At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Tuesday, August 04, 2020


The problem is that I look like any other person. Which, as you probably realize, is just a trick. It's part of my dastardly plan to gain advantages.
I'm actually from outer space, here to steal your vital juices and force fluoridation upon you good people.

"I really shouldn't be surprised that you speak such good English; you Dutch have a talent with languages, and you probably learned it in school, better educated than Yanks.
Such clever people.

Okay.... Should I now reiterate that I was born here, and that we moved overseas when I was two? Or that I've been back in the States for most of my life, and, you know, spoke English at home? Both of my parents were American, my dad's family have been here for nearly four centuries, my mom's family going on three?

"Wow, you speak such perfect Dutch, as far as I'm concerned, you're one of us."

Gee thanks.

The one place where linguistic dexterity does have nearly unbiased rewards is in Chinatown. For one thing, speaking Cantonese (however badly) results in instant comprehension. A channel of communication has been opened, and when there is also evidence that I can read I get extra brownie points.

Sorry, mrs. Lee, I wasn't born in Hong Kong; I picked up my Cantonese from watching gangster movies. The reading ability is because I like dictionaries. And I look things up.

It's all part of my dastardly plan to force fluoridation on white peoples.

一個卑鄙嘅同邪惡嘅計劃 ('yat go bei pei ge tung che ngok ge gai waak'; an evil and malicious scheme).

氟化 ('fat faa'; fluoridation).

We extraterrestrials are good at that.
And we speak Dutch.

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As a patriotic American, I was pissed to read about Chinese students in the United States caught between American xenophobia and racism on one side, and the Mainland Government's current restrictions on travel due to Covid on the other. What's abundantly evident in any case is that both Washington as well as American jingoists are intent on being complete assholes and morons.

[See this article: NEITHER THE U.S. NOR CHINA.]

No, I shall not criticize the Chinese government here, that isn't what this post is about. My point is that it is hugely to our advantage to have foreign students come here, we like an influx of intelligent motivated people, and as a country we should "hearts and minds" them, and we absolutely must be gracious hosts.

Which I know is entirely beyond many of the people in the interior.
That entire range of concepts is quite foreign to them.

Frankly speaking, all those worried Chinese students should move to San Francisco. There are far fewer assholes and flat-earthers here, and better people and educational opportunities. Significantly less violent inbred mo-fos and racists. Plus a large Chinese American population which is solidly grounded and well-established.

Yeah, we also have some complete dickheads -- the number of times someone has told me to go back where I came from is depressingly large, and just one dickhead can ruin your entire day -- but the average I.Q. is higher than most of the South and a lot of the Mid-West, there's more here than just corn, and we have MUCH better ice cream.

Come for the ice cream.

You'll like it.

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Monday, August 03, 2020


One problem with a bâtard is that if not eaten within a day it dries out. Which turns it hard, and one's apartment mate might then suggest "it's stale, we should throw it away". No. Dissuade her. She's Cantonese American, and does not fully understand the bread paradigm.


Please think back to that scene in A Better tomorrow 2 where Ah Ken (Chow Yunfat) tells the hoodlum "rice is like my father and mother, don't fuck with my family" just before almost blowing his head off and screaming "open your mouth and eat the effing rice, eat it, sik, ham ka chaan!" It's a noteworthy scene. The way Chinese people feel about rice is significant. And precisely so regarding actual bread. Meaning real bread, not that inedible supermarket air-sponge that Americans often eat.
Bread is sacrosant, do not waste good bread!

[食, 冚家鏟! Sik, ham kaa chaan: Cantonese for "eat, (or I will) exterminate your family!"]

So I gently persuaded her not to chuck it out. I would eat it.
We do not EVER insult bread. Bread is life.

The way I feel about honest bread is European, very Dutch, but I'm sure that you can understand. It's years of accumulated conditioning, and similar to the way I feel about herring. You've admired all those sixteenth century still-life paintings in museums, yes? Herring is ALSO life.

Even after steaming a hunk of dried bâtard and then toasting it, it was a bit hard. But it went well with the mixed meats, vegetable matter, and hot condiments (two of them) that I put in my sandwich. Delicious!

