TEXTURE AND TENSILITY

The ex-girlfriend, who is still my roommate, has been in emotional crisis mode these past few days. It started after Thanksgiving (an evil holiday), though it had naught to do with the worship of the overweight burnt bird.
She's been a bit overwrought.
It's not anyone else's business, so I shan't tell you why.

What I will say is that I rather like it. It gives me a chance to nurture and be comforting.
She's really quite loveable during those vulnerable moments.
No, I'm not going to try to soften her up and get her back - it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do. Not while her defenses are down.
And whether it succeeded or (more likely) failed, it would create bad blood. She would not appreciate the breach of trust.

She's rather stubborn and strong-minded, and once she has made a decision she sticks with it.

Nor do I want to upset the current comfortable and convenient domestic applecart: a reliable roommate with whom I get along very well.

I like having a slim small-boned Cantonese woman floating around the apartment. Especially when she flits off to the shower from her bedroom.
She isn't aware of my glowing eyes staring from the shadows.
While I will bravely assert that this is just keen aesthetic appreciation on my part, you might as well know that I have a dirty old pervert skillset of monumental proportions (it's a gift).
Having a roommate (even if she is now an ex girlfriend) who is nice to look at adds joy to my life.


"Boruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha olam, oseh ma’aseh bereishis."

Especially when she flits down the hall wearing only Hello Kitty panties.
I bought her those Hello Kitty panties last year. Had to look all over town for them. Fortunately Hello Kitty panties come in her size - and ONLY her size. She shops in the girls department, not the big white adult womens section. It is doubtful that Hello Kitty panties come in big white adult woman sizes.
Yes, half of San Francisco is no doubt achingly disappointed over that.
It's so very sad.


DARLING LITTLE BIKINI BRIEFS

Initially she wouldn't touch them - the Hello Kitty cuteness freaked her out. Surely those panties were something only a stalker or creep would gift?
No real woman would wear them, ever! Ick!
Turns out they're quite comfy. It's high quality cotton.
Yes, I compared textures and tensile qualities - for heavensakes don't ask how or why!
Just refer back to the previously mentioned 'dirty old pervert skillset of monumental proportions', and leave it at that.

They fit perfectly, by the way.

This year I have two serious gifting quandaries.
The first and most important one is that with her birthday coming up, I still don't know what to give her. She and I are no longer lovers, so giving panties of any kind is right out. It would be staggeringly indelicate.
The second quandary is much more of an intellectual problem.
Who am I going to give panties to this year?
Both of these problems are taking up a lot of my time.

Reader suggestions are always welcome.


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GETTING OVER IT: OLD PERVERT WITH LIBRARY SEEKS COMPANION

A few days ago, when I was indulging in melancholy, Savage Kitten said she hoped I would get over it soon and be all-right. She was genuinely concerned. I think she has already gotten over it somewhat more than I have, and my slowness is upsetting her.

Women sometimes do recover much faster than men. They are, after all, the stronger sex.

[No, really, they are! It's a biological factor that contributes to the survival of the species. Just look at spiders - the female is stronger, and once the male has pedipalped his sperm into the female's epigyne, he is likely to be killed and eaten. At that point he has already served his biological purpose, and rendered his acquaintance obsolete.
Plus he's NEVER going to get any juicier!]


Well, another factor is that she has already taken several months to think about matters.
While I was just happily tripping along, la la la, not a care in the world......
Kinda hit me like a ton of bricks.


But anyhow.


I assured her that before you know it, I would be back to normal. Trust me. And PLEASE don't worry. If I haven't got my groove back in several months, I'm heading out to Lowell High School carrying a cooler filled with Bubblegum Vodka and several chilled cocktail glasses - "Come here little girl, it tastes just LIKE candy!"

[For those not familiar, Lowell High School is a highly regarded academic high school with a student body comprising a greater percentage of Asian-Americans than any other high school in the city. Given that for me intelligent women who are shorter and smaller than myself are extremely attractive - I am barely over five feet eight inches tall, short by big glandular galoot American standards - and find myself intimidated by the enormous freaks from the law-offices downstairs when a cluster of big cornfed graduates of the 'MidWest Legal College Varsity Football Team And Business Law Breedingfarm' flock into the elevator, you can understand that Lowell High School symbolically functions as ground zero for normal people in my world.
Savage Kitten graduated from Lowell High School. That's a strong recommendation.]



COME HERE LITTLE GIRL, IT TASTES JUST LIKE CANDY!

Probably never gonna do that. For one thing, there are legal issues.
For another, young ladies of taste and discernment should never be exposed to Bubblegum Flavoured Vodka. That's just wrong!

Still. The idea has a certain appealing audacity.
Please imagine a sly-looking middle-aged Europäische type with a cooler, a table stacked with excellent reading material (historical novels, Russian pervs in exile, Dickens, Faulkner, and Jane Austen, further suggestions welcome), plus several comfy folding chairs, on a shaded sidewalk near Lowell high as school lets out. Welcome!

An amusing conceit, no?

Dark sparkly orbs buried deep in a book, pale delicate hands clasping a cocktail glass. A general air of contentment and literary curiosity ("will she EVER kiss mr. Darcy?"). Pretty lips pursed in concern for the future of our heroine, while anticipatorily a finger curves around the corner of the page she hasn't quite finished yet. So involved - it is far too soon to put the book down and head home. Perhaps there's time for one more drink.
Her delicate eyebrows furrow over the fate of Miss Bennet.........

Maybe I should head over to BevMo in a few weeks for some supplies.
I wonder if they also sell comfy folding chairs.


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IF IT SMELLS LIKE UNDERWEAR ...

Underneath a posting in which I said some very good things about Samuel Gawith tobaccos, linking their blends to various San Francisco-specific personality types, "Boltcutter" wrote: "I for one am a Captain Black man. What does that say about me. Be honest - I can take it."
[This post: Clean Wholesome Habits Only.]


Really, what can one think about such a frank admission of personality issues?

Dude, you are a heretic. We used to burn people like you. Or send them to Holland.

Deservedly so.


"I for one am a Captain Black man. What does that say about me. Be honest - I can take it."

You know what you like. I would not want to spend much ("any") time in the presence of your pipes, but Captain Black, underneath that cloying funk, is actually made from pretty decent tobacco. It was developed by Herman Lane back in the sixties, I believe, in order to supply a demand for a 'quality' aromatic. If the consumers want it, it must have valid properties.
Wouldn't smoke it myself, though. The words "last tobacco on earth" come to mind.......

I too occasionally veer into aromatic territory, as I like a bit of perverted fun now and then. Sometimes Erinmore, sometimes 1792 Flake - both of which I've stockpiled, as well as Independence by Dan Tobaccos, of which I've only got a few tins left.

NEVER EVER AGAIN THIS HORRIFYING ABORTION OF A BLEND: CLAN

All the Aromatics I have written about can be found here: Oooooh, Stinky!.

[But, if you sincerely wish to reform your evil ways, you really should read about Balkan Sobranie - it will open your eyes to a whole new world. Although it is no longer available, it is still the model by which many mavens and obsessive types judge tobaccos.]

Okay..... The ball is back in your court.



APPENDIX:TOBACCO PERSONALITIES - CONDENSED VERSION

1792 Flake: Electric pink panties, bright smile. Charming.
Balkan Flake: Lacy underwear, ruffles, spectacles, hello kitty. Girlish.
Commonwealth Mixture: Lovely raven hair, bright face. Evil sense of humour.
Full Virginia Flake: Dark skirts, pale blouses, strings of pearls, a perfect little lady.
Grousemoor: Fondness for smutty literature, only one brassiere (size: mosquito bite). Petite.
Skiff Mixture: Blue jeans, sweaters, ponytail. Sparkling.
Squadron Leader: Kissy-poo lips, blushing cheeks. Quite charming.
Saint James Flake: Spunky and vivacious. Stimulating conversationalist.
Westmoreland Mixture: Lacy garments well hidden, long soft hair, smart aleck. Self-assured.

[All products listed above are from Samuel Gawith, which is a very fine English tobacco company located in Kendall, Cumbria, somewhere north of nearly everywhere else.]

You see, anyone who smokes Samuel Gawith has a lot of common sense for her age, as well as exceptional taste, and quite the enchanting personality.
So we can assume that it must be incredibly popular among Cantonese-American high school girls attending Lowell.

The smoker of Captain Black, however, is probably a large butch blonde.
And the less said about such a person, the better.

TOBACCO INDEX


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DELICATE BLACK LACE GARTER BELT?

Something Savage Kitten said yesterday made me realize that I am indeed a pervert. And I’m comfortable with that, as it also clarified that I am not a degenerate.
It all has to do with clothing.

Like many men, I am a bit of a slob as regards my personal appearance. As long as I’ve shaved recently, am fully dressed, and don’t reek too ferociously, I feel confident and comfortable. Pants that aren’t raggedy or stained with coffee and spaghetti sauce, shoes that aren’t falling apart, and a clean shirt that has all its buttons – I’m good to go.

Women, on the other hand…….


Fortunately, the craze for muffin-top pants seems to be dying down, and it’s been ages since I saw a plumber’s crack on a young lady. There are still far too many girlies exhibiting their tattoos and piercings, but even that has diminished somewhat – there’s no point in showing off what an original and unique free spirit you are when everyone else also has sunburst tattoos on their rump, a rose next to their belly button, and five pieces of metal in their face.


This year’s excess is cleavage.


Blouses with such low necklines that I can see all the way down to your belly button.


What on earth happened to shirts that simply looked clean and neat?
You know, Oxford cloth. Why can’t women wear nice normal clothes? What happened to looking like a scholarly young miss or a serious young lady?

There is nothing quite so darling as a girl wearing a shirt. However it is worn, whether tucked into a pleated skirt, or casually over jeans, or even quite informally – bikini briefs, a man’s dress shirt, luscious young legs, hair slightly tousled – the effect is exceedingly feminine. There’s just something about the way cotton shirt cloth falls that makes it perfect. Twixt statuesque and huggable. Classic, and classically adorable.

Plus the fabric contrasts so very nicely with the skin!

Silk, and fine lace edging, are also in this category; they too pair perfectly with the dermis.
Wool, not so much.

Trampy thin material that isn’t opaque, while it lets all of us elderly creeps know your exact bra size, is not recommended. Deep décolletage, unless you’re trolling for desperate married men, just isn’t suitable. Not around the office, nor in the cocktail lounge.
The dress shirt, by its clean crisp appearance, suggests that there are still secrets that you keep, and hidden charms that might be discovered upon closer acquaintance. Advertising all your attributes from the outset strips you of any mystique, and suggests that there is nothing else about you worth discovering.

Like the naughty black lace garter belt, whose presence may be inferred from the way your stockings pull, your girlish cleavage and youthful curves must be covered.
A bonbon should be wrapped, not exposed to flies.

KIND THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ULTRA LEFT

Stalin killed tens of millions. His successors were no better.
Mao Tse-Tung was responsible for more deaths than anyone else in history, and subsequent powerholders in the PRC have not been that much more humane.
Fidel Castro and Ernesto Guevara were responsible for the murder of tens of thousands.
Josif Broz Tito was an vicious thug. Ceauçescu was a psychopath. Erich Honecker passionately enjoyed killing animals, and ordered his border guards to shoot people trying to escape to the west.

All revolutionary regimes have imprisoned hundreds of thousands of their own citizens for political purposes, usually in utterly brutal conditions.

European Communists unwaveringly supported violent terror in the third world, most significantly in Cambodia. Though they have since then rebranded themselves as "socialists", they still applaud the excesses of Stalin, Mao, and PolPot.

[It is instructive, for instance, to research the antecedents of the Dutch 'Socialistische Partij' (SP) - important leaders of this party were for years affiliated with the Maoist fringe, and to this day continue lauding murderous revolutionary movements. The key search-term is "Kommunistiese Eenheid Nederland - Marxisten Leninisten" (Ken-ML). The Chinese government provided covert logistical and financial support to the pro-Peking propagandists in the Netherlands and other European countries throughout the sixties and seventies, as has been revealed by news articles and government reports over the past decade and a half. Yet these mercenary traitors to their own people are still allowed a political role in Western Europe; many serve in the parliaments and government departments - the official national news organizations are almost uniformly sodden with their kind. In whatever function one now finds them, they unabashedly provide aid and support to terrorist movements in Asia, Africa, and Latin America.]


Here in the US the far left slavishly ape the Europeans in their continued support for the Venezuelan brute, the ambulatory corpse in Cuba, the petulant sexagenarian in North Korea, and the madman Mugabe.
As well as the murderers and cutthroats of Hezbollah and Hamas.


Given the monumental human suffering that the far left have been responsible for since 1917, in a perfect world every one of those people would be lined up and shot.


------------------------------------------------

NOTE: This little rant is actually in praise of the internet in general, and social-networking sites in particular. It may not look like it, but it is.

PROBABLY PRETENDING TO BE A DOLPHIN

Can I see it, can I see? I want to touch it, squeeze it! Oh pretty please, prod prod prod poke poke poke!
This in high-squeal by a petite female person.

No, it's not what you think.
Unless you remembered that sebaceous cyst I mentioned a while back - then it is exactly what you thought.
I had an itchy episode yesterday at work, and now my evil twin skin Skippy is no longer trying to fight his way out of my upper back. News of which at first severely disappointed Savage Kitten (she is FASCINATED by Skippy and so wanted to be there when Doctor Jew lanced it), but then curiosity gained the upper hand. Prod prod prod, poke poke poke.
It's the spirit of scientific inquiry.



SAVAGE KITTEN

Cut to this morning.

When she wakes up she is full of beans. When I wake up, I am crusty, grumpy, and zombie-like.
I had barely gotten back under the covers, with my cup of coffee on the side table, when she came energetically bouncing onto the bed to tell me all about the virtues of baking soda.
Apparently it's great for cleaning. Works real well on caked-up crud.

Savage Kitten, being a contractor rather than an employee, has two extra days off while her company goes on a retreat to eat tofu, hug, practice trust-building exercises, thump drums, and commune with the dolphins within.

So yesterday, she decided to tackle the kitchen floor.
Probably as a result of those beans.

The "caked-up crud" on the kitchen floor was paint from the several times I've manufactured protest signs in there. Acrylic, brightly hued, as well as transparent. Plus gesso.

She accused me of being rather like a dog that went where it shouldn't, and needed cleaning after. When I pointed out that ALL middle-aged men are like that, she grabbed something to roll up and hit me with.

"YOU MESSED ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR! BAD DOG"
Smack.
"YOU SPLATTERED PAINT ALL OVER! BAD DOG, BAD!"
Smack, smack.
"YOU FILTHY CREATURE! BAD DOG! BAD DOG!"
Smack, smack, smack.


'Oh it wasn't all THAT bad, and after the paint hardened it was kinda decorative.....'

"THERE WERE ALSO DEPOSITS OF PINK DUST FROM ALL THOSE TIMES YOU WERE CARVING PIPES IN THERE, YOU HORRID OLD TOAD! YOU NEVER CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF!!!"
Smack. Slap. Whomp. Mediaeval.


'But sweetness, I often do the dishes and other stuff.....'

"IT'S NOT THE SAME!"
Mediaeval, big time. A flurry of whacking.


Fortunately she's only a small rowdy Chinese girl, rather than one of those big threatening overweight white she-oxen from the Midwest. And a rolled take-out menu is not particularly effective for chastising.
So I merely grunted and shifted sideways.

An hour later, putting myself together for the day, I asked her where yesterday's shirt had gone - I needed the little notebook in the pocket.

"I put it in the laundry. It probably smelled nasty, after what you squoze from the cyst."

'So you put it underneath stuff to keep me from grabbing it back.....'

"Not true at all! Why do you always think the worst of me, you paranoid old git?!?"

'Because I know you.....'

"Hah, you don't KNOW me!"


And right at that moment we both recalled that scene from Reno 911 when the two female cops were called to a disturbance at the whorehouse - the pervert who previously had thrown a tantrum over "juices, juices everywhere" was tied naked on the bed with a giant dildo strapped to his forehead.
As soon as he saw the two cops he started yelling "don't you judge me, you don't know me, you don't know me!"

Every time anybody said anything in that scene, he would holler "you don't know me, don't you dare judge me, you don't even KNOW me!"


"YOU DON'T KNOW ME, DON'T JUDGE ME!"


Dear reader, if you saw someone buck-naked with a giant dildo on his forehead, you would probably believe that you knew him far too well, and you didn't want to know anything else - certainly enough to judge him, right?
Doesn't a giant dildo strapped to the forehead tell you more than you really need to know?
Enough, by a wide margin, to be thoroughly judgmental?
Yes, you know him. You know him plenty.

As I left I promised her that if I EVER found her spread-eagled with a giant dildo strapped to her forehead, I wouldn't judge her. Stand off to the side, maybe, to have a better view - but I would not jump to any judgments.

'I know you, woman.'

I could hear furious howls of outrage behind me as I left the building.
Something hit the door after I closed it.
Coming home tonight is gonna be interesting.

I CAN SEE YOUR NIPPLES

Let us imagine that you are seated at a cafe terrace in Europe, and you have ordered a refreshing cup of coffee. A pert and charming young waitress comes tripping over with a tray. She puts the cup and saucer down. She puts down the bowl of sugar. And, just before she skips off, you notice that the cream is missing. You NEED cream!

So, in your best French, you venture "I can see your nipples!".

.......

What you actually meant to say was "avez vous somekinda dairy produit pour mon tasse de strong cafe?"


I did mention that she was pert and charming, did I not?

Let us just say that you slipped on a bit of Freud. Happens to the best of us.



WHAT NOT TO SAY

The point of this is that there are some things you should NEVER say to a woman. Ever.
It may be true - you may indeed have a splendid view of her strawberries. Just shut up. She doesn't need to know that, and you don't need the coffee dumped on your head. Be still.

One of the truly bad things to say to a woman is "yes, it makes you look fat".
You know what the situation is in which that phrase might crop up, and you studiously try to avoid it.

Even more awfull is "you resemble your mother".
If you didn't marry her mother, don't say it.
And even if you did, don't.


Hands down worst: "you used to be so pretty!".


It does not matter what the context is, once the statement "you used to be so pretty" has been uttered, the conversation takes a terrifying turn to the dark side.
If you're lucky, World War Three breaks out before the psycho-torture starts.
If you're unlucky, World War Three breaks out before the psycho-torture starts.

The sentence "you used to be so pretty" is guaranteed to change the complexion of your day dramatically. It has the magic ability to call up overcast and fog. Not to mention sleet and icy winds.
And four horsemen.



SUCH A PRETTY CHILD

There are three photos of Savage Kitten as a little girl that are especially charming. One of them shows her holding a small furry creature. She really did use to be such a pretty child.
Utterly perfect, in fact.

Like almost all American women she lacks confidence about her looks as an adult.

Knowing since early childhood that the busty blondes on Charlie's Angels were the epitome of gorgeousness, that the ideal female form is between Barbie and a Coca Cola bottle, and that Bo Derek is ten, an awareness of her own non-approximation of the ideal is buried deep within her psyche.

Because of that, I do not have prints of those three charming childhood photos. Nor do I carry her picture in my wallet, or have it framed on my desk.
She used to be so pretty......
But at the end of the day, the person I wish to see again is the adult. Grouchy, moody, snarky, or spouting nerdy humour and Monty Python quotes. The girl who loves drama-bitch movie stars and queen-sized acting. The woman who snarfs shrimp-chips while watching the tackiest show on teevee, hooting at the bucket-loads of vulgarity and bad-taste. The fine-boned bonbon with a foul Toishanese vocabulary and a feral intolerance for idiots.
Her.
Just as she is today.


Sweetie-Pie, you used to be such a pretty child.

But now, you're one heck of a delicious woman (and I think I can see your ni.........).


If you ever wonder why I'm just staring at you, now you know.

GAZA BOAT STOPPED

The good news is that the boat filled with busybodies was stopped by the Israeli navy. The twenty olive trees and the sack of cement it was carrying will now be transported overland.


On the other hand....


Quote from a BBC article:
"The 20 passengers include former US congresswoman Cynthia McKinney and Nobel Prize winner Mairead Maguire. "

[SOURCE: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/8127145.stm]



It really is a tragedy that the Israelis are so humane. That's a Jewish characteristic.
Were it up to me, I would have torpedoed the damn boat and shot everyone of the activists that floated to the surface.
I'm very Christian that way.


Yes, dear readers, I would have dearly loved to see Cynthia McKinney's bloated corpse floating ashore somewhere on the Sinai Peninsula.
Did I already mention that in some regards I am still very Christian?


Given the monumental human suffering that the far left have been responsible for since 1917, every one of those people really should be lined up and shot.

Stalin killed tens of millions. His successors were no better.
Mao killed tens of millions, and his successors have not been that much more humane.
Fidel Castro and Ernesto Guevara were responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands.
Josif Broz Tito was an vicious thug. Ceauşescu was a psychopath. Erich Honecker passionately enjoyed killing animals, and ordered his border guards to shoot people trying to escape to the west.
European Communists unwaveringly supported violent terror in the third world, most significantly in Cambodia. Though they have since then rebranded themselves as "socialists", they still applaud the excesses of Stalin, Mao, and PolPot.
Here in the US the far left slavishly ape the Europeans in their continued support for the Venezuelan brute, the ambulatory corpse in Cuba, the petulant sexagenarian in North Korea, and the madman Mugabe.
As well as the murderers and cutthroats of Hezbollah and Hamas.


Cynthia McKinney is as loathsome and reprehensible as they come. But if she were converted to chum, she might still serve a useful purpose.

Remember, sharks are becoming endangered, and fill a valuable role in the food chain. We need the sharks.
Cynthia McKinney......? Meh, not so much.

IN PRAISE OF THE BURKA

Recently French President Sarkozy spoke out against the Burka, saying that it had no place in civilized society.

Respectfully, I beg to differ. Nothing could be MORE civilized than the Burka.


Not only is the Burka a graceful all-purpose garment, but it states assertively that the wearer is no submissive slave to fashion - by no means, even, as she has rejected the exorbitant prices charged by French Couturiers, and the exploitation of the female form for the purposes of male delectation!
Wearing her Burka, she proudly tells the world "none of your business", in response to wolfish glances in her direction. She has no truck with mere superficiality, or the shallow emphasis on a stylish appearance.


The Burka, more than any other garment, reasserts a dignity for the wearer, free from the chains of the French and Italian obsession with expensive designer shmattot!


Here in fashion-deprived San Francisco, the Burka could also serve a splendid purpose.


A few weeks ago, while enjoying a pipe outdoors, a whole host of elderly men wearing dresses and high-heels trooped by. Several of them had even bowed to the dictates of feminazi fashion by applying lipstick and rouge, the poor dears, and not very well at that! Their fragile crepe-like skin merely served to highlight the artificiality and garishness of such alleged aids to beauty. Truly, shmears of raw colour do not accent faces, but merely attract the startled glance.
It is my considered opinion that whatever purpose their tripping about gaily in their pretty dresses may have had, would have been more nobly served had they but worn burkas!
How dignified that would have been! Think of the majesty, think of the gravitas!


Think of large floral patterns.


And above all, think of the little children, whose impressionable minds so easily absorb the example set by people wearing crimson lipstick, tight corsets, and frilly summer frocks cinched just ever so, with the top-surface of exaggerated bosomage in full view!
What must they think? What can they think? When such things are common and unquestioned, it affects their little minds, and they absorb feudal gender roles without any hope of resisting!
Haute couture, like badly applied make-up, only masks the true beauty within.

Surely little boys and girls DESERVE to grow up free from sexist tyranny?

WHITE MEN CAUSE DROUGHT

My significant other (Savage Kitten) is Cantonese. Specifically, an American of Southern Chinese ancestry, born in this country. But still, that makes her a normal Chinatown girl, a 'Cantonese' woman.
Hence a person with sensibilities that sometimes diverge significantly from the glow-in-the-dark norm.

As you probably realize, I am white. This means that sometimes she and I are not on the same page. There are certain key differences between middle-aged white men and Cantonese-American girls - differences of which she is keenly aware, though she cannot for the life of her figure out why whitey is so weird.
It's probably all my fault in any case.

One key difference is what comes out of our mouths. Her utterances are not, strictly speaking, always sane. Cantonese are given to happy lyric hopefulness posed against operatic gloom. There is intemperance, excess, drama in their speech. They emote!
Cantonese naturally demand expressive license.


"If John EVER asks, tell him I'm STILL alive."


John is the landlord, who lives below us. Before I came home last night, one of the small blue crabs she had bought for soup nipped her fiercely. Apparently she swore and screamed loud enough to lift the dead.
Sound travels very well in our building. John certainly must have heard the howling.


"Stop singing darn you, crazy-ass white man!"


This pursuant the refrain to Dayenu. Following which, without realizing it, she started humming the theme to gone with the wind. There's a logical connection there, I'm sure, but it has nothing to do with any sense of ethnic womanhood repressed by an insensitive white system, or colonialist imperialist attitudes towards the other classes. Seeing as like all Cantonese girls she identifies with Scarlet O'Hara, it isn't clear to me where the link lies - either I'm not female enough or not Cantonese enough to see the obvious and logical connection.
It remains baffling (to me).


FLUSH!

There are other points of difference that have little to do with speech, though it is by 'conversation' that they become apparent.

Such as when she unconsciously channels for the San Francisco landlord class, most of whom are also Cantonese.


Like the conversation we had about flushing - Apparently I flush too much. Water doesn't grow on trees. There's a drought. I should flush less, and stop the flush halfway through. Use a brick, or even a concrete block. And push the lever only every OTHER time I use the bathroom, or only after both of us have been - but only if there is no cause for offense (which would be mostly my doing, she assured me). We should synchronize our bladders.
I must use the bathroom at work more. And pour buckets of bathwater into the toilet. Buy more bottled water and use it to wash the dishes. Bars have toilets, don't they? Blue glass cleaner is JUST as good as real water.
And so on and so forth.


It wasn't till she got into the details of the scheme that she realized quite how insane she sounded.


I, on the other hand, was fully aware of it from the get-go. You see, I am white, and that gives me a clear-headedness entirely unmuddled by Cantonese hyperbole and poetic exaggeration.


Still, there is just no countering her conviction that middle-aged white men cause drought. Apparently there are far too many of us, and we will keep attending to our personal cleanliness despite that being a completely wasted effort!
If there were no white men here, there would be no drought. It's a fact.

MY STOMACH SPEAKS!

I have a great fondness for hairy men. The shaggier, the better.
In fact, I often wish that there were more excessively furry men walking around naked or nearly so, so that I could point at them and tell Savage Kitten "see, hon, I really ain't that hairy".
I have barely any pelt at all.


"I am a smooth man, but my brother Esau is a hairy man. I am a smooth man."
-----Jacob Isaacsen Abrahamsen van Oer, a notorious inheritance cheat and smooth operator.


The problem with Savage Kitten is that she has a thing for furry anthropomorphic creatures. The froad. The head sheep. The one-legged monkey who stole her finest silk shirt. The various kung-fu hamsters (which were at Walgreens around kretchmuchtime 2003). Louise, Piggelt, and Bucky.

And my stomach.

She calls my stomach 'Fuzz Bert'. And in her presence, Fuzz Bert speaks. Usually he vehemently disagrees with whatever I have just said. Fuzz Bert also says very provocative things, and clearly believes that Savage Kitten needs help against me.
Fuzz Bert, alas, finds me wanting in many respects.
I have threatened to punch Fuzz Bert if he keeps insulting me, but his only reaction was "go ahead, big boy, I dare you".



FUZZ BERT AND THE TWINS

This morning Fuzz Bert had a very long talk with the Harry Twins - those being, I have been led to believe (by both Savage Kitten and Fuzz Bert), my buttocks. Given that all three of these rambunctious members of the household were fully covered, it would have been fitting if they had modestly kept quiet. But no. Unseen they may have been, unheard they certainly weren't. Making my morning coffee with those three in the kitchen, just chattering away, proved quite a challenge. I am not fully sentient before the caffeine hits me, and am easily distracted. Even confused - can't yet think without that cup of wake-me-up.
Conversation that early adds stress.

Savage Kitten, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed their discussion. Their loud and boisterous criticism of the toad (me) did not interfere in any way with her breakfast preparations. She calmly went about making hot cocoa and a plate of potato nibbles while they conversed, without the slightest fuss or interruption, even interjecting a few cogent comments at times, which Fuzz Bert and the Harry Twins (Alfred and Aethelred) happily seized upon and further developed.

Once my coffee was ready I returned to the other room and sat down. Which shut up Alfred and Aethelred.
I wish it would've had the same effect on Fuzz Bert, but the noisy bugger followed me.

WHY WOMEN SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO WATCH MINOR SURGERY

The elevator stopped and the lights flickered. After a brief pause, the lights came back on and a female voice came over the intercom, explaining in comforting tones "do not be alarmed, we are experiencing a power interruption".
The elevator then continued down.

And at that moment, it struck me. That statement, though voiced by a motherly woman, was written by a man. A real woman would have said "stop panicking (or crying, wailing, freaking out), we have just experienced a power interruption".
It involves an entirely different sense of tense.

To the man who wrote the text, it all overlapped. A woman could have understood that the recorded message would only be heard after the power interruption was over.
Afterwards. Not during.

Men are all about Venn diagrams, women are about loose ends. The male perspective is that this and that are on the some plane or in some significant way comparable, the woman knows that there is likely a sequential progression involved. Maybe that explanation is not entirely sound, but it goes a long way towards clarifying why men and women have such hugely different approaches to social talk.
Comparison versus narrative conclusion.
We may seem to speak the same language, but we really don't.


This illuminates Savage Kitten's strange ideas about conversation.


Last night we were lying on the bed in states of undress - no, none of your business, we are both elderly virgins, I am a priest, and we were practicing brahmacharya (ask e-kvetcher if you don't know what that means) - and she started talking.
It was, in a way, strangely romantic.

LOOSE END NO. I
First she started picking my brains about msexcel. Apparently I am an expert, a veritable Rick James of excel. Both of us use that popular spreadsheet program at work, and she had been discoursing about her job earlier in the evening. You may take it from me that msexcel is NOT proper pillow-talk, had nothing at all to do with the golden glow of her skin in the reflected light, and at that time seemed more than a little non-sequitorial to what had gone before. But she was tying up a conversational loose end.
So I elaborated about msexcel for a good ten minutes, explaining how certain things that she asked about could be accomplished.
As soon as I started about programming issues, she cut me off - no loose end there.

LOOSE END NO. II
Then, because my hives were acting up (skin allergy to certain types of tree pollens or air-born exudates), I sat up and started applying soothing ointment. Whereupon she remarked that the black spot on my back had grown bigger, my heavens, the lump itself was larger too! The size of a dollar! And that when I finally have Doctor 趙 in Chinatown lance the darned thing, she wants to be there! She is quite fascinated by it! And yes, she will bring her very own splatter guard, but she wants to see! Oh please!
Please please please!

No, sweetheart, I am NOT explaining to the nurse that this little Cantonese female is here with the big white toad as an observer. Please imagine that conversation: "Hi, I need Doctor 趙 to kill my evil twin Skippy, who is growing out of my back, and Savage Kitten here simply wants to watch, being possessed of avid curiosity, emmeser sadisten-freude, and the spirit of scientific inquiry...."
Nope. Ain't gonna happen. Ever.
The loose end in question is that she has long been convinced that if I allow her to apply gentle (meaning: extremely rough and painful) pressure, something interesting will happen.
She swears it will alleviate, but I know otherwise.

[My evil twin Skippy is the mother of all sebaceous cysts, and lives near the ridgeline of my upper back. He erupted once before, subcutaneously, and it hurt like hell because the surrounding tissues objected to this invasion of their domain by what was in their eyes an obnoxious stranger. I had him lanced back in 2004. The cute little nurse attending that operation in a support function was so startled that she dropped a tray of instruments. You can probably figure out for yourself what role a splatter guard plays in this scheme of things. And thank me for sharing.]


A PIT, AND SOME MAIZE

Somehow we got onto the subject of circumlocutory terms for body parts, and I wondered aloud how a certain orifice shared by both genders got the nickname 'cornhole' - I'm fairly certain I've heard it called that. She asserted that she had NEVER heard of it by that name. Where on earth? What the...? What DO you men talk about? "Hi, dude, how's the wife and kids and the cornhole?" "Nice weather we're having, how does it affect your cornhole?" "Here's the keys to the car, I hope your cornhole likes it?"
The more she speculated, the clearer it became that she has no clue what men say to each other.
Men and women just aren't on the same page.


After all, I never talk about my evil twin skippy. Or the wonderful features of msexcel, which is truly the spreadsheet program to end all spreadsheet programs, indeed, a veritable miracle of spreadsheet software.
Or even, chasvesholom, cornholes.


For comparison, here are some representative snippets of recent male conversations:
1. "Whut?"
2. "Dude!"
3. "Wow, man, boots!"
4. "It's stuck."
5. "Huh?!?"

I think you'll agree that these reflect an entirely different intellectual world, no?

I AM BY NO MEANS A PERVERT!

But Grant Patel probably is. This in fierce rebuttal of an assertion made by miss Snooky Wong, who wrote: "Most of my regular readers are perverts. There are four who comment frequently: Grant Patel, the Amphibian, Spiros, and Atboth. [cut] And I enjoy their comments, so I guess that means I like sharing myself with perverts."


Again, I am not a pervert. I stress this.
I just have a healthy interest in young ladies BLOGGERS who live in the same town as myself. All perfectly normal.


The remark was made in regards to her sex-life. Which appears to be either "not sure" or "other". As is perfectly appropriate for a person of her tender years.


She describes her probable lack of hanky panky here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/05/no-answers-about-my-sex-life-here-just.html


As you will note, the e-mail which prompted her speculation was innocent enough.
I wrote: "Here is what is possibly the most interesting survey ever! At least, from mister Patel's deviant point of view. Actually, ONLY from his devpov.http://blogs.jta.org/philanthropy/article/2009/05/05/1004935/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about-you
You will probably want to NOT respond to a single one of these questions. Mister Patel should under no circumstances answer any at all, though he would almost certainly wish to wax at length."

Quite innocent, no? Speaking for everyone except mister Patel, who most splendidly rose to the bait (and revealed himself a degenerate in nearly all particulars), I can say that other than a mildly avuncular curiosity, we (myself, Spiros, and the Amphibian) have no interest whatsoever in Snooky's love-life. Or the complete and utter absence of same - which she confirms in a subsequent post:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/05/my-exciting-sex-life-part-deux.html


RANDOM QUOTE:
"Some of the questions are easy to answer, though if this was a test, even a multiple choice one, I would probably fail.
See, that's why Chinese American kids don't do sex surveys, it's performance anxiety! We're afraid we won't get into Berkeley or Stanford if we give the wrong answers!"


On second thought, strike 'mildly avuncular curiosity' and make that 'avid fascination. Especially after she mentions that she is a "blond sex-type thing". You have our attention now.

=================================

In other news, we have been informed that Stas Feldman is the glue that holds the universe together. Something about the second law of thermodynamics, stuff going blooey, and the third kommisar from the back. We entertain doubts about all of this, and seek proof. Musk oxen are involved!



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

RADIANT IN THE GLOW FROM THE NIGHT LIGHT

There are times when Savage Kitten prefers to sleep in her own room. This has nothing to do with our relationship, nor with emotional states. Rather, it reflects her desire to have a full nights sleep. Sleeping with The Toad pretty much precludes that otherwise.
Sometimes it's just impossible.

I am NOT admitting in this post that I am a sexfiend. It is not because of my liveliness or appetites that this necessary. By no means!

[I am not denying it either. Think what you wish. And feel free to fantasize abundantly about my prodigious vim & vigour, even though they are none of your business.]


The reason is because I behave 'strangely' while asleep.
She snores, but I wiggle. And thump the mattress. And turn. And, on occasion, speechify. Or sing and weep.
I am the rollercoaster of bedmates, according to her.
Boruch Hashem she did not liken me to Regan (Linda Blair).

Of course, when she is in her room getting a good night's sleep, I am not nearly so fortunate.
Having her beside me is comforting, and comfortable. Both reassuring and very nice.
It does mean that I have to stick my feet outside the covers to regulate my body temperature (she is warmer than I am), but I have no problem falling asleep with freezing feet. Her presence is conducive to sweet dreams.


Last night was one of those other nights, however. She wanted to be well-rested before slaughtering chickens today - she volunteered for one of the local Chinese charities, and they're doing something involving lots of fowl (I'm guessing wholesale massacre).
Anyhow.
She went to her room after I feel asleep.

In the middle of the night I woke up. Then she, in the other room, also woke up. Her footsteps receded down the hall, there was a flush, and then the footsteps padded nearer again. Still half-asleep and not realizing what she was doing, she came into my room.
A few seconds later she noticed where she was and returned to her room.


I didn't fall back asleep for another hour and a half, nearly two hours.


It was all her fault!


I don't think any man would've fallen asleep again after a lovely woman entered his bedroom.
Radiantly stark naked.
There may be something wrong with you if that doesn't keep you awake.

GENERIC KOSHER ANIMAL INFLUENZA

In a move remarkable for its sheer goofiness, the Israeli acting health minister refuses to use the word 'swine' (or its Hebrew equivalent) in describing Swine Flu. Because it is 'unclean'. Even the word can cause pollution.
Instead, its 'Mexican Flu'.
Much like the pox is French, and Homosexuals in Iran are 'decadent Westerners'.


Only kosher animals deserve the flu.


Mexicans are many things (being a remarkably talented and diverse lot), but I have to doubt whether they are kosher.
I mean, yes, they probably taste just like chicken -- actually, human beings are supposed to taste like pork, hence the term 'long pig', but I only have this on hearsay, there has been NO foodslut research in that direction from this blogger, I assure you, so let us just assume that like everything else, "it tastes just like chicken" -- but given that the word 'chazir' for pig has been used in Hebrew since at least the time of Genesis, whereas many Israelis are only marginally familiar with Mexicans (there were NO Mexicans on the ark or in the midbar), and even the concept 'Mexican' is entirely non-Hebraic, it does seem more sensible to simply call it the pig flu.

[As it says in psalm 80, "yecharsemena chazir mi ya'ar ve ziz sadai yirena" ('the chazir from the forest despoils it and the wild creature of the prairie feeds upon it'), which is taken to be a reference to the Syrians and other Edomites, and their behaviour toward the vine of the Lord (Israel). So it is actually utterly appropriate!]


CHAZIR FLU!


No?

You don't want to even have to think of treifus?

Are you sure?

Then how about simply 'The Generic Kosher Animal In Lieu of That Animal Flu'?

Too long?


Oh fercrap's aches, just do what we Americans did when we were pissed at the French.
Call it the "Freedom Flu".
That will surely keep everyone happy.

MY BREASTS ARE TOO BIG!

Sometimes, one's significant other says something that, if you are unaware of context, strikes you as hysterically funny. Or stark-raving bonkers. Such as the phrase headlining this post.


Yesterday Savage Kitten went out to lunch with an old friend from her days studying megