At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Sunday, February 19, 2017


You are very far from the world there. And, if you do not carry a cellphone, the world will keep its distance. It had rained all day, and it was raining when I entered. The restaurant was empty, except for a white woman having a late lunch (shrimp and eggs over noodles). Without a word the waitress put a pot of tea on the table and took my order, then returned to her serial on the tiny teevee behind the counter.

Linguistic environment: mixed. The white woman asked for her bill and a box in English, I stated what I wanted in Cantonese, the waitress hollered into the kitchen in Toisanwa, and the television serial that held her attention was in Mandarin. When a Northerner entered to purchase some cheung fan, the two of them held to their own tongues, but understood each other perfectly.

Meanwhile, some woman on screen was wailing, "save me, save me!" And piteously weeping. Jiu wo, jiu jiu wo (救救我 ). It sounded like splendid entertainment. A real tear jerker, with lots of bad things happening to nice people, which makes you feel for them and wonder what next.
Probably fifty-plus spellbinding episodes.

Other than the sounds of distress from the counter where the waitress sat, the place was quiet. The rain outside got worse, and bounced off the roof of a van parked in front. Few people passed by.

My food, when it came, was delicious.
Dinner was very cheap, very enjoyable.
I should go there more often than I do.

I dawdled over tea afterwards, enjoying the mood, then filled my pipe and did some shopping. When darkness fell I was under an awning finishing my smoke and watching people hurry home. The light faded at the same tempo as the fragrance from the pipe diminished. The last bit of tobacco left a lingering echo, the ember glowed briefly, and then went out.

I have always particularly enjoyed bitter melon and fish over rice. It is a simple dish, just a convenient combination of two ingredients pre-cooked separately then tossed together with some black bean sauce, but it is a completely happy delight. The crisp toothsomeness and green green zest of the vegetable, the lightly batter-fried fish, tender and perfect, the juices from the pan with that salted black bean savouriness .....
A whisp of ginger, a kiss of garlic.

It's something that you could easily do at home.
But better when someone else does it.

Terms like these are music to my mind: 涼瓜魚片飯,豉汁涼瓜炆魚,涼瓜炆沙猛魚,豆豉鯪魚燒涼瓜,涼瓜魚腩煲,蒜頭豆豉涼瓜炆魚,

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Every year about this time we white people go through a "Chinese Phase". Here in the Bay Area, at least. We hear about Chinese New Year (which happened on January 28 this time), and decide to acknowledge the great five thousand year-old culture and spirituality of our neighbors -- who have probably been here longer than us, because this region was populated by Italians and Chinese way before the Irish came here -- by either spouting meaningful stuff about Buddhism and the animal under which we were born, OR dining at Chef Dong's down at the strip mall.

Egg foo young and egg rolls.

Sho' nuff.

Because "Chinese food" isn't really "Chinese food".

Somewhere there's a Cantonese person, at this very moment, looking at a can of tuna speculatively and wondering whether it would benefit from ginger and scallion. Tuna chow mein. Total breakfast.
He'll take the plunge, and then fine-tune the recipe for family events.
Outer-Sunset Tuna Noodle Casserole.

Here is some real Chinese food:


The Chinese have been doing 'fusion' longer than anybody else. As anyone who has ever eaten cooked lettuce or black bean asparagus chicken can attest. Also, for some bizarre reason many of the restaurants that cater to a primarily Chinese clientele near my neighborhood have broccoli beef on the menu, which more than anything proves that they'll happily incorporate inedible white stuff in their cuisine. Broccoli, good lord.

Broccoli is probably great with canned tuna.

Perhaps they'll eventually try chicken chow mein.

Yes, the Chinese do consume canned tuna.
No, I haven't tried a 吞拿魚包

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Saturday, February 18, 2017


It isn't often that I post obscenity. My apologies. Without a doubt the most repulsive thing on the internet is President Trump's Prayer Team.
Which caters to half-wits in Jesus' name.

Let us begin the sewage.

"Father, Your Word instructs us to pray for those who speak evil against us when we stand for You. Today we pray for every form of media that is against righteousness. Lord, we ask you to confuse those who cause division, confound their speech, and frustrate their plans. We pray against wicked imaginations, violence and strife. Your will be done. In Jesus Name!"

"Father, we ask you to reveal and bring down every evil work of Satan in our government. Those who conspire to destroy our president and his administration by withholding sensitive information, leaking secrets and manipulating public opinion. We pray against the "deep state," "shadow government," and every other form of control working against righteousness. We pray this in Jesus Name. Everyone say AMEN!!"

"Almighty God, we thank you for the meeting today between President Trump and Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu. We ask that you anoint our relationship and support of Israel. As a Christian nation, we are deeply committed to blessing Israel as you commanded in Genesis 12:3. Bind us together with cords that cannot be broken. We pray this in Jesus Name. Everyone say AMEN!"

"Lord Jesus, we pray for Dr. Tom Price as he becomes the United States Secretary of Health and Human Services. We thank you for a principled expert on healthcare policy; but ultimately we ask You to guide the reform of healthcare in America. Father, anoint Dr. Price and Congress with the wisdom of Joseph for managing resources, and the mercy and compassion of the Good Samaritan. In the powerful Name of Jesus. Everyone say AMEN!!"

"DEAR JESUS, we ask that you place a hedge of protection around President Trump. We pray that he has a visitation from You and that You minister to him on a personal level. Fill him with Your spirit and give him Your heart, Your peace - a peace that passes all understanding. Anoint his mind, anoint his lips, remove any blinders from his eyes and allow him to see the world as You see it. Bless him this day. In Jesus Name. Everyone say AMEN!!"