That may have been partly because I was starving. I went down to the hospital for blood tests, as part of my yearly check-up, so I hadn't eaten anything since last night, and hadn't had any coffee yet either. When you rely on caffeine to kick-start your engine, the absence of any of that substance in your system makes life "difficult".

Two sentences you might not wish to hear on public transit are "don't (expletive) touch me!" and "what's (expletive) wrong with you?!!?" Both from a few seats over. This is NOT something that many Cantonese San Franciscans often experience, as the loonies here are overwhelmingly Caucasian, and know better than to harass Cantonese. Chow Yunfat's behaviour in A Better Tomorrow 2 shows that if necessary, they can take it to the next two levels, and things may go south in a split second.
Only pester calm and sluggish white people.

The trick to traveling by public transit in San Francisco and arriving at your destination calm, unmolested, and in an equitable mood, is to radiate batshit homicidal psychosis.

After being jabbed by a Cantonese American lab technician down at the hospital, very capably and entirely painlessly, showing that she's dealt with people in that manner extremely many times before, I visited my bank and returned home. I desperately needed coffee.

Fixed lunch and fed the turkey vulture too. Of all the stuffed animals he's the most obsessed about food. Even though he thinks everything good to eat is corpse. Vegetables? Dead Irish people! Dumplings? Dead Chinese people! Sausages? The tubular Americans! And so forth.
Nom nom nom nom nom nom nom!


The turkey vulture also required dessert; very low blood sugar.

He gets a bit crazy if we don't feed him regularly.

He's had lunch twice today.

Plus breakfast.


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Sunday, August 02, 2020


One of the people whom I regretfully have to deal with on a fairly regular basis says that Covid-19 will go away on November Fourth. Which is a typical stupid and vicious thing to say, as well as showing what an ignorant fool he is. With a bit of luck he will have died by then.

Sunday August 2, 9:05 PM.
4,667,930 confirmed cases in the US. 154,859 deaths.

Apparently the entire state of Idaho believes the same. They too can die.

As time goes on my tolerance has grown thin.

By the way: if the entire state of Idaho were to disappear overnight, no one would miss them. Absolutely no one.

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Yesterday at ten thirty PM the Portland Police targeted a freelance journalist. Slashed her tires, and shattered her rear-window.

[This was in addition to casual violence against many people last night when the PPB got out of hand, and several incidents of police brutality. Riot by cop, in other words.]

What the hell?!?

If anybody kills members of the Portland Police, who am I to object? Far be it from me to advise anybody to do so, but on the other hand, no one will shed a tear if Portland cops come to a bad end.
And their families should disown them.

Bull puckey:
Portland Police@PortlandPolice
Sworn to Protect. Dedicated to Serve. Portland, Oregon. NOT MONITORED 24/7. Call or Text 911 for Emergencies (in progress) or 503-823-3333 for Non-Emergencies.

They've proven that they're opportunistic scum, basically gangsters.
There's plenty of video.

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Saturday, August 01, 2020


Two weeks ago I highlighted a number of Chinese briar pipe artists whose work is splendid and well worth being familiar with. They are, one the whole, active people, and I've seen several more lovely pieces on their Facebook pages and posts since then.

Beautiful pipes.

Cang Zhenming

Eagle Fang

Gao Jie

Liu Zifeng

Shi Pu

Chao Han-Qing (赵汉青)

Chen Ce (陈策)

These gentlemen truly understand how to bring out the best in briar, their lovely pipes would grace any collection.

The photos above were copied from their Facebook pages without their permission, for the purpose of showcasing their work, which is among the best I have seen.

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Last night, our neighbors in the next building over, who are idiots, had a Friday evening party in the back yard. With lots of people attending, and lots of booze. Very crowded. Festive and noisy.
During. The. Middle. Of. A. Pandemic.
Yes of course they're white.
What did you expect?

They're young, they're care-free, they're happy.
They'll be dead soon.

Because I am a sour old grumpus, and puritanically inclined, and strongly disapprove of many people and much of modern society, and don't have an ounce of Christian fellow-feeling in my shriveled-up soul in any case, I don't care.

Sorry man. No mask, no distance, no Jesus.

Drunken revelry is an invitation to disease.

The properly abstemious and self-disciplined individual in these perilous times does NOT drink socially (heaven forefend), wears a mask at all times when interacting with others, stays at least six to ten feet away from the natives, and enjoys a pipeful of decent tobacco occasionally in a briar which is neither flamboyant nor eye-catching and that has been kept clean. His neighbors' funeral is NOT his concern.

