EFSHER MAZEL TOIV?

The video below is courtesy of a friend of Rabbi Fink, who was guesting-post on Dovbear’s blog.
As well as  that friend’s friends.
And Yummy Schachter.
I enjoyed it.


SUCH HEARTFELTEDNESS, OH MY!

[source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGxOR5bQavs.]

No, shan't provide translation. Mamesh.
Just remember that your father would NOT appreciate you hugging your cousins.
Now finish lerning those last two blatt of Shas.
Be healthy.

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DE-CONTEXT​UALIZED DINING

Bamboo grows widely in South-East Asia in the wetter parts, and dense stands segment off parts of the landscape.  At night they creak as the temperature settles, and seem to sway even without wind.  Tall erect stalks will bend under the weight of their own leaves, especially when it has rained recently.
We associate bamboo with three kinds of food: cooked bamboo shoot, delicious in a coconut milk broth with turmeric, chilies, and lemongrass; packets of glutinous rice and fatty meat steamed for hours, which are suitable for taking on a journey because the bamboo leaves in which the food is contained inhibit bacterial flourishing; and fermented hill-rice with meat chunks stuffed inside a segment of green bamboo with coconut milk, fish-paste, and mild spices, then leaned up against a fire to cook and swell within, finally popping the leaf plug at the top.

That last food item needs to be split open to enjoy, as the plumped-up filling is wedged in tight, forming a close conjunction with the hissing warm inner surface.
There will be a mild scent of char and a subtle vegetal perfume to the food thus prepared.

So much will have been made that guests can take home surplus from the party for family members who could not travel to the feast.  In fact, they'll be encouraged to do so.  It travels well, due to the aforementioned anti-bacterial effect.

That idea of 'enoughness', exemplified by there being a surfeit which can be shared with distant friends who are thus also involved in the meal, permeates the food-culture of large parts of the Malayo-Polynesian part of South-East Asia.
This is especially so with rice and coconut milk preparations.

There is plenty so that we can all share.
And everyone should have some.

Food is ritual, food is friendship, food is social interaction.

Food is emphatically NOT a pre-fab hamburger or a deep-fried breast-meat extrudiment served in a waxed-paper sleeve.

I'm not entirely sure what those things are.

Food in modern society serves primarily as fuel. People often don't have the chance to eat together, and are too rushed to sit down for a well-considered meal.  Something is missing.

Other than hot-sauce, of course.

[A shared food culture is more than just certain substances in common - coconut milk and lemon grass, fish paste, glutinous rice, hot sauce, and braised or steamed dishes - it is also about similar ideas about sharing, social eating, proper conduct and interaction while eating, and where and when it is appropriate to eat. We are not animals, dinner is more than just a fresh carcass at the water hole.]


Rice and coconuts exemplify a cultural paradigm no less important than bamboo and its multitude of uses; without either, the societies that stretch from Martavan to the Spratleys would be impossible to imagine.  Much more so than betelnut, pigs, and swift longboats, in excess even of common tongues and shared symbolisms.

There are ideas associated with these materials that resonate even beyond their geography.
Well, fish paste too - stinky wonderful stuff - but rice and coconute sustain.

COOKED RICE (NASIP) AND COCONUT MILK (SANTEN)

Some items are staples in a shared kitchen, that's just the way they have to be.  Rice, naturally, and coconut milk, along with dried seafoods for briny salty flavours, fish or shrimp pastes, spices, cooking sherry, dried products.....

I no longer cook rice at home.  But I have recently augmented my supply of hot sauces and sambal, shrimp paste, dried fish, and noodles.  These all come in efficient quantities far smaller than the customary fifty pound bags of rice previously bought. And they keep well.
I doubt that I could actually enjoy rice at home anymore.  Or the numerous dishes with coconut milk that I used to make.
Too much has changed.

I still enjoy rice, when I eat elsewhere. Rice is essential.
But I haven't eaten coconut milk food in a long time.
Restaurant portions are too much for one.
Randang or Gule, vegs, soup, fish.
Balance versus excess.
Complexity.

Primarily, I guess, I miss having someone else to cook for and share meals with.
Eating by oneself is kind of like scrounging around for opportune carrion.




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FROG ABUSE

If there's anything we've learned from the internet, it's that frogs are generous thoughtful creatures, with a keen sense of graciousness and politesse.

When a frog is angry at you, you deserved it.


INTERFERING WITH MY SNACKS!

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbGPKhb8ZBI .]


My sympathy lies entirely with the frog. I hope that while the insensitive clod who owns the offensive handheld electronic device is fast asleep, the noble amphibian seeds his crocs with slimy wingparts and wiggly earthworm. Because he deserves it. Fireants. Crunchy beetle remains. 
And lots of inedible bits.

Frogs merit the very best.
It is sad when people don't realize that.

All hail the king of the Amphibian Realm.

Can I get a 'ribbit'?


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HAPPY SIN PADDY

In the first year I was back in the United States some charming person of the “once-a-year” Hibernian persuasion drank too much and punched me in the face because of my accent.
It was my first introduction to stupidity of a fifth or sixth generation inbred type.
It's a very limited gene pool, and rather shallow.
Since then I learned to not visit bars on Saint Patrick's day.
I have for over three decades avoided the March Seventeenth zombies.

One of my friends tells me it's far worse in New York.
He said something about green vomit in the snow.

Riotous leprechauns?!?

I actually like the Irish. Sort of. 
It's their distant American kin-folk that I consider to be problem cases.
My accent, though not nearly as seemingly-English-sounding as it once was, still makes the buggers look askance at me. Real Irish people recognize it as trans-Atlantic and native to these shores.  So do people in Holland and Germany.  Even the Scots and Aussies, on those extremely rare occasions when they're sober.
The English and Americans, however, react a little queer.
Possibly because they've never heard their own language spoken properly.

On Saint Patrick's day I always make it a point to abstain from feasting.
It's the only way to keep one's tolerance from being tested.
There's naught worse than opportunistic drunks.
Unless it's the local idiot habituals.
With silly green hats.

Fortunately, San Francisco Chinatown is not where one will find many people celebrating a holiday that involves grey-boiled pickled meat and a ball-cabbage compost.

So it's a good place to hide when everyone else goes mad.


Erin go blah.


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THERE ARE LINES, BETWEEN WHICH READ YOU MUST

The other day I read her something I had written years ago.  And I realize now that I shouldn't have done so. I thought it was nice.  She reacted with that bitter thing that I hate.
The piece recommended that she not deal so much with crazy obsessive white people.

http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/07/chinatown-sex-dungeons.html

I know she doesn't see things from my point of view.
Now perhaps more than ever.
She and I are at times not on the same page, we really don't understand each other.
That explains how the relationship came to an end.


