OLD, BITTER, AND OBSESSED WITH PILLS AND SNACKS

A recent conversation on social media anent the fracas in the Middle East right now, where everyone hates Americans except when we're useful, stands out for several things, not least of which is something I said: "nowadays I'm much more interested in medications and fun things to eat. And there is absolutely no reason to associate with rightwingers, ab initio." And over the years there have been several comments underneath my blog posts that indicated that my participation was, in any case, quite worthless and unwelcome. Neurotic too.
So while I still support the same sides, I am staying out of the fray.

I'm more interested in medications and fun things to eat.

I was also accused of being old and bitter.

Not so! I still like Hello Kitty!

Hello Kitty and I like the same things. Canned tuna, hot milk tea, cookies, and fine pipe tobacco blends compounded of aged Virginias, red ribbon, Louisiana Perique, and not too much firecured Kentucky. Canned tuna is excellent with hot sauce, by the way.

A friend in one of the pipesmokers forums is recovering from a spell of neurological dysfunction that coincided with the second dose of the vaccine, as well as strokes. Having myself had a minor stroke a few years ago which made using my right hand almost impossible for several weeks (it took several months before I regained nearly full functionality and clear handwriting, which I hid as much as possible), I not only feel for him, but I think I can understand some of his frustration. Also, I'm wondering if it corrected his unreasonable hatred of Latakia.
Altogether something with which I never could sympathize.
He likes grits and Bourbon. I'm not a fan.


I've spent way more time on pipe forums in the past several years than involved in political discussions. More fun, more like-minded people, more milk tea.
And remarkably more Hello Kitty.

Latakia is a smoke cured tobacco from the Middle East. Formerly made by curing Shek El Bint (the maiden's cleft, a mutated relative of Burley grown in Syria) over smoldering oak and brush, now it's Smyrna-seed tobacco grown in Cyprus cured over burning juniper. The old product had a higher nicotine content, wasn't as resinous and grassy, and left a delightful sherry-like after taste. It was also sootier, because the Syrians were burning their forests like there was no tomorrow. The only things Syria produces nowadays are political repression and roadside explosive devices, and outside the Middle East there's scarcely a market for that.

A signal characteristic is the presence of terpeneols (besides other hydrocarbon compounds) imparted by the smoke curing process. Which markedly suggests that pine wood (viz. pinus pinea) was probably always a component of the combustibles used.

Terpeneols strongly remind some people of lilacs.

As well as Lapsang-souchong tea.

Also Russian Caravan.

And Keemun.

I have a strong craving for ma'amoul right now.
Hello Kitty would probably approve.
Good with a cup of tea.
And a pipe.

TOBACCO INDEX


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A LUGGAGE PARADIGM

A few years ago I switched from smoking full Latakia blends to flakes and Virginia-Perique mixtures. As befits a somewhat older man, though that was not the reason. I finally re-experimented with some of the Rattrays products, after an hiatus of decades, and realized what I had been missing.

For much of my life I thoroughly enjoyed full Orientals, because they were deliciously reeky, and triggered so many non-smoking yutzes. Nowadays these would send the entire city of Berkeley into palpitations, and possibly apoplectic rage, but the appeal of something which can be enjoyed quietly alone and smells so delightfully old-fashioned pleases me more now.
I live in San Francisco, and avoid Berkeley (because it's toxic).
People are too clean and pure there.
In SF, we stink.

What also disturbs some people is an accoutrement.
A very snazzy Hello Kitty backpack.

Yowza!!

It holds enough pipes and tobacco that I can brave the heathen wastelands of Marin on my working days, and need not fear that I will be without certain comforts. Four to six briars, pouches and tins of tobacco, cleaners, tampers, matches, an extra bottle of hot sauce if necessary, and other things.

There are people who do not understand the concept.
Mostly humourless cretins, and I avoid them.

Me and my stylish accessory are very happy.
Thank you for asking.





Current tastes: Hong Kong milk tea, baked Portuguese chicken rice, coffee with cardamom in the morning and early evening, running script calligraphy, whisky and whiskey, and sometimes things coloured pink.
No goths, piercings, or tattoos.





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MOST FRIGHTENING ACCESSORY

What is totally totemic, and brings a smile to the haggard face of every cigar-smoking middle-aged dingus? What, in fact, tells them that all is well with the world, and even though their wife left them because they are dreary sexist spread-gut pigs with body odour and a lack of tact, they have made some good decisions in life?

If I had to hazard a guess, it would be seeing a dashing middle-aged pipe-smoker happily shouldering a lovely Hello Kitty backpack filled with pipes, tobacco, pipe cleaners, tampers, and wooden stick matches pilfered from a place where one may light up.

Plenty goodies!

To the best of my knowledge there is only one such person in the entire San Francisco Bay Area, which is where that scene may be most likely observed.

I like bringing joy to shrivelled little hearts.


A few years ago I purchased the accessory detailed above, because there is no reason why a backpack should not radiate hostility toward potential thieves at bus stops or in coffee shops. "Take me", it seems to say, "and you will be marked for life". Or at least for the next two or three hours, while the legitimate owner hunts you down and kills you.

It's very useful on working days.


PINK GOTH PSYCHO FURBALL TYKE

There is only ONE other person I have seen with the exact same backpack. She's about three feet tall at best, of Cantonese extraction, and wanders up Sacramento Street in Chinatown with her mommy and her little brother when school is out.

No, I'm never going to introduce myself, nor explain to her that my own backpack is exactly the same as hers. Primarily because little girls need to feel unique. It might inspire her to stupendous rage and ultra-violence if she found out that an adult owned a backpack featuring Hello Kitty.
And, precisely like hers, stylishly white, pink, and black.
Those colours speak of dark things, secret things.
Things a grown-up should not know.

Like half a dozen fine briar pipes, two or three fine tobacco choices, pipe cleaners, etcetera.

And probably too much social exposure to cigar smokers.

See description above.

I also own a soft leather pipe-carrying case with room for several items as well as a pouch, but I rarely, almost never, use it. Reason being that it seems too femmy, like a man-purse.

On days off, when I head into C'town for snackies and milk tea, there will be pipes along with tobacco in my coat, and a little tube containing fluffy cleaners and a tamper jutting out of the top right hand pocket.


I flatter myself by assuming that Hello Kitty would never associate with cigar smokers, but would share a fondness for snackies and milk tea.
Though probably not the same pipe tobacco.
Maybe something Latakia instead.
Possibly Bengal Slices.
Balkan funk.

