THE EMERGENCY DATING SITE

Years ago I was very briefly subscribed to a dating site. Nothing happened. As, having read some of my posts on this blog you would expect. It was probably the fact that I wasn't vegan and had neither a dog nor tattoos. Everybody LOVES dog-owning vegans.
Well, also the other people didn't appeal to me.

And perhaps it was my picture.

I don't do selfies well.


Also, I don't text, drive a car, abstain from tobacco, or carry my cell-phone everywhere.

Given that most of the calls I get are from someone calling himself 'Michael' or 'Brian', or their feminine equivalents, anxious to tell me all about the exciting changes this enrollment period, burial plots, and air ducts, and asking very many personal questions like my age (timeless) and how many children I have (zero) it seems stupid. The cellphone always stays exactly where the landline phone used to be. Which is precisely right.


If, dogforbid, I ever join another dating site, I've got just the right profile picture.

ME EATING DUMPLINGS

Eating dumplings is not only far more likely than getting a tattoo, avoiding tobacco, or having an emergency ("help, I've fallen and I can't get up") by the side of the motorway in El Dorado County (someone suggested 'emergencies' as a good reason to carry the device with me at all times). In fact, this afternoon I will probably have dumplings. In Chinatown.
Instead of driving to El Dorado County to have an emergency.

Timeless. No actual pets. I like dumplings.

And there are no airducts.

Unfallen.



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ELLIPSIS AND GÉOMÉTRIE

A visitor from Germany wished to take back some gifties for a pipe smoker of an older generation. Something uniquely American. So naturally I suggested tobaccos from Greg Pease, as several of them are unavailable in Germany. And Greg Pease is a Californian. Of course his products are highly regarded (yes, by me) and reflect the local zeitgeist and weltanschauung perfectly. Trust me on this. I am representative of the majority.

Well, given how few pipe smokers have survived till the present, that's not many people. Two people of English ancestry, one German, and three Dutch Americans, two of whom possess Dutch surnames, and a South African gentleman. Not enough biologically speaking to form a viable breeding population. Besides, none of us can run fast enough to overtake females of the species. Anyway, running isn't dignified.

[There are also several smokers of aromatic products like BCA, RLP 6, and 1Q floating around. They don't count.
They're probably sterile. A vicious miasma surrounds them, and they may be rogues or diseased.]

Years ago it was different. We thundered in vast herds across the prairie.

So I recommended two recent examples from G. L. Pease.

Ellipsis and Géométrie.

Both are Virginia based, with additional tobaccos added condimentally.

Ellipsis consists of Virginias with a little Turkish and Perique. Flake. It is contemplative, medium strength. Géométrie is also a Virginia-based product, with more Turkish added for zest. Plug. Slightly spicy. Milder than Ellipsis because Turkish is lower in Nicotine, but a richer flavour. Both products excite me. Breeding frenzy level.

[Ellipsis besteht aus Virginias mit ein bisschen Türkisches tabakblatt und Perique. Flake (gepresste scheiben). Es ist sehr besinnlich, und mittelstark. Géométrie ist ebenfalls ein Virginia-basiertes produkt, dem noch mehr Türkisch für mehr würze zugesetzt wurde. Ein plug (bloktabak). Leicht blumig. Milder als Ellipsis, da Türkische blätter weniger nikotin enthälten, aber ein reicheres aroma. Beide produkte begeistern mich, fast bis zum brutrausch.]

[Ellipsis bestaat uit Virginia tabakken met een beetje Turks en perique. Een flake (geperste plakjes). Het is zeer contemplatief en heeft een gemiddelde sterkte. Géométrie is ook een product van Virginia blad, met nog meer Turkse tabak voor ietwat meer pittigheid. Een plug (bloktabak). Licht bloemig. Milder dan Ellipsis, omdat Turks tabaksblad minder nicotine bevat, maar het heeft een rijkere aroma. Beide producten bekoren me zeer, bijna tot euforie.

Both are good with a cup of tea while pissing-off cigar smokers.
Which is also something I recommend.
Very highly.

TOBACCO INDEX


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IT'S SEMI INTERNATIONAL!

Having worked for a few days in a cultural cesspool (Marin County), I needed sustenance. Broad wheat flour noodles, chopped sausage, peanut sauce, chilipaste, and a deglaze that also involved mushrooms and fish paste. Delicious. While eating I entertained myself by reading about RFK Jr.'s brainworm. From which I segued into diseases caused by poor sanitation and insufficient clean drinking water, such as might be an issue at 'Alligator Alcatraz', Kristi Noem's fantasy playland. Or is it Stephen Miller's wet dream?

