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.

Monday, July 06, 2015


One of the most amusing things you will see today is South Carolina State Senator Mr. Lee Bright befoul the erstwhile sterling (!) reputation of his constituency by ranting like he's on crack.

Heaven forfend the thought that one of America's elected representatives would be on drugs.

It was probably just liquor for breakfast. I understand they do that in some parts of the world.


[SOURCE: From C Span.]

The debate was supposed to be about removing the banner of treason from its position in front of the SC State House. It got derailed.

The honourable Republican and Southern Baptist gentleman from South Carolina supports Ted Cruz for president. It would not be amiss to believe that they are, in modern parlance, 'besties'.

Please feel free to puke.

All over Carolina.

Thank you.

"A man is known by the company he keeps, and also by the company from which he is kept out."
---Grover Cleveland

More than ever I am convinced that the South is a failed state of mind.

Now hand me that bottle of Bourbon.

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The sad thing about the work I do is that it puts me face to face with middle-aged cigar smokers more than any other demographic. No, there is no need to detail the job exactly, suffice to say that it involves a quite considerable amount of psychological counselling, for which I was never trained, as most Marinites of that indelicate age tend to be self-obsessed and convinced of their entitlement.
They jangle as they walk.
Loose screws.

Younger Marinites are often sweetly fresh-faced and innocent.
Though with the seeds of utter batshittery within.
The curse of their time and place.

Almost nowhere else in the world are people so utterly and overwhelmingly white of mind.

Marijuana is good, gluten is bad, and preventive medicine is an ideological minefield. Poor little fevered weenies.
Special is the new orange.

Nice young women, as is well-known, seldom indulge in cigars. It is too expensive an indulgence for someone just setting out on her career and contemplating eventual marriage to a masculine Marinite of suitable background and unsurprising tastes.

Personally, I have always been tickled by the fantasy of a young woman of post-college age indulging in a pipe, and developing an educated palate for Latakia blends. Imagine the echo-waft of resinous perfume whenever she is near, the slightest hint of wickedness!

Cigars are not suitable for bright young women; fine briars are.

Pipe-smoking is a restrained and cultivated habit.

Cigars are as easy as crack-cocaine.

No brains required.

Of course, the less said about cigarettes and vape-devices, the better. Those are mere addictions, and there are sleazoid venues all over where those can be found and gangs of wastrels loiter.
A presentable woman will not venture in.

Sinning should be a splendid secret pleasure, never a public vice.

I always feel mighty spiritual when I'm smoking.

Everyone can, it's really not hard.

I have Latakia blends.

And matches.


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Sunday, July 05, 2015


It turns out the Bay Area may have celebrated the Fourth of July a little excessively, as today nearly everyone had communication issues. Which, if you express yourself as well as I am wont to do, is a problem. Folks, get the cotton candy out of your skull, and re-insert the brain.
Have some coffee. Take a pill.

"We want to go to the Golden Gate Bridge, and Google says to take the Number Seventy here. Should we get on this bus?"
He was pointing at a Muni Bus that goes down Van Ness, and does NOT go anywhere near the bridge.

"No, wait for the Seventy."

Of course they got on the wrong bus anyway.
Instant gratification perhaps.
It was there.

They were obediently waiting for the Seventy at the next stop, and looked shocked when it cruised right on past without stopping.

Because, of course, Golden Gate Transit only picks-up passengers from a limited number of bus-stops, by no means all of them.
It's not a city bus.

The right stops are marked by a Golden Gate Transit sign.
And clearly state the bus-numbers that stop there.

It probably took them till lunch-time to get to the bridge.

More than half of today's conversations involved people who had trouble following a line of thought. Any thought. No matter how straightforward.

Hello Kitty is weeping because of the number of dingbats.

Please stop disappointing Ms. Kitty.

I told several people the joke about the logician whose wife had given birth, who when asked "is it a boy or a girl?" answered "yes".

If this had been a quest to find intelligent life in the universe, the results would have been worse than inconclusive.

No wonder Hello Kitty is upset.

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Upon re-viewing the best song in the world on youtube, this blogger realized that he's been wrong all these years. Disturbing, but true.

Like so many of you I always looked upon my self as the be-all and end-all of ALL worthwhile knowledge.

But I was wrong.

There are not three, but FOUR stupendous Dutch contributions to American civilization.

Donuts, corncob pipes, and scalping. Plus COOKIES!

Stellar and utterly earthshaking.

Lets play that song.



I find this to be truly inspirational.

And it is melodic.

Yeah yeah, I know that the Dutch actually invented a whole lot more, but in terms of life in these United States, donuts, corncob pipes, determinedly ripping off the tops of other people's heads, and cookies are the most important by far. We Dutch Americans can be proud.

Donuts, corncob pipes, scalping, and cookies.

The fundaments of modernity.

BTW: pizza, as you undoubtedly realize, is just a seriously misguided cookie. Which is why you should never drink beer while eating pizza. Bizarrely, there's already dairy in it, so milk is also right out. In this blogger's superior opinion, the best drink with pizza is either strong tea or dessert wine.

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Saturday, July 04, 2015


She left early this morning, having spent her day off yesterday cooking for a social event. When I got in last night (having worked all day), she graciously let me use the kitchen for my small supper of grilled meat and dressed bitter melon with rice stick noodles, then resumed her culinary activities. Bustling, and borderline frenetic.
I wisely headed to the cigar bar for the rest of the evening.
Didn't want to add to her crankiness.
Or get in the way.

I had a cup of strong coffee before I left, and in consequence was wired to the eyebrows when I arrived. Yes, I had a good evening.

