At the back of the hill

BEAN SPROUT ECHO

2012-01-27T11:27:00.000-08:00

We all have foods that awaken memories. Some dishes, because of many different associations, have a resonance that makes our enjoyment transcend the mere taste alone, uplifting both the ingredients and the experience.

Often these are very simple things, which we don't often think of, and sometimes go for months without eating.

[NOTE: This post is brought to you by yesterday's lunch. Not by Roast Duck, not by Dimsum, not even by Pear Kugel, but by simple take-out food hastily chosen. It was a fortuitous choice. I could have had the halibut instead, but I'm glad I didn't.]

CHOW FUN

A dish available at almost any Cantonese restaurant that caters to office-workers during lunch, and in itself quite simple: chow fun (炒粉) - fried ribbon noodles.
All that's really required are broad flat rice flour noodles made by cutting up steamed plain cheung fan, plus bean sprouts, scallion, and just a little soy sauce. Often beef is added, but it isn't really essential. Other meats can be used instead.

[Note: to make the noodles at home, follow the cheung fan batter recipe here:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/11/left-over-turkey-cheung-fan-rice-flour.html, pouring it out onto the steaming platter thinner than normal, with no filling added. Then cut it into broad strips. They can also be purchased in Chinatown, but may be hard to find elsewhere.]

The key to the dish is timing and heat. The noodles should be unripped, the scallion not browned, the beansprouts perfectly crisp and sweet. It takes a deft hand and a hot pan to do it right.
Good results are heaven, bad results should be tipped into the garbage and not sent out to the customer.
And yes, it really IS something you would be better off not preparing at home, so I shan't even assay a recipe. There are no fail-safe instructions. Get it at a restaurant instead.

It was very good. Perfect aroma too. I wonder if they can do that consistently at the place where I got that portion, or whether it was a fluke.
Obviously I'll have to have it again.

I'll also have to find a place where I can get char kway teow. Probably not anywhere near the financial district, though, as 炒粿條 is pretty much unknown in the United States.
Might even have to make it at home.
I'm very particular about what I like.
Shrimp paste, scallion, bean sprouts, shrimp, soy sauce, pork fat, egg.
Ginger and garlic.
Plus a little chopped ham or charsiu.
With a hefty squeeze of lime juice and a dollop of sambal on the plate.

If I make it, it will be more than one person can eat. Reason being that one egg in a single serving, with the shrimp and porky bits added, presents too much of a good thing. And I do not like to leave half-eggs in the fridge.

Maybe chopped roast duck instead of ham or charsiu.
Still leaves the same problem with the egg.

One plate Char kway teow, with a frothy green drinkie.
Fairly sure that's as close to heaven as you can get.

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LUCK IN A DRAGON YEAR

2012-01-26T12:16:00.000-08:00

An anonymous reader sent me a message using the “letterbox” at the tail of each post.
Obviously, he or she was reading the entry about Chinese New Year and the cleaning which must take place beforehand.

QUOTE:
Help. I am of Irish descent and am aware of most culture celebrations even though I do not celebrate so yesterday Chinese new year on the 23rd I cleaned out my ex's belongings from my house, vacuumed his area and then showered to cleanse myself but then a friend called & freaked that I cannot clean, throw out trash or bath on the first day. How can I reverse this curse. We tried to justify that I did not clean my house but his dirt out. Help, I cannot afford anymore bad luck. Today a van scratched my vehicle. Nothing major but I hope I am not cursed... Thanks
END QUOTE.

I wouldn't worry about it too much. You've already started the year on a different track by getting rid of his detritus, and in the same way that he's out of your life, you've entered a new phase.
Perhaps the switch from one year to the next prompted this, more likely it is time to just move on.

I'm assuming that the breakup was not exactly amicable.
So there's little point in keeping stuff around long after he's gone.

The main reason for a lot of the Chinese New Year practices is to start afresh with all obligations taken care of; the symbolisms are of fortune, comfort, and happiness.
Hence cleaning beforehand, putting on new clothing, giving and receiving red envelopes, plus citrus fruits, candies - in hopes that the next year will be one of surfeit and enough money to take care of the good things in life along with the mental equilibrium to enjoy them.

Many people wish for prosperity, others look forward to success, and some folks simply want everything to continue as it is..... albeit more so.

By making ready for the new year, one is symbolically taking the initiative to have the next twelve months turn out well. Rituals are good ways of preparing oneself mentally for changes, but in very real terms they actually do not have much effect.

The dragon year is supposed to be excellent for business.
Probably also for starting a new relationship.
But all efforts are still up to you.
There are no shortcuts.
Nor amulets.

You could also apply principles of fengshui (風水) if you're really worried about the good luck / bad luck thing.
Frankly speaking, twirling around widdershins at midnight would be much more fun and just as useful.
Symbols are important, but they're just symbols; not facts.
I would suggest just taking an extra day off.
Or having a nice meal by yourself.
It will improve your mood.
That's a first step.

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A FAIR ESTIMATION OF BOBBY BURNS AND HAGGIS

2012-01-25T17:40:00.000-08:00

This evening, probably dozens of people will gather all over the world to commemorate Robert Burns, a versifier whose paltry talents encompassed alliteration and mispronunciation in near-equal nauseating measure.
Some of them will look like Mel Gibson in his madder moments.
Their faces will be painted partially blue.
And they will snarf sheep guts.

BURNS NIGHT

The famous Scots doggerel-meister was born on January 25th.
Seven years after he died, friends gathered to celebrate his life.
As indeed, many misguided Caledonians still do today.
This dubious objective is best achieved by eating haggis.
Which is one of the most monstrous things ever invented.

The Scots produce the finest woolens, tobaccos, and whiskeys.
And there are many wonderful foods in Scotland as well.
So the only logical explanation for haggis is a sado-masochistic streak a mile wide.
That also explains the deep-fried Snickers bars, btw.

Haggis is made by taking lamb 'plucks' (heart, lungs, liver - called 'plucks' because they can be yanked whole out of the animal carcass) and boiling them for several hours, then chopping them fine, adding oatmeal and onion, and finally stuffing the resultant ghastly pulp into a cleaned lamb stomach. After several hours of further steaming, this unmentionable object is brought forth from the incubation room while loud bagpipe music is played.
In order to swallow even a mouthful, you must get drunk first.
Strike that...
Drunk before, drunker during, and totally blotto after.

Vegetarian versions made with tofu are marginally less edible.

I prepared haggis once. The black muck that dripped out of the windpipe which hung over the rim of the cauldron while boiling the lungs fair made me sick.
Apparently it was a damned good haggis too, but I do not regret not eating any part of it.
Fortunately it wasn't my kitchen, or I'd have burned the house down.
Or at least gotten rid of the pots used to prepare the horror.

We invaded Irak for far less reason.
So the Scots had better watch out.

Philosophically, haggis makes complete sense. Especially if you're a Presbyterian, a Puritan, or a sour old prune.
Nice warm woolens? A very good thing.
Bagpipe music? Also a good thing.
Whisky? A mighty good thing!
Haggis provides a necessary contrast to all three of those that will keep you from sinning. There is NO danger of enjoying too much of a good thing when haggis is present. In fact, an excess of haggis will make you wake up screaming every night from the memories.

The quantity must be precisely calibrated to provide the perfect counterpoint.
In my humble estimation, being in the same county as a haggis is plenty.
Anything more, like inhaling the steam or even standing near it, is too much.

Reports indicate that eating haggis makes your voice go up several octaves.
Perfect for Bobby Burn's crappy poetry or the chipmunk song.
Problem is, it's likely to be permanent.

Let's hope that Scotland eventually produces a far better poet, so that we may soon celebrate that man's demise with good whisky, and finally eating something tasty, like partan bree.
Even smoked haddock, crappit head, or Cullen skink.
Anything but haggis!

AFTERTHOUGHT

Massive quantities of whisky will NOT get the taste of that nasty Pictish gut spackle out of one's mouth, or erase the trauma from one's subconscious.
Not even Ardbeg, which smells exactly like run-off from the Tracy tire fire. Ardbeg is a truly excellent Scotch with a horrific flavour which proves my contention that the Scots are sado-masochists.
I cannot think of a better made undrinkable product.

Well, possibly Red Stag could be worse.
But no one sentient touches that.
Nascar fans, perhaps.

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BENEFITS OF LIVING ON A PACIFIC ISLAND

2012-01-25T12:00:00.000-08:00

I pointed out to a friend that there are great advantages to living far from the hurly burly of civilization.
Specifically, thousands of miles from the nearest freeway.

Gefilte fish! One can make gefilte fish with reef fish!
Gefilte fish and challah...... breakfast of champions!

This pursuant a mention of the beautiful pacific island nation of Palau.

Her reaction was not as positive as one might have hoped.

Quote:
Giant flying cockroaches the size of a human thumb.
Lizards on the ceiling.
Whimsical electric power.
Grey chocolate at astronomic prices
2 months to get mail.
No phone for a full year.
Getting a wisdom tooth pulled in a third world dental clinic!
End quote.

Well, yes, those ARE valid issues, I grudgingly admit.
But they do have beer there, and interesting things in the grocery store with which to experiment.
Not only Spam.
Other stuff.

Didn't you at one point try fermented tofu?

I also have it on good authority that the local fauna can go straight into the soup tureen for dinner. So there's no dearth of protein sources.
A balanced diet is almost guaranteed!

ROUSETTE À LA PALAUÂNE

From a friend comes this scrumptious dish sure to be a crowd pleaser at any party - braised fruitbat in tomato and coconut milk with garlic and ginger, black peppercorns, and a dash of palm wine vinegar.
Serve with boiled rice, and some cassava croquettes on the side.
It's a feast!
[Note: modified from the original, to fit your healthy Pacific lifestyle.]

One fruitbat, cut into eight pieces.
One large onion, thinly sliced.
3 to 5 cloves garlic, crushed.
1 thumblength smashed ginger,
½ Tbs. whole Ponape pepper corns.
½ tsp. each: paprika, ground cumin.
4 Tbs. olive oil, plus one extra tablespoon.
1 can (14 ounces) plum tomatoes, drained and chopped.
1 cup chicken stock.
1 cup coconut milk.
2 Tbs. palm vinegar (sukang paombong, available at Philippino stores).
Salt to taste.

Rinse the bat well and pat the pieces dry. Combine the garlic, ginger, paprika, and cumin in a bowl, with one tablespoon of olive oil. Rub this mixture all over the meat, and leave to penetrate for an hour or overnight in the refrigerator.

Heat the four tablespoons of olive oil in a pan, add the onion slices, fry golden and translucent. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside.

Add the bat to the pan and fry on low heat till lightly browned. Return the onion to the pan, add the pepper corns, stir in the tomato and stock, and bring to a boil.
Lower the heat, cover, and simmer for forty five minutes.
Stir in the coconut milk and add the palm vinegar. Continue to simmer, uncovered, for a further fifteen minutes or so, until the fruitbat is tender and the sauce has thickened.
Garnish with some fresh cilantro, and serve.

Alternatively, the following sophisticated treatment is sure to please visiting mainlanders, and impress them with the high standards of your kitchen.

CHRISTIAN MISSION STEWED BAT

One fruitbat, cut into eight pieces.
One onion, chopped.
Two rashers of bacon, chopped.
3 to 5 cloves garlic, crushed.
1 thumblength ginger, smashed.
2 cups chicken stock.
1 cup dry red wine.
1 tsp. brown sugar.
½ tsp. each: dried rosemary, dried thyme.
2 or 3 bay leaves.
Dash of Tabasco.
Salt and ground pepper.

Rinse the bat well and pat the pieces dry. Cook the bacon evenly brown in a large skillet. Drain on paper towels and reserve. Sprinkle your bat with salt and pepper, brown it in the rendered bacon fat. Remove from skillet and set aside.

Fry the onions, garlic, and ginger in the skillet for about 4 minutes, until tender. Be careful not to burn the garlic. Stir in wine and chicken stock. Raise to boil, then stir in sugar, rosemary and thyme, and add the bay leaves and the dash of Tabasco. Return both the bat and the bacon to skillet. When it boils, reduce the heat to low and let simmer about an hour or until the fruit bat is tender.

With a slotted spoon remove the fruitbat pieces from the skillet to a platter. Discard the bay leaves.

The cooking liquid can either be cooked down till velvety as a sauce, or two tablespoons light brown roux can be stirred in to make a gravy.

Serve over boiled rice, with a crisp green salad on the side.
Cabernet is appropriate, or even a robust Pinot Noir.
Merlot is easily overwhelmed by this hearty dish.

FURTHER COOKING WITH BATS

You could als do a Country Captain with fruitbat, and many other American regional recipes can be adapted for memorable dining.
However, Southern fried fruitbat is NOT a good idea.
Try them grilled with barbecue sauce instead.
Aux baies de genièvre, or à l'estragon.
Excellent fricasseed Cajun-style.
Jambalaya or étouffée?
Experiment!

NOTE: some folks might object that fruitbats look too cute, they couldn't possibly eat such lovable and cuddly creatures! How heartrending!
That explains why you should disguise the animal first.
Perhaps this way: "dressed for success".
Cooking is a creative process.
Bon appétit!

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BETTER FOR YOUR SKIN - A GENTLE MAIDEN LIGHTLY DUSTED WITH DRIED RAISINS AND CRUNCHY BITS!

2012-01-24T13:50:00.000-08:00

Underneath a recent post, someone left an intriguing comment: “What, no sugared wahinis?”

I like the concept. Wahini is the Hawaiian word for woman.
Please imagine a female Polynesian person of attractive hue and proportion, delicately dusted with confectioner's sugar.

Looks scrumptious, doesn't it?

SUGARED WAHINIS

My reaction to that comment was in its own way not entirely sane.
Possibly due to the first flush of morning caffeination.
Two strong cups of coffee and a cup of tea.
I was zipped to the eye-brows.
More normal now.

"Or perhaps (dare I hope!), bright young ladies slathered in ghee and honey, ooooh baby baby, with a sprinkling of almonds, crumbled pistachio, saffron essence, powdered cardamom, and rose petals? With very little else?"

See, that there is just too much. Both almonds AND pistachios? Either one or the other, not both. Same goes for the saffron essence and the cardamom.
The rose petals are only a garnish, but because they would undoubtedly adhere to the stickiness, and get soggy from the honey and ghee, not such a bright idea.
Good thing rose petals are edible.

And on thinking about it, I would actually prefer that the young lady be tastefully dressed.
Nude and slathered with ghee and honey rather limits the conversational and social options.
Additionally, the clean-up after being visited by a young lady slathered in ghee and honey (and crumbled nuts) is likely to be nightmarish.
One needn't clean up after sensibly dressed people.

So I retract the suggestion. It was unwise from the get-go.

Slathering a young lady should be a result decided upon by both parties involved, after mature discussion and reflection, and only once all necessary precautions (festive tarpaulin, privacy, and buckets of soapy water, plus handi-wipes) have been arranged. Only then.
Young lady slathering is a possible end game.
Not a good starting point.

If she's slathered from the beginning, all further developments are rather predictable, and both parties are pretty much committed to a very sticky afternoon.
Admittedly including ghee, which is very good.
Still, with all that honey too!
It attracts flies.

The other thing that comes to mind is that with the climate we have in San Francisco, she would probably want to be fully clothed in any case. Baby, it's cold outside! So it's also a question of being warm and comfortable, versus cold, sticky, and shivering in the rain.
Slathering, of any type, will have to wait till spring.
Plus honey and ghee (or molasses and Crisco) will likely drive your dry-cleaning bill through the roof if you slather BEFORE the weather is decent.

As a sane and common-sense alternative, I propose tossing a handful of trail-mix at an attractive well-dressed woman instead.
It's just as exciting, and far healthier.
Much cleaner, too.

I would be most keen to hear my readers' thoughts on this matter.
Naked skin, honey, ghee, almonds and pistachios?
Or warm clothing and trail-mix?
No slathering.

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CHINESE NEW YEAR HAPPINESS

2012-01-23T14:10:00.000-08:00

Today is day one of Chinese New Year. Over the weekend, my roommate, who is Chinese American, insisted that I clean up my clutter and contribute to making the apartment sparkle.

Sparkle, of course, is a relative term.

She stated that if I didn't do so, it would be extremely bad luck.

In order to prepare for the lunar new year, it is customary to do all sweeping, washing, and polishing beforehand, so that for the next few days at least one is not tempted to symbolically eject good luck from the dwelling along with detritus. Even touching a broom is considered dangerous.
Additionally, one should have happy things on hand to add to the festive atmosphere: red decorations, citrus fruits, candies.
These are omens of joy and prosperity.
Avoid ill-fortune in all things

As you may note, not cleaning the house before the new year is not unlucky, but doing so during the new year period is.
I told her as much, and indicated that I was perfectly willing to not do any cleaning whatsoever for the entire two week period. If it depended on me, we would have no bad luck at all.
I could assure her of this.
The "mess" would be undisturbed for the duration.

Mm.

CLEANING

Most of the day yesterday I was busily tidying up and scrubbing the main room, and making considerable headway. As I was finishing the task after dinner, she took a bath. Bathing, too, is considered bad luck on the first day or two, as one could wash off new year's good fortune, and flush wealth down the drain.
While she bathed, I was on the floor removing odds and ends.

After the bath she scooted down the hall to her room.
Only when it was far too late did she notice me on the floor in a direct line of sight.

"Aaaack! You were NOT supposed to see me naked!"

"Oh, I don't mind."

"Hmmmph!!!"

We used to be romantically involved with each other. Now we simply live together as friends.
Why should I mind accidental exposure?
It's a nice view.

That too is exceptionally good luck for the new year.

Later she admonished me to wash my dishes, even the spoons I had used for tea.

"So we can leave stuff in the sink tomorrow, and be as dirty as we want to be."

"I can do that."

"I know!"

In case you were wondering, she also bathed this morning, having plumb forgotten about the restriction.
No, I was not in a direct line of sight, as I was attending to my 'festive first cup of coffee' of the year.

I also showered today. But that is because MY superstition holds that going to work all smelly and unshaven is extremely bad luck.

* * * * *

I wish all my readers a happy new year and tons of good fortune.
May lots of wealth and happiness come your way.
Good luck and get fabulously rich.
新年快樂, 萬事如意!

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SEE THIS NOW: CANTONESE GIRLS IN SAN FRANCISCO, WOMBATS IN THONGS, PALE FAT FISH, AND OTHER THINGS

2012-01-22T12:40:00.000-08:00

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you may be wondering what kind of person writes this garbage.
Who is ‘At The Back of the Hill’ (ATBOTH), and what goes on in his mind?
Is he really both sanity-challenged AND the club bore?

Yes.

Affirmative to all of the above.

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL DETAILS

The short version is that I was born in Hawthorne General Hospital via a Caesarian in 1959, spent slightly over two years in El Secundo (Southern California), and then we all moved to the Netherlands. My father, who was a WWII Royal Canadian Air Force bomber pilot and an aeronautical engineer; my mother, a former radioman in the Waves (women serving in the US Navy during WWII) and a language scholar; my brother, a bright young man who was four years old at the time; and myself, a loud two-and-a-half year old whose most memorable accomplishment up till then had been pissing in my father's eye when he changed my diapers.

[I heard about the eye-pissing incident several times, every year. So much that I have taken it and made it my own. Boastfully so. Yes. It was me. I did it. With great force and determination. Oh gallant bladder! Nu.]

After a few years in Bussum and Naarden, we moved to Valkenswaard, a lively village with cigar factories and a surfeit of drinking establishments near the Belgian border. There were other expats there, mostly Indo-Dutch exiles.
Other than a vibrant night life it was a culturally rather empty place. Despite my general distaste for much that is Dutch, because of Netherlandish attitudes towards Americans, I nevertheless think back fondly to the town. Some of the people there were marvelously insightful, human, and twisted.

When I was eighteen I returned to the United States, nominally to get an education. Dropped out of college in the eighties, worked first at a tobacconist, later as a draughtsman. For a while I was employed as a cashier and bookkeeper at an Indian restaurant. Have been doing credit and collections since the early nineties.

In the eighties and nineties I travelled a bit. South-East Asia mostly.
I've also visited Canada a couple of times and I've been back to the Netherlands.

I currently live within walking distance of Grace Cathedral, San Francisco Chinatown, and North Beach. Also Polk Street and the Tenderloin.
I often eat alone, though NOT by choice.
I am not as happy as I was a few years ago, but I am not bitter.
If anything at all, I am forward-looking.

Pipesmoker. Early fifties. Not overweight.
Somewhat multi-lingual, but let's not exaggerate it.
Animals I most identify with: Badgers, Toads, Raccoons, Crows, and Penguins. In exactly that order.

Favourite authors: Vladimir Nabokov. Somerset Maugham. Joyce Cary. Evelyn Waugh.
As well as J. P. Dunleavy, John Irving, Anthony Trollope, Jane Austen, and Wyndham Lewis. Plus Kipling and Simenon.

Are there any questions? Please note that there will NOT be a test.

Now, you may have seen various subjects on this blog that made you wonder: wombats, nudity, fish, tobacco, and food.

WOMBATS

Strictly a metaphor. Or an intellectual conceit of sorts.
Back in 2008, after a slew of comments by various people that prominently mentioned wombats, I wrote a post entitled now more wombat than ever, in which I presented what little I knew of the bad tempered marsupial. It was not enough. Later I wrote baggy boxers, where I cited one of my readers, who postulated that "The petite Asian schoolgirl blushed prettily when she realized the wombat had made off with her panties... what would she do, with an elderly rabbi about to arrive for Torah study (which, under no circumstances, would involve Jeebus)."
The mental image thus created is enchanting. Surely you too can imagine a rambunctious wombat gleefully stealing silken garments?
Throw in an aged Torah-scholar, a sweetly blushing young miss, and a lovely crisp autumn evening, and you have something very good indeed.

"The petite Asian schoolgirl blushed prettily when she realized the wombat had made off with her panties... what would she do, with an elderly rabbi about to arrive for Torah study (which, under no circumstances, would involve Jeebus)."

Jeebus, step away from the panties!

Pervert!

Wombats have cropped up here occasionally since then.
Most recently in 'a silken camisole'.
I still have not eaten one.

NUDITY

The bathing post, naked middle-aged white man, turned out to be a magnet. Since then, any number of people looking for naked middle-aged white men, naked middle-aged women, naked weightlifters, naked fat gangsters, and similar subjects, have happily pounced upon my blog, only to drift away disconsolately after realizing that there were no photos.
No, I will not put up a picture of anything in any way relating to these subjects. If you want to see a naked middle-aged white man, you shall have to be in my apartment when I take a bath. We can talk while I soak.

[I feel safe making this offer, as the vast majority of searches for 'Naked Middle-Aged White Men' originate in Australia, with the Gulf States a distant second, and Germany making up the remainder. Wombats and their kin are experiencing a drought of naked middle-aged white males - or it may be that the concept appeals to them on a multitude of esthetic levels - but no one else has quite the same burning itch.]

Other than that, nudity is sometimes mentioned, occasionally dwelt upon, but an unimportant theme overall.
I like nudity, and would like it to happen fairly frequently.
But there really isn't much to say about it.
Feel free to prove me wrong.

FISH

Actually, not fish so much as degenerates finding my blog by means of eccentric search criteria.
One of which shows them a seafood post.

Years ago I wrote in-depth about herring. Anyone who grew up in the Netherlands probably loves this fish.

The favoured version in the Netherlands is groene haring ('green herring'), which is nearly raw by American standards.

Curing is by removal of the gills, throat, and internal organs, with the exception of the alvlees klier ('pancreas'), whose enzymes will help tenderize the fish. Following that it is lightly salted and packed in a cold place to ripen.
The more salt is used, the longer it can be ripened.
The method used by the Dutch and Flemish for herring was discovered by Willem Beukelszoon Van Biervliet in 1380.