TOBACCO INDEX


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ELIZABETH TAYLOR AND HAIRY CARNIVORES

Recently two readers remarked that the Hello Kitty essay written on Tuesday was disturbing, and seemed far too much like a dating site profile. The third reader present during discussions didn't say anything, perhaps because he's a habitual user of medical marijuana, and may have had a hard time focusing.

One of them had several times suggested that a Hello Kitty backpack was sufficient reason for parents to keep their children far away from me. He's got a filthy mind, and does not realize that I know far more dogs than children.

I am not enthralled by the repulsive offspring of other people.
Most Americans give birth to spoiled brats.
Odious priggish troglodytes.


Let me quote from Elizabeth Taylor in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof by Tennessee Williams:

"One of those no-neck monsters hit me with some ice cream. Their fat little heads sit on their fat little bodies without a bit of connection... You can't wring their necks if they got no necks to wring. Isn't that right, honey?... Think of it, they've got five monsters and number six comin' up."


Feel free to think of me as either Elizabeth Taylor, or Tennessee Williams.
I gladly identify with those two excellent human beings.
They had everyone else's children pegged.

I like dogs and cats, though.

Anyhow, they opined that there was too much of my own self-regard in the Hello Kitty post, and not enough about the original target of my ire, OR ms. Kitty.

"Please DON'T tell us how you really feel!"

I pointed out that there was no e-mail address or contact data there, so while that sneering article may have seemed to have an element of dating site bait, it was instead meant ironically.

Before I could clarify my statements regarding the gentleman so aptly described as a "pompous bald-headed dog-freak in Marin County who thinks he's so funny", one of the people present launched into a sparkly monologue about a seven-hundred pound hominid whose teethmarks have been discovered in Washington somewhere in the mountains, and there was speculation about a Canadian who may have gotten lost.
Alternatively, a foodie.

While this was going on, the gentleman who said nothing earlier giggled a bit to himself, and stared at the ceiling.

You know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that Elizabeth Taylor was NOT the perfect woman. Yes, brilliant, but almost a stereotype.
All sexy curves and crazy eyes.

The perfect woman has peaceful eyes, and isn't insanely curvy.
Only one Tayloresque similarity: stunning lips.
NOT carnivorous breasts.

[This blogger does indeed like breasts, but there is such a thing as too much cleavage.]

There are also several good reasons to believe that the perfect woman is completely not into Hello Kitty. And in fact distinctly loathes the saccharine feline tramp.
Because, after all, Hello Kitty shmatte or chatchkies totally sabotage the impression one wishes to make of independent-mindedness, good sense and good taste, intelligence, and femininity.
Too damned childish.
Not "cute".

Which is of course why I can get away with it. No one in their right mind would mistake me for a woman. Possibly crazy and a disturber of the peace, yes, as well as a borderline reprobate, a wild animal, or an eccentric old coot. Definitely not Elizabeth Taylor.

Elizabeth Taylor didn't have a goatee.

Nor did she smoke a pipe.

I am not cute.


The concept of a wild non-Canadian hominid hiding out in the Cascades up in eastern Washington is rather intriguing. The teethmarks were on deer carcasses -- hence the chance that it was a foodie -- and from the spacing of the incisor tracks the scientist who was cited deduced the seven hundred pound dimension.

I doubt that it's Bigfoot. I'm betting a missing computer programmer or an Information Technology professional who recently moved out of his mother's house.

A no-neck monster, all grown-up.
Huge, but harmless.



Years ago, designer Edith Head said about Elizabeth Taylor:

"Elizabeth Taylor is the most beautiful woman I've ever fit. She is not as easy to dress as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, because she is a short woman, only five foot two. She's also extremely curvaceous and has short legs. But, you see, those are the kinds of minor imperfections that make for classic beauty. A woman’s individual beauty is created by little mars in the state of perfect beauty. Elizabeth's fascination lies in those little discrepancies. She has aged gracefully, despite what her detractors have said. She is beautiful when she is plump and she is lovely when she trims down. A faulty figure can be changed by foundations and the proper use of dark and light colors. But no makeup can create a face like Elizabeth's. She is exquisite."


I still can't get over that bosom, though.
Aggressive and threatening.
Dangerous.

An insurmountable problem.

I still think it's Canadian.

A long-dugged troll.

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IT'S AN IRONIC GESTALT, YOU SHINY-PATED DINGO!

A reader accuses me of being Hello Kitty obsessed. Which is a foul lie. Rather than obsessed, I am happily ambivalent about the cretinous little feline, and use her iconography to score points and irritate some people. Like, for instance, the pompous bald-headed dog-freak in Marin County who thinks he's so funny.

Simple minds are easily swayed.

Partly, this is because I use a snazzy Hello Kitty backpack to carry all my smoking requisites (briar pipes, tobacco blends, tampers, matches, cleaners) whenever I make the arduous trek to the wild lands north of the Golden Gate Bridge, partly because of the ease with which I can illustrate the paradigm of ickiness.

Here are all the Hello Kitty images I have done.

Does that say obsessive?

I think not!


If anything, it positively screams rational balance, and a sensitive middle-aged Dutch American soul that appreciates pipes, cigars, art, literature, and furthermore, a gentleman who is a good listener and remarkably trim, given that the overwhelming majority of people in my age-group veer towards overweightness and have made some incredibly bad choices in their lives (like moving to Marin, for instance).

I have sparkling eyes (behind reading specs), a neat goatee and moustache combination, and warm gentle hands.
Quite the opposite of an IT physique!

Good lord, I've read Proust!

I totally radiate sanity!


Animals like me. They can smell the goodness within.

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HELLO KITTY NEEDS TO SMOKE NOW

This blogger unhappily admits to personal flaws. No, shan't detail them, because you might start noticing, and it would become an obsession that would gradually eat away at your esteem for me.
Sadly, I am not as perfect as I dearly hope you think I am.
But one flaw I do not have is a brutal tongue.

I am an exemplar of passive aggressive discretion.

That's one of the reasons I blog.


Overheard comment:


"It was one of those things where you think Chinese people are the most insensitive shits you've ever seen."


Sometimes I agree with the person who said that.
There are times when that opinion is valid.
As are many of her other opinions.

But no matter how insensitive Chinese people -- especially snooty Chinese Americans -- can be, they don't hold a candle to perfectly average prosperous Caucasians smoking cigars. Such as the very dear people I see several times a week when I babysit the entitled classes of Marin County.

Who are on the whole rather self-satisfied, cocksure, and iggerunt.


They gave me hell about my Hello Kitty pursy, the insensitive clods.


