JUST FOR THE HECK OF IT: TRUMP, EPSTEIN

The following is copied lock stock and barrel from SF Gate, written by columnist Drew Magary.

Jeez, I wonder why Trump won't release the Epstein files
SFGATE columnist Drew Magary unpacks what could be the biggest scandal of our time

When Donald Trump doesn’t want to talk about something, that usually means that we need to talk about it. That’s especially true of the president’s most recently adopted third rail, the late Jeffrey Epstein. Donald Trump would really like everyone to shut the f—k up about his old friend and has communicated those feelings with that classic Trump subtlety that we all know and adore:

“STOP TALKING ABOUT EPSTEIN!!!!!”

But why does Trump suddenly have a bug up his ass about Jeffrey Epstein? More important, why should you pay attention to THIS Trump scandal when every other Trump scandal comes and goes like a summer afternoon rainfall? Why shouldn’t you just go eat a Pop-Tart instead, given that you’ll likely accomplish just as much in doing so?

Well dear reader, I’ve taken it upon myself to gather up what credible intel I can find on the Epstein matter, and now deem it worth your time. I’ve even gone to the trouble to present my findings to you in that classically digestible format: the FAQ. So sit down, grab that Pop-Tart (brown sugar would be my rec) and get ready to throw it back up.

Who was Jeffrey Epstein?
A former teacher who switched to a career in finance at Bear Stearns. From there, Epstein became a boutique financial consultant (and likely inside trader) who only accepted billionaires as clients. But Epstein’s rise among society’s elite can likely be owed to far darker forces than market manipulation. In 2019, he was charged by the feds with trafficking underage girls with the intent of sexually assaulting them. Epstein also pimped victims out to some of his most powerful friends and clients. Perhaps in tribute to Diddy, Epstein hosted these group assault “parties” in lavish settings, including in Manhattan, in Palm Beach, aboard a private jet that went by the nickname the Lolita Express and on his own private island. While Epstein’s closest associate and lover Ghislaine Maxwell is currently serving a 20-year prison sentence for helping Epstein run this illicit sex ring and luring in victims, the man himself was never convicted in that matter. This is because he died in his jail cell while awaiting trial. Authorities ruled the death a suicide.

Was it a suicide?
Well the government says so, and it recently posted raw surveillance footage from the day of Epstein’s death to confirm the ruling. Oh, but Wired just reported that the released footage has a gap in it of nearly three minutes, which allows for all sorts of funny business to still be in play.

That’s curious.
It gets curioser. In death, Epstein left behind perhaps the most infamous paper trail in modern criminal history, including a little black book that included the names of his victims, his accomplices and, most tellingly, the aforementioned powerful friends he’d collected. The names in that book, many of which also show up in Epstein’s flight records, include the likes of Courtney Love, Alec Baldwin, Prince Andrew, Alan Dershowitz, Bill Clinton and —you guessed — Donald Trump.

However, many other names and details regarding Epstein’s case have either been redacted or left classified by the Department of Justice. We know Epstein was a sexual predator, and we know that he enabled other sexual predators. But the specifics beyond that have either not surfaced or not been corroborated. The public release of all these files would have, in theory, laid those specifics bare. It also would have potentially implicated a lot of still living people who’d rather those files never see the light of day.

Like Trump!
Yes, like Trump. But prior to this month, Trump and his little MAGA army were vocally convinced that the files would implicate Trump’s enemies much more than they would the man himself. This is in line with the modern GOP playbook under Trump. Democratic leaders convened at Comet Ping Pong in Washington, D.C., to abuse children. LGBTQ+ Americans were “grooming” children in order to take advantage of them and/or turn them LGBTQ+. All of the immigrants living here, either legally or off the books, are a threat to our precious children, which is why we need ICE to round them up and then throw them in the cargo hold of a plane bound for Western Sahara. Oh, and abortion MURDERS children outright. The old man protesting outside your general practitioner’s office has the enlarged photos to prove it!

Oh wow, is all of that true?
Of course it isn’t, you f—king idiot. But you can see how Trumpists have been able to capture the visceral reaction that child abuse inevitably fosters in people, and then turn that outrage against anyone they hate. So when the possibility arose that the Epstein files would be released, many MAGA heads saw it a fantastic opportunity to finish off the Democratic Party once and for all. This is why Justice Department head Pam Bondi made a promise in February that she would give up the goods. In fact, she even told Fox News “it’s sitting on my desk right now to review” when asked about the list of Epstein’s clients.

Did she make good on that promise?
You’re not gonna believe this, but no. Last week the DOJ released a statement that included this wildly blatant piece of obfuscation (emphasis mine below):

“Through this review, we found no basis to revisit the disclosure of those materials and will not permit the release of child pornography. This systematic review revealed no incriminating ‘client list.’ There was also no credible evidence found that Epstein blackmailed prominent individuals as part of his actions. We did not uncover evidence that could predicate an investigation against uncharged third parties. …. One of our highest priorities is combatting child exploitation and bringing justice to victims. Perpetuating unfounded theories about Epstein serves neither of those ends.”

