THE LOCAL WILDLIFE

While waiting for the bus this afternoon I saw a murder. That is to say, nearly two dozen crows, collectively termed a murder. Which is both pleasing, because I like the self-confident critters, and remarkable, as it indicates that this is a warmly hospitable city for the other intelligent species in this part of the world. Our cheery corvid fellow citizens.

There is less reason to be distrustful of crows than humans.
Crows don't act skeevy, do drugs, or get drunk.
They are exemplary.

Besides that they don't sing karaoke, so there is a lot to recommend them.
The bar this evening was not bearable because of karaoke.
Too many unwell modulated white people.


Also, I saw a coyote in Portsmouth Square. Which is in the middle of Chinatown, one block from the Trans America Piramid, less than two blocks from three top-notch restaurants, not even a block away from the best Northern style dumplings in the city, and less than three blocks away from the hospital where my doctor works. An actual coyote.
Looking reasonably well fed, as well as shy and guilty.
The local wildlife is thriving.

When I told my apartment mate about that, she was shocked. "I hope it doesn't harm the people who are there!" She needn't worry. Coyotes tend to be mostly nocturnal in urban areas, and elderly Chinese cardplayers may be small, but they're still far too large for something roughly the size of a fox to tackle, and they aren't edible.

Plus some of those old ladies there are hardcore cardsharks, and would cheat the poor animal out of every nickel he had. Mercilessly.


On the way back from our jaunt this evening I neurotically obsessed over the cloth shopping bag of the woman sitting diagonally opposite the bookseller and myself. Which advertised an enterprise I know very well: Nanhai Corporation (南海集團參茸行有限公司 'naam hoi jaap tuen saam yung hong yau haan gung si'). They're located at 919 Grant Avenue (都板街) between Washington Street (華盛頓街) and Jackson Street (昃臣街). Scarcely one block away from where I had seen the coyote (郊狼 'gaau long', canis latrans) earlier.
Nanhai has an excellent selection of teas from the mainland.
Well worth keeping in mind when visiting.

I recommend Hairy Crab King (毛蟹王茶 'mou haai wong chaa'), which is a mild Oolong-style tea from Anxi (安溪 'on kai') in Fujian (福建), with a lovely fragrance.



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NOT KNOWING WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT

Yesterday I found out what 'bohereen' means. It's an Irish word referring to a country lane with sleeping drunks or possibly ogres somewhere off from the side, abandoned tractors, possibly an illegal distillary, and an old-fashioned smithy where they still make chainmail and elvish swords. Heather, peat moss, cottages with no running water, and assorted peasants who smoke Erinmore Flake or Peterson's Aran Mixture (vanilla, peach blossoms, and old overcoat; dee-lightful).

It will not surprise you when I admit that I've never been to Ireland.
From what I understand is rains an awful lot . Every day.

Plumbing and central heating are rare.

But there is hot sauce. A wide range of them. As well as sambal.
So I expect that they now also have Dutch tourists.
About whom the less said, the better.

If you're lucky, there is a branch of an academic bookstore at the end of this lane, where they haven't heard that the age of literacy is over, and the era of flesh-based civilization is in its last two decades, the machines will be better at it all than we were. Though they appreciate what we will have left behind. If you're not, there is an Irish supermarket (Dunness or Tesco), with their version of chimichangas with a side of beans or potatoes in one hundred different choices in the ready-to-eat section. To the left of beers (seventy percent of the available space). And James Joyce in the cheap paperback racks near check-out.

The Irish are the most hot-tempered and Mediterranean-like of all the Celts, which I learned from reading Roddy Doyle and James Patrick Donleavy, whose distinguished bearded face glowers out at me from a nearby bookshelf. James Joyce didn't know that, so instead he described them as mostly drunk with mildew in their oxters. Also correct.
But a Mediterranean temperament sounds more positive.

Their music can be good. But it usually isn't.

Their alcohol is excellent.


They don't particularly like foreigners. The English and Americans are prime examples of that. The jury is still out on where the Canadians are in their estimation.
And the Dutch are as yet a blank slate.


Pneumonia and hurling (all types) are the national pastimes.