Sure, there's an immense overlap.
Things we have in common, and an ability to finish each other's sentences.

But what it really boils down to is that I spent several years adapting to her, and she's been fairly oblivious to any interpretive differences.
It's not a language problem.  Both of us speak, read, and write English as our native tongue.  Nor is it cultural, although I know much more about Chinese things than she does (and far more about Jewish things than her boyfriend).

It is, if anything, textual.
She's unable to hear shades of grey.
I'm purely incapable of thinking any other way.

My exclamations, my sadness, my happiness, or even my humour - unless I spell it out explicitly, she doesn't know that it's there.  Blank without a factual explication.
That extreme degree of literality isn't what I do.
I am perhaps only mildly Asperger-ish.
For her, it's her biggest handicap.
Aspergers up the wazoo.

Other than that, she's brilliant.
Ethical, considerate.
And funny.


It's just incredibly wounding that most things I've ever written are pointless to her.
I think I write half-way decently.

No, she doesn't read my blog.
Never has.


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THINKING KINDLY ABOUT THE WONDERFUL PEOPLE IN COLORADO

A taxi driver recently mentioned office politics and explained it's why he’s glad he works for himself.
That, and the dirty coffee cups in the communal sink in most work places.
I agreed, that was a problem.  My coffee cup is never in the sink.
Because I don't want it to associate with bad company.
It might pick up unfortunate habits.

And what, he wanted to know, did I do?

“I’m a bill collector”

He fell silent. So I clarified that it was business to business, calling up retailers and gently reminding them that they needed to cover balances due OR explain their shortpayments in order to remain in good standing.
Years ago I was the anti-Christ in a manner of speaking, as I did collections for attorneys, now it’s just strictly a manufacturer trying to get payment from distributors and retailers for goods sold.
I do not call up the widow Smith and demand her last ten bucks NOW or we’re repossessing the couch.
Nor will I send a fellow with a limited vocabulary and a baseball bat to visit people.
Clean stuff.  No kneecaps or legs. No body parts by mail. Alas.

Plus forecasting, analysis, and managing percentages of past-dues and bad debt.
A lot of talking augmented by numbers and facts.
Details, follow-up, and a phone.
Bidniz.


WITH OCCASIONAL EXPLOSIONS!

Today I got a phone call from a foul-mouthed gentleman in Colorado who insisted that I was unprofessional and several ways defective, and that he was absolutely furious about the message I had left on his business answering machine mentioning invoices that needed to be settled.
His employees had heard!
If it weren’t for the fact that he intended to pay the outstanding amount anyway, he would have his lawyer speak to me.
And, he demanded to know, was I familiar with the Fair Credit Reporting Act? Was I?
Well, he was, and he had been a banker, sir, a banker!

In future the ONLY message I was allowed to leave on his office answering machine was my name, company, phone number, and that I wished to speak with him about a matter pertaining to business.
That's it. Nothing else.
Anyway, he's writing cheques this weekend. Our outstanding balance will be taken care of.

After a few more choice remarks, he slammed down the phone.


I'm rather amazed. Are people in Colorado normally hot-tempered dillwads?
Brain-dead unprofessional psychopaths with issues?
I think that's a valid question.

It would explain why Colorado is very high on the rotting corpses in a garbage heap scale of human development, and solidly in the bottom ten of U.S. states as far as standards of living, innovation, job creation, and percentage of people successfully moving out of trailer parks to fleabag residential hotels is concerned.
Less than two percent (2%) of the businesses in my portfolio are there.
Say, where the blazes is this Colorado place anyway?
Does anything good come out of there?

Other than rather ghastly numbers for cancers of the bladder & urinary tract, breast, cervix, colon & rectum, lungs, prostate, and dermis (melanomas).
Along with statistics for marijuana use, use of illicit drugs other than marijuana, cigarettes, and binge drinking among juveniles.


And though I pretended ignorance, I am indeed familiar with the Fair Credit Reporting Act.
It isn't relevant to the matter at hand, as it applies only to consumer debt, NOT business debt, and concerns third party collectors.
It has almost nothing to do with collection efforts on business debts between a supplier and a retailer who has purchased merchandise and will do so again.

I didn't mention any of this, as I'll never meet the gentleman face to face anyway, and his dysfunctionality and mental problems are not my concern. Nor do I particularly care what he thinks of me.

I just want him to take care of the invoices.

At present his company is 87 days late on their first invoice, 75 days late on the second, 61 days late on the third.
First invoice. Second invoice. Third invoice. 
I've called numerous times in the last two months, this is the first time I've heard back.

Truth be told, this is not a way for him to create a stellar impression. If he does send a cheque, his terms will quietly change from net thirty to prepaid sales only. We accept credit cards for such transactions - I'll gladly leave him a message stating that I wish to "speak with him about a matter pertaining to business" - so that he can call me back and give me his credit card number.

Should payment NOT ensue, he'll receive my usual polite final demand letter, and in due course his account will be forwarded to a very thorough collection agency. 

Either way, I'll remain both patient and tolerant. 
If he calls.

I hope he stays in business long enough to fully enjoy the exciting educational effects on society of cancers of the bladder & urinary tract, breast, cervix, colon & rectum, lungs, prostate, and dermis (melanomas) in the great state of Colorado, as well as marijuana use, use of illicit drugs other than marijuana, cigarettes, and binge drinking among juveniles.

I wish him nothing but the best.


AFTER THOUGHT

Please feel free to forward this to everyone in Colorado who can read. There must be dozens of them, and as the most talented people in the state they probably all run businesses.  They need to know these things; it could improve the chances of Colorado making it past the twentieth century.


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CHEESE IS A LIFE-STYLE CHOICE

The other morning my roommate disconsolately wailed that she had found weevils in the rice. So she was throwing all of it out. I could tell that she really wanted cooked rice to go with her stew for lunch.

The problem is, neither of us prepare rice anymore.
Rice is what you make when you share meals.
Our rice supply was from two years ago.
That tells you how long it's been.

We do still have supplies of other starchy things. Her penne pasta, packets of kongchaimien (noodles), and the bean thread. As well as boxes of cereal.
My various thick and thin rice stick noodles, tagliatelle, farfalle, and cheesits.
I know. You're saying that cheesits are NOT a meal-time starch.
But politely I must disagree.
Think of them as instant pasta with the casein, salt, and grease already built in.

