LITTLE CLUMPS OF NASTINESS

One of the rancid old cigar-huffing goobers in the backroom admitted bashfully that he liked to smoke his stogies in an atmosphere of peace and contemplative quiet. Seeing as he is a prime instigator and focus of all the screaming and shouting, when I quoted him to the retired judicial personage who came in later there was an evil cackle.

For at least one hour this morning there was calm. Because the backroom dunder heads had not come stumbling in yet. In that time I fussed with reamers and bristly pipe cleaners, plus little wads of paper towel inside the bowls of over a dozen pipes, before deploying the frat boy party vodka to dissolve the tar and accumulated exudates. The stems had been deoxidized and the passage ways thoroughly cleaned of gunk yesterday.

All that was necessary on them at this point was some buffing.

Which, because of fussy dingos, I was not able to do.

Especially after Mr. 'Precious Butt' came in.

Who is damn' near certifiable.

The noise level from the backroom, is, at times, painfull. These are by no means sane individuals capable of having a civilized conversation, but psychopaths. Conniving, lying, dissimulating, and treacherous. Entirely unfit company for sensitive people, ladies, and anyone endeavoring to clean up some very nice briars of mostly Danish manufacture.

You probably understand that I am only two of the above but appreciate the company of the other category listed, because by definition ladies tend to not be conniving lying dissimulating etcetera psychos. Some females, indeed, could be all of that, but both Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert are presently not in California, nor is George Santos.

It's like there's a kennel of rabid feral hens back there.



Other than the cigar-smoking old bastards, it was a very pleasant weekend.
Some friends dropped by to check how I was holding up.
Tea, and Balkan blends were discussed.
Plus papirosa. Belomorkanal.




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SUITABLE WINTER FOOD

The local internet news media informed us that we were in for some hot weather here in the Bay Area. So yesterday morning, it being rather warmish, I decided that I actually did not need to wear my coat -- it's a well-insulating garment -- and forewent it. No problem. It was a pleasant day, wih slight fog in the morning. When it gets hot inland, it pulls the fog in, so it might be higher than room temperature but still Sam Spade-ish.

Don't believe everything you read.

It was cold at dusk.


Yesterday evening the bus back to civilization did not come. I ended up catching the one that came half an hour afterwards. Which is a lifetime when you are dying of a heartattack while savage wolves are eating you alive freezing your balls off at a deserted bus pad in the icy tundra next to the freeway. The howling, the howling! Damn these suburbs! I could see the hungry buzzards wheeling overhead searching for dead critters. Fortunately I was twitching enough that they didn't come for me, but they were close, real close.

The bleached bones of those who gone before lay gleaming, killed by the cold arctic blasts. Hyenas stuck in the tidal swamps were being chivied by hyenas. It became necessary to dodge the poisoned darts of the mud people.

Darn. This cold. No wonder Robert Falcon Scott perished in this climate.

I hear drums, drums in the deep. They are coming.

And no passing taun tauns.

It seems rather a pity to waste an entire taun taun just to stay warm.

Is there something combustible nearby so I can roast part of it? And perhaps one of these Marinite scungers dropped a Habanero or two? Fatty taun taun meat probably needs a squeeze or two of lime also to cut the grease. As well as ground cumin.

If a Mexican with a leaf blower passes by I'll ask him for cooking suggestions, but this is Marin, so the chances are that it's just a Vegan.They are of no use whatsoever.

They probably burn sage in this part of the world to keep warm.

It's spiritual and cleansing.



Maybe if I sacrifice the Vegan those buzzards will stop looking at me?




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DANG, TIME FLIES!

The restaurant had run out of Sriracha, probably because there is a Huy Fong shortage and even though there are other brands available they aren't willing to compromise. Which is sad. But I am. While avoiding the brand with a government health warning on the label (the chilies were probably grown on a toxic waste dump outside of Bangkok), I have never-the-less found adequate replacements.

[Huy Fong Sriracha: the crisis is real, there is none to be had. Woe!]

So, because they did not have hot sauce, they offered to provide me with sliced chilies. Yes, that will do fine. And I'm actually quite fond of Jalapeño chili peppers. They are a lovely addition to so many things besides salads or a plate of crudités.
It turns out they are also good with dumplings.


白菜豬肉水餃

The largest difference between bokchoi minced pork dumplings ('paak choi chyu yiuk seui gaau') and the more common chive and pork dumplings (韭菜豬肉水餃 'gau choi chyu yiuk seui gaau') is that bokchoi lends an appealing sweetness.

By the way: please note that the simplified form of 韭 is often 九 (same pronunciation: 'gau'), precisely like the simplified form of 雜 is 杂 ('jaap'). Often menus on the wall will use such glyphs. 九 ("nine") is phonetic in the first simplification, insignificant in the second.

Lunch was extremely enjoyable. I love dumplings.

Afterwards I enjoyed a smoke near the square in a pipe I purchased decades ago. It's a perfect memory device; I've had it during some might strange times and in many places.
It's a well-travelled companion. Still performs like a charm.

Same brand as the other pipe I had with me.

Smoked the 254 earlier on Nob Hill. A shorter smoke, because it served as an appetizer for my lunch, in a manner of speaking. I always pack enough pipe cleaners in my breast pocket so that I'm not caught flatfooted, but both pipes are remarkably dry smokers, so I only needed one cleaner each.