It is often served with chopped onions, or itself coarse chopped and incorporated in a salad (“gehakte haring”, “haring sla”), although fish-mongers also sell it breaded for pan-frying. Bread and herring is delicious.
If at a buffet, good rye bread, pickles, onions, and ice-cold Genever (Dutch-style gin) might be served alongside.

[ADDENDUM: The Japanese use herring and similar fish in sushi, most notably mackerel. Like herring, mackerel is fine and fatty, but while the meat of herring is rather buttery, that of mackerel is oily. There is, consequently, a profound difference in mouth-feel, especially when raw. Because of this, and differences in texture and density, the fish can spoil quickly; it must be eaten soon after capture.
For sushi, a very mild cure for the mackerel (to prolong edibility) is common. Taste-wise, it strongly echoes Dutch-style herring, which is also lightly cured. There is even a similarity of appearance, though the flesh looks softer and less glistensome, and has a yellower hue. It is close enough, and hence very nice.]

The 'tempting' post in question, fat green virgins, proved to be electric.
Just imagine what kind of customer was attracted by that name.
Since then other titles have ensnared their own fan clubs.

You can see the entire slew of fetishes here: PERVERT TAUNTING.

'Pervert taunting' is the label for a series of articles in which I entertain myself at the expense of unfortunate internet hogs.
I've enjoyed it. Maybe they have too.
If they have a sense of humour.

TOBACCO, AND FOOD

Both of these subjects have their own rubrics. Tobacco is best represented by TOBACCO INDEX, which contains a complete list of all tobacco-related posts, briefly described, with links to each article.

And food crops up all over the place.
Useful food labels are: FOOD, 真好食 (chan ho sik: good to eat), Chinese Food, My food, 菜譜 (choi pou: recipes), 雲吞 (wantan: won ton), 腸粉 (cheung fan: ricesheet noodle), and Indo food.

Many of the recipes are also posted on COOKING WITH A LIZARD, but not yet all. My intent is to eventually have all recipes posted there for useful reference, with links to the original article.

AFTER WORD

As far as what other subjects interest me, if they aren't anywhere on the blog itself, they're represented by the blogroll to the right. These are links to the sites of people who write well, and whose blogs I enjoy reading. Many of them are exceptionally knowledgeable.
Exceptions being of course the newspapers.

I'm always curious about my readers. Other than the regulars who have by their feedback given me a good idea what kind of people they are and what interests them (and thank you guys for your company and frequent wit and insight), I don't really know much about you.
Please leave comments, or contact me via my letterbox (below) to introduce yourselves.

Also feel free to ask me about other things you've seen here, or, if you wish to bring them to the attention of someone else, for a link to a post.

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THOSE MANLY BUTTERFLIES IN THE SALES DEPARTMENT

2012-01-21T20:12:00.000-08:00

When I called a customer in Miami about a past-due bill, he asked me what was new in San Francisco, and whether he would see me at the upcoming tradeshow in New York.
I have a good relationship with many of my customers. They understand that collection calls are a normal part of doing business, and many of them are fascinating intelligent people.
We've known each other for years, and get along well.

If you think about it, I get paid to read and yack on the phone all day.

THE FABULOUS TRADE SHOW

But I shall not be going to New York.
No one sends a beancounter cross-country when there are so many bright-eyed bushy-tailed salesmen who just love going to tradeshows in New York.
That's what they were born for.
And, truth be told, they are so much better at going to New York than us financial types, that it's a stroke of marvelous luck that there actually is a tradeshow there.
I don't know what they'd do otherwise.

While the sales dudes will, according to my customer in Miami, be ploughing through all the free champagne and caviar in between lighting up their expensive cherry-flavoured coronas and trading off-colour jokes, those of us left in San Francisco will be slowly gliding through the empty office with our steaming mugs of Celebes coffee or Keemun tea, dreamily humming to ourselves as we enjoy the silence.

It will be so quiet!

All the noisy people will be in New York.

The rest of us must enjoy this luxury while it lasts. Bring our fuzzy blankets, and perhaps a chafing dish to work. Barbecue a wild-animal caught on Market Street in an empty cubicle, leaving streaks of soot and drawings of the hunt in ochre, Sienna, and umber, on the walls.
Right next to the illustration boasting that "Kilroy was here".

How languorous, how peaceful!

Let us swan and flutter!

Should we light a bonfire in the conference room and dance madly?
While the sales dudes are in New York?
Should we take illicit intoxicants and engage in fits of wantonness?
While the sales dudes are in New York?
Should we put on amateur theatricals in which we all get to play the tragic heroine one after the other, men and women alike, wearing ribbons and pastel gossamers that trail behind us for romantic effect?
While the sales dudes are in New York?

Have a jolly time in New York, guys.
Enjoy the champagne and caviar.
And the flavoured stogies.

I hope it snows.

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THE ONE ON THE LEFT IS ESPECIALLY DANGEROUS!

2012-01-20T11:15:00.000-08:00

A good friend has two bunny rabbits. Bunnies make excellent pets, in that they are warm and huggable, calm around children, and in all ways loveable.
Not these two.
They are rabbits from the dark side.
Well-versed in the depravity of Mordor and their liege Sauron.

Horrible creatures.
So far these monsters have wrecked several computers, chewed through priceless carpets and cardboard boxes, bullied the cat, and left dirty pots and pans in the kitchen.
These are not your momma’s bunnies, from the Beatrix Potter tales.

NICE BIG FUR BALL

Many years ago several of the ex-employees of a company I shall call “Poison Lilly Hard Drives” threw a Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker appreciation party. Bring your own booze, and wear something fake.
I came armed with a bottle of tequila and an unspeakable garment.
After an hour in the backroom with the hardcore computer geeks, I went into the main room where the other people were – everyone who ever worked for Poison Lilly, most of whom had gotten fired since the owner started putting his expensive cars up his nose – and took up residence on the couch, watching Clockwork Orange on the television.

I spent from eight o'clock in the evening till six thirty the following morning on that couch.
With the bottle of tequila and a huge fluffy bunny rabbit on my chest.
Clockwork Orange was on permanent loop, replaying all night.
Watched it obsessively while finishing the tequila.

Happiness is a warm bunny.

My friend’s bunny rabbits are nothing like that. They were rescue rabbits, adopted from the shelter. They aren’t very social animals, and display symptoms of shell-shock, and strange neuroses. But they are extremely clever.
They’ve escaped from every containment and enclosure that has been tried, and wrecked most of the house in doing so.
These are the Alcatraz prison yard psychos among the bunnies.

I can imagine the Beatrix Potter rabbits happily co-operating with each other, and with the humans of their surroundings. Perhaps preparing a pot of tea or a nice green salad snack. Maybe even sitting in front of the hearth twiddling their toes while eating buttered toast.
What I see these two doing is constructing improvised explosive devices and smuggling machine guns.
Rabbit-sized machine guns.

I really must applaud my friend’s strength and character for putting up with these two furball terrorists for so long.
Were it me, I would have made a rabbit stew by now.
Parsley, peppercorns, garlic, and wine.
Lapin a la Bourguignonne.

Cooking is fun.

Happiness is a warm bunny.

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WHAT TO LOOK FOR IN A WOMAN

2012-01-19T12:06:00.000-08:00

The other day a new reader found a post on this blog and was horribly offended by some glib off the cuff remark about Philippinas.
She left a comment inviting me to intercourse myself.
Oh dear.

I’m a sensitive man, and hurt by her anger.

Not because the proposed course of action would be infinitely less satisfying for me than a similar exercise could be for her (and I have some 'creative' suggestions which might make that truly stupendous), but because she may have incorrectly perceived a degree of dislike towards her kind in my remark.

I'm actually quite fond of Philippinas, truly.

Some of my very best friends.......

Maraming apologies, po.

Look, the nature of an anonymous soapbox like this blog is that glib and possibly undiplomatic things will occasionally be said.
Even about women.

Over the years I've learned, through exposure, experience, and keen observation, that there are very many women I should avoid.

Among those are Philippinas.
I admire their brash over-confidence, their brazeness, and their ability to get their own way and twist their men-folk around their little finger, but as a group they are probably the most shark-like bipeds on the planet.
Individually they can often be charming.
Dangerous but charming.

Others I refuse to get close to are women with tattoos, fingernail polish and too much make-up, and a disturbingly profound knowledge of clothes, shopping, Hello Kitty, shopping, south of Market clubs, shopping, celebrities, shopping, Real Housewives of New Jersey/Atlanta/Beverly Hills, shopping, the Kardasians, shopping, handbags, shopping, footwear, shopping, Macy's, shopping, the Westfield Mall, shopping, designer discount outlets, and shopping.

Yes, that IS a perfect description of Philippinas!

Well, except for the tattoos - those belong to stupid chicks who are unique individuals whom we should worship for being so totally unique my heavens how unique can you get.
They COULD be Philippinas. But they're mostly white.

Basically, given how many feminine things are on my blacklist, I might be described as a misogynist.
Except that I really do like women.

Women so engrossed in a book that they don't notice anything else.
Women closing their eyes in bliss while eating.
Women who defend their opinions.
Women of character.

I also like Philippino food.
Fortunately I know enough about it, and how to cook it, that there is no need whatsoever to associate with women from the Philippines.
Philippino food is some seriously good stuff.

Some of my very best friends aren't Philippinas.

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CRUISING FOR WELLNESS

2012-01-18T19:28:00.000-08:00

Many news sites have been featuring updates on the saga of the Costa Concordia, that being the ship that ran aground recently and capsized.

In all the hullabaloo, some crucial details are being entirely overlooked.

There were FIVE restaurants on board.

Five!

That's a heck of a lot of dining which was disrupted.

The two main restaurants are the Milano and the Roma, the two premium restaurants are the Concordia and the Ristorante Samsara. Apparently in the latter the food and fabulous crystal and porcelain are to die for.

Wait, strike that. Bad choice of words.

Heavenly!

Errm...

Anyhow, I've heard that in addition to fine Italian cuisine, the food had "an international flavour".
Succulent and seductive were the terms used.

Scallops. Veal. Turbot. Lamb chops.

The problem is that the food served is an "Epicurean Discovery of Wellness", with the selection "following the Samsara philosophy", which means low calories, salt, and fat, plus ayurvedic something or other.

IT IS SO VERY MEANINGFUL!

Ayurvedic? Wellness? What I'm hearing here is fashionably hip mumbo jumbo with a fancy name, meant to appeal to deeply mysterious and spiritual beings who are in tune with the universe.
Self-impressed white bourgeois snobs, in other words.
The folks who confuse karma and dogma.

Probably "talented and creative" too.

Betcha they trimmed the fat off the chops.

What the heck is wellness anyhow?
And why can't it involve globs of butter?
Béarnaise sauce, crispy fries, and fatty cuts of meat.
Or a nice big soul-satisfying serving of Homard Sauté à la Crème.

As a nod to the health nuts, I'll allow that the cream be reduced by half BEFORE the butter-seethed lobster is simmered therein. Culinarily that actually makes much more sense.
And, for those people who are sensitive to alcohol, the cognac and sherry should be flamed first, then added.

[Personally, I prefer to serve this dish either with buttered tagliatelle (garnished with chive and parsley), or mounded over a huge pile of crispy garlic fries.]

Extra cognac and sherry can be served on the side.
Along with MORE butter.
And some salt.

Plus hotsauce.

Bon gusto.

If you wish to offer an alternative point of view, please do so. Just try to refrain from channeling for a twenty thousand year old Inca princess while you do.

DISCLAIMER: Despite what may seem like a cavalier disregard for the people who did not survive, I actually feel deeply for them and their loved ones.
I just wish they had enjoyed more honest dining, rather than pretentious sod cooking cynically calculated to max out their credit cards in a feel-good bit of culinary prestidigitation.
Cruises, ideally, are about eating richly, screwing random English members of the opposite sex in between playing charades in the lounge and observing cleavage, late-night intoxication with doubtful acquaintances, and dumping the body of an elderly businessman overboard.
Oh, and froofy drinks.
Especially the drinks.

Obviously I have never been on a cruise.
I was on the Bay once. Does that count?

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DIRTY HUNGARIANS

2012-01-18T12:02:00.000-08:00

The other day I mentioned to someone that the only phrase in my language that my ex-girlfriend ever mastered was “mag ik alstublieft een haring hebben met uitjes" (may I please have a herring with onions).
As an example of Dutch, it is probably one of the most useful phrases ever.
It gets you exactly what you want.

老實講, 我隻氣墊船裝滿晒鱔!

There are several phrases which you should probably NEVER bother learning in a foreign language.

"Where is the bathroom?"

Seriously, if you need to ask that question in Russian, the answer you receive may be less than helpful.
Please don't ask where the bathroom is in their language until you have memorized "the nearest reasonably safe water closet is three blocks up Tvaletskaya Street here, then around the corner to your left, right up an unmarked flight of steps and open the door at the top, and please be sure to leave a couple of kopecks in the tin plate for the attendant ".
You could just go back to the hotel.
Public peeing is a serious problem in many countries.

"I demand to speak to the U.S. consular official!"

That is easy, comrade - he's in the next cell.

"How much is that in real money?!?"

Let's see...... zvantzig kopeck is four hundred and thirty dollars in 'real' money.
Now, will that be cash or credit card?

ANGOLNAALAKÚAK!

According to the internet, the most universally useful phrase in ANY language is "my hovercraft is full of eels".

Min luftputerfartug ar gans fild mit ahl! Mijn luchtkussenboot zit vol paling! Havercrafteman pore mārmāhi ast! Lutakujababot oba binon fulik senkafitas!
Meyn shveybshif iz ful fun veyners! Min luftdümpetbüüdj as ful ma äil!
Habakrap bilong me em i pulap tumas long liklikpela snek bilong solwara!

Or, in the original Hungarian:
LupDujHomwIj lubuy'moH gharghmey!

I have NO doubt that it pleases the Flemings immensely that their national fish made the grade, whereas the noble herring doesn't even rank.

Hmmph.

Who knew that Hungarians were so fond of eel?

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WOMBAT IN A SILKEN CAMISOLE

2012-01-17T12:04:00.000-08:00

You know I check my blog stats, right? So I can see what some of you are looking for.

What I want to know is what kind of person searches the internet for “wombat underwear”.

No, I'm not judgmental. As far as I can guess, there is NO odd perversion or depraved role-playing associated with Wombat Underwear.
It sounds like a perfectly clean interest.

Perhaps the Japanese, who are infinitely creative about fetishes, are on the brink of inventing a new obsession to follow the small breasts - no breasts - big breasts - enormous carnivorous breasts - no kinky hair - huge jungle - cat ears - fox ears - Victorian era maid uniform - school uniform - outer space super hero uniform - etcetera fetishes.
But it strikes me that they would input the search criteria in their own language.

ウォンバットの肌着

Wombats are short-legged, well-muscled, quadrupedal Australian marsupials, nearly forty inches in length, with a short, stubby tail. They are very bad tempered. Their posteriors are made of cartilage.
How that last datum fits in with wombat underwear is unclear.

I do not believe that wombats even wear underwear as a matter of course.
When your rump is rigid, it probably chafes severely.

Nor is it particularly likely that lady wombats commonly wear panties (possible 女性ウォンバットのパンティー in Japanese), though if they were wandering down the street in Tokyo (東京) or Kyoto (京都), they might, just to fit in.
Australians have been known to do crazy things.
Even when it chafes.

So I doubt that whoever inputted the term "wombat underwear" into their search engine is more than incidentally Japanese.

TASTEFUL WOMBAT LINGERIE

I really wish I could help the person searching for wombat underwear.
But alas, I have no clue where to find ANY wombat underwear, delicious or not, nor what it would even look like. Perhaps you should just design your own? Be sure to leave a hole for the short stubby tail. That's probably extremely important - an uncomfortable wombat is likely to be a disgruntled wombat.
They can be very bad-tempered, don't forget.

If you are curious about HUMAN underwear, I can help you.
After all, I wear that myself! Fairly often, too.
No, I shan't provide photographic evidence of this assertion, but under certain very limited circumstances I could be induced to prove it.
Please use the convenient "letter box" below for inquiries.
Be sure to include your e-mail address; who knows, I might actually respond.

In answer to an unposed question, I have not touched silk in a long time.
But that's probably neither here nor there.

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MASLOW'S HIERARCHY REVISITED... STRIKE THAT... IGNORED COMPLETELY

2012-01-16T14:15:00.000-08:00

A while back I lightheartedly gave my own views on my hierarchy of needs.
This past weekend I have thought about precisely that subject, and consequently have a much better idea of what is truly essential to make my life vastly better.
Riotously enjoyable, in fact.

FIVE NEEDS

1. A multi-million dollar winning lottery ticket.
2. A girlfriend.
3. Another Comoy’s Blue Riband.
4. A stupendous ‘super-burrito’.
5. World peace.

Now, people who know me will no doubt ask about the last three items. Somehow, they don’t seem that important...... surely there has been some mistake?
Do those things really rank in any hierarchy?

I assure you that the Comoy’s Blue Riband is ESSENTIAL.
I already have twelve of them, one of which has never been smoked. Comoy in London made exceptionally nice pipes, and really had an eye for the classic shape. Not even Dunhill made better pipes than the Blue Riband series, though Dunhill sneeringly referred to other pipe factories as “that damned Jew” (Charatan), “that bunch of smelly Wops” (Sasieni), “the drunken Irish bastards” (Kapp & Peterson), or, in the case of Comoy and Chapuis-Comoy, “those stinking unwashed frogs”.
Dunhill, you probably understand, was the archetype of lower middle class mercenary snob, obsequiously greasing the posteriors of the ruling classes.

Comoy, on the other hand...... Damned fine pipes! Especially the Blue Riband. During the early eighties, Comoy made about twenty of them, after a hiatus of nearly a decade when wood of that quality was not found.
Eight were made available to the North American market.

The stupendous burrito (con carnitas y salsa picante, sin frijoles por favor) has already been taken care of.
It was delicious!

World Peace is just not likely, but I’m high-minded so I had to include it.

The winning lottery ticket would be very nice, and would take care of both item no. three (the Blue Riband) and a repeat of item no. four (the burrito).

The girlfriend is definitely a ‘need’. I know that Tzipporah (regular reader of this blog) insists that what I really truly need in lieu of such a thing is a cat, but never the less I think I would vastly prefer the girlfriend.
Albeit with some catlike characteristics.
Playfulness, perhaps. And the ability to enjoy dozing next to me all afternoon, purring happily.
A creature with a zest for food, petting, and nuzzling.
Happy kittens add so much to life.

One the whole, I think this list is achievable, realistic even.
Well, except for world peace, that is.
That's a pipe-dream.

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THE ABILITY TO MOVE ON

2012-01-15T18:50:00.000-08:00

The food was good, but I daydreamed throughout the meal. There was new year's festival music on the speaker system in the restaurant, and I could not help but remember when.....

Actually, I’ve been in a mijmering-mood all weekend. Remembering people who used to be important in my life, and though they no longer live, still are important.
My mother, who passed away in 1977. My grandmother, 1981. My father, 1990. My brother, and my father's second wife, 1993.
I miss them all. And I'm grateful that I knew them.

Of course, I also miss our cats.
Baines, a big fluffy tomcat who loved music. When my brother played an instrument, Baines would come from the bottom of the garden running all the way up to the house.
Dorothy, who was adventurous and very affectionate.
Her daughter Narnia figured out how to open and close doors - we didn't discover this till one day she brought her babies inside. A brilliant and creative puss indeed.
Narnia's grandkittens, however, were goofy. Quite likely the feline genetic stock in that part of the world was getting exhausted.

FELINE DREAMS

This morning I reread both volumes of a manga about a cat who several years after her death comes back as the twin-sister of her human, who is now in the last year and a half of high school. The cat looks in every way like a sibling....... except that she still has cat ears.
Oh, and big breasts, unlike her flat-chested sister. Gotta keep the teenage boy-audience entertained, even though it is a manga meant for girls.
There is no fan-service. No revealing nudity, no gratuitous views of panties or cleavage. No sexual innuendo. The one male high-school student who crops up in the lives of the two girls is clearly a geek, and NOT a love interest.
The story line, told through sometimes baffling four-panel strips, is aimed clearly at females.
The ending is extremely touching.
It brought tears to my eyes.
I admit to being a softie.

Actually, their home-room teacher is the most intriguing part of the tale. She's a dysfunctional gambling addict, whose teaching-subject is world history. But she is not above using her students grades as suggestions for lottery tickets, and when one of her colleagues invites her for cherry-blossom viewing, she arm-twists him to go to the race track instead. At one point she encourages cheating on tests to make it more likely that she'll win a bet. Her view of ethics is that as no bribes were involved, and there is plausible deniability, her hands are clean.

The twin-sister who is a cat is, unfortunately, not the best student in class by a wide margin.
It is her problem with tests which highlights the teacher's moral failings.

As I said, the end is touching. It is a fitting and happy conclusion to the tale, but it results in the other characters' memories of the cat-girl's previous two years among them being erased, and her friendship with them having to start anew.
The cat-sister does not remember either.
But the human sister cannot forget.

Memories bring sadness. Memories also give one pleasure.
Memories create a sense of belonging, of stability.

Without memory, nothing is new.

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ALABAMA SONG

2012-01-14T20:30:00.000-08:00

One of the first songs I learned at my mother's knee was NOT, as you may have thought, The Winnipeg Whore, or The Harlot of Jerusalem ('kafoozalem'). Close, but no stogey.
Not even The Ring Dang Doo, Cocaine Joe And Heroin Sue, or The Foggy Foggy Dew.

OH MOON OF ALABAMA...

The song was written not by Bertolt Brecht, as commonly believed, but by Brecht's friend and collaborator Elisabeth Hauptman while they were working together in 1925.
It was set to music by balding odd-looking musical genius Kurt Weill in 1927.
Probably known best as sung by Lotte Lenya in The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny ('Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny'), though since then it has been covered by numerous artists.

One of the better know versions is sung by Jim Morrison of the doors.
"Oh show us, the way, to the next whiskey bar..... oh don't ask why, oh don't ask why. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar, oh don't ask why, oh don't ask why.
For if we don't find the next whiskey bar, I tell you we must die, I tell you we must die, I tell ya, I tell ya, I tell you we must die!"

THE WHISKEY BOWL
A remarkably sane and clean looking Morrison sings the song at the Hollywood Bowl in 1968.

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_d_VJbYAfc.]

Obviously, that wasn't the version I first heard. What was on the victrola during my childhood was the Kurt Weill - Berthold Brecht - Lotte Lenya version. It was..... disturbingly sinful and sleazy. I didn't know why, but it disquieted me. Perhaps the note of hopelessness and forlorn searching for just another depravity underlying the text made me feel that way, perhaps the angstigkeit of Lotte's voice.

It wasn't till I saw a performance of Mahagony at the Stadsschouwburg in Eindhoven that the song really clicked. Heck, the entire opera clicked, big time!
When the ramshackle vehicle with the widow Begbick and her two desperate cohorts tootles onto the stage and promptly craps-out, life really starts.

SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE OFFICE

As I type this, it is 8:20 PM on a Saturday evening. In another few minutes I shall load up my pipe and head out to the only bar in San Francisco where one may smoke. It is around the corner from the office. There will be whiskey there.
And, karmicly-speaking, the widow Begbick too.
But it will be the harlot Jenny Smith whose voice will echo in my ear, singing the Alabama Song, searching for liquor, loot, and pretty boys.

I'll put up with the cheap cigar smoke from the Alaskan miners.
Small price to pay for a daydream.

NOTE: One of my father's favourite songs, which I also liked, was Surabaya Johnny.

"Ich war jung, gott, erst sechzehn Jahre, du kamest von Birma herauf....."

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LOVE OTTERS

2012-01-13T16:30:00.000-08:00

I read today that the surviving Vancouver zoo otter made famous by the youtube clip had passed away.
Milo died Wednesday January 11 of lymphoma, three years after his mate Nyac succumbed to lymphocytic leukemia.
Both Vancouver and Youtube are in mourning.