[Social event: something holidayish. Grilled meat: treif. Bitter melon: Momocordica charantia, which is one of my favourite vegetables. Many people do not like it, many more haven't tried it. It is crisp, cooks easily, and has a startling taste. Discard the seeds and pith surrounding them before proceeding. Rice stick noodles: actually, 沙河粉 ('saa ho fan') to be precise, not the thin rice vermicelli most people are used to. They cook easily, and I love the texture; soft, slick, slithery, mmm.]


This morning she clanged around in the kitchen, and piled tonnes of food into her car parked outside in the driveway of the apartment building, then wished me and the stuffed animals a good Fourth, and drove off.

My apartment mate's social life is slightly depressing to me. She is a shy woman, and is more noticeably Asperger than me -- heck, she HATES being surrounded by people -- yet, being Chinese, and having kin in the city, she also has the linkages and relational fabric that embed her within groups far better than I can manage.

Socially, I am far more adept as an observer than a participant, albeit slightly resentful of the ability others have to participate. No, I don't want to be the life of the party, but I wouldn't mind a slice of cake once in a while. Parties make me uneasy.

It strikes me that while we were a couple, she interacted with others somewhat as my social lubricant. She resented being dragged to events that involved my crowd, or being introduced to strangers whom I knew, but in a large way that gave me a format for interaction that I haven't had since.
Both of us functioned as insulation, other half, intermediary cog, and each other's interpreter.

She's moved on, and I don't do much of that anymore.

I can't do it by myself.


So, what did I do on a day marked by backyard barbecues, block parties, keg events, and mass giddiness about our national birth?

Nothing special. I read a book in the quiet apartment, smoked my pipe, walked around a bit outside drinking-in the relative peace of the streets in my neighborhood, went over to Chinatown for a pastry and a hot cup of milk-tea, and enjoyed an early dinner at a restaurant while there, after yet another pipe-full.

Nothing is more American than Chinese food, or tobacco.

No, I probably shan't watch the fireworks later on. All the best vantage points for viewing will be filled with other human beings, there is nobody with whom to go, no one to drag me there, and I'm not a particularly social being, as herds make me feel discommoded. And I would probably feel intensely alone, as well as aware of my oddness.
Especially without the insulation of another person.
Someone for whom one must be gallant.
And accommodating.

I don't like holidays, now less than before. They always involve too many people, and lacking a co-conspirator with whom to converse, group events always make me feel exposed and self-conscious. It would be nice to have someone, but I am not forward or social enough to make easy contact.

That's probably why I like hanging out in Chinatown, or visiting nearly empty bars occasionally. One can observe, and listen to other people, without being forced into interaction. There is no sense of invasiveness, and the discomfort of feeling "on the spot" is entirely absent.
I very much enjoy having people around me.
But elsewhere focussed.
And not many.

It is impossible to be private at parties; the very fact that one is there demonstrates a contrary premise.


Nob Hill is likely quiet at this hour, especially on the sides facing south and west. I've got a few keen briars in my pocket, and a pouch of matured Virginia tobacco. Soon there shall be booming from the north-east, as well as bursts of fire, faintly visible in the fog. A walk up and over the hill by myself will be just the ticket, as long as I get to the cigar bar before the crowd starts streaming back into the heart of the city. Maybe there will be people there I know, in a mellow mood from their celebrations, but by no means intoxicated to the point of blithering.
A pipe or two, and a glass of whisky will end the day nicely.
I'll probably take a cable car back afterwards.
Very few other passengers.
It should be nice.



Happy Fourth of July.
Bang it out.

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Friday, July 03, 2015


Whenever I go to Chinatown for a snackipoo and a beverage, or to buy groceries, I always light up a pipe and eventually wander down to Sue Bierman Park at Clay and Drumm to catch the bus. Partly because I do not like to stand while riding public transit -- sore right leg etcetera, and that location is both the end and the beginning of the line -- but primarily to see if the parrots are there. Yesterday I got there with time to spare, as the second pipe was only half finished.
Full load of tobacco, at least thirty more minutes to go.
So I leaned on the wall at Clay and Davis.

And watched a young lady get stood up.

I am not ashamed to admit that I enjoyed every wonderful moment of it.
She was dressed very neatly, and kept looking at her cellular device.

My pleasure was entirely due to the delightful expressiveness of her face, even from a distance. Every emotion, from hopeful expectation, and wonder at the non-arrival of her beau, through disappointment, failing self-assurance, and doubt at her own worth, to despairing resignation, crossed her countenance, ever more apparent, and radiantly exposed for the keen observer.

She had my complete sympathy. He never came.

And did not bother calling.

Clearly a cad.

I felt like going over and telling her not to worry, she was a nice person, and would find someone better. But I do not like to butt in, and middle-aged men uttering comforting words out of the blue are, in any universe, likely to be labelled weirdos, and make a disturbed impression.
Yes, I sent good thoughts her way.
I doubt it helped.

She finally gave up, and wandered off with a slump to her shoulder, still holding the cup of coffee which she had not touched while waiting.
She looked near tears at that point.
Twenty-five minutes!

She's young, and has an intelligent face. The utter brute who did not arrive had better have a damned good excuse.

Maybe he got hit by a car?

The next time I see her I hope she has flowers.

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Thursday, July 02, 2015


This blogger is looking forward to the upcoming presidential election.
Especially after listening to someone last night voicing strong opinions, to wit: Both Hillary and Jeb are corporate stooges, their corporations being their respective parties and the policies that those parties stand for. The Trump will drop out of the race before he has to disclose his assets, and having a history of bankruptcies, the Trump should not be considered a business success so much as a rather limp-dicked failure. Bernie Sanders doesn't stand a chance, alas, and most of the Republican candidates are rather remarkably stupid.

Well, he's got several good points.

He also mentioned a hairpiece.

Donald Trump's dead rat.

I would vote for the rodent before I would ever vote for the rearendwipe underneath it.

One candidate we didn't discuss was Bobby Jindal. Who is probably the worst clown of the dozen-plus to have rolled out of the Volkswagen.
Christie was mentioned, but not Bobby.