His choice of stimulating beverage is limited to hot coffee or tea. Such as I myself drink when I get home from work, babysitting the future covidians of Marin County. Of whom I disapprove.

The least you people can do to show that you understand the operational paradigm of this era is to drink anti-socially. Go on.

Control your turpitude, you heathens!

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Friday, July 31, 2020


He was going on vacation with his girlfriend, off to London for nearly two weeks. In preparation for which he left me a generous purse for the household expenses, and three orders for while he was away. Make sure there is coffee when I come back. Make sure that there is toilet paper.
Don't burn the house down.

Shortly after the car had disappeared from sight I was raiding his desk in the upstairs living room, because I knew where his pipes were. Oh boy.

Some of the household moneys were indeed spent on coffee and toilet paper. Some of it on food (and I ate a lot of sautéed mushrooms that fortnight). And some of it -- more than I normally would have spent from my allowance -- went for tins of Balkan Sobranie pipe tobacco.
For the next several days I was high as a kite on coffee, filled to the gills on mushrooms, and happily puffing good tobacco in excellent pipes.

About as dissolute and self-indulgent as a non-alcoholic teenager with no romantic involvements can be. Read a lot, bicycled a lot, smoked a lot, stayed by myself a lot. I had a wonderful time.

So did my father.

One of his pipes that I "borrowed" was a Peterson System Standard, such as the shape illustated below.

It was my first exposure to the type. I liked it. A lot.

A few months later, when I was sent back to the United States for school, I purchased my own. A slightly different shape. Which I smoked in the student lounge, at a deli on Market near the Embacadero, and at the Caffe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue while "studying".
These are all places where smoking is no longer permitted.

That one I eventually got rid of, likewise the same shape with a gorgeous grain which I had while living on Piedmont Avenue.
Since then I've acquire two more briars of that shape. I've finally faced the fact that while Peterson System Standards are in a way quite pedestrian, I really like them; they look so 'pipe like'.

The last time I visited my Dad before he passed away I bought one at the tobacconist in Woensel, which is unusual because you seldom see sandblasted Peterson Systems on this side of the Atlantic.

The graphic effect above was achieved by drawing the light and shade using the crayon feature of the Paint programme, several different hues, then reducing the drawing for a life like effect.

Spray paint, oil brush, and water colour brush are also useful.
As in the creamy exemplar below.

A few years ago, a friend got rid of some pipes he did not smoke anymore because they were too small. He'd graduated toward big briars, and full Latakia mixtures instead of Virginia Flakes. I have some of his "discards". The meerschaum above and the 314 below.

Here is another one of his pipes.

[The three pipes above (the meerschaum, the 314, and the 305) were often what I smoked in the evenings during the two years when I desperately needed medical attention but had no coverage. During that period I became increasingly ill, often nearly passing out after walking only a few blocks. Frequent excruciating head-aches as well.
In the three months before my insurance kicked in I did not know if I would survive long enough; it was a bit of gamble. But apparently I survived. A coronary stent was put in exactly one month after I stumbled into the clinic. And I'm taking pills. So I'm good for several more years. Thank you, San Francisco Chinese Hospital.]

All three of these pipes are excellent smokes.

Peterson pipes have been around for well-over a century, both pleasing smokers and pissing them off. It's a crapshoot.  Their quality control has at times been "iffy", and they've experimented irresponsibly with weird lacquers and varnishes that are hard to remove, yet bubble and blister.

Evenso, some of their products are considered classics.

Especially their full bent pipes.

And special series items.

I particularly remember smoking the Rathbone above with Mac Baren's Virginia Flake while exiled around the corner from the group with whom I was having coffee. For the benefit of the non-smokers.

Well, anti-smokers. Tobacco nazis.

Nowadays I seldom hang out with tobacco-hating types. They aren't very mellow, and they tend toward mental rigidities in other ways.
Or off-kilter belief systems. Largely not a very flexible bunch.
But I have several Peterson pipes of which I'm very fond.
And I know a fair number of smoke-tolerant people.

One of the remarkable things about many anti-smokers is that they drink too much and are, frequently,  unapologetic pot-heads.
Almost as if they've got problems.
Psychological damage.