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THE EXPLICABILITY OF IT ALL

For some reason whenever I eat steamed dumplings with hot sauce I often think of Mandarin movies from the twenties and thirties. Set in Peking, winter, thick padded coats, steam and smoke, chopsticks deftly lifting morsels, men with slouchy hats and cigarette holders. Which was a time and place which I never actually experienced, being born well past the war. As well as the movie Peking Opera Blues (刀馬旦 'dou maa daan'), described by Quentin Tarantino as "one of the greatest films ever made". Which it is, and he's right.

I saw the movie at the Pagoda Palace on Washington Square Park.
Maybe it was winter then, I can't remember.

It's just that well, you know, winter and thick padded coats naturally mean dumplings and the sounds of furry Peking Mandarin, that's just how it is. Plus looking fiercely businesslike with a cigarette holder clenched in my jaws, or held elegantly, looking either suave or conspiratorial. Sadly, the old-style non filters that would be appropriate (something Turkish and resinous, or evil and French, or English-style Virginias) cannot be found anymore.

This younger generation, I don't know what's wrong with it; they refuse to engage in horrid habits but sup on wheatgrass and tofu, sneering Puritanically at us older people, with their tattoos, piercings, and meaningful ethnic garbs!

ILLUSTRATION NOT RELEVANT TO THE ESSAY; MALARIAL ZONE FOREST

Whenever I eat Northern style dumplings (北式嘅水餃) I am by myself. My ex (a wonderful woman with whom I am still good friends) never got into them, being more inclined toward Cantonese snackipoos, and none of my friends are that way inclined. And besides, since the computer company years ago I have mostly dined alone. Having had dumplings at the place with thicker skin and chili crunch sauce recently I went to the restaurant where they have Sriracha hot sauce, know my favourite table in the afternoon (the morning staff, if I show up for breakfast, are unaware of it), and seem to like my patronage.

A cup of regular tea, and a cup of milk tea. Sriracha hot sauce in lieu of sambal, and people watching. One Mandarin couple having soup and noodles while staring at their cell-phones, one very large tourist couple -- two soups and two big plates of fried starch (炒飯， 炸麵), nowondersomeAmericansarehugenocommentthatwouldbemeanandIamnotthatwaybutstill, one couple of which the elegant young lady half seemed to have an attitude and need a lot of attention (so probably a snooty Hong Kong twat or a Mainlander), and one older Canto couple who were perfectly happy.

At the chili crunch sauce place I speak Mandarin, whereas at the Sriracha place it's Cantonese. I like both places. Good food. Nice atmosphere.
Brightness, chopsticks, and a condiment.
People watching.

I am aware of being somewhat anomalous at either place, because the younger generation mostly can't read the Chinese menu, and many Americans don't speak Cantonese or Mandarin.

The anomalocity is somewhat older movie style.
A gangstah-kwailo sensitivity.


I should start wearing my slouchy hats again.




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A PRETENTIOUSLY ACADEMIC TITLE

A popular "pro-Palestinian" meme on the internet sneers at what Israelis eat, in ways that the National Socialists, Russian commisars, Latin American progressives, and racialists in Ivy League environments support and stand behind. It is childish and uncomplex. And, naturally, wholeheartedly approved of in places like Berkeley, besides the usual festering hellholes like Dublin, Glasgow, London, and London. Dutch and German leftwingers, being usually devoid of subtlety, nuance, and any deep understanding of anything at all, are also circulating variants of it. Totally oblivious to their own countries having originally very little in the way of decent food (and the less said about British "cuisine", the better).

The British are so monumentally unaware of decent cooking as well as their own culture that many of them now claim that they invented curry, hot sauce, and Chinese food, as well as frozen peas on everything and Heinz tinned beans. As well as chocolate.

Well, they did come up with the deep-fried Snickers bar.
Possibly at the same time as Spam fritters.
So that is, actually, a cuisine.

The Germans invented the curry wurst, the Dutch are infamous for obsessively deep frying everything and anything at all since WWII, Scandinavia does flygande Jakob, köttbullar i kari, and banana pineapple pizza (a popular variation on the Canadian national dish). In fact, the popular foods in most of the countries inhabited by raving anti-Semites (and Berkeley) are deep-fried starchy stuff, imitation French, Italian, and American, or a variation on pizza.