Honestly, what can one say about a man who set about destroying his own state? Who converted to a repulsive religion, and may very well have done so because it was socially and politically expedient? A politician who over a decade-and-a-half has managed to fritter away brain cells and positive regard at lightening speed?

About the best that can be said for him is that he suffers from Stockholm Syndrome and a Napoleon Complex simultaneously.

But we didn't talk about him. Good whisky, wine, and cigars (actually, a pipe in my case) are not improved by bringing up sewage.

The next eighteen months will be entertaining.


My tobacco: Grep Pease's Sixpence, which is a richly evocative relative of one of his previous offerings, namely the Navigator, albeit bolder and requiring a more contemplative approach. Followed by one of my own concoctions; a span of aged Virginias, mostly on the blonde side, with the merest dab of Perique (a dark oily fermented condimental leaf from Bobby Jindal's own state).

Cigars enjoyed, by the other gentlemen: Camacho Corojo, made with a pungent leaf originally grown in Cuba; two Olivas, one of which had a Connecticut wrapper for which the word "creamy" was invented.

All Robustos, if I remember correctly.

The host of the venue where we met last night enjoyed at least two Padron cigars, which are manufactured in Nicaragua. The Padron line is probably the best thing to result from Castro's wholesale robbery of lands and brands among the tobacco families, as well as the exile that resulted. The cigars that Jose Orlando Padrón and his son Jorge make in Estelí are far, far better than anything from Cuba itself.

In all honesty, the eventual lifting of the embargo cannot have much effect on the industry. After a brief orgy with Fidel's whores, serious afficionados will realize that Cubanos are overrated, and return to the embrace of the Nicaraguans and Dominicans.

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Wednesday, July 01, 2015


This blogger committed laundry today. Yes, I had let it slide a little, seeing as I am not in a committed relationship -- or even a short term hot and nasty relationship -- and work around cigar smokers and convicted white collar criminals. So who actually cares? For four days each week I can be a little funky.

Actually, scratch the convicted white collar criminals; I don't think they've ever even been tried yet. Although one of them must know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried, seeing as Marinites are all-knowing, all-seeing, and altogether the most damned enlightened people on the planet.
Even if they eat tofu and wheatgrass.
Or do yoga.

Very few of them actually have IT dude physiques, so you don't have to picture bloated rolls of clammy white flab squishing on a yoga mat right now. At eighty plus degrees, Iyengar style. Sweat, babies.
They barely creak either, even if they are antiques.
I am an archaeologist; I work with fossils.

Some of which are moist.

What I do want you to picture is an elderly black guy with a little excess weight wearing a saucy little Catholic schoolgirl skirt.
A nice mostly red plaid, short and pleated.
Underneath a tie-dyed tee-shirt.
Perfect laundry clothing.

Naturally I spent most of the time at the laundromat with my eyes closed. In that outfit, he may have been criminally insane -- lord only knows where he dumped the lifeless body of the twenty year old pay-gay street urchin from whom he stole it -- but the manager was there, along with three young ladies doing their own laundry, an elderly Chinese gentleman, and the ghosts of every judgemental prude who ever was and ever will be.
Sick psycho Sinai. Moses must avert his gaze.
There's sh*t burning all around us.
Shiny ebony-hued calfs.
Not golden.

There are good reasons why I normally do my laundry earlier in the day. For one thing, less people at the laundromat, for another, they're mostly Chinese grannies, and very sane.

The non-Chinese in this city are effing weird.

Like the doddering masses of Marin.

Just a lot different.

Anyhow, I meditated for nearly an hour an a half while there, and I now have sparklingly clean threads. Yes sir, Atboth is styling! Either I'll strike up a conversation with someone tomorrow -- seeing as I will smell fresh as a daisy, what with not spending the entire day surrounded by the dark side and their stogies -- or get my hair done, have some rice porridge and a yautiu, and smoke a few pipefulls in the afternoon while listening in on conversations no one expects a white dude to understand.

There are no black men scantily garbed in pleated plaid in Chinatown.
Pleated plaid is present, but worn appropriately.
By people of the right age.
And height.

It is very nice to find normal people in San Francisco.

Exceedingly rare, in most neighborhoods.

Chinatown is full of them.

Of all years.

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Sometimes a reader leaves jewels in my comments field. Usually this is either e-kvetcher, or the something-or-other amphibian. There are not so many commenters now as there used to be when I was still an angry young man writing about Jewish things or Israel, or sneering poisonously at the Dutch (my own people) or other Europeans (who are beyond the pale).
The Dutch ALWAYS sneer at other Europeans. The reason being that they are close enough to be familiar with our marvelous culture, so close in fact as to be able to observe our splendid example of how it is done, yet out of sheer perversion they refuse to be just like us, albeit necessarily a little bit more humble as would befit them.
I've never been able to figure that one out.
Maybe they're just a little stupid.

Now, as a Dutchman, I am superior entirely to most other Dutchman. Because my folks came over in the 1630s and settled New Amsterdam, in consequence of which I bear none of the stigma and guilt that adheres to the fatherland Dutch, whose horrendous colonial depravities passed my tribe by entirely.

Neener neener neener, bitches.

Anyhow, the reader.

New comments.

Valhala wrote:

"Dear most munificent BotH,

Please, I pray thee, approve my comment for posting, for thou art merciful and gracious.

Be also kind to thy humble commenter, and bestow me with a post as response to my comment, preferably a LONG post.

How can I possibly thank you for such a favor? Thine honor is all in duty.

[End quote]

That was at 5:55 PM, while I was in Marin County babysitting the cigar smokers. It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it. Works best if you enjoy a pipe filled with a blend composed of Latakia (around forty two percent), Turkish (Smyrna, more or less 20%), and aged Virginia leaf (altogether 36%). The balance of this mezcla is a mystery, and none of your business.