Look, if I were a woman, between fifteen and let us say forty, with a Hello Kitty mini-backpack, there might be reason to doubt my sanity. Women with a Hello Kitty fetish are pulling a little girlie attitude, and may be quite silly. Probably unbearably so.

Little girls with a Hello Kitty bag, or anything Hello Kitty, are normal, and often entirely unaware of the possible ickiness of the item.

Little boys with Hello Kitty have issues.


But a lean middle-aged man with a pink and black Hello Kitty mini-backpack is the veritable glorious paradigm of self-assured manliness. You do NOT diss him. Not if you want peace and quiet everlasting.



The Chinese person that Savage Kitten (my apartment mate) referred to was "a short frog-like person" whom she worked with years ago. One of those snotty types who did everything better, owned everything better, knew everything better, and and regularly pissed on everyone else's joys, because she was a better taste higher class person.

The kind of person, in other words, who knows the best brandnames, but not one iota of actual quality. Like the people who demand Remy Martin, truck around Louis Vuitton, and spew the words Davidoff, Dunhill, Prada, and Hermes, with a smug proprietary air.
But begrudge the waiters at a restaurant a decent tip.

People like that always do everything better.
They also own things that are better.
And they ARE much better.
Sneeringly.


I myself don't know very many of that type, what with being white and rather oblivious to some immigrants' ridiculous pretensions. But my apartment mate, being a locally-born person of sterling Chinese ancestry, seems particularly aware of them.
She's thin-skinned about snooty types.
And is better than she realizes.
Far, far better.


I dare not ever introduce her to the Marin cigar-smokers; she'd rip their insensitive guts out. Or bash them about the head.
With MY backpack.

She doesn't like dipwads either.

Or Hello Kitty.



Please note that I do not always carry my Hello Kitty 'pursy. It's useful for when I head over to Marin four days a week, because it is the perfect size for half-a-dozen briar pipes, a supply of pipe-tobacco, tampers and other tools, plus pipe-cleaners and matches.  On the days when I'm off, I leave it at home, because I do NOT want single women to assume that I'm a grandpa and have a little urchin I pick up from school everyday because her mommy works.

There was the time I spoke to four very nice young ladies from the Mandarin-speaking part of the world, who wanted a recommendation for a good Cantonese restaurant. Even when I showed them the box of cigars I was delivering to the Oxxy, they remained unconvinced that I was a bachelor. Because, of course, the box of Padron 1926 Series 80th Anniversary Maduro Torpedos was IN the Hello Kitty backpack. Sadly, that may have nixed my chances of further conversation.


Whenever I'm wandering around San Francisco with pipe and tobacco, there is no need for a full-day's worth of smoking supplies. One or two briars in the same pocket as the pouch of broken flake is perfect.

AN ANATHEMATIC AFTER-THOUGHT

More than anything else, the following is perverse:

Hello Kitty® Day

Back by popular demand, the Giants are proud to welcome you to AT&T Park to join them in celebrating Hello Kitty Day! On this particular day, various pre-game and in-game components will be themed around the global pop icon Hello Kitty, providing a family-fun atmosphere that Giants and Sanrio fans of all ages can enjoy! Your Special Event ticket package includes a ticket to the Sunday game versus the Rockies and a collector's-edition "World Champion" Hello Kitty/Giants-themed Gnome, only available with the purchase of this Special Event ticket! Please stay tuned to sfgiants.com/specialevents, as additional details will be announced closer to the date.

[SOURCE: http://sanfrancisco.giants.mlb.com/sf/ticketing/group_special_events.jsp#hellokitty .]

No, I shan't be there. The idea of surrounding myself with teenage girls of all ages and several genders united by their squealing love for a fictitious feline is a little bit daunting.

Please forgive my lack of enthusiasm.

Sports are stupid.

No.



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YOU AND YOUR LITTLE NICK NICK EYEBALLS!

On my way home the other day I deftly avoided the idiot with a big plump marijuana cigarette and a defective lighter -- being easily nauseated by the reek of cannabis, and despising all drug-use to boot, you can understand that though I obviously had a functioning lighter (the evidence being the lit cigar in my mouth) there was no imperative on my part to help the shmoo further down the path of "therapeutic" wreck and ruin -- and nearly bumped into a very large black woman, of probably around five hundred pounds or so, heading in the opposite direction.

Small vessels get out of the way of large tankers.
Always. Basic harbour rules.

It has something to do with distances, the ability to break, and turning radius. Plus, of course, Newton's laws of motion.


"Force equals mass times acceleration."


What this means is that it takes more energy for a very large object to either decelerate OR change direction than a smaller quicker middle-aged man with a cigar.


Large black women should not have Hello Kitty tattooed on their right breast. Also their left breast. Either breast. Anywhere.
It just isn't a good idea.


My life flashed before my eyes.
Massive Kitty looked murderous.
As well as mighty unstable.

Thank you, Sir Isaac Newton.



It strikes me that I am damned lucky to have a small Chinese American woman as an apartment mate, rather than a gigantic football player. Not only do I despise sports, but smaller people are usually more graceful, and less likely to break my collection of pottery objects. These quarters are filled with handmade ceramics, mostly bowls and vases of relatively simple classic shape, with interesting glazes. Nothing garish, none of that weird crap with the tie-dye bleeding sunburst effect. Mostly blues and greens. Some earthy-browns. Some yellows.

My oldest pieces are two brush-jars that Richard Iseger in Tilburg made for me when we were both in school. Pale blue glazes. His fine eye was, now that I think about it, a formative influence.

My father's tastes in art were also formative.

As was the Avery Brundage collection.

Fine-eyed people are a blessing.


My apartment mate, who is a good friend I have known for years, also has a fine eye. For a long time now she has been neurotic about period and costume jewelry. She will insist that it was my persnickityness that educated her, but I must firmly poo-poo that assertion.
Some people have an eye. It just needs to be liberated.

Quite undeservedly, she lauds my little nick nick eyeballs.



The other great advantage to having a small Chinese American woman as an apartment mate is that I need never fear for my life -- which would be a constant if there were a five hundred pound person of either gender rolling through a cramped living space -- or my sanity. Trust me, the presence of a Hello Kitty tattoo on any part of another person's body is a cause for worry. It does not suggest sane and well-balanced, but rather points to a streak of stark raving batshit a mile wide.
Do sane people get Hello Kitty tattoos?
I rather think not.

Frequent exposure to that nasty creature causes bleeding from the orifices and leads to screaming dementia.

Hello Kitty is a curse.
Frightful anathema.
Quite loathsome.
Icky pussy!