Which may or may not have been invented by two Slovakian immigrants to New York around the time of the Black Death. Jury's still out on that one.

In any case, all cuisine comes originally from Africa, the great mother continent, and is an imperialist construct intended to exploit third worlders, minorities, and women.

NO MESSAGE SENT: REINTERPRETING SILENCES AS A SITE OF POLITICAL CONTESTATION
An analysis of memetic expression in social media.
Authors: BMM and SPM

On a different track, thanks to someone I formerly knew as Mid.Man. (an abbreviation of convenience), who has spent far too long in the university environment, I am now aware of another meme, which builds scholarly paper titles based on your name(s) and birthdates. Of which the above is my personal one. And I should mention that I am a black lesbian vegan and see everything through the lens of that reality. If you dispute any of this you are an old white male and confuse white privilege with hard work and your own talents.

BTW: I welcome peer review.
You know who you are.
Banana for scale.



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THE BEASTS WITHIN

Before I left work I saw a brief bit of the ballgame on the teevee we turn on to keep the poisonous old snapping turtles in the backroom from soiling their diapers and scaring random strangers passing by. The Niners were playing in the snow, so the home team had an unfair advantage, seeing as half of the high school in that part of the world is decended from polar bears committing unholy acts with seals, and consequently used to hellish cold.

At least, that would explain the sheer insanity of working up a sweat wearing football togs in freezing weather. So would rabies, perversion, or masochism, I suppose, but I like my explanation better.

You can probably tell that I am not a fan of American football.

Running around clad only in padded underwear in the middle of a snowstorm is a good way to catch a cold. Low temperatures like that make every bump, tumble, or tackle hurt more, and slow down your reactions and thinking abilities. So by the end of the game the zombies left standing are probably closer to Frankenstein's monster than to anyone else in that film. Goodnatured, stupid, and slow.

One of my highschool phys. ed. teachers had us running crosscountry through terrain that looked like this picture. What he was thinking having brainiacs at an academic instution doing so escapes me. It is not at all surprising that he had all four tires of his car slashed and glue shoved into the doorlocks. If he had joined us instead of following our progress in his jalopy from the nearest road through the bog, he might not have survived. Oops. So sad, so sad.

It is largely because of psychopaths like him that I missed my chance to become a star athlete. It just didn't seem enjoyable at the time. Or in any way sensible.
And team sports always became mayhematic, so ...


I did learn that survival and not drowning at water polo meant drawing blood.
This is why alligators are not known for being team players.
And why you should watch out for sharks.
They're just misunderstood.


Most ferocious predators, we now know, would prefer to sit at home in front of the fire, wearing their fluffiest bathrobe and reading romance novels.


By the way: The Forty Niners lost today. Horribly.
They're no good at snowball fights.
Poor shmoes.



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RABBIT RABBIT

Rabbit rabbit. Explanation: the first thing you say on the first day of the month is "rabbit rabbit". It's a tradition, mostly kind of Anglo. Keeps the boogah boogah away or something. It's good luck. No one can actually explain how this came about or why, and like many superstitions and customs it does not make much sense.

One friend posts pictures of his pet rabbits. Another friend shows a drawing of one or more rabbits drinking coffee. Because of that, I got back into the habbit.
On this blog, the rabbit will enjoy a pipe.


Usually the rabbit may be assumed to smoke old style English or Balkan mixtures (Latakia and Turkish on a base of Virginias, with or without other tobaccos like Perique, fire-cured, or burley), or like myself for more than the last decade, a nice flake or Virginia blend. Only rarely burley blends or aromatics; the rabbit is not a ruddy pervert or eccentric.

Coffee beforehand is implied, but as one cannot smoke inside anymore, he probably finished a strong cup before heading out onto the moors with a briar and tobacco. Just assume that he's wide awake, okay? Manipulating matches, especially when one lacks opposable thumbs, requires attention and coordination, as does packing the bowl properly.



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