So she’s NOT releasing the files?
Apparently they’re hella boring if you ask Bondi, and why wouldn’t I believe this woman? She’s only quid pro quo’ed with our dear leader a few times. Oh, and a curious plea deal that Epstein struck with Florida prosecutors in 2007 was worded to shield his co-conspirators from further scrutiny. It also barred the terms of Epstein’s plea deal from ever being made public, which a judge later found to be in violation of the Crime Victims’ Rights Act; it was an illegal cover-up between Epstein’s lawyers and the prosecution. So here’s a notorious sexual predator with a recorded history of gaming the system to hide his evildoing. But Donald Trump is angry that you’re even still bringing it up. Move on already, jeez! We’ve got legal immigrants to kidnap and torture!

Are we moving on?
We are not, and we strangely have Trump’s supporters to thank for that. After breaking with Trump on his Big Butthole Bill, Elon Musk straight up tweeted that Trump’s name was on Epstein’s client list. After Bondi buried the files, Dan Bongino, the deputy director of the FBI, was so pissed that he ghosted work the next day and then got into a big ol’ row with Bondi about it when he finally showed back up at the office. Bongino’s direct boss, FBI Director Kash Patel, was rumored to ponder submitting his resignation over the matter (he didn’t, eventually falling in line). GOP members of Congress are pissed at Trump, with House Speaker Mike Johnson going so far as to call for their release, although in the squirreliest, most Mike Johnson manner possible:

“But at the same time Johnson publicly called for the files to be released, he opposed a procedural motion advanced on Tuesday by Democrats that would have set up a House vote to release them,” the Washington Post reported.

Even Congress’ No. 1 MAGA loon Marjorie Taylor Greene is pissed at Trump, warning the president the MAGA faction will face significant blowback if he keeps everything on the DL. Laura Loomer is pissed at Trump and, like many other GOP members, she wants Bondi fired. And for the first time in the ratio history of his own social media network, Truth Social users are pissed at Trump. These folks were promised blood, and the president hasn’t delivered.

Why hasn’t he?
Do you really need me to connect the dots here for you?

Yes.
Okay, well we already know that Epstein himself told author Michael Wolff that Trump was his best friend for a decade and that he told Wolff the president first slept with his current wife, Melania, aboard the now infamous diddler plane. We know Trump’s name is on those flight records. We have photos of Trump chilling with Epstein at one of Epstein’s parties (whether that party got freaky later on isn’t known). And, most damning of all, we also have Trump on the record about Epstein in 2002 in the New York Magazine, calling the then-at large sex offender a “terrific” guy and that, “It is even said that he likes beautiful women as much as I do, and many of them are on the younger side.”

Most telling of all, a woman going by Jane Doe filed a lawsuit against Trump in 2016 for allegedly raping her when she was 13 years old. Doe, who had previously filed another suit under the pseudonym of Katie Johnson, alleged that both Trump and Epstein raped her, which would make Trump part of Epstein’s sordid ring. But just as Doe was about to make her first public comments about the case, her lawyer announced that her client was dropping the suit after receiving threats to her person.

If she dropped the case, then why does that matter?
We know that, given what people who accuse powerful folk of sexual assault have to endure once they make their stories public (Anita Hill and Christine Blasey Ford foremost among them), many would rather drop the charges than be traumatized all over again in both a court of law and the court of public opinion.

Specific to Trump, we know that he’s already been found liable for raping writer E. Jean Carroll in a Bergdorf Goodman’s in the mid-1990s, that he was accused by his former wife Ivanka of raping her (she would later recant), that he was accused by model Stacey Williams of sexual misconduct, and that he was famously caught on tape bragging to Access Hollywood co-puppet Billy Bush about grabbing women by the “pussy.” The man is a proven lech and has gotten away with being one for the entirety of his existence.

That makes his little tantrum over the Epstein affair noteworthy, especially when he now claims that the Epstein files — all of them! — were fabricated:

“Why are we giving publicity to Files written by Obama, Crooked Hillary, Comey, Brennan, and the Losers and Criminals of the Biden Administration, who conned the World with the Russia, Russia, Russia Hoax, 51 ‘Intelligence’ Agents, ‘THE LAPTOP FROM HELL,’ and more?”

As of this morning, Trump is still working the “hoax” angle, even though we now have six years of hard evidence that this was, indeed, a very real thing … one that even MAGA weirdos believe in.

Sounds like he’s a little shaken.
That’s because he TOTALLY did it. -

So why aren’t Democrats hammering Trump over this?
You’ve met Democrats, yeah? You also saw Bill Clinton’s name on those flight logs, too. Also, in a long-gestating bit of irony, it’s likely that Democratic leaders are frightened that bringing up the Epstein files over and over again will make them look like kooks.

Would it?
What does it matter? You know how Trump rose to power? BY BEING A F—KING KOOK. All day, every day. Being relentlessly crazy is how you win now. Democrats won’t do it. And from what I’ve seen so far, the mainstream media won’t, either. Much of Epstein files coverage I’ve seen from the New York Times and Washington Post has been below the fold and about how the files have created a rift between Trump and the MAGA movement. That’s an awfully roundabout way of covering what really could be, at long last, the scandal of the century. A scandal that really does bring down everyone involved in it.

Will it?
Only if you and I keep it circulating. So embrace your inner kook and scream RELEASE THE EPSTEIN FILES at everyone you see: your friends, your local representatives, your social media following, and the milkman. The longer this story sticks around, the harder it becomes to ignore. That’s why Trump wants everyone to shut up. The man’s hands are so filthy, you can’t even see visible skin.