At some point I'll see if I can bake them with cheese, cream, and garlic added.
It's what you would do when you come home late and don't really want to eat.


WHY DOES THIS CAN RATTLE WHEN I SHAKE IT?

All of this indicates that eating habits around the apartment have been markedly eccentric in the years since the relationship ended. Consequently I'll probably have to throw out many items that are past their prime.
How old are those cans of coconut milk? Haven't prepared Indonesian food in over two years. The jars of tomato sauce? Probably at least as old. Those wonderful dried Mexican chiles are almost certainly no longer good either, and some of those tins of anchovies and cans of fire-roasted rajas de chile verde might as well be chucked too.
Indian pickles will surely survive the zombie apocalypse.
Those jars of jam are probably fermenting. Out.
The marmalade I'll keep. All three kinds.

I can't have buttered toast in the bath if there is no marmalade!

The grits stay. I bought those only a few months ago.
Of course I'm the only one who eats them.
Same goes for the spicy linguiça and the container of chiles en escabeche that went into the refrigerator a few days ago.
Not her taste.

We still share a few things. Per ancient tradition I buy the milk, bumwad, kitchen paper, and coffee, we both buy tea, eggs, and various household necessities.
And we split the cheese.

Seriously, one should not eat cheese more than three times a day.
I've tried. It has consequences.

Evenso, I'll start adding funds to the bowl on top of the teevee for cheese.
It's proven near-impossible to get her to take money out of that supply for expenditures that she believes only benefit her or are extravagant, and despite my urging she keeps spending far too much of her own money on things that really are for both members of the household.
Guilt, generosity, and a stiff sense of pride.

I'll persuade her that cheese is a household supply.
Woman, buy cheese. You know I like cheese.
I ate some of YOUR cheese the other day.
Get us good cheese. Your choice.

The California Cheese Board would approve.
They also want you to be happy.
And well fed.

Think of cheese as a substitute for rice.


AFTER WORD

In case you're wondering, I've had rice every week for the last two years.
Lunch in the financial district, plus eating alone in C'town.
Just haven't cooked any at home.


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GELATINOUS RUBBER SUBSTANCES

There was a young lady in the elevator today holding a wrist-rest for use with a computer keyboard with some distaste.

When she noticed me looking at her and her object, she mumbled “the smell of cat-pee was already here, the fart was someone else, but the chemical odour is from this thing, and it’s making me cough…. So I’m returning it”

Fair enough.

I actually hadn’t noticed a thing.

Well, other than the mild whiff of cat-pee.

But I'll gladly accept random apologies from strangers.


It's the least I can do.



THE SPIRIT OF SCIENTIFIC INQUIRY

Years ago, as an experiment, I took apart a keyboard wrist-rest that someone had put in the discard pile, just to see what was inside. Please imagine something much like a banana slug in blueish transparent goo that cohered amazingly.
For several hours the design department and I played with it that afternoon. Flicking it at flying objects, so it would stretch out and snap back. Tossing it against the ceiling and waiting for it to fall off.
Fwacking it at the wall, then giving it a wobble so it flooped away in an arc.
It was self-referential enough that it did not pick up much lint or dust, and when we rinsed it, it returned to its shiny slick loveable state, pristine and slug-like.
Outer space monster slug.

Quite the nastiest thing any of the ladies around the office had ever seen.
We boys loved it.
Neat-o!

Final experiment: our quality control engineer goes down to the pavement in front of the building. When he's secured the drop zone, three floors below, we tossed it.
The results were astounding.

Like an angry Jack-in-the-box, the humourless proprietor of the health-food store came busting out of his business screaming that we were thugs, vandals, delinquents, and he was calling the cops and building management how dare we.
How... Freaking... DARE... We?!?
Asking him to kindly calm down, no harm done, no pedestrians hurt, no customers disconcerted, simply sent him into a jumping up and foaming frenzy. A very tense man.
Must have been all that good stuff he sold.
He probably spent hours each day thoughtfully swallowing pill after pill waiting for immortality to hit.
Then just as much time regretting eating all those things.
While his very healthy digestive system rebelled.

For the next several weeks, whenever we passed his open doorway, we would loudly hiss "boing" into the shop.  He'd glare back. Once or twice he made as if to throw something.
Boing.
Dude, chill out!

Boing.
Boing.
Boing.


It didn't actually go 'boing' when it hit the cement.
Sort of flattened to cover an entire square yard, then alien-like reconstituted itself.

Jelly-goo outer space slugs and health-freak kibble.
That's why people become scientists.
Well, boys at least.

Boing.

I have no idea why one of the elevators reeked of cat pee.
It's a scientific mystery.


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A FONDNESS FOR MR. GAWITH

One evening last week I was in conversation with a British gentleman a few years my senior, who also smoked a pipe.
He assured me that pipe-smoking prompted a remarkable number of positive comments from the distaff side, who would wistfully remark that it reminded them of their grandfathers.
He didn’t particularly like being compared with someone getting on in years, possibly even senescent or deceased, but he certainly enjoyed having conversations with the granddaughters.

The tobacco which sparked their reveries qualifies as an abortion.
A lakeland Cherry – Vanilla abortion.

I may have remarked on this blog that quality does not stink like a Turkish cathouse.
If I haven’t, please accept that as a given.

I am still looking for a young lady who likens the fragrance of my pipe to the manly man of her dreams, the dashing Prince Charming who one day will sweep her off her pretty little feet.
She’ll look deep into my eyes, and both of us will lose ourselves in each other’s dark dark pupils.
Almost imperceptibly I feel her soft hand touching my fingers.
Yummy.

Then we’ll go have a nice cup of tea somewhere!

It’s the delicate masculine scent of real tobacco, you see.
Nothing says ‘vibrant youngish middle-aged codger who is completely ready for a relationship with an intelligent woman of taste and discernment’ than the upstanding fragrance of excellent leaves.

You can scarcely find products more English than the fine pressed flakes of Samuel Gawith, an estimable firm located in Kendal, Cumbria. These are the tins that you would find on your favourite cousin’s desk, or cluttering up the table next to the comfy easy chair in the study. Perhaps on the night stand for that last smoke of the day while reading in bed.
One of your uncles might keep some in a kitchen cabinet, to enjoy at night while the rest of the family is upstairs fast asleep.
That handsome fellow who lives in the next block also smokes Samuel Gawith, especially when he’s studying for exams – it quiets the mind while improving concentration.


