OH, THE GHASTLY HUMANITY!

All night long idiots have been setting off fireworks. The sound of explosions from near and far was not conducive to a good nights rest. Consequently, today I'm siding with the English. Damned colonials!

First smoke of the day in a Charatan Canadian pipe, slightly re-topped.
A blend of two different red Virginias with a pinch Perique.
After, of course, absorbing a cup of coffee.


It is too early to be exposed to people pooing their dogs.


The great American past-time.

All over the city there are folks who will not be able to pick up dog poo with all ten fingers tomorrow. Mostly frat boys and urban rednecks. Male. Naturally. Their extraordinarily patient and long-suffering helpmeets of either gender will have to go out and act like human shovels, bedraggled and sleep-deprived, hair matted and clumped, because Bubba James just had to be an idiot, and play with explosive devices despite being inebriated from drinking shitty beer since before lunch on Independence Day. Poo must be picked up after Rover.
And so it damned well shall be. Hell or high water.

My piles bleed for them.

Yesterday the prospect of dumplings was spoiled by the obese red-headed child who kept stepping outside to set off fireworks, returning each time with a satisfied smirk on his puffy face. His grandma regarded him with pleasure and pride, the tattooed mom-person seemed zonked and out of it, the aunt kept adjusting her make-up. You know, ladies, when someone keeps disappearing from the family dinner table to "do things", that's almost a sure sign of addiction. Does Sonny Boy also smoke pot? Probably needs it to put up with you.

Good luck when (and if) he goes off to college.
He'll pair it with pizza then.
Bloat-o-rama.



Fortunately the entire ghastly lot of them had left by the time my food arrived. So I was able to enjoy my 白菜豬肉水餃 ('paak choi chyu yiuk seui gaau') in the relative peace and quiet of a crowded Chinatown restaurant, there being no other juvie white breads to fly the ointment or set off explosives right outside the plate glass windows.

Plus sambal, milk tea, and a pipe afterwards.
Dutch Uncle was a contented man.



On Wednesdays I usually bring the Indonesian Chinese auntie downstairs some groceries from shopping on Stockton Street. This week, peaches and okra. Persik dan katjang bendi.
It provides her with human contact and something healthy.
And it's good for my self-esteem.
Proves I'm human.



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THE FIERINESS

Second day of a heat wave (there is no global warming) with temperatures in large parts of California (there is no global warming) well past one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. And there are wildfires raging out of control (there is no global warming). With thousands of people evacuated (there is no global warming), and blistering temperatures. On the other side of the country, off the coast, a force five hurricane is barreling in. There is no global warming. Over in Europe, the natives are smearing on suntan lotion and stripping down, as they are wont to do for ninety days each summer. Same in Northern India along the banks of the Ganges.

There is no global warming.
We're just burning up.
It's natural.


Cairo, Hong Kong, and Oakland are at the same temperatures.

Outside the building it's low seventies, mild breeze, and no sign of the wildfires raging to the East of here. Shirtsleeve weather. It's balmy. Temperate even.

Damned naked tourists from The Valley, wandering around enjoying our coolness, and I can't even wear my overcoat it's so warm, I keep pipes and tobacco in the right hand pocket. Which are essential for my comfort. And there is no global warming.

Donald Trump, Marjorie Taylor Greene, and the governor of Texas all say so.
And they're smart people. They wouldn't be what they are otherwise.
Book learning, common sense, and smarts combined.



No matter. In a short while I shall be heading out to do some shopping, have a late lunch, and smoke a pipe. In my shirtsleeves. The heat isn't that bad that I fear dehydrating, and though my right leg will feel like it's being run over by a tank while Russian troops are screaming and wipping it savagely, I shall be in a cheery springlike mood. Yes.

The right leg is a mean bitch when it's warm outside.
From knee to ankle was a temper-tantrum.
Trying to fall asleep was unreal.
No global warming.


Cheery. Springlike. Mood.