He or she had earlier (10:31 AM) written the following:

"My grandfather's name was Kerchy. I think he was a Jewish. Are you an Israelite? I know all about the Jewish! Bagels and lox are a big mitzvah to eat on Rosh Hoodesh. That makes me feel all farklempt all over!

Momma rarely, and never around the kids, used profanity. But when she did use it, it was always funny. Like -- what happened was -- we were in some crazy place, like Lake Taho. And we went into the ladies' room, and there was an old drunk lady in there, and it's just, like, you know, the sequined straps, one of those dames, and she said: "Oh Judy, you're terrific. The rainbow, you gotta always remember the rainbow." Then she went into one of the stalls; the lady knocked on the door. She said: "Yes?" She said: "Judy, never forget the rainbow. God has helped me through so many crisises and..." Well momma came back. Then she went up to her -- the lady went up to mom, and said: "I'd just like to say hello." And momma looked said and her and said: "hi". Which made me start thinking... Now, she went on and on and on about the rainbow, and about this and that, and dear little girl, and on and on and on. And as we were going out, she had on this incredible feathered boa, which someone had given her as a present, which was way too big for her, because she was tiny: she came up to here [just below the shoulder] on me. And the last thing that this lady said, again, was: "Don't forget the rainbow, Judy." And momma turned, and threw the boa around herself, and said: "How can I forget the rainbow? I've got rainbows up my ass."

[End quote.]

That is an interesting submit.
Indicative of something.


It may surprise you to know that while I have often been in the ladies room, and not infrequently had occasion to ponce with feather boas (long story), there has never been a time when I visited the ladies room with a feather boa. And having read Valhala's account, I now feel an emptiness.
There is so much I haven't accomplished.

Years ago, when a friend visited Israel, he thought he saw me in the vicinity of Kikar Safra, exiting a store that sold inks and qlaf (קלף). This is NOT the same friend who brought the matter of the rainbow-hued tefillin straps to my attention ("there is no merit to the mitzvah if you accidentally tie yourself up because you can't remember which lash goes where - the Macrameier Rebbe accidentally hanged himself because he was not paying attention, zichrono nebech levracha"), NOR the friend who commented favourably on my Hello Kitty kippah.

In actual fact I have never been anywhere near Kikar Safra. It is easier to visit the ladies room than Kikar Safra, which is walking distance from the church of the holy seapuker.

The shortest route: head south towards HaGan Ha Leumi, turn left at Shlomo Ha Melech, and go right at Ha Sha'ir Ha Khadash.
Then follow one of the religious nuts.

If you are wearing a feathered boa, you will fit right in.

Just tell people it's al pi minhag.

Très catholique.

IF, and I say if, I ever have occasion to read the Shir Ha Shirim Asher LiShlomo from qlaf (קלף), you may rest assured that a rainbow feathered boa will most certainly be part of the picture.

I am resolved to before I die get a rain-boa.

It is emmes geshmak.



Why has a resplendent male specimen such as myself visited the ladies' room? No, it wasn't because I was searching for the Legendary Lost Date (probably about five foot two inches tall, black hair, and a lovely kissy face with spectacles), nor because I was in drag, but because I could.
After Savage Kitten and I broke up five years ago, I would hide out at the office downtown on Saturdays and Sundays, where it was quiet and peaceful, and I could plonk away at the computer or imagine that there were little forest creatures scurrying about. Often I was the only one there, and the ladies' room was closest to my desk.

There is no couch in the ladies' room. Nor a grand piano, or any of the other amenities that men fondly imagine. Not all ladies' rooms have those. The handsome turbaned Moorish servant with flavoured soaps and fluffy towels is also absent, and there is no wide screen teevee.
Honestly, why does anyone even go to the ladies' room?
They should visit the men's room instead.

It's not just standing room only.

You can sit.

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Tuesday, June 30, 2015


A friend kindly alerts me to graceful bathing. Specifically, a small huggable animal thoroughly enjoying a nice cooling splash in the water, which, seeing as it was a warm day over in Marin today, is an immensely appealing concept.

It was warm enough for me to head into the powder room to splash my face and oxsters with cold water at the sink, after which I was quite refreshed.

Had anyone seen me doing so, I would no doubt have not looked nearly as angelic as our little friend below.


Baby Armadillos love baths.
Posted by The Motherish on Sunday, June 28, 2015

The video is from the Facebook page of The Motherish,

When my coworker saw me after I finaly exited the powder room, he asked me if my time in there had been educational.

I just smiled beatifically, and replied "ooh ah".

More about powder rooms tomorrow.

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It is more than a little disturbing to me that the stuffed animals have more exciting love lives than myself. Why, they seem to be full of vibrancy, spirit, and, dare I say it, passion.

[Necessary background for new readers: There are over two dozen stuffed animals in this apartment, collectively refered to as "The Roomies". Nearly half of them reside in the room of my apartment mate, where they guard the jewelry box and cluster around the "Head Roomie", who is a fearsome senior teddy bear of great wisdom and perspicacity. The rest are on my side of the apartment, and unfortunately represent a lack of sanity and balance. For some inexplicable reason, I have all the loonies.]

Given the right circumstance, I likewise could be full of vibrancy, spirit, and passion. Though it seems hard to imagine now, having not been in such a situation for several years.

Ms. Bruin is being courted by Arabello Oyster, that being the control monkey, who is a small purple-black gorilla. The fuchsia striped cat has Max (a sockmonkey), and Miss Angus (the she-sheep who is the acting head-roomie when Ms. Bruin takes a break) is seeing a big black spider with bright blue eyes and an intelligent hopeful expression on his face.

There are other relationships, but we need not describe them.

Almost all of these couples are very well matched.

Suffice to say I am quite jealous.