Of course you remember the clip - it was circulated around the world.

HANDHOLDING OTTERS
Milo and Nyac.

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epUk3T2Kfno.]

Otters are personable animals, and despite some crazy behaviour it is hard to believe that they are not human, as the following clip demonstrates.

DANCING OTTERS
A chorus line.

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmaJmpfQURU.]

If that doesn't remind you of your relatives......

The next two clips, however, show that otter behaviour takes some charmingly rambunctious forms.
If you are a prude, or severely disapprove of little furry heretics having more fun than you, you should probably not watch either clip.

MOIST LOVE
Safe for work. Two otters that live at Lisbon's Oceanarium float around making out.

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GSDnp57LZ3o&feature=related.]

HAPPY OTTER SEX
If these were your neighbors, they'd keep you up all night with their passionate love-making.

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3N2DIj4vVNA.]

Yes, technically that last clip is pornography.
Hard core silken-furred wriggling sex; rampant, passionate, lively.
Heavens, how those two enthusiastically get their fur on!
It's the kind of videographic naughtiness that leaves you envious of creatures covered with soft dark pelts.

Just admit it. In your next life, you want to come back as an otter.
Perhaps not for the boisterous sex, but definitely for the charm.

Oh heck, ALSO for the boisterous sex.
Such happy connubulating.
And zesty tails!

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ADVICE FOR ROMANTICS

2012-01-13T11:00:00.000-08:00

Further to what he calls my 'dating crisis', one of my readers has kindly forwarded "an advice column".
In fact there is no crisis. Because there is no dating.
If there were dating, there might be a crisis.

My life at present is frustratingly crisis-free.

Anyhow, he states that I could do worse than to imitate a male pisauridian, conveniently overlooking the disturbing dietary preferences of the female.

A WORTHWHILE EXAMPLE

QUOTE:
"Researcher Maria Jose Albo of Denmark's Aarhus University told Live Science in November that the spiders typically obtain sex by making valuable "gifts" to females (usually, high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk), but if lacking resources, a male cleverly packages a fake gift (usually a piece of flower) also in silk but confoundingly wound so as to distract her as she unwraps it -- and then mounts her before she discovers the hoax. Albo also found that the male is not above playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard as she approaches the "carcass" -- only to be jumped from behind for sex. "
END QUOTE.

[Source: http://news.yahoo.com/news-weird-100002251.html.]

His suggestion is that I can learn from this.

I hate to tell him, but I am not a spider, and none of the women I would ever be interested in desires "high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk".
It does sound charming, though. I mean the silk-wrapping.....
Humans are also interested in gift-wrap.

On the other hand, playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard and approaching, while sly, seems more than a little off kilter.

A ravenous carrion-eating female should probably not be trifled with.

Perspectives may change after the zombie-apocalypse.

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SERIOUSLY THINKING ABOUT DATING A PERSON OF THE OPPOSITE GENDER

2012-01-12T12:05:00.000-08:00

A friend asked, pursuant my recent vitriolic comments about the female of the species, whether I was indeed determined to avoid seeing women in this new year.
To which the answer naturally is "of course not".
Should some young lady whom I would like to know come across my path, dating could be a mighty good thing.

It IS a possibility. Don't laugh.

The problem of course is getting to that point, and explaining myself.

Suppose, for instance, that her father asks me what my plans are with his precious little girl.
Yes, I know, that's a very old-fashioned idea. Most parents nowadays have absolutely no influence over their grown children's thoroughly rotten decisions, and most youthful adults consider their parents dreadful busy-bodies who only exist to bankroll the extravagances of their offspring.
Never the less, imagining this stage is a useful exercise, because it prepares one for actually communicating one's motives, as well as clarifying what one expects.
It isn't entirely unrealistic either, as many women do have parents or other concerned relatives.

[Dating orphans is probably out of the question, since I'm no longer allowed anywhere near Madame Fetiche's Home for Christian Damsels in Upper Whipping-Birch. Something about little miss Sachet returning to the dorm somewhat the worse for wear.]

So, let's say I've rung the doorbell, and while young Mathilda is putting on her best frock and pearls upstairs, her old man has handed me a glass of sherry and a cigar.
We're in the parlour, and the question is sternly posed:

"Young man, what precisely are your intentions towards my daughter?"

What on earth do I say?

"I plan to wine her, dine her, and ravish her fine young body."
No. Obviously this is a bad answer.
For one thing, many modern girls can outdrink this blogger by a fare-thee-well, and I would fear for my life should I even attempt this. Might wake up in an ice-cube filled bath tub with one of my kidneys missing.
Daddy's little girl can hold her own.

"We're going out to the drive-in, where I shall grope her in the back seat, sir."
Equally bad. Quality young ladies do NOT go to drive-in movie theaters on foot (necessitated because I do not own a car). Come to think of it, there are no drive-ins in San Francisco, so even the idea of renting a 1960's station wagon for this experiment is absurd.

"Strictly honourable, sir. Any crazy shit is up to her."
That right there shows the insanity of dating. Best behaviour and tension meet the unrealistic expectations of both parties head-on, and the terrifying results make for a zany and entertaining romantic movie comedy, but bad real life drama.
Woody Allen has already covered that territory, and it was very painful.

More reassuring answers involving reading scripture together, taking in a school play, or visiting the sick are also out of the question. Not because they're unbelievable, but because I could not possibly keep my face straight while delivering them.

WHAT DO PEOPLE DO ON DATES?

I actually haven't been on a date in over twenty years. So at this point, I haven't a clue what goes on during such things nowadays.
Back then, it always seemed so fraught, and many women relied on the man to guess EXACTLY what they wanted to do.
That still may be the case.

Left to my own devices I would suggest that we do something like go out to eat at a quiet place, enjoy good food together, then have a walk around Nob Hill and Russian Hill.
There are marvelous views there, and several lovely streets.
In particular I like the stretch of Hyde between Jackson and Vallejo, because of the trees lining it on both sides, and the friendly glow from the various eateries. Clay between Jones and Leavenworth has golden leaved Gingko trees at present, that too is very nice.
If it's still early in the evening, we could then go to the Russian Hill Bookstore and browse.

Either that, or possibly first head out to a coffee shop, then to the Asian Art Museum. There's a lovely bronze container in the shape of a rotund rhinoceros in the collection that always brings a smile to the face of whoever sees it, and a number of other fine items including some paintings by Sung masters.
After which, perhaps some dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant and a leisurely stroll home.

Unfortunately, such things do not appeal to many women.
That, by itself, tells me that dating is unlikely, as is actually finding someone worth seeing.
In this era, of course, dating involves far more alcohol and loud music.

I should also mention that when I still dated, the event left me feeling both nauseous and tense.
A date is the perfect way to establish that there is far too little in common for any further friendship, and that it was really unrealistic and ridiculous to even consider closer bonds.

I would consequently be quite surprised if there were any woman out there whose ideas in any way matched mine.

Not discounting the possibility entirely, you understand, but not planning any unrealistic adventures either.

By the way: If any of my readers have interesting ideas about what to do on dates, please feel free to leave a comment.
I'm always up for painful stomach cramps and hysterical laughter.
Thank you.

POST SCRIPTUM

So what exactly did I do to poor little miss Sachet? Simple.
I fed her the finest English food available in Upper Whipping-Birch at that time.
Made the thin little thing clean her plate, too. She looked rather underweight.
How was I to know that British cuisine was a bio-hazard?
Probably should have gone to an Indian restaurant instead, but back in the stone age proper young ladies were never seen in such places.

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FRISIAN PIPE TOBACCO FOR GENTLEMEN - ECHTE FRIESCHE HEEREN BAAI

2012-01-11T18:36:00.000-08:00

Back in the early nineteenth century, two brothers went into business together selling smoking products.
Hendrik and Bouwe Taconis moved their factory to Leeuwarden in 1860 after several years, and happily started using images of a famous monument in the Frisian capital as marketing illustrations, continuing so even after they quarreled and split the company in two circa 1913.
Hence the name of Hendrik Taconis' tobacco factory: Tabaksfabriek De Oldehove.

Frisian style pipe tobacco was, in that day and age, considered healthy, and even up to the beginnings of the twentieth century was marketed to all ages including juveniles, who not only worked in the tobacco factories, but frequently featured on advertising posters for the many products then current - stogies, snuff, rolling tobacco, matured pipe tobaccos, etcetera.
Vibrant children happily smoking are so much more appealing than grayed and toothless antiques or naked savages!
Just the ticket for selling a "healthy" product, aimed at clean people with civilized tastes!

What set the so-called 'Echte Friesche Heerenbaai' ("real Frisian gentlemen's 'bay' tobacco") apart from other smoking products was the quality and purity of the ingredients: strictly leaf exported via the Chesapeake, mostly air cured (Maryland) along with some flue-cured tobacco.
No flavourings. No added sugars. No adulterants. Solid stuff.
And consequently, it naturally had to be good for you.

Baai Tabak ("Bay Tobacco") is still made from such tobaccos, although the sourcing is now world-wide. The tobacco is cut into thin ribbons, set aside for a few days after blending to homogenize the taste, simply packaged, and shipped.
The taste is mild, slightly nutty, and reminiscent of similar ribbon-cut products, though veering away from the Virginia side.

BEYOND THE DUTCH TOBACCO TRADE

The Taconis brothers were probably the most well-known manufacturers of "bay" tobaccos at the beginning of the twentieth century. By the end of the twentieth century, their enterprises had been swallowed up into Douwe Egberts and, I believe, Royal Theodorus Niemeijer , both of whom still produced their own bay tobaccos (Coopvaert and Voortrekker respectively).

[Niemeijer is the manufacturer of Clan Pipe Tobacco, a famous blend whose delightful aroma is the signature smell of Holland for many people.]

Between Van Nelle, Douwe Egberts, and Niemeijer, most of the small independent Dutch factories had been absorbed by the seventies.
Such names Louis Dobbleman of Rotterdam, F. Lieftinck of Groningen, Roelsma, Simon van Brakel en zoon, and others, had long ceased operations when Gallaghers sold Niemeijer (which had absorbed Van Rossem and Grunno) to Rothmans in 1990.

Sarah Lee, meanwhile, had acquired Douwe Egberts in 1978 and Van Nelle in 1989.

In 1998, the tobacco brands of both companies (now called Douwe Egberts Van Nelle - DEVN) were sold to Imperial Tobacco. The main pipe-tobacco brand represented in this acquisition was Amphora, most other products being rolling tobacco (both dark shag and blonde English style) as well as factory made cigarettes.

To the best of my knowledge, neither 'Echte Friesche Heeren Baai' nor most other Dutch pipe tobaccos are available in America anymore.
Imperial Tobacco does not export to the States.

You may be able to find Sail, Troost, and Vier Heeren Baai, which are all Niemeijer products manufactured by Orlik (part of 'Scandinavian Tobacco Group') since British-American Tobacco sold the brands in 2007.
For a while they too were unavailable, due to the hissy fit that B.A.T. threw five years ago, but along with other famous brands they are slowly coming back.

Personally, I've been enjoying various blends by Samuel Gawith, Kohlhase & Kopp, J. F. Germain & Son, G. L. Pease, and Cornell & Diehl for several years now, as well as the occasional McClelland product.
I do not miss most Dutch tobaccos - certainly not the two blends from Niemeijer on which I started (possibly 'Scotch Mixture', with heather honey and whisky, and 'Irish Mixture', with similar tarting-up - traumatic memories, though no detailed recollection) - but once in a blue moon I like to recapture part of the past by smoking McClelland's Virginia Woods, which charmingly echoes the old-fashioned 'Bay' ribbons.

TOBACCO INDEX

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TOBACCO IS BETTER THAN JESUS

2012-01-11T12:10:00.000-08:00

A while back one of my acquaintances (you know who you are) accused me of being so OBSESSED with tobacco that it had become my religion. He had read my blog, and had far too often listened to me speak in worshipful tones about my favourite blends.
Tobacco is a cult, and I am a fanatic.

This, of course, is utter nonsense.

For one thing, I am not standing on a streetcorner declaiming loudly from The Book of Nicotines, chapter this verse that. Even though that section has enough briar and brimstone to scare all of you heretics straight.
Especially the bit about what happens to non-smoking wheatgerm freaks.
Hell, apparently, is filled with those horrid people.
Imps taunt them with 2nd hand smoke.

But what really got me thinking that he had scrambled his hard drive was the mention of proselytizing.
He accused me of trying to convert people, including the unborn, the helpless, and the ignorant. With threats, bribery, and unethical tactics.

Not so!

That time I was caught slapping nicotine patches on the bare arms of a troop of girl scouts was a non-conversionary action entirely, totally educational. Spirit of scientific inquiry and all that.

I always believed that the reason little girls screamed and squealed was nicotine jonesing. Or something.
Now I know.

They were quiet for hours, till the nicky wore off.
Not my fault that they're now panhandling for patch money.
Blame the legal system. You can't buy tobacco till you're all grown up.
Some of them are even in the Tenderloin mugging arthritic grannies for cigars.

Folks, San Francisco is a rough place. Just because they look sweet and innocent doesn't mean that they aren't depraved little hussies in need of salvation.
Keep an eye on your kids, and give the little savages whatever they need.

The incident with the tobacco brownies was simply an attempt to reach parity with the medical marijuana crowd. You'll have to admit, there's no chance that anyone would complain about second hand smoke.
They might whine about the emetic effect, but that's not my issue.

And, quite unlike several fundamentalist preachers, I do NOT suggest to my busty secretary that we go to a motel to talk about scripture. Or, in this case, to rub her all over with shredded tobacco till it comes out of her ears.
Then insisting that she never tell anyone.

"Remember, miss Jones, not a word - Jesus would be most upset if the parishioners EVER found out"

I think my "parishioners" would be overjoyed, not upset. They'd probably order the fancy boxed set of commemorative colour prints.
Yep, fully clothed pipe-smoker massaging a naked lady and possibly a goat with leaves, you betcha. These are sacred rituals.

Baptism by fire, and the laying on of hands.

Regrettably, I don't actually have a curvaceous secretary named miss Jones.
Nor the colour prints showing her up to her tatas in flue-cured leaf.
That proves that tobacco can't possibly be a religion.
My spiritual needs are NOT being met.

Tatas! Leaves! Amen!

Jesus would approve!

Seriously, I need to rub a nice miss all over with a fine Balkan mixture.
That by itself would be a momentous spiritual experience.
Get me hollering 'hallelujah' in record time.
Whoever! Thanks for the smoke!
Angelically aromatic.
Like incense.

* * * * *

Now then......

Anybody else want to chastise me for my habit?
Or try to convert me into quitting?
I'm all ears, truly I am.

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DINNER FOR ONE

2012-01-10T14:37:00.000-08:00

In the past year and a half I've cooked rice probably three times. The strangeness of that is that rice is one of the fundaments of a meal. If there is no rice, have you really eaten?

A proper meal consists of soup, two or three dishes, white rice, and a chili-paste preparation (sambal).
Rice is key.

It's rather pointless to cook rice for only one person.
Actually, it's quite as ridiculous to cook soup, main dishes, and a sambal just for yourself.

THE WELL-DRESSED TABLE

Several things combine to make dinner. Soup is optional, but a variety of dishes isn't.
There should be a mainly vegetable dish, a mixed dish, and a meat or seafood dish. None of these need to be huge portions, and cooking them really doesn't take much time.
Even a stew as one of them doesn't require any great effort.
I usually do three dishes while the rice is cooking, and wash the pots before putting the food on the table.

I do not cook very much nowadays.
Odd, considering how often food is mentioned here.
When you eat alone, talking about food is more fun than making it.

RICE PLUS TWO OR THREE DISHES

In addition to cooked rice, the following:

Main dish ONE

Poached fish with shredded ginger and black mushrooms.
OR
Stirfried chicken and Chinese broccoli.
OR
Steamed fatty pork with ginger and shrimp paste.
OR
A nicely roasted bird.

Main dish TWO

Meatballs and dried oysters on a bed of greens.
OR
Sautéed longbeans with dried shrimp and chili-paste.
OR
Shrimp stir-fried with eggplant.
OR
Peppery lamb stew.

Main dish THREE

Pan-fried fish with well-thought out garnishes.
OR
Rice wine and soy sauce stewed chicken.
OR
Black-pepper crusted lamb chops.
OR
Mussels in broth with scallions and cilantro.

Main dish FOUR

Sautéed mushrooms with little bits of sausage.
OR
Coconut curry potatoes and shrimp with basil leaves.
OR
Spinach stir-fried with pork and shrimp-paste.
OR
Mixed vegetables and chicken chunks with garlic sauce.

Main dish FIVE

Cold boiled pork with garlic sauce.
OR
Steamed lemongrass chicken.
OR
Stirfried mustard green with oyster sauce.
OR
Asparagus with caper-lemon-mustard sauce.

And so forth, and so on.

One of the main dishes might actually be roast duck or soy-sauce chicken from one of the take-out counters in Chinatown.
Plus soup - for instance chicken broth with tofu skin, or tamarind and fish with some chopped vegetables. Basically something that serves to refresh and augment rather than fill.
Although a zesty seafood chowder or an Indonesian chicken and vegetable soup could very well be the main course.
A spicy sambal on the side. Along with rice, sambal is essential.
Lime and fish sauce may also play a role.
Perhaps as a dip.

I usually don't bother preparing dinner anymore.

I rather miss cooking.

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SELF PORTRAIT WITH PEN

2012-01-09T14:00:00.000-08:00

Well, you get the idea. I flatter myself that it does look like me, but of course you understand that this blogger is not actually a badger.
I think it's illegal for badgers to operate blogs. Something in international law, most likely.

Yes, I smoke a pipe. Usually fairly smelly stuff, tobaccos with a tarry sooty aroma. They’re very exciting in the nose, gentle on the tongue.
But I do not often smoke my pipe at home, because my roommate does not find the reek appealing.
Or even tolerable.
She’s a good roommate. Accepts my peculiarities, doesn’t bug me about my habits.
Once in a blue moon we’ll share a cookie or a pastry.

What you do not see in the photo above is the collection of books. Vladimir Nabokov. Somerset Maugham. An entire library of volumes about the Dutch East Indies, as well as several tomes on mediaeval history. Drafting and engineering reference and manuals. Scores of foreign language dictionaries.
And several hundred cook books.

Books about food are rather like pornography. Lovely pictures, glowingly breathless descriptions. High quality paper stock.
Culinary texts are meant to be drooled over, fondled……..
The kind of thing you read late at night, when you can hear your roommate in her own bedroom gently sleep–breathing. Slowly, slowly, a page is turned, revealing a luscious full colour display of a lovely spread.

You imagine a badger in the kitchen, with pots and pans bubbling away. There is steam, and fragrances.
Carefully, carefully, a spoonful of something warm and spicy gets raised to bewhiskered lips.
It’s good! Sweet and creamy too.

You probably never knew that badgers are sensualists and epicures, did you?
Plus they’re huggable. Truly.

Just look at that likeable fellow above.

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GOOD FOR WHAT AILS

2012-01-08T19:56:00.000-08:00

At tea time I headed into C'town for a late lunch. Actually it was a long delayed breakfast, and given that I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, I should have been ravenous. Not so. Mildly peckish, yes.
The best thing for an appetite is the presence of a charming woman to share a meal, which you probably realize is the one thing most markedly missing in my otherwise "very full" life.
A nice person with whom to eat makes food taste much better!
Heck, it might even lead to THREE meals a day.
Instead of one every 24 hours or so.
Just not hungry much.

RIVER NOODLE SOUP

Ended up at the San Sun Restaurant, where the owner happily recognized me. Since it relocated from the building on Stockton Street it has become one of my favourite places to eat, largely because of the food. Affordable, and considering the sheer quality of their dishes, as well as the cleanliness of place, it is quite a bargain.
A lovely bowl of broad rice stick noodles in a clean broth, with beansprouts, chopped scallion, cilantro, and a sprinkle of crispy fried onion shreds for garnish. Plus a plate of thin grilled pork, with that marvelous slightly sooty fatty taste.
And milk tea over ice.

[San Sun Restaurant: 三陽咖啡餐屋 (saam-yeung kafei tsan-ok), 848 Washington Street, San Francisco, CA 94108. It's between Grant and Stockton, on the corner of Ross Alley. Rice stick noodles in broth with grilled pork: 燒猪肉河粉 (siu chü yiuk ho fan). Grilled pork: 燒猪肉 (siu chü yiuk). Broad rice stick noodles: 河粉 (ho fan: "river noodles"). Iced milk tea: 凍紅茶奶 (tung hong cha nai).]

I scoped out the other customers who were reflected in the mirrors lining the walls.
Two animated white women, one of whom demonstrated awkward dexterity with her chopsticks. A table with South Americans joyously scarfing huge mounds of shrimp-fried rice and chowmein. A junior HK goomba and his moll. A sweet young couple at another table, both obviously ABC.
A gentle elderly white gentleman and his Cantonese wife. Some Mandarin speakers. Plus a European tourist family happily chowing down on stuff that from that distance I could not identify.
I'm sure it was food, though.

Afterwards, I headed around the corner into the alley, lighting up in front of the 南海同鄉會. I'm not sure exactly where Naam Hoi (南海) district is in Canton Province, but guessing by the location of their association hall it cannot be very important here in SF. All the big associations are on Grant Avenue or Waverly.
Ross Alley is not, strictly speaking, the epicentre of high status.

Opposite the other end of the alley on Jackson, a little down the street, is a small enterprise which may not be even noticed by outsiders.
The items in their window are not identified with name tags, and the name of the place is listed only in Chinese, on the awning and on the old-fashioned black and gold sign hung inside: 容記糕粉.
There is no English name.
It's next to Tung Shing Trading Co., in case you're wondering.

YONG KEE RICE NOODLE COMPANY

They make various dumplings, cookies, and dim sum items. And while they are very well known for their large and tasty chicken buns, for me the main draw is the best 鹹蛋酥 (haahm dan so) in Chinatown. Haahm dan so are small dome shaped pastries with a crumbly sweet crust, enclosing a salted egg yolk held in place by lotus seed paste. They are absolutely superlative with a cup of hot tea.
Because Yong Kee does not have tables, you have to buy them to take home.
I purchased six. I don't think my roommate has ever had one. She'll probably enjoy one or two of them for breakfast tomorrow.
Think of haahm dan so as similar to mooncakes. But more delicious, less refined. And available all year round.

[容記糕粉店 (yong gei gou fan diem), 732 Jackson Street, San Francisco, CA 94133. 415-986-3759. ]

Tasty food, a caffeinated beverage, delicious pastries, and a pipe.
Not a substitute for love, but a darn good cure for a headache.

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BELCHING HAPPILY

2012-01-08T13:22:00.000-08:00

Two ladies were talking near me, and I’m not ashamed to admit I was listening in on their conversation.
At one point, one of them asked the other whether she should get breast implants. Her friend thought it was a good idea, but cautioned her to at first just do one – “to find out if it really suits you”.

No, neither of these two prizes was blonde.
And for the record, their frontages weren’t particularly modest either.

It reminded me of the tale about the Belgian Highway Authorities wondering about the low rate of traffic accidents in Britain, as compared to their own country. They concluded that driving on the left had something to do with it. It forced the person behind the wheel to think better before acting or re-acting.
So clearly that was worth trying in Belgium also.

“But for the first 6 months, trucks only – so people get used to it!”

Logically that makes complete sense. All change must be gradual.

GO ON, TRY IT!

Many of the folks wandering around Chinatown are baffled by the 'newness' of it all. This is NOT their comforting home environment, and everything is just so frightfully odd.
They feel this way despite the fact that they themselves are the foreign element, having come to San Francisco from Arkansas or Iowa, and quite regardless of the evident age and worn familiarity of the buildings and businesses.
Obviously, to the natives, it is neither new, nor odd.