Never mind. It's obvious that brainworms are in play here. The entire gubmint is probably infected. How else do you explain Trump going to Alaska, getting bloody bupkes from Putin, throwing a tempter tantrum so awful it made poor little Karoline soil her panties, and everyone treating it as some great diplomatic success?

Brain worms. Just tape. Nothing special.
Probably undercooked victim.

You saw it here first, folks, this administration is possibly more likely to catch kuru than any other regime in history. But RFK Jr's worms will get them first. Plus cocaine and adderall.

Years ago a coworker became convinced that I utilized black magic to influence what was on her teevee after I described kuru, it's route of transmission, symptoms, plus progression and inevitable outcome. In juicy detail. She desperately found somewhere else to work not infested with a Dutchman PDQ. And I'm still rather chuffed by that entire episode.

There were also other popular ailments I detailed for her. Made her resolve to avoid travel.
Sick foreigners speaking "lanaguages" weren't her bag.
All those horrid diseases!

She was in international sales. I wouldn't be surprised if she's working for the administration now. A real talent.

Probably as a prison guard at our new detention centres.

She could spell 'Florida'. Difficult words.


Very white bread.



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THE FOG OF DISTASTE

There is nothing quite like a nice cup of tea, a bowl of tobacco in a vintage briar, and dense fog for making a crusty old Dutchman happy. The young lady prancing past with the perfect coiff and the pink fluffy handbag could probably sense that, and smiled in response. It had already been looming fog when I got on the bus, the hills behind Sausalito were cottonwool covered, and as we got closer to the bridge the grey was much thicker, darker, and far threatening. The span was grey on all sides, only a few car lengths ahead visible.

My feet had been uncomfortable all day. That's the combination of Marin, Marinite snoots, and poor circulation. I particularly wish to blame the snoots.

The natives of Marin would be far more tolerable if they were foggier.
Sometimes they're too reptilian and Karenite to bear.

More fog would, no question, humanize them.


Well, maybe part of it is the types I'm usually exposed to; sour old self-satisfied rightwing blisters and young yuppie techno-drooges quite full of themselves. So I might be biased.

Kim came wandering in around five o'clock. San Francisco college professor, wicked sense of humour, probably even less patience for those people than myself. He told me a completely unprintable joke, bless him, and wandered off again.

The leg problem will be solved once I have the peripheral angioplasties on the nether extremities done. Which, if scheduling after I see my cardiologist in September works out, should be sometime soon. Sadly, he cannot do anything about the ghastly natives.
But Orkin does make house and work site calls, so there's that.

Sometimes I dreamily imagine a giant tent being put around the entire county, excepting San Quentin, and the whole place then getting gassed for vermin.

[Why excepting San Quentin? Well, those criminals are innocent.]

That way there can be a fresh start.


Lots of love, or something.



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AMOEBIC NASTINESS

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's ... a protozoon! But it's nasty and mean. Samuel suggested I look up naeglaria fowleri, of which he had only encountered one case in his years of practise. And that was enough. And reading about it has permanently discouraged me from swimming in the warm water of industrial cooling systems as well as any swimming pools that don't massively reek of chlorine.

In actual fact, I've avoided swimming pools successfully for decades now.
Largely because of the effluvium of my fellow humans.
Juices! They're covered in juices!

Amoebic meningoencephalitis is almost always fatal.

The Wikipedia article is fascinating. I shall have to reread it a few times. While staying out of warm aquatic environments. It would appear that the British were on to something with their cold baths.

I heartily recommend British Public Schools for that reason alone. The birching and cricket not so much. An added benefit is that your sprog may end up speaking Latin too, albeit with an irritating uppercrustian English accent. Very useful if you plan to visit Pompei.
You'll probably need a translator.

Stay out of the baths.

What really added a surreal touch was that my apartment mate, while I was reading up on this, decided that she really likes the word 'moussaka'. Moussaka! People should name their kids 'Moussaka', it would be unique and musical. Moussaka! Has anyone named their pet Moussaka? Moussaka! She herself is thinking about changing her own name, Moussaka!
She really like the sound of it, Moussaka!

She uttered the word moussakka several more times.

She may have had a stressful week.

Work is getting to her.



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BETTER THAN A PHONE CALL

Like almost everybody, this blogger has had an abiding fascination with slime-molds since early youth. Well, fairly recently. This week. Since yesterday, in fact. They are fascinating animals. Creatures. Plants. Organisms of some kind.