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Monday, June 29, 2015


The bad news is that Anna Bakery (安娜閣) has closed. They had been in business for a long time, and their pastries were rather delicious. They also served cooked food (lunch, dinner) and did the saam song yat tong deal for meals that so many people like.
Nice food, good price.

[Deal note: 三餸一湯 'saam song yat tong': three dishes and a soup. A set price meal with multiple options for the three dishes. In many lunch places catering to the single eater, it refers to three scoops of whatever alongside your rice and a bowl of old fire broth (老火湯 'lou fo tong'), in dinner places and cha chanteng (茶餐廳) it will more usually be a choice of three full menu items plus rice and soup, suitable for a small family or two to four people with healthy appetites.]

The good news is that Sam Wo will open in that location in a few weeks.

715 Clay Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.

Just up from Kearny.


The rebirth of creatively rude and spiteful tableservice will no doubt be welcomed by young couples going out on a first date. Nothing (!) says romantic dining better than a disciple of Edsel Ford Fong telling you what's wrong with you, and what you really should be eating.

Grumbling, snarking, and snarling.

It's like salt.

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On Friday, the Supreme Court of the United States made gay marriage a legal reality. In the weeks leading up to this decision, men of the cloth and their hot-breathed lay enablers predicted that the world would end, a wrathful deity would destroy the nation forthwith, and the traditional family was at peril.

Actually, the traditional family has been pretty much shredded. Divorce, birthcontrol, wife-beating, and the well-publicised tawdry affairs of various highly moral politicians and preachers did that ages ago.

[Add cocaine, congressional pages, and booze ... ]

The traditional family was not that big a deal anyhow.

But if our rightwing politicians cannot act as exemplars of the highest moral standards, what is there? Certainly not the preachers; they're nuts.

It would appear that the Jesus crowd is composed largely of adulterers, child molesters, drunks, and screamingly batshit teabaggers.

Collectively known as "The South".

Mind you, it isn't all of the The South, and it isn't limited to The South.
That term should be understood as both a state of mind, and an all-encompassing concept.

Even the survivalists in the upper peninsula (Michigan) are "The South".

They've got guns, Jesus, and a fear of the zombie apocalypse.

[And more MREs than Fema and the army combined.]

I, for one, am extremely disappointed that Southern men of g-d haven't set themselves on fire in protest, as was promised (!), and that zombies have not started eating everyone who likes banjo music.

It would have been so nice if Texas had gone up in flames due to massive asshat brain-explosions.

I feel cheated.

Life continues as normal, society still functions as fitfully and fully as it did beforehand. And The South is still, unfortunately, with us.

This is horrible.

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Sunday, June 28, 2015


Contrary to the opinion you may have formed after reading this past week's blogposts here, I am really a very sweet-tempered guy. Indeed, occasionally I wax wroth at spiritual dill pickles with a nauseating sense of entitlement (Marinites, this morning), dumb-ass rightwing butheads with comb-overs (Donald Trump, yesterday evening), bloated Midwesterners, Euries, and suburbanites (tourists, Friday), childish Canadian lesbians (on Wednesday), twinkies with Hello Kitty shit (Wednesday morning), Chinese people who sneer at everything you own because what they have is SO much better, or more unusual, or higher quality than anyone else's (likewise Wednesday morning, and thank G-d those snobs don't know beans about pipes or tobacco), the trolls who insist that everyone should speak English or else (tourists, right-wingers, and xenophobes, on Tuesday), and uncomplicated silly bints like beauty queens and/or blondes (Monday).

You might get the impression that I'm full of bile.

But really, I love people. I'm a complete softie.
I most particularly like pipesmokers.
Especially if they're women.
And brunette.

There you have it. I exude the milk of human kindness.

Precisely like Hello Kitty!


I just wish that bunch of partying GAY people across the block were a little quieter. Yes, I know it's Pride Weekend, and they're all giddy waving their little rainbow banners, AND it's still light out, and good heavens same-sex marriage is finally legal nationwide.

But does the gay agenda HAVE to include loud yelling and inanity?

Didn't straight sportsfans already claim that?

Along with lousy beer?

Dammit guys, can't you just be abnormal, and celebrate in silence?

Do something meditatively delirious.


Please drift to and fro gracefully with pompoms.

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There are too many yoghurt commercials on teevee. This is not because people love yoghurt, but because they enjoy pizza, crunchy bits, fried stuff, and salt. The poor dears are either plugged up, or full of dietary guilt. Eventually it must come out.

I actually like yoghurt; it counteracts the effects of Marin.

How on earth did Marin become the epicentre of entitlement, vanity, self-indulgence, alternative philosophies, and consumerism in Northern California? Is it any surprise that the Emerald Triangle starts there?

Pot, plus potheads, and potty spiritualists.

They really need some yoghurt.


Folks, convert your hot tubs to vessels in which to make yoghurt. What use could be better than that? Especially during a drought. And for crap sakes cut back on pot; growing it is incredibly wasteful, uses tonnes of water, and smoking it turns whatever tiny minds you might have -- not there's any convincing evidence that you folks actually own such things -- into even worse pudding than they already are.
Basically, runny grape jelly.

I've seen you think, and I am not impressed.

By the way, you are NOT allergic to gluten. Or meat.

You are just too obsessed with yourselves. That, too, can be cured by switching from pot to yoghurt. And I fervently urge you to make the switch. No, you will not have uncontrollable seizures, or debilitating migraines.
Your back will not go out. You won't be nauseous.
Life and civilisation itself will not end.

Those are misapprehensions.

Instead, you'll wake up with a new sense of reality, and look around all bright-eyed and filled with wonder at the world around you. The fact that you are no longer the centre of the universe will be a profound release.
You will enjoy new freedom and awareness.

And you will finally poo.

You are full of it.