SOMETHING NICE, MOSTLY FROM VIRGINIA

I’ve had a fair amount of Sam Gawith’s products, so here are half a dozen short reviews.
Keep in mind that these flakes will require rubbing out, which is best done while they're still moist.
You may have to dry them considerably before packing them in a pipe - just spread the tobacco out on plate for a while.
Cats will be fascinated by this procedure - close the door and ignore the mewling.



ST. JAMES FLAKE

Virginias and Perique combine to make this a race horse of a tobacco. Not particularly strong, but exceedingly enjoyable right out the gate. Just trots along. The Perique strikes just the right note. The aroma is a little sharp.
In the tin it smells figgy, sweet, and rich.
A magnet for a woman who likes to dance – not that arms and legs flailing crap that people do at raves, but waltzes, tangos, schottisches, and reels.
I might have to take dancing lessons.


BEST BROWN FLAKE

Straight Virginia. A remarkably consistent product with a pleasing sweetness. The tobacco has a fragrance reminiscent of hay, but also veering towards plummy. Smokes on the creamy side.
I’ve used it as a blending tobacco with excellent results. It’s a lovely smoke, but requires carefulness in some bowls. Milder than the St. James.
This product would probably attract young ladies who go to the opera, and know all the words in Italian to something rousing.


FULL VIRGINIA FLAKE

Woody and spicy at times, it buzzes along without much effort. Nicotine-wise it punches a bit, but the slow and contemplative puffer should have no problems.
I’ve smoked many bowls in the television room while my housemate was asleep. I still live there.
It lacks a particularly strong smell
Think in terms of a neat librarian with glasses, rosy cheeks, and an utterly fabulous mind.


BRACKEN FLAKE

Kentucky and dark-fired tobaccos. Earthy, woody, and leathery. Some people might think that an odd flavouring has been added, but they’re probably tasting one of the characteristics of the darker leaf. This is a strong tobacco, and the young fellows should be advised not to gyrate on ladders while indulging. Leave the rain gutter cleanup for another time.
Unless, of course, you have a nice pile of soft garden waste to fall upon.
In which case you just might want to lie there staring at the sky with your best girl by your side.
She probably thinks you’re very manly. Mad, but very manly.


GOLDEN GLOW

Lemon Virginias, mostly. Satisfying if you like such things. I seldom smoke the paler flakes – it takes just the right mood - but like all Samuel Gawith products it is very well-made. Let’s call it ‘subtle’. Something that an elderly librarian might indulge in, while listening to Italian opera late in the afternoon. The French doors are open, a zephyr caries in the fragrance of the fields beyond the wall.  Smooth and uncomplicated, but because of the brightness of the main leaf it must be smoked slow. Coddled, in fact. The room note is excellent.
About the only type of woman that I can imagine being attracted by this tobacco is someone’s granddaughter. She probably has wavy blonde hair and a rambunctious sense of humour, and might even like to have a cup of tea with the pipesman.  Beware of her cigarettes - she chainsmokes.


1792 FLAKE

Dark-fired African tobacco, made profoundly darker by its treatment in Kendal. A tarry eccentric, and actually a very attractive product. But some people look at it all cross-eyed, due to a remarkable strength.  It is also deceptive, because it smokes so well that you might not notice your head spinning until you hit the floor.
The tin note is of tonquin, sweet and spicy. With an underlying hint of sphagnum.
A lady who is attracted to this probably also likes sniffing your old leather jackets.
With you still in them.



All these tobaccos should appeal to thoughtful women, who don’t mind their man whiffing a bit old-fashioned. Men used to smell like tobacco, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
As long as they bathe on a daily basis, and don’t douse themselves with buckets of aftershave and designer fragrances - quality does NOT stink like a Turkish cathouse.
Or like a Cherry – Vanilla microwave strudel.
Remember that.


TOBACCO INDEX


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THE MANLY SMELL OF CAT VOMIT

A fellow smoker recently remarked that for some reason a link I had sent him would not get past his puritanical firewall. One word in the title made his computer system reject it, as if it were some kind of toxic spam. 
I had sent him the link months ago, so I couldn’t quite remember which post it was. But as the only posts in which I use "florid" metaphoric language are the ones about aromatic pipe tobaccos, it was obvious that it must have been one of those.

This post then is an attempt to push the envelope without offending his severely Calvinist fire-wall.


AROMATIC PIPE TOBACCOS

No man in his right mind should smoke aromatics. More than anything else they suggest degeneracy and depravity to an appalling degree, as well as the distinct probability of unclean diseases and spanking. Unfortunately many pipe-store employees will gladly take the opportunity to get rid of the garbage that they themselves wouldn’t smoke with a ten-foot pole by unloading it on an unsuspecting virgin.
Some of these blushing innocents never recover. They develop a fondness for brutality, and continue puffing aromatics.

Such as the tobaccos below.
Smoking any one of these is an offense against God, good taste, and your pet cat.


SHANNON
This utterly defies description. It is a predominantly blondish ribbon cut mixture drenched in melon essence, and should remind the civilized smoker of nothing so much as teen prostitutes, possibly male, hooking for drug money. If you thought the girl next door was bad, this proves that you haven’t seen half of it yet.
It is a very high quality product from an excellent company.
Fairly smooth, too.

ERINMORE FLAKE
The topping is pineapple and licorice, what all manly men smell like. Hello Kitty and the floozies of Sodom and Gomorrah. When I was younger I smoked two bowls of this in succession and heaved my guts out on the sidewalk. I'm sure the local church types thought I was a juvenile alcoholic.
Underneath the smell of Parisian bagnio, this is a really lovely quality flake tobacco that renders down to a very fine white ash, if you smoke it slowly. If you don't, the fruit sap will boil into your briar and take the devil to get out. And you'll probably throw up.
Highly recommended.

FOUNDERS RESERVE
I have a fondness for this tobacco, but unfortunately it attracts Lesbians.
Not being a Lesbian, that does nothing for me.
Still, very good stuff.

DA VINCI
The crown jewel of pornofumic nastiness, the golden tinfoil in the dragon's lair of vile.
There is nothing good that can be said about this.
Somebody dumped sugar in the sewer.
I'm keeping one tin to commit war crimes with.

ENNERDALE FLAKE
Precisely what biker bars smell like. Or the cubicles in those video palaces where you can preview bestiality flicks from Europe or documentaries about big swaggering Persians and their chickens.
About which I would know nothing.
I am far too pure and upstanding to ever smoke such monstrosities.
Although I did finish the tin.
Not bad at all.

CLAN 
Suggestions for what you can do in Holland if you aren't into prostitution, disease, and drugs.
The Dutch tolerate a very wide spectrum of odd behaviour.