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Thursday, July 30, 2020


It is with awe that I read that gentlemen used to go for a canter early in the morning to get their blood flowing, and that doing so was considered not only good exercise but also beneficial to the digestion, plus preparing them for the heat of the day and a full work schedule. Obviously that was a different time and place.

By cantering is meant riding their horse around the forest and the fore jungle. Which, to my semi-sedentary mind, sounds perfectly ghastly.

Those same gentlemen started on port wine and gin-pahits at around three in the afternoon, and were quite blotto by tea time.

That too was considered normal and natural.

Nowadays many of my habits, though firmly rooted in the past, are considered peculiar and rather eccentric.

I'm usually out of the house with a pipe before eight o'clock (7:30 today), taking a constitutional around the neighborhood. Breakfast consists of coffee, and a bleary scoping of the news. No solid food, and above all no buggery cereals. Then walk and smoke. At around ten or eleven maybe a cookie, or at work a pastry. Bacon and eggs, if they are eaten at all, go into the main meal sometime during the middle of the afternoon.
It will be followed by strong tea.

A late lunch is the most important meal of the day. There will be sambal (hot chili condiments), maybe chutneys, and, during my days off, rice or noodles.

Getting blotto is a Northern European habit, and also very common here in North America. Like breakfast, it is best avoided. The last few times when I visited Holland I did have breakfasts, because it was expected of guests.
But I wasn't quite vested in the process. Fortunately cocktails were not included at the hotel in Amsterdam.

Because lets face it, Northern Europeans commonly drink like fish.
From Galway to Minsk, alcoholism is common.
Which leads to bad food choices,

You'll be glad to know that even though I am an abstemious fellow, I am still quite capable of making bad food choices. I do not need liquor to be an idiot. Bean chips. Pickled chilies. Two servings of ice cream.

What the hell was in those bean chips anyway?

Vegs and sambal, also a bad idea.

I have regrets.

In retrospect, I should not have been casually snacking while reading news articles on the internet yesterday evening (weird Texan medicine), as what I ate so abstractedly had a negative influence on my sleep last night.
Dreams in which I was pursued by horned beetles.
And a giant scaly cockroach.

The pipe pictured above, which I smoked during my walk this morning, was acquired during a trip back to the Netherlands, when I saw my father for the last time. It means a lot to me.

I am somewhat recovered now.


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Regarding Parsee cookery, which I mentioned a few times recently, a dear friend and correspondent rebuked me sharply as follows: "the Chhota Peg is still nowhere to be seen in your writings. Not even a fleeting mention. You disappoint me. Oh, and by the bloody way, we don’t, not ever, “dump” our sali on the boti - we sprinkle it - lovingly, tenderly, and evenly, on those delicious, succulent botis." Well okay then. A chhota peg is a half measure of Scotch whisky, rarely rum or gin. A small peg. Maybe with soda pani or regular water added. It is for all the times after tea, when daddy-ji has returned from the daftar khanna or prasasanik kendre, tired and takit, and needs to relax. Or mummy-ji. Whoever works administratively. It is also a sacred ritual. And one might have several chhota pegs before retiring.

The soldiery would drink a rum peg every morning with lime and quinine, which was thought to prevent malaria. But for the higher castes, pegs, whether bara or chhota, were whisky, mostly afternoon, mostly male prerogative.

My mother would have me fix her a genever chhota peg before dinner to ease her pains during the last few years of her life. And for me, a chhota peg is a small shot of Scotch, with very little water, and no ice cubes.

Which of course I cannot have. Because of medical reasons.

Chhota peg: greatest British contribution to India.

Parsees would be poorer without it.

Yesterday evening, my apartment mate went full Aspergers, analyzing what sex with daemons would entail. Both the mechanics of it, and the chromosomes involved. Pursuant Trump's current favourite doctor, who is batshit crazy. She then speculated wildly and at length about fundy Christians and mental instability among the faithful, plus their ridiculous theology, and lizard aliens within the body of the church. That church. Seemingly for hours. I could have used a chhota peg at that moment.

Sadly, there wasn't a drop of single malt in the house.

I was a captive, and couldn't go out and get it.

By the time I was free the store was shut.