SOURCE: Jeez, I wonder why Trump won't release the Epstein files - Drew Magary, SF Gate

[Copyright: https://www.sfgate.com/]



Here's a picture of a Pop Tart:

As a matter of personal opinion/suspicion, I think it extremely likely that most Republican big names and financial contributors are on the Epstein list. So we should probably burn the entire shitcan down. And order some guillotines from France.


Oh, and by the way, it's obvious that several Democratic notables are also worried sick about being thoroughly implicated. That's not surprising, and it is good that they're worried.



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I'M A STRANGER HERE MYSELF

One reader sent me a note asking why I seemed to dislike tourists. Hadn't I been a visitor in several foreing places myself? He could remember that a few years ago I went up to Vancouver and galavanted about enjoying the sights, the food, the museums ...
Why, he demanded to know, was I such a bitch?

Well, the glib answer is that I am an unforgiving and judgemental person, and will typically ignore my own flaws while excoriating everybody else for not meeting my impossibly high standards for them. And if they're wandering around getting in my way by dawdling four abreast on a busy sidewalk, they will offend me.

Actually, that's not only the glib answer, but the only answer.
Move faster, all of you dimwitted heffalumps.
And consider single-file.

Of course, one single Midwesterner walking down the street often takes up the space of four slow-moving Euries. Life is different in Europe, and outside their provincial capitals they may not ever have been any place with more than five stoplights or a surprising amount of genetic diversity. Midwesterners, of course, represent not so much any genetic diversity as selective breeding. Marbled flesh, and solid shoulders for pulling plows. Sort of the combine harvester of the human world, now sadly useless since tractors were invented.

Also, as I understand it, food across the interior of this country is all variations on burgers, deep-dish pizza, and potato. Your choice of pineapple chunks yes or no. Or, if it's potato salad, with or without raisins, which are the Midwestern spiritual equivalent of pineapple.

In some places they also have eggrolls, kung pao stuff, and orange chicken.

They've seen tall buildings and grocery stores on teevee.
It was a crime series from the seventies.

Europeans, almost all of them, grew up with Baywatch on the television and are perpetually surprised that no one here runs in slow motion toward the surf wearing electric red swim togs. What on earth is wrong with us? Are we sick?
Also, our coffee sucks.



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THE HIGHLY FUNCTIONAL MAN

Seeing as I did not have the usual jollification in Chinatown and North Beach last night, and in consequence would get a full night's sleep with no problem, I decided that today was the day I would go down to Chinese Hospital (my health provider) and do the once yearly blood tests. Which serves two main purposes: it gives my doctor and my cardiologist concrete data (because I'm one of those irritating patients who answers every question about his health with "I'm fine, no problems, nope, everything is perfect", even when bleeding from an open stump where my head was cut off), and secondly it reassures me that I am still human not a zombie see there's a pulsating vein dammit that needle hurt, might faint.

No food or drink for several hours beforehand. Nor any coffee.

First smoke of the day was grouchy time.

[Blood test lab: 抽血房、血液檢查實驗室 ('chau huet fong', 'huet yik gim chaa sat yim sat').]

Got through the entire thing including the urine sample and promptly headed toward sustenance. Cheung fan. With condiments. After which with pipe in mouth I went in search of coffee. The old fellow who ran an herb shop where before I had insurance I frequently bought salvia miltiorrhiza pills (丹參片 'daan sam pin') to deal with certain symptoms closed up a few years back, that location is now a friendly neighborhood grocery shop with tables and fresh coffee for the codgers. At a non-boba drinkie young snoots price. Real coffee.

So I spent a pleasant half hour on a bench near a siu mei dim (燒味店 "roast meats shop") actually waking up, with my pipe, before doing my necessary errands and shopping.

Got a dozen things done without English. Including cussing at the tourists under my breath.

[Tourists: 遊客、外地人、旅行外國人 ('yau haak', 'ngoi dei yan', 'leui hang ngoi kwok yan').]

It takes up to eight people to ask if there is Coca Cola on the premises, whether there are barbecue buns anywhere nearby, and do the staff hold it in for several hours or relieve themselves on the street. Remarkable. And very cheap! Five people, one donut.

My pissiness toward tourist was probably delayed grumpiness from being caffeine-deprived for the first five hours of the day.

That lack of caffeine would have been over with a lot earlier if I had not started working on the illustration above before heading into the bathroom, and had not stumbled out of the house between getting up and that time. But I did not have the energy to be quick.
That's what coffee is for.

It shows three people in a forested landscape just looking while the shitcan goes up.
That's all they can do, as they haven't had their coffee yet.
They cannot be proactive. Postactive only.
Not fully functional at that hour.


Other than that, it's been a lovely day.



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UNVARNISHED AUNTIE

There will not be any visiting of various dives later this evening, because the bookseller can't make it; he has some visitors in town for a brief period (from Oregon and Amsterdam) who do not share his keen passion for anthropological fieldwork. That means that I will not be observing rats in Spofford Alley or drunks and loons on Broadway.

This bereaves me not.
There's always next week.
They'll keep.


On my way down to Chinatown earier I had an opportunity to listen in on a Cantonese woman's private phone conversation. Honestly, I wasn't trying to do that. But she was loud enough for half the bus to clearly hear. The four other incividuals on the bus who understood Cantonese deliberately kept their faces smooth and inscrutable. As a Kwailo (non-Chinese person) I do not count, as I cannot possibly understand anything.