"Lord Jesus, we come before you with hearts of gratitude and praise. Thank you for President Trump, First Lady Melania and for the army of prayer warriors who are committed to lifting them up in prayer. Father, we humbly repent of our sins as a nation. Please forgive us. We pray Your will be done this day. Give our leaders wisdom which comes only from You and guide every decision they make. In Jesus Name. Somebody say Amen!!"

I am dispassionately infuriated. Eventually some of these people will step in front of out-of-control big rigs. If you are going to pray, please pray that they speedily come to a slow demise.

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Friday, February 17, 2017


This blogger is looking forward to Wednesday March 8th. Because on that day fabulous things are going to happen, oh my yes.
And then you will know!

"The organizers behind the Women’s March on Washington (*) are calling for a general strike next month to show the country what a day without women would look like."

It is planned for March 8.

On that day, all of you men in relationships with the opposite gender will suffer immensely. There will be no one to pour you your breakfast beer, or remove the pizza and hot dog stains from the bedsheets.
How on earth will you cope?

You poor helpless bastards.

People like myself, on the other hand, will scarcely notice any difference. There are no women in our lives, we don't drink beer for breakfast (but cups of strong coffee instead), and we long ago gave up on our bedsheets and chucked them into the garbage.

Beer and bedsheets are for wusses.

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Thursday, February 16, 2017


This blogger believes in clothing. More than anything else, clothing keeps us all socially acceptable (the phrase "nobody wants to see that!" should always be at the tip of your tongue), and you, me, and everybody else, are much the better for it. Please get dressed.

The grass or leaf skirt is fine in a South Seas Musical, but there are limits. As I am certain you will agree, 'Oklahoma', and 'My Fair Lady' would be quite ridiculous performed en-deshabille.

But what should you wear?

I have suggestions.

Based on internet searches which daily bring readers to my blog, you should probably wear something French.

See this essay:


Yessir, that post is what many people read. Personally I am not so much vested in underwear -- it's nice, and I always have it on under my street clothes -- but I am beginning to think there may be money in it.

See, I have written about tea, pottery, porcelain, politics, and tobacco far more often than underwear. Each one of those subjects, as well as food, linguistics, literature, painting, briar pipes, and pizza.
Even Netanyahu too!

But, panties.

I think it's NOT ONLY women who are looking for panties.
There may be some men who are also interested.
It could be just intellectual curiosity.


The internet is vast. But they look up panties. There are many things going on in the world, and much is in flux; panties are constant. I have thoughts, ideas, and inspiration. They are fascinated by my panties.

This post is NOT about panties.
Nor Bibi Netanyehuha.
It's about you.

Please get dressed.


As regular visitors to this page know, my daytime job involves cigars and the people who enjoy them. You can probably imagine what they look like, and yes, they DO look exactly like that. Most of them. There are very few cigar smokers whom I ever wish to see in panties. If they so incline they should absolutely feel to wear them, but only under their clothes.
Middle-aged men wear panties all the time, I believe.
But nobody wants to see that.

The same goes for pipe smokers. Of whom I know several, and not all of them are middle-aged, some are young. And some are older than the dinosaurs, all wrinkly and dessicated and falling apart.
Again, no visible panties please.

One of the pipe smokers recently wore a kilt.
I didn't check what he had on underneath.
Because nobody wants to see that.

It is almost axiomatic that anyone whom I should want to see wearing panties would be neither a cigar smoker nor a pipe smoker.
Which is very, very, very sad.

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Courtesy of a bunch of Aussies, this blogger has A) found a spanking new purpose in life and for washing machines, and B) had approximately three and a half minutes of clean wholesome ("non-sexual") entertainment.

And, you will be pleased to know, an epiphany.



I would've added soap, just for normalcy.
That thing they put in, is it clean?

This blogger has decided that doing laundry is vastly over-rated. Given that half the time I am surrounded by midddle-aged rightwing blowhards huffing cigars, I smoke a pipe, and no bright young thing with a decent nose is going to passionately jump my bones except in my wildest dreams.

Or any nose, really.

That's the epiphany. Cut back on laundry. Rely on Mother Nature and the rainy season instead. Or do some shirts in the bathtub once in a while.
This is San Francisco, nobody will know the difference.

It's a great washing machine video.

Profoundly stirring.

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Wednesday, February 15, 2017


A woman gave birth on a dirty mattress in jail because sheriff Anthony Wickersham of Macomb County is a dick. As is pretty much everyone who supports him in his role, and, let's face it, all of Michigan.
You wouldn't want to live there. Unless you had to.

Obviously the story’s out there; the things we should’ve done, and obviously we’re looking at all of our situations, but as sheriff I look at all this and our staff and the medical staff acted appropriately.

------Anthony Wickersham

[SOURCE: Jezebel, article: Sheriff Defends Jail Staff Who Forced Woman to Give Birth On Cell Floor: 'We Really Don't Know When That Baby Is Going to Come'.]

Did I already mention that Sheriff Wickersham is a dick?
It's just a small detail, but crucial to the story.

"Wickersham said his staff evaluated Preston at least twice before the delivery and “didn’t believe she was in labor … and she was sent back upstairs” to her cell."