*      *      *      *      *

Except, of course, for my Hello Kitty backpack! Which is a stylish item of the perfect size for half-a-dozen briar pipes, two or three tins of pipe-tobacco, tampers and pipe-cleaners, and other necessities for the civilized smoker.

No more perfect man-purse can be imagined.

An accessory in the very best of taste.
Black checkered mini pack.
The height of hip.



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I WILL NOT CATER A GAY WEDDING!

The other day someone brought the latest and ghastliest symptom of the modern age to my attention, and suffice to say I was shocked, horrified, nauseated, and am now despairing of our modern world. Have we really sunk so low? Good lord almighty, the very idea is depraved!

Is this what it has come to?

Kale cupcakes.


Kale cupcakes!!!!!!!!!!!


If anybody offered me one, I should probably bash them viciously with my Hello Kitty backpack. Then scream imprecations and condemnation at them, and fiercely criticise their life-style choices and philosophy.
While breaking both their kneecaps.

Kale buggery cupcakes!!!!!

Gottenyu!

Afterwards I would probably try a bite. Just to taste it. Culinary investigation and all that. Remain curious.


Yes, there really is such a thing as a kale cupcake, and yes, I really do have a Hello Kitty backpack. The Hello Kitty backpack is the PERFECT size for stashing six fine briar pipes, two or three pouches or tins of pipe tobacco, a THICK bundle of pipe cleaners (of various types), matches, tampers, and reading material.
I use it on the days when I head across the Golden Gate Bridge to work.

Nothing says self-confidence and a sense of style quite like a Hello Kitty backpack. Do not mess with a person carrying a Hello Kitty backpack. Specifically, a black chequered mini pack, trimmed in pink, with the words 'Hello Kitty' on the top pocket, and an image of Hello Kitty herself on the bottom pocket.

In the case of little girls with Hello Kitty backpacks, they'll probably kick your shins fiercely and cripple you if you start something, and in the case of mature men such as myself, I'll take you out.
Don't even think of it, buster.
You have been warned.
Beware our feist!
We are legion.


In other news, and pursuant a recent big media crap-storm in Indiana, please be informed that I too will not cater any gay weddings. I abjure and condemn ALL gay weddings where pizza is served. No man should have to face his future mate with anchovies on his breath.

"You may kiss the groom."

"He smells of anchovies!"

See? That just isn't right. Jesus does NOT approve of kissing men who smell of small salted fish. Garlic is bad enough. The good book is very clear on this.



Kale cupcakes sound like the kind of thing someone would make on St. Patricks's day, to be funny and just because it's green. We've burned people at the stake for less.



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CHICKEN TIKKA MASALA AND KIND REMARKS ABOUT THE ENGLISH DIET

All over England chunky people strain and puff to hoist themselves into public conveyances, or subside gratefully into comfortably padded seating to rest their weary tonnes of flab. Good grief, the Brits are starting to look like Americans!

Quite Cartmanesque!

Post-war prosperity had made them thick. This is not the lean vicious nation that so resolutely fought the entire world years ago; it is a quieter gentler nation, with enough lukewarm bitter beer, bad candy, and rich buttery sauces to make them happy.

The modern Dutch also look "chunky". But I have been told that that is insulation against the beastly climate, much like seals and walruses.


A RICH BUTTERY SAUCE

Years ago I made a murgh makhni sauce for the thanksgiving turkey. After eating, we sank into torpor. Murgh makhni sauce and chicken tikka masala sauce are largely the same, the difference is primarily nomenclaturial.
Oh, and there's more butter and less cream in Murgh Makhni.
But both are rich velvety rust-hued emulsions.

[Originally, murgh makhni (murgh makhanwalla) was made with rubicund tandoori chicken, which was the Pathan version sold by the Moti Mahal Restaurant in Delhi, OR a butter and yoghurt version prepared by stout Punjabis with store-bought whole spit-roasted chicken. Chicken tikka masala was a variation invented in England by a restaurateur faced with a drunkard who wanted gravy on his platter of tandoori murgh & naan. Most English and Punjabis do not have a tandoor oven in their yard, so an approximate will have to do.
The key to the beloved British version is the sauce.]

Chicken tikka masala is THE British national dish. It is the sensible and good taste alternative to dining at the thousands of MacDonalds restaurants that litter London and her environs.



CHICKEN TIKKA MASALA

Ingredients

One LBS chicken pieces on bone, skin removed.
Half TBS dark-toasted ground cumin.
Half TBS paprika.
Half TBS ground coriander seed.
One Tsp. cayenne pepper.
Half Tsp. ground turmeric.
Four or five Roma tomatoes, OR two or three regular.
One or two shallots, minced.
One thumb of ginger, smashed and minced.
Two or three cloves of garlic, ditto.
Two or three green cardamom pods, whole.
One or two whole cloves.
Half cup yoghurt.
Half Tsp. salt.
Juice of a lime.
Small handful chopped cilantro.
Half cup heavy cream.
Two to four TBS ghee.
Pinch cinnamon powder.
Pinch nutmeg.


Score the chicken pieces, put into pyrex bowl. Mix all spices except cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and cardamom pods. Take approximately one third of the mixed spices and all of the salt, add half of the garlic and ginger and whisk into the yoghurt and lime juice. Dump over the chicken, rubbing it all over the meat. Cover and stick into the refrigerator for half a day.
Note that salt is an essential ingredient in such a marinade.

Chargrill the chicken. High heat and smoke is required, but the meat should not be entirely done through. Set aside to cool, then rip the flesh in chunks off the bone.

Melt the ghee in a pan, then fry the shallots till quite dark, mashing with a cooking spoon or spatula the while. Add in the reserved garlic and ginger, fry fragrant, add the remaining two thirds of the spice mixture and blend in well. Now add the tomatoes, and slowly cook mixing and mooshing till all is smooth. Stir in the heavy cream. Crack the cardamom pods open but do not break them, add them plus the cloves to the sauce.

Now put the chicken pieces into the sauce, along with the pinches cinnamon and nutmeg, and most of the cilantro, and simmer gently for about ten minutes, to meld all the flavours. A brisk jigger of Louisiana hot sauce or Sriracha may be added at this point. Garnish with the remaining cilantro to serve.


The educated classes will eat this with rice, naan, raita, and fresh garden salad. Or dumped into a toasted baguette slathered with melted butter.
The more proletarian element will have it with baked beans, fried bread, limp bacon, and strong tea.
In both cases they will have purchased it from a take-out joint.
Or bought freezer packs from Sainsbury.

Just add pappad, bhajji, and payasam for a total English feast.