My ears perked up when I heard her use the term kwailo (鬼佬) several times. As well as the expressions chau hai (臭㞓) and haam kaa chaan (冚家鏟). Pok gaai (踣街) once or twice. Now, as a white person I do not like the term kwailo. But is often used with no malicious intent, merely as an easily understood descriptive. Let it stand. On the other hand, chau hai is a completely unprintable obscenity utilized expletively and as punctuation. And I didn't know women could do that!

SEAL-SCRIPT GHOST-DEVIL SMOKING A PIPE

When I was outside lighting my pipe after late lunch, Howard came up. Remarkably both the proprietess and I had been talking about him earlier. We had not seen him in several weeks. His health is not that good (COPD), and I had been worried about him. So I went back inside and sat with him while he had a snack and hot beverage.


Near the end of my smoke I helped a bystander deal with an old fellow who had tripped and bashed his head. I was not much use; my Cantonese is just not good enough, and I don't really know how to ask the important questions in an emergency. Do you have your son's phone number? Are you taking any medications for bloodpressure, deppression, anxiety, or anticonvulsants? Have you eaten recently? Are you epileptic? Is your blood sugar low?

Fortunately the fire department and the ambulance came pretty quickly, and carted him off to Chinese Hospital. He'll be in good hands there, and there are plenty of people who can communicate effectively with him.



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AVOID RED ZONES

According to statistics recently released by Mapping Police Violence, as published in the SF Chronicle, there is less chance of getting killed by the cops in California than ever, whereas in Texas and Florida figures are heading higher and higher. Your chances of a negative experience with law enforcement in both of those states are, of course, damned well stratospheric if driving with California plates or queueing outside a polling place in a Democratic precinct. As well as breathing while brown.

Try not to be brown, okay?
At least not so much.

My negative fondness for Red State America is based on being casually told by a fellow student in the first year that I was back in the US that "we kill people like you where I grew up" and numerous red, white, and blue Americans telling me over the years that I should return to wherever the hell I came from because of the way I speak English.

So whatever you do, stay out of Texas, Florida, and the fly-overs, and don't drive a rental car from California, congregate in Democratic precincts, or be non-white. Or talk funny, as if you were a foreigner or reasonably literate. It's bad for your health.
Your happiness and well-being are vastly improved in those places if you're an overweight beer-swilling goober so white you glow in the dark.

Yessirree, I sheerly love my fellow Americans and wish them well with their sherrifs. As well as alcoholism, diabetes, malfunctioning mobility devices, and the high incidence of sexually transmitted diseases in places like Louisiana, Mississippi, and Placerville. Which is baffling. How? I didn't know that sponge on a stick could infect your partner.
How do they even have partners?

Also, when IS Caterpillar going to start manufacturing three-wheeled scooters with little baskets for sixpacks in the front? Does Everrun make personalized forklifts?

The sherrif's department has probably never shot anyone riding a mobility vehicle, though lord knows they'd barely have to aim. And by the way, this explains why half the damn' country lives in trailerparks. Only one storey, easy access.


Bless their clogged hearts.

I love you all.
Peace out.



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FOG-SNOOTED HERMIT

It was already after teatime when I headed over the hill for a smoke. I'd had a late lunch, which included eggplants and salt fish over rice (yes, I kept the kitchen door mostly closed while cooking), followed by strong milk tea. I ended up loitering outside the Gordon J. Lau Elementary School (劉貴明小學 'lau kwai ming siu hok') opposite Joyce Street (哉思街 'joi si gaai') which runs between the Young Women's Christian Association (女青年會 'neui ching nin wui') and Donaldina Cameron House (金美倫堂 'kam mei luen tong'.

Early evening. So it's not like I was by smoking at that spot showing a bad example to the kiddiewinkies or by my utter coolness tempting them to acquire their first briar and imitate my uber-cool self. The school was closed for the day, it's presently the middle of summer in San Francisco, and consequently cold and by that time quite foggy. Not weather conducive to emulative behaviour.

Besides, the kids have already been thoroughly indoctrinated.
They know that smoking is a sign of moral rot.
Depravity, evil, low character.

It was delightfully calm and peaceful. The tops of the Financial District office buildings were invisible, everything more than two or three blocks away fading into the dense grey haze.
Good thing I had already had some strong tea, because the only places still serving caffeinated beverages were boba joints for Mandarin-speaking teenagers.

Not my kind of beverage, nor my kind of crowd. Tough gummy tapioca marbles, in my mind, have no business being in beverages. Small tapioca pearls yes, but we're talking about cold drinks rather than a nice hot cuppa.

Got home again before dark, and argued with the turkey vulture.
Who is convinced that there are meaty things to eat everywhere.
And why don't I take him along when I go to work or Chinatown?

Well, little fella, people already think I'm a bit odd in both those places. No need to amplify that impression. As drawing attention with a fuzzy critter drooling over the fatty specimens most certainly would.

Turkey vultures (Cathartes aura; 紅頭美洲鷲' hung tau mei jau jau'), no matter how chipper and cheerful they might be, are not, strictly speaking, balls of fluffy charm.

Folks might look askance.



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THE FINE CITY OF FRESNO

No insult is intended to the good people of Fresno. Very many of whom are not Caucasian, and therefore presumably not infected quite as much with rabid trumpism as their better-off neighbors. Fresno is a city of culture with many fine institutions. Truly, an all-American city, the kind of place where middle-America would happily be able to find itself.
Salt of the earth, several of whom pay taxes.

