MAY GET DIZZY, DON'T GET PREGNANT

After picking up my refills I mentally calculated how often I've been to that pharmacy. More times than my years of age. Which is not suprising, as I've had every praescription since I first stumbled into the clinic filled upstairs. So it isn't that suprising that they recognize my voice over the phone when I call for refills, and know my name. Though it is pleasing that they couple the honorific sin saang (先生 "Mr.") to my surname.
I am more used to thinking myself as 老鬼。
It sounds younger, you know.


A ninety day supply of three medications means tonnes of fine print warnings and cautionary statements which I discard. Could cause dizziness, might impair operating a moter vehicle or machinery, alcohol could amplify certain symptoms, and for crapssake don't get pregnant while taking this. Or consult your doctor. Given that I am male, and beyond childbearing age, I don't see how talking to my doctor would make any difference as far as getting pregant is concerned.


"We all agree that Stan (Loretta) has the right to get pregnant, but where is the baby going to gestate? In a box?
It's symbolic of a struggle with reality!"


Far be it from me to struggle with reality.
It sometimes gets away from me, though.

All things considered, it's probably a good thing that I don't drive. My patience with the other idiots on the road would be flinter-thin, and rather than road rage, I would engage in road-surreality. Imagine a dash-mounted megaphone screaming "you are all oranges!" while the vehicle careens wildly. I'd explain to the officer that I was taking Amlodipine Besylate, which "may cause dizziness" and "impair the ability to operate a vehicle, vessel, or heavy machinery. To say nothing of a Caterpillar Earth Mover, or snow plow.

Broadway and Stockton is probably not the place for that.
Too many "oranges" there, moving slowly.



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THEIR NATURAL HABITAT

There are more dogs in this neighborhood than children. One very rarely sees people walking their children outside when one is, hypothetically, up and having a stroll with one's pipe at around six o'clock in the morning. No, not on a leash. Children, being a more advanced creature evolutionarily than many dogs, do not require leashes; there are cell phones to keep them from going up to strangers and biting them or sniffing their crotches.
On the way home I saw only four kiddiewinkies but seven dogs in my block.

Chinese parents, which in this neck of the woods are the dominant kind, garb their offspring in bright cheerful rain togs. Little ambulatory blobs of colour at the end of the block.
So that the wee munchkins stay mostly dry.

In a way I am insanely jealous of that. When I was small I did not have cheerful raingear. Foul weather clothing was dull grey or dark blue, and all of us probably looked rather industrial, like we were going off to the glue factory in the morning.
Boots? Black or dull green only.
Not magenta.

There is a little Dutch child in that flooded parking lot shown above, dressed to perfectly blend into his surroundings. That's why you can't see him. Neither can the wild animals.


Not shown: The pipe in the little tyke's mouth (pipesmoking is a recognized intangible cultural heritage of the Netherlands, and many natives are born with a fully lit briar in their mouth), or the banana for scale. It's there, though. Bananas are the only bright thing in the otherwise drab and rain-swept landscape of a Dutch childhood.
The glue factory is implied.




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THE AIR IS CRUNCHY!

Perhaps it's the weather. There were fewer people than normal about in Chinatown. The chachanteng where I went for lunch had four tables, a total of six customers, besides myself. Though the orders to-go suggested that many more people were eating their food than was evident. My usual sheltered niche along a nearby street kept me from getting rained on, but nearly every passer-by had either an umbrella or a grumbly expression. Sometimes both. Street corner auntie in her own portico was dithering, also clear of falling rain.

Fried egg man (煎蛋佬) headed past long after the restaurant closed. I expect he was probably heading to a different place to have two eggs in addition to his lunch.

Quote from the apartment mate: "The two service types diverge, therefore the approach has to be different." This seems axiomatic, but does not apply to this situation.
His approach, quite likely, remains the same.


At the present time, it is marginally warmer than North India. But during the height of the day it will around eighty degrees there, though dry and smoggy. Whereas at that time it will likely be around mid-fifties here, and still inclement. Despite the gloomity and discomfort most people will nevertheless prefer here to there. For one thing, it's breathable.

We'll sadly have to survive without the samosas and pakoras, fried in a vat of dubious cooking oil on a wood fire, so delicious, so delicious. Or the masala chai.
Hot, fragrant, dubious, and similarly heated.

In Bombay it will be at least ten degrees hotter than Delhi, also without precipitation, but scant smog because it's on the coast. And personally I think I should prefer berry pullao or brun maska anyhow. They have Irani cafes there.

The nearest thing we have to an Irani cafe in the Fort Area is a Chinese bakery with back tables where there is pleasing chatter in Toisanwaa or Hong Kong Cantonese.
With hot naai cha (奶茶), and egg tarts.


My teatime was exceedingly pleasant. I barely participated in the conversation, but enjoyed a calmer level of people watching than normal. The weather did not dampen the spirits, but did keep people away. One old auntie with tooth problems did make it in, having had a doctor's appointment nearby anyway. I admire her determination. Especially when she then snacked on something hard and crunchy (一個硬硬脆脆嘅曲奇餅 'yat go ngaan ngaan cheui cheui ge kuk kei peng'). We now all know about her teeth.