"Preston’s family was not alerted until after she gave birth to Elijah, who weighed less than 5 pounds. The mother then remained in custody at McLaren Macomb hospital in Mount Clemens.
Relatives were allowed in the next day, Wickersham said, but Chastain is adamant her son had always hoped to be present to cut the baby’s umbilical cord.
“How could they let that happen?” Chastain said. “How would they feel if it was their mother, sister, cousin, aunt? Actually, that probably would never have happened.”"

[SOURCE: The detroit News, article: Macomb County Jail birth sparks controversy.]

Anthony Wickersham is, unfortunately, a Democrat. I wish I could say that he's a Republican, but he isn't. He's from the great state of Michigan, where very many things suck bollocks irrespective of party affiliation.
And Macomb County is its own slice of peculiar.

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Most of the time I kind of ignore Angry Asian Man, because while the passion he puts into his blog is truly commendable, he's just too negative about all the cute things we Caucasians do. People don't read blogs to be depressed and sad. Or even righteously angry. For instance, my readers come here for the happy and the joy. And the kitten pictures.
Everybody loves the happy, the joy, the kitten.
I run a nice tinkly upbeat blog.


Yesterday, Angry Asian Man called out Vogue. Which is a magazine that the normal person does not read, and should not read.

There's a photo-spread of a white supermodel doing Japanesey stuff in the March issue.

Including being all zen-type goo and artistic.


"The spread, photographed in Japan by Mikael Jansson and styled by Phyllis Posnick, features Kloss in what is pretty much yellowface, going full geisha in various photos shot around Japan's Ise-Shima National Park. They've got Kloss in thick black hair, pale skin and kimono-like attire, posed in various Japanese-y backgrounds. There's even a friggin' sumo wrestler for bonus stereotypical Japanese-ness."



Years ago my apartment mate, who has a yellow face that she came by naturally, what with being of Asian ancestry and all, was steamed at fellow students of Aikido and Wushu because they ponced around in their neat-o uniforms acting all Asian and shit. Including being artistic, spiritual, chopstickey-poo, and accented.

I cringe on behalf of my fellow Wasps when we pull that kind of crap.

But it's by no means a sense of personal embarrassment.

See, I am a "Brabantine American".

We're better.


Maybe the photo shoot with Karlie Kloss was meant ironically? Perhaps she and photographer Mikael Jansson really intended it as a cutesy-poo artisticky-poo tribute to woodblock prints and Manga, rather than the occupation forces in post-war Asia? If so, they got it all wrong.
Karlie Kloss is no Ranma½. Or even Akane Tendo.

This is Akane Tendo:

["Cheesu cake"]

Akane is probably the most admirable woman in the tale. A very sweet girl, really. Very ... "feminine". Yeah. Totally Japany-poo.

This is Akane expressing herself:

["Cha no poo fu"]

I cannot see Karlie Kloss doing that. But she should. To her agent, to the photographer, the stylist (Phyllis Posnick), and the dumb-ass editors of Vogue magazine.

The scene with the kick shown above is significant, because that is a tea ceremony in progress, and the exploitative sexist dingo has been politely removed, so that the others can continue with the ritual in a calm and civilised manner. Which is very Asian. Oh my yes.

Please notice the two individuals in the picture wearing kimonos.

Do either of them look like Karlie Kloss?

I don't think so.

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The people with whom I work are not interesting enough. There's a family man, three single men, two single women, and an elderly couple. Except for the single women, they all smoke cigars. There is neither anything quite extraordinary about them, nor do they have peculiar habits. Unlike a relative five generations ago who came home every night and pelted his spouse with raw chops, they don't do anything noteworthy.

My apartment mate, on the other hand.....

She was on the phone with her boyfriend last night. One of her co-workers was breastfed till high-school age. His mom would come to visit during recess. No, I could not overhear how this came up in conversation at the office, as I was simultaneously trying to politely ignore what was obviously an intimate conversation, while examining my toes. They are all there; pale and white and wormlike. While wandering around the north-eastern quadrant of the city, it had felt like one of them was missing.

Not everyone comes home to a disquisition on breastfeeding. It should not surprise you that the subject seldom comes up in my world.
But with her, anything is possible.

Breastfeeding women tend to avoid pipe smokers.
The oral fixation may disturb them.
As well as the thing.
That feeds.

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Tuesday, February 14, 2017


It must be Spring. The sun is out, birds are making noises, and people all over Facebook have posted weird stuff about the loves of their lives, in some cases wearing super-hero clothing. This blogger is quite uncomfortable with that. I am a single man.
Exhibitionists, subdue yourselves!

I've got the windows open, and I am wearing pajama pants and wife beater. It is unseasonably warm. The windows are opened because it is a day off, there is tobacco smoke in the apartment, my apartment mate (who is at work) is a non-smoker, her door is closed to keep the odour out, and she will be returning in about six or seven hours and won't wish to smell the lingering fragrance of my peculiarities.

After my bath I will buy lightbulbs, then head over the hill to Chinatown / Northbeach with some pipes and tobacco. It will be a blind date with myself. I may have some chocolate with myself, or entertain myself with my trademark goofy humour. I do not know. An adventure.


Two pipes came back from Schulte with new stems yesterday. They are identical shapes (BigBen apples, one smooth, one sand blasted), and the stems match. New stems were needed for aesthetic reasons, the old ones are perfectly fine, but I like slightly longer stems than is common, because pipe companies have not realized that the last few inches of space between the eyes and everything else make all the difference indeed to a middle-aged Dutch-American man who wears his reading specs all the time, as otherwise he would smack himself in the face with a teacup or ricebowl. Nearly lost a tooth a few years ago. Disturbing. Pipe companies like to believe that we are all sprightly young lads still gallivanting around the 'Quad', spouting snippets of English Romantic Poetry.
Or the Greek and Latin classics.