One of the trolls on the internet is from there. I can't find out much else about him other than that, and by no means wish to burn his damned city down to the ground and salt the earth because of him.

[He comments critically underneath articles about San Francisco.]

I wonder if he graduated high school, and whether he has syphilis.
He undoubtedly comes from an upstanding Christian family.
Many of whose members may be quite literate.


It is unlikely that I will ever visit the place, as I have no need to go there. Ever. In this life.
If I did, I would probably require sunscreen, extra insurance, and a concealed weapon, in addition to a thermos with real coffee. Plus hot sauce, and fast car.


By the way: Grand Theft Auto is set there.

Unlike most of the country, which is addicted to fentanyl or designer strains of marijuana that appeal to urban professionals, Fresno vastly prefers methamphetamine, an old fashioned drug that has nothing hipster or modern about it. They are traditionalists, with sort of an artisanal approach to wrecking their lives.

It keeps the cash within the community and introduces children to the exciting world of commerce early on.


There are religious seminaries and incarcerational opportunities in Fresno.
It's a vibrant and nurturing old-school urban environment.


I cannot say enough about it.



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CONSIDERABLE DISTORTION

One of the problems waking up is that the brain does so at a slower pace than some of the other parts of the body (the bladder, for instance), and consequently the subconscious has a feast. There you are, on the front steps, most of the flesh husk having become functional, and out of the corners of your eyes you note an animal standing stock still, observing you thoughtfully lighting the first pipe of the day after the bathroom visit, first cup of coffee, throwing on some clothes, and filling a briar.

It's bad enough being visited by the ghost cat who used to live in your apartment. You did not know he had a friend. A big friend. A big furry friend who likes honey.

You despise tobaccos flavoured with honey.
That's a bad part of the 1950s.
Very common then.


Those old fancy magazines for men would have advertisements every second or third page showing a crisply dressed modern man with perfectly brilliantined hair, an ironed shirt under a houndstooth sports jacket, and polished shoes, smiling as they lit up a full bowl of 'Ace Pilot's Heather Honey Extra-vaganza' on the porch of their ranch up in the Sierras.
Ah, nature! The smell of the forest! Wildlife!

Through the windows of their dwelling you can see their trim wife with an apron frying-up some rashers in the skillet of their modern kitchen, and the children on the oval rug in the living room playing with a red toy truck as they scream when a wild bear casually ambles through entranced by the smells.

Life nowadays is never like that. For one thing, I do not smoke sickening aromatic shite, and for another, it's been years since I wore a tie. Also, there is no trim wife and there are no children, oval rug, or toy trucks.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But I do wish that the imaginary bear would not look so disappointed at the fragrance of the Fribourg & Treyer Virginia flake that I've stuffed into my Peterson straight grain bent bulldog shape 80S. A delightfully old-fashioned tobacco in a pipe that recalls sunlit days in the 1960s just after we tested the very latest in nuclear bombs out at Yucca Flats. Made in the Republic of Ireland, hallmarked silver band, and totally piss-elegant. Not for you, bear. And there's no honey tobacco anywhere on my person.


It was a nice early morning walk. Despite the thick fog yesterday evening, it was sunny. The mists had not lingered, and the south side of the street had been cleaned. When I got back my apartment mate had already left for work, and the prospect of a few days lazing about (after doing the necessary laundry) lies ahead.



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GREY, GREYNESS, GREYITY

Apparently I am a horrible human being and very un-Christian. Because I did NOT forewarn anyone about the signal peculiarities of Little White Nipple Dude. Who arrived at the same general time as most of the members of the local pipe club, spent nearly four hours there, and found nearly a dozen victims. Bernard thought I had come to save him at one point.
But was disappointed. He had to endure half an hour more of Little White Nipple Dude.

It should be mentioned that Little White Nipple Dude is a truly fascinating man and superior conversationalist. What with being a brain surgeon jet fighter pilot podiatrist astronaut in training nuclear physicist zen monk sherrifs deputy. AND having a rich inner life.

There was no way in hell I would save anyone at all from his delightful discursive stylings, because then I would have to listen to him. More than I already had. Which would be most unfair, there's more than enough of him to go around.
And I had things to do.

Calvin, the other person of peripherally Netherlandish heritage, agreed with Bernard. At the very least I should have rescued my fellow ethnics, if no one else. Sorry, you're both older than me, and very social. You should know better by now. Oh look, a pink-elephant!
And make your escape.

Or do what I do. Seize control of the conversation, dominate it, change the subject several times, and leave his little head spinning. Exercise conversational strategies which you've always wanted to try. Whenever possible mention that you're a vegan.
Hop up and down on one leg for a bit.
Confuse him.


Worst comes to worst, declaim all the lyrics to Charlotte The Harlot or The Winnipeg Whore as if it's Shakespearian poetry. I tried that once at a company meeting, and was excused.

When I got back home after the meeting of the pipe club it was turning cold and grey in San Francisco, with fog hiding large buildings at the top of the hills. So the first thing I did was fix myself a cup of coffee and put on a warmer garment. In the left pocket of this comfy piece of clothing there is a soft small sock, infant foot size, which I had found deposited in front of the apartment building last night. I may not be any good at saving my fellow pipe smokers, being all heartless and giggling at their predicament, but I can save a lonesome and abandoned sock. Somewhere a baby delinquent is wantonly waggling his or her toes at strangers.