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COMMODITIZATIONAL DREAMING

The actual start of rainy season weather is always better than the lead-up. It's something about the light, there seems to be more brightness in the gloom. It's probably refranction and reflection. Also, and this is purely psychological, it seems less cold. It is, in fact, the perfect weather to sit by the fire -- the nearest dumpster is four blocks away -- with a cup of coffee (can't rely on the local places for decent chai or HK naai cha), a good book (perhaps something idolatrous other than the new testament), and a pipe.

Seeing as I don't have a jerrycan of accelerant, the election having been too recent, and I'd look mighty queer schlepping a copy of the Oxford Dictionary Of Chemistry (seventh edition) with me, I guess I'll just go down to C'town and have a club sandwich and fries (公司三文治，同埋薯條 'gong si saam man ji, tong maai syü tiu').

My refills will be ready tomorrow, so I'll be down there again then.
Which will mean, again, a hot beverage. Adventure!
It's good to have wet weather plans.

I lead a mundane and boring life.

Apparently I am in a narrow minority that prefers that; most Americans, per a recent survey, will get neither the flu shot nor the latest covid booster, and prefer the risk of infecting their family members, and any vulnerable children and elderly people they encounter, over the assurance of modern medicine. And more power to them! There are already too many youngsters and grumpy old fossils in this country taking up all the resources!

I am absolutely in favour of Karen in the centre of the country kicking the bucket gasping for air this holiday season. Those of us that survive can take her present back to the big box for a refund, and go to Tahiti instead.

Comparing the before and after figures for deaths from many diseases once vaccines were developed is instructive. And kind of frightening too. Fortunately most Americans can't grasp statistics worth squat, and willingly follow snake oil salesmen like RFK Jr. and Doctor Oz.

Measles, mumps, and similar disease rates are on the rise.
I'm sure the first polio cluster is merely a matter of time.
There are far too many junkfood hogs out here!
So this is actually very good news.


We shall deal with overpopulation the same way we're dealing with global climate change;
let nature take it's course. It's better than incessant war.
By golly yes.



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THE GLOOMITY

Those few people on the street unfurled their umbrellas, then a minute or two later furled them up again. It wasn't actually raining, not even a full sprinkle. Droplets, sporadic, wind born. Suggesting that it might come down a bit less apathetically later. And holding an umbrella over one's head is tiresome and old school, surely there's an app for that?

My last dream had, oddly, had involved Orlik's Golden Slices, of which I have several tins purchased six or seven years ago. Which I shan't open, because there are too many open tins of tobacco already. I still haven't even made a dent in the Royal Yacht I cracked at the beginning of October.

It's like having too many teas. Choice is good, too much choice is irritating.

Pipestud (Steve Fallon) in Texas would've probably sucked up that Royal Yacht in less than a week. Which I admire, but shall not emulate. I still remember hiccoughing for an hour after two bowls of that stuff with a cigar in between.

And speaking of Steve, I should mention that four of his five favourite pipe tobaccos are not produced anymore. Once you reach a certain age (let us say early adulthood), things which were a bedrock start disappearing. I can imagine it's the same for smart young hipsters who suddenly discover that "Uncle Bing's Black Cherry Extra Vaganza", once made by Parsnip and Co. in East Bongo, Kentucky, a stalwart enterprise and pillar of the community, is no longer shipped to the civilized world. Why, even "Smither's Candy Floss Flake" is hard to find! What IS this world coming to? What indeed?

Having gotten up early so that I could get in my first pipe outside early, thus maintaining the pretense that I don't light up in the apartment for at least as long as it takes my apartment mate to have breakfast, a bath, a cuppa, and depart for work, I naturally had a furled umbrella with me when I left the front steps after lighting up.

I suspect it's going to be right nasty when I head out to lunch. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night shall keep me from my Tuesday and Wednesday routine. Chachanteng, strong milk tea, something tasty to eat, followed by a bowl.

I'm luckier than Steve Fallon. Several of my faves are still available (although I do have a substantial number of tobaccos that are no longer being made on the shelf), and quite fortunately I don't live in a state with Ted Cruz.




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TATTOOED VEGANS

Second cup of coffee, and dawdling over the internet. Read some Dov Bear, news articles, avoided anything from Fox News. Plus lamented man's cruel inhumanity to man in a cold dark universe. Existential dread! Actually, scratch those last two items, not my style. Also reread some eloquent comments talking smack about certain people from more than a decade ago, and giggled. They were frightful dicks then, and probably still are.
No regrets over cutting time with them down to zero.

Postponed necessary tasks for an hour or so.

And I just noticed that the half dozen shadow puppets near the far bookshelf are a bit dusty. Might need to clean them up a bit. Later.


One person I blocked over ten years ago lived in fear that Obama would come for his guns.
I fervently hope that he crashed his damned motorbike, but I'm not interested in finding out.
Good riddance, if so.

Two others were cat women. Nothing wrong with that.
Despite being male with no cats, I'm one too.
But they were hip, and non-smokers.

The pipe shown above is in the current rotation, and one of my best smokers. The company that made it stopped putting out briars two decades before I was born. So it's very suitable for enjoying while reading authors who are not woke and hip enough for the current generation. As most excellent authors are.