Tomorrow is the Fourth. All over the city people will be ceremonially incinerating a hotdog, because the singed meat smell will remind them of Independence Days of the past, and celebrating the greatness of our country and our glorious leaders.

Then we will all watch the fireworks, bursting in the fog.
Giant pastel-hued poofballs, scarcely visible.
It's always foggy on the fourth.
It has to be.



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SCREAMING 'POK GAI' IS NOT A GOOD IDEA

In fact, screaming 'pok gai' in the middle of the night on a quiet street at people who aren't there and might not even exist is probably never a good idea. He was emoting ferociously before our paths crossed, ignored my cheery 'good evening' and continued being angry and vocal after we passed each other. I could hear him even once I was inside and going up the stairs. Which is why I don't live on the groundfloor in the front of the building.

He's a man I've seen around the city many times. Not entirely compos mentis. And, naturally, I have never demonstrated any ability to speak Cantonese, because I've learned over the years that doing so to Chinese loonies makes them remember your face. And strike up random conversations when you do not wish them to do that.
Because surely you will understand.

I'm a very tolerant sort, which people tend to pick up on. That fossilized white woman on the bus who pressed upon me her opinion that there weren't enough white people in the city, all these Asians were taking over, probably took one look at me and figured "ooh, a white man of a certain age, so surely he will understand". A few blocks after I informed her that it wasn't my concern and went to stand elsewhere she outbursted loudly about Asians, why the bus was filled with them, it was so nasty! Asians, by the way, are very good at ignoring crazy white people. Which is good. There are an awful lot of them in this city.
Her doctor who prescribes her pills is probably Asian.
As are the staff at the pharmacy.
And the nursing home.

By that time I had already had a loud but friendly disagreement with a Cantonese woman. Please sit. No, it is not necessary, you sit. No no, you sit. I do not need to sit, you sit. I'm not sitting. 請坐。唔使，你坐。我唔坐，你坐。我唔使坐，啊，你坐。我唔坐。你坐，你坐。

I wouldn't be surprised if the old white lady had been sitting down because a Cantonese passenger gave up their seat.


The phrase 'pok gai' ( 仆街) literally means to fall or collapse on the street, as one might do when starving, dying of the plague, uncared for, not likely to have relatives who will give one a proper funeral or even a bowl of rice when alive. It is a curse, a death wish, and a noun. Pok gai is the diametric opposite of an endearment, and is quite the most common imprecatory utterance in Cantonese.

There were youngish white women screaming at the karaoke place, so we went elsewhere.
I was conscious of the pipe in my breast pocket giving me the appearance of having a single pointy man boob -- not the best look -- so at an opportune time I removed it. It had been very enjoyable an hour earlier. Grant Avenue had been fairly quiet then, no stumbling drunks, but a passer-by had reeked of therapeutic substance, and I was glad when he finally moved on. For a few minutes he had been in discussion with a newspaper rack, but left after instructing it to tell nobody. Nobody, dig?

Not being myself a newspaper rack, nor conversationally inclined, I had done my best to be invisible. In which I believe I succeeded. I am actually part of this wall, honest.

I believe it's this weather. The heat makes people act strange.
Explains why people in New York are goofy in Summer.
And everyone in Florida is crazy year round.



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PARTS OF A HEALTHY LIFESTYLE

It was his second to the last day in the city, he had been here last year and at that time due to family issues he didn't have as much time to enjoy and explore. I had gone out to the front steps for a smoke where he was doing likewise. He's my landlady's stepson from New York. So he's staying downstairs.

He made sure to tell me to convey his thank yous to my apartment mate for the croissants from Juniper which she had brought over. My apartment mate is a very considerate woman, whereas I am, most of the time, a casual and downright insensitive dude. I am glad that after all these years she still associates with me. She picked me up from the hospital both times (coronary stent, appendectomy), which pissed off her boy friend at the time, but she had done the same for him (panic attack, wheelchair malfunctions, idiot health nut dietarily induced ailment), and eventually broke up with him, so hey. Whatever.
She tends to gift people eaties. Very nice.