This does not happen anymore.

Besides, whereas pipe-smokers were considered "cool" back in the fifties, nowadays we are thought of as rapscallions out to corrupt the spongy minds of America's college kids, who must be protected from our fumes at all costs. We lurk in dark corners, to lure you into a life of shame.
Smoking is EVIL, and tofu is a great good.
Oh, and we carry disease.


Honestly, I would not mind corrupting someone fresh and collegiate, but spongy minds are a turn-off, and too many young people are unformed, indecisive, tattooed, and peculiarly self-absorbed.
And they aren't hep to a life of shame.
Which is very sad for them.

At heart, I am a romantic. I am also grouchy, and not very social. So my version of a life of shame is quiet and restrained, and besides pipes also involves copious amounts of tea, and a book-cluttered pigsty.
Plus the occasional spot of whisky.
No saccharin.

Anyhow, the BigBen pipes will be coming along, the tobacco is a mildly degenerate Virginia mixture with a shpritz of something floral-fruity, and there will be some milk-tea later.

Me and my pipes intend to enjoy the sunshine.
It will be great fun.

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This blogger, being an at times sarcastic and mean-spirited blighter, could not be more overjoyed at the news coming out of Washington this morning.
It seems like a really sour Valentine's Day gift for the true believers up in Marin, whom I will not see for a few days. And they deserve it.
The saffron-hued crap-whompus is probably livid.

This is what that card says inside:

"Frank Ancona found dead, White House devastated. "He was being considered for the national security advisor spot", according to Sméagol, an official in the administration."

Neener neener neener, bitches, neener neener neener.

What did they know? When did they know it? Why were they okay with it? And why did they lie about it for three weeks?

General Flynn Flamm will be a hard act to follow.

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Monday, February 13, 2017


My apartment mate sometimes asks me personal questions based on The Real Housewives of whichever horrible place. Which isn't a show I wish to watch, but she does, and I suffer through because we have only one teevee room and that is also where our computers are. Both of us are typing furiously at the moment, so guess what's on the telly.

Yep. Blonde slags acting badly.

"What would you do if someone showed up at your party whom you knew had been slandering your family and talking smack about your sister?"

Honestly, I don't know. I do not envision throwing a party for any of these ghastly trolls. And neither you nor I know people like these girls, so why would you ask me?

You know, after absorbing this show, I do not wish to know people like this. They aren't related to me, my family isn't like that, and as far as I know none of my relatives would associate with such types either.

Did someone on-screen just mention blow jobs?!?

I'm starting to hate blonde hair.

Just saying.

These folks spend far too money and time much on their appearance. And they are immodest about their breasts. This is quite unseemly. Furthermore, the mammaries in question are way too large, which may or may not be their fault, but I think it is. Come to think of it, I am convinced.

I am very judgmental about such things.
Sternly disapproving.

If someone like any one of them showed up at my party, I would politely but firmly direct them to the door. And I'd probably have kittens.
I don't throw parties, in case your were wondering.
Neither does my apartment mate.

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Several very good friends posted lovely photos of Chinatown stuff over the weekend, as they had been there on Saturday in connection with Chinese New Year's Parade. Which is an annual thing.
I neither posted pix nor went.

Grant Avenue filled with Caucasians? Yeah, sorry, no. But thank y'all for visiting, and come again next year. The community needs the injection of cash that you bring, and several restaurants could use the extra business.

I am not social enough to deal well with crowds, and, well, y'all aren't really adorable in a swarm. Besides, I hide out in Chinatown on my days off.
Noodles, pastries, dimsum, baked chicken rice, milk tea .....
Or a good square meal at a decent price.

Really, the only other thing an anti-social wild animal might need is a couch with a comfy rug, and a laptop computer, in a smoke-friendly place.
With pipe cleaners and an ashtray on the side table.
I'll bring my own preferred tobacco.
Enough to share.

I'm okay enjoying a pipe in the company of one or two other individuals who either indulge themselves or do not mind the gentle perfume.
More than that and it might get too noisy.

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Sunday, February 12, 2017


Fire duck, more often known as roast duck in Cantonese, is probably the most delicious take-away from a Hong Kong style barbecue joint, and it is affordable enough that the single man may end up with a surfeit.
Which is good thing.

So what do you do with the leftovers? Other than middle of the night noshing? Or having bits for breakfast, lunch, and a random snack?

Well, you could mix it up with other stuff in your larder.

['suet choi fo ngaap si mai']


Per person, as much roast duck as seems like a nice serving (cut into shreds); a good amount of snow cabbage soaked in several changes of water, almost half of a white or yellow onion, half or more of a green bellpepper, plus garlic, ginger, scallion, soy sauce, ground pepper.
And rice noodles, the thinnish kind.

Slice the onion and bellpepper, mince the garlic and ginger, and cut the scallion sectionally. Drain and chop the snow cabbage.
Boil the rice noodles for about two minutes.
Rinse and drain.

Fry the garlic, ginger, and onion till fragrant, add the sliced bellpepper and shred-cut duck, as well as the chopped snow cabbage. While stirring, add an amount of water sufficient to make it soppy, not too much. Pour in about two tablespoons of soy sauce, dump in the scallion pieces, strew a pinch of pepper over, stir around a bit to mix everything, and serve.

"Dang", you might say, "that's so easy!"