With fruiting bodies. Often on stalks.
Inhabiting damp places.

Sort of fungi.


One of the most thrilling polysyllabic aggragates has to be "non-amoebozoan slime molds". That is one heck of a word. I can't wait to casually drop that into a conversation.


Yesterday I saw a picture of cribraria (a genus of slime mold first described by Christiaan Hendrik Persoon in 1794) which struck me as beautiful. So I looked up other images, and drew one. It looks space-alien-like.

Amoebozoa - Mycetozoa - Myxogastria - Liceida - Cribrariaceae - Cribraria.
Specifically, in this case, cribraria vulgaris.

This was far more interesting than the final benefits spam calls I received while drawing, from recorded entities variously named Hannah, Doris, Dorothy, and other nice white appellations, female, and sounding reassuringly Anglo American. To all of which I responded venomously in Cantonese before either they or I hung up cursing. An esteemed colleague, who is quite aware that I only receive garbage calls ninety nine point nine nine nine percent of the time, encourages me to carry my cellphone wherever I go. She may simply be as fascinated by foul language in Cantonese as I am by slime molds.

In Cantonese, slime molds are 篩黏菌屬 ('sai nim kwan suk'). In Dutch: slijmzwammen. The latter is probably easier to drop into one's daily speech, assuming one is conversing with Dutch speakers, than "sai nim kwan suk", which may not make any sense at all to the average Cantonese speaker.

One of the phone calls was from Louisiana. Should have called her a sai nim kwan suk and told her to inhabit a damp place (去住潮濕嘅地方啦！'heui jyu chiu sap ge dei fong laa ').
Oh wait. Louisiana. Probably filled with slime molds.



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SNAKE OIL

It is never too late to expose children to the depravity of religion. That way they'll be prepared for the Republican Party and its disregard for justice and humanity.
Disillusioned, perhaps. But realistic.

A recent dream involved a Catholic girl's school. Now, while I consider the students of one of the local schools just darling, the mere fact that they are indoctrinating the little kiddie winkies in religion there appalls me. I vividly recall the Catholic boys school on the Kromstraat in Valkenswaard as spewing, year after year, some of the most horrid little bigots on the planet. They were absolutely convinced that all of us heretics were destined to burn eternally, but felt justified in trying to make us miserable before that blessed event.
American Christianity is very much like that.


Of course, here people do that for profit.


That's the sole raison d'etre for television preachers.

Years ago I attended bible study sessions for three weeks because the preacher's wife was cute as the dickens and redefined the word "eye candy", oh heavens yes, a sweet little thing. One of the other attendees was a sad little pudding of a man who many years later I would occasionally encounter clutching his copy of the holy book until at last he fell in with a fat homosexual. So maybe Jesus leads to guilt-ridden slightly less than satisfying gay sex. Who knows? In any case, I finally gave up because I couldn't stand the pablum idiocy anymore. They were from Texas. I think they finally moved to a less cynical city.
We're just too sinful here.


America has many depraved versions of Christianity. The Deep South is littered with them. As good a reason to avoid the red states as any. Yeah, the food is okay, but the people are utterly batshit. Take a good look at Florida and Texas.


Faith healing scams, lavish life styles, and misappropriation of funds.
Charitable organizations riddled with Christians.
As well as illiterates.



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HALF HEAT

A friend posted a picture of his feet resting in a bucket of water to cool off while smoking a cigar. Where he was, it had crossed into supratropical. So I commented: "At the moment it's sixteen degrees Celsius in SF. You are in Fresno?" He's fifteen hours flight time away. The Netherlands. I shall not judge the appearance of his pink pink PINK toesie-woesies.

Yesterday evening I stepped out for a pipe there was fog at both ends of the block.
Visible vapour gently billowing under the street lights.
It was very pleasant.

Dang, those were some frighteningly pink toesie-woesies!

I have not actually looked to see how mine compare. Technically my friend and I are the same ethnic and folkloristic derivation, though my ancestry has some Scot and American Indian in the distant woodwork, as my folks have been here for many generations. But when nobody is watching we occasionally put on our heavy wooden clogs and windmill dresses and dance under the moonlight to the bellowing of bullfrogs, the music of the night.

We are still devoted to our eternal plot to take over the entire world for the united company and its seventeen lords. As well as team orange eventually winning the world cup.