I think it was a good meeting, but I didn't really notice. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if the worlds greatest conversationalist was sneaking up on me. But I probably would have heard him.



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SADLY SPLOOTLESS

Far be it from me to make strange sounds. Or squawk. My apartment mate, on the other hand, when I tried to throw away the wrappity substances, startlingly did both. Apparently stuff to pack fragile things is at a premium. I suspect that she has an entire goldmine of the stuff under her bed, and it's probably a good thing that ferrets are illegal as pets here.
Or we'd have one hiding there gloating over its trove and sneering at us.
Mine. I found it. Bugger off, big bipedal galoots.

The derivation of the wrappity substances (paper, zig-zaggy cut wood pulp webbing, bubble wrap) is Palo Alto, at the clay and glass festival. We took the train down there, spent a bit of time and a few hundred dollars, came back.

There are squirrels near the train station. Fascinating creatures. Which in hot weather sploot. It wasn't warm enough for that. So there was no splooting. Low seventies.

Besides, there's a whole list of things you are not allowed to do at the trainstation.
The act of splooting is not listed, but the quirrels are taking no chances.

I have never yet seen a splooting beast.
Still a splooting innocent, me.

There is, in fact, much of wildlife in California which I have not seen. Given that most of it is in areas much warmer than San Francisco, and I do not thrive in those zones, where there are also rattlesnakes, bears, mountain lions, poison oak, black flies, scorpions, plus a whole spectrum of mosquito-borne illnesses, ticks, big foot, republicans and rednecks, that is not particularly suprising. Brutal piggy boondocks. It's bat country; don't stop there.

I do not own a pith helmet. I wish I did. It would have come in handy.

Especially when I lived in Southern California, briefly, a few years ago.
The only wildlife there are rabid superficialists.
It's where plastic goes to die.


Upon our return to the city we took a taxi from the train station with our bags directly to a local Chinese restaurant near where we live. Shrimp with little cabbage (遠菜鮮蝦 'yuen choi sin haa') and steamed pork patty with fermented fish (鹹魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng'). Rice. A whole pot of tea. In some parts of California you can get none of that.
It's still wild country, quite untamed.
Far from civilixation.
Splooting.



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STRAIN OUT THE NASTIES

A conversation with my apartment mate headed into left field. What I brought up was a coke snorting deviant. What we promptly veered into was orange vanilla Coca Cola, which tastes fabulous. They should make that with sugar. Real cane sugar. Caffeine, refined sugar, and nicotine keep the world turning. Plus fried chicken. What did they use before olive oil?
Lard. Refined lard. It's reusable, just strain out the nasties.
And by the way, yam is not a vegetable.

Without even paying attention I had lost any semblance of control over the discussion, and we ended up talking about food. This was after she had scarfed down cookies and I had eaten a piece of cake washed down with coffee.

How much pig fat do you need to fry a chicken?
Whole bucket loads of it?
Barrels?

Personally, I am not so much into fried chicken. But it's okay if y'all are. I understand that for the feminine gender there are times when y'all have to have a big bucket of fried chicken with ranch dressing or mashed potatoes and greasy gravy. Hormones. A glandular thing. It's the lining of the uterus. We men do not have uteri. And we would prefer pizza anyway.
But that's okay. Y'all do y'all.

Years ago there was a chiropractor who either drowned his sorrows with boxes of pizza or used it to hook up with someone equally desperate. I fondly imagined him waking up hungover with pizza smears all over his single room occupancy digs. A total vibe.
For some reason that place no longer does pizza. Just burgers now.

Their house wine has improved immensely, but the bar was low to begin with.
When there are dating couples there now, they're not that weird.
Hipper and crazier, sure, but not that weird.

You know, I've never considered an entire pizza as dating material. Maybe y'all should have apple pie instead? Perhaps go to an old fashioned diner and play footsie under the table. Please don't spill your coffee on each other. That's not sexy.


Sadly, none of the eateries in this city allow smoking on the premises anymore, and pizza has gotten stranger. Gluten-free cauliflower crust, chemically melty tofu cheese, with some kind of dark green leafy vegetable, and what the living heck is that?

What do you do when you feel like fried chicken?



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ENSCONCED AWAY FROM IT ALL

Yesterday was mostly inactive. I didn't do a thing which I had planned, most of which needed to be done. Didn't bother leaving the building much except to smoke. Never made it down to Chinatown for milk tea. Instead, I spent the entire day painting. Scenery. Animals. Animals smoking pipes. By mid-evening the fog was rolling in, at least I think it rolled in, but I didn't actually see it doing so.

Foghorns in the distance. There are five located foghorns under the bridge, for the benefit, presumably, of ships from Pacific countries which do not have radar and might, exceptionally, be somewhat badly piloted during dense fog. And could, if an accident were to happen, possibly release 53,000 gallons of fuel oil into the water of the bay.

Not that that would ever happen. Heaven forfend.
2007, if I remember correctly.

So anyway, a fine day.

Pipes, animal painting, food. And repeat.

No wonder I sensed the presence of a ghost cat just before waking today.

It was undoubtedly just a dream. But having been mostly sluglike all of yesterday, my head may not have been sufficiently flushed of toxins, and in want of exercise. A good brisk walk during mid afternoon would have prevented that. No foggy build-up in the brain.