And it really is.

On Friday I had roast duck and rice. The bellpepper I bought while I was shooping in Chinatown, the onion was left over from my apartment mate's cooking yesterday, soy sauce is a shared household necessity, as are fresh garlic and ginger, and boy howdy do I have a selection of noodles.
Snow cabbage (雪菜) is salt-pickled brassica.

And there is also hotsauce.

It's all mine.

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A teacher gave instructions to students a while back. "You are to assume the role of a Chinese immigrant in 1870 and write a letter home describing your experiences ... "
The class was apparently composed of people representing the full gamut from fluent English to Chinese.
And the response of one student was internet-memed.
You've probably seen it on-line.
It was "hopeful".

Translation: "My life here is very bad. The working circumstances are horrible and the advantages are few. But do not worry, each day there are only about ten people who are badly injured and I am very careful. We have opened a small store, and business isn’t bad. Although English is still mostly incomprehensible (to me), I can understand what these white people say. Hoping that we are successful! I will work hard here and take care of my health.
Are you (plural: 你們) well?
Miss you very much, and hope that we will see each other again."

我在這裏生活得很差。 工作環境不佳,福利缺少。 不過不用擔心,每天只有大概十個人受重傷, 而我亦很小心。 我們開了一間小舖,生意不俗。 雖然,我對英文不是很認識,但是也能略略明白那些白人所說的話。 希望能夠出人頭地吧! 我在這裏會努力工作,也會小心身體。 你們還好吧? 很掛念你們,希望我們能夠在見面。

Note that the text typically reflects some modern Mandarin usages.

你們 at that time would have been 你等 and a Cantonese person should have said 你哋 instead, or written 台端 (a formal term of address). The vast majority of Chinese immigrants to the U.S. in that age were from Guangzhou, and if they could write, probably wrote literary Chinese.
As was then the standard written koiné.

[See "inventing the feminine pronoun" for further discussion anent the differences regarding pronominal terminologies in Chinese languages. The term 台端 "toi duen" raises the party thus addressed up on a pedestal.]

Every day there were only about ten people or so who were badly injured.
大概 'daai koi'; "roughly, approximately, generally speaking".
Common in Cantonese usage.

Here: 在這裏 (Mandarin: tzai cher-li) is more frequently and casually written 在這裡 and in Cantonese said thus: 喺呢度 ('hai ni tou').
But 裏 is the traditional spelling of the character.
里 is the Mainland simplified version.

The word for business (生意 'saang yi') is a Cantonese expression.
Not so much Mandarin, although it is used occasionally.

The person who wrote this is probably from Hong Kong.

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Saturday, February 11, 2017


In the years that I have been writing this blog, I have come up with some creative titles. Some may have even been a bit 'riskay'. Today, some poor bastard found his way onto this page by typing in the exact title of one particular post: "No hair, no panties".


The post itself was, more or less, in response to the woman who told me that she intended to dye her hair puce. Which, at the time, baffled me. Eventually I figured out that it was a conversational gambit which may have meant that she found me cute, but my response that afternoon was "oh gawd no", because I'm dense, and don't recognize openings.

It would have been a non-starter evenso, because I already knew that she was a Vegan and had tattoos.

Both of those things are problems, dear.

It's not you, it's me.

Anyhow, I can only guess what the shmo who looked up 'no hair, no panties' expected to find. And really, I sincerely feel for him.
It must have been totally deflating to find ... text.

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There are some parts of this country where civilized people will not go, as the amount of insanity there is terrifying. Largely rust belt areas with lead in the tapwater for several generations, or places where the U. S. government conducted experiments that involved LSD and other substances in an effort to ascertain how fast society could devolve to chaos and anarachy.
No, not Berkeley.

The crimson sh*tsmear down the centre that mostly voted for Trump.

"The women of Montana are armed"

------Hollis Poe, here: BBC

The interior is savage and fearful.



I've been told that most people, even Trump voters, are actually fairly decent folks, and not nearly as mad as their spokesmen, politicians, and the media, make them out to be.

But I always doubted that assurance, and I don't believe it any more.

There is just too damned much ignorance.

That has to be intentional.


I was born in this country, and I have lived here most of my life. I have met too many folks from the heartland to trust those people until they show their decency. I will not take it on faith.

I have no wish to meet them in their home territory.

I am not suicidal.

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Friday, February 10, 2017


One of the members of the local pipe club is of Scottish descent, and actively promotes things such as Burns Night and the wearing of skirts. Which is somewhat in keeping with being a pipe smoker, as Scotland is known for good tobacco (not grown there, no longer made there or likely even sold there, but sometimes found there in the days when Britain was great), fine woolen cloth, and plain albeit truly bizarre food.
Have a bit of skink with your haggis, dear.
Ooh, lovely, and thankee kindly.
Black buns?

At our recent meeting he made the staggering claim that Robert Burns was a splendid poet.

Look, I suppose that if you've got only one (1) versifier, whatever he does is jes' wunnerful and worth celebrating, but the world might not agree.

Besides, you are forgetting Ewan McTeagle.

This blogger is not vested in Scottish poetry or cuisine, and would argue that such things don't actually exist, or, if they do, that they shouldn't. At the meeting I smoked two bowls of McConnell's Folded Flake in stunned silence, before making off with the open tin of GLP's Union Square.

Mr. Shaw disquisitioned for slightly over an hour on the romance and beauty of Scotland and its glorious history of violent real-estate transactions.
With visuals, and a wee sidetrack into liquor.