*      *      *      *      *      *

I usually keep several cans of perfumed leaf on hand because I like ghosting a pipe occasionally.
It's also something to smoke when reading Bertrice Small or Julie Garwood.

At some future time I will pen my thoughts about Troost, Flying Dutchman, Captain Black, and several Danish products. Ideas from readers about other candidates for reviewing will be happily accepted.

There are still a few pipes I haven't ruined yet.


I have no cat.


TOBACCO INDEX


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PROBLEMS WITH BREASTS

Hey, my eyes are up here! She said this with considerable ire, and I could understand where she was coming from. The fellow trying to talk to her was almost drooling into her cleavage.

From my vantage point I couldn't see the actual cleavage itself, merely the profile.
But I can well imagine that the cleavage was more magnetic than the young lady.
At least, if her ideas and opinions were anything to go by.
Her bra may have been bigger than her brain.


SOMETIME I WOULD LIKE TO MEET THEM

Personally, I couldn't see the point of his exercise, though I recognized the common pattern.
Breasts, of whatever shape and dimension, are far less important if the possessor of same is fascinating.
And if she IS fascinating, you really should look her in the eyes. Keeping someone's mammary glands in view does not encourage much confidence in the discussion going anywhere.
Though it speaks volumes.

Breasts, by themselves, are not truly conversational.
They might even be modest, or shy.

I've always found that the most exciting breasts belong to the nicest people.

Under the right circumstances it is suitable to devote keen attention to them.
They'll prove to have considerable charm and personality.
It can be quite a revelation.

But if the person whose appurtenances they are is herself dull, they too will be boring.
Nothing is worse than mere pedestrian titty.

The conversation mentioned above should not have begun with the breasts.
Because both individuals were uninteresting, it ended with them.


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THE LINGUIÇA SANDWICH

I asked a friend if his kitchen was still open, because I really wanted some of his nice empanadas.
They're very good empanadas, freshly made and fragrant.
The perfect yummy snack.

"No, I am sorry; we're closed for a private party."

And he really was sorry, too. He's in the food business, the yuppies throwing the private party were not eating, so the kitchen area was dark and deserted, deepfryer off. But everyone was having tons of cocktails.
He wasn't happy being no more than a drinking hole for folks who wouldn't talk to him, save to order another libation. Feeding people is fun.

The empanadas are utterly delicious. Deep fried heaven with two sauces.
So is the rotisserie chicken sandwich, which comes with fries.
You can feel cheeriness returning while you eat.
And he's an exceptional host.


The main reason why people like eating together is the comfort of seeing someone else enjoy their food. Their faces become more radiant as their blood-sugar level returns to normal, the fine taste of scrumptious morsels encourages cheer and happiness. A good meal, even a wonderful snack, nourishes friendship. It's a splendid way to start the afternoon.

Who knows what else the day may bring? It's all good, as it started with something nice to eat.

It's also fun to observe other people dining, as long as they are the kind that likes exploring new things. "Oh", they'll exclaim, "this sounds lovely!" Then they'll ask the waitperson what exactly it is, and happily order a serving to share. Along with something else exciting.
A while later they wander out of the restaurant with a smile on their face, murmuring "man, that roasted gershlaknturfer sure was good......., thank you for suggesting it!"
You're very welcome. I like eating with you.
Gershlaknturfer. Tasty.

Seeing as the empanada place was closed for the private party - nothing but drinkers - I went home and fried up some linguiça for a sandwich.
Ate it with some crunchy stuff and a glass of milk.
I'll have the empanadas some other time.
They're very nice empanadas.
You should try them.
Seafood.


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JUST BECAUSE!

Surely you remember King Julien XIII of the Lemurs in the movie Madagascar?
The loveable monarch was voiced by Sacha Baron Cohen, famous for sheer gut-busting vulgarity in numerous movies, as well as playing the clue-less interviewer in Da Ali G Show.


 KING  JULIEN  XIII

Copyright:   DreamWorks Animation SKG,  DWA
http://dreamworks.wikia.com/wiki/King_Julien_XIII
http://www.dreamworksanimation.com/

Quite a charming fellow, and, we've been told, an accomplished and beloved ruler.
As he himself has explained to us.  Repeatedly, because we're slow.

If the video below doesn't remind you of his majesty King Julien, there may be something wrong you.



YAY!  YAY!  YAY!  YAY !  YAY!

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZ5ACLVjYwM.]

No, a slow loris is not a lemur. But they are rather similar.
I do not know whether they are kingly.
They look very noble.

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HAK KA FA 客家話 THE GUEST FAMILY TONGUE

Roaming linguists on the internet will be pleased to note that Wikipedia is also available for their reading pleasure in the Hakka language.

From the Wiki page on Hakka speech: "Hak-kâ ngî-ngièn' (yú miàng Hak-kâ-fa / Hak-kâ-va, kán chhin Hak-Ngî) he Hon-ngî chhit-thai ngî-ngièn chû-yit. Hak-ngì yû kí chûng, fûn m̂-thùng kai thi̍t set. Yung Hak-ngì-chá kîn-chhoî Chûng-koet nàm fông kí sén: Kóng-thûng, Fuk-kien, Kông-sî, Kóng-sî, Si-chhôn, Fù-nàm, Kui-chû, Hoí-nám taú laû Thoì-vân. Chhoî fà-thi chû ngoi, yû haú-tó koet-kâ tû yû hiaú-kóng Hak-ngì kai yung-chá hi kî-mìn. Yîn-koet fò khì thâ Eû-chû koet-ga, Mî-koet, Fî-chû, Nàm Thai-phìn-yòng, Yin-thu, Fî-lṳ̍t-pîn, Mâ-loì-sî-â, Au-zu tén thi fông tû yû."

[SOURCE: http://hak.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hak-k%C3%A2-fa.]

Translation: "The Hakka spoken language (also called Hakka dialect or abbreviated as 'Hak-speak'), is one of the seven great spoken language groups of China. There are mutually unintelligible variants of Hakka.
Users of the Hakka language are mostly in provinces of Southern China, such as Canton, Fukien, Kiangsi, Kwangsi, Szechuan, Hunan, Kueichow, Hainan Island, and Taiwan. Elsewhere in the world there are speakers of Hakka in many places. Besides Great Britain, speakers can be found in other European countries, the United States, Africa, the Southern Pacific regions, Indonesia, the Philippines, Malaysia, Australia, and several places else."