What the heck am I saying?!? Any pipe is good for that! The item shown below, produced far more recently, is also one that Gen Z would be offended by. Tobacco is evil and meat-based. Totally! It represents the white man repressing peaceful natives all over the world.

Sadly, none of the products I enjoy regularly is soy-based. Except for actual soy products. Which are perfect with meat. Strange how that works. One of my favourite Chinese dishes is stuffed tofu (釀豆腐 'yung dau fu') made with both pork and shrimp paste, served with hot sauce. Which is probably very Texan of me. May I mention again that despite being masculine, and having no cats, I am a single cat lady?

The two cat women mentioned earlier were single and lived in the East Bay.
They probably voted for Trump, because of "reasons".
I'm glad I no longer know them.


As an example of peaceful natives, both incredibly artistic and spiritual, I would highlight the Aztecs, who sacrificed war captives to the sun on an incredible scale. As well as the Ashanti, who sold their war captives to the Dutch, Portuguese, and Arabs.
So incredibly artistic and spiritual!

The history of Africa, btw, is an almost unending string of massacres and genocides.
I am filled with respect for their artistic and spiritual achievements.


Before human ascendancy, the natives lived in harmony.
And no one ate meat or shoe leather.
Gosh golly.


I understand that there is indeed tofu-based bacon.
Probably too spiritual for people like me.
So I'll be avoiding that.




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THREE THINGS TO MAKE SURE OF

Upon waking up the key thing one notices is itching somewhere on the upper body, usually the head, plus a pervasive sense of grump, whether it is already light out or not, and quite likely a need to micturate. As well as the presence in the nearby kitchen of a woman cheerful as all git-out fixing herself a hot breakfast. As my apartment mate is likely to do at that hour.
I myself merely need caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined sugar, to be ready for the day. So after my first cup I head out into the neighborhood with my pipe to scare little children and the hordes of anti-tobacco purists of which San Francisco has an abundance.

My apartment mate is a non-smoker. Many women of Chinese ancestry are like that. The men more than make up for it, being veritable chimneys in that regard.
Remarkably, she seldom wakes up grumpy.


Also, there are no ashtrays, pipe tampers, tins of tobacco, or cigar cutters in her room.
More than anything else that suggests eccentricity and peculiarity.
A distinctly non-male gestalt.

The only times I enter her quarters are to retrieve one of the stuffed animals who strayed into semi-unknown territory in search company or a book about jewelry. They like blinky things.
My bedroom has almost no blinky things.

Yesterday I realized that I have enough pipes to provide at least five pipe smokers of either gender with a respectable rotation. The majority are excellent briar.
Unfortunately, I am by no means a total of five pipe smokers.
I'm barely one of them. And only one gender.

They would have to be younger, too. A pipe, properly taken care of, will last the smoker's life time and beyond, and will quite probably be borrowed by a teenager left alone in the house while the parent is off on vacation in London (England) or Modesto (California) for two weeks. "Son (or daughter), there are three things I want you to make sure of: Make sure that there is coffee when I get back, make sure we have toilet paper when I get back, and make sure that the house is still standing, when I get back."

It wasn't exactly like Ferris Bueler's Day Off. I spent most of those two weeks reading, smoking a pipe, and preparing hot beverages.



Reading material: Rudyard Kipling, Georges Simenon, Somerset Maugham, Joyce Carey, George Orwell, Robert A. Heinlein, Arthur C. Clark, Ray Bradbury. All of The Magazine Of Fantasy And Science Fiction (my mother had been one of the contributors), articles in Horizon (we had every issue), National Geographic, and Scientific American.
Plus all of Asterix And Obelix.


Basically, what any well-educated young fellow would do.
Also purchased tins of Balkan Sobranie.
Idem ditto.



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THE COMMON HERD

Good lord it's cold outside. I went out after fixing myself a late lunch -- meat scraps, veggies, thin rice noodles, with stinky shrimp paste and chilies -- and darn near froze my tender bits off. Discovered that it was long john weather, the internet having lied through its teeth and told me a balmy sixty degrees. It was fifty two.

One friend insists he loves this weather. It's brisk. Reminds him of the upper peninsula and shooting ducks. Personally I think he's crazy and has a thick layer of jelly-like fat all around his squidgies, but I refuse to picture that.

It's bad enough imagining him armed with a bird massacre instrument.
I'm fairly sure he doesn't know how to cook them anyway.
Probably an excuse to get out of the house.
Away from the non-smoking wife.
With a pipe and a stink.


Honestly, the only reason I even went outside was to enjoy a smoke. My apartment mate, like many women, is sensitive to the rugged manly odours of fine pipe tobacco either boldly flavoured with Latakia OR subtly spiced with Perique and a little fire cured leaf.
It's quite inexplicable.

This is the time of year when people (men) in the Midwestern states start posting plaintively on the various pipe forums, explaining that "the heater in the garage is on the fritz, my wife and children won't let me smoke in the house, I'm huddling under a dead polar bear on the front lawn for warmth, it's intercoursing cold out here, how do you guys stand it? Waah!" Whereupon some smart aleck will respond with "dude, I live in Hawaii, and my wife is a he-man who puts up with any amount of testosteronic crap." Or Florida. They live in Florida. Where the wife won't allow them out of the house lest the alligators mistake him for a lump of raw meat and rip the sole breadwinner of a Christian household to shreds. Or sumpin'.