Being somewhat able to speak culinary Cantonese is a great help in finding tasty things to stick into my mouth in San Francisco. But our Midwestern friends are not so lucky. Frequently they will first look at the offerings at bakeries and dimsummeries with panicked fear, then timidly point at something and stutter out “what is that?”
When it becomes evident that the lady behind the counter cannot explain it in Midwesternese, or even English, they will huddle together to elect ONE member of their group as the person who will attempt to negiotiate something non-frightening to eat.
Desperate measures! They're so hungry!
And NOTHING looks like a hot pocket.

Sometimes I jump in to explain stuff. Usually not.

The first question that they really SHOULD ask after “what is that” is not “what is that” again, but “how much?”
None of these things is expensive, most items are less than a dollar.
Yesterday I ate very well indeed for two dollars and eighty cents (plus a one dollar bill into the tip jar).
Just happily trying ONE unknown item isn't going to bankrupt you, and you might actually like it. And if there are four or five of you, share three or four things that you've never seen before.

A fascinating adventure, for less than five bucks.
How can you lose?

* * * * * *

It must have taken immense courage for the first person to drink that very first cup of coffee centuries ago.
“Oh, the horrible expense! And no doubt it will turn me into a vampire-werewolf, with fangs and buboes!
I will be excommunicated and disinherited! Aaaaugh!”.
Same goes for beer, champagne, and cheese.
All entirely new at some point.

Either that or they were threatened with death.

I will nevertheless applaud the tourists for the sheer courage it takes to NOT eat at Ihop or Boo-king when in San Francisco. Sheer cold guts.
Bravely into the unknown, my comrades.

As the poet Tennyson might have put it:
“Edibles to right of them, edibles to left of them, edibles in front of them....... into the valley of death......”

A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.
And if you have doubts, just do ONE breast at a time.
I suggest the one on the left, so people 'get used' to it.

All change must be gradual.

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NAKED MIDDLE AGED WHITE MAN

2012-01-07T18:08:00.000-08:00

The reaction to the title of this blogpost might well be “ew, I did not need to see that!”
Which could very well be a valid critique of the white dude in question, but it probably does not need to be said either.
Reason being that given the circumstances under which you would normally see a naked middle aged white man, questions might be asked regarding so critical a reaction.
What were you doing there in the direct line of sight?
Did you plan on getting an eyeful?

My guess is that you probably don't see many naked white men.
Probably just one, and that only in the mirror.
Unless you're a doctor.

Of course, you might be married to one, or sleeping with one.
Or both of those idiosyncratic eventualities.
I shall not question your choices.
In fact, I rather approve.

A NAKED WHITE MAN

It should come as no surprise to you that I am sometimes a naked middle aged white man. Especially when the light is right.
Not at all times, but if the occasion calls for it.

Once my roommate has left on Saturdays or Sundays, I magically transform from dashing sleepy dude in pajamas clutching a cup of coffee to NAKED MIDDLE AGED WHITE MAN.
A superhero. Saviour of the universe. Bather extraordinaire.

A naked wet white man.
I see myself in the hallway mirror as I head toward the bathroom with my cup of coffee and something to smoke. One cannot actually smoke a pipe while taking a bath, but small cigarillos are just about perfect. If accidentally dropped into the water, it is no major loss.

The mirror tells me I'm decent looking. No beergut, no droopy wattles, no overly fatty bits. Trim and erect.
Except for the fact that the reflected masculine apparition is gloriously naked, it might be a distinguished looking gentleman out for a stroll, holding a coffee cup.
Even in profile, not bad.
A very likable nude.
Mm. Foxy fellow.
Silvery tips.

Admittedly, I would NOT want to see such a thing wandering around the apartment if it weren't me.
I'm not really into the glowing naked male gestalt.
That's more of a women's thing, I imagine.

If I had my druthers, there would be a naked woman in my hallway.
Also lacking beergut, droopy wattles, & overly fatty bits.
Such damsels are hard to find nowadays.
Even among the younger crowd.

If it were a SMALL woman, both of us could take a bath together; the tub isn't large enough to handle two large people. Two normal folks, yes.
Personally I like to soak for an hour or more. Relaxing in hot water is good for the soul. A small woman might want to spend more time in the tub, or less. Either way, there's room for flexibility, personal adaptation, and warm hospitality.
And lots of soft fluffy towels.

After the bath I usually go out for snackipoos in Chinatown. But if there were any call for it, those snackipoos could be delivered, or picked up well before the nice long bath.
Even served during the bath. Along with fresh hot coffee or tea.
The possibilities for juggling hot soapy water, caffeinated beverages, and dim sum type items, is virtually unlimited. Please imagine warm custard from one of the scrumptious egg-tarts made by the Golden Gate Bakery on Grant avenue dribbling down your chest, or flakes from a delicious pastry floating on the surface of the water, circling a hip or a nipple.

Buttered toast?
Some more coffee?
How about a chicken bun?

At present, there is no small woman in my life, and my bathing is quite solitary. Consequently there is no dim sum in the house, and I keep myself occupied during tub-time by reading mystery novels or news magazines.

Putting on clothes is probably the most important follow-up to a long stay in the tub, so I make sure that I am fully dressed by the time I get to Chinatown.
Few people there actually wish to see a naked middle aged white man.
Even if he is clean and fragrant from a long hot soak.

No, there is NO resemblance to a boiled lobster.

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MY LITTLE CABBAGE!

2012-01-06T13:36:00.000-08:00

All morning long I have been listening to coworkers talking about sweet potatoes. It seems that you can cook these things in the microwave.
Did you know that? I didn’t.

There's any number of things that you can do with a sweet potato, all of which will render it DELICIOUS!

Stuff involving salt, for instance.

Frankly, sweet potatoes do not wangle my oyster.
I am entirely unmoved by the miracle of the sweet potato.

Consequently, I am NOT surprised, or even startled in the slightest, by the realization that NOBODY ever calls their significant other "my little sweet potato".

Mon petit patate-douce!

I rather suspect that doing so would render the caller an "igname bouilli" pdq.
Dioscorea is just NOT sexy.
Not cute. Not huggy. Not sensuous.
Cabbage, on the other hand........
Rare indeed is the woman who doesn't appreciate being likened to a little bokchoi.
Oh, mon petit Brassica campestris de Chine, mon chose douce!

See, that's love talk right there. Eloquent!

Either that or the French are berserk, but if the alternative is believing that women are sweet potatoes, we must probably reject that theory.
Mustn't we, mes choux petites?

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BALKAN SOBRANIE ARTICLE BY G. L. PEASE

2012-01-05T23:30:00.000-08:00

Greg Pease discusses Balkan Sobranie Smoking Mixture in an article at PipesMagazine.com.
It is a significant essay, which pipe smokers will find well-worth reading.

BALKAN SOBRIETY by G.L. Pease
http://pipesmagazine.com/blog/out-of-the-ashes/balkan-sobriety/#more-5519

One of the things he reveals is that the original recipe contained 50% Latakia, which would put it exactly in line with several other well-known mixtures, including what was probably the most popular blend at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley.

The proportion of 'Coarse Cut Turkish' was 20%. The other tobaccos are unidentifiable, but were probably mostly flue-cured products.

I have not smoked a significant quantity of the Gallagher versions of Balkan Sobranie - his evidence establishes that Gallagher tinkered with the recipe several times, reducing the Latakia content - and as far as the Drucquer mixtures are concerned I did not smoke them after the early eighties either, as I was going through a bit of a non-smoking spell.
By the time I woke up, both Drucquers and Balkan Sobranie had disappeared.

50%

That fifty percent proportion is very interesting. When I started blending on my own again, I remembered what I had smoked before among the Druquer spectrum, and compounded accordingly.
The Latakia was not the same as it once had been.
Many of the varietal Virginias and other American tobaccos that were available to Drucquers were no longer made.
Black Virginia Ribbon was nowhere to be found.
Consequently my first efforts, while conceptually similar to what I had liked in the past, were unsmokeable monstrosities.
This was back around the turn of the century, and since then I have come up with better personal mixtures.
Of some of them I've made several batches over the years.

It wasn't till Marty Pulvers at Sherlock's Haven on Battery Street introduced me to Greg's products that I realized that actually there were still many fine tobaccos well worth smoking. My initial stockpiling of the new era was several dozen cans of Greg's blends, significantly Kensington and Blackpoint.
Since then I've also put aside a few score tins of Westminster.
Et autres. Lots of autres.

G. L. Pease learned at Drucquer's that age makes a difference.

Age was something that many of the factories in operation since the sixties did not fully understand. They had streamlined their production methods, tightened up their supply chains, and by the eighties what had taken years from farm to smoker was often a much younger, "fresher" product. Some old-style manufacturers had been notorious for having blending stocks older than the owner's grandchildren.
In the modern era, tying up funds for that length of time lessened competitiveness, especially when others kept no more on hand than what was needed for the next production run.
The effect of increased efficiencies on the blends was noticeable over time.
Retail tobacconists and wholesalers also tightened up their stocking practices.
That too had its effect.
Even if the composition was EXACTLY the same as it always had been, it no longer yielded the same end-result.

Robert Rex at Drucquer's understood the effect of age on tobacco.
Greg Pease understood the effect of age on tobacco.

When I first popped open a tin of Greg Pease's Kensington, it reminded me of the smell from tins of Balkan Sobranie when I first became fond of the mixture back in Valkenswaard.
My tobacconist at the time had a supply which had been acquired years before, and I was the first customer in a very long time to develop a fondness for stinky English offerings, as the vast majority of his clientele prefered cigarettes or Dutch cigars. At some point he ran out of stock, and I survived on various other products, including some Dunhill mixtures that had been gathering dust. The newer supply didn't taste quite the same, and when I returned to the States in 1978, the Balkan Sobranie here did not taste the same either.
A certain smell was missing. Plus something else.

Was it really Balkan Sobranie? I had doubts.

But it did have the right amount of Latakia.

So it kept me happy for a while.

THAT CREOSOTE REEK

Nowadays I do not use more than about 42.5% Latakia in my own experimental mixtures. And really, given the blending tobaccos available to the average consumer, 36% to 40% is probably best. This week I've smoked several bowls of something I put together a few months ago that's around thirty percent Latakia, the rest being mostly a medium red Virginia flake, plus some other stuff including Turkish.
The proportions seem quite balanced. And it's pleasantly leathery.

In conversation recently, Greg stated that the quality of Latakia available today is excellent, and again mentioned that since the seventies or earlier the leaf available has been Cyprian rather than Syrian.
He avers that the Latakia today is much the same as we used at Drucquers.
The differences between the two types can be significant - Cyprus grows Smyrna seed tobacco (small leaf, more or less 'Turkish') - whereas Syrian was usually Shek al Bint; large leaf, and to my mind that suggests something more akin to a mild air-cured tobacco, possibly somewhat similar to Maryland (?).
The smoke-curing is also different.

I tend to doubt that modern Latakia is sustainable in a mixture at anywhere near the measure that was once fairly common. But Greg has access to much more good blending stock, and greater variety too. Plus a lot more familiarity and experience with tobacco.
So I'll yield the floor, and refer you to his article for more assured information about Balkan Sobranie.

Besides, Kensington and Westminster are among my favourite tobaccos.
He sure knows how to make a lovely blend.

TOBACCO INDEX

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CHINESE BROCCOLI - A SANE ALTERNATIVE TO THAT HORRID VEGETABLE YOU NORMALLY EAT!

2012-01-05T12:10:00.000-08:00

Chinese Broccoli is easier to cook than Italian Broccoli, not malodorous, and far less woody and cabbagy.
It is slightly more bitter, but that adds inestimably to its appeal.
After washing and chopping, blanch briefly in boiling salted water, remove, drain, rinse with cold water, then stirfry. When the pan is good and hot add a splash of sherry or stock to flash-steam the vegetable.
A few drops of sesame oil for fragrance, and you're done.
It's wonderful with shrimp-sauce, oyster sauce, or combined with fish or meat (also briefly pre-cooked).

芥蘭, 芥蘭芯, 或蘭芯菜也...

If you're looking for it at a Chinese store or on a restaurant menu, you will probably see it listed as 芥蘭 (kai-lan) or 蘭芯 (lan-sam).

The second term, lan-sam, refers generally to the pithy inner stalks with the outer leaves removed.

For instance: 炒芥蘭芯 (chau kai-lan sam) is stir-fried Chinese broccoli, 蠔油蘭芯 (hou-yau lan-sam) is the stalky parts stirfried with oyster sauce.
蝦醬芥蘭 (haa-jeung kai-lan) is Chinese Broccoli flash-stirfried with a dollop of fragrant shrimp paste (鹹蝦醬 haahm-haa jeung), some chili, and jiggers stock and rice wine.
Most delicious!

Now, please stop reheating that sulfurous other 'thing' in the office microwave.

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PLEASANT CHINATOWN INTERLUDE

2012-01-04T17:59:00.000-08:00

The period between Christmas and New Year was lovely.
Short days at the office, followed by a relaxed lunch, and a pipe.
Only a few minor cloud whisps in the sky.....

Monday the 26th.
Had bitter-melon chicken over rice (凉瓜雞球飯 leung-gwa kai-kau fan) at Joy Hing Barbecue Noodle House (再興黄毛雞粉 Tsoi Hing wong-mo kai fan) on Kearny Street. Tasty, but it could have been better. They cut the bittermelon straight across rather than at a slant (which is a more exciting cut, cooking-wise), and used more salted black bean (豆豉 dausi) than I would have added. Normally I will simply have rice-stick noodles (河粉 ho-fan; 'river noodles') in soup at Joy Hing, but I was feeling adventurous. Why stick with the tried and true? And I am very fond of bitter melon.
I discovered that patient waitress with the nice smile has cousins who work during lunch time on weekdays.
She herself doesn't.
So I should probably only go there evenings or weekends.
Service excellent at all times, drip coffee likewise splendid also.

Tuesday the 27th.
Wonton noodle soup (雲吞湯麵 wantan tong mien) at Hon's (洪記麵家 Hung Gei Mien Ga) on Kearny.
Tasty. Shrimp and pork mince in tender dough skins, al dente fresh noodles, stock made with dried flounder as part of the fond.
This place is odd because half of the people who work there are Mandarin-speakers, the others are elderly Cantonese. The northerners perfectly represent what everyone always finds mildly unfortunate about them, namely that they are larger than normal, and have meatier features. This does not detract in any way from the experience.
Darn fine wonton.

Wednesday the 28th.
Washington Street, grilled pork and river noodles in broth (燒猪肉河粉 siu chü yiuk ho fan) at San Sun Restaurant (三陽咖啡餐屋 saam yeung kafei tsan-ok) on Washington.
Yummy. Scrumptious. Orgasmic. Especially with hot sauce.
Followed by Vietnamese coffee (越南咖啡 YuetNaam kafei).

Thursday the 29th.
Nah, ain't gonna mention where I ate. Reason being that it was not up to par. An "educational" experience at a crowded and well-known place.
Poached chicken and roast duck with rice, Hong Kong style milk-tea. The food was barely okay, the milk-tea with extra condensed milk was good..... but had its very own wading pool. Harried waitresses and an atmosphere of chaotic frustration.
One of the people at the next table was falling asleep into the cold remains of his iron-plate steak dinner, most of the other customers were having noodle soup or spaghetti.

Why do I see a large mound of potato salad over there?
It looks seriously past its due-date.
Came with the steak dinner.

Overmuch absurd.

Friday the 30th.
Back to Joy Hing. Yellow-fuzz chicken and river noodles in broth (黄毛雞粉 wong-mo-kai fan). Plus, of course, Vietnamese coffee.
Superlative as usual. Heaven itself, twixt a warm bowl and a cold glass.
Listened to two gruff Mandarin-speaking male customers and a limp noodle of a woman at the next table seriously discussing San Francisco - which baffles them - as well as a taped Cantonese comedy show from Kuala Lumpur filled with hysterical laughter and zaniness. Perhaps the studio audience was told they'd all be slaughtered if they didn't make pronto with the giddy noise?
I hope they turn that crap off in the evening when I intend to be there again, because it really isn't an improvement.

Saturday the 31st. and Sunday the 1st.
Snackipoos Saturday, 肉鬆包 and 蛋撻 for breakfast on Sunday, and a late lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant overlooking the park.
Basically three different places for coffee (咖啡) and eaties.
At the Viet place you can add an egg to everything.
Each time, food was followed by a pipefull.

I smell lovely -- you will please follow the pleasant aroma of pipe tobacco to find the foxy Dutch-American.

Monday the 2nd.
Darn. The charming small woman with the beautiful hands is off on Mondays!
Woe!
Oh well, the steamed pork cake with salt fish (鹹魚肉餅 haahm yu yiuk bing) is nevertheless delicious, and both 'aunties' are kinda flabbergasted that I'm eating it with evident enjoyment. How strange!
The other two customers in the place are a serious Chinese Christian fundamentalist who doesn't remember me thank heavens and his potential long-suffering life-mate the poor dear. Other than their humourless demeanor, there isn't much interesting about them.
Loaded up my pipe and waltzed out feeling on top of the world.

By my standards, it was a very productive week.

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HOWLING AT THE MOON

2012-01-04T12:12:00.000-08:00

Festivus: Aluminium pole, airing of grievances, feats of strength. And making George Costanza weep.
File this under 'better late than never'.

No aluminium pole. No feats of strength. No George Costanza.

AIRING OF GRIEVANCES.

To all American men: Stop talking about sports. Real people are NOT interested in what a bunch of big bottomed mutants wearing shiny tights do on a football field. Your juvenile crypto-sexual obsession with springy male booty and pigskin fumbles makes us sick. And the same goes for ALL other sports. Every time I have to listen to you lot going on about football, baseball, basketball, or whatever ball, my eyes start closing and my stomach goes liquid.
Buncha freaks. Get over it.

To all young American women: Okay, yes you are too fat, you can stop asking. It's the crap you eat, you're all built like frikkin' heffalumps.
No, do NOT tell me about your fabulous shopping experience! Just. Shut. Up.
If I never EVER have to hear about handbags, your coworkers, and your goldarned insecurities again, I'll be happy.
Let's just agree that I am not interested in you, nor keen to get into your sweaty over-sized panties, and that since you let half the tribe of Cro-Magnon (ie, sports obsessed American men) in there already, there is NO call for me to even think of going there.
We'll get along fine if you lot stay out of my life -- just like your dumbass brothers who JUST. WON'T. SHUT. UP. about sports.

Europeans: Shut up. No one cares what you think. Pussies.

To all Mandarin-speaking young women in San Francisco: Does the term "gold digger" mean anything to you? How about "high priced tart"? No? Doesn't surprise me.

To all Mandarin-speaking men in San Francisco: Get over yourselves. Smarmy ineffective limp-dicked gangster types are a dime a dozen. You're NOT better than the Cantonese, and your snooty pretensions do not hide that basically you are all a bunch of farts.

To all Philippino men in the Bay Area: None of you are gentlemen, and your women are the ones who are really in control. You are just incapable of grasping that fact.

To all Philippino women in the Bay Area: You are NOT irresistable.
I am not going shopping with you.

To all Christians: Please shut the hell up. You are insufferable cunts.

THIS IS MY YEAR, DAMMIT.

Nah, probably not going to ask anyone out on a date this year, or even try to have a relationship again. Why bother?
I'm a fifty two year old man, and if I don't have a wife and kids by now, it ain't gonna happen. Hell, even a sex-life of any sort is unlikely, and finding a woman who is actually a person rather than a shallow souped-up shopaholic consumerite is just not possible.
Besides, most women have arses & attitudes bigger than a barn door.
Colour me uninterested, inflexible, and unimpressed.

And the next time some ESPN-obsessed dillwad starts blathering on about sports, I'm going to start yawning, scratching, and quoting Nabokov or Somerset Maugham. Why should I have to listen to your inane gibbering, just because you represent the normal male?
By the same token, I am NOT interested in your jejeune concepts of politics, finance, or gun ownership.

This year, I will be far less tolerant of idiots. Life is too short to drink starbucks.
I am anti-social, a misanthrope, and rather much a misogynist.
Yes, I am happy with that.
At least a hell of lot happier than putting up with all that other crap would make me.

NOTE:
Cantonese speakers, Mexicans, Talmudists, and readers of Jane Austen are off the hook for now.
As are young ladies who resemble Audrey Hepburn or Cherie Chung.
Or possibly Maggie Cheung in very feisty roles.

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PARSHAS VAYIGASH AND OTHER PARSHIYOS

2012-01-04T12:02:00.000-08:00

Back in 2006 I wrote an exceptionally long post about Parshas Vayigash.

LINK:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2006/12/notes-on-parshas-vayigash.html

Other parsha posts which might be of interest:

PARSHAS VAYEITZEI
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2006/11/notes-on-parshas-vayeitzei.html

PARSHAS VAYISHLACH
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2006/12/notes-on-parshas-vayishlach.html

PARSHAS VAYESHEV
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2006/12/parshas-vayeshev-short-version.html

PARSHAS MIKEITZ
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2006/12/notes-on-parshas-mikeitz.html

PARSHAS VAYECHI
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2007/01/notes-on-parshas-vayechi.html

PARSHAS SHEMOS
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2007/01/notes-on-parshas-shemos.html

PARSHAS BO
http://atthebackofthehillparshas.blogspot.com/2007/01/notes-on-parshas-bo.html

After that I abstained, realizing that as a skeptic and dilettante I did not have much to add to any discussion - these posts were primarily for my own benefit. And what with reading several different commentaries obsessively, it was starting to really bite into all my time.
I have made notes since then, but not formulated them as discrete pieces.
Might take it up again.

Your thoughts?

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SELF-HELP FOR THE ORNERY

2012-01-03T20:10:00.000-08:00

What do I do to stave off depression on weekends or late in the evening, when I've come to the office for solitude?
And how do I keep from even thinking of opening the window at thirteen floors up, taking a running jump, and going shplat?
Well, either I think of nice eyes, small hands, and other characteristics of charming persons of a female persuasion (entirely in the abstract, you understand), or I turn to youtube and play pompous music.

One of my current favourites is this:

Black Watch March Past Dundee

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyD370_mv5c. ]

It always does the trick. I'm particularly fond of the short trombone player (from 1:01 to 1:04) in the center row of the guards' band, who seems entirely dwarfed by both her instrument and her big hairy headgear.
At least, I assume it's a 'her'.
Can't even see a face.

Besides, the sight of stocky men in skirts resolutely swishing past, with that dance-like bounce to their step, is incredibly invigorating.
Makes one thoroughly understand the appeal of empire building, doesn't it?

After playing the clip above, or youtubes of a rousing anthem or war-song, several times, it's all much better.
I follow that by heading over to the Occidental Cigar Club for a glass of Scotch and a pipe or two. Two or three bowls of rubbed flake or aged Virginia later, and I'm full of piss and vinegar again.
With a bit of luck, I will have played evil mind-tricks on some pretentious expensive stogie-sucking dick, who will for days afterwards be wondering what the heck happened, and why he's filled with incredible self-loathing.

Here's slàinte mhath, y'all.

Cheers.

REASSURING AFTER WORD

No, ending it all is not likely, despite the grim note that began this post.
For one thing, I'm too stubborn to give in.
For another, it would set a really dreadful example.
I'll just keep my pecker up by spreading misery to the deserving.

Stiff upper lip and all that.

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THAT AVENUES SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT

2012-01-03T12:08:00.000-08:00

When I moved from North Beach in 1993, I did not go very far. Just the other side of Nob Hill, before you get to Polk Street. It’s a pleasant neighborhood, ethnically and culturally mixed. The nearby shops and restaurants reflect that diversity, and cater to a more exciting segment of the population than you will find out in the avenues.
More vibrant. Less oppressive.
Yes, there are pretentious people here too. But they’re usually twenty-somethings who have moved out to California to get in touch with their artistic side, and let their self-important creativity and brilliance shine.
They’re easily ignored, they’re rather shallow and there isn’t much there.