HAKKA CHINESE

Like with the term dialect, as used in the Chinese context, the term ethnicity is imprecise and must be used with caution. The seven spoken language groups mentioned above differ from each other quite as much as the branches of the European tongues, consequently Yue (粤), Gan (贛), Ke (客), Min (閩), Hsiang (湘), Wu (吳語), and Mandarin (官語) are as distinct from each other as German, Danish, Dutch, English, und zo weiter.  Within each Sinitic 'language', there may be innumerable dialects ranging across the entire spectrum of possible intelligibilities.
Ethnicity, when used within a Chinese context, does not necessarily mean of different racial origin, but more accurately describes group cultural and social differences of very long standing.

The Hakka are Han (漢), but they have their own cultural ("ethnic") norms underneath the common meta-culture that all ethnic Chinese share.
Some of those differences are due to history, some because of environment, some language-based.

[Yue (粤): Cantonese. Gan (贛): Jiangsi language.  Ke (客): Hakka, spoken in Canton province, parts of Fujian, Taiwan, Szechuan, and many other places - see above. Min (閩): The entire Min (Fujian) dialect group, including Teochew, Amoy, Chuangchow, and Foochow, with speakers in Canton province, Fujian, Taiwan, many South-east Asian countries, and elsewhere. Hsiang (湘): Spoken mostly in Hunan (湖南), but also in parts of Szechuan (蜀) and Kwangsi (廣西). Wu (吳語): Shanghainese, Soochow language, and relatives. Mandarin (官語): The official language of China, based on the northern vernacular, spoken as a native tongue across a vast expanse.]


Two of my favourite Cantonese movie stars are Cherie Chung (鍾楚紅) and Chow Yun-fat (周潤發).
Like many Hong Kong people, they are also of Hakka descent.
Great actors. Great screen personalities.
And both totally dishy.

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GOING DUTCH: VISITING THE NETHERLANDS (AND BELGIUM)

Sometimes when people hear that I spent most of my early years in the Netherlands they get a dreamy look, and murmur about coffeeshops and the Amsterdam Red Light District.

I wonder what they're thinking.
During the sixteen years I lived there I didn't utilize either of those.

Normal teenagers have normal lives over there, often with far less exposure to drugs and sex than the average American urbanite. Though with considerably more coffee and tobacco.

If all that interests you is pot and floozies, you might as well stay in the U.S.
Go to 'Oaksterdam' across the Bay - the medicinal grade ganja will blow your mind - and take a trip to Nevada.
Seriously.
There is no need whatsoever to waste your money going overseas.

There are many excellent reasons to visit the Netherlands, but the flesh pots should not be on your list.


AMSTERDAM

Several stellar museums, and some smaller ones that are also abundantly worthwhile.
For art lovers, there are the Rijksmuseum, the Stedelijk Museum, the Van Gogh Museum, and the Rembrandt House. The first three are easy walking distances from each other, the last is roughly equidistant from the Rijksmuseum and the central station.
The Tropen Museum ('tropical museum') has idiosyncratic and tendentious exhibits, but a superior bookstore, research collections, and hosts interesting events.
For all major musea in Amsterdam you can find out more on-line.

Amsterdam is a great walking city with colourful tree-lined streets speckled with restaurants, cafés, and bookstores. Plus monuments in various parts, beautiful sights, and pleasant things which do not require heavy intellectual concentration.
So rather than burying yourself all day at the Stedelijk, spend time exploring.
After maybe four or five hours one day among the carefully labeled wreckage of the past, rejoin the present and have a bite to eat.
You can visit the museums again a few days later. Or a few years later.
Don't obsessively try to see everything now.

Dutch food can be plain, but some of the eats in Amsterdam are worth the trip.
Dikker & Thijs. De Vijff Vlieghen. Sluizer. L'Opera. La Rive. Ciel Blue.
Et mult altres.
Best Indonesian food outside of Singapore, excellent seafood, plus nice lamb, meat products, cheeses, baked goods, and a number interesting ethnic cuisines. Much of which is available within mere minutes of your hotel.

Regarding hotels, do your research before you go, as even mediocre "international" hotels will cost twice what some very nice lodgments away from the narrow tourist ambit charge, and you'll still be well within the heart of the city.
Closer to good eating, too.

If you can, avoid all shops, restaurants, and lodgings that cater to Americans primarily. Many of them are overpriced, staffed by expats, and do not in any way represent anything worthwhile.
Eschew 'koffie shops'. That's were potheads go.


UTRECHT

The city centre, beyond the very modern area that was built after the war, has lovely streets and deep quiet canals, plus a cathedral that will delight you.
Good food can be found here, as well as some very strange stuff that should not be served to anyone - in particular, I remember "Hawaiian porkchops"...... tough, greasy, and covered with pineapple and Gouda cheese. Ick. And poo.
There were two of them.
Double ick poo.

Go to Utrecht on a day trip from Amsterdam. It's only twenty minutes away by train, and because it is a central location for the rest of the country, it gets all the national and international conventions, and consequently hotels are overbooked.
With the exception of even mediocre international hotels - see note above.
Again: day trip.


DEN HAAG

The Hague is also known as 'the widow of the Indies', due to the number of returnees and exiles who settled there. Naturally some of the very best Indonesian restaurants can be found in the city and its environs.
Like all of the major towns it is easy to reach by train.
One hour from Amsterdam. Take a day trip - diplomats and other international criminals may have booked everything except the mediocre international hotels solid for weeks in advance.
Mmmm, day trip.

AND ALSO...

In addition to the culinaria mentioned above, what the Dutch classify as junk food is interesting and often extremely tasty. One word: unidentified fried object.
Okay, three words, but one idea. In uncountable iterations.
If it can't be deep fried, it might not be worth eating.

For epicurean stuff, however, spend a few days in Belgium.  Avoid Ghent, Bruges, and Brussels, except for day-trips. Instead find a hotel in Antwerp or Liege, and ask the manager for food recommendations.
Yes, the beer is fabulous - but the food is dynamite.

And like in Holland, there are numerous museums all over the place.


The perfect Dutch and Belgian vacation consists of finding nice small hotels with comfortable rooms, then exploring the central areas of the cities, eating well in places that the locals favour, discovering weird and wonderful things, and just being there.

Do not visit in Summer, as it will be hot and humid, filled with mosquitoes and foreigners, and many of the locals will have taken their own very long vacation.
Spring is great for tulips, but the very best time is probably September through October. The weather is nice, the evenings are still long, café terraces offer a good place to sit and read or observe the local scene, and as autumn progresses the countryside changes from green to warm bronze, Sienna, ochre, gold, and umber, with elements of red.
Winter is ghastly.  Do not go in Winter.