It had turned out to be a good afternoon.
Despite the telephone desis.
Damned goondas.

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DELIRIUM: THE BADDER BITCH

Sometimes you feel younger and more vibrant than you really are. Which happens to me a lot. But I rarely let it fool me. Indeed, a pretty woman or a nice plate of cheese will excite me, but I know better than to stumble towards the shiny things. The last time a very sweet young lady spoke to me she called me 'uncle' (阿叔) which brought me crashing down to reality, and I've learned that cheese plates should be approached with caution; too much of a good thing and I'll feel quite a bit older later.

And fortunately I know that my usual caffeine high is deceiving. At some point I'll want a nice nap. Perhaps even right after that last cup of coffee in the evening.

[NOTE: the day starts with one or two cups of reasonably strong coffee, continues with multiple cups of tea throughout the day, and finishes usually with a final cup of coffee in the evening. Which I forgo on ratwatching evenings because by that time I will have had two extra cups of tea and won't get home till around midnight.]

Being in 100% touch with reality is always slightly at odds with my caffeine-influenced mental condition. Which is, more or less, what keeps me sane.

[Plus occasionally indulging in nicotine.]

Civilization didn't get kickstarted till caffeine became common. In China that happened during the Tang Dynasty over a millenium ago, in Europe it had to wait till after the Ottoman armies withdrew from the siege of Vienna and the Dutch introduced tea to high society in Northern Europe during the golden age.
In the Americas it had to wait untill the seventies and eighties when Peets, Starbucks, and the Caffè Trieste in North Beach finally persuaded folks to wake up a bit.
The evidence shows that it still hasn't hit the interior.
It's been a bumpy road so far.


According to a test/survey on the internet, which I took after the second cup of coffee this morning, I am thirty two years old. Quote: "You're only just into your thirties and a badder bitch than ever!" End quote. Spot on!

[Autmated Amber spam-calling me about new healthcare benefits should take note of that! Contrary to what she believes (in several phone calls) I do not yet have Medicare Part A and B, am not living on a fixed income, and am not drawing social security. I am younger than you, bitch. Do NOT connect me to a licensed agent.]

It was based on food preferences. Which are always deceptive. Not only because I sneer at boomer cuisine, but also because I am gustatorily very liberal, and like to indulge in dishes which sane attention to diet and healthy eating would strongly discourage.

I am never-the-less well within my ideal weight.
Remarkable, that.

Fatty chunks of pork (五花肉) red-stewed with soysauce and sherry.

Perhaps I need to eat at home more often. It's been ages since I made this, and when I'm in Chinatown I will usually choose something more sensible for lunch, seeing as there is only one of me at the table, and nowhere to nap afterwards.

What I'm also thinking of cooking is claypot ginger chicken (砂鍋薑絲雞 'saa wo keung si gai', also called 煲仔雞 'pou jai gai'), which, with the addition of some black mushroom and a few slices of sausage, is a very satisfying dish too.

[To be eaten with rice and sambal.]

One of the main reasons to have a dining companion is so that there is a splendid excuse to also order a vegetable dish in addition to the meat. Plus good conversation afterwards will keep one alert, seeing as the cup of strong HK milk tea one had often won't do it.
Might even go to the Caffè Trieste afterwards for a cappucino.




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SLAPPED AROUND THE HEAD WITH PORK PRODUCTS

The day has only barely started, but elsewhere Fox News has already been in a full-bore spew of sewage. This per the helpful Microsoft Start screen that pops up to tell me the latest headlines and provide clickable links.


FOX: Top Swedish doctors blow whistle on trans puberty-suppresssing drugs affecting children's bones

FOX: Here's what my tour of America taught me about the weird, woke, and wicked

FOX: NPR Podcast argues 'thinness' a product of 'white supremacy and patriarchy'


You can probably see the subtexts. Outrage, I told you so, and damned libs.

Other buskers of bloviata are 1945, The Telegraph, and The New York Post. But Fox is what the majority of SFB's rely on to kickstart their thought processes in the morning and provide material for their dreams of superiority and wetness when they go to sleep at night.

The assault on normalcy continues.


Almost any moment now, Kevin from India will start calling to tell me about something available to me if I have Medicare part A and B, am between the ages of forty and eighty, or have airducts, need to be buried, or have my computer open right now. Plus the extended warranty on my vehicle (haven't had a car in decades; I live in SF). And would I mind answering a few probing question?

That's the part of the modern world I don't mind too much. I used to do commercial credit and collections, business to business, and here we have some poor saps virtually volunteering to be my guinea pig. Such things keep me in form. I'll ask them about their fatty inner thighs.


The good news is that I've already had my coffee, and wandered around the neighborhood smoking my first pipe of the day. So I'm awake and in a splendid mood.
It can only get better.


By the way: The title of this essay is in reference to a relative several generations ago who would come home and abuse his wife with pork chops. She kept the curtains closed and the gas light on all day. Both of them may have had some issues.
But they are examples for how to live.




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IN PRAISE OF OUR VISITORS

Several hours later I am in a much better mood than I was when I posted previously today. Oh sure, I still think there's garbage for three thousand miles until you hit the Atlantic
But I am now considerably more accepting of that.
Y'all do you. It's what you're good at.