Undoubtedly my friend is on exactly the same page.
Despite his aching toesie-woesies.

Anyhow, the point is that we are very phlegmatic people quite unused to the extraordinary heat that the Anglos and their global warming behaviour have cursed us with. This is quite unheard of. And horribly unfair. Why, Fresno is now entirely off-limits. So is Modesto. Sacramento is only a little bit better, but still absolutely ghastly.
Which nixes our plans entirely.

And yeah, those wildfires in Southern California, Spain, France, and Greece?

I don't think we'll be invading there anytime soon.

I guess you're all off the hook.


The weather outside this morning is quite bearable, and it looks like it will be very pleasant for the next six or seven days. Unfortunately this means that the foreign visitors and tourists from the rest of the country will enjoy their stay, and may tell their friends back home to visit San Francisco in the summer. Which I don't want, good heavens. The number of pink pink PINK people wandering into the bakery yesterday to look at the lovely pastries and ask meaningful questions that couldn't be answered was ginormous.
Had to wade through them.

Like hacking through the tall grasses with a machete. A flame thrower would have been useful. I'm thinking of wearing dark sackcloth and a pointy bird-beak mask, wailing "the plague, the plague" wherever I leave the house these days.

I didn't want to go to Fresno anywhow.
It's a horrible place.



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NINETEENTH AND NORIEGA

No thank you, I don't need a seat. I've been sitting down for the last hour listening to two old men trying to get their mental bearings on Nineteenth and Noriega. So I have had plenty of gluteal rest, as well as an intellectual clobbering. No, I didn't set them straight. They were born here and have lived in the city all their lives. And they were both right.

At around four o'clock I turned into the bakery for some tea and a pastry. Where three customers recognized me, one of them being a birdlike old lady who spent ten minutes marveling at my Mandarin and Cantonese. Okay, that latter ain't bad. But my Mandarin is crap. Still, apparently I am smart as blazes, because her son doesn't speak either.


So far over a dozen people recognized me on the street in Chinatown today. Several of them refered to me in conversation with others as daai lou (大佬). Which is better than ah sook (阿伯), which means uncle and can generically be used for any old dude. Daai lou means 'older brother'. Also 'triad boss', 'important fella', 'the big dude'. OG, homey, the dude. A senior level operative. A kinsman. Edler brother. It's more familiar than uncle, but it has a certain amount of seniorage.

Heard a kid hollering for her grandpa to hold up a bit. 爺爺 ('ye ye'), which is used in both Mandarin and Cantonese. In Mandarin, it often sounds affectionate, cringing, and suggestive of the helplessness of the very young. In Cantonese, it's more matter of fact. Hey, old man. There is almost an implication that eventually the youngster will walk much faster, be more vibrant, and catch up. It just sounds different, okay?

Nineteenth Avenue runs North-South, Noriega East-West. The ninety-year old had recently eaten at a new restaurant there, where the portions are huge. The other ninety-year old then automatically assumed that it was a Cantonese restaurant, which hadn't been stated -- and the first ninety-year old had not mentioned what he had eaten there, so it could not be inferred either -- and was desirous of knowing where it was exactly.

This all came down within five minutes of both of them arriving. Then for the next hour both of them agreed that this way was North, that way South, one of the streets was Noriega, which was intersected. And that Noriega did not run North-South, as well as that it intersects. Also that Stockton did, whereas Jackson, one block away, did not. Which to one of them did not relate at all to Noriega and Nineteenth, despite any directional similarities.
Noriega runs East-West, Nineteenth goes North-South.

Meanwhile, practising both my memory and calligraphy, I wrote down on a napkin what I had eaten for lunch: 香酥魚柳包 · 薯條 ('heung sou yü lau baau, sue tiu'). fish sandwich and fries.

Yeah no, there's nothing else I can contribute to a discussion of map quest dinner when you two uncles are so agreeably disagreeing while both of you are saying the same thing.
I don't think either of you should drive, that's all.

It's all kind of like me giving my elderly Indonesian Chinese downstairs neighbor a bag with fresh fruits and vegetables every week. Which is actually a polite non-prying way to make sure she's alright. That's why I'm having tea and pastry here.
I'm just glad all of y'alls still kicking.


And please, none of you drive.



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SHPLOP!