Physical activity is necessary to keep all body systems functioning correctly. Just vegetating at home can lead to mental and chemical inbalances, just look at your cousin Jedd who lives in his mom's basement and spends all day playing video games.
No wonder he believes rightwing conpsiracy theories.
He's completely paranoid by now.



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KARMIC EGGPLANT

It works better if you plug it in. I had been wondering why I wasn't getting any of the usual Spam calls, turns out my phone was out of power. What with not being plugged in. Which I discovered just before fixing myself a mediterranean lunch of eggplant, Chinese sausages, chilipaste, ginger, and noodles. Well, okay, not strictly Mediterranean. Um. Not even really very close. The only thing "Mediterranean" about it was the eggplant.

Nice smoky sausages with duck liver.

My Mediterranean relatives would have approved. Not that I have any.
I've got some kinfolk living down south in Santa Barbara.
Wich has been called Mediterranean.


Contact is virtually non-existent. More "karmic" than reality based. Haven't spoken to any of them in years. Don't know if they're still down there. When my mother volunteered for the Waves (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service) during the war, she was mentioned in the newspaper as the first woman from Santa Barbara to do so.
Radioman (woman) Second Class McClintic.

A few members of the family were still down there last time I checked.

My uncle Jerry, who lived in San Francisco, was the only real link I had with my mother's kinfolk, and when my life went kablooie many years ago I dropped out of sight. When I came back to the surface he had already passed away. A few years later I spoke with one of the Santa Barbara people, but never really 'clicked'. I'm not clickable material, you see.
I hadn't really known any of them while we lived in Holland.
Didn't feel like pulling up the slack.


So the cellphone is not for talking to them, and the only real use it gets is when Indians in callcentres attempt to rope me in as a patsy for whatever crappy scheme they're working on. I mean, no one really calls me, and the few times I've used it in the last six or seven months have been to call my work, or the pharmacy for refills. Friends write. E-mail or Facebook.



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NOPE, NEVER MET HIM. WHO?

It's official: there was no island where rich people went to snort coke, swill expensive liquor, and brutalize under-age girls. Nor are there lists of any type, like for instance flight logs, that show the names of rich people who, it is unreliably alleged, may have visited that imaginary island which does not exist. Or even photos of them hobnobbing with the unfortunatly dead pimp king of the fictitious island where under no circumstances rich people went to snort coke, swill expensive liquor, and brutalize under-age girls.

REPEAT: No such island. No lists. No clients.

Reports that a well-known politician may have called Jeffrey Epstein a "terrific guy" and "a lot of fun to be with" are all spurious gossip. And in any case, he was not a fan, and had a falling-out with him a long time ago. Whatever. It. Is!

Also and furthermore, he never knew the man.
Why are you still talking about it?
It's all lies. Fake news.
No files at all.

THIS IS NOT A PHOTO!

Like every rational person, I completely trust Pam Bondi and Kash Patel, as well as Karoline Leavitt. They are upstanding people of the greatest veracity. Huge veracity. Big beautiful veracity. People always say they've never seen such veracity.


"Are you still talking about Jeffrey Epstein? This guy’s been talked about for years. You’re asking, we have Texas, we have this, we have all of the things. And are people still talking about this guy?"


Well, he was a financier. A terrific guy. In banking or something, And people love talking, about financeering and other things. It takes our minds off all the underage girls that were brutalized. Supposedly by rich people (they were paupers) who snorted coke (nope, they couldn't afford it, losers) on an imaginary island (never existed, hurricanes).
Where all kinds of crimes were committed (never happened).




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STRANGE CONVERSATIONS

Overheard Scandinavians speaking several times recently while in Chinatown. And, as a Dutch speaker, I think I can authoritatively state "全部嗰啲北方人都係講嘢好笑嘅怪人。" Because yes they are, and some of their foods are beyond odd. Whereas, of course, Dutchmen are perfectly normal. More so than most other normal people.
On a scale of normal, we go up to eleven.

On the other hand, having facilitated a conversation between an aged local-born gentleman who is deaf as a post and two foreigners who were fluent in English recently while I was having milk tea at a Chinatown bakery, perhaps it's my own fault for thinking that those Northerners are all weirdoes who talk funny.

Really, we Dutch speakers should sometimes mind our own business.
Sticking our big noses into things that don't concern us.
That pretty much guarantees trouble.

On the other hand, the beverage and the snackiepoo were very good.
So I'll probably end up making the same mistake again.
Being incorrigible is its own punishment.

On a slightly different note, from my apartment mate's bedroom late last night I could hear the sound of quarrelling and gentle remonstrance. The turkey vulture was insisting that he should be given collops of fatty inner thigh, as was his right as a carrion eater, whereas both Ms. Bruin and my apartment mate were pointing out that this was not a great likelihood at all (we can't have random people bleeding out down on Polk Street because choice body parts were harvested), and the she-sheep kept asking rhetorically whether he got fed recently.
And why was he so pudgy if he was "starving, starving, STARVING"?

Which didn't help, but it's a good question. No one who is well-fed should have fatty inner thighs. That counts double for Midwesterners. Good lord does it ever. In spades.

Those people would do well to trot up and down our hills when they visit, to remove those fatty inner thighs. Cutting out the Ranch Dressing and cottage cheese would help too.
Oh, and lose the silly Scandinavian speech defects.
It sounds like you are regurgitating.
Ya shure.


As a Dutch speaker I regularly cough up hairballs.



