here nor there.

When I left the house I soon discovered that I was slightly underdressed.
A-shirt. Tee-shirt. Lumberjack shirt. Heavy winter coat.
Should have had a sweater on too.


Errand in Chinatown, lunch at a chachanteng where the small woman who refers to me as "older brother" was one of the waitstaff today. Well, I am indeed older than her. And the term she uses (大佬 'taai lou') can also mean boss man or the dude, depending on context, and also whether this is a Hong Kong gangster movie from the eighties.

Pipe. Groceries. Tea time. Old dudes.

If the door of a local business is wide open, that's warm and inviting, and signifies that they enthusiastically seek the business of people walking past. Who should keep their gloves and scarves on at all times, unless they are young people with bare stomach rolls showing, and tattoos or piercings that deserve everyone's avid attention.

Older gentlemen may become Karens.
It was still light when I got home. Ended up putting on another garment for the hour before the evening's heating kicked in. Posted a few meanspirited repsonses to an old friend who appears to have gone all rightwing conspiracist nutter. Also reminded him that the venomous dingbat who got shot on January sixth thoroughly deserved it, and good people should line up to piss on her grave.

This blogger is a firm believer in urinary pilgrimage.




On other news: ICE murdered someone today, Noem and Trump lied about it, and Trump's apologists are making 'baa' sounds. Our political leaders are utter scum.



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NUMBNUTS IN THE HALLS OF POWER

Our president, who can't dance worth diddly, has ugly little hands, and didn't get awarded the Nobel Peace prize (because he did nothing at all to deserve it), dominates the news. Over in one of the idiot red states several people believe he was sent by Jesus, as if there wasn't plenty wrong with this festering garbage dump of a country already.

The last presidential election was in a very great part influenced by rot and fermentation. See, grampa Dingo was sent outside with his cigar to go smoke near the compost pile and not stink up the house. In his loneliness and senility he thought that the curdled milk and pungent remains of last weeks teevee dinners started talking to him.

It is precisely because of that situation that I would advise letting him smoke inside, in the warm embrace of his family, where he can listen to rational people.

It gets cold out there near the spoiled cabbages around the end of October. That effects bloodflow to the brain. The poor old bastard started praying.


Actually, if you didn't want him voting for 'Orange Jabba', you should have left him outside to catch peumonia and die, instead of letting him back in.


For all of this I blame cigars. Over the years I have encountered hundreds of cigar smokers, and nineties of them are cavemen.

There are very good reasons why we don't allow cigar smoking in grammar schools.
Cigars started taking over when morons and bankers decided that pipe smoking was just too difficult, dammit, as Texans they had better things to do than fuss with a pipe tool every now and then. A cigar is easy; just blast if with a four burner torch (penis substitute) till the tip is incendiarized, and then act cool and hip. Like a rap star or cattle rancher. Puff puff.

Whereas pipe smoking leads to neurosis, attention to detail, and sometimes a scientific bent. Thoughtfulness, perspicacity, and intellectual rigour.


That's NOT what this country is about. Most Americans think with their sexual organs.
We've got entire states where the population hasn't used a brain in years.
The bloody Christians are piling out of the woodwork.
Mental defectives. Who voted.


Get rid of those putrid cigars.
Smoke a pipe instead.



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THERE ARE BEASTS ABOUT

Sometimes I wonder how my apartment mate puts up with me. It cannot be easy having a grumpy eccentric Dutchman in one's living space, even though she is Asperger enough to be oblivious to very much unless it is specifically spelled out, in clear unequivocal language. But that begs the question how she enjoys so many British shows, where sly insinuation and dry snootiness are key elements. Most of them are detective shows with a dead body, so there is that. Dead bodies are always interesting. How did they end up being that way? Who is the culprit? How will the little old lady amateur detective solve the case? Is it poetic justice?
Or a resolution that has a moral value? Was it the mushroom soup?

Personally, I tend to avoid mushroom soup. Not because I am suspicious of it, but because realistically there is so much more you can do with fungi besides simmering it till it falls apart.

British cooking is not known for a judicious treatment of mushrooms.
Speaking of which, Double Mushroom Chicken is very nice.
It's standard chachanteng fare. 雙菇雞飯。
Rather good with rice.


Don't know why that came to mind, as that wasn't what I had for lunch. Something with tofu and hot sauce, rice, Hong Kong milk tea, regular tea. I've gotten used to, and quite fond of, actually, the standard hot sauce they have there. It's rather precisely like sambal oelek. Which is mother's milk to some Dutchmen, and should always be in your pantry.
As usual I lit my pipe afterwards and strolled toward to bus stop near the place run by the Shanghainese woman. Which is also an excellent place for eaties. It's further down toward the Financial District, and not as crowded as the stops on Grant or Stockton. If you time it right, the bus won't be quite packed.


There were white women singing very loudly and badly at the karaoke place a few hours later, so the bookseller and myself headed directly somewhere else. As I get older I'm becoming more like Herbert's dad in the Holy Grail; no singing!
Guards, make sure of that!

Life, generally speaking, is too short to let anyone go full Herbert.


The bookseller is hosting "the broets" tomorrow evening. Think people somewhat like the Beat Generation, but with considerably more talent and brains. Seafood stew (cioppino), baguettes, salad, cheese. Bottles of wine. Coffee and dessert.

And probably cogent commentary about our leaders.
Delivered with educated diction.


Sadly, I neither drink wine nor poetize.
And I would frighten the youngsters.
As my self-portrait above shows.
Growls, thumps, and roaring.



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