You know those little green baggies for picking up after your dog? What's the point of doing that and then leaving the baggie on the sidewalk filled with Donald Trump? It seems so odd. "Look at me, I am a responsible adult", immediately followed by "not gonna carry this, need that hand for my cellphone". Or something. Perhaps they had an uncontrollable cheek itch and needed that hand. It was a right hand, they had to shake it. They didn't want to confuse the baggie and the Doritos. Or the dog suddenly did another Pete Hegseth. They felt so used carrying their dog's Kash Patel, it was humiliating! Something came up and they just had to drop Pam Bondi and run. They met a friend and forgot all about Karoline Leavitt.

There's still a faint stain in front of the building from some hound's phenomenal Jared Kushner during the first month of the pandemic, which will probably never come out.

Two of them on the way home from the bus tonight.


Remarkably, we had had a long conversation about canines we knew after leaving the bar. Engaging personalities and behavioural quirkiness, without even once mentioning their most eccentric habit, that being sniffing privy parts. I would imagine that there are some humans who do that too when they are among themselves, as it imparts all kinds of useful information.

This morning I opened up the sample envelope, and examined its contents. The testing requisition form, biohazard bag, and sterile padding, and the prepaid envelope for the test lab, were all missing. The instructions specifically mentioned them in a precise order. So before getting my haircut I popped over to the hospital, to the 抽血室，to ask questions. Turns out that they would take care of several things, all I had to do was drop off the sealed tube in the same envelope it had come in. What they didn't mention is that seeing as a large part of their patient demographic is elderly Cantonese they were probably making sure that everything went right. That clientele is kind of notorious for dropping stitches when it comes to instructions in English. Or just not even reading the page.

Ladies and gentlemen, that's what your English-speaking children are for.
Oh wait, you have no intention of listening to them, do you?
You can't take instructions from youngsters.

My barber(阿明 Ah Ming) strongly advised me to look for a Cantonese girlfriend, as "they are so obedient" (姖哋好聽話 'keui tei hou teng waa'). I could hear his wife rolling her eyes in the background. I should have told him that that isn't what you get a helpmeet for. Strongminded stubborness, that's the ticket. That way she'll respect you continuing to smoke a pipe despite the repulsive perversity, and won't take it as a personal offense. Obedience ain't a desirable characteristic in an equal. It comes back to bite you. His wife might have asked him where he came up with that nonsense after I left and lit up. 唔好講廢話！

That's based on my own experience, and the enduring friendship with my ex.

I should have stayed friends with my ex from the Berkeley years, but I was an idiot in those days. I've gotten better. She ended up marrying a lawyer and moving to the East Coast.

The other thing about strongminded stubborness is that way she'll have your back if that proves necessary. Either with an automatic, or a sliderule and compass-clinometer.
Hypothetically speaking, of course. Neither of you should go into the badlands.


The evening was enjoyable. Pip, hot tea, dog talk.
Avoided the karaoke bar entirely.
There was yowling.



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GREAT AGAIN?

There is a major outbreak of respiratory disease at 'Alligator Alcatraz', quite possibly covid. So now the Republicans are, actually, killing people. Which, in combination with destroying public health by means of Trump's Big Beautiful Bill, and enpowering RFK jr. should soon turn this country into a diseased dystopia that will please the billionaires immensely.

The National Guard is being deployed against the populace.

ICE is recruiting collaborators and psychopaths.


An opinion now gaining traction is that America will be great again when the last Republican Fascist is strung up by his intestines on a lamp post and the last Christian Nationalist pastor is castrated. As yet it's only an opinion, one of many stupendous ideas about how to improve society. And far be it from me to advocate violence against the rightwing scum currently terrorizing the country, as I am a peaceful mild-mannered man.

My only concern is living in harmony with nature.

Remember that carrion eaters are our friends, nature's clean-up crew, improving the country one cadaver at a time. I look forward to the day when there will be thriving colonies of them in every financial district and gated community, happily preening themselves and well-fed, precisely like they were when America was still glorious.

They are delightful creatures.

Our national bird.



Yeah, I'm making a list of entities that would make suitable sustenance for our feathered companions as well as kindling when the time comes. It is good to be emotionally ready.



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SMELLS LIKE CLEAN OUT THERE

Sometimes one wakes up far too early, but fully refreshed. Which means that, failing to go back to sleep, one lies there with weird stuff going through the head, before seeing that it's already getting rather light out there and perhaps one should have some coffee because yeah, um, can't nap anyway and it's probably going to be time for a pipe soon.

One of my friends showed me his dad's old briars recently. Made by a Parisian company not normally known for briars. Nice pieces, well taken care of. I have one from the same company, later vintage.