Thank you, Doctor Daemon Sperm.

"As I looked into his innocent green eyes I knew that my womanly presence was arousing his taut testicles: that with every little gasping breath they vibrated against each other, firm and plump beneath his starched trousers. And he blushed as he knew that I knew."
------ Genevieve Cogman

"Cassandra woke up to the rays of the sun streaming through the slats on her blinds, cascading over her naked chest. She stretched, her breasts lifting with her arms as she greeted the sun. She rolled out of bed and put on a shirt, her nipples prominently showing through the thin fabric. She breasted boobily to the stairs, and titted downwards."
------ Unknown Internet Genius

The two lyrical texts above are examples of literary smut. The top one shows what would happen if women wrote about sex the same way men did, the bottom one is male smut writing spoofed. Both of them are almost Shakespearean in their beauty, neither one of them are glandularly stimulating. They are not meant to be.

Personally, I find recipes and food descriptions far more interesting.
But I realize that I'm in the minority on this.
If you're reading here, you too.

Over the years I've said an inordinate amount about food, mentioned Scotch and Irish whisky several times, and been a total Asperger about pipes and tobacco. Besides some political opinions and sneering at Christianity. That will continue. Aside from speculating that Doctor Stella Emmanuel desperately needs some daemon sex, and that if there weren't so many reptile space aliens in the Trump cabinet, that would be the perfect source, and a solution to her psychological problems.

Now, should I start the day with tea, coffee, or a peg?
I think I'll have a smoke before I decide.

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Wednesday, July 29, 2020


In the same way that Dutch people use serundeng as a necessary garnish for several spicy dishes, the Parsees use thin potato matchsticks fried crisp. Along with eggs, these are almost a definition of Parsee cuisine. The best way to prepare them is deepfrying in an electric fryer, draining and salting them immediately once they come out of the hot oil. They keep in a sealed container, cool dry place, for about ten days.

Parsees dump these on mutton curries, keema, chicken, and even eggs (sali per eedu). Famously, jordaloo boti (a hearty and tangy mutton dish with dried apricots) seems incomplete without sali, though that is not customary. And this would be perfect for cold winters in Brabant (where there are a large number of Dutchmen, and virtually no Parsees).
The most typical dish would be sali boti.


Fry a goodly amount of chopped onion in plenty of oil, add ginger and garlic when it starts to turn golden. Drain off the excess oil, keep frying the onion garlic ginger. Add red chili powder, then turmeric. Chopped chilies shortly after, salt and a small splash water. Add chunked mutton gosht and, and when the oil comes out, throw in several chopped tomatoes (peeled), some red chili paste, and two or three whole green chilies. Simmer for an hour or so, adding water as necessary to keep it very slightly soupy.
Then add ground cumin and garam masala.
Cook only a little while longer.

Then serve with potato straws (sali) on top.
A goodly handful. Both texture and taste.

Or French fries, if you're Dutch.

The spice proportions are three parts red chili powder, two parts ground coriander seed, one part each turmeric and cumin. Garam masala, depending on the recipe you use at home, is a variable quantity; one or two teaspoons should suffice. These are fairly standard proportions that can be used for many dishes, by the way.

For one pound mutton, use two large onions chopped.

Oh, and the quantity of turmeric is variable too.
But only slightly, as it can dominate.

An authentic cook would add a few green cardamom pods at the same time as the chili powder or turmeric, and both the whole green chilies (for aroma) and red chili paste (sambal ulek) are my own thing. Star anise also, maybe a half teaspoon toasted ground poppy seeds (why?), and a bay leaf or two. And a half stick cinnamon, which in the United States might be impossible, because real cinnamon is hardly available here; we tend to have cassia instead. It's not the same.

Jordaloo boti is similar, but with about half a dozen dried apricots added halfway through, for both their flavour and to swell in the pan moisture.
Less or no tomato. As well as a splash vinegar, hefty pinch sugar.

Jordaloo, of course, means apricot. Old Persian, Gujarati, and Marathi. Not, strictly speaking, an Indian ingredient, though they grow in Kashmir.
Sali is Gujarati for straw.