猫耳!
I'm sure that Kitty and Mimi would approve.
Along with George, Mary, and Anthony.
And Margaret. Probably Daniel too.


Like everything in Britain, chicken tikka masala tastes even better with Patak's pickles. Everything. Curries, fish and chips, MacDonalds, that lousy Greek food in central London, black pudding, haggis, and roast beef with that spongy fried poufy dough ball thing.


American food ALSO tastes better with fine achars.
Minimally, you should stock three of them.
Lime, hot mango, and brinjal pickle.


I really like Patak's pickles.
It's such a British thing.

Good stuff.
Patak's.




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AN ARGUMENT UNTO HELLO KITTY

Cogent comment lifted from underneath a youtube video: "on the internet, everything relates to WWII for some reason." Very well. I shall accept that that is largely correct.
It's like Godwin's Rule, which states that "as an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches 1", meaning that as comments continue the chances of some shmendrick throwing Hitler or Nazism into the swamp becomes ever more likely.

Atboth's Variation on Godwin's Rule No. 1: As an online discussion grows, so does the likelyhood of someone making a Monty Python reference.

Atboth's Variation on Godwin's Rule No. 2: Someone's going to bring up Jesus; you can count on it.

A necessary additional factor is that if the comment string includes many or mostly Jewish contributors or intelligent people, not only are Monty Python and Jesus pretty much guaranteed, but it will happen much faster. In the case of a Monty Python reference, the discussion will have been re-invigorated, whereas the Jesus thing will just be an irritant.


In life, as on blogs, Jesus is just an irritant.


That statement was a gratuitous illustration of Variation Number Two.
For which I do not intend to apologize whatsoever.


From Wikipedia: "There is a tradition in many newsgroups and other Internet discussion forums that once such a comparison is made, the thread is finished and whoever mentioned the Nazis has automatically lost whatever debate was in progress."


REDUCTIO AD AVE CATULUS VENERANDUM

Last night someone left a comment mentioning Hello Kitty underneath a recent post. That's something that isn't covered by Godwin's Rule or Variations One and Two.

But it gave me a brilliant idea.

Every time you want to reference Hitler or Nazis, say 'Hello Kitty' instead.

This is especially advisable if you are talking about Obama.

And are a screaming Tea-Party loony.

You'll seem saner.



APPENDUM EST VERBO:

By the way, a new word to learn: Instauration.

Definition, according to Merriam- Webster:
"1 : restoration after decay, lapse, or dilapidation"
"2 : an act of instituting or establishing something"

It's from Latin 'instaurare'; to renew, restore.



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PINKY NEW FACE

Not entirely sure why he did it; it seems quite unrabbinic. But entirely in keeping with his character, given that he is the rosheshiva of the most influential academic environment in the five boroughs or the tri-tip area.

Seeing it has renewed my faith.

Ikh bin farklempt.


THE VISION!

The faithless may not know his true face, or utter his name.

Ve ha meiven, yaivin.


This image MUST be used for our school jersey.
Es iz a riezige mitzvah.
Mamesh.




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THE WRITTEN LIFE

A very good friend confesses herself completely baffled by my blog. Yes, this one. She hasn't a clue what I'm on about, and doesn't know what the point is.
Why am I writing this, she wonders, and what if any profound knowledge is imparted here? It all seems like so much random gibbering.

Well, precious goober, that's because it IS random gibbering.

Some blogs are single-subject, and obsessively delve into the author's field and fanaticism.


This blog doesn't do that.


It's a soapbox, mixed with memoir à clef, and self-advertisement.

I get to spout off about pipe-tobacco, Hong Kong style milk tea, politics (occasionally), food (often), crap I've read somewhere, favourite authors, amorous thoughts and a disquieting lack of amorous reality, gout, lizards, Chinese subjects, music, what an utter pestilent subject sports are as well as the loudness of football-watching yutzes in groups of more than a single person, pizza, and cigar smokers.

Primarily, I seek to keep my readers mildly entertained; the writing here is not good enough to keep them entranced. Neither the wit nor the eloquence are extraordinary.
Secondarily, this is a one-sided conversation; regular readers sometimes comment, more likely they go back to work after one paragraph.
I value their rare feedback.

It's also a calling card: this man is middle-aged chronologically, though quite spry in the mind. At least I think so. If you want to discuss this over coffee (or tea) and books, at a place where you can quietly admire my VanDyke beard and deep-set eyes, that's always an option.
And what do you plan to do when you graduate?
Save the planet, or the whales?


Chinatown, Hello Kitty, and the headhunting cannibals of Marin County are frequent subjects, noodles and fatty pork make regular appearances.
Manga sometimes gets mentioned. There are absolutely no pornographic photos anywhere here, that's what the rest of the internet is for.
Sometimes I say snarky things about rabbits.

Cigar smokers get short shrift.

So do blondes.


The various subjects that interest me are speckled throughout. History, languages, cooking, and self-indulgence with hot beverages. As well as herring, sensuality, animals, and strange social practices.
South-East Asia, North America, Europe.
Unidentified fried objects.
Chilies.


But there is no actual point here.
I'm not seeking converts.
Amusement only.


AFTER THOUGHT

By the way, since I purchased a Hello Kitty backpack to carry my pipes and tobacco in while out of the house, I've actually become somewhat fond of the saccharine feline. Previously I felt she was only an icky-poo creepazoid marketing pussy, now I can actually appreciate her expressionless visage as a bright and simplistic decorative element that appeals to the very young and childish; it makes them feel good.
I fear that some six-year old will try to steal my bag.
That's mine, you little thug, piss off!
I saw it first!

Pretty!

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HELLO KITTY BACKPACK

This blogger is now the proud possessor of an item of just the right size. That being a Hello Kitty backpack, suitable for carrying up to eight briars, three or four pipe tobaccos, a big bundle of cleaners (mixed: standard, bristly, and the tapered German jobbies that have both hard and absorbent cotton, and make your pipe a happy camper), plus two tampers, matches, and a small paperback book (trashy fiction). And a cigar sleeve.
I am, in fact, equipped to take on the wilderness.
Or Marin county; a wasteland.

There's even a side-pocket for water.
In case I get dehydrated.
In Marin.


So far the responses have been overwhelmingly positive. Most people appreciate the gestalt, and instantly grasp the bifurcated message.


Thus: 'What do you think when you see a middle-aged fellow with a Hello Kitty pursey? You think either he's a friendly old sort, good with kiddies and little animals, OR he's batshit crazy and packing a piece. But you just don't know.'