A large part of growing up and becoming an adult is the expanding realization that much has been lost, and gradually starting to preserve the things that bring back moods and revive memories and emotions one has come to value.

For him, among those things are his father's pipes, which he now smokes.
Not the same tobacco. And he tried Royal Yacht.
Which made him slightly sick.


Pipe Stud in Texas loves the stuff. Inexplicably.
I suspect that it might be a memory issue.

Georges Simenon, the Duke of Edinburgh, and Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands also smoked Royal Yacht. One can ascribe this in part to the times in which they lived. Back in the old days, if your local tobacconists did not carrysomething you wouldn't have heard of it, and many merchants were known to be rather odd gentlemen with peculiar senses of humour. "Here", they would say, "this is a splendid product made be a respectable company". And obediently you'd end up smoking 'Clapthong's Festering Mixture' through all your university years, and mail-order it from the same tobacconist when you were posted to Upper Burma for over a decade. Where of course there were no reputable stores and you depended on Clapthongs staying in business and not messing with a solid blend, your pipe merchant in Exeter maintaining a stable supply, and the Royal Mail being as predictable as the tides.


"Clapthong's Festering; none finer!"


Two tobaccos which bring back the entire mood of the past are Capstan (formerly by W.D. and H.O. Wills) and Peterson's Flake with the blue and white label (branded as Dunhill till 2018, but made in Denmark for the past two decades).

The smell of coffee brewing, whisps of Virginia, and the crisp morning air on the street out there. It smells like North Beach across the hill, and many years ago.
As well as North Brabant decades before.



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TOP TEN IOWA

Chinese food is often mentioned here. As well as Chinese food that does not really seem like Chinese food. Such as, for instance, baked porkchop on top of spaghetti covered with melted cheese. Which is Chinese. Hong Kong Chinese. And something I've actually only had once, because I saw the little old couple at the next table eating it at a chachanteng.
They each finished their whole plate, and enjoyed it immensely.

Even though I'm Dutch American and cheese flows through my veins, it was too cheese.
Yeah, um. Went a block over and had some noodles.
Like bami goreng with no chilies.

Bami goreng also flows through our veins.
Our veins lead busy lives.

Anyhow. Here is a list of top ten signs you might be in for the worst Chinese food these fifty states have to offer. Which, by the way, I know that most Americans love.

10. The restaurant is located in Iowa.
9. There is an eldritch horror floating above it wielding chopsticks.
8. The eldritch horror is inside.
7. A large clown statue is beside the door.
6. Vegan and gluten-free options.
5. Many happy white people.
4. Pizza.
3. Ketchup.
2. General Tzo's.
1. No seafood or fish.

My sympathies are with the eldritch horror pictured above, because he really wanted some steamed fish. With some ginger and pickled mustard root shreds, and perhaps a drizzle of soy sauce. But no. Iowa.

The sweet and sour pork consists of porkloin pounded till one-cell thin, breaded and deepfried, and swimming in brilliant red syrup. It says so proudly on the menu.

Fifteen different versions of General Tzo's. Mahagony hued egg rolls.

No wonder so many of his relatives left the state.



By the way: many eldritch horrors speak Dutch. That's just one more reason to like them. "Waar is de beste Chinese Restaurant alhier?" "Och, daarvoor moet je echt elders wezen, deze mensen hebben volstrekt geen smaak, en vreten zelfs de vreemdste rotzooi." "In dat geval, waar kan ik een vliegreis boeken?" "Enkele richting, neem ik aan?" "Natuurlijk!"

And that is why you should learn Dutch.



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ABOUT THAT COPPER ...

One of the very first bad reviews is the missive sent to to Ea-nāṣir, which Nanni wrote in 1750 BC. It stuck in my mind while still in a dream-state this morning. You know, everything has been going downhill ever since. A conversation yesterday about Three Nuns pipe tobacco was kind of like that. It segued into the inevitableness of blend-shift as the master blender ages. His or her nose-memories of what each constituent should be change over time no matter how acute his olfactories. The result is that what should be a standard golden flue-cured blending tobacco of a particular grassy fragrance at some point becomes somewhat more skunk-like, and crusty old farts take to the internet to complain that the company has intercoursed with the recipe, it's not the same, they never should have let in all those foreigners, things aren't made the way they should be anymore, damned Irish.
Why, back in his day ..... !


So anyhow, my flesh husk hurt in three places this morning. I never-the-less stumbled out with a pipe after coffee, because one must do what one must do, and I shan't let the slow breakdown of the machinery dictate my life.