Your chance of getting shot by a morally bankrupt methfreak gun-nut are several magnitudes greater between the Oakland Hills and Staten Island than anywhere else.
Likewise your chances of hearing banjo music.

But anyhow. I am back to my cheery self.

I am all sweetness and light.

Counting whales.

There are tonnes of tourists in town. Most of them show evidence of a diet rich in burgers and extra large fries, very likely washed down with a milk shake or a bucket of cheese gloop. I believe the rest of the country may have a slight obesity problem. Dang, why are even the adolescents bigger than normal human adults? The only way you can tell them apart is by noting tattoos. Very many of the adults have tattoos.

Far be it from me to tattoo shame anyone.

I believe they serve a tribal function. They tell people who are in the know which trailer park or Ivy League College secret society the wearer belongs to, as well as getting them special deals at the body shop after they've brought their pick-up truck in for detailing.

The whales, bless their hearts.

Precious.



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THE UNAMUSEMENT PARK

Despite Hannibal Lecter no longer being the most prominent potato in the Fox horsepucky line-up, something is missing. Getting rid of him was a business decision, they no longer felt that eating babies live on air properly represented the brand. There was better money to be made doing retrospectives on the golden age of Emperor Bokassa.

Look, I know that some of you morons in the great American heartland worshipped the guy. But he is a thoroughly repulsive human being, and he regularly suntans his testicles when not eating babies (mmm,, fatty bits!). You dimwits also worshipped Ronnie.

The only possible conclusion is that y'all suck.
Big time. Dumb intercoursers.

There are very good reasons to avoid the region between Treasure Island and the East River. Besides the horrible cooking, unsanitary conditions, and rampant bestiality.
As well as the daemon worshipping cults in Texas and Florida.

But yes, the beer and burgers are frightening.

Best stick to the coasts.

By the way, signed frameable photos of Tucker Carlson and Ted Nugent frolicking in a hot tub filled with Coors Light Beer are available at the giftshop, as well as collectable action figures (made in China) of the ENTIRE talking potato cast from Fox as well as every member of the Trumb cabinet. The spongy rubber versions that you can stick pins into costs extra, but they also are collectable, and much sought after.


There's a limited edition art-quality reproduction of the gun used to shoot Abraham Lincoln which you can buy. Proceeds go to the Campaign To Re-elect Trump.
It's a forty five.




You know, everytime I read the news I wish that most of this country died of a plague and burned up in a massive wildfire. Damn', you dingoes in the interior are repulsive.
Books and modern medicine are wasted on you lot.
Should've drowned you at birth.




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ALAS POOR YORICK

There is sadness in 'turkey vulture world', a profound sadness. When I returned home from rat-watching I did not bring him any fatty inner thighs which I should have harvested from late night louts. He points out that he is so scrawny. And hungry, so hungry, he's starving to death, he feels the end approaching, oh lack-a-day, so hungry, so hungry ... !

I am neglecting him. He was expecting a big bag of food.

He has a talent for being melodramatic.


What I did not mention was the drunken Russian woman at the bus stop with a mini skirt, who definitely had some meat on her. Good thighs. A turkey vulture would love them.

There was a lot of intoxication out and about. All the C'town drinking holes were filled with white people sucking up the exotic atmosphere very loudly, the only Chinese people there being staff. So we gave the karaoke joint a miss. Life is far too short to spend it in the company of Marketing Department wallahs and herds of out-of-towners.

This is NOT Chinatown. Not even close. Alas.

The beer place was surprisingly uncrowded. We did not discuss cheese. Remarkable. What was discussed was the harassment and discrimination seminar video which my friend has to watch and learn from every year. Sexual preferences, gender, race, and, presumably, political-religious beliefs, turkey vulture companions, and delicious fatty thighs.
Do NOT compliment people on how appetizingly they jiggle!


Because I've mixed some of the C&D Folklore into my regular tobacco, the pipe smoked while waiting for the bookseller to get off work was zesty and delicious. It had a savoury note. It was, in a word, lip-smackingly good. There were no rats in Spofford Alley, nor evident elsewhere on my path.


One of the things we discussed, possibly instead of cheese, was a dingo we both knew from the days when we were still at the same bookstore many years ago. He died back during the Orange Bottom's occupation of the White House. We are serene about that. Casually apathetic and untouched. Positively indifferent, unmoved, even stoicly blasé.

He was, in so many ways, nasty, brutish, and short.

And surpassingly dull.



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LITTLE PREDATORY BUTTERFLY

Something I have to ask: are you presently scrolling on your cell phone while having a cup of tea? Specifically, are you doing this at that chaiwallah on Tank Bund Road in Gandhinagar while the temperature climbs to one hundred degrees Fahrenheit (39°C) and your dhoti is drenched with sweat and bunches uncomfortably in your crotch? As I unfondly imgine you to be. You recently called me, introduced yourself as "Kevin", and promised that you had wonderful news about end of life insurance PLUS funeral expenses!
You sounded so breathless.

Perhaps that vegetarian samosa went down badly.
And overmuch ghee does affect the throat.

BTW: I do not intend to perish soon.