I guess it's obvious I didn't get along with her now ex boyfriend.
That's probably my problem, and we shan't discuss it.
She tolerates human frailty better than I do.

Which makes me wonder why all the dysfunctional stuffed animals live in my room, and all the sane and capable "roomies" stay on her side of the apartment. How did that happen? How did I end up with the German raccoon who went to Heidelberg and the hippopotamus who false-remembers that he and I used to rob banks together? Or Lennie the tentacled cardshark who lives under my bed? How odd.

Anyway, the croissants from Juniper (1401 Polk St, San Francisco, CA 94109. Pastry chef Amy Chen) are absolutely stellar. They're the best I've had since coming back to the United States by a mile. Humongously excellent. Might make me a morning person again.

They're also close enough to the apartment that I could walk there before lighting up the first pipe of the day.


My friend the bookseller has the Caffe Trieste around the corner from him, I have Juniper around the corner from me. There are excellent claypot rice (煲仔飯), roast duck (燒鴨) and siu yiuk (燒肉), pizzerias and pasta places (意大利菜) in between. Plus Anthony Bourdain's favourite burger (漢堡包) in San Francisco. As well as the gâteau St-Honoré and fabulous dumplings. It's a wonder that none of us are fat.

It's probably the San Francisco hills. It makes people lean and wiry.
All that exercise is good for the appetite.



Now, what I should really like is a place two or three blocks away that started seving jook and phở (粥同河粉) early in the morning, with good strong Hong Kong style milk tea (港式奶茶) and Vietnamese coffee (越南咖啡). Perhaps on the corner of an alley, so that a man could light up his pipe at the tables there without getting screamed at.



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BLISS WILL BE PROVIDED

After seeing the emergency crew cart off an overdosed Caucasian in Chinatown -- first time in that neighborhood to my knowledge -- on the further way down to my bank I saw a poster for something featuring a chopstick-wielding Caucasian looking blissed out. The overdoser was one of the usual streetpeople, and I think he'll live. That blissed out dude? Maybe not. Exquisite ecstatic agony. Probably food-related snuff pornography.
This city has a high degree of strange.

Much of it, oddly, connected to Caucasians.

Earlier I had seen an exceptionally large, LARGE, white man wearing tight short sexpot pants ambling down the street. Which is understandable, as it's shirtsleeve weather.
But not suitable garb for a gentleman. In any weather.


Which is one of the reasons I'm damned glad white people don't often eat at the place where I had lunch. Where there were only four people who weren't speaking Toishan dialect. Three of whom had no hope of ever doing so. At least I can understand it, situationally.
Don't ask me to ever speak it, though.


Sometimes I think that white people don't like Chinese food.
If I ever see sexpot shorts guy there, I'm invisible.
Sorry, I just arrived from Mars.
He isn't mine.

No, it's not a place with Hong Kong style milk tea. Instead it specializes quite a bit in claypot rice preparations, and sometime I shall have to order the yellow eels claypot rice, which I'm sure is delicious, but when I walked in I had a yen for salt fish pork patty claypot rice (鹹魚肉餅煲仔飯 'haam yü yiuk beng pou chai faan').

Listening in on all the talk in Toisaanwaa was icing on the cake.
The way the sounds are different is fascinating.
Is it an older pronunciation?
Or a later shift?



Hot pants are 熱褲 ('yit fu').
No word for Daisy Dukes.



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PEASE, ZEITGEIST, AND A BRITISH FUNK

Little White Nipple Dude was in a few days ago, and deeply desired my thoughts on African Meerschaum versus Anatolian. Meerschaum, which is a fairly neutral material for pipes, is a porous mineral silicate of magnesia, of which the finest deposits are mined under the city of Eskişehir. It is also found elsewhere in the world, but not nearly so pure and white, and often there are inclusions. Those ancient see creatures did not die a clean death, and not alone.