And I can't enjoy tobacco while my apartment mate is still here. She headed off to work at around eight-thirty, and while I firmly snecked her door and made sure the windows were open so that after a few hours of airing later in the day she won't notice that I've been breaking our domestic rules left right and center, I firmly resisted temptation.
And did not light up immediately. In fact, I haven't had a pipe inside yet.

I'm waiting till the dirty dishes in the sink have been done.

Unfortunately, doing them is up to me.

Day off. Dirty dishes. Personal ablutions. Laundry. Late lunch and a hot beverage in a place not frequented by many dishonest Mesopotamian copper merchants or foreigners because they expected general Tzo's, sweet'n sour pork, and chicken chowmein EXACTLY like it's done in Podunk, Savannah, or Schinkenfressersburg (Upper Silesia). Which it isn't. Because neither the cooks nor the waitstaff have ever been there, and don't know how those civilized people do it. And their customers are overwhelmingly from Hong Kong or Canton, and never eat that, don't want it, and had a yen for something with pressed pickled mustard cabbage tuber and perhaps dried oysters.

Followed by a pipe while lurking in side streets avoiding Mesopotamians and their friends, because I work in the suburbs and have dealt with too many of them for the last few days and need to unwind. And I've eaten their ghastly what passes for food.

It will not be Three Nuns. Which is not the same as it used to be.
Personally, I'm blaming humans and the young people.
As well as those Irish, for good measure.
You know, back in my day ...
Mesopotamians!



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EXCLUSIVE DEFINITION

It being the meeting of the pipe club today, I felt like I was being run ragged. They are nice fellows, but they all want to talk, and they all are desirous of the oddest things. And, being pipesmokers, they are neurotic. Less than a quorum showed up, and the president of the club was missing in traffic. There were no snacks or bottles of liquor. A grievous oversight. They are innocent lads, and do not know how to buy cold cuts and pâté. Or cheese.
It's so complicated. Fortunately I brought lunch (which I did NOT offer to share).
And I was high as a kite on cups of tea.

Plus, preemptively, a painkiller. I had set up the tables and felt my right leg starting to act up.

So tea, an alledgedly Italian sandwich, keffir, and what's left of my work stash of chocolate (soon to be refilled) which they do not know about. The crusty old fart who is turning eighty this year, and is absolutely convinced that there is a nano-chip in the vaccine, used to have a work stash also -- which they didn't know about either -- but he's given up on that.
His self-indulgences aren't what they used to be.

Chocolate, by the way, is cheaper by the two pound container.
But as I hinted, that's privy information.

In any case, they all had a fine time.

The usual rowdy crowd remained in the backroom all day and did not bother us. At the time when we were about ready to lock up I hollered in there that "gentlemen, Trump supporters, and libertarian scum" had to leave. There was only one gentleman in there, but all of them obediently departed. He's also the only one who has a wife. Which surprises me not.

The bus back to civilization was plowing through dense fog well before we got to the bridge. We were enveloped entirely in pale greys when we got to the city. There is currently not so much visibility outside. Buildings two blocks away fade into purple blue above street level.

It should be quite lovely early tomorrow morning when I go for a walk around the block and the first pipe of the day. The silver does not lift till well past eight or nine.



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RING OF FIRE

Yesterday evening I showed my apartment mate a few of my recent virus drawings. She shuddered slightly and said "okayyyy ... ". You could hear the dot dot dot in her voice.
She looked at me askance.

Kind of the same reaction the bald degenerate had when I showed him the artistic interpretations of burning cyber trucks.

Not as extreme -- at one point he nearly shouted that the FBI should investigate me for being a commie terrorist liberal, it was unAmerican, dammit -- but sort of in the same general vein. Disquieted drawing away in distaste. This from a person who deals with medical records all the time. I think both those types of illustrations are lovely.


The bar is set high on this. Trust me.


The other day a neurosurgeon with whom I get along very well suggested I should look up the tobacco mosaic virus as well as bacteriophages, as I would find them visually interesting.
So I did. Oh my heavens yes. How very charming!

I showed her the bacteriophage.
She said it looked evil.

For some reason it reminded her of Johnny Cash singing 'Ring of Fire', which she thought was about haemorrhoids. I always assumed a superior hot sauce. Sort of a Southern thing.

Apropos of nothing at all, why aren't there any great rockabilly songs about Spam?
Surely everyone from Tennessee or Arkansas is spamophagic?
It's a crying shame, tell ya wut.