He had come well prepared. He was wearing a kilt (and a tiny sword), he had coloured slides, and there were bottles.


For the benefit of the club exile stuck in the snows of Boston these past few years, as well as the members presently living among the Hobbits in New Zealand, here are two videos that perfectly encapsulate the all-too brief history of Caledonia presented last night.



It was a good meeting, and there was some lovely baccy floating around. The weather, though rainy, was warmish, and because the subcontinental liberal did not come to irritate the Hibernian savage, the cigar lounge at the far end of the building was peaceful, rather than the pit of howling madness and outraged screaming it normally is. They did not disturb us civilized smokers like they usually do.

[Irish tobacco: what you smoke to disguise the odeur of your mildewed tweed.]

As a lagniappe, here is an infestation of pipers:


Particular mention must be made of the lovely shortbread provided by Neal (there were two types, he baked them himself ) and the fact that more Rattray tobacco was consumed last night than any other brand; Old Gowrie, Hal O'The Wynd, Black Mallory, i drugiye togo tipo.

Afterwards, the kilt-wearing individual with the hairy calves, a graphic artist, and a Dutch person all repaired to a tavern, where yet more whisky was consumed and tobacco enjoyed. The two first mentioned gentlemen retired after a while, but the Netherlander stayed to stir up revolution and insult the Trumpites, certain he could find such among the cigar smokers present.

As a matter of principle, I wish to state there are more cretins and potential thugs among cigar smokers than any other segment of the population, and that it is a grievous burden when well-brought-up pipe smokers are forced to share space with those repulsive bastards.
What is this world coming to?

We share Scotch, but that is all.


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Thursday, February 09, 2017


Lately there has been a rumble-storm in certain circles over rumours that Dunhill tobacco products might soon be going the way of the Dodo.
Not literally, of course, because the reader with knowledge will know that we Dutch ate the dodo (it was delicious!), and tobacco is not food (unlike the dodo, which was delicious).

We regret the dodo. We should have saved a few for all of you Anglos, it would have given you something much better to eat than the turkey, which is quite ghastly. Turkeys, good grief. Stupid Anglos.

The dodo was delicious.

Anyhow, if you can read German, there is a thoughtful discussion here about Dunhill tobacco: Werden Dunhills (vorerst) eingestellt?.
It's on the Pfeife-Tabak forum, also of interest.

Another name for the dodo is 'walghvogel'. Which could far more appropriately be an appellation for the turkey.
Which is usually om van te walgen.
Niet te vreten. Bah!

The dodo was delicious.


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Wednesday, February 08, 2017


While twiddling my toes in soapy water yesterday, I realized that for lunch something different would be nice. This is not a sudden flash of insight, I've actually thought that many times before. Usually while at work, where too often I fall back on convenience store tuna salad sandwiches with a sploodge of chili sauce.

So on my three days off each week, I wish to eat something better.
The only thing that's the same is the presence of chili sauce.
Single men of a certain age and bend require it.
It keeps our eyes bright.


At a chachanteng I perused the menu and placed my order. Only afterwards did I start to read the specials on the wall. The pig stomach with celery (豬肚炒西芹) looked interesting, as did the selection of yummies mentioned directly below it, which all involved fatty pork: 榨菜炒五花腩、尖椒炒五花腩、and two others I do not remember.

I always do that; I order from the regular menu before looking at the special posted at convenient eye-level. Unlike restaurants for white people, where an art-student will chirpily inform you of the pangolin in truffle sauce with a port reduction which the chef recommends today while it lasts, or the sorbet of pickled calf liver on a bed of tender quinoa sprouts with toast points, Chinese restaurants quite logically expect you to read.

Donald Trump would be totally lost there.

[Please note there are terms in this post which perhaps you do not know. Like 'quinoa'.
Explanations might be provided, elsewise your own research will provide answers.
Unless you are Donald. Then you are hopeless.]

The double mushroom chicken rice was truly excellent. But the fatty pork would have been nicer.

榨菜炒五花腩 ('jaa choi chaau ng faa naam')

One pound of five flower pork.

Small amounts of white pepper powder, oyster sauce, and up to half a cup roughly of Szechuanese pressed mustard stem (which is nice and crunchy, and need not be rinsed before use - taste it to judge how much you want in the dish), plus between a teaspoon and a tablespoon of soy sauce, teaspoon or two of cornstarch.
Sherry or rice wine.

Slice the pork not too thin, taking care to divide the pieces into fatty bits and lean. Cut the pickled mustard into thick shreds.

Rinse the pork slices, dry, and marinate them with the cornstarch, oyster sauce, and soy sauce. Mix well to distribute the flavours.
Let it sit for half an hour.

Separate out the fatty bits, and fry these a little first. Then add the lean meat, stirfy with the fatty bits. Add the pickled vegetable, toss to mingle, and splash in the sherry or rice wine, plus a little water.
While it seethes sprinkle white pepper over it.

Cook a little bit longer, and plate it.

It is ganz einfach.

尖椒炒五花腩 ('tsim chiu caau ng faa naam')

One pound of five flower pork.

Half a dozen or more big Jalapenos, deseeded, cut, and briefly blanched in boiling water to tone the buggers down a bit. You could also use smaller hotter green chilies, or sweeter milder bellpeppers. And the duration of blanching to lessen the heat effect is also flexible. Or mix it up.

Garlic and ginger as seems appropriate, chopped.
Scallions, sliced.
Salt and oil.