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DODGING THE BOOLAS

Having looked forward to a fried fish sandwich (香酥魚柳包 'heung sou yü lau baau') since this morning, you can imagine my distress upon discovering that they're on vacation for two weeks. There was weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. Much like I imagine those two rats doing every time a pedestrian scared them back into hiding before they could scoot over to the tasty refuse pile. It wasn't the old Cantonese aunties that discommoded them, rather, passing groups of tourists.

Those two rats have my deepest sympathy.
You can't have a romantic dinner without garbage. Everyone knows that.


So instead of the chachanteng, I went around the corner and had roast bird over rice. Other than three persons of probably Yucatecan derivation, the place was filled with Cantonese, and had a club-like atmosphere. Very old school Hong Kongish. The fowl was fine, the chilipaste could have been better.

The discommoded rats came later, after teatime. I had done all of my shopping by then, dodging groups of tourists nearly every step of the way. Mostly Euries on Stockton Street, the Americans being on Grant Avenue and not wishing to waddle uphill. Now, far be it from me to engage in fatshaming. It throws the proportions of head to torso off entirely, and means you might have a heartattack by the time you're forty, as well as rotten feet and a bad back.
But your doctor probably already told you that, and it's none of my business.

And honestly, there is no reason why you shouldn't have fried food for breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, and dinner. It's part of your culture. I understand that.
And I sympathize. Like totally. Please feel empowered.

In my own neighborhood, before catching the bus, I count Waymos, familiar faces, toddlers, dogs, and street people. Across the hill in Chinatown I count overweight non-Chinese. It's purely neurotic obsessive behaviour. You know, I've never seen an elephant in the waiting room at my doctor's office there, but at the cardiologists in the non-Chinese part of San Francisco that isn't uncommon.

Hark, what''s that trumpeting sound from across Golden Gate Park?
Oops, never mind. Don't want to fatshame anyone.
The ground shakes as they pass.
Dang!


Oh do be carfeful, you'll crush a hobbit!



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THE PICK-UP TRUCK UNIVERSE

Please do not mention "climate change". That's a liberal term invented by the Chinese to force Americans into buying German cars. Fact. And the good people of Florida having recognized that sneaky attack on Christian values banned the term, along with everything else that smacks of non-Christian values, like homosexual, gender, truth, civil rights, scientific, peanut allergy, and representative democracy.

But the term alligator is still good, though.
Nothing is better than alligator.
It's American!


An alligator snapping at the heels of a Yankee or Mexican is the most Florida-loving anti-woke image there is. Tastes just like Key Lime Pie and grits!


Given the high degree of bonkers in the news these days, I dread coming back home later and catching up on my doomscrolling. What strange Magat fantasies will I discover? What sugar-coating of insane rightwing ranting by all the Republican stalwarts, apologists, and Alaskan dingbat Lisa Ann Murkowski?

Back in my day, son, we had only one dingbat from Alaska.
Both Republican Veep material AND trailer trash.
A very multi-talented Christian woman.
She could see Russia!

Now there's a flood of dingbats from nearly every state in the union. Too much competition. They all have to out-dingbat each other just to stay in the news.

So far, Alabama, Arizona, Florida, Mississippi, and Texas are heading the pack as most dingbat-friendly states.

Each one of them is unique. And very American.

Huzzah.



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UNDISCOMBOBULATED, MORE OR LESS

Earlier today my apartment mate, who had taken a day off, had suggested that we go out to lunch together at a nearby restaurant we both like. She brought this up before ten in the morning, which nicely illustrates that people of Cantonese ancestry are conditioned to think about food at hours when normal folks (Dutch Americans) would not even conceive of that.
I normally don't start feeling peckish until after twelve. When I get up at around six A.M. food is not part of the programme. Pills, strong coffee, and then walk around the neighborhood puffing my pipe. Solid sustenance doesn't cross my mind for several hours.

Years ago there was a newspaper, and there were no pills.

At around twelve o'clock she asked if we could do lunch some other time. She had decided that she simply wanted to spend all day padding around in her jammies hugging her stuffed critters and watching British mystery episodes instead. Okay by me. I'll revert to my usual Tuesday routine. Late lunch at the place where the boss-lady seems to have given up on telling me that I shouldn't smoke, because she realizes that I won't quit, and all the uncles smoke too. So it's battling the rapids struggling upstream on that. And there are bears on both banks. I always load up a pipe for outside afterwards when I'm there.

At around tea-time I swung into the place and dined on shrimp and vegetable fried rice-stick noodles (遠菜鮮蝦炒河 'yuen choi sin haa caau ho') with a cup of hot milk tea.
Lit up as soon as I left, after dawdling over tea. Wonderful.

Several hours later I was back in the neighborhood with a different pipe. And surprised to see the same cluster of older aunties passing down the street, on the opposite side, as had been eating together earlier. They were much more lively. I suspect that they may have celebrated their reunion with perhaps a thimble-full of spirits, discreetly tossed back. Or two.

About ten minutes after I finished my pipe the bookseller arrived. As we walked to the burger joint he mentioned a group of young skate-boarders on the bus who had prettily thanked the driver when they got off to rocket downhill. It had been cute.

The karaoke bar looked civilized when we passed, but an hour later it sounded ghastly. Doleful Cantopop. Hard pass. Life is too short for painful moaning.

The bail-out bar proved more hospitable. No singing.
Irish whiskey, and a cup of tea.
Much better.



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