All of this is pursuant a previous post, in which I mentioned that I had a very marked fondness for curry, milk tea, and smoking my pipe afterwards. And it will naturally be remembered that India's most famous military man, Field Marshall Sam Hormusji Framji Jamshedji Manekshaw (born 3 April 1914 – died 27 June 2008) was a pipe smoker, and known for his opinion that you should never entirely trust a man who neither smokes nor drinks.
He was a Parsee, and by accident of birth, a Punjabi.
A fortuitous and splendid combination.
An exemplary man.

"He who neither drinks nor smokes, nor dances; he who preaches and even occassionally practices piety, temperance, and celibacy, is generally a saint, or a mahatma, or more likely a humbug, but he won't make a leader or for that matter a good soldier."

"If a man says he is not afraid of dying, he is either lying or a Gurkha."

------Sam Manekshaw

Now, the astute reader will likely be wondering, what the heck do Dutchmen and Brabant have to do with any of this? Well, I'm a Dutchman from North Brabant. And I like my tea, tobacco, food, and drink, though nowadays I avoid alcohol entirely due to my medication.

No idea what I'll prepare for lunch. It will include chilies and some spices. It will probably not be "heart healthy" at all ("greasy"), and together with the pipe afterward it would displease my regular care physician, per whose orders I saw the nutritionist at the hospital last year. Who then advised me to take "baby steps": cut down on the cookies and sweets.
So none of that later with my tea.

No Scotch in nearly two years.

No one said anything about mutton, ghee, or potatoes.
And my doctor is Indonesian-born Chinese.
So spicy foods are all-right.


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The fog started rolling in by six o'clock, and the top of Nob Hill was grey and invisible within an hour. Lafayette Heights in the other direction looked bleak and wild, while from Polk Street the sounds of jollification were audible. There were drinks and eaties out in front of several places.
The cocktail hour lasts till eight.

Clay, Jackson, and Washington Streets were almost deserted.
It was, in fact, perfect Autumn weather.
At the end of July.

Here's a bright idea: San Francisco should celebrate Hallowe'en a few months early. After all, we're all wearing masks (I hope), and this weather prevents unseemly nudity, unlike the situation at the end of October, when the exhibitionists come out of the woodwork.
Little children will love it.

Sadly, SF exhibitionists fear tobacco smoke.

Unlike the indoors people in July.

You know, I bet there's tonnes of exhibitionism inside these days. One of the neighbors on the opposite side of the street was visible, in the buff from the waist up. I do not know if he was wearing anything downwards, that could not be seen.

Keep your popcorn warm and crisp, ladies, there might be a show.

I didn't stick around to find out.

This morning it was quieter, but still as foggy. Also perfect Autumnal weather. Slightly more people than dogs out. Same amount of poo.

White people sleep late nowadays. Cantonese folks are up much earlier, and full of piss and vinegar by the time of the first pipe of the day.

Both pipes shown were given to me by Martin T.  when he 
was paring down his collection. They're good smokes, 
but he prefers much larger pipes nowadays.

During Hallowe'en in San Francisco, most of the extroverts (exhibitionists) are Caucasians, and I always enjoyed observing the little Cantonese kiddies trick or treating, who looked terrified. "Good lord, these people are freaks!
I wanna go home!

It's been ages since I saw anyone en-déshabillé.

Or anyone saw me in that state.

World, be grateful.

My ex is Canto, locally born. What she saw in me was, apparently, red hot Dutch American sex appeal, which I had no idea was a thing. And seeing as I've been single for years now, I may be correct in that assumption.
While she may have been mistaken.

[We don't speak the same version of Cantonese, in case you were wondering, but have always spoken English together. Hers is Toisanese, mine is movie-learned Hong Kong thug, with book-learned bits. English is her first language.]

Certainly a scrawny fellow who prefers indulging in curry, milk-tea, and smoking a pipe, is not a hot property on the dating scene. I wish I knew what the dating scene actually was, seeing as even when I was in my twenties I didn't have a clue. I've heard it involves jogging regularly, getting drunk at singles bars, and late night pizza.

If anyone now imagines a lovely curry dinner and a hot cup of tea with a naked pipe smoker, please be advised that I will not accept any responsibility for that.

If you pursue that dream, accidents could happen!

Heck, it's almost guaranteed.


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Tuesday, July 28, 2020


Having viewed a video in which a doctor from Texas asserts that there is a cure for the covid virus, and reading further that she also states that masks are unnecessary, and sex with daemons and witches causes infertility as well as gynecological issues, I am appalled.