NUMBER ONE CALIFORNIA

The morning bus up Clay Street towards the downtown presents several interesting types. By the time it hits my stop, it is mainly filled up with office workers who do not feel that anyone else needs to get on, and who especially resent the elderly folk heading in to Chinatown.
You can tell by their cell-phones and electronic reading material that they are very important people, and the presence of “those” folks seriously disturbs their equilibrium.
As do the little children. Who are usually exceptionally quiet and well-behaved, because they know instinctively that large white office workers who are imposing and brilliant may go ape-shit crazy at any moment and start rabidly biting everyone near them.
Or might just faint from the strain of putting up the wrong sort of people, and, toppling over unconscious, crush the nearest five year old.
Which would delay all the other frightfully important and significant office workers, and the world would come to an end.

It’s all your fault, kid.

When a person who gets on at my stop finds a seat, it's a victory for all of us. Hah, they got one! Success!
Normally the very important people from out in the avenues, who are heading to their downtown desks, will occupy every space they can, even splaying across two or three seats if possible, just to prevent lesser mortals from invading. Their very important gym bags and overstuffed handbags will flow into the aisle, and if any one dares object, they'll recognize that as the imposition it is and bitterly resent the rudeness of that lesser mortal. Fortunately the few of them who haven't found a seat yet are cluster-fudging up front, so there's a chance that no inferior beings from the ethnically mixed neighborhood will be able to get on anyway.
They smile as they imagine a long line of elderly people and little children laboriously trudging up hill.

I may have mentioned recently that I despise tattoos and piercings?
Please add heavy make-up, harlot nail-polish, and plucked eye-brows to the list. People who are that obsessed with their appearance, yet that entirely uninformed about what actually looks attractive, indicate by their beastly paintjobs how little there is, and in what little value they hold it.
Deservedly.
Don't gild the lily. Especially if it's damn well wilted.

Just lipstick alone is staggeringly effective.
Adding greasy blues, greens, and purples to the cheeks and eye-lids detracts from the elegance of a decent face, and makes it resemble spoiled fruit pizza, or a corpse awaiting an electric jolt. Ma'am, you is ugly.
Oh well, the bucket of cheapazoid perfume (or aftershave, for you men), will keep everyone's minds off the vulgar personal advertising.

At last we make it to Stockton Street. Many of the standees escape, gratefully breathing fresh air untainted by pungent clown-makeup, aromatic unguents, reeky fruitique soaps and shampoos, and sweet-smelling blemish disguises.
Ylang-ylang, vanillin, vetiver, bergamot, and strawberry.
A sparkling young lady on her way out may smile, as if to say "you poor man, you have five more blocks with these funky corpses!".
Or a petite vibrant mother of three might think "oh the humanity, he's surrounded by stinking werewolves and sugary tarts, how sad!"

Yes. It is. It's a tragedy.

Rolling down hill surrounded by very important office workers. The same people who, in the evening, will clusterfudge near both doors, so that the driver on Sacramento will not dare let on passengers at Grant or Stockton Street.
He doesn't want to be lynched by his bus-load of middle-class corpse-eaters whose fragrances are wearing thin, and who might be frustrated from very importantly doing next to nothing all day.
They're still brimful of attitude, and poisonous besides.
Flintily disapproving of anyone who isn't like them.
And, oh horrors, some of "those people" might have bought food!
Can't have that - it offends our refined office-worker nostrils!
Quick, open up the bottle of Gucci Intense, and sprinkle!
Thank you. Disaster postponed.
Better than holy water.

I usually take the cablecar home. By that time, I've had it with the downtown crowd.
Either that or the number 12 Pacific, if I want to pick up some roast duck at 新凱豐燒臘店 on Stockton.
It's yummy and delicious. And it just smells SOOOOOOO gooooooood!
Juicy fatty roast duck has a wonderful fragrance.
Someone should find out how to bottle it.
I think I'd use it as aftershave.
Lather it on with a trowel.

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CHINESE NEW YEAR 2012

2012-01-02T17:18:00.000-08:00

In another three weeks it will be new year. Yes, I know - you thought that was yesterday.
What I mean is 'Chinese New Year'.
Which in San Francisco is a MUCH more important and enjoyable festivity.
For one thing, it does not involve hordes of white people getting drunk.
That, by itself, is a mighty good thing.
I won't tell you what some of the downtown intersections remind me of at present.

Chinese New Year in 2012 is on January 23rd.

The parade is normally fifteen days afterwards, and serves to mark the end of the holiday.
But this being San Francisco, this year it will actually be held five days later, on Saturday February 11th.

春節
TSWUN JIT

For your easy reference, here are posts relevant to Chinese New Year that have appeared on this blog over the years.

CHINESE NEW YEAR - LUCKY WISHES, LUCKY FOODS
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/01/chinese-new-year-lucky-wishes-lucky.html
A description of the naming conventions for dishes traditionally considered auspicious at the New Year's family dinner, with the vocabulary explained.
[LINK I.]

HO SI FAT CHOI 好事發財 DRIED OYSTERS WITH BLACK MOSS
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/02/ho-si-fat-choi-dried-oysters-with-black.html
The most Cantonese of good luck New Year dishes combines dried oysters and black moss. It's a wordplay, and it's delicious.
Explanation and three recipes. But you can adapt or tailor your own.
[LINK II.]

CHINESE NEW YEAR: CLEANING
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/02/chinese-new-year-cleaning.html
The most important part of your New Year preparations. Because you will avoid sweeping and wasting water for at least three days.
[LINK III.]

CHINESE NEW YEAR - TWO WEEKS OF EXPLOSIONS
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/02/chinese-new-year-two-weeks-of.html
The schedule for the two week celebration explained, last year's dates. In 2012 the first day is Monday January 23, 2nd day January 24, 3rd day January 25, 4th day January 26, and so forth. The fifteenth day (Lantern Festival, 元宵節 yiun siu jit) is Monday February 6.
[LINK IV.]

CHINESE NEW YEAR, PLAYING WITH YOUR FISH: LO HEI, SANG YI HING LUNG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/02/chinese-new-year-playing-with-your-fish.html
Amazing things you can do with seafood! Like giddily throwing it about.
An ancient tradition invented back in the sixties.
Again, explanations and vocabulary. Pok cheui beng!
[LINK V.]

Basically, it all boils down to this: Pay off your debts and obligations at the end of the old year. Clean the house before Monday January 23rd.
Arrange trays of oranges, pomelos, and candies in the main rooms. Buy some flowering plum branches or narcissus.
Then have a wonderful festive meal on Sunday the 22nd with all members of your household, give presents and red packets of money to the younger ones if you're married and they're not, and set off tons of explosives for the next two weeks. Have fun.
Happy new year.

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THE WAR OF THE SEXES

2012-01-02T11:23:00.000-08:00

It has been nearly a year and a half since the break-up. I am, more or less, entirely over it.
But I haven’t seen anyone since.
In a large part that’s because I have no wish to engage in the futility of dating someone.
It wouldn’t lead to a relationship. I am not the man that women dream of.

Nor are most women the kind of people I want to know.

If you've read this blog for a while, you probably have a fair idea of what kind of person I am, and what kind of person I would like to share my life.

Someone to touch, to hug, to eat dinner with, to wander around the city with, to share books with.
An occasional show, lots of quiet time together reading, and a cup of tea.
No tattoos, no piercings, no hip night clubs, no trips to Vegas.
Someone whose quiet tastes I can admire.

[NOTE OF EXPLANATION FOR THE ETERNALLY CONFUSED: 'touch and hug' implies a zesty physical side to the relationship. This is very important, and should be so for both parties. 'Eat dinner with' means someone who enjoys food and likes eating with someone, NOT an individual who lists everything she will not or cannot eat because of phobias and irrational cultural biases, imagined health reasons, self-centered neuroses, or typical spoilt and oh so special middle class pretensions, while yacking on about 'Sex in the City', 'Real Housewives of New Jersey', or her latest shopping extravaganza. 'Wander around the city with' refers to someone who is capable of enjoying the character of different neighborhoods and their people and also likes quiet walks over Nob Hill and Russian hill just holding hands. 'Share books with' connotes someone who reads for enjoyment, and has favourite volumes that she re-reads, as well as someone who has strong ideas about what sets a good book apart from a piece of trash. 'An occasional show' means two seats side by side at a musical or play once in a while. 'Lots of quiet time together' implies feeling happy in each other's company without needing constant reassurance or attention - contentedly lazing together all afternoon and reading is fine. Which brings up the last item mentioned, namely 'a cup of tea': It is immaterial who suggests "why don't we have a cup of tea", what is important is that the suggestion be a natural and welcome one.
Tattoos, piercings, drunkenness at clubs, and trips to Vegas are indicative of a trashy value system, low tastes, and a lack of self-respect.]

I really do not think that such a person exists.
If she does, she's probably already otherwise engaged.

Usually I don't worry about it.
Yes, it's incredibly irritating that everyone I work with is married or involved in a relationship. Some of the people I know just won't shut up about their wife or husband or significant other, and their children, and everybody's wonderful familial adventures and praestations. And by now I've long been accustomed to the sickening waves of sticky-poo social expression that accompany the announcements of engagements, pending marriages, pregnancies.
These things are as inevitable and as common as flu germs, and one should expect nausea regularly throughout the year.
But most of the time I just try to ignore it.
Same as with the sewer stink of downtown SF.

Generally speaking, I like women. But they can be conversationally quite impossible.
And if we do not share any interests, there isn't even any point in trying.
Besides, the vast majority of them seem to have odd ideas about men.

That last flaw, by the way, is the fault of the advertising industry, the fashion industry, the entertainment industry, cosmetics, and romance fiction.

All fields dominated by men.

I don't like men.

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SOMEWHERE VERY PRIVATE

2012-01-01T18:18:00.000-08:00

Portsmouth Square: The coming of twilight did not discourage the chess players, deep in their game, with a circle of equally elderly gentlemen standing around them and contemplating their every move. Off to the side a middle-aged woman instructed several companions in Tai Chi routines.
After a late lunch at 金星越南餐廳, I lit up on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, facing the park.
A bent old lady under the pine trees overhanging the opposite sidewalk stared at the flame, then looked away again, uninterested.

The family that had been at the middle table came out - mom, dad, oldest son, teenage daughter, two younger sons. By sheer good luck I had been facing the girl while I ate. She had a lovely face with a good forehead and delicately arched eyebrows. And she coloured nicely, though that was probably the hot-sauce and the soup rather than any awareness of me enjoying the view.

I headed toward Washington Street and turned right.
Slow slow, dallying, to finish the bowl before arriving the office.

Montgomery Street: Wandering tourists move along the quiet street. Why do people visit the city? Why, especially, do they come to this neighborhood? The financial district is deserted on weekends, and other than grey edifices flanking even greyer sidewalks, there is little here. Not even the colourful weekday street people are around, although the news paper bundler is astir in his doorway – his radio is on. On Battery street, two blocks over, a crazed woman with a dog is probably ensconced behind shopping carts.
The folks sipping cappuccinos at the Starbucks opposite had better beware – she tends to belligerate at random, popping suddenly forth from her fortress.
The memory of her haunting that section years ago prevents me from taking that route often.

Sansome Street: The office is dark, overcast skies curtail the outside light.
I could turn on the fixtures, but I’m enjoying the silence, while looking out of the window towards the bank building across the block. Wetness leaks from the windows, the paint prevents them fully closing. A crack lets in a moist breath, and the wood creaks softly, steadily; it needs a rubbing. When rain thrashes down a small puddle forms on the floor. If that happens, I’ll wipe away the wetness so as to leave no trace. Pulling the window handles does not work, the frame is too stiff to yield. The brass knobs feel warm to the touch, as if long and lovingly polished despite their matte hues.
Thirteen floors up. Not a chance of being disturbed on a day like this.
How wonderful!

There’s an armless desk-chair in this room – if it were lowered too much, the surface of the table would be at chest level, but as it is it’s just right. Legs up on wood, lay back, enjoy the darkness.
Should I have a cookie? TWO cookies?
The chair cants nicely, rocking back and forward.
With gentle motion drowsiness comes easily. It’s tempting to stay a while, letting the dull afternoon outside just slide away.
Fall asleep? Dream?

Contradictory impulses – read a book, or smoke a pipe? Make a cup of tea, or take another walk?
It isn’t particularly cold outside. But maybe stay here a little more.
Doze long and peaceful.

Not the most productive of days.
Instead, a very splendid one.
You need a time like this.
It's good for the soul.

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MY HEAVENS, LITTLE LADY!

2012-01-01T11:33:00.000-08:00

The other day someone said that I should be in movies. Not because of my accent – which tickles certain people no end at times, being all snooty Anglo and such – but because of the humour in my tales and the eloquence of my speech.
Or something like that.
Seeing as they were already five whiskies to the wind, I am not giving it much consideration. Intoxicated people are frequently flattering.

Remarkably, though, I am not the usual target of drunken praise.

I am not a shapely young woman with sparkling eyes.

Admittedly, when you’re quite blotto, nearly everyone shares the fine characteristics of a shapely young woman with sparkling eyes. The particular addled alcoholic might even think that he’s speaking with a blonde.

“Mah heavens, lidull lady, yew shorer purrrdy!”

“Wood yew lahk to cumupa mah-pullace unsee mah-retchings?”

Who can resist an invitation like that? Come to think of it, if you stay in a bar long enough, you’ll see everybody’s ...... etchings.

A SPONTANEOUS ETCH!

I've always felt that the invitation to see 'etchings' should be both heartfelt and based on sober considerations. Not a spur of the moment liquor inspiration.
Most little ladies who are worth associating with are not likely to hang around bars, and certainly not bars where woozy drunks leer at them.

"Would you like to come up and see my etchings?"

In actual fact, I do not have any etchings. And as you may expect, the idea of viewing the etchings is simply a convenient fiction. If you were to seriously require etchings, I would be quite embarrassed.

I can show you my pipe collection....... will that make you happy?
Over one hundred pieces of briar, including a dozen Comoy Blue Ribands, several other fine Comoys representing various periods, Peterson pipes from the thirties through the two-thousands...... altogether truly excellent wood.
Surface translucence, lovely grains, classic shapes.
Dramatic contrasts, dark red, natural, and a heavy wax rub.
Look, this is a large bent Dunhill with patent number stamping, and this is a deep, deep sandblast.
Go ahead - please feel the texture, stroke the rippled surface.
There's something sensuous about tobacco pipes.

See, that's another reason that no little ladies have been asked up to my pad.
The little lady who can appreciate fine briar is extremely rare.
In fact, I've have yet to encounter a little lady who has even the slightest interest in that subject.

That is not to say that I've entirely forsaken the idea that there is a nice person out there, and that I might inveigle her to drop by for a cup of tea and some heavy groping between the two of us. But it would not be someone met in a bar, nor a person who thinks that I should be in movies or is tickled by my accent.

Happy relationships, of a sexual nature or otherwise, are built upon sincere interest and accord.
Not fictitious etchings, or drunkenly falling for a face, an image, or an accent.
It's as simple as that. Let's meet over coffee, and share a laugh first.
If we keep talking it's because I find you utterly enchanting.
In which case you may definitely see my pipes.
In fact, I would love to invite you.
When would you like?

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MOUSE WEARING MEDIEVAL SAMURAI ARMOR

2011-12-31T20:54:00.000-08:00

Nezumi Isamu moved cautiously across the field, deftly treading around the tall trunks that rose, pillar-like, from the ground. He could still smell the blood that had been spattered all around, which the recent rain had washed into the dirt where it perfumed the top layer. He held his long blade at ready, aware that with the crest (家紋 kamon) on his armour betraying his allegiances, he remained a target.

What he forgot was that in the grand scheme of things, a mouse wandering among the slain would be quite overlooked.
Even if he was the last living retainer of Shō No Kami on this blasted heath.
It had been a fierce battle. All the humans were dead.

鼠侠勇記

Thus begins a great manga adventure, featuring a heroic rodent seeking vengeance for the death of his liege during the Warring States Period (戰國時代 Sengoku Jidai).
It is a tale of gallantry, valour, and the very highest ideals a mouse can represent.

Characteristically, because it strives to appeal to readers among both genders, there is a bit of very innocent nudity: the mouse soon hooks up with a young girl (Tsuyuko), twixt whose soft bosoms he often sits while they travel the land.
The bosoms are significant as a theme, but not really ever actually shown. Their suggested presence peppers the pages just enough to keep a teenage boy fascinated. The girl to whom these items belong is fierce, yet modest.
Let us call her "the good woman of Kansai" (関西の淑女 Kinki No Musume), and take delight in the wordplay that the name allows us.

[In a further nod to the target audience of highschoolers - college-age adults - junior members of the office workforce, the hero Koenosama-kun calls Tsuyuko-chan either "imōto" (阿妹) or "kouhai" (後輩 'protégé', junior fellow disciple), whereas she defers to him as "Koshō-sama" ('lord Koshō') or "senpai" (先輩 'mentor', senior fellow disciple).
All this instead of the high-fallutin' and rather archaic polite language which the setting of the story would seem to require.]

No, I shall not tell you the name of the very nicely drawn fifty volume series of "Dai Nezumi-Kyo Yu Shoki" (大鼠侠勇書記), nor who the author is, or where it may be purchased.
For the very simple reason that, to the best of my knowledge, it has not been written yet.
But it should be.

I am clearly not the person to either write the story or illustrate it, unfortunately, and given how utterly minimal my knowledge of both the Japanese language and Japanese history is, trying to do so would be a Sisyphus-Arbeit of monumental proportions.
But I am thinking of sketching out some story-boards, just for the hell of it.
The idea of a mouse wearing mediaeval samurai armour, riding between the gentle swellings of a yukata-clad maiden, his head barely visible, sticking out of the garment where the cloth overlaps at the collar, is just too delightful not to give some form to.

Think of it as a literary hero-quest.

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CELEBRATING THE NEW YEAR IN A WAY TO REMEMBER

2011-12-30T12:00:00.000-08:00

Memorable people are the ones you almost never notice. That is to say, often what is considered remarkable about others is no more than a superficial appearance, the glib talent, or an over-emphasized attribute.
What really should be praised is the ability which they themselves do not think special, or characteristics which mark profound and unusual qualities.
What is worthwhile always takes intelligence to discover.

One sometimes sees smiles which are so warm and honest that the person stays in one’s mind long afterwards. Not very often, as most smiles are studied responses to social circumstances, and meant as communication. The smile which reflects a wonderful enjoyment of the moment, a sincere pleasure at seeing someone, or sheer happiness, is rare.
A nice face is made infinitely more beautiful by just such a smile.
Sadly, intelligent people are frequently handicapped by thoughts that interfere.
A brain that is too busy can keep the face from radiating.

Dining with another person is a marvelous treat. Both good food and pleasant moments are lovely distractions, and encourage a temporary dissolution of cares. People are naturally more relaxed when eating, shields are down, and how sweet it would be if that moment might last forever.
Imagine candlelight, crisp tablecloths, sparkling glasses...... surely that has already changed your mood?
Perhaps you need a glass of champagne and a lovely dish of crème caramel?
Followed by a stroll from streetlight glow to streetlight glow.

A quiet apartment away from crowds, half-dark late on a wet afternoon. This, too, induces happiness. You are indoors and there is no further reason to go out into the rain. All you want is at hand, it’s time to unwind and let your mind swirl.
Who knows what pleasant thoughts may rise?

The comfort of eating with another person, private moments, and perhaps falling asleep in an overstuffed chair as the splayed book slips from your fingers.
Life can be both quiet and good at such a time. A throw-rug will keep you warm and toasty, inside and insulated from the world.
Rain drums steadily against the windows, softening all other sounds.
Your eyes close, your face relaxes.
You smile.

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STRANGE MAN ON THE PHONE

2011-12-29T12:22:00.000-08:00

Some phrases stick in your mind long after they've outlived all relevance.
Nixon's famous line "I am not a crook" is one of them.
Never mind that he was fudging the truth a little, it was one of the few lines he ever spoke which was not obscenity laced.

"I didn't inhale".

There are other lines that are as memorable. But alas, the modern generation will probably never hear them the same way we did. Modern technology and the internet have erased their currency.
In our memories, though, they still resonate.
Back in the day when the phone would ring and some entirely anonymous cretin breathily husked at the listener.....

"WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?"

That right there was the start of a memorable conversation. One could have a lot of fun with the unknown and unknowable querent, in the age before caller id.

In your best teenage babydoll voice you'd shyly squeak "um, jeans?"

"AND WHAT ELSE?!?"

"A teeshirt... a tight teeshirt? "

"DON'T YOU THINK THAT'S A LITTLE ... WARM?"

"You think I should take it off? I'm all alone...."

"YES! WHAT DO YOU HAVE ON UNDERNEATH?????"

"Mm, a black brassiere. Small. A. "

At this point, you could tell that your interlocutor was getting lively.
A few more questions and answers, and just before he could let loose with a suggestion the likes of which would make the devil blanch, you barked out in your manly baritone "Hi, I'm her dad, why is she writhing on the sofa in a state of scandalous déshabillé, and WHO are you?".

Or perhaps, in the same deep baritone, you'd roar that in fact you were wearing ripped baggy boxers that had seen far better days, and were busily pinching your left ass cheek to keep from laughing.

Whichever. The point is that "what are you wearing" no longer evokes quite the same mood.

Twenty years ago, you might indeed have been wearing a small black brassiere, cup size A, and a matching pair of bikini briefs with lace next to the front panel. It probably looked very lovely against your creamy skin. In the glow of the bedside lamp, the effect was most fetching.
Even if you were, unfortunately, a large gentleman of the dockworker persuasion.

"WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?"

There are times when I hope you are indeed wearing the zesty outfit I have outlined above. Especially if (ONLY if) you are of the gender for whom such garb is "normal". In my imagination, you are younger and shorter than me, discretely curved, and rather sweet.
In the interests of full disclosure I proffer that I am none of the above.
Not of the cute underwear gender.
Not shorter than me.
Not even curvy.
Nor sweet.
At all.

I am a trim middle-aged gentleman, with sparkling deep-set eyes, lively tendencies, and an over-active imagination.
Underneath my loose-fitting plaid shirt and tan slacks I am wearing a white wife-beater and boldly patterned boxers - both clean.
I have trimmed my beard quite recently. It looks more dashing than the rest of me.
No, I am not splayed languorously on a leopard-skin rug by the fire, but sitting at a desk in a nearly empty office-building.
Rather than feeling hot and bothered, I am actually suffering a bit from the cold.
I suspect that the thermostat here is set far too low.

There is a bent briar pipe to the left of the key-board, and I'm seriously thinking of leaving for the Occidental sometime soon, to smoke a bit and stare dreamily off into space.
Sadly, I do not even posses a lovely black bra with A cups, such as I have described.
That's a sore lack, I know, and indicative of a flaw in my character.

Feel free to outline a course of action which will rectify that.

In the meantime, I just might be thinking of you.

And your lacy matching set.

dot dot dot

What are you wearing?

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HORRIBLE ASIANS

2011-12-29T07:39:00.000-08:00

You do NOT need to know how I found it. Suffice to say that the search was both arduous and perverse.
But I am more than happy to share the results with you.

The blog to end all blogs that blog about Asian movies.
Especially the really crappy ones.
Glorious garbage.

Backyard Asia
Not J-Horror. Not cute animé. Not Godzilla. Not new Korean. Not Pink movies. ... BUT INSTEAD ... the weird, unknown, FORGOTTEN, never discovered, TRASHY, wild, gory, absurd, INSANE, dark, nasty WONDERS from the Asian backyard!!!

http://backyard-asia.blogspot.com/

My lord, some of these movies are stellarly bad. Flamingly bad. Stomach-crampingly bad.
Even if the theatre were running a half-price triple feature marathon, you would want your money back.
And then the next day you'd put on a fake moustache and speak in a foreign accent, hoping that the guy at the ticket window wouldn't recognize you as the belly-acher from last night.
Because no matter what, you gotta see every one of them again.
That's the only way you can be sure that they exist.