Please understand that a Hello Kitty backpack on a middle-aged male radiates self-confidence and maturity.
Bucket loads of it.

Conceivably it is also quite unlikely that anyone would steal this attractive item. Other than a three-foot tall person, that is, but I can easily outrun the little criminal. And at that age her nails aren't hard enough or sharpened, so she can't do much damage.

The contents of the bag will establish my innocence; would a six year old carry around a supply of smoking equipment and fine Virginians?

No, I really don't think so.
That's my man purse.
Now back off.

I feel empowered.


TOBACCO INDEX


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SEEKING FASHION ADVICE AND READER INSIGHT

Several years ago I posted very nasty things about Erinmore flake on this blog. While simultaneously admitting that smoking that strange product with its absurd fruity topping in my pipe was, in fact, a secret vice.
Shan't go into detail, as this post is not about tobacco.

[The curious reader can refresh his or her memory by reading these essays: bad date, and shameful indiscretion.]


In like fashion, I have said some truly horrendous things about Hello Kitty. All of which may be read by clicking on the label appended below this post; doing so will pull up every mention of that repulsive marketing icon ever on my blog, most recent piece first. I encourage you to do so, as it illustrates my loathing and abhorrence of the cat in detail, as well as all the silly twits who fall for that commercial tat.

The Jansport bag in which I carry pipes and tobacco when out of the house for extended periods is getting a little old, the zippers are starting to fail, and it smells a bit.

I am one step away from purchasing a Hello Kitty backpack.

I've seen little Chinese kids with Hello Kitty backpacks, and it looks so darling. Very cute, very cute. Admittedly, for a six or seven year old it's a perfect style statement, especially if she's wearing bold colours and has bouncy hair. Though horribly inappropriate for an adult of any age.

But heck, it would be an ironic gesture. And no one would steal it.
As long as it's sturdy and serves the purpose, why not?
Pipes, tobaccos, cleaners, and a book.
An ideal man-purse.

Hello Kitty backpacks are the Erinmore Flake of accessories.

What do you think?
Should I?



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OTTERS AND KAPUSNIYAK: REDEEMING CYBERSPACE

This blogger has long maintained that the main purpose of the internet, as shown by usage statistics, is to disseminate cute kitten pictures, pornography, and recipes. Which is an assertion easily put to the test. Just enter anything into your search bar, and see what comes up.

Within mere moments, you are looking at a smorgasbord of smut, Hello Kitty, and Russian cabbage recipes hosted by someone named Olga, whose only clothing appears to be a Hello Kitty Bra & Pantie set.
She's a very large woman. Possibly because of all that cabbage.
Paranoid too. Her favourite blogs make this clear.
Both Susan Duclos and Pamela G.
Seriously weird.


Naturally, having said that, you would expect me to be one man standing against a veritable storm-tide of dreck, cute, and naked.
Resilient in the face of cabbage.
Resolute.

Which I am. I manfully resist all temptation.
I am immune.

Well, actually I'm just mighty picky about temptation. If Olga were one hundred and forty pounds lighter, fifteen years younger, and had a face that radiated a brilliant snarky intelligence, or any intelligence at all, I'd probably visit her cabbage and pornography site on a regular basis. Instead of once every six months, when I have a yen for Kitty bras and kapusniyak.

Yep. Cute pictures. Hefty filth. And cabbage.
That's the internet completely.
Appalling.


So, without further ado, here's an animal photo I could not resist.


EEEEEEEEEEEP!


[I do not know who took the picture. I copied it from Benyamin Blatt's page, who got it from Art Jonak. So I can't source it, or give proper credit where it's due. But whoever took the photo has charming animal friends.]



KAPUSNIYAK
Cabbage soup from the New Frontier, which is a place that Lithuanians, Poles, and Ruthenians fought over, in, and on. For several centuries. Food is fuel, food is a fortress, food is the soul.


Half pound sauerkraut (kislaya kapusta), slightly drained.
Half of a head of white cabbage, finely shredded.
One onion, chopped.
Two carrots, peeled and diced.
Two stalks celery, diced.
Two potatoes, peeled and diced.
One pound pork ribs.
Half a pound smoked sausage, chopped.
Six to eight cups clear stock.
Three TBS tomato paste.
Three cloves garlic, minced.
Two Tsp sugar.
Two Tsp paprika.

Two to four TBS finely minced parsley.
And plenty of cilantro, if you live in SF.
Otherwise it's optional.


Brown the ribs and smoked sausage in some rendered fat, and remove to a plate. Then sauté the onion, celery, and carrot in the pot, with the garlic, till nicely gilded and fragrant. Stir in the tomato paste, and add everything else except the parsley and cilantro. Bring to a boil, lower the flame, and simmer for about an hour and a half, two hours.

Remove the pork ribs from the soup with cooking tongs, and strip the meat from the bones. Discard the bones, chop the meat and return it to the soup. Add a few grinds of pepper, and serve in individual bowls with the parsley and cilantro strewn over.
Serves four.


Have some chili peppers and a bowl of sour cream (smetana) on the table for them as wants, along with a fresh loaf of crusty bread.


NOTE: I always add caraway seeds (kimil) to cabbage dishes (kroitn, kapusti) when preparing such. But that may not be your thing.
[½ teaspoon for this recipe.]



If you want, you can imagine eating this with an otter and her whelp also sitting at the table with you. They probably have smaller bowls.
Please don't think of Hello Kitty, however.
Hello Kitty is just nasty.



FURTHER NOTE: Four years ago was when I last made kapusniyak. That was when Savage Kitten and this blogger still had a relationship thing going on. No, cabbage soup was NOT why it ended.

I haven't made cabbage soup since then.

There is no connection between cabbage soup and relationships, even though a very large Slavic woman named Olga fondly thinks so. Any link between cabbage soup and matters of the heart is purely imaginary, slightly depraved even. However, if it pleases you to dream about those two things on the same page, by all means go for it.
Food, ALWAYS, is a fit subject for sensuality.
Eating together is something fun.
Even cabbage soup.

It's very good.



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WOMEN AND FISH

Today's top posts surprise me. Normally that is impossible. Web searchers find my blog by looking for the most unusual things, and predictably a large number of them are somewhat perverted. A lot perverted. The internet exists for THREE things: food, kitten pictures, and smut.
And conspiracy theories. Four things.
Plus delivery pizza. Five.
Five things.


FOOD, KITTEN PICTURES, AND SMUT.

I am interested in food. I cannot stand kitten pictures.
And I refuse to answer questions about smut.