Buy reading material while you're there. They also have books there in English, as well as many other languages, including their own. 
There's a weekly bookmarket on the Spui Plein in Amsterdam every Friday.
On average, Dutch people read far more than Americans.
What's a trip away from it all without books?

 *   *   *   *   *   *

Sorry about the horrible and predictable wordplay that captions this piece, btw.
I've always hated that phrase.  Please don't use it while over there.



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COMPARING WOMEN AND FROGS - FROGS GOOD!

What every man needs in this life is a frog. No, not a good woman, a frog.
A good frog.
And this is easily explained.
Frogs eat bugs.
Women don't.

It's a crucial failing.

What's even worse, women scream when they see a bug, and act in other ways inappropriate.
Screaming (or flailing around and having hysterics) is quite ineffective.
That does NOT address the issue.

Frogs, however, contemplate the bug. They observe it with interest.
They strive to understand its psyche.
Then they eat it.

If importuned, they might share. I don't know.
I myself have never envied a frog his dinner.


BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

This all comes to mind because I remembered the times when mosquitoes were about. When there was a frog present, the problem solved itself. And the frog was happy.
Consequently one must conclude that frogs are excellent roommates.

Women, on the other hand, stay up all night chasing the mosquito. They will swat at it, and strike fiercely but ineffectively in its general direction, overturning pots of orchids and the glass of whiskey on the bedside table, grunting fiercely in their exertions.  And pillows may be flung.  Which is quite disturbing.
They lack the patience and keen eye-sight of the frog.
The man present at that time will try to go back to sleep, but the crashing and stumbling all around him will prevent that.
And the unreasoning woman will bitterly resent his apathy.
Frogs are not resentful in the slightest.

A woman will be angry for days afterward.
But a frog will merely eructate.
Life, it says, is good.
Ribbit.

It may be impossible, in the near-term, to find a woman to attract bugs for me.
Especially one who is juicy enough that she appeals to mosquitoes.
But a frog is quite do-able. I can probably find a frog.
I just need to cultivate amphibian magnetism.

*   *   *   *   *   *

If you are presently a FROG in need of a position, please click the link below.
Ribbit.

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PERKY PERKY PERKY!

Contrary to what you might think, I have NO problem with people who sound perky. Not all ‘perky’ is bad, there actually is such a thing as ‘good perky’.

One of my all-time favourite phone-people is a Florida collections agent, originally from Texas, who sounds charming and perky on the phone, why, you’d think she was a lovely little teenager!
Vibrant, lively, full of piss-and-vinegar.
Probably cute as a button!
She’s actually older than me, and has a keen mind and a ready wit.

[Yes, Kevin, you know who I'm talking about.]


There is also ‘bad perky’.

That’s when you think you’ve just encountered the female version of Chucky on the phone.
Such as the teenage missy in left in charge of her uncle’s shop last week when I called regarding a past-due invoice.
She giggled. Said ‘uh huh’ several times. Asked me what I was calling about (a past-due invoice, like I already mentioned… twice), exclaimed "you're funny!" Then hung up on me.


I'M FUNNY

That is precisely the wrong answer.
I called back.
With even worse results.

So I called the home number of the businessman, left an icy message on his answering machine, faxed the invoices in question over to his office with a displeased comment scrawled upon them, and sent him an e-mail with the invoices attached, in which I mentioned that the juveniles in charge of the store had probably not taken down my message correctly (no, they didn't drop their crayon, they just didn't take down diddly squat), indicated the urgency of the matter, and courtesy-copied the salesrep whose account it is.

Bad perky!  No bon-bon!

The very next morning he was the very first person to call me.
Apologized, offered a credit card for all of the past-dues, and attempted to ingratiate like topsy.
See, that's what "perky" gets you.
When that perkiness is combined with 'brainless twit'.


When 'perky' combines with 'smart as a whip', you get the attentive young lady with whom I spoke on the phone yesterday. Sweet, bright, and cheerfully vivacious. 
I very much look forward to talking to her again.
She took down a complete detailed message, gave me the accountant's contact data - phone number, e-mail address, his name and the correct spelling of same, as well as his hours - then firmly requested that I call her back if there was no resolution by Thursday.

Very capable. Very intelligent. Very perky.

She sounded all of twelve years old.

When she grows up, I might like to meet her.

She's probably from Texas.



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I CAN NO LONGER FEEL MY FINGERS

Actually, that was last night.  That I couldn't feel my fingers.  By the time I got home my fingertips were blueish.
A very attractive shade in fact.  Which was an aesthetic improvement over half an hour previously, when they looked like they had been fished out of the East River.

Do you know how hard it is to smoke when you've got Raynaud's Phenomenon?
It took nearly an hour for the darn things to return to normal.


SPEECH BY ONE OF AMERICA'S FRIENDS

Yesterday evening Shimon Peres spoke at Temple Emmanuel, and Lily Haskell's harem of angry young men was out on the street screaming their little lungs out.
They probably had to launder their clothes afterwards.
All those soggy diapers.
Quite the orgy.

[Lily Haskell: operative in charge of the Arab Resource  and Organizing Center (A. R. O. C.), and liaison with the potentially murderous fringe at UC Berkeley and SF State University, among many other dubious things. She and other instinctive Jew-haters had called for a massive 'unwelcome' demonstration. Massive means underwhelming.]


The main group of cretins and incendiarists stood at Cherry and Clay Streets, in front of the police barricades two blocks from the venue, screaming, waving, glowering, and glaring.  It was a cold night, so their incestuous clustering together MAY have been for warmth. 
Either that or to harmonize their hate.
Is everyone on the same key?
Mi mi mi mi miiiiiii!


At California and Arguello, however, there was a smaller more restrained group, comprised primarily of mis-informed Jewish women with pamphlets, insisting that a respected Nobel Peace laureate was a war-mongering apartheid-racist and despot. 
They probably confused him with one of the other people who've been given that prize.
Shan't say who - yemach shemo.

I stood at California and Arguello for over an hour. I was the only one with an Israeli flag there. 
Because I enjoy goading the ignorant.

Got called a "f***ing c*nt" by an Englishman (a credit to his erstwhile nation and British expats everywhere - that's why we love them), a "racist faggot" by a young unwashed passerby, and several even more unprintable names by various pro-Palestinian individuals who similarly did not have either the ability or the wit to express themselves with greater than gutter-trash eloquence in their own native tongue.
A number of those native speakers of English were Arab Americans.
Can one be mono-lingual in less than one language?