This is some seriously good stuff.

My compliments to the film buff (Jack J) whose blog it is. Who has devoted his life to fondling grimy tapes of these howlers, and lovingly writes paeons in praise of these films.
I am in awe. Thank you.

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WHAT NICE WOMEN WEAR

2011-12-28T18:35:00.000-08:00

For a man who is unattached, I am remarkably opinionated about how women should dress. This was the consensus after a conversation with several other people.
It was, naturally, prompted by passage of a female person with quite unsound clothing choices. The other gentlemen smoking at the wall followed her with their eyes. There was little need to mentally undress her, as she had done most of the work for them.
So much exposure in cold weather speaks of a singular deficit elsewhere.

I barely noticed her - my attention instead was caught by a young lady passing in the opposite direction.
A person with neat hair, glasses, a pretty face.
And a body which in all likelihood may have been small and slim, but as she was bundled up against the cold, that is mere speculation. Judging by the face and feet, she was probably trim.
She looked alert and intelligent.
Precisely the kind of girl one should like to know.

Some of the nicest people in the world wear glasses.

Subsequent discussion with the cigar smokers established that I had keenly observed the wrong woman.
My lack of common sense and manly tastes had prevented me from drinking in the charms of someone who was all legs and cleavage.
Glasses, most of my comrades opined, feh!

You know, everyone can grow cleavage. Add a bit of pudge by eating burgers, and wear a push-up bra. Paint a bit of rouge subtly down the centre, and presto!
Or purchase more extreme augmentation.
All of the stupidest dumbest pin-up bombs have cleavage.

Gentlemen, every woman has breasts.
But nice women also have brains.

And as far as legs are concerned, in this weather it is more than remarkably vain to insist on showing them off. Legs are indeed delightful, but if you do not feel the cold, please consult a doctor.
She'll probably tell you that your nerve endings have died.
As well as whatever grey cells you had.
Yes, I personally would not mind looking admiringly at the legs of a brilliant PHD wearing nothing but pearls and glasses.
But I do not wish that to happen on the public street.
Nice women should NOT be exposed to the prurience of cigar smokers.
The best venue for such a view is somewhere both romantic and private.
There is absolutely no need, nor any possible salutary consequence, to a vulgar public exhibition of procreational feminine attributes.

RESPECT & CONSIDERATION

Nice women might wear skirts of a reasonable length, perhaps combined with panty hose, silk stockings, or thigh-highs, above that a proper blouse that barely even shows a bit of collar bone, and in this weather a sweater or cardigan, along with a coat of course - it is the middle of winter - plus glasses, pearls, and an intelligent inquisitive expression.
Comfortable shoes - stylish is okay, as long as they don't hurt.
Nothing else!
The blouse and the skirt should be contrasting colours, the pearls should be off-white and lustrous.

I'll make an exception for trousers - if the material is opaque and the waistband is at the actual waist, these too are perfectly appropriate.

In warm weather the top may be short-sleeved, and of thinner material.

A woman who dresses like a lady and carries herself as such is admirable.
Someone who calculates her clothing for maximum sireen effect, however, is not a lady.

Many cigar smokers do not grasp this.
But I know that there are still women out there who do.

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THAT'S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR

2011-12-28T12:10:00.000-08:00

It took a while, but I've finally grasped that I don't do the 'wise uncle' role very well. Years ago, a friend asked if I had any advice for his daughter when she was going off to college. We were all sitting around the table after dinner the night before he planned to drive her and her stuff across country, and he realized that despite his worries, she was just so brimming with anticipation that she wasn't even listening to him. As a friend, I could have told him he was wasting his time. Young people and college? It's an un-ending prospect of booze, pizza, and shocking behaviour.
Those are the fundaments of our educational system.

Did I have any sensible words I could pound into her head?

"Always make sure that your boy friend is older than your whisky!"

That is all.

The pained look in his eyes told me that I had fully and completely FAILED the avuncular role he had chosen for me.
Her expression, however, said that she was taking my advice to heart, completely, and fully.

Despite his hesitation at having me around whenever his little girl is back during break, because of my lack of seriousness and my supercilious attitude, it turns out that I am still her favourite "uncle".

Plus I can talk about booze, pizza, and shocking behaviour.
Specifically his, before she was even born.

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THE BEAT GENERATION IS STILL A WASTE OF TIME!

2011-12-27T12:08:00.000-08:00

One of my friends asked why I like Chinatown. I had not actually considered the question before. It's just that when I moved to San Francisco in 1984 the place I ended up living was right on the edge of that neighborhood and North Beach.
Within a short time I had gotten used to the bakeries, coffee shops, and restaurants.

The alternative would have been spending all my time in North Beach.
Which, ever since the fifties, has been filled with artistic types, bohemians, intellectuals, philosophers, and other layabouts.
There's only so much free-verse a rational person can take before keenly desiring to barf.

I moved in 1993, but I still cross the hill every day.

I like Chinatown, I do not particularly like North Beach.
No, Jack, I do not wish to buy your revolutionary newspaper.
Can someone please shut up the unwashed person with the guitar?
Declaim that meaningful doggerel to yourself, no one else is interested.
Yes, you're special. Unique, creative, and inspired. Now please go away.

From 1984 to 1993 every morning I would go around the corner to wake up with a latte at the Caffe Trieste, spending half an hour reading the Chronicle before even thinking of doing anything else. It's easy to tune out artistic types and others when so engaged.
Unfortunately the SF Chronicle is not worth reading anymore, and the Trieste is more awash with bohemians than ever before.
Instead, if I'm in the neighborhood, I'll drop by the Caffe Puccini on Columbus Avenue. Their cappuccino is pretty good, and one can watch the pedestrians strolling past from a fine vantage point.

I end up in Chinatown several times a week, but hardly ever in North Beach during daylight hours.
Jack doesn't try to sell his communist rag there - he probably doesn't like the Cantonese, and considers them bad for the Marxist cause.
I've never seen a hippie playing a guitar in Chinatown - the locals would probably dump a bucket of water on him and tell him to take his screeching elsewhere.
Other than the loony at the intersection of Washington and Grant, there is no-one declaiming. And it's doubtful whether what he 'declaims' is actually free verse or sheer gibberish. Or even has any meaning at all.
The locals in Chinatown already know that they're special. Unique, creative, and inspired. They do not need anyone to tell them so, and have no interest in proclaiming it to other people anyway. They are self-confident, open for business, and not particularly enthused by guff from artistic types, bohemians, intellectuals, philosophers, and other layabouts.

The entire passage above is free verse, as well as deep and meaningful
Please ponder it, while sipping your cappuccino.
On the other side of Broadway.
Thank you!

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WISHING SOMEONE BON VOYAGE

2011-12-26T12:30:00.000-08:00

One of the cigar smokers over at the wall will soon be in between jobs.
The project that he was working on at the trading company is coming to an end. According to another cigar afficionado, this is a golden opportunity.
The glass isn't half empty, it's half full.

What he should do, according to the well-meaning advice of the optimist, is dump the dogs and guns into his pick-up truck and head off to see the country.
Tell his wife he'll be back in six months, and if she's still there when he gets back, he'll bring her a nice souvenir.

Now this of course is all wrong.

Bone-headed advice, indicative of messed up priorities.

Board the dogs with a friend, put the wife and the guns in the pick-up truck. You'll need someone to use those fire arms while you're outrunning a redneck biker gang somewhere east of Omaha. She can shoot at the pursuers while you put your heel to the gas.
Dude, those dogs ain't gonna be much use in that regard.

For one thing, they can't aim. And for another, they probably have attention deficit disorder. They weren't paying ANY mind when you showed them how to reload the rifle. They're dogs, for crapsakes! Do you really think they'll remember that all three of you pissed on that Harley parked outside of the roadhouse?
Your wife, on the other hand, will recall the incident vividly. And not only because women are a bit more modest about taking a whizz. Squat in public, not on your life!
Heck, she might have told your drunk ass at the time that it was a very bad idea.
And in any case, she can shoot better than the damned dogs.
ALWAYS, and this is valuable advice, ALWAYS bring the person with opposable thumbs!

Especially if you're going to tinkle on a hairy man's motorbike.
As an ironic statement of personal machismo.
Or just plain orneriness.

Of course I didn't say anything. The way I see it, if he goes off on a trip with his dogs and his guns, his wife is well rid of him. She has probably resented his affection for the hounds and fire arms several years now, regretted even marrying him. If he has a tattoo anywhere on his body, it probably says "Smith & Wesson" or "Sturm Ruger", instead of her name. Maybe a long-deceased hound lovingly engraved on one of his biceps. He wants to travel? Let him!
The glass isn't half empty, it's half full.

Just don't be surprised if she's living with a yoga instructor when you get back.

You'll find your cigars and the spare ammo out by the curb.

Bon voyage.

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SMALL DEGENERATE WATCHING A GENTLEMAN BATHING

2011-12-25T17:30:00.000-08:00

The perfect thing to do during a cold-afternoon, especially on a day off, is to take a long hot bath. Nothing really beats lazing in the tub, with suds pooling in my navel and warm steam rising.
Yes, ideally there would be another person there too, but you can’t have everything.
So instead there's a book, a pot of tea, and an angry raccoon in the bathroom.

洗熊

This particular angry raccoon claims to be German. He says he studied at Heidelberg.
Remarkably, there are indeed such creatures in Germany.
Raccoons were introduced both deliberately and accidentally, starting over seven decades ago. They've made themselves right at home.
Gone all native, so to speak.

He looks disapproving whenever he’s near me, and often mutters something about ‘nasty Dutchy, crush you’.
Not exactly the best company during a long soak. I’ve told him that I would vastly prefer someone female and clearly human, can’t he at least gaily wave around a pair of panties (with or without lace edging) to evoke some feminine charm for chrissakes, but he ignores me and gets dangerously close to my teacup.
Sometimes I’ll sit on the edge of the tub smoking, while he glares at me and suggests that I should use more soap. Like many Germans, he disapproves of my display of Dutch sensuality, and my charming badger-like nature.
I think he feels threatened by it.

Along with several of the other stuffed creatures, he has an attitude problem. The majority of them are not fully grounded in reality, and some are exceedingly maladjusted.
Fortunately, only the raccoon watches me bathe. It’s the water that entrances him. This is not surprising, as the German term for the raccoon is "der Waschbär" - 'the washbear'.
I doubt that it's my slickly wet male body, glowing and fragrant - there has never been much evidence of a sense of aeasthetics from the beast, and that again is very German of him.

Gunther (the raccoon) says he's willing to take a pair of crisply CLEAN panties from a nice young lady to wave about, but under no circumstances will he accept any panties that I might offer him. He distrusts any and all feminine undergarments to which I have any connection.
He also claims that my boxers and my socks roam around the floor at night looking for victims, who will never be seen again. Several of the roomies have similar beliefs about my clothing. Something about a bad aura or bad karma attached to the human male.
Well, specifically to me. Probably some masculine rivalry going on or something.
Be that as it may, they vastly prefer feminine underwear, and I shall not fault them for that.

Gunther has even said that if a nice young lady were to donate her panties, she could come over once a month to wear them for a while. Just to keep them in shape, he has no objection to that. Why, he'll even help her!
Despite his weird fascination with scanties, I try to keep him on the subject of underwear, because otherwise he'll threaten to bomb Rotterdam, or bring up the famous autobahns again.
Plus Stukas, and raids over Coventry.
He's rather obsessive.

Once, Gunther and one of the other residents in the apartment had a long quarrel about bikini briefs versus French-cut high waists. With or without lace edging, in nice fruity colours. It ended with the loser screaming about the siege of Leningrad and the bitter cold on the Russian Front, which, apparently, was an argument for more fabric.
Gunther holds out his arms to indicate how big precisely and no bigger the nice young lady whom he wishes would donate such a garment should be. Given that he's only a foot tall, you can imagine that she won't be much larger than that - he has short arms.

He's never spoken of brassieres, so it is quite likely that breasts are entirely beyond his reach. Or at least his attention. Though there is a distinct possibility that the fierce small she-sheep, who regards nice female bosoms as HER real-estate ("mine! I found them") has Pavlovianly dissuaded him from even coming near such things, by growling at whoever dares come close when she is happily nestled in between. Be that as it may, he will on occasion wax lyric about small feminine bottoms lovingly encased in silk or cotton.
With or without lace edging.
Then he starts singing in German.
I usually give up conversing with him at that point, and retire to the tub to read my philatelic catalogue and blow bubbles. Crazy furball.

A pot of tea, a few cigarillos, and an argument with an irascible raccoon, will take up a good hour of soaking.

If panties actually were involved, it would take a hell of a lot longer.
And I'd unceremoniously chuck the raccoon into the hallway.
He can stew in his own neurotic juices out there.
Rail furiously against the closed door.
Screaming "panties!"

Honestly, I have no idea why he's so obsessed with cotton, silk, curvature, gussets, and lace edgings.
Must be one of those German things that I just don't get.

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JUST DUCKY!

2011-12-25T11:36:00.000-08:00

Lunch on Sunday usually isn’t a problem. I get up late, take a long bath, and head into Chinatown for a bite before percolating down to the office. Or, if I've gotten to the office relatively early and haven't felt puckish yet, I'll wander back up to C'town for snackipoos by mid-afternoon.
I've come to enjoy the regular solitude and peacefulness of the office on a weekend, though I do wish at times that I had other activities planned.
But Christmas is an unpleasant imposition, and an interruption of my routine - one cannot toddle off to a Chinese eatery for a bit of casual solitary snarfing on Xmas.
People dining by themselves in a Chinese Restaurant on Christmas advertise that their family ties are defective.
Which, in Chinese terms, makes them a very doubtful quantity.
Normal Caucasians surely have someone to eat with.
Especially during the holidays.

Well, not exactly. I'm not in a relationship anymore, and I have no bloodkin in Northern California.
So while I consider myself quite normal (please do NOT interject a snarky comment at this point!), my holidays won't follow the standard pattern.

Not a problem.
Except when it comes to food.
No, I do not have an atavistic desire to eat turkey. It's a rather miserable bird that probably makes a better pet than dinner, despite its absolute stupidity.
And most of the traditional trimmings are all in all rather nasty.
Truth be told, the idea of sitting around a groaning board with a large number of distant relatives gives me the screaming willies.
I'm just not that conversationally gifted.
Eeeek!

AFLACKKKKKKK!

A nice plump roast duck is delicious. Hacked into chopstickable chunks, served with rice and crisp vegetables.
Perhaps with some spicy-fried prawns, or even a bit of steamed fatty pork with ginger.
It's enough for two to four or five people.
Very festive!

But at present there is no one to chopstick-dance with.
And I seldom cook much nowadays.
On a day like today it would be particularly pointless.

At some point later I shall have a slice of fruit cake and a bit of whisky.
Helped by a mystery novel and a pipeful of good tobacco, the time will pass quickly, and Christmas will soon be over.
Okay, perhaps TWO slices of fruit cake.
With a second whisky, or another smoke.
On Monday I shall wield chopsticks again!
I wonder, where will I go for some nice duck?

Now, I think I'll head over to the operations department and steal some of their chocolate!

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THE QUIET AFTER CHRISTMAS

2011-12-23T12:05:00.000-08:00

The week after Christmas is always enjoyable and quiet at work. Last year, after a few slow hours, I would head into Chinatown for lunch. Which is something I will do again this year.

Off on the twentysixth (probably at the office nevertheless), working half-days Tuesday through Friday.
Leave at two P.M. C'town by 2:20. Fed by 3.

Thinking in terms of wonton noodle soup at least once.
It's perfect coldweather food.

Of course, what I would far rather be doing is curling up on a couch with a hot beverage and another person, underneath a nice warm comforter.
Got the comforter.
Zero on person.
And no couch.

Perhaps I should just bring my comforter or a blanket down to the office and lie in front of the reception area teevee watching cartoons all afternoon.
With a nice hot beverage.
It will be very quiet.
Nobody's working more than two half-days between Xmas and New Year.
If it weren't for building security, the smoke detectors, and the sprinkler system, I could probably also get away with smoking my pipe.

Smoking outdoors in frigid weather is not entirely enjoyable.

Really, I don't know how Santa does it - in illustrations he's always pictured with a pipe. Perhaps he has on two sets of long underwear. Lots of insulation.
Happy nudity does not appear to be part of Santa's world, and the concept of a hot tub or steam room at the North Pole, with a mob of those bandy-legged elves unwinding, is not a pretty mental sight.
Their locker room probably smells nasty.
I bet all of them have scratchy red long johns.
Probably itchy rashes on their bottoms because of it.
No nice silken skin, warm and velvety, but dry and chapped.
Whoever came up with the idea of a whole bunch of unshaven height-impaired middle-aged gentlemen all bunking together with a large elderly (and eccentric!) fat dude in the frozen wastelands had a hyper-active imagination and a very, VERY sick mind.
There's something frightfully English about the whole thing.
Unpleasantly reminiscent of the public schools.
Foodwise, it's probably horrible too.
Reindeer sausages every day.
No vegetables, or seafood.
British digestive issues.
And boiled penguins.

Certainly puts my lack of a couch and another person in perspective. At least I'm not forced to associate with a bunch of short ugly men all the time.
And I get to eat wonton noodle soup in Chinatown.

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SEASONALLY INDUCED TOURETTES

2011-12-22T12:01:00.000-08:00

Nougat. Praline. Fondant. Fudge.
Walnuts, sugar, brickle, candy canes.
If anyone says those words, run and hide.
They’ve been possessed by an evil spirit.

The Christmas season did not used to be such a tense and fraught time of year. And it’s unfair blaming the retailers – they simply discovered that their customers would happily buy crap in huge quantities during the last two weeks before the holiday; unwellchosen gifts and expensive fripp being exchanged, then angrily returned as unsuitable.

Why? Because auntie Pooh-Pooh in Long Beach gets all despondent if she doesn’t receive trinkets and costume jewelry from all of her little nephews and nieces. She’s given up on their parents, as they simply send another subscription to a magazine she never reads, and a fruitbasket with a champagne bottle sticking out of the centre.
If she had anyone to dance with on New Year’s Eve she’d drink it, but after ten o’clock uncle Walter simply dozes in the bingo room at the old folks home that they live in. The nurse will come by and quietly remove the stogey from his clenched arthritic grasp, as the other retirees one by one fall asleep and drool. The nurse puts the teevee on low volume so that the ball descending at midnight won’t wake the somnolent ones.

Did I mention that appalling woman who always brings your mom oranges? Yep, gotta get her something too. Because even though you can’t stand oranges by now (force of association), you have to show your appreciation. She’ll then pinch your cheek and say “my, how you’ve grown! Gonna get married soon!”
No, you have no plans to get hitched at any time in the near-future. There’s more to life than domestic disharmony. Wild illicit passion with a mysterious stranger, maybe. The things is, you have options.
But you aren’t planning to tell her that. She’d think you queer if you did.
Instead you buy her an extra tight Christmas sweater.
So she can flaunt her boobies.
In all modesty.

Giving gifts feels good, but being forced to do so is an imposition.
Most men simply want a sixpack of beer, women crave jewelry, and kids beg for electronic devices.
Why doesn’t anybody just settle for socks?

[This blogger is easy to shop for. A candy bar wrapped in a pair of panties.
It's what I've always wanted. Now, what would YOU like?]

Christmas is the most irritating time of year, and holiday shopping totally blows!

Fruitcake. Moist. Pink Champagne. Bûche de Noël .
Gingerbread santas and reindeer cookies.
Peanut butter caramel fudge bars.
Triple mint marble suckers.

SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!
AAAAAAAAURGH!
FX!KXMAS!

You have NO intention of reading or watching Charles Dickens' saccharine fable again. It stank the first time, it has become more torturous with each telling. And Frosty the Snowman should melt.
Instead, you’ll find somewhere private to read that history atlas you have, and dream fondly of Huns despoiling Eastern Europe, or the Ashanti Empire before the Europeans ruined everything in Africa. The division of Charlemagne’s realm, and the sweep of plagues across the known world.
A nice quiet place, where Christmas is faint.

I don’t know about you, but I intend to be home by late afternoon everyday between Christmas Eve and new year.
No returns, no after Christmas sales, and no clearance bargain frenzies.

At peace, having a good read, with a pipefull or two.
Quiet, restful, and positively no stress.
Please drop by with your books.
Hide out, and unwind.
Have a cup of tea.
It's sanctuary.

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AN IMAGE IN MY MIND

2011-12-21T18:20:00.000-08:00

Chinese girls can wear green far better than redheads. On an auburn-haired woman, green looks like a cliché – "welcome to the Saint Paddy’s Day Booze Orgy, boyo" – but on a slim Cantonese person, the effect is totally classy.
Especially if it’s a skirt or a sweater. Or, hypothetically, even shoes. Ballet flats. Sensible and comfortable, yet elegant.

That was the thought that popped into my head the other day as I walked by Portsmouth Square, on the side where 檳城美食邨 (Penang Garden) and Buddha's Universal Church are located. Washington Street.

AT APPROXIMATELY THREE O'CLOCK.....

A remarkable thought, given that the only people visible, while indeed Chinese, were by no means girls. Elderly chess-players, and grannies listening to opera. But when I'm smoking a nice strong flake in my pipe, strange figments come to mind. It's the effect of nicotine.
I always light up a pipe after weekend lunches in Chinatown, carefully calibrating the load to last me until mere moments before I get to the office building. A pleasant stroll, the long way around, gets me in the mood for a few hours of plonking at the computer.

A CHARMING DEMOISELLE

Think of a dark green skirt, white blouse, neat little shoes, a cardigan, and raven-dark hair.
Now imagine a warm smile, discrete lipstick, and pearls.
Nice, no?
In the very best of taste.
Exactly like you would have seen in some of those Mandarin movies from the fifties, or period serials from Hong Kong made during the eighties and nineties. The straightforward and intelligent young woman who is the heroine of the piece. She has refinement, gallantry, good breeding, and courage. Her role is not just decorative, but inspires the viewer. At some point she'll grab a pistol and kill several Japanese soldiers, for the very best of reasons, of course. Or she'll save her bookish fiancé the newspaper publisher by demurely blowing the brains out of the corrupt police chief, with steely girlish resolve.
Salutory cinema. Delightful and enchanting.

The net result is that everyone who leaves the movie theatre that night will wish that they too knew someone like her, or if they are women, that they actually were her.
Or, if they are very flexible, both of those eventualities.

The elderly chess-players do not know what goes through my mind when I pass. They are wrapped up in their game, and probably imagining a battle during the three kingdoms era, if they dream at all while strategizing.
A host of elderly men stands around the two adversaries, observing pensively, silently sharing in the delicious tension.
A cannon is moved across the board, a halberd-wielder feints and scowls.
General Kwan salutes his liege, Lau Bei, then moves to block the enemy forces at the Ging ford. Whisps of smoke from several cigarettes mingle in the cold winter air.......
A solitary pipe smoker passes by, and pressed Virginia mixes briefly with the air-cured leaf.

It takes about twenty minutes from the sidewalk outside whichever small restaurant where lunch was had to the front door of the office building.
By the time I've made it to Montgomery and Pine, the pipe is almost done.
The mental image of the young lady wearing a pleated skirt has dissipated by then - momentary sweetness fades to matters perfectly mundane.

It was a good lunch, and I got to listen in on other people talking.

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NICE PAJAMAS FOR SMALL WOMEN

2011-12-21T12:02:00.000-08:00

I have to wonder: do the folks at Macy's and other stores just assume that all women are enormous?
Is there a law out there that insists that if a woman does not have a monstrous booty she must sleep nude?