When I was still a wee teenager in North Brabant, you could still head on down to the local cafe for a warm beverage and a comforting smoke if your housemates told you to go play with alligators with your pipe in the beastly cold. Peter, Frans, Pim, and Herman, would all be down there puffing their briars while reading the magazines their moms would not let into the house. Time, Newsweek, Nieuwe Revu, and A Boy's Own Life. Rain, sleet, and hail would blatter against the glass in the double doors, something horrid by Abba would be on the speakers -- softly so as not to rile up brainy young fellows with good aim and strong throwing arms -- and the communal ashtray would gradually fill up with pipe cleaners, burnt matches, shreds and dottles of tobacco, as the polar bears and alligators hunted down the shivering naked people without shelter. Probably starving third worlders and Frenchmen.


At least that's how I remember it.


Peter, Frans, Pim, and Herman probably don't. They very likely became non-smokers after meeting the women of their dreams, and were ripped to shreds outside on the street.

You know, there was a time when pipesmokers were remembered for having shot down Jerry over the South Downs. Instead of lamentably ducks in the bogs of Michigan.
The world has been taken over by wimps and cretins.
People who melt cheese on everything.
Overly sensitive sorts.
Soy cheese.



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UNCOOPERATIVE RODENT

Some kind of severe weather event will take place this week in Northern California that has all the experts either excited or flummoxed. The article looked interesting, but I was too busy wrestling with my computer mouse to read it. It involves rain. Somewhere between the North Bay and the Oregon border. Which is not surprising. So I'll have to do my laundry today as it might be wet tomorrow. Possibly pouring down by the evening. Seeing as the bookseller is presently gallavanting all over cities on the Easter Seaboard, there will not be a rat watching session this week.

Probably a good week to be a vegetable.

Sit around the house all day during the wetness, reading last weeks mail before throwing it out -- "it's time to review your medicare coverage, and shift to new and better plans which we wish to tell you all about, and quite coincidentally we have ideas! -- pay a few bills, get refills at the pharmacy, and pick my nose.

Drink strong tea, giggle over Trump world having conniptions, and smoke a Virginia Perique blend produced over a decade ago by Cornell & Diehl, of which I have four nicely bulgy aged tins, acquired recently. Fiammata, compounded for Castello, no longer in production. Earthy and somewhat punchy. If I open one, there will be three left for the stockpile.

WETTER WEATHER

Probably also a good week to purchase another mouse. I've tested this one on both USB ports, and it's probably not the computer but the rodent that's past it's prime.
The gloomy painting above was made with a recalcitrant mouse.

It is unlikely that Andrew Wyeth or Joseph Mallord William Turner had to deal with a stiff mouse. Highly doubtful, even. They would not have stood for it.

It cannot possibly be bribed with cheese.
As a Dutchman, I have cheese.
No, I haven't even tried.



Laundry. Mail. And lottery tickets (I want to be rich).
Tea. Fiammata and Charatan pipes. Cheese.
No rats in Spofford Alley. Mouse.



What would I do if I won the lottery? I'd buy more cheese.
As well as more pipes, tobacco, and cups of tea.




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THE INCLEMENCY

There was a meeting at work after work. I do not do meetings well. They're mostly for the benefit of other people, feel-good stuff. I am not a feel-good kind of guy. As you certainly must have figured out by now. The best part of the day was informing a person older than myself that decomposition of a human body can take up to ten years. More if it's in a steel or oak casket. Or embalmed with strong chemicals. best go for cremation; far less dangerous chemical crap going into the environment and traveling up the food chain.
He thanked me for my insight into his final rest.
It probably made his cigar taste better.
And part of him is combustible.


On the other hand, James, who is in his eighties and has been out because of lumbago, is back. It was a pleasure seeing him again. His back is still killing him, but less dead than before. Think in terms of an Oliva Melanio Figurado Maduro, which is a top notch smoke from an excellent company. Perfect for catching up on e-mails relaxing on the patio.

Many of the nicest people have physical ailments. Their bodies don't function quite as well as they did. Whereas total blisters like the sour old pissy wattlebags in the back room are never bothered by such things. There was a game on, the boys were loud, the San Francisco Forty Niners lost to the Seattle Seahawks, there was despondency, and one by one they slunk out or off, quietly and deflated.

It was delicious.


As daylight turned to dusk, there was flapping from outside.
Maybe one of them resumed his ultimate form.
And flew off into the drizzle.



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LINE BREAKS

For some reason the train had been stalled for a few hours (landslide? Snowdrifts? Trees down across the tracks?) and I ended up pooling cigarettes with several military types. The general seemed facinated by me. Possibly because in that area one doesn't often run into Dutch speakers. While we waited, I did some calligraphy. Often when I do calligraphy it starts with a mental back-formation of the characters, based on my knowledge of seal script (篆書 'suen syü') and bronze vessel script (鐘鼎文 'jong ding man', 金文 'kam man').

It's very much a method of brain-twiddling.

Even after waking up, I am still wondering how come the materials were present.


A dream involving cigarettes, trains, and ink. Odd.

The scenery outside the was gingko trees in Autumn, which have a loveliness which is very pleasing to the mind. Such as we have in various spots eastward of my apartment building.