Spam tastes great with superior hot sauce.
Can't get more Southern than that.


For about half an hour she was singing 'Ring of Fire' sotto voce while browsing the internet after that. I did not say anthing. Sure, she was probably thinking of haemorroids (see aforementioned medical records), whereas I dreamed of Sriracha.
It is rare that I think of haemorroids.



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A TIMING ISSUE

What kept me up till two o'clock was pangs twinges twitches itches and aches in my legs. And I got up at shortly after five. So I was probably a right pillock during the day. As well as being high as a kite on caffeine. Yes, I am looking forward to the peripheral angioplasties on the lower extremeties. Which will happen after my next cardiology appointment (which is in early September), scheduling another scan of the limbs in question (last one was around four years ago; things have changed), then the actual procedure itself. Which given the simplicity of the thing is not an emergency or urgent, and consequently won't be high on the front burners until it actually happens.

My half sleep was marked by rubicund visuals while dreaming. That probably had very little connection to the legs, but was caused by measles. I'm not infected, but I've been reading about the disease, specifically the virus. So I'll blame curiosity and Texas for that.

I've been fascinated by viruses recently. Many of them are visually entrancing. They'd make good trademarks or, for that matter, tattoos for the people who go for that.
More meaningful than 'Mom', or anything religious.
Sort of a sick butterfly.
Or anchor.


Please, someone do it.

Imagine this lovely image glowing on your arm, or one of your glutei. In living colour.

Morbillisviruses are a class of illnesses that infect humans, dogs, cats, cows, seals, and cetaceans. If Cojo or Fluffy is sick, have him or her tested for canine distemper.
Fortunately there are vaccines, and there is treatment.
Well for the human variant at least.

Probably should mention that dogs, in this context, includes coyotes, foxes, wolves, plus bears, ferrets, raccoons, and pandas, as well as primates and several other animals.

Sofar no Texans have been diagnosed with distemper. Yet. To the best of my knowledge.
Rabies yes, distemper no. I think that's good news.



The twinges twitches itches and aches are caused by circulatory issues. Probably magnified a bit by amlodipine besylate which I take around teatime, which seems to cause upper back pain beginning around two and half hours afterwards and continuing for a few hours.
Imagine what the bus ride home from Marin to San Francisco is like.
When I was still taking it upon waking I hurt by ten.



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THE BONDS OF NATURE

The chap with the loud music on his phone was one of the Chinatown eccentric uncles whom I recognize at this point -- he looks like an elongated frog, and speaks mostly by hollering in Toishanese much of the time -- and I had incautiously sat down at a table nearby.
He's probably hard of hearing.

He made a remark about the pipe I was filling.

So while waiting for my chicken curry and rice to come everybody within two miles could hear our conversation. No, I only speak a little bit (嗯，我識講少少 'm, ngo sik gong siu siu'). Self taught, mostly (自學嘅 'ji hok ge'). My Mandarin is actually pretty darn bad (唔係，我講國語好差 'm hai, ngo gong gwok yü hou chaa'). Cantonese in this neighborhood is easier (呢個街坊，廣東話好易 'ni go gaai fong, gwong dung waa hou yi'). Dutch, born here (荷蘭人，喺呢度出世 'ho laan yan, hai ni dou chuet sai').

He left before my food arrived. While I ate I watched a young lady with a generous bosom happily dig in to steak, fries, and spaghetti (牛扒、薯條、意粉 'ngau paa, shü tiu, yi fan') while laughing at her cell phone. Good for her for treating herself well.

I paid, lit my pipe after leaving, and ambled down to Montgomery and Sacramento to catch the bus. The fog horns indicated that the warm weather would not last into darkness.
There was greyness on all the hills by early evening.

Now, I should mention that I am in some ways an awful person. I'm often judgemental of people based in appearances. For instance, when I see some people I mentally predict a widowmaker because of their weight. Which is sad. If they also look dull, I will mentally file them in the 'do not talk to' category. Some types of clothing automatically define them as middle-American, or trailer. Tattoos and piercings? Stern disapproval.

Maybe it's because so many people sneer and cringe when they see a man smoking, but that does not justify it.

If, on the other hand, they have nice faces, they inevitably look beautiful.
I really like warm smiles. Especially if they don't see me looking.
There is something endearingly lovely about those.

It's like someone singing Mozart's Queen of the Night aria (Der Hölle Rache) perfectly when no one even suspected any talent. The hellish vengeance, indeed, but one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever.



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