And it's pronounced "kevin", not 'K-bin'.

Myself, I could not sound so chipper if it was anywhere near that hot. I would wilt. Not even enough energy to kick the punkha wallah on the veranda OR amble slowly slowly down to the nearest tea stall outside the colony, sloyong-sloyong as we say in Indonesian (Dutch-style, old-fashioned usage) to roundly abuse the Mohammedan proprietor as you are accustomed to do, you wormy Hindu nationalist telephone gunda, you.

Though the cup of tea is appealing.

Ek bhar chai, garmagaram! Tank Bund Road, Gandhinagar. Yelp four stars.

To be honest, instead of a cell-phone (which remains inside near where the old land-line apparatus used to sit), there would be a pipe, filled with the best tobacco available among the Gujujus. Probably Erinmore Flake, which in that hot weather smells faint and anaemic, instead of the customary full-bore fruity funk it has in a more temperate zone, like cheap incense sticks ('dhupa') so redolent of an ashram catering to gauralog.
Or spiritual hippie communes in upstate.

No, I do not miss the summer of love. I was too young at the time to appreciate it. But I do sometimes still smoke Erinmore, which is available even in the tropics, because it brings back being cold and wet in Northern Europe. That aroma, oh, fragrant! That smell, that wonderful burning village smell, it reminds me of napalm.


Please stop calling, bevakuf.
I shall not bite.


I am all sweetness and light.
Sach mein hai!


Some tea would be lovely!
Strong, sweet.



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FLOCKS OF RABID PIRANHAS!

Here we are, third year of the pandemic going on fourth, long-covid is becoming an issue, and there are more variants which are more infectious. The extreme right wing are still being venomously stupid about masks, boosters, and crackpot science. As well as catching it and spreading it. Besides all their other shenanigans. Plus Mike Lindell, Kari Lake, braindead Boebert, and that weird conspiracy twant from Georgia just can't shut up.
It's their hey-day, they've never had so much attention.

Among the worst places in the union right now, the following take the cake: Alabama, Colorado, Florida, Mississippi, and Montana. But really, why play favourites?
There are so many scumbucket hellholes to choose from.

[By the way: Florida has gators, hurricanes, meth, religious freaks, and Ron De Santis.]

But from my point of view, things are looking distinctly up.
And several people look more stupid than ever.
Should I name them?


As always I'm glad this isn't the rest of the country.
There is no 'there' there.

Among the bright spots is that the tourists largely avoid my favourite eateries in Chinatown. They want the real authentic orange chicken and kung pao; my places don't have that.

What restaurants might have is chicken cooked with whole cloves of garlic. Meat and garlic first gilded separately in a bit of oil -- the chicken will have yielded some crusty bits -- then simmered with stock, rice wine, and a little soy sauce. Once the liquid is reduced to a sauce, a pinch of sugar and generous strewing of chopped chives are added, as well as a drop of dark sesame oil for fragrance. This is great with rice, and when the weather heats up that garlic is beneficial to the system.

Doesn't take long to prepare.
Good with chili paste.



In all honesty, I cannot understand why we even have visitors from the rest of the country. According to Fox News and many other right-thinking sources, we're a third world liberal hellhole with hippies, skyrocketing overdose deaths, violent homeless people and crazies everywhere, a pervasive reek of excrement and urine because there are no toilets here, collapsing infrastructure, and a business district so deserted that criminal gangs openly sell fentanyl in the shadow of the Trans America Pyramid in between carjackings, stabbings, and gun fights, while snorting lines of South American crack and commie designer drugs.

Five out of towners got shot in North Beach over the weekend.
So please, for your own safety, stay the hell away!
Oh, and the rent is too high.


Gonna have lunch and do my errands later.
Then smoke my pipe while wandering.
Might pee on the sidewalk!
Don't know yet.

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FEELING THE BURN

It baffles me how I came to be outside the compound bitch-slapping Marjorie taylor Greene with wet towels until the police took her away in handcuffs, and what the State Department and US passports had to do with the Honduran woman is also confusing. It had some odd connection with her request for fingerprints. All of this goes to show that one should not have a nap after eating chocolate.

Still, I enjoyed bitch-slapping Marjorie taylor Greene.
The towels were warm and heavy.

Bitch-slapping Marjorie Taylor Greene is an appropriate thing to do on a warm sunny day. It's a harbinger of Spring. Getting the Honduran woman off my case was icing on the cake.
Good thing I remembered the State Department.

It may have been too much chocolate.

Also, no idea how petai (stinkbean from Malaysia and Indonesia) got in there. Nothing I ate recently even resembles it. And I am not even fond of it.

If you twist the towels a bit tightly, they are more effective. This is important, because unless whacked into a grumbly state the strident dingbat will continue to bellyache about things very loudly and make accusations, and good heavens nobody wants that. Today she was shouting about Tucker Carlson, which apparently I had something to do with, and it took quite a bit of wet toweling to shut her down.


It had to be done. I just wish I wasn't the one who was forced to do it.
That must have been my Messiah complex kicking in.
It's very American of me.



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DO NOT THINK OF OYSTERS!