Dreams are often influenced by recent events and sights, plus caffeine and theobromine, while waking up from them may have something to do with my bladder telling me that hot zippity beverages at night might not be the brilliant idea I think they are.

Despite their rempting restoration after being at work.

I used to be able to have several cups of coffee in the evening, scant effect other than giddiness, but nowadays I need to limit myself.



I'm probably insufferable when I storm out of the house in the morning fully wired after one or two cups of strong coffee. It seems to have much greater effect now.

Why was I traveling by train? That is quite curious.



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A QUESTION OF LIFE STYLE

My apartment mate, who has an almost clinical interest in certain things, was sharing details about cyst sacs from her side of the table on which our computers reside. You can probably understand that A) we do not watch the same stuff on youtube, and B) some of us are far less interested in such things. If she ever wins the lottery, get ready for a museum of disgusting biology. Think of the souvenir shop!

Bio-hazardous materials for food, fun, and profit?

Perhaps it's a bright new business opportunity!

Like you would expect from a Lowell girl.


Judging by the soft Vietnamese mewing sounds coming from her computer at times, she watches an awful lot of dermatology videos. Neither of us understand a word of Vietnamese so we have no idea what those ladies are talking about as they prod, pinch, and suction. Could be dinner, or nice greasy snacks.

Similarly, I too often talk about food. But I'm more anal retentive neurotic Dutchman about it.
I obsess over regular visits to familiar places, the available condiments, and HK milk tea.

Several places I actually like very much do not have milk tea.
If they did, I'd go there much more often than presently.

One place has neither chilipaste nor Sriracha.
Some food absolutely requires either or.


Nevertheless, I am a man of broad tastes. Nearly everyting goes with HK milk tea and hot sauce. Except possibly dim sum. I cannot recall milk tea ever being offered at reputable dim sum restaurants. Hot sauce, yes. Sometimes.



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THE LIFE OF CLAMS

It seems that some people object to Robert F. Kennedy, a noted vaccine skeptic, scientific illiterate, and all-round nutball, being chosen as Trump's health secretary. I have no idea why. He's arguably alive, and often breathes. Which is all that is required from any appointee in the new administration.

And that can be said for any one of the cabinet picks.
Possibly excluding Vivek Ramaswamy.

America needs to understand that we are no better than the third world, and putting a whole bunch of Idi Amin Dada in charge of important things proves that very well. As Kodos said in that episode of The Simpsons, "we must move forward, not backward; upward, not forward; and always twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom!"

If you're already free, you are, obviously, no movement is required.
America is, if anything, furiously wrigglesome.
Starting from behind.

Also, appointing psychotics and vaccine skeptics to powerful positions, in addition to giving a voice to the deservedly voiceless, will be giant step towards solving America and the World's overpopulation.


Progress starts at home.



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BREATHING SPACES

Who doesn't like dumplings? And sometimes on just needs dumplings before walking with a pencil shank GBD Virgin lovatt filled with a fine Virginia blend. The place is that new one on the corner of Kearny and Sacramento. Which, when you think about it, is the new entryway to Chinatown. The dumplings are quite good (I've been there before), and the chili crunch sauce in a jar on the table adds a nice touch. I hope the place thrives.

Of course the proprietess does not speak Cantonese but Mandarin, so if you think about it she's still in exile, adventuring in foreign climes. It's a hotter and wetter here, but we don't have either malaria or mangoes. So it's not that exciting, but less deadly.


Late lunch. Excellent. Weather stayed cool, but even though it rained earlier in the day it remained clear afterwards, no wind. Definitely coat and sweater weather.

There are three places within easy walking distance of each other where Northern style dumplings (餃子 jiao tzi, 'gaau ji') are available. And one more being remodelled, soon to reopen. My cup runneth over.

The dumpling is one of the fundaments of civilized society.

What this town needs, especially during the rainy season which is fast approaching, is a warm dumpling place with a smoking parlour or covered terrace so that resident Dutch Americans won't have to shelter under the awnings of defunct businesses. Seriously.

You don't want us Dutch Americans to catch pneumonia, do you? We'll turn the hospitals upside down and start riots in the ICU.


"Oh nursey wursey, I'd like a cup of coffee and an ashtray!"


Shortly after that, we'll request a box of matches. Preferably wooden matches with a lovely picture of the hospital on the box label. And speaking of such things, not only hospitals need to provide complimentary promo stick matches. So do government agencies, grammar schools, and retirement centres. Think of the visitors! Give them a good impression!

Sorry. I digressed onto a tangent there.



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THE PRICE OF EGGS

Despite the pervasive gloom in Democratic circles, and the giddy intoxicated optimism in the Republican, neo-Nazi, Fascist, and Authoritarian fan-boy groupings -- as well as idiot parts of the country -- this blogger maintains a sunny outlook. Reason being that despite stupendous tariffs which will cause prices all across the board to go up, in some cases astronomically, it will not affect one key area, and may actually increase supply.

Luxury smuggled goods. Of which I am in favour.
It's a genetic and cultural predisposition.