While personally I have no problem with covering up the hairy mastodon women and hiding them from friends and family, I am amazed and not a little appalled that the only pajamas that Macy's sells are 'Medium', 'Large', 'Extra Large', and 'Killer Whale'.
What's even worse is that they've confused 'sleepwear' with 'slutwear'.
Yes, half of the females in the Bay Area seem to prefer that latter category of clothing at all times (and we should be grateful that they do not parade around in their sleepwear), but all I want is some nice happy jammies.
You know, comfy flannel with little frogs or sheep patterns.

It's not for me. It's for my roommate. She needs something nice.

I am also disturbed by the fact that pajamas are in the lingerie department.
Mind you, I like lingerie. Really I do.
That is, I used to.
That was before the lingerie department started catering to the same people who have confused sleepwear with slutwear. Very large sluts. Enormous.
Since when did the women in this city develop hooters the size of a regulation basketball? And if they are that large, little scraps of frilly material ain't gonna hold 'em.
Ripping lace is such a sad sound.

WHERE DID ALL THE NICE GARMENTS GO?

Yes, I know that women ELSEWHERE in this country are elephantine, built like bovine sasquatch. Probably because of the huge mounds of deepfried cow-behind and barbecue sauce covered lard-o-melts that they consume, as well as the growth hormones in the groundwater of cattle country.
But this is San Francisco. Women are more health conscious here. And there are ladies living in the city whose foodculture does not include using frozen pizza as a taco shell, deep frying it, and loading that monster up with ground fatty beef, processed cheese, sour cream, bacon, and guacamole.

Enough for the whole family in SF is a mere snack elsewhere.

My roommate is a small person. Thin, with fine bones. No, I haven't seen her in lingerie in years.
We're no longer a couple, and we no longer expose ourselves to each other.
And while I fondly remember the visual excitement of the past, such things are not part of the present program.
She simply needs something warm and comfy to watch teevee in. Something with dancing kangaroos or partying bunny rabbits, for instance.
Not something built for big lard buts and sixteen pound bowling balls.

I'm still searching. It's important. Must find something.

I also need to find someone who will wear lingerie at me.
But that's an entirely different search.
Though no less important.
Fine silk things.
Petite.

Little frogs. Drowsy sheep. Dancing kangaroos. Drunken rabbits.

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BRIGHT SHINY REFLECTIONS

2011-12-20T12:00:00.000-08:00

Mid-December is when one should remember the good things in life. So what follows is a personal list of things that I view as great blessings.
No, nothing deep and meaningful – you weren’t expecting any of that anyway, nor is this the correct blog for something so high-fallutin’.
I'm a fairly superficial type.

So instead, just nice stuff.
Things that everyone can appreciate.

PERHAPS GRANDMA'S EMPTY APARTMENT

Good strong tea. Books. A quiet place to read.
Aged Virginia flake tobacco and a pipe.
A pillow. A teddy bear. A warm rug.

Cake. Coffee. A favourite cup and saucer.
Lace-trimmed French-cut briefs.
A long quiet evening.

Coffee table art books. Drinkable sherry.
A witty bright eyed young miss.
Tickets to the theatre.

Autumn leaves. Summer rain. Fresh breeze.
Sunlight, grass, and blossoms.
Pears. Peaches. Plums.

Some of these, you will understand, are presently absent.
It's a question of time.

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WHAT BLISS LOOKS LIKE

2011-12-19T12:10:00.000-08:00

They had the corner seat all to themselves, and there was almost no one else in the compartment. Which was to be expected, as a cable car going up California Street late on a December night does not attract any tourists.

The woman was freezing, and clutched on to her companion for warmth. She was neatly dressed, very ladylike. But not entirely appropriate for the weather. Her skirt was pleated wool of good quality, but when it's this cold far more effective covering is required.
By Stockton Street he had his arms around her and she was within his coat, nestled up against him. By the top of the hill it almost looked like one person with two heads sitting there. The flap of his coat almost completely enfolded her small frame, and her legs were pressed tightly against his. No, it didn't look in any way immodest, there was clearly nothing else than heat-sharing going on.
Her head stuck up out of the top of the wrapped bundle that the two of them had become, and while she looked happier, she also looked pre-occupied. She was probably thinking that he needed to generate a lot more heat. Dammit, so cold!
There was a constant sense of motion from the two of them. He was rocking her gently, she was wriggling against him trying to expose as much of herself to his warmth as possible while limiting any and all exposure to the rest of the world.
"Why", she was probably wondering, "why do men tolerate cold so well?"

The answer to that question is simple. The idea of a lovely woman gluing herself tightly to us is infinitely motivational.
I observed the couple out of the corner of my eyes, pretending that I was not drinking in every detail.
They seemed very sweet together, like a perfect fit.
That may have been because there was no discernable space between them.

"When we finally get home, I'm getting into bed with ALL my clothes on!"

This announcement at Jones Street, sounding like it came from a wounded little girl, was startling in the silent cabin.
Her man made a querulous sound, and she responded that yes, the coat and the shoes were coming into bed too. So there!
I looked at her feet and saw that she was wearing sensible flats, flexible thin material.
Good. Spike heels rip the sheets.
Don't ask me how I know.

They got off the cable car together at California and Hyde Street. He held her tightly as she trembled up the slope, his coat around her again.
He looked very happy indeed.
For his sake I hope there are many more cold nights.

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PERFECT PROPORTIONS

2011-12-18T19:30:00.000-08:00

Like many single adult males, I speculate occasionally about the sizes of certain garments and body parts.
Part of this has to do with a question all males ask themselves at some point: how big am I?
Meaning usually that they are facing an entire row of slacks and have no idea which ones will fit. In the back of their mind is the datum that when their mother last measured them, they were 32 and 32.
Since then, every year, she has assumed that they have grown a bit, and like clockwork she send them clothing gifts for the holidays.
This year they expect to get something with an inseam length of 32 (she knows that full height has been reached), and a waist measuring seventy plus inches. Like every garment received in the last two decades, it will end up at the local charity shop, advantageously priced at one dollar. Such a steal!

Surely there's a heffalump out there who is going naked?
They remain optimistic.

My measurements are boring in comparison.
Average height. Fairly trim. No beer gut.
I flatter myself that I have a good bottom - but I wouldn't know, seeing as it hasn't been patted in a while, and I am not in the habit of feeling it myself.
Decent posture. Decent proportions.
Medium, with a preference for loose fit.
A typical badger, in other words.

THOSE THINGS. YEAH, THOSE.

It should not surprise you that, like most badgers, I have a keen interest in the female of the species.
Particularly their proportions.
While that usually translates to an obsession with brassiere size, what it means for me is that while brassieres and their contents are indeed matters of interest and keen appreciation, moderation ranks very highly.

Quality always over quantity. Whose are they?

And is she an interesting person?

Can she hold her own?

Women who gesticulate with their bosoms are conversationally impaired.
Breasts should not be a burden. Subtle statements are admirable.
The mammaries mustn't dominate the discourse.

Ideally a woman should have two of them.
Anything more is excessive.

Other than that, I have little to say about breasts.

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THOROUGHLY FED UP WITH THE HOLIDAYS

2011-12-18T11:15:00.000-08:00

You’ve had enough of the season. Screw it. It's not even Christmas yet, and the pressure is more than you can bear. More, actually, than you wish to take.
You're not even sure what it's all about anyway.

The story is that on December 25th. two thousand years ago some fat guy wearing red saw a star in the sky and squoze his lard-ass down a chimney somewhere in Germany.
Since then there has been war in the Middle-East, and little white kids get presents.
It’s all rather confusing and silly.

Your cousins and siblings have bought into the whole thing.
And because they have, you’ve felt pressure to buy them stuff too.
Knowing that in the first two days after Christmas ALL of you will be down at Macys trying to return stuff that isn’t your size, would look horrible on you, and makes your skin itch.

All you want is the roast duck and that lovely charsiu.
Avoid the overdone turkey, ignore the stuffing.
Pass the rice, and all of you, shut up!

Everywhere you go, you hear horrible, HORRIBLE! music.

What you need, my dear, is a quiet afternoon at my place.

Just kick off your shoes, get under the blankets – make sure that you’re fully covered for maximum toasty – and let me bring you a nice hot cup of warm milk (with honey). Here’s a volume of Calvin and Hobbes to read.
There won’t be any horrid Christmas music. Nor any nasty smells of pine-sprayed wreaths, scented candles with almond, cinnamon, and cloves, fake bakery odours, overly sweet candy aromas. Just a faint whisp of pipe tobacco from the other room, where I will be reading my own book.
Enjoy the silence, and feel free to doze.
I’ll wake you up later and we’ll go have a snack.

You’ll get home at a reasonable hour, and you can tell everyone that you were out shopping.

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NICE WOMEN

2011-12-17T20:07:00.000-08:00

I was intending to write a post about likable rats living on Russian Hill, and their relationship with a small human person, some snarky crows, a lazy cat, and a raccoon down in the alley. But unfortunately I got side-tracked.

A petite Cantonese American woman is to blame for this.

That being my roommate and erstwhile significant other.

You see, there have been problems with her boyfriend lately, and their relationship is now on the rocks.
It's a sudden development.
I don't know how I feel about that. I hate seeing her miserable and I want her to have a good life.
But him, eh............., if him and his wheelchair were to accidentally roll into the bay, it would not be so great a loss.
Honestly, there is no part of me that would grieve for him.
He's made the poor woman cry too much over the past several months.
I hate her being so unhappy.
She deserves much better.

Her kinfolk picked her up for dinner around teatime today. Until then I had tried to be comforting, while wondering what was next.
Our relationship ended well over a year ago, and both of us have moved on.
I would be lying if I didn't say that in my opinion Wheelie Boy was a selfish opportunist, while simultaneously admitting that my perspective necessarily is horribly biased. So, because it could be interpreted as ulterior-motivated and due to a private agenda, I shall refrain from uttering criticism about the man in her presence for the time being.
She needs an understanding ear, not snippy opinions.
She remained considerate, decent, and ethical throughout our own breakup, so trying to be a gentleman and a true friend is the least I can do.
And it's essential, too. A matter of pride and self-respect. Hers and mine.
I really want to see her smile again.

Anyhow, she's eating dinner with relatives tonight, and now that she has become more open about her life they'll probably be getting quite an earful. Good. After over two decades of hiding everything so as not to hurt them or cause discord within the family, it's damned well about time that they realized that Savage Kitten is a flesh-and-blood woman, with emotions, issues, and a life of her own. They should have been more aware.
And, truth be told, she could have been more trusting of their tolerance.
Or leastways far less indulgent of Chinese American sensitivities.
Let's just say that old-country social dynamics bite both ways.

蘭芯斑球 LAN-SAM PAN-KAU

I left shortly after Savage Kitten's brother picked her up, and went down to one of my favourite Chinatown restaurants - the place with the waitress who has beautiful hands. She's a small woman, with an intelligent pretty face, and a sweet quirky personality.
Unfortunately she's married - there's a band on one of her fingers.
Yes, I would notice that. Pretty hands, remember?
Still. Nice voice, kind eyes.

I have no intention of ever divulging the name of the establishment.
If you're a man, I do not want you either poaching on my territory or being baffled at what I'm ranting on about (by reason of your own singular lack of appreciation for nice women), and if you’re a woman, you might feel either jealous (because she has such nice hands and eyes), or contemptuous (because like the man you should probably end up with you have no idea whatsoever about feminine beauty).

Dinner was most enjoyable.
Pretty hands and sparkling eyes are a wonderful condiment.

Stir-fried kailan with codfish, and a bowl of rice.

The stalks of kailan had a wonderful snappy crunch to them, perfectly cooked - a clean flavoured and delicately savoury dish geared to improve one's outlook and make a person glad to be alive. The trick to combining fish pieces and vegetables is to actually cook each separately to a not-yet-done stage, then to combine them in the wok for a brief and flamboyant blaze of glory.
Beforehand, the stalks of kailan should be blanched quickly in boiling water, the fish pieces soaked a few seconds in whisked egg-white and cornstarch so that they remain firm when stirfried. By thus doing the two main ingredients separately you prevent the fish from fragmenting in the pan and either component from being overcooked. The combination over high heat, with a touch of moisture added at the right moment, is a short sweet finish.
The adept cook inspires the food with wok hei (鍋氣) - unified season and perfection imparted by skill and a super-hot pan.
Such a dish does not, like many similar combinations, require either fermented black beans and garlic, or a tangy sauce. It is excellent on its own.
Fresh firm fish. Crisp kailan stalks. And a friendly smile.
Nice.

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STEWED PETS

2011-12-16T12:02:00.000-08:00

If you had asked me years ago what I thought I would be doing now, it certainly would not have been working the credit and collections desk of a small to medium sized manufacturer headquartered in San Francisco.

Ten years ago I would probably not even have been able to answer the question.
Twenty years ago I would have thought in terms of office manager, psychopath, or famous writer.

Thirty years ago, if I could have gotten my mind out of the gutter for a moment, the answer would have been painting, or illustrating children's books.

And four decades ago I would have said 'emperor of the world'.

Yep. That's me. Atboth the First, feared by my enemies, beloved by my people.
Risen to the top by the sheer force of personality. And genius.

IT'S REALLY ABOUT THE VINDALOO

When I was still a child I didn't have a very realistic view of myself or of the world.
It's taken a while, but I think I am a little more realistic now.
That does not mean that what I would really like to be doing is any closer to the real world, however.
Perhaps not emperor of the world, but something equally impressive.
And preferably also involving small animals.

What's the point of being emperor of the world if you cannot have access to small animals?
Small animals are a very good thing.

Office workers do not need small animals, and due to the constraints of their occupations, they necessarily must neglect the little critters for hours at a stretch - they're at work, and most modern job environments frown upon bringing your owls and marmots to work.
Upon leaving in the evening for a night of riotous behaviour, which means imbibing at the sports bar and lollygagging at the railroad tracks, joshing with the lads, you bid your small animals a fond farewell, oblivious to their pleading eyes, which seem to say "but Bob (or Joe, or Dingo), you've only been home for half an hour! We haven't seen you for an entire day! And you barely finished your vindaloo teevee dinner!"

It's very sad. Later, when you come stumbling in at three o'clock in the morning with a trashy blonde on your arm, your owl hoots at you, and your marmots look at you reproachfully. You've been out for seven hours! They've been all alone! With only the Housewives of New Jersey to keep them company!
It's free with cable subscription!
How could you!

Just before eight o'clock A.M., you and the painted woman (turns out the blonde hair has mousy-brown roots, slightly streaked with grey) wake up in a panic.
My heavens! Gotta be at work by nine! Hurry!
You rush out, barely shaven, both of you still faintly reeking of the cheap eau de cologne with which your night-time best friend had doused herself sixteen hours earlier, and your animal companions glare balefully at your departing rumpled backs.

At six o'clock that evening you return, to discover that the marmots are now little scattered bones, picked clean of all flesh. And your owl tells you, in no uncertain terms, "I had to, you bastard - you didn't feed me for five days!"

Sadly, as you roast the owl over the open flame of the last working burner on your stove, you resolve to be a reformed person.
Kinder. More considerate. More responsible, too.
They were such nice marmots. Plump, too.
But not quite tonight.
Tonight, you'll limit your drinking to single malt, not the cheap well whisky.
You know what happens when you drink those five dollar shots.
Blonde floozies, and charred owl for dinner.
Drink less, but far better.
It's a start.

And that, my friends, is why I still want to be emperor of the world.
Or something equally impressive.

I really care about the small animals.

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A QUIET PLACE WITH BOOKS

2011-12-15T21:10:00.000-08:00

Over the years very few people have been in my apartment.
It’s not that I am particularly inhospitable, but it's more a question of space and privacy. The apartment is small, and contains a lot of stuff. In addition to my roommate’s belongings, and the rather excessive number of books that both of us have accumulated, it contains my things. Which includes enough pipe tobacco to last for several years.

I like the sight of reading matter and tobacco tins stacked on shelves and in corners. Some people, however, might freak. The collection of pottery and porcelain is also a little excessive, though most of it is packed away in bins.
Not much maneuvering room, and a number of breakable objects.

So what with the fact that it’s tiny, it’s also a little crowded.
It might look disorganized to you, but to me it’s “cozy”.
Even if the only ‘cozy’ area really is my bed.

[My roommate’s bed is not cozy, but OFF-limits. As is her room.]

WHO'S THAT?!?

My bed is comfortable and large, with a population of small stuffed animals.
They’re at home there, and unless bribed they will refuse to move.
None of them are happy that they must share it with me.
They would likely object fiercely to any visitors.
And demand the right of disapproval.
We could sit in the kitchen.
Or the tv room.

I’m keen to accommodate guests, but they have to be people who are very nice.
Balanced, open-minded and trustworthy. And with a sense of humour.
My stuff. My roommate’s stuff. The stuffed creatures’ stuff.
As well as all our safety, security, and privacy.

As the song says:
“No cats no dogs no kids no guitars no cops nor preaching men allowed”.

Rabbis, medical professionals, and co-conspirators, yes.
And possibly in the fullness of time someone else.

I’ll brief the fuzzy creatures beforehand.

[Or we'll cleverly distract them.]

Don't worry - they won't bite

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A VERY WOMANLY TOUCH

2011-12-15T13:20:00.000-08:00

One of my coworkers doubts my sanity at this point.
While I grasp the reason, which I concede is moderately understandable, the logical explanation I offered for my behaviour failed to satisfy, and may have made the perception worse.
You see, he is not a smoker.
It means nothing to him.

IMAGINE WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

You may remember that my job involves substantial telephone work, yes?

While I am on the phone, listening attentively to someone two thousand miles away talking about how their mother-in-law's car failed to start so she had to call a tow truck and rent a limo to attend the wedding of her favourite neighbor's granddaughter which meant that funds need to be wired especially because the very expensive rent-a-limo got into an accident and crushed the hand painted antique municipal garbage receptacles at the corner of Grove and Podunk and the mayor's donkey and that is why that invoice which is past-due will have to be only a little bit later yet (three months), my hands need something to do.

I'm a very good listener. I am sincerely interested in all these details, and my voice tells them so. It's a question of modulation, you see.
Regarding how I sound and how I respond, I betray that I am actually a warm and social person. It's just that my body language well and truly doesn't.
Bit of a disadvantage face-to-face, but in phone conversations it's entirely immaterial.

My body language, when I'm on the phone, involves doodling, twiddling, eye-rolling, yawning, scratching, twitching, wiggling, vibrating up and down, kicking my desk, and a few minor ticks.
As well as playing with my tobacco.

It was that which caught his eye. He sits five feet away from me, and he had never noticed it before.
While I was enthusiastically uttering the fourth or fifth "oh reeeally, do tell" into the phone, I noticed his eyes following my fingers, which were meticulously separating a sheet of pressed flake strand by strand, so that I could dry the product for smoking sometime later in the day.

[Rattray's Marlin Flake - a 'full dark Virginia', with a certain amount of black leaf in the recipe. It comes in foot long strips, and like most tobaccos it is tinned too moist for immediate smoking. And flake also needs to be rubbed out or teased apart. Hence my actions. Marlin Flake smells lovely, by the way. A nice aged almost chocolatey fragrance. Darn good stuff. ]

His eyes were wide, appalled, and fixed upon the tobacco. So after I got off the phone, I explained what I was doing, and showed him the roll still in the tin. Which looks like some kind of jerky. It's a fascinating product. That style of tobacco used to be far more common, but nowadays there are only a few manufacturers with that keen an attention to detail, as well as the love of the craft.
A pity, really. Quality smoking material.

"You know, I never really got into tobacco."

I muttered something about how coffee, tea, tobacco, spices, and perfumes all share certain unique and fascinating traits, and had an air of romance, adventure, history, mystery, attached to them. Interesting!
It didn't help. He's a man with a healthy life-style.
Such things mean nothing to him.
No imagination.

I've got the rubbed-out flake on a sheet of paper between my computer and the phone. Tobacco when it's drying feels cool and silky-velvety to the hand.
Very sensuous. Very erotic.
There are good reasons why it is described in feminine terms.

I like stroking it with my finger tips.
Mmm.

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TEENSY SILK BRIEFS

2011-12-15T02:28:00.000-08:00

The title of this post bears no relation to the content.
Which is quite unfortunate, as the contents of such things, ideally, are nice college students.
Though sometimes frat boys, who are not nice.
Neither of those quantities are present.
I wouldn't know what to do with the second in any case.
Call an exterminator?

CUPPING WARMTH

Rainy weekend day, Nob Hill. Check letter box before unlocking front door. Up the stairs to an empty apartment, and into the kitchen. The paint is yellowing, it has been years since it was recoated. But it is clean here, and warm. While running water for a hot cup of cocoa, note that the branches outside are stroking the window. The tall trees are gently bending in the wind.

When the hot cocoa is ready, pour it, and sit on the table slowly sipping.
Say, what's in this back pack anyway? Wow, lots of stuff, I had no idea this was all in there.
And even one of these!
Oh goody. Let's put that to good use.

*****

Afterwards, pad softly to the living room and peek at the scatter-lit darkening street outside through the curtains. Still wet, still so very very wet.
Nice and quiet, private, secret even, with no lamps on.
So silent in here, comfortable, dreamy.
It's been a good afternoon.
Early evening now.
More cocoa?
Mmm.

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FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

2011-12-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

There's a provocative article over at Dovbear’s place, about the anonymous Stern girl (hereafter referred to as TASG) who wrote a letter that was published in a school newspaper about having had first-time sex and afterwards regretting it.

[FYI, Stern College is the female division of Yeshiva University. The student in question
identifies herself as a 20-year-old modern Orthodox Jewish woman.]

No, I haven't read the letter, and I have no intention of doing so.
For two reasons: 1). I doubt that it says anything new, and 2). I doubt that it says anything interesting.

People have premarital sex all the time, and the first time anyone has sex is frequently not as they imagined it, nor as wonderful as it was expected to be.
And a number of people will, inevitably, consider it all a ghastly mistake, if not a grim comedy of errors.

The lucky few may however consider it a wonderfully funny episode, and pursue matters further.

Dovbear penned an open letter to TASG, but also to all others with similar situations.

QUOTE:

Dear TASG:

So you had some sex, and it wasn't very good. That's often how it goes at first. As with everything, practice helps. Apart from the disappointment you are feeling about the act itself, I understand that you're upset with yourself. That's also normal.

In fact, it might make you feel better to hear that everything about you, and your experience, are completely normal. Stern girls - even the "good" ones - have premarital sex. Some of them are curious and choose to experiment with a friend or some other suitable candidate; others are in long-term relationships with men they expect to marry and prefer not to postpone the inevitable. Afterwards, even the best-adjusted people doubt themselves. Some fear they may have offered to much, too quickly; others worry about God; still others do as you seem to have done, and wonder Is this the kind of person I am?
[CUT]
One semi-drunken act in a hotel room doesn't define you."

END QUOTE.

[Read his entire post, including the full version of his letter, here: Open letter to TASG.]

He's right. And it's a good letter.
But I wouldn't be the opinionated middle-aged man that I am if I didn't think that more could be said.
Particularly for people contemplating that first time.

"One semi-drunken act doesn't define you"

In hindsight many people have some regrets about their first sexual experience, and especially women seem so afflicted. Often that's because the reaction of their partner was not what they expected, nor did the experience match the enormous hoopla, and tension at the time affected their enjoyment.
Hence, of course, the reference to a semi-drunken act; alcohol is frequently employed to screw up courage.

That right there is usually the wrong move.

The first sexual experience should be a sober decision.

Think it over ahead of time, and bring a tooth-brush and a good book to read afterwards. The first is to make sure your breath smells clean, the latter is so that you can happily cuddle in each other's warmth once the sticky bits are over.
Your partner should be similarly equipped.
Whatever you do, do NOT ask "was it good for you?"
Such a question, after the act, is rather less useful than being communicative before or during.
The datum that you like your ears nibbled is useful information.
Likewise the fact that you don't know what to do with your feet.