[Lest you think that ALL of the anti-Israel crowd who came to protest were of that ilk, it should be mentioned that some of them were actually very nice young men.  Yes, wrong, but still very decent folks.  In particular the three youthful Arab Americans that tried to engage us in conversation at Cherry and Clay - I had gone over there once I could no longer feel my fingers - who were sincere and courteous, and after I explained the vaso-constricted digit thing, wished us good night and good luck. I promised them that some day, under better circumstances,  we would finish the conversation.]

After the protests had ended a number of young yobbos along the road acted coarse and threatening, but savages showing their arse in public are easy to ignore.
One rather expects foul language from some people.
That's how their mothers raised them.

There was an raggedy mob of their blood-brothers misdemeaning near the gas station at the intersection.
They didn't actually come close, because there were five of us walking down the street.
Five somewhat stubborn people, four of whom were no longer young.
And as they themselves didn't actually outnumber us more ten to one (well, maybe they did), it might have been rather an iffy proposition for them.   
You can understand the threat we presented.

Their type always has issues.
And sisters.

Fun and games from 5:45 PM till 7:45 PM.

The anti-Israel action was scheduled for 5:30, but as most of us have gainful employment, our side could not possibly arrive at precisely that time to counter-demonstrate the hate-spewing. 
And obviously we have NO appeal among the shiftless and insane in this city.
Nor among delicious sweaty boys named Abdoullah.
I guess we'll have to work on that.

In complete contrast with the anti-Israel side, a huge number of random passers-by reacted positively to my Israeli flag at California and Arguello, and there were far more people attending Shimon Peres' speech than demanding mega-Jew-death outside.
That's not counting the thousands who couldn't get in because of limited capacity.
Clearly a majority support Israel's right to exist.
I'd count that as a definite victory.
Especially in San Francisco.


No, I have no idea what Peres talked about.
I don't deal with speeches well.
Transcripts, I'll read.


One minor recommendation:  next time PLEASE schedule talks by world leaders for warmer weather.  September is usually very nice, so is October.  If that conflicts with certain important dates on your calendar, perhaps try May or June (but please, NOT summer).  Not only will the maladjusted young people with issues caused by their mothers and sisters and female farm animals appreciate it, so will the rest of us.
It is MUCH easier to light up when my fingers aren't death-pallor white.
Or blue.
I could even smoke a pipe under those circumstances.
Instead of fumbling with my cigarillos.
Oppressive Zionist cigarillos.

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ON THE WATER'S EDGE

The piers were never used anymore, and could not be sold or ‘redeveloped’ either. After independence laws had been passed that limited non-native ('peranakan') ownership and property transfers, and everything that was still legal required voluntary contributions to someone’s retirement fund. In order to maintain the claim of possession, there were caretakers living among the warehouses. Once these had been the poor relatives of the various owners, nowadays most of the occupants were lesser-status male college graduates from the extended family waiting for the chance to emigrate.


The water was too shallow for large ships, too deep for a stilt-village, and the old sailing schooners that used to ply the inter-island trade no longer visited – there was no local swallows nest anymore, and nobody gathered trepang. The natives in the hills had been chased further inland, and consequently not enough resin was harvested to make it worthwhile.

The new jetty, which jutted far out into the sea, berthed freighters shipping rubber or plastic goods and rice from the factories in town, as well as the occasional tanker from further down the coast. You could see the vessels moored out in the straights awaiting their turn. It was a constantly changing view.

A bit further down, where the shore gradually sloped into the breakers, the Sama had built a settlement of clutter, sheds, pontoons, and moored boats. The tide took care of the refuse, but it still stank. People said it was because of what the Japanese had done there over forty years ago.


RESIDENCE AT PUNDO LANANG

It was better on these piers than elsewhere in the city, especially after nightfall, when breezes carried moisture in from the sea. On some days a sudden torrential downpour in mid-afternoon would have dumped much water on the wharf, and the coolness stayed longer, sometimes till sunset.
At night time, in between the warehouses, braziers would be lit, coffee and simple meals prepared. The caretakers lived fairly Spartan lives, they hardly spent the family stipend, and seldom even opened the tins of meat from overseas. Fresh fish bought from the Sama might be grilled – it was good with chilies and bottled condiments. So were the local vegetables, mostly eggplant and amaranthus (daun bayem). Other than occasional forays to the toko they rarely ventured out of the precinct.
The quietness had grown on them, and some who had spent years there had become reclusive.
It was silent. It was… very peaceful.

When there was a breeze, and often this was only after dark, it felt velvety among the sheds and warehouses, and you could hear the rustling of the leaves of a great many potted plants, or the trees at the intersection of the beach road and the cargo path. Seldom strong enough to ruffle hair, but nevertheless a happy-making circumstance. Much nicer were the downpours that happened two or three times a week, suddenly drenching everything with sheets of water for ten or twenty minutes. Once the rain stopped, it took only a few minutes for all the water to evaporate, especially on the beach road and at the new all-concrete jetty, and the blast of heat from the hard surfaces would resume with greater ferocity. But at Pundo Lanang, the moisture did not depart as fast, stray coolness could be felt between the buildings and under the eaves.

Mosquito nets were absolutely essential, because of pockets of unseen standing water, and the lack of air-conditioning. The smoke from cooking fires kept some of the bugs away, as did the trays of smoldering leaves from a local plant that was spicy-sharp and vanilla-like but not sweet (daun apa?), with which the curtains around the bed would be censed ten or twenty minutes before sleep. Sandal wood incense (tjandana) had the same effect.
Cigarettes worked best of all, it was said. But that could have simply been an excuse.
Oil lamps also gave that result. Or maybe they just stank profusely.

Sometimes a dab of minyak kayu putih on the skin was recommended; good for sore muscles, strong smelling – if it didn’t repel the mosquitoes, it would soothe their bites.
I think some people simply used it as an air-freshener, however.
Or even a personal fragrance.

If you weren’t used to the heat in this part of the world you might wake up two or three times a night, drenched in sweat and freezing. A few minutes later you would be dry, and again far too warm.
Go outside and dump a scoop of water over yourself, not so much to cool off (the water was always warm), as to cleanse the skin. Otherwise you will feel gritty and unsocial at daybreak.
At times the splish splish of someone else doing the same could be heard, from very far off. That, plus the almost imperceptible creaking as things all around cooled down, murmured voices from somewhere on the piers, and the sounds of stealthy living things, were what kept the place from being entirely still.
It felt comfortable.


Warm rain. Hungry, not hungry. Greedily happy.
Smoothness. Coffee and fried rice with fish.
Flag down a pedicab to head into town.
Ice with syrup and condensed milk.

Doze in the daytime. Read and smoke cigarettes half the night.

There will be another boat in two weeks.


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