My ancestral territory in Europe was rife with smugglers, gambling dens, illegal distilleries, and clever forgers of luxury goods. Plus the breaking stupid laws is in our blood. So this will be our golden age. The rest of the country might suffer because the price of eggs becomes unaffordable, but that's okay. We'll just manufacture bigger and better chickens capable of laying a thousand an hour.

There may be something repulsively reptilian about any hatchlings, but what is a mutated lizard or two among friends? A necessary price!

Your handbags, machine parts, and essential medications may be made out of cardboard and watercolour paints, layer of varnish, but ultimately that's a small price to pay for getting those lazy sobs in the rust belt working again, and Jesus back in every school room.

Tariffs, trade wars, and Bourbon; the world's way of telling Yankees to get bent.

No, you cannot barter those stockings for decent cigarettes.

Smoke some American Cheese instead.



For the record, I despise Bourbon and most American beers are shite, but I don't drink anymore anyway, so it makes no nevermind to me if you lot won't be able to afford the imports anyhow. Coffee and tea will go up too, but I can darnwell budget for that.
At least I don't have to send my sister to Canada for an abortion.
And thank g-d I don't live in Pennsylvania.



Please don't send your refugees and Okies here, we already have enough of you lot. They're smelly and subliterate, and we already know how to make fried chicken. Ship 'em to Texas.


Spam might become hard to find.
Whatever shall you do?




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PERSIMMONS AND YAUCHOI

During the day it rained, albeit not very long. Which meant trying to find an umbrella. Something I haven't needed in months. Autumn is upon us. Of course in East Asia they're having another typhoon (Toraji), which is their version of Fall weather.
Here, we have sweaters.

At the lunchtime restaurant, two tourist shared a bowl of wonton noodle soup, and tipped like misers. Or like many Chinatown old-timers who complain about the taste of food nowadays, and the prices, and are accustomed to being horrid tippers damn the fact that staff can't live on scraps and tuppence!

The staff there are really hard working, and friendly. Which is probably why they're packed every day, and I don't see many of the sour old local cretins who bellyache about everything. Don't see many outsiders either.
What probably scares away most of the tourists is spaghetti.
HK Chinese also like macaroni, by the way.
And club sandwiches.

Often I have the club sandwich, but today I went for the baked garlic goo sole (蒜蓉焗龍脷 'suen yong guk lung lei') with rice, and broccoli. Cup of milk tea, bowl of soup. Ate and drank leisurely, left and lit my pipe. By that time the rain had stopped. Did errands and grocery shopped. The lady where I bought my lottery ticket at this point knows that I speak Cantonese and treats me like a fellow resident of the neighborhood.
With a slight edge of anomaly.

Nothing quite heralds the coming of cold better than the deep orange hue of persimmons, which I've rarely enjoyed because there's just something about them. But they are beautiful. So I couldn't resist buying a few, two of which I gave to the Indonesian Chinese woman downstairs along with a bag of yauchoi.

The brined quail eggs (滷水鵪鶉蛋 'lou seui am chuen daan') which I bought on a whim are staying upstairs, however. An elegant snack, or addition to a bowl of noodles.
So beautiful, so beautiful.



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THERAPEUTIC THOUGHTS

Over on Facebook I notice that a friend hopes to be released from hospital soon. The view from his room is boring and industrial. Which is a good reason for wanting to escape.

On the other hand, I enjoyed my week in the ICU five years ago. There was a television with Hong Kong programmes in my room, and I discovered a stock report show featuring a bright young nerdy man with a pressed shirt, tie, and neat conservative blazer, and a fierce looking young lady obviously there for 'visual appeal', which would make it all 'approachable'. In every segment she would start asking him questions which he could not answer (but she could), and at the end of it he'd look deflated and rumpled. It was very entertaining.

[This was at SF Chinese Hospital. So of course cable teevee there would focus on Canto content.]

They released me on a Thursday, but I wanted to stay through Friday, as I looked forward to that young man's misery in the next episode. Couldn't find it on my regular cable at home, and in the year that followed I ceased my subscription because the real housewives of whichever horrible urban conglom are not must-watch entertainment.

Fierce looking missy holding her own and then some in a discussion of a difficult subject, however, totally is a must-watch.

'VISUAL APPEAL'

Many Chinese men assume that since they are men, they must be right. Many Cantonese women have grown up with brothers, and correctly assume that a man will sometimes be a complete idiot, and that there are reasons why a man frequently does stupid things.
And some of them are perfectly willing to explain that to the poor goober.
Patiently, comprehensively and at length, if needed.
It's very sweet of them.


My long-time girlfriend was Cantonese American and had four brothers. She still is Cantonese American, of course. We've remained good friends, to both of our credit.
There is a parity of stubborness in how we get along.


I've probably gotten worse since then.
She's likely gotten better.



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AMBULATORY ENTERTAINMENTS

It happens too often for my liking that someone sees the cane and offers me a seat on the bus. Don't they see my youthful mien and sparkling eyes? Oh, right, I'm wearing a mask. They can't see bupkes.

When I took the bus up to the laundromat, when I headed over the hill for lunch, and in the evening when I headed out for the usual Tuesday night pub crawl.

It should be mentioned that I am not at all an old fart, and in far better condition than I was six years ago. Repeat: Not. An. Old. Fart.

Why , I'm just bursting with piss and vinegar.
I am young and vibrant!