Whether you are male or female, your partner in this event should be a nice person with whom you will still want to associate afterwards.
Obviously, if marriage is not part of the program and your cultural or religious background looks askance at sex outside of wedlock, complete discretion from both parties is required.
This actually also holds if you are married, to each other or third parties.

PLEASE SHUT UP!

We do not need to hear about the lovely mole on HER left buttock, the appalling weirdness of HIS nether regions, how odd everything felt, or about the amazing fact that BOTH of you have a third nipple.

Do not text your best friend. Unless you NEED emotional support.
Do not capture the moment on camera. Unless you are celebrities.
Do not tell everyone you know who the other person was. PERIOD.

[This goes for both parties, of whichever gender. Keep it to yourself.]

Sex in any case should never be an alcohol-fuelled spur of the moment occurrence.
Whether it is happily spontaneous and good-natured fun is up to you.
But stimulants and intoxicants are best avoided.

It helps to read fairly extensively about sex well before it actually happens.
What does his body do, what does that involve, what reactions will take place in his brain, what erogenous zones does she have, what sensations are pleasurable for her, and so on. The male orgasm and the female orgasm are not at all the same, and feelings before and after sex will differ also.
And while pregnancy can be avoided by careful awareness of her fertile phase (on average, somewhere between thirteen to sixteen days from the start of menstruation), condoms are advisable for a whole variety of reasons. Find out about such matters beforehand.
Just as with medical care and legal issues, the informed consumer is an empowered consumer. A realistic idea about what to expect is better than panic, fumbling, and bafflement.

Don't rush, ignore pressure (peer or otherwise), and choose the moment.

I recommend a long lazy weekend afternoon involving chocolate.
Don't forget the toothbrush and the book.
Go out to eat afterwards.

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THE SEASON OF QUIET EVENINGS

2011-12-14T12:20:00.000-08:00

Years ago I would occasionally accompany a fellow high school student home. Not that it was, strictly speaking, essential to do so. Valkenswaard in that day and age was not at all crime-ridden, and we both knew the neighborhood in which we lived very well.

Suzanne, whom I’ve mentioned once or twice before, was a vivacious dark-haired girl, very intelligent, and charming in the way that women with justifiable self-assurance can often be.
No, there was nothing going on between us, though I have at times since then wished there had been.
She was just an exceptionally nice person, and the sister of a good friend.

Gentlemen make sure that young ladies get home safely.
It is the right thing to do.

And it also ensures that one can chat with her a little while longer. Surely you weren’t planning to walk in silence?
Being gallant means enjoyable company – what splendid icing on the cake!

I always waited before firing up my pipe till afterwards, because many nice young ladies have sensitive noses vis à vis the reek of tobacco.
I assumed it might have been disagreeable to her if I smoked, and it was better not to push the issue.

AUTUMN FRAGRANCE

Every two or three weeks I would escort her on her way home. Not so often in late spring, or summer, as daylight lasts till late in the evening, and there would be lots of people around. But by the end of October it gets dark early, and inclement weather more often than not will empty the streets.
Walk close together, and hold the umbrella over her.
Sometimes both of us held the umbrella.
Small warm hands.

Once during early December in the last year that I was in Valkenswaard, we strolled along the Dommelsche Weg, past where it curves at Kerk Straat. Four blocks. We chatted happily till we got to her doorway.
She turned to me and asked "you smoke, don't you?"
"yes."
"I don't."
"I know that"
"But I don't mind it, really. You could have smoked."
"Well, I can always light up later."
"Yes, but it would have been nice to smell burning leaves in autumn."

I always have the urge to set fire to things in Autumn.
Recently I have been smoking nice flakes, all flue-cured tobacco.
And remembering the chill in the air in Valkenswaard at this time of year.
There is a hint of tannins from the fallen leaves. Wet pine nearby, and thinner vegetal odours from further away.
Plus the enchanting fragrance of a woman's hair.

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FELINE GRACE

2011-12-13T12:03:00.000-08:00

The cat did NOT want me to move, she made that clear. Dogs communicate by sniffing rear-ends, cats use their claws. The cat was far too comfortable to even consider shifting. After she fell asleep I could have carefully and surreptitiously left the couch, but I did not want to disturb the warm vibrating furball in the crook of my arm.
A gracious animal, she often brought me mice. Not wanting to hurt her feelings I always showed keen and enthusiastic appreciation, quite unlike the other humans in the house.

It's the thought that counts, after all, and as felines go, she was a remarkably generous creature.
Very giving. A loving personality.

Earlier that day I had spent a while visiting an old friend at the retirement home. She also had a cat, although that particular feline did not like me so much. Cats are very territorial, and sweet little old ladies are always THEIR territory. One does not argue with a creature that expresses itself with claws. Consequently, throughout our long conversation, I was aware of baleful eyes glaring at me from the top of the cabinet. A large black daemon with a ferocious attitude is hard to ignore.
I wondered whether the next time I should bring a sardine for the beast.
Bribing it might work.

Once home, our cat welcomed me back. I desperately wanted to load up my pipe, but the cat demanded my attention. Without quite realizing how it happened, I ended up on the couch stroking her.
A very manipulative individual, that cat.

For the next two hours I remained on the couch, staring at my pipe and tobacco on the table, while the cat contentedly dozed. So much to do, so little time.
Why am I allowing this furball to keep me here?
But she's such a commanding presence!
Even if fast asleep.
Purr.

That evening, at dinner, the cat jumped on my lap with a nearly dead mouse.
I didn't say anything to the others as I didn't want to appall them.
As she smacked the rodent I petted her with my free hand.
Desperate to keep anyone else from noticing.
Head down, sweetheart, keep still.
Please, no crunching!

Afterwards I buried the deceased mouse under the red currant bushes. There was already an extensive cemetery there. Hundreds of little gifts for humans.
Courtesy of a very nice cat.

She left us in 1976.
Perhaps she found a loving tom and followed him home.
And lived to a ripe old age, surrounded by kittens and lots of dead mice.

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WHAT THAT RUMP TATTOO SAYS

2011-12-12T12:18:00.000-08:00

Much of life in the modern world can be seen in the context of establishing one's individuality.
This often dominates the early adult discourse.
Being recognized as a distinct and unique individual is probably a driving force underlying many of the actions of teenagers and twenty-somethings.

Admirable.

And sometimes, moronic.

Consider, for instance, the tramp stamp. That being the colloquial term for a tattoo placed on the lower back right above the gluteal region of a female.
Unless it is visible, it is entirely pointless. And for it to be exhibited to an appreciative random audience, the clothing has to be amenable to a full view of the area in question. Which, in almost any imaginable environment except a sleazy pick-up joint, will be inappropriate.

Individuality is best manifested through character, personality, and the consideration of others.
A tramp stamp (or any other tattoo) does not achieve that.

Rather, a tramp stamp draws the eyes downwards, and at a minimum tells the viewer: "this woman is either someone's property, or has a very poor estimation of her own bottom".
If it is unusually large or bulbous, the colourful decoration does NOT detract OR distract from that, but unfavourably emphasizes it.
If the posterior is small and charming, the personal trademark completely ruins any positive effect.
And if the permanent marking is her name, it suggests that she has scant confidence in the short-term memory of her romantic partners.

GO AHEAD AND SLOBBER, BOYS!

There is, in fact, no flattering interpretation possible for a tramp stamp.
Showing it off by bad clothing choices compounds the flaw.

Perhaps it is meant to convey "I am unique, and a proudly sexual being".
If so, it fails also in that regard.
Instead it suggest a pathetic need for attention of an erotic nature that cannot be attained by a sparkling personality, intelligence, talent, knowledge, wit, insight, or any other positive virtue.

A tramp stamp is, in all ways, a permanent admission of low self-regard.

I can well imagine that there are girls out there who are pleased with the aesthetic qualities of their back and buttocks. Far be it from me to deny that those things can be utterly enchanting.
Like a huge proportion of humanity, tasty pulchritude appeals enormously to this blogger.
Nay, it occupies a fair amount of my attention.
Aesthetic appreciation is me!

However, if it is indeed a lovely portion of your anatomy, I would above all encourage you to reveal it to me in private. Showing it off to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, lessens my interest, and that of any other decent man.
Sharing it with the world means a lack of discrimination.

Should you fear that you might never have a chance at my enthusiasm or a critical review, please do not worry; I am keenly curious, and it is actually quite easy to get my attention.

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ALL ABOUT WOMEN AND BEER

2011-12-11T20:03:00.000-08:00

Going to put off seeing the new Muppet Movie for a while, despite burning curiosity about the further adventures of my favourite frog fuelled by the two opposing reviews posted under last week’s mention of the movie.

[Both e-kvetcher and Midianite Manna commented. He was incredibly disappointed, she loved the movie. I respect both of their opinions.]

Reason being that I don't often go to movies by myself.
Which, unfortunately, means that I don't go to movies much at all.
And this movie, which caters to an audience which takes childlike pleasure in the shenanigans of a bunch of short maladjusted fuzzy raging individualists - nay, an audience that probably includes a large number of actual children taking that pleasure - is not a movie that you go to alone.
Not if you're a mature man. It looks weird.
Single male in the back of a theatre during a children's movie?
Call the cops! Clobber him with a handbag!
He's probably a football coach.

Which, precisely, is why I need a young lady to go with me.

Protection.

THE DATE

One of my friends has quite the opposite problem. He actually HAS a young lady.
I've never met her, but I fear she might be wasted on my friend.
His idea of dinner and a movie is a slaughter-fest with Schwarzenegger, followed by piles of grilled meat at a grease-pit in the Mission District. Spicy loins and ribs!
He lamented the other day that his young lady did not like barbecue.
And did I have any ideas for changing her mind?

Dude, you're asking me? I don't know nuthin' about young ladies!
I'm single! They're a purely hypothetical concept!

Nevertheless he persevered. He respected my experience, my insight, and my wisdom regarding these matters.
And most especially he esteemed my profound knowledge of food.

[Translation: he thought that a man whose one long-term involvement had evaporated was probably the worst person to ask for relationship advice (true), but he knew that food was one of the subjects on which I just cannot shut up (alas also true).]

Did I know any way to make spicy blackened beef tolerable to his woman?
Because, you see, it went so well with beer.

"What does SHE want to eat?"

"Actually, she never has an appetite after we've been to the movies. But I guess sushi."

You know, I can understand her problem. After watching a blood, guts, and gore film, I too don't have much of an appetite, but the idea of greasy burnt bovine is particularly unappealing at such times.
Also, if the young lady doesn't like barbecue to begin with, it is extremely self-centered to keep pushing it.
Same probably goes for that splatter-fest at the Roxie.

It's actually rather disturbing that he likes violent movies so, but many men do. It's a macho inferiority complex, coupled with a lack of cultural depth.
That, probably, also explains all those Sunday afternoons with greasy grub in front of the boob-tube, watching the Pittsburgh Wombats batter the Los Angeles Butterflies, or whatever those teams are called.
Hooting, beer, lots of hot sauce, and animalistic grunting.

Any time he yells "rip their heads off", whether at a war movie or while watching the game, probably does not inspire romantic inclinations.
Just guessing.

Wouldn't be surprised if his young lady dumps him within the year, once she's taken a good hard look at his typical faux-matcheau hobbies and past-times.

Go team!

Hoot, hoot, and grunt.

What he really must do is endeavor to find out what kind of movies and books she likes, what food she prefers, and what she would REALLY like to do.
It ain't a date unless she has a nice time.
Without stress, frustration, or strain.

That she mentioned sushi is a good start. There are a number of very nice sushi places which she would probably like, as well as many other eateries where a couple might have a civilized bite in a good atmosphere. And maybe, just maybe, the combination of movie and dinner is a bit much to pack into one evening. Save the movie for a matinée on a weekend, and just take her to a good restaurant, after which, instead of going to a club and getting hammered, the two of them should just walk and talk.

No problem doing it all, but not all of it at once. Showing a woman a good time does NOT mean jampacking all possible thrilling adventures into one evening.
And it should NOT include an unsuitable movie and he-man dining.

Show appreciation for what she gives, relish her company, share generously.

So all I told him was that he should listen to her. Really listen.

Because I doubt he would listen to me. Seeing as I have no food advice.

Avoid beer.

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THE ABORTED FRUITCAKE

2011-12-11T11:01:00.000-08:00

The other day I saw a gentleman smoking a pipe which was a truly classic variant on a traditional shape.
A lovely piece of wood, well-turned, of balanced proportion.
And judging by the stamping on the stem, an exceptionally old piece.
That script hasn’t been used by that company in close to a hundred years.

What I smelled, however, better suited some white-slavers divan.

Pee yew!

Gentlemen, there is no valid reason to smoke shredded Hello Kitty.

By doing that, you make any number of teenage Japanese girls desperately unhappy – there is now one less Hello Kitty in this world, oh woe! – and you make any number of people with good taste unhappy too.
It is a grievous sin to do so.

The effect on rabid non-smokers is immaterial. Who cares about them anyway.

But I’m sure you would like to keep the teenage Japanese Hello Kitty girlies happy – they squeal so prettily – and you absolutely need to keep us people of good taste happy too – we are much inclined towards violence when we smell smoldering harlot kittens.
Plus you need us to ‘get your back’ for you, when the rabid non-smokers roam the streets snapping and yowling, and in all ways resembling the coming of the zombie apocalypse.
We’ll clobber them for you. Provided you dump that funky fruitcake abortion that some ethically challenged poor excuse for a tobacconist fobbed off on you.

Please smoke a good tobacco.
Your health depends on it.

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SQUEAK!

2011-12-10T21:24:00.000-08:00

Temporarily postponing the rat post till it's fine-tuned. Can't think well at present, my mind is a bit pre-occupied. But soon, I promise.
Think in terms of cheese and sugar cubes.

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RUSHING INTO HEAT AND MOISTURE

2011-12-09T12:10:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you wonder at your own conviction. Why was NOT doing something important? You should have done it anyway! And how come achieving certain goals really gives you a deep warm feeling of satisfaction?

Explanations often don't make sense.
We do things that represent our imagination, and consequently they are not always logical. What we desire is not the same as what others want. And freedom of choice comes into play.
Our actions define us.

Hindsight makes us consider what we could have done.

TAIL OF THE NIGHT

I rushed, having wasted too much time at a restaurant on the Looiers Gracht.
It isn't that far to Centraal Station on the Prins Hendrik Kade - a quick trot up the Run Straat and the Huiden Straat, and moments later you're on the Singel.
From there on, no sweat. It's cool, baby.
Except that when it's the middle of a heat wave you cannot help it.
Sweating, that is.
It wasn't cool.
Moisture trickled down my face and torso when I entered the carriage in the nick of time.
Last train from Amsterdam that evening.

It was also too hot inside. A breeze blew through the compartments from windows open at the top, soothing, but still warm.
Once you're used to the heat you just go with it; I was moist when I disembarked after midnight in Eindhoven, but at that point it didn't bother me. After all, who the heck is going to object? Chances are that they are just as deliciously wet.
There was no one else in the bus to Valkenswaard except the driver. And there was no hurry anymore either.
Alone, just the two of us, we rolled through the Brabant countryside, windows wide open. It was incredibly thick on the bus -- If I could have gotten away with it, I would've stripped completely, but the driver might have resented that liberty.
Envious types, bus drivers.

After Aalst we picked up speed. There is nothing except dark road through the forest for several miles, and we roared down the narrow corridor. There were blazes of light at intervals as other vehicles passed us, but other than that, hot black night and exhilaration.
Soaked from our own sweat, we made smacky noises as we rushed along, with each bounce from the uneven road lifting us from our sopping seats.
Imagine the sound of a happy frog here, plunging into a pond.

Splish!

When we arrived in Valkenswaard the bars and restaurants in the centre of town were closed. Late at night the market square has a desolate charm. Our church tower glowed in the streetlights, but the steeple disappeared upwards, invisible beyond the dense canopy of trees.
The darkness above seemed soft, no stars visible.
Moist air keeps in much of the heat.

Sleep wasn't possible. Brick walls absorb heat during the day, radiate it in inwards at night.
Even lying on my bed entirely naked, it felt like being covered with velvet warmth.
I merely dozed in the time between the hourly ringing of the church bells.
Could've remained in Amsterdam instead of heading home that night.
A quiet hotel room, shower, sheets crisp against the skin.
The train in the morning would have been cooler.
Why hadn't I stayed in the delicious city?
It would've been a new experience.
Alluring, tempting exciting.
A slow golden evening.

Wet and very nice.

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SOMETHING IN MY EYE

2011-12-08T12:10:00.000-08:00

Actions have consequences.

A few years ago I was snappish with a woman I see a few times every week, because she did not fully grasp what I was saying due to limited English.
And by reacting in the manner that I did, I presumed too much.
Better than any verbal response could have, the look in her eyes said that I had been unkind.

Since then whenever I deal with her I make sure to be both clear and courteous. There are no words to take back, as it was a question of attitude rather than utterance. But she did not deserve the sharpness.
I have tried to make up for that by attending to my manners.
Still, I wish it hadn’t happened.

During the family’s last vacation in Switzerland I said something rough to my older brother. Under the circumstances, it was not wrong to do so. But it wasn’t right either.
And especially with my brother such things had effect.

Once when he was playing the piano in the ballroom, the owner of the hotel grumpily told him it made his head throb. My brother played very well, and learned any melody strictly by hearing it once. That’s a unique talent.
The look on his face when informed that his music was painful showed that he was hurt and baffled.
I knew that the grumpy proprietor had a monumental hangover. My brother didn’t.
He never played the piano again.
Ever.

Such occurrences were like doors in his mind slamming shut. The same thing happened when he realized that I drew as well as he did, albeit with less observational honesty. He stopped drawing or painting, and henceforth feigned not to even understand either illustration or perspective.
This was both obsessive self-disrespect and incredible discipline from a remarkably sharp mind.
When mr. A--, a teacher at the local high school, took delight in ripping my brother to shreds over a period of several weeks, Tobias reacted by developing a thorough distaste for the subject that mr. A—taught, in which theretofore he had been brilliant, and failing every class in that field ever after.
Throughout his life such things caused him to limit himself.
I think that in the last years before his death so many pathways had been cut-off that he was incredibly lonesome.

Tobias is with me every day. And I wish that I had been kinder to him when both of us were boys.

Always try to make a good impression.
Actions have consequences.

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VERY FINE DINING

2011-12-07T19:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday evening I ate at a restaurant in Chinatown that I really wish I had known about earlier.
It's my kind of eatery, in pretty much every particular. Small, cozy, bustling, with a good English-language menu and an extensive and eclectic selection of dishes in Chinese.

No, I shall not tell you the name of the place, because I really do wish to keep it all to myself.

好满意

When I entered it was already busy, with a mixed crowd - different ages and backgrounds, Caucasian and Chinese.
I shall not say that it was the very best leung-gwa pan kau fan (涼瓜斑球飯) that I've ever had. It may very well have been so, and it is in fact quite possible that it was.
But that isn't the point.

It was one of the most enjoyable meals I've ever had.

Partly because of the ambience and energy of the place. Nice people making sure that the diners have tasty food and are happy - as definitely everyone seemed to be.
But mostly because of the waitress, that being a bright eyed young lady, capable and efficient, with lovely hands and a quick mind.
At the table with European visitors she courteously guided their choices, with kindly patience for their unfamiliarity with proper dining. No guile, no pressure, no frustration - the whole process was smooth and equitable.
At another table, her give and take with the Cantonese women sitting there showed ready wit, even mischievousness.
Throughout the quick back and forth from kitchen to tables, she was full of energy and good humour.

She's very appealing, and she has a lively smile.
An exceptional woman.
So you should understand why the food, though indeed excellent, did not have my full attention last night.

I'm planning to go there for a late lunch this Sunday

Nice people. Tasty food.

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WHEN DREAMING

2011-12-07T12:00:00.000-08:00

SUMMER

The courtyard is perfumed by roses, they always flower at this time.
Stray petals have fallen to the ground, a blossom beckons.
This place enchants when everything is right. And now is very much the right time.

Beyond the ancient apple tree the tall grass strokes the legs. One can lie face down and sniff the herbal tang, feeling a fresh softness all over. Surrounded by the dense shrubbery it is utterly private.
Quiet, quiet, still.
Lose oneself in the moment, close the eyes and feel the surrounding garden.

Twitch awake and happily recognize both time and place. Such a nice dream!
Roll over, watch the moths circle dizzyingly around the street light.
They are enchanted by the glow, whirling ever nearer.

Is that a field mouse over there?
Small and furry. Black eyes.
Twitch. Scoot. Gone.

A breeze ruffles the stalks of grass, it feels like feathers against the face.
A distant thrumming heralds summer rain.
Lie here in the warm darkness, and let these droplets cool the night.
It is too soon to leave.

AUTUMN

It sounds so happy in here, and the noise of other people makes everything more delicious.
Revived by the food and tea, you pay, politely thank the owner of the café, and leave.
Impatiently mount the bike - one thrust, and roll smoothly forward.
Very good to be alive.

In early autumn it is cooler at twilight, a breeze is velvet upon the face and the first fallen leaves swirl along the path.
Entering the courtyard you notice how still it is, a different world. The noise of the street is far away, now faded to a murmur.
No one else is home, they will not be back for hours. The house is all yours.

Through the silent building, upstairs to the room filled with books.
Pause a while, lazy, private, and happy, till the streetlights come on and sharpen the shadows in the darkened chamber.
Day has ended. But the day is still young.
One of the cats nudges up, purring.

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THE BEST DECEMBER WEEKENDS

2011-12-06T12:13:00.000-08:00

There's a lot you can do on Saturday or Sunday afternoons. At this time of year you could go out shopping - it's a traditional thing to do at this season - or you could visit relatives and socialize.
But maybe you do not feel like being around a whole host of people.
And some of them, you are convinced, are nuts.

Time for something new. Just for you.

Find a quiet place to read.

Everyone else may lose their minds, there is no need for you to do so.
Go someplace where no one will disturb you, crack open that new volume, and settle in.
If you plan it right, you'll have several hours before you need to see anyone else, and there will be a nice hot cup of tea and a comfy throw rug in your secret refuge.
As you languorously stretch your legs, you flip the page and discover an entirely new world.
Your brow furrows, and fully distracted you relish this moment.

Elsewhere in the city the host of holiday shoppers descends, rabid-dog like, on a twenty percent off sale, mercilessly ripping some poor sales girl limb from limb, splattering her innocent blood against the plate glass and holiday ornaments. Charming trinkets fly through the air like so many missiles, shattering against craniums, seriously wounding random victims in the crowd - they are quickly stripped of all clothing and born aloft, insensate, trembling, limp. Trophies! A fevered mob breaks every bottle in the perfume department, becoming drunk and impassioned from the heady fragrances.
It's a scene of utter chaos, any moment now the riot squad will come bursting in, guns and pepperspray blazing and big night-sticks at ready, before they too are drawn into the frenzy, squealing "oh hey, the missus would LOVE that" as they pull out their credit cards, pressing up against an ecstatic cashier.
They are butch and giddy in their macho outfits.
Sweating, moaning, utterly aglow.

And over all this, a repetitive metallic screeching of carols.

But it is very different where you are. Your brow furrows as the precious fantasy presented in the crisp white pages enchants you, and your lips part slightly - your breathing quickens in anticipation.
Oh, this is just perfect! What a splendid afternoon this is going to be!

Later, after four or five enthralling chapters, you deliciously stretch.
Now, where's that cup of tea?
And some nice buttery short-bread! Cake!
The warmth and peacefulness you experience are delightful.
Doing this was so much better than being out in the cold, surrounded by insane and unlikable people.
If only it could always be like this.

Next weekend, more reading!

You have had a MUCH better afternoon than anyone you know.
And you're not going to share it with them.
Hah! It's all yours!

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