After an exciting night I conclude that my goutish issue has returned; that's the only possible explanation for my aching foot. It doesn't help that being on my feet for most of the past few days, combined with arthritis and circulatory issues leads inevitably to a whole smorgasbord of different symptoms down there, at the terminus of the body. Damned right foot. And another conclusion is that perhaps I should not have had so much duck liver pâté.

All of this woke me up four or five times during the darkness and created some mighty interesting (peculiar) dream images.

Unhelpfully sped along by high blood pressure medications.

Also, yoghurt and ginger combat inflammation.

I will not share this with my doctor.

There is no reason why anyone in the medical profession needs to know my goofy ideas about food. The last time I shared them I left a dietician/nutritionist green and nearly in tears. It being just before her lunchtime, and my loving descriptions of roast duck (燒鴨 'siu ngaap') and melted cheese covered porkchops on a bed of noodles with oodles of sauce (焗豬扒意粉 'guk chyu baa yi fan') being so near to her growling stomach. And I was just getting started, because I usually eat lunch several hours later, after the crowd has left whichever restaurant and I can enjoy my baked Portuguese chicken rice (焗葡國雞飯 'guk pou gwok gai faan') in peace. With a goodly sploodge of hot sauce, of course.

Hot sauce is a vegetable. That's important.

I did not have any yesterday.

One dream involved a singing red head and three girlie-poo midgets. Though the vivacious aire was sung entirely in Japanese, their accents were distinctly Southern.

This was probably influenced by two things: 1) Ginger posted a video of karaoke, and 2) Mary showed a photo of her dinner last night: Slow roasted ribs with seasoned beans, jalapeño cheddar butter cornbread, and cinnamon bourbon pecan bread pudding.
Mary lives in The South, hence the overload of Dixie in her meal.
It looked yummy and delicious.


Another dream involved an army of sprightly girl scouts marching through the Western Pailou (西牌樓) in the outskirts of the city; someone left an entire package of Samoas at work; there are now considerably less of them. I seriously doubt that it was one of the old farts in the backroom, they would probably have eaten the kids and not bought any cookies.
Probably my coworker.


I haven't had gout in a while. That's a benefit of mostly maintaining a good diet; avoiding beer and shellfish, especially oysters, and other rich foods. And I rarely indulge in thick tidal waves or avalanches of gooey melted cheese on anything.

Fatty meats, spicy curries, scrumptious dumplings, and cream sauces are still on the menu.
There are, as I mentioned, some things medical people don't need to know.
They're horrified enough already, and easily triggered.
And they already know about tobacco.


Lunch might be roast duck.
But I am still deciding.
Not hungry yet.



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HOPPITY, BOPPITY, BOO!

As one would, one participated in a conversation that started with the differences between Mandarin and Cantonese, veered onto Klingon, subsequently delved into Talmud and Monty Python references, before settling firmly around the subjects of Bollywood, Bonanza (the teevee series), and the whole hopping vampire genre of Hong Kong movies.

While smoking a pipe.

No, it wasn't loaded with the clean pure substance grown by little green men in the Amazon Rainforest who hug dolphins and recycle, approved of by all Californians in touch with earth spirits and their aura, which is therapeutic, but good pipe tobacco. Because this was a meeting of the local pipe club.

Hopping vampires (殭屍 'keung si') come about because the dying person harbours a grudge or is irritated, and will consequently catch or hold their final breath, thus preventing the body from going completely dead. Unless kept in line by a taoist master who will escort them back to their home village, with talismaninic spells written on yellow paper stuck to their faces, they will seek out victims and 'inhale' the life force out of them. Because of rigor mortis they are too stiff to walk normally, and locomote by hopping.
The hills of West Marin are full of them.

While all of this was being discussed, one of the members happily discovered "that grey goop". It was his first time experiencing pâté. Which is homogenized duck liver. Excellent on pita bread or crackers. I wish I had some in front of me now. Neil who is in charge of the refreshments knows I like it, and brings it to the meetings.

HOPPING VAMPIRES DRESSED IN SCHOLAR-OFFICIAL GARB SUITED

TO THE HIGHEST RANK THAT THEY ACHIEVED IN LIFE, WITH TAOIST

SPELLS STUCK TO THEIR FOREHEADS WHICH IMMOBILIZE THEM

One of the tobaccos on the table for trying out was Folklore by Cornell & Diehl, a Jeremy Reeves masterpiece. It is only sold in one pound bricks. Curiosity had gotten the better of me and I purchased some on Friday. Nice stuff. Medium bodied. A panoply of flue cured leaves with some Perique and a little Kasturi from Indonesia. At my current rate of smoking it would take me two to three months to go through if I smoked nothing but. I shall probably acquire a second brick. I provided a jar of it, rubbed out, for tasting.

Seeing as hopping vampires find you by smelling you breathing, smoking a pipe may provide appreciable safety benefits. Carry pipe tobacco around with you at all times just in case.

糯米 ('lo mai'): Spreading raw glutinous rice around your bed also keeps them away.

FYI: Taoist priests probably love pipe tobacco.


One should always be on one's best behaviour around people who are dying, so as not to set the buggers off. Be gentle and courteous. I'm telling you this because I like you.