This blog has featured food a number of times. As well as many sneering comments about felines, most specifically Hello Kitty. And, being a religious man with severe Calvinist tendencies, all puritanical and shit, I keep all smut secret, along with other depraved affections that I will deny having.
I am utterly clean. A veritable danged saint.
If your mom asks, I sure love Jesus.
In a non-sexual kind of way.
Oh holy crap yes.


Sorry, I was repressing something there.


Anyway, today's top blog posts are two.

Piscine:

MACKEREL IS NOT HERRING
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2010/08/mackerel-is-not-herring.html]

In which I mention one of the last times my ex and I had dinner together as a couple, over three years ago. The relationship was already on the skids then, and though we've remained friends, fresh fish did not repair it.

The people who find this article are all from England, and unfamiliar with the differences between two delicious creatures. Which is odd, considering that they are entirely surrounded by water.

Perhaps it's the brief mention of excel spreadsheets that they find fascinating. It probably isn't anything culinary.

And:

MANIFESTING FEMININE INDIVIDUALITY
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/12/manifesting-feminine-individuality.html]

This is actually one of my own favourite recent posts. It's more or less about how smoking a pipe is utterly ladylike and proper, despite what disapproving relatives and anti-smoking health-nazis in Berkeley might think. Something that I've always found appealing is the intelligent and strongminded woman who decides that yes she will smoke a pipe. Dammit.

I also mention some favourite women authors.



I am incredibly relieved that today's readers are not perverts. Nor are they paranoid conspiracy theorists with a thing for Hello Kitty. Hello Kitty, as all fish-eating women who smoke pipes undoubtedly realize, is the primrose path to ruin, the beginning of the mental end, and a symptom of sickness and spiritual rot. Unutterably nasty, saccharine, smarmy, and immature.

If she smoked a pipe, Hello Kitty's favourite tobacco would be fish-flavoured, with an undertone of strawberries.
Rancid rotten strawberries.





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ARE YOUR RELATIVES HAVING A BLACK ORGY?

Vast hordes of murderous shoppers descended growling on the mall, overwhelming the severely outnumbered security staff. Whom they ripped into tiny shreds with the spike-heels on their Manolo Blahniks. Like a swarm of fire ants they overran the place, leaving nothing but mayhem and despair in their wake.

Thus began the great Black Friday Zombie Orgy.

At least, that is how I fondly imagine the scene in Union Square and the various shopping centra of the Bay Area, at approximately half an hour after turkey this past Thursday evening. In this scenario, all of those places now resemble charnel houses, with twitching corpses ambulating glassy-eyed among the fabulous bargains, and scraps of flesh adhering to door jams, lintels, clothing racks, and battered shelving.

This blogger does not participate in shopping frenzies.

I've got better things to do than slash ferociously with my credit cards, disemboweling other women in my furious assault on the whimpering sales clerks.

I am a man, not a woman. I do not disembowel.
Men are gentle souls. Women aren't.
Not after Thanksgiving.


Right about now, at around nine o'clock on a Saturday evening, you are wondering where in hell your wife and daughters are. You also have other female relatives, like maiden aunties, and various in-laws, but you've given up on them; they're galumphing across the retail savanna in pursuit of terrified shmatte, blingities, and trinkets. But despite their cannibalistic tendencies, you still care bout your wife and daughters.
You are vested in them, as it were.
And their horrid habits.


If you are reading this, you are in the house alone. It is dark and oh so quiet, the television is off, and you're wondering if you should reheat some stuffing, or break off a piece of frozen three cheese pizza.
Which tastes perfectly fine dipped in Ranch Dressing.


Later, long after you have retired for the night, the women will return. Giddy from the hunt, as well as exhilarated from feeding on corpses, they will stumble in, waking the neighbors and making the dogs howl.
Blood-spattered, as if witnesses to a mid-winter sacrifice.
Torn clothing, glowing eyes, and red red talons.
They have won the war, huzzah.
More tomorrow.


Three more weeks!


AFTER WORD

In the past three decades I've worked both the retail and accounting side of the Holiday Season. Personally, I think most Americans are bonkers. Christmas carols are musical garbage, no one needs all that glittery crap, there's too much mediocre chocolate, and mob-shopping is an absolute drag.
Decide what you will give them all, whiz in, grab it and pay, get out.
Five minutes per gift. Even if you have a hundred greedy kinfolk,
that really should not take more than eight hours.
Less than two if you're efficient.

To really simplify things, just buy everyone a bottle of Tequila.
Even, most particularly, the teenagers and old people.
The young and decrepit have simple tastes.


Stocking up for the Holidays means lots of frozen convenience food, and several bags of high-sodium snacks. Perhaps a generator, and a hundred boxes of cartridges. Plus Ranch Dressing.
The living dead are out there.


Hello Kitty also figures into this, but I don't know how.
Maybe she is 'The Spirit of Christmas Feral'.



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A GIRL IN BLACKFACE, A DANE, AND ONE HUNDRED RUTTING GEEKS

The day had started sensibly enough with a big steaming bowl of curried chilipepper and meaty bits over rice-stick noodles. It seemed like a suitable breakfast, when one was planning to be surrounded by several men wielding large pieces of wood for most of the evening.
Happy men, with glee in their hearts.
Over-stimulated men.

That being a meeting of our local pipe-club. Which is mostly composed of very safe people; doctors, lawyers, leatherworkers, and the like.

Nicotine, as you know, is a stimulant.


THE WILDS OF MARIN

No, nothing untoward happened. There was no dancing on tables with nothing but a lamp shade on our head. No gay stripping, or attempts to slap each other with fish.
We're doctors, lawyers, leather workers (and the like), remember?

To the best of my knowledge, none of us are naturists.

First off, I should admit that I smoked a total of eight bowls between tea-time and midnight. In consequence of which I woke up trembling at seven the next day. Nicotine is a stimulant.


Erik Michael Stokkebye was there, along with samples of the blends representing the four generations of his family that have been in the tobacco trade, of which there are five.
The fifth is the 1882 Founders Mixture, which is an exceedingly nice English blend.


"This Mixture is the epitome of English tobacco blending tradition and is sure to please the discerning palate. 1882 achieves the perfect balance of Latakia and Oriental sun-cured tobaccos, enhanced by mature Virginias from the USA and complemented by full body Kentucky tobaccos. A classic English smoke using only the finest quality leaf.
This is a must-try for all fans of English tobaccos."


Capsule review: Nice. Had two bowls, then stole most of what was left after the tin had been around the table, leaving only enough for three more eventual sample smokes. With two dozen members in attendance, it's a miracle that any remained to surreptitiously pocket. Those greedy opportunists showed NO restraint.
The Turk is at a lovely level, the Latakia is perhaps at forty percent, and the Virginias and air-cured leaf work harmoniously to form the third leg. This is something well worth stockpiling, which I certainly intend to do. It is an exceptional classic-style product.