Lunch was the fried noodles I had promised myself yesterday, specifically shrimp sauce and beef over rice vermicelli (蝦醬牛肉炒米粉 'haa jeung ngau yiuk chaau mai fan').
On which I dolloped chili paste like there was no tomorrow morning.
Divine, the very food of the gods, hartversterkend.

Good food for Autumn. An excellent prelude for smoking a pipe while it turns dark and the rats in the park run around under one's gaze. What an odd life, rushing out for dinner in a constant state of wary panic, and fleeing at the first sight of a moving biped, then coming back to shlep the greasy scrap to a safe place in the shadows under the bushes!
So much effort, so little feast.

There were no rats evident later in the evening while I wandered over to the usual place to smoke while waiting for the book seller. Beer was succesfully got at a favourite dive after burgering, but due to insensate yowling from the karaoke joint we decided to head over to our regular back-up boîte. This will be the last such evening in a while, as he is going on vacation (New York City and Baltimore), and won't be back in civilization till December.

We talked briefly about the recent election.
Ellen Lee Zhou only got 2% of the vote.
Gosh darn. How disappointing.
Take the hint, lady.



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RODENT PROBLEMS

My mouse is on the cusp of death. That is to say, the mechanical/electric twiddly thingy I plug into the right side of my computer with which I point, click, paint, draw, and pick my electronic nose. If I get too frustrated with the little bugger I may buy a new one, though it actually might be the connection within the computer, in which case I'll probably simply purchase a new laptop. Repairing would cost too much.


This is a royal pain in the ... mouse.

And, speaking of such things, it seems like there are far fewer rats and mice in the densely packed neighborhood over the hill. I miss the little fellows, and suspect that in order not to freak out the tourists the entire area there has been saturated with poison. Which inevitably travels up the food chain, so in a few months people from Iowa and Detroit will develope tumours and explode. It will be baffling.

One of their noted Republicans will opine that it was vaccines, and demand Ivermectin and choloroquine for his congregation immediately. Whereupon even more of them will croak. Sad, but what can you do?

The painting above was done with a defective mouse. I had to extract and replug it in several times, it would work for a while, hiccough a bit, then fail. Whereupon I'd pull it out, and plug it back in. Repeatedly until the machine stopped making noises of objection and giving me the problem message.

I've stopped getting angry or being frustrated about it. It's like dealing with a special needs adult. He doesn't mean any harm, he's just a little weird. The intensity is greater than the available sensibility.


Similarly, I am no longer angry or frustrated by the election results. Half the country seems to be special needs adults right now, and now that they're in control, it is best to step out of the way and let them crash and burn. There is just so much that can go wrong in the next four years that it is best to simply observe and giggle as the Hindenburg goes up in flames.

Most of the rest of the world is not any better.


Like our judicial system, elections are about telling the most convincing lies. The Democrats failed abysmally. Makes you wonder how they managed to keep the car in the road for four years. They may have been the mythical driver who functioned better drunk than sober.

At this point, I have no respect for our politicians, most of the country, or the talking heads who spout well-thought out nuanced opinions about what went wrong. A pox on them all.
I wish them ill, and hope that their mice die.



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SOUP MAY NOT SOLVE BODY ODOURS

Sometimes my eyes play tricks on me, and cause mental activity which might be odd. The image of someone scrubbing their pits furiously with chicken noodle soup, purely imaginary, is now permanently burned upon my inner retinas. Thank you, advertising department, for unintentionally causing distress. I shan't look at chicken noodle soup the same way ever.

Not your fault.

For some reason I decided not to have wonton noodle soup, but had garlic sauce chicken cutlets and rice (蒜蓉雞扒飯 'suen yung gai paa faan') instead. Which was good, albeit a bit fibrous. Pounded chicken breaded and deepfried, sliced up and served with a bowl of garlic gravy. With two cups of HK milk tea (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai chaa').

Pipe in Waverly afterwards. Where it was cold and gloomy, almost like the industrial area of a European city (Eindhoven) early in Autumn.

People watching both while dining and when smoking was enjoyable.
No, I didn't imagine them all scrubbing themselves.
In the shower, richly reeking of stock.
And covered with noodles.

I am by no means a pervert. I just have an acute and over-active mental eye.
It's like having my own movie theatre in my head at times.


Soup may not solve body odours. But it might disguise them, and make them delicious.
If anyone puts that into practise, I will claim credit while denying responsibility.

My own body odour is a comforting melange of shower soap, aged Virginia tobacco smoke, notes of oak, leather, bookshelves, woodmoss, and fairy dust.
Carotenoids, faintly coloured with terpeneol.
Slight tannic hint.



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KITTY THEORY

It turns out that Hello Kitty is half a century old. Which is remarkable for a British school girl living in London (you already knew that about her, right?), seeing as normally those are eaten by packs of East End slags well before they hit their second decade. With only scraps of ichor-stained school uniforms left as clues to what befell them. The horror, the horror.

British school girls, as is well known, are dense and well-marbled because of a diet rich in oils, such as is available at fish and chip shops, corner convenience stores, the numerous McDonalds, curry shacks run by Sylhetis, and Haggis Huts, that surround nesting grounds.

Note: Allegedly haggis is quite edible if deep-fried, and slathered in curry sauce next to a pile of chips. Good to know if you ever visit Scotland, though why would you?