Seeing as it's my brick of Folklore, I smoked that tobacco all-day yesterday and today. I really like it. Kasturi tobacco from Indonesia may suggest spices to the nose, which might explain the name, which it borrows from Fenugreek. Normally it's used in clove cigarettes and as filler in local cigars. It does not resemble Sumatra wrapper leaf or Besuki filler.

It may be my first bowlful tomorrow, after coffee. But as soon as she leaves for work I'm snecking her door, opening the windows, and lighting up a Padron cigar.


Because we had dicked around with the date of the meeting (due to Easter), only eight of us were present. All good people. There was also good wine and good whisky, and, as you would naturally expect, a variety of good tobacco.

None of us got attacked by hopping vampires. Thus proving what I said above.
And I assure you that the hills of West Marin County are full of them.
If you do one thing in life, avoid West Marin at all costs.
I went once; that picture above is a memento.
I consider myself a lucky man.




Little White Nipple dude wasn't in attendence this time, though he does occasionally drop by to tell people about his expensive lighter and the special butane cannister for same. I'm not sure if he knows about hopping vampires. Maybe he is one, in addition to being an astronaut ex-marine podiatrist and Buddhist monk. As well as a nuclear physicist and brain surgeon.
If you listen to him too long he'll suck the life force out of you.




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THE DEPENDENCIES

Start the day by thinking nasty thoughts about the world (primarily the rest of it), with some strong coffee and a stroll around the block smoking a pipe. This, of course, after reading the news and realizing the South is still a series of primitive hell-holes linked by bigotry and grits, the walla-walla shouting savages are still fighting somewhere, the Euries are still sneeringly superior, the Slavic people have cruelty and despotism coming out of their ass, everywhere in South America is a disease-ridden toxic waste dump (especially Brazil), and India is inefficiency, corruption, and fecal matter (bovine and human) everywhere all the time.

No, Miss Patel, I have no interest in the beauties of Hinduism, vegetarianism, and caste.
As well as bureacratic inefficiency and medicines that must be recalled.
Kan me in feite gigantisch gestolen worden.

Besides, I can read all about Sanskrit without ever going there.
Plus Hindu mobs burning Madrassa Libraries.


Thailand? A disgusting country whose sole raison d'etre is to provide a playground for sexual predators, ruled by a monarch exemplifying all that. Several unflattering things could be said about the rest of South East Asia, all of Africa, and the countries of the Islamic world.

But the rice dishes, stews, and coffee are redeeming qualities of the latter.
Especially coffee.

Which, in most of America, is garbage. Mirroring the societies away from the coasts.



Biggest achievement of human civilization: toilet paper.
Soft, durable, dependable.

Although in large parts of Europe it's still more or less rough packing paper that scratches your privates. Goes with the soap that's hard, yellow, and smells industrial, to which they're also inexplicable attached.

You would not, I suspect, like me in the morning.
And that's probably mutual.



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SNAKE WORSHIPPING PRIMITIVES

It has been far too long that the sectarians and irridentists have ruled that territory, it is now high time that the Chinese take back Tonkin and Quinam and finally put paid to the heresies of the tattoed savages. The southward march of civilization (南進) must be resumed.

This is a conclusion to which I came after having endured the judicial member whining and kvetching for over three hours about President Biden. Since the fellow retired he has become mentally flacid, and his marriage to that Vietnamese American woman has exposed him to rightwing propaganda from dawn till crack of dusk. He's sucked it from her teat, as it were. The Vietnamese Americans of her age group are, as a block, venomously anti-Chinese and therefore rabidly pro-Trump, and from being an apathetic liberal he's turned into a toxic wastedump of retrograde conservatism. He's weak minded, and an opportunist.

Vietnam wouldn't have survived if they weren't useful to the Chinese and Soviets as proxy warriors against the Americans. China would have swallowed the territory by now, and totally reabsorbed it. The only reason they even still exist is that their army has not withered yet.
But their entire national identity is that they hate and envy the Chinese. It is what defines them. Instead of getting in a snit over Taiwan, China should sweep south and impose civilization by brute force.

If China has to impose one language over her territories, let her begin by erasing that whiny cretinous mewing of Namyuet, and replace it with something civilized. Cantonese, or even Mandarin, for instance. It wouldn't be difficult, as what they speak now is half Chinese anyhow, though mongrerlized almost beyond belief, and the culture there is sort of devolutionary Chinese in every aspect. But quite perverse.


The sealscript glyph above shows a servile tribal next to a ceremonial bronze battle axe, anciently used to denote the savage tribals beyond the frontier. Appropriate.
Taking them and their territory back is a sacred duty.
Erase all memory of their rebelious chiefs.
Teach them proper behaviour.


Good lord I'd love for that senile old fart to shut up.
The road to his silence goes through his wife.
If she's apoplectic, he will be quiet.
Fire and sword, China,
Fire and sword.



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DID YOU HAVE A HAPPY BEAN DAY?

Three things worth celebrating yesterday: National Lima Bean Respect Day, something marijuana related, and the rocket of the most brilliant man in the US blew up.
Yes, of course I celebrated lima beans!
I stayed inside most of the day.
Avoiding partiers.

[Lima beans, the pride of the Midwestern States, are an excellent source of  potassium, iron, copper, and manganese. They are rich in dietary fibre. Serve them alongside hamburgers for a delicious all-American breakfast.]