By the way, in addition to the doctors, lawyers, leather men, and Indian chiefs mentioned above, we also have wine makers among our ranks.
Wine is NOT a stimulant.

Several bottles were "sampled".

I did not have any, as one needs a clear head when tins of the good stuff are opened. And left laying about.


Master blender Greg Pease was also present, so after Erik Stokkebye discussed tobacco, cigars, pipes, and his illustrious forebears who sold fragrant leaf -- the family has been all over at this point; Denmark, Switzerland, Sumatra, etcetera -- we veered into examining the tin art for our club blend, which Greg created for us.

It is a medium full English, with an antique Virginia base. Something which you would find in the old days at a respectable tobacconists in an English or European city.
Should be available within a month or two.
Definitely worth stockpiling.
Delightful.

I forced Greg to discuss his newest product (Gaslight) after we looked at the label for our own tobacco. Greg has produced a solid-pressed Latakia plug, which I had already had a taste of when it was in the final stages, courtesy of a friend.
So of course it was tried by members in attendance.

Nicotine is a stimulant.

While no one was watching I pocketed a chunk of it. About which I now feel incredibly guilty, because later Greg asked me with concern if I had taken some, and I indicated that indeed I had smoked half a bowl (not mentioning what I pilfered), whereupon he kindly cut me a cube to take home.
I now have enough for six big bowls, or ten small bowls.
Nobody is coming over till they're gone.
It is very good.

Gaslight is what a pressed Latakia mixture is supposed to be. After the debacle last year with a militantly perfumed Lat brick that some people raved about, it is glorious to have a product that fulfills all promises.
As a blender, Greg knows exactly what he is doing.

Despite being heavy on the dark Oriental, there is a sufficient inclusion of red Virginias that it not only has the requisite nicotine, and a balance, but will also age exceptionally well. If you put a tin aside now and open it five or six years hence, your nose will be seduced by a profound and ethereal embrace, a fragrance that will provoke memories you might not have realized were there.

Yes, that's a strong recommendation. Remember, I stole one cube before Greg generously gave me more of it.
I actually wanted to swipe the tin. Not a chance, unfortunately.

The first time I smoked it, a while back when it had not yet gone into regular production, I had to have a second cup of coffee, stronger and blacker than the first. It was the very first smoke of the day.
By noon time, I was happy as a clam.
It is well worth stockpiling.
Slow-burning, dense.
Depraved.


When I arrived before the meeting began, a new member was happily dawdling over a selection of old Barlings which I cleaned up recently, and trays with Dunhills and Charatans on which I had worked were behind the counter waiting for review. Later, after the meeting started breaking up, I suggested to my fellow Dutch American that he should take a gander at the Barling pipes, as, being somewhat opportunistic, and an egomaniac besides, I like hearing oohs and aahs.
Almost nothing is as sensual as a polished piece of wood.


Three of us ended up back in the city afterwards, at the Occidental, where several more bowls were smoked. Unfortunately the place was packed with bright young lads from a local computer company, swilling expensive Scotch and huffing stogies.


CIVILIZATION, PINE STREET

We were joined by V, who is a highly skilled code monkey for a different outfit than the 100+ e-cigarees. His take on the giddy crowd of compugeeks flocking around and twittering like birds succinctly expressed: "this is a mating frenzy; there's more than one woman here, they can't help it".
Many nerds seldom see so much female flesh in one place at the same time, given that they spend all day in dank cubicles, hiding under their desks, fondling their greasy keyboards, alone, in the cold and damp.
I don't think that any actual mating took place, but I have no idea how dorks reproduce, so I could be wrong. Maybe it's by amplexis, like salamanders.
Frenzied praying mantis cannibalism, or cell-division.
V did not enlighten us about the process.
I'll have to ask for details.


BLACK PETE

Naturally the subject of Black Pete came up. Black Pete (Zwarte Piet) is the helper of Saint Nicholas in the Netherlands, whose feast-day on December sixth is celebrated by giving gifts to kiddies during the night of December fifth (Sinterklaas Avond, Saint Nick's Eve).
The idea of people painting their face black, capering about in absurd Hispano-mediaeval garb, and acting like bogeymen has been somewhat divisive in recent years, as black people in Holland are ambivalent about it, and white people absolutely refuse to consider that it might not be the best representation of negritude that little children are exposed to.

The solution, I thought, was simple. Get rid of the saint. The Netherlands has a long history of religious conflict, and having a churchman bribing children is potentially problematic in any case. And it's only by contrast with the decrepit bearded bishop that Black Pete is the baddy.
If all roles were unified in only one person (that being Black Pete), it would take away the negativity.

Nix the old white dude!

Black Pete: simultaneously judge, jury, and executioner.
Both the good guy with gifts, and the meanie.
Rewards, and also punishments.
A magic blackman.

Yeah, still played by a young woman in blackface and fancy page boy costume. Because you can't have anything too real about a folkloric figure. Gotta maintain the suggestion of otherness.
He's supernatural.

Besides, I like the concept of young ladies in blackface, poufy short breeches, and dark pantyhose.

Unfortunately the other three people promptly took that ball and ran with it, demanding that the person in black face should be a teenage Japanese chickadee wearing a tight leather bodice and frilly Hello Kitty underwear.
The dominatrix bustier suggests the chastising role, the naughty Hello Kitty panties would be 'rewarding'. And, they insisted, obviously some people are obsessed with Hello Kitty, and despite screeching denials, dwell upon the cutesy pussycat. And why on earth was I resisting, they knew better, they had seen the evidence on my blog.

At this point V remarked that he was surrounded by middle-aged pervs.
Which, though marginally accurate, seemed irrelevant.

Japanese girls in kitty kat S&M get-up?

No! Absolutely not. Black Pete in Hello Kitty undergarb is just plain wrong.
No matter the gender of the black-faced individual playing Black Pete, the costume should more or less resemble what the Papal Guard wears.
That's quite queer enough.

There's a tradition to maintain.

Reserve the girls in pink French cuts and leather straps for a different occasion. Perhaps to frighten rutting computer geeks, or something.

Nicotine is a stimulant.



I realize now that we forgot to take matches when we left the bar. Normally we grab as many as we can to fill our bags when the bartender isn't looking. We must have been distracted by all those techies with cigars.

Nicotine is a stimulant.

TOBACCO INDEX


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