She left out one key datum. Sex with goats cures covid. Lots of sex with goats. Go on, Republicans, make the goats happy.

See, it's the enzymes in goat seminal fluid.

An easily accessed cure, no fail.

Men, women, children.

All part of a democratic plot to vaccinate Americans with a substance that takes away the Jesus instead. But goats are natural, no chemicals.

Trump tried to tell you.

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Yesterday evening, while enjoying a post-tea time pipe, I noticed that one of the local bars is booming again. Earlier I had seen an announcement from one of my friends, a bartender there, that they now have a permit to serve bar nibbles and small dishes "to go", during the wait for which you can enjoy a drinkie at the tables on the sidewalk and out in the bicycle zone. Which apparently came as a blessing to many people; the tables were crowded. Much like choir practice at that church up in Washington State, where there was that early cluster. And while it's one of my favourite saloons, with generous pours and a witty clientele, all I could think of was that it would probably increase the spread of Covid. Which I have been assured by several people is a commie liberal plot, doesn't actually exist, is just like the flu, and will assuredly disappear after the first week of November.

There was little or no social distancing over cocktails.
Naturally I stayed well away from the place.

As you can tell I like that bar. They made accommodations for smokers years ago -- it is in fact where I got into a conversation with a petite lesbian several years back despite her significant other looking daggers at me, the smell of my pipe reminded her of her dad, and I took more risks when I was younger -- and a likable fellow Dutch-speaker used to work there. At present one of the best bartenders in the city is on staff, and cheerfully gets the customers totally squiffy. But I do not drink anymore (alcohol and my medications are not a good combo), and even before I wasn't a social butterfly. When people say stupid things in bars it's difficult to rationally and dispassionately explain to them how and why they're an idiot.

Which is often obvious anyway; they're watching sports.
All drinking holes have televisions.

And you might get clobbered by an angry significant other.
Well, nasty threatening looks at least.
I am a fragile man.

The tobacco that reminded the young lady of her father was Founder's Reserve, "Blended at the Malthouse" by Dan Tobacco. Which is allegedly topped with single malt whisky, but it's a "whisky" that appeals to slutty young men in Marketing and Sales, looking for a sugar daddy.
Which I am recognizably not at all.

More like the world's worst Dutch Uncle.
Stern disapproving advice.
Though bent.

"He's not good enough for you. Yes, he's loaded to the gills, but look at those weak lips, and that vulgar shirt.
He'll be a fat slob within a year of you moving in.

Young man, flirt with a Doctor or a Dentist.
At least you'll get health care.
That's important.

And avoid that one there. He's probably diseased.
I saw him with a Persian boy last week.
Trust me, a total whore.

I'm just as bad when it comes to advising the female gender. "Sweetheart, that blouse looks really nice on you". Meaning that I can see the lace straps underneath. "You should smoke a short perfecto". Meaning A) don't smoke cigarettes, those are for sailors and elderly aunts, and B) you would look totally hot, just like the lady city council member back in the Netherlands who could out-argue the dumbasses from the Labour Party (PvdA) as well as the inbred morons in the Christian Democratic Appeal (CDA).
Or that communista I wanted to date in high school.
Jayzus. Stunning. And brilliant.
La belle Marxiste.

This morning when I stepped out for a pipe it was still very cold, and the tops of the hills were fogged in. So there were few other people about.
A person with reality problems stumbled past, muttering to himself. Also a dog walker, watching her pet relieve himself against a hydrant. Plus 'auntie with the pistachio ice cream hued hat', and 'grumpy uncle'.
And my landlord, getting a newspaper.

It was a very peaceful walk. With an old-fashioned fragrance.

The tobacco might remind you of your dad.

Anyway. From up the block I could see my apartment mate leaving for work. At present, the door to her bedroom is firmly shut, her teddy bear is on the other side, sternly lecturing the stuffed turkey vulture about wanting to eat the imaginary little girl hamster who visits during the day ("we do NOT eat our friends!"), and I am ensconced in the teevee room with a pipe and my second cup of coffee.

It's time to read about Parsees cooking on Facebook.
Delicious things. Fish, mutton, eggs.
Dhansakias at table.


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