I'm baffled that April 20 is National Lima Bean Respect Day. I've always regarded lima beans as the thugs of the plant kingdom; if they're on your plate you might as well give up.
There is just no way you can win anymore.

To be honest, I would have avoided mentioning it even.
But now that Elon Musk's stupid little vanity project went sky high, I'll remember the day next year and celebrate it accordingly. With lima beans.

It may surprise you, I do not own an explosive rocket. Most people don't. Our own phalic representation does not cost several million, and very many people actually forego questionable penis projects entirely.

The most brilliant man in the US needed it.
To advertise his masculinity.
Which we doubted.


And now it's gone.


It went poof.


Nice.



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GIRDED LOINS

Tomorrow my work week starts. Which requires me to be a good Christian to a bunch of old buggers with whom I would not gladly "socialize" at any other time. As well as having to face mediocre suburban kibble because that is the only food available in the wastelands beyond civilization (Marin County). It's a daunting prospect. And did I already indicate that I am a reasonably well-read and well-spoken highly opinionated screaming liberal? So in that environment I am virtually an outer space alien.


"Boy, talk normal! We's Americans here!"


Yeah, um. Have you unwashed savages considered learning English? It's highly recommended.

Avoid all Dutch, Cantonese, German, Yiddish, and Latin words. The speakers of hick-spritch don't understand those. No Monty Python references either. Perhaps a few references from The Big Lebowski, or, remarkably, Spinal Tap. Some of them dig that.

If I carried my cell-phone with me I'd have the nearest rabies shot clinic on speed-dial.

Today I shall eat well. I must fortify myself.

Something with juicy meat, garlic, chilies.

The lunch choices at suburban convenience stores are not known for animal protein or real vegetable matter, and the only salad ingredients available to me are what's inside my bottle of hot sauce in the refrigerator at work. I shall not have the pleasant company of any of my stuffed animals there -- the turkey vulture would insist that I harvest the fatty thighs of at least one of the senile old fossils to feed him, and the head sheep would wish to speak of grass-suckies and potato ale -- and conversational gambits beyond worshipful mention of Trump and sportsteams are severely limited. "Have you washed today? Good!" "Please do not mention your penis again, you old f&*5er, there are ladies present!"

[A certain bald degenerate is very proud of his penis. Shut. Up!]


Much hot tea, good pipe tobacco. Some chocolate. Occasional visits by civilized people.
Fussing with old wood, plus tar, soot, and mud. Plus cookies.


Being a "good Christian" is not something that comes easy to me. I am by nature a bad tempered and intolerant Dutchman, who would rather impose decent standards on the heathen with force. It is only by rigorous self control that I do not burn down the heretical churches and tribal longhouses of the gibberant Trumpites out in the bush of Northern California. Well, that and a fear of the diseases they carry as well as parasites.

And I despise flabby tattooed freaks in cargo shorts.


So. Today I shall eat well.



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THE GIFT

Sometimes I prefer to be far away from people when I'm smoking. It's probably a facet of getting older. Dark flake, cup of strong tea, and quietness. Plus a touch of Perique.

Get away from me, you little disease spreading persons, for all I know your cooties are deadly to my kind. You are ALL ambulatory Petri dishes! Wet and moldy, too!

Fortunately no one can actually see me mouthing those words.

Because of my mask, covering nose and mouth.

It keeps us all healthy.

Half empty bars, quiet coffee shops, restaurant with lots of vacant tables. These all appeal to me. Otherwise there are too many people. If I'm social, it's best one-on-one, without much background murmering or racket. Large groups make me intensely uncomfortable.

During that last year or two when I still went to bars fairly often I would either hang around the portico smoking by myself, with my drink upstairs, being watched by the bar tender, or sit outside at one of the tables in the semi-light from the plate glass window, half in the shadow. Since medication I have not visited most of my former hang-outs, except maybe once or twice. I'm not into sports, at all, so there isn't much to talk about.

Whatever the teams are doing leaves me cold.


Please imagine how excruciating March Madness as well as the beginning of the baseball season have been. Admittedly listening to the old whiners in the back talking politics would be worse, but popular beer-sponsored sports plus televised golf or tennis are sufficient reason to think that a plague would not be so bad.

The Black Death Matters!
Apocalypse now!



Sorry. My bad. If your lavender bunny or teddy bear wishes to chide me, OR agrees with me (as such creatures would), I shall be patient. Being chewed out by a raccoon or a cookie monster for being inhuman in my attitudes is something which I can tolerate.



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IT WAS PREORDAINED!

Having mentioned certain things in a previous post, it was only a matter of time before the perverts sat up and took notice. In consequence of which, some of my essays have gotten more attention recently than was perhaps merited.

I now am convinced that the internet is filled with teenage boys being icky.

Which it actually is. They're all over the place.

How utterly disgusting!

What drew them here was the mention of the word "nipples". On Sunday I wrote about a gentleman who for some berserk reason obsesses over the special nozzle of a particular brand of butane, colloquially called "the little white nipple". Which is used for only one type of cigarette lighter. He once spent forty minutes or so ranting about there being none available. Because he doesn't formulate his sentences fully, and tends to go off at length on tangents quite unaware of place, context, surroundings, or other human beings, many folks around him at that time were convinced that there was a live pervert on the premises.
Little white nipples? What is this? Is he daft? Or dangerous?