There are theories that some Bitish school girls eventually turn into slags, but as no one has ever witnessed the transformation, this is still speculative. Attempts to breed them in captivity have failed. The exact details of their life cycle are unknown.

Judging by her excellent taste and comportment, Hello Kitty would never turn into a slag, and might actually be misidentified as a British school girl. Surely there's been some mistake?

Another theory is that when the Hello Kitty matures, she turns into a middle-aged Dutchman and heads down to SF Chinatown for some fried noodles, followed by a smoke with her pipe and twitching grey whiskers underneath an awning -- Jackson Street (昃臣街 'jak san kaai') or Waverly Place (天后廟街 'tin hau miu kaai'), most likely -- while contemplating the evil in the world as well as the millions of soldiers who perished in the Great War.
It being armistice day today. And rather rainy.
Tea-time will be gloomy.


That's not provable one way or either, of course, and I'm not particularly vested in it either, seeing as I wasn't born until centuries after the war ended. My grandfathers were in it.
Both of them survived.

There are indications that Hello Kitty is Dutch-American.
Strong indications. New Amsterdam Dutch.
Believe it, or not.



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JUST CAUSE

Sometimes there are too many shufts in the neighborhood. In this statement, you should recognize a term from Dutch ('schoft'), backformed into an English language cognate. Polite enough to be used in mixed company. It's something I realized when outside having a smoke and noticing the cars parked where they should not have been. Which is a common issue in San Francisco. Where there is no parking. And too many cars.

I myself haven't driven in years.

What disturbs me is that they drove to this particular neck of the woods because of the fabulous drinking opportunities. Yeah, okay, I understand that many twenty-somethings drive better drunk than sober, but still.

There are considerably more bars nearby than coffee shops, and sadly the coffee shops close in early evening.

Far be it from me to speak snidely of inebriative opportunities and enterprises. They are valuable. It keeps most shufts off the street. It would be even better if they could smoke inside their dissipatory environments, as that would lessen their number outdoors and improve the neighborhood at night considerably.

And surely everyone agrees that it is better to have sailors and adventurous young people congregating together safely indoors, in smoke-filled bars and seedy dives, rather than snogging in public view.

Especially now that it's colder outside. We don't want them to catch pneumonia.
In general, sailors being sick in full view is bad for morale.
Irrespective of the actual cause.

Drinking, snogging, or food poisoning.




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NOT A CHRISTIAN IN THE BUNCH

Did you know that there was once a war between the Belgians and the Dutch? The Belgians would have won, because they had way more hand grenades. The Dutch, being monumental cheapskates, had barely bought any at all. So the Belgians lobbed hand grenades at the Dutch, with no end. The problem was that the Dutch kept pulling the pins out and throwing them back.


This illustrates that we Dutch like to control the narrative. For many of my fellow Dutch (including Dutch Americans of generations residence surrounded by Anglos, such as I am), nothing hurts more than losing control of the narrative. Which explains perfectly our pain at the anti-Semitic pogrom recently in Amsterdam. Things got out of hand, we lost control of the narrative, other people started talking louder than us, and with a catch in our collective throat we demonstrated a hithertofore unknown talent for breastbeating and shirt-rending. Thus once again making it all about us. Or at least taking the focus off the victims and perpetrators, who are just incidental in any case.

As a fluent speaker of Dutch, I have a few opinions (it would quite unnatural for a Dutchman NOT to have opininions, some of them incorrect or utterly berserk): 1) A pox on the morons who thought that shipping a whole bunch of Israeli soccer fans to Amsterdam (which is filled with rabid leftwingers) was a good idea at this time. 2) A pox on the Dutch police, who should have ensured this did not happen, and their smirking superiors. 3) A pox on the Moroccans and Turks who were most of the perpetrators. 4) And a pox on all those Netherlanders who will now gleefully point their fingers at their Moroccan and Turkish fellow citizens screaming "see, see, it was them, not us, them! Those people who did not perfectly assimilate! We TOLD you not to allow them in!"

As a follow-up comment to that fourth pox: Combining people from two pissant unpleasant overreacting cultures (Morocco, the Netherlands) leads to people who combine the worst of both worlds. Throw in that typical Dutch characteristic of blaming others, and not seeing one's own flaws: total toxicity.

BTW: I really don't care how crude, provocative, and belligerent, some of those Maccabi supporters were. That cannot justify the horrid behaviour from the Amsterdammers.
Ze kunnen allemaal verrotten.

I should also mention that I am immensely fond of Amsterdam, it's a great city despite some of the residents, of any ethnic background: Dutch, Moroccan, Turk, or even Palestinian.


Final note: It is immensely frikkin' insulting that the Palestinian Ministry of Foreign Affairs condemned anti-Arab chants and an attack on the Palestinian flag, calling on the Dutch government to protect Palestinians and Arabs living in the Netherlands. I'm sorry, but having those corrupt murderous hypocrites lecturing anybody just doesn't sit well.

Palestinian Foreign Affairs: Isn't that basically terrorism wearing a Saville Row suit?]

Why the hell is some Arab bureaucrat pissing on my side?
What the blazes is wrong with those people?
Damned goat-abusers.




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