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Saturday, June 27, 2015


In consequence of Donald Trump's conversations with Federal employees who guard our borders, Univision decided to not broadcast the most trivial and overblown non-event of the year.
Because Donald Trump publicly divulged what some United States government functionaries think about Latinos.
One presumes that the respondents in question are rather WASP.
Of the same ethnicity as the Trump.

[See this informative article: "Trump dumped, potential moneylenders' playthings flummoxed". Note that the position of the 's' (before the apostrophe)  makes the re-titling non-actionable. And seriously, anyone whose daughter participates in a meat auction of that type needs to disown her. Or abort the baggage. Talent show, hoo hah!]

"At Univision, we see first-hand the work ethic, love for family, strong religious values and the important role Mexican immigrants and Mexican-Americans have had and will continue to have in building the future of our country," the company said. "We will not be airing the Miss USA pageant on July 12 or working on any other projects tied to the Trump Organization."
End cite.

Good thing too. Donald Trump's run for president promises to be quite likely one of the most ridiculous campaigns of an election already filled with dingbats, cavemen, and retrograde psychopaths. Please, can we force all the clowns back into the Volkswagen? If we remove all the comb-overs and toupées, there will be enough room for all the overblown egos.

"They're bringing drugs, they're bringing crime, they're rapists, and some I assume are good people, but I speak to border guards and they tell us what we are getting."

The problem is NOT that Trump says stupid things -- we expect that, sadly, and he has the right to do so -- but that he speaks to stupid people.
Some of whom, allegedly, are active in law enforcement.

Seriously, I want names. Who are these people?

And are they all Bob from Texas?

Who hired them?

Also important to know, did they actually manage to get any words in edgewise while talking to Donald Trump, who himself admits that he "can't be silenced"?

Has anyone ever told him "Donald, please shut up"?

On the surface, there does appear to be a slightly higher rate of criminal incarceration among immigrants, per the Center for Immigration Studies, but given that many states are notoriously enthusiastic about clapping everybody who isn't white into the slammer (I'm looking at you, Texas), and others rigorously crack down on anyone who looks foreign (hello, Arizona, you vast expanse of shit), the numbers are probably skewed.

Nationwide, the likelihood of being arrested is far less if you're an Anglo.

Remarkably, the age-group one belongs to is also a factor.

I'll let you connect all the dots on this one.

Never the less, Anglos may be "privileged".

Your chances of being an Anglo if you are Mexican are not particularly great. Not impossible, but by no means statistically significant. You could be Mayan, for instance. Or some other "ethnicity".
True Texans and Arizonans are white.
Remarkably Trump-like.

Here's a thought ...

You know, Frat boys bring drugs, crime, and rape. Sure, some of them are good people, but most of them are arrogant hormonally charged jocks who party all the time. Drunks, perverts, and swine.
Lets keep the Frat boys out.

Donald Trump reportedly belonged to Phi Gamma Delta, a fraternity associated with drugging and assaulting female students at Georgia State, vicious immorality at Texas Christian University, apparently random sexual attacks in Minnesota, as well as any number of depravities around the country. Sickening.


Parents in college towns where there are Fraternities are well-advised to own guns. Even if they don't have daughters.

The NRA would approve of that credible threat of justice.

Let us examine Trump's college records.

We want to know what he did.

Or, allegedly, didn't.

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Friday, June 26, 2015


It was a striking combination! A cardigan that came down to the upper thigh, and shorts that didn't. Consequently an attractive amount of sleek golden leg meat was appealingly viewable.

This blogger likes warm weather!

I was having a 鴛鴦 over ice at the 華盛頓茶餐廳 when she walked in to purchase a Swiss Roll. Which is a log shaped confection, sheet-cake rolled around a layer of cream, very nice. No, despite her shall we say, pudginess, it was almost certainly NOT all for her. And I shall rename the pudginess baby-fat, because on her it looked good.
Damned good. Good enough to eat.

This blogger likes warm weather because at heart I am still a teenage dirty old man.

Normally what heaves into view when I'm sitting in the window with a beverage, looking out across the street, is a motley collection of overweight tourists, dog-ugly tourists, and remarkably sullen looking glandular freak tourists. Europeans and travellers from the Midwest or the Central Valley with remarkably bovine faces, possibly inbred, most definitely dull.
As well as their impossibly icky offspring.

Interspersed among them are elderly locals spryly side-stepping the lumbering heffalumps, and Cantonese parents guiding their kiddie-winkies while telling them not to bump into the bloated lizards.

You know, if modern middle-class Americans didn't pound down so damned much junkfood, they'd be a lot happier, and probably more intelligent looking too. Their piggy eyes wouldn't seem so dwarfed by the jowls, or hidden in an expanse of puffiness.

San Francisco is a food Mecca, and consequently many tourists are lost here. There are so few places where you can get a good double bacon greaseburger, biggiewiggie fries, and a cold bucket of soda.
Oh, the sadness, heartache, despair!
There's nothing good to eat!
We're gonna all starve!
Fried chicken!

Have you noticed how few overweight Chinese you see here? And guess what - many of them eat Chinese food! Does that tell you something?

Yes the Europeans look slightly leaner.
But they are much meaner too.
That old-world attitude.
Existential angst.

Okay, I realize that much of the text above was incredibly vicious.
And I'm sorry.

I left out far too many people. Irritating South-Indian mommas and their spoiled brats. Syphilitic savages from Dixie. The kind of executives who get sent out of town to conventions. East Asian hookers with go-go boots and pancake make-up. Priggish Filipinas and their wussy menfolk. Black, white, and brown trash from the suburbs. Stuck-up yuppies, marketing types, and "professionals", who have flocked to the city and driven rents through the roof. Young urban hipsters. Trust-fund brats. All the crazies whom the rest of the country unloaded on us, so that they wouldn't get shot by the police in Dumbcluckistan. Who are mostly morons and ex-football players. Unwashed Mediterranean types. Pierced freaks, and intellectuals.
Young men with greasy hair. Tattooed artists. Russians.