Females of the species took a wide arc around him.

They were falsely impressed.

Some of us knew what had twisted his giblets, but we weren't letting on. Not the termination of a mound of cellular matter of a shape and dimension resembling a fresh raspeberry on top of vanilla pudding (see the helpful diagram above), but instead something cold and hard, made out of plastic and affixed to a metal nozzle. Which, admittedly, is also exciting.
See illustration below.

Admit it, that brought a sweat to your brow.

You are hot and bothered, I can tell.

Have something cooling.

A nice blob of vanilla, mango, or banana pudding, garnished with a raspberry plopped right in the centre, suggestively. Or maybe it's durian. With a raspberry.


It looks like a nipple, no? How much more nipplesomely nipplish can it get?
The answer is 'none more'. None more nipplicious.
Nippledy nipple nip-nip nipple!


Nipple fest!


On an entirely different subject, after finishing my post-lunch pipe-smoke, and doing some errands, the prospect of afternoon tea beckoned. Alas, the place where I wished to go was crowded. Not a seat to be had. Much like the bakery I'm avoiding because everyone from the country districts of Toishan goes there in the afternoon and growls at me when I try to take the one vacant seat. Apparently they were saving it for Uncle Syphilis or sumpin'.

Having a nice hot cup of tea at home right now.
With a crisp peeled fruit as snack.
Entirely by my self.


And on another note: the number of human nipples out there is approximately and very close to two times the number of people in the world. Ain't mathematics wonderful?



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HOW THE COUNTRY IS

Sometimes there are words of wisdom here. Or at least good advice. Semi-good. Something well-meaning. Seven years ago I said something which in retrospect was kind of positive.


"Chafed nipples can be a bitch. Trust me on this. I am a middle-aged and filthy-minded old reptile, I know things!"


And while I would not wish anyone to put that to the test or challenge it, if dummies of either gender in the Red States experience it constantly till finally they blow their brains out leaving the last can of anti-woke lite beer untouched in their giant man-sized beer cooler, that's fine. Because after all, the world hates them.

Especially the older ones.

Twice in the last week some elderly Archie Bunker type in Hickville took it into his head to get rid of the kids on his lawn by firing his rifle at them. Barely a week after a gun-nut convention where speaker after speaker praised rural America's obsession with high-powered fire arms and a god-given right to kill city slickers. Because of precious Saint Kyle Rittenhouse.

It's the Christian thing. Maybe their nipples chafed.

Jezus apparently wants you to kill people. And only drink heterosexual beer.

That moron in New Jersey who destroyed his liquour bottles agrees.

Lauren Boebert, Marjorie Taylor Green, De Santis, Trump.

Racists, crypto-nazis, Gorka, Gosar.

Bad nipples.



[Please ignore the sneer , and let's end this on an upbeat note. -- Editor.]



So anyhow, if your nipples are chafed, may I recommend both Aveeno and a cortisone 10 cream? It really helps! Provided you are not a syphilitic or a Republican hosebag, and don't smell like stale fried snacks or a suburbanite, I'll help you apply these. Cooling ointments!
I have soft pads and brushes! Also use witch hazel!

Nipple chafing can be a bitch.



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THE UNDEAD SOUND

Oh lord, save us from Caucasian people singing karaoke, in thy mercy, we beseech thee. George Harrison and John Lennon are rolling over in their graves right now. So is Elvis.
And many others not dead yet. Graves will be provided.

As a refined man of delicate sensibilities I feel that there is nothing worse than white folks doing karaoke. And I wonder when did that become a thing?
Do they stop doing it once they hit adulthood?
If not, why not?

Perhaps they weren't raised right.


Before we got to the karaoke bar my friend and I discussed the looming Sriracha crisis. Which is profound, earthshaking in fact. Life in California is difficult to imagine without Sriracha, it's going to be sheer hell elsewhere. Teeth will be gnashed.

Fortunately the burger joint still has a bottle or two. As does the place where I had eaten lunch (榨菜肉絲蝦球鴛鴦米 'jaa choi yiuk si haa kau yuen yeung mai') earlier in the day. Yesterday's lunch (苦瓜魚片濕炒米 'fu gwaa yü pin sap chaau mai') was at a place which doesn't normally have Sriracha anyway, so I made do with the standard table sambal. Tomorrow's place should have several bottles.

[Lunch: rice noodles (米粉) both times. If I had made it at home I would have added chopped bacon.]

I'll be fine. Worst comes to worst, I'll sandbag the front steps and shoot whatever moves.
Especially if it has an Iowa, Illinois, or Kansas accent.
Get back, you ghastly refugees!

This week the most dangerous man in North Beach wasn't at the karaoke bar, quite probably he was too stoned to get there. Tat Yee was, but his kwailo friend with anger issues wasn't. The stupidest waiter in Chinatown, sitting at the end, fortunately kept quiet and may have left before we did. Jenny looked dreamy (half asleep) while reading her e-mails on her cellphone. Her husband stepped out occasionally to get away from the howling Caucasians and smoke a cigarette. Other than the unmelodics there was peacefulness.

So it was a good evening. No unusual insanity.
Didn't see a single rat all evening.



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