I myself am not a fan. It's good as the bowl insert in a calabash, but that's about it.

Little White Nipple Dude has queer obsessions.

He stayed for over an hour.


Naturally my mind wandered while he waffled.
And I fixed myself a strong double bagger to stay awake.
I was enjoying a bowl of Greg Pease's latest release during that time, and suddenly remembered that I had not mentioned several of his more recent tobaccos here yet.
Which is an oversight.

BANKSIDE
Zetgeist collection. Virginias, with smidge of Latakia, Perique, and Kentucky. Flake.
This is good tobacco, but it did not excite me. Which is entirely due to my mental state at the time. Most of the time. Virginia dominant, with a span of of condimentals. Including Latakia. Smokers of McClelland would definitely like this. When it first came out, it was winter in California, and effing miserable outside.

HORIZON
Zeitgeist collection. Balkan flake.
Precisely the kind of thing Neil would like when he's outside in the yard with the cat. Medium to full Latakia, rich, complex, refined and old-fashioned. I smoked several bowls over the weekend. Hits spots. It's a definite winner. Remember that depressing village outside Exeter where everything seemed wet, during that summer years ago? It would have been bright and sunny (but not hot) if you had tins of this with you. You might have stayed there two or three extra months. The locals would have seemed more washed, the beer more drinkable.

GÉOMÉTRIE
Zeitgeist collection. Plug. Pale and dense.
Well hot damn'! When you're smoking this, work doesn't seem such a pain, and you don't even hear the bitchy old men in the backroom ripping the liberal member another one. Foral and vegetal. That's probably how the Turkish leaf augments the Virginias. Medium strength, it has depth, and for a VaPer aficionado this could well be an all day smoke despite the absence of Perique.

LEVANT MIXTURE (DRUCQUER & SONS)
Balkan, thinnish ribbon cut.
When Greg had been tasked with reformulating the Drucquer blends there had been so much blend shift due to the incompetence of the then owner of the company that, for all intents and purposes, he had a clean sheet to start from, with just the descriptions in the catalogue to go on, and precious little else. So his versions then were not copies or restored originals, but more along the lines of homage blends. What he thought they would have been like regarding Latakia and Turkish, based much on how they had been decribed and where they were placed in the range. I didn't go to Drucquers during those years -- being otherwise engaged and in an unsettled period since leaving their employ -- so I don't have a clear idea how succesful he was at recalibrating the blends. But from all accounts they were good. His current editions of some of those blends are excellent. Both the Levant Mizture and Jeremy Reeves' Palmetto are more or less must-haves that reawaken memories you didn't know you still had. Levant is dark and creamy, the perfect tobacco for a middle-aged bookworm at Cambridge who still recalls crash-landing the plane in Devon during the blitz.
Well-balanced, Latakia leading. Berkeley is reborn.

SPARKPLUG
Dark British Balkan Plug.
Heavy and Latakia dominant. What you should smoke when you are in a foul mood and want to keep the visiting relatives out of the library. Or it's raining, and still hours to go ere tea time. Might as well hit the sherry you hid behind the volumes of Swann's Collected Depravities. If you smoke this too often, they'll start leaving a tray of food outside the library door instead of calling you for dinner. Cook does a lovely roast, you want a second helping with some more of those fabulous buttered parsnips, but good luck. It's all gone by that time.

THE VIRGINIA CREAM
Heirloom collection. Flue-cured mixture with a touch of vanilla.
It is traditional for smokers of one type of blend to sneer at other tobaccos, and to start off their reviews with the phrase "as a smoker of blah blah I did not think that I would like this", followed by quible-waffles. Variegated, but on the paler side. Has small dark chunks, which may be the firecured leaf. The vanilla is not a powerhouse. It leaves your bottom clean.
Tangy, springlike, and enjoyable.




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RABBIT RABBIT

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