There. Is that better? Have I forgotten anyone?

Please let me know by leaving a comment.

I'll cover them in the next rant.

This blogger likes warm weather and curvy thighs. As well as cold caffeinated beverages, mature Virginia pipe tobacco, tender mustard greens, bittermelon, rice stick noodles, and roast duck. Plus a seat behind glass to watch the uglies pass.

She had a cute face too. Bright intelligent eyes, and a curious mien. There was an air of total involvement about her as she thoughtfully considered which delicious cake-product to buy.

Which was admirable and charming!

This blogger likes cake.


鴛鴦 ('yuen yeung'): Mandarin Ducks. 鴛 is the male, 鴦 is the female. They are a symbol of marital constancy, as well as a delicious beverage composed of coffee, tea, and condensed milk. 華盛頓茶餐廳 ('waa seng duen chaa chaanteng'): The Washington Bakery and Restaurant, around the corner from Portsmouth Square. 瑞士卷 ('seui si kuen'): Swiss roll, a rolled sponge cake filled with whipped cream, jam, or icing. In Chinatown it's usually coffee, chocolate, pandan, or plain flavoured. Imagine a thick slice of that with sabayon! Mmmmmmmmm!
蛋糕 ('daan gou'): cake.

Highly improper afterthought:
肥妹的靚腳... 嘩, 好嘢喎!

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Thursday, June 25, 2015


Sometimes life just sings. Yesterday I wasted so much valuable time that in the end I decided to postpone laundry and simply go out and have an early supper in Chinatown.
It had been a while since the last bit of roast goose -- which, along with roast duck, is a favourite -- so naturally I ended up at the only place in town that does it.

Actually, there may be more than one place where you can get it, but at Yee's you get it for a very reasonable price, and the quality is excellent.
They also do various other things that you need.
Like 冬瓜炆田雞, or 南瓜炒田雞。
As well as 石狗公。

[冬瓜炆田雞 = 'dung gwaa man tin kai'. 南瓜炒田雞 = 'naam gwaa chaau tin kai'. 石狗公 = 'sek kau gung'.]

I need not inform you what "ricepaddy hen" really means.
If you eat in Chinatown, you already know.
It's good for you.

"Stone dog duke", however, is a damned ugly fish.
That tastes quite superlative.

What you want at Yee's is called 'siu ngoh fan'.
Which is roast goose over rice.

Yee's Restaurant
1131 Grant Avenue,
San Francisco, CA 94133.

['man chai kei siu lap cha chan teng']

Jezus, that was a lovely meal. Probably the best roast goose I have ever had there. Moist and succulent, just the right amount of grease and salt to compliment the otherwise beefsteaky flavour of the meaty bird, with some blanched lettuce to sop up additional juices, plus a bowl of simple house soup to benefit the digestion and further the enjoyment of a delicious meal. They've got bottles of Sriracha, by the way.
Dipping the roast skin into hotsauce is extra divine.

Yeah, of course afterward I loaded up a pipe, and wandered down two deserted and remarkably clean alleyways. It was still light out, but very peaceful. Life just could not get any better.

If I ever take a date to Yee's, there are several things I think we should have. Food to share is always cozy. But until then, roast goose rice, followed by a pipe.

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Wednesday, June 24, 2015


Feedback from the previous post indicates that some people do not grasp the entire Hello Kitty gestalt. There were also some remarks about plushies and sheitels, but they were beyond consideration. However, the person who wrote me that I was a sick f*&^! for turning a cute childish item -- which was innocent and should give joy to tykes -- into a tool of tobacco use (viz.: perfect man-purse for carrying around smoker's requisites), something TOTALLY evil and unmentionable -- is actually someone I know well, and whose opinions I would NORMALLY respect. Despite her being an overweight childish lesbian of doubtful antecedents.
She's Canadian. Those people have issues.

Naturally she reminds me of Eric Cartman.



Some of my best friends are all overweight Canadian lesbians.

No overweight Canadian lesbians were harmed.

Childish drips or otherwise.


I respect Canada too much. But clearly, years spent in the Great White North, where there's nothing but Molson's malt liquor and polar bears making snow angels for entertainment is damaging to the psyche.
Some Canadians are weak-minded and cretinous.

I'm surprised that Lardinettie only just now became aware that my favourite pipe and tobacco carrier is a cute Hello Kitty mini-backpack, such as a sweet little girlie would shlep around. A statement of style!
For her very own smoker's requisites, of course.
It's mine, bitches, back off!

I've mentioned it before.




Yesterday, Hello Kitty indulged in a medium English-style mixture (about forty percent Latakia, twenty percent Turkish leaf, and the rest flue-cured tobacco) several times, as well as a goodly bowl of Luxury Bullseye Flake. There was also a nice blend I made myself, very simple: mostly aged Virginia flake, some blonde ribbon, and plain Cavendish. The pipes were a selection of Petersons, all smooth, a fine French item from Paris with gorgeous grain, and a Canadian of American provenance.
There were two extra briars, just in case.
And a tin of cigarillos.

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This blogger unhappily admits to personal flaws. No, shan't detail them, because you might start noticing, and it would become an obsession that would gradually eat away at your esteem for me.
Sadly, I am not as perfect as I dearly hope you think I am.
But one flaw I do not have is a brutal tongue.

I am an exemplar of passive aggressive discretion.

That's one of the reasons I blog.

Overheard comment:

"It was one of those things where you think Chinese people are the most insensitive shits you've ever seen."

Sometimes I agree with the person who said that.
There are times when that opinion is valid.
As are many of her other opinions.

But no matter how insensitive Chinese people -- especially snooty Chinese Americans -- can be, they don't hold a candle to perfectly average prosperous Caucasians smoking cigars. Such as the very dear people I see several times a week when I babysit the entitled classes of Marin County.

Who are on the whole rather self-satisfied, cocksure, and iggerunt.

They gave me hell about my Hello Kitty pursy, the insensitive clods.

Look, if I were a woman, between fifteen and let us say forty, with a Hello Kitty mini-backpack, there might be reason to doubt my sanity. Women with a Hello Kitty fetish are pulling a little girlie attitude, and may be quite silly. Probably unbearably so.

Little girls with a Hello Kitty bag, or anything Hello Kitty, are normal, and often entirely unaware of the possible ickiness of the item.

Little boys with Hello Kitty have issues.

But a lean middle-aged man with a pink and black Hello Kitty mini-backpack is the veritable glorious paradigm of self-assured manliness. You do NOT diss him. Not if you want peace and quiet everlasting.

The Chinese person that Savage Kitten (my apartment mate) referred to was "a short frog-like person" whom she worked with years ago. One of those snotty types who did everything better, owned everything better, knew everything better, and and regularly pissed on everyone else's joys, because she was a better taste higher class person.

The kind of person, in other words, who knows the best brandnames, but not one iota of actual quality. Like the people who demand Remy Martin, truck around Louis Vuitton, and spew the words Davidoff, Dunhill, Prada, and Hermes, with a smug proprietary air.
But begrudge the waiters at a restaurant a decent tip.

People like that always do everything better.
They also own things that are better.
And they ARE much better.

I myself don't know very many of that type, what with being white and rather oblivious to some immigrants' ridiculous pretensions. But my apartment mate, being a locally-born person of sterling Chinese ancestry, seems particularly aware of them.
She's thin-skinned about snooty types.
And is better than she realizes.
Far, far better.

I dare not ever introduce her to the Marin cigar-smokers; she'd rip their insensitive guts out. Or bash them about the head.
With MY backpack.

She doesn't like dipwads either.

Or Hello Kitty.

Please note that I do not always carry my Hello Kitty 'pursy. It's useful for when I head over to Marin four days a week, because it is the perfect size for half-a-dozen briar pipes, a supply of pipe-tobacco, tampers and other tools, plus pipe-cleaners and matches.  On the days when I'm off, I leave it at home, because I do NOT want single women to assume that I'm a grandpa and have a little urchin I pick up from school everyday because her mommy works.

There was the time I spoke to four very nice young ladies from the Mandarin-speaking part of the world, who wanted a recommendation for a good Cantonese restaurant. Even when I showed them the box of cigars I was delivering to the Oxxy, they remained unconvinced that I was a bachelor. Because, of course, the box of Padron 1926 Series 80th Anniversary Maduro Torpedos was IN the Hello Kitty backpack. Sadly, that may have nixed my chances of further conversation.

Whenever I'm wandering around San Francisco with pipe and tobacco, there is no need for a full-day's worth of smoking supplies. One or two briars in the same pocket as the pouch of broken flake is perfect.


More than anything else, the following is perverse:

Hello Kitty® Day

Back by popular demand, the Giants are proud to welcome you to AT&T Park to join them in celebrating Hello Kitty Day! On this particular day, various pre-game and in-game components will be themed around the global pop icon Hello Kitty, providing a family-fun atmosphere that Giants and Sanrio fans of all ages can enjoy! Your Special Event ticket package includes a ticket to the Sunday game versus the Rockies and a collector's-edition "World Champion" Hello Kitty/Giants-themed Gnome, only available with the purchase of this Special Event ticket! Please stay tuned to, as additional details will be announced closer to the date.


No, I shan't be there. The idea of surrounding myself with teenage girls of all ages and several genders united by their squealing love for a fictitious feline is a little bit daunting.

Please forgive my lack of enthusiasm.

Sports are stupid.


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Tuesday, June 23, 2015


There's one phrase that several people use which, almost more than anything else, irritates me. Usually the people uttering it are quite unaware of the poisonous connotations inherent in that phrase, or how well it reveals their stunted self-righteous provincial bigotry. Quite often they are also borderline, or far over the brink, Republican, backwoods, narrow-minded, intolerant, and on the whole rather remarkably stupid and ignorant.
Besides being all-American.

Can you guess the phrase?

"They should learn English!"


The phrase is stupid and offensive, because the people about whom it is said already know that an inability to express themselves in English handicaps them and bars their advance. And furthermore, on a daily basis, they experience moments of complete incomprehension, and crippling barriers to "Americanity".

The rearendhats saying "they should learn English" do not take this into account, but blithely assume that the objects of their ire are perversely determined to not speak English like normal people. Why, it must be some foreign hatred of Anglos that inspires them to be so obtuse!

Many Americans are completely unable to learn any other language, and take for granted that all foreign tongues are deliberately difficult, or just too illogical for a civilized person to speak.
Certainly not if they have English as an alternative.
Because English is just totally perfect.
Jesus spoke English.

English is better than sex!

And sex, of course, is better if you speak English.

In actual fact, English is rather hard to learn, and the ridiculous orthography does not make it any easier. Several hours of study a week will get you a minor amount of conversational fluency after two to four years, but until then it seems a waste of time, and the limited amount you know will not win you any Brownie Points. Native speakers of English will still act like shitheads, and people from the vast uneducated trailer park between the San Francisco Bay and New York will still think themselves entitled to be rude, crude, and altogether hateful.
Monolingual English-speaking Americans can be very unpleasant.
Which is rather the opposite of encouraging.
Downright effing Texan, in fact.

By the way, if you are offended by this essay, please bear in mind that it is in English. Entirely so. Because you are incapable of comprehending any other tongue.
Over one hundred different languages are spoken in San Francisco.
And we're a darn sight better than you lot.
Please don't visit.

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