Slice the pork semi-thin. Gild the pork in the pan with a little oil, remove and drain. Add the chopped ginger and garlic to the pan with a little salt, stirfry briefly, cast in the peppers and stirfy. When they start to turn, add the meat, and seethe with a small splash of water. Strew the scallion into the pan, turn over with a spatula a couple of times till the liquid is reduced.
Cant it all onto a plate.

Speed and heat are of the essence.

雙菇雞 ('seung gu gai')

About a pound of chicken de-boned cut into small chunks, rinsed, and mixed with beaten egg white and half a tablespoon of cornstarch.
Tree oyster and fresh champignon in equal measure, rinsed and trimmed, sliced thick, more than the amount of chicken. A little chopped yellow onion, somewhat more than that chopped bell pepper.
Very small amounts of garlic and ginger.
A tablespoon of oyster sauce.
A dash of soy sauce.
Pinch of sugar.

Briefly gild the garlic and ginger, decant. Same with the onion and bell pepper. Do likewise with the mushroom. Now over high heat stirfry the chicken, splash with water or sherry, add the oyster and soy sauce, and throw in everything else. Stifry till mixed and turn out onto a plate.

It is not complicated.

All three of these dishes are suitable for four people, served with one or two other dishes, soup and rice. And easy enough to prepare that you shouldn't be frustrated. A keen eye for quantities and sound judgment of both heat and speed are important, though.

As one of the other dishes I would suggest stewed bittermelon with a little bacon or fishpaste. Good for you.

The soup, ideally, would be thin chicken and or pork bone broth with watercress. Add a few slices of carrot for a cheerful colour, and one or two slices of ginger.

[Optional additions, for a fuller soup, would be a smoked date or two, a small handful of yellow beans or pearl barley, and some dioscorea opposita (淮山 'waai saan') root.]

Did I mention 'ganz einfach'?
This is ganz einfach.
Trust me.


Though chachanteng cater to all types, they greatly appeal to people dining by themselves. They're for casual eating rather than refined dining, and the selection of dishes on the typical menu could very well be enjoyed by one person alone. Some are more suited for morning and mid-day, some do their best business in late afternoon and early evening.
All of them have hot Hong Kong style milk-tea.
Which is a pick-me upper.

Yesterday there were five other single men dining there, and a small family (one child). Quite possibly I was the only person not scanning my text messages, almost certainly the only Luddite without a cell phone, and quite definitely the only Caucasian; most white people cannot make sense of the menu, as it isn't what they expect Chinese to be. Yes, they do have lemon chicken, and kungpao, but so much else is different.

It was very quiet. There was no background music.
Most of us dined in solitude.

A contemplative smoke afterwards while darkness fell.
Alleyways, corners, and past the park.
Then night and rain.


A friend in Shanghai recently posted photos of eel and pork kidney noodle soup (鱓絲腰花麵 'sin si yiu faa min'), which is very Shanghai - Jiangsu - Anhui, and a dish which one would also associate with some place like Hangzhou. It looked quite yummy! There is no place in Chinatown that serves it, so I shall have to research the recipe and make it myself. Dutchmen and Flemings, people like me, are eel lovers.
And kidney flowers, well, delicious.

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Tuesday, February 07, 2017


The people who accidentally find this blog are as good a cross-section of the public as any, and, unfortunately, disprove my oft-stated contention that the internet exists for three things: porn, kitten pictures, and recipes.

Another thing I frequently tell people is that the internet is for complaining. Get off work, go home and switch on the computer, assume a totally fake persona and avatar, and then make other people's lives surreal by going paranoid in the comment strings. Say things that make no sense, argue, and when you're losing the battle, bring up Hitler.

"Steve Bannon gave my aunt The Typhoids!"

"Just like Adolph Hitler!"

[Note: Stephen Kevin "Steve" Bannon is an American political hack who is currently serving as Regent, Constable of Jaffa, and Chief Byzantine Conspirator, at the court of Baldwin IV.]

The searches that brought the most people to this blog in the last month:

1. Hot Cherie Chung
2. Tits
3. Old Tampines Road
4. Dunhill Pipe tobacco
5. Geert Wilders
6. Ho See Fat Choy recipe
7. Hong Bak
8. How to rehydrate shark fin
9. Karla cooter

And lastly:
10. Content

Let us satisfy them, shall we?

Cherie Chung is indeed hot, oh my yes, that look of vulnerability that she has in some scenes in her movies is totally to melt for, though when she takes her brassiere off you don't notice that.
By the way, I haven't seen tits in a while, I have forgotten what they look like. Haven't seen an occupied brassiere in a long time either.
Tits, tits, tits, tits, tits, tits. Maybe I have no life.
Old Tampines Road is in Singapore.
Dunhill Pipe Tobacco: Dark Flake is a marvelous product, the fragrance of which induces a dream state and lifts the bonds of reality temporarily.
Geert Wilders is a schmuck.
Haven't had Ho Si Fat Choi in ages, as I don't really celebrate Chinese New Year and am a single man who is remarkably unfamily safe.
Or possibly leprous.
Pork belly cooked in a way that yields deliciousness: Hong Bak.
Score and brown a large piece of five-layer pork on the skin-side, then seethe with a small splash of Indonesian-style sweet soy sauce and cup of rice wine or sherry. Add ginger slices, whole black mushrooms, whole star-anise, a cinnamon stick, and water to come half way up. Stick it into the oven at low heat, covered, for an hour or two to slow-cook.
I'm glad to see shark fin in that list. Shark fin soup can be a lovely and romantic treat. It's illegal in California.
What am I to say about Karla and her Cooter?
A cooter is a Southern delicacy.
Carla, mm, well.

Content? What the heck were you thinking? Everything is content!

Anyone searching for Cherie Chung is a film enthusiast, and curious about one of Hong Kong's finest female thespians. Quite understandably so.

I am assuming that the folks who came here looking for tits were dispassionately interested, and might be medical students.

There is no sex, feline, or food, here.

I often regret that.

Cherie Chung, Tits, Old Tampines Road, Dunhill Pipe Tobacco, Geert Wilders, Ho Si Fat Choi, Hong Bak, Shark Fin, Carla and the Cooter.

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This blogger firmly believes that Betsy Devos is the right person to lead American grammar school efforts into the twentieth century, and prays that she will institute the teaching of religion, so as to inculcate solid values and a moral foundation into our country's little savages.

There is no better way to do that than by the Schartz-Metterklume Method, and two Biblical episodes come to mind as instructive, nay, almost fundamental: Dinah and her brothers, and the Levite and his concubine sojourning in Gibeah and what happened afterwards.

The kinderlech will have such fun as they absorb these tales.

The lessons thus learned will stay with them forever.

Elisha and the children: also good.

Jephtah, too.

It is best to start in kindergarten, so that what is taught at that young age will have an undying impact on their still spongy minds

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Monday, February 06, 2017


The pie went missing! It took me a while, and considerable subtlety, to find out what she did with it. She and her boyfriend (the dude in the wheelchair) ate it! No, he didn't come over, as he's scared of her apartment mate (me) and he can't negotiate hillsides or stairs, she took it over to his place.
I had no idea the dude could digest that much gluten.
And dairy product. With sauce. And pork.

He must be tougher than he lets on.

Either that, or he's at this very moment curled up in digestive agony, possibly on his bathroom floor, clutching his poor little tum-tum and moaning, piteously. Oh, that would be so heart-rending.
My piles bleed for him.
I'm all heart.

The 'Hot Asian Babe' in the title of this post is her (my apartment mate).
In case you were wondering. This blogger has neither a Hot Asian Babe', NOR any pizza. And it's raining. The closest I will come to 'Hot Asian Babes' OR pizza tonight is a bag of cookies from the local liquor store, because my apartment mate wants some cookies (and it's raining), and maybe rice, veggies, meat, if I I'm hungry later and feel like cooking.

She's slim, fine-boned, weighs hardly anything, and has raven-black hair and intelligent brown eyes. Small hands, small feet.

I fail to understand why some food-intolerant dipwad in a wheelchair deserves such a woman. In a past life he must have done something stupendous. Good karma. Dumb-ass.

Maybe I was a cruel mediaeval potentate, and wiped out his entire village.

Back in those days I was probably amoral and totally enjoyed doing that.

For which I am now being punished; the closest pizza is five blocks away!

I guess I should have been nicer in my previous lives. Nice people end up with 'Hot Asian Babes' and pizza. Even if they are gluten and dairy intolerant. I'll make sure to remember this the next time.

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Sometimes I feel that my apartment mate has gone all white on me. Like all of a sudden there is a white person living in this apartment. Well, other than me, of course, but I did not grow up in the United States so I'm less crazy than the rest of you.

Item one: Lactaid milk. Say what? She used to be an anomaly among people of Chinese ancestry in her appetite for dairy products, now there's lactaid milk in the fridge. She uses it to marinate meats for her boyfriend, who like many Jews is both lactose intolerant and kashrus-casual.
I find the concept of lactose intolerant dairy repulsive.
Fortunately there is real cow juice in there too.
As well as a surfeit of cheese.
And butter.

Item two: A very large pizza. I do not know the backstory behind this large pizza. Surely it is too big for her breakfast? Frat boys -- the quintessence of white -- have pizza first thing in the morning, and frequently it is the last thing they eat late at night. Perhaps she is being optimistic?
It seems awfully large.

Item three: She seldom cooks with shrimp paste, fish sauce, or even soy sauce. Again, this might be the foul influence of her boy friend ('Wheelie Boy'), OR it could be the whitening effect of growing up in the United States. The several dried fish in the kitchen are mine, the various sauces (except for the ranch dressing) behind that kitchen door are mine.
The large selection of noodles are mine.
What is wrong with her?

Item four: Natural foods, non-GMO, organic, and crap like that. Probably because she shops at Trader Joe's, which caters to soft-in-the-head middle-aged white folks. There's very little there that's actually normal, unlike the supermarket which was in that location before. Good thing she probably doesn't pay the labels too much attention, but that sh*t is expensive.

Item five: She recently treated her horrible cold with ginger and turmeric tea (which didn't help). THAT is very white. You probably can't get any whiter than turmeric tea.

[Turmeric tea recipe: one teaspoon turmeric powder -- like all spices bought in the spice aisle, stale and several years old -- boiled in four cups of water for ten or fifteen minutes, settled, strained, and sweetened to taste with raw organic pure honey. I actually had to look this up. What's probably better for you is regular tea, with or without lemon. No dairy, because it promotes phlegm. Stupid white people.]

See, whiteness of the type so common in big cities nowadays is infectious, and almost an inevitable result of living here. You have to be a stubborn and cheapskate Dutchman (me, for instance) to resist the peer pressure

She's just a poor little Cantonese American girl.
She doesn't stand a chance.
Turmeric tea.

Fortunately she still eats meat and gluten.
She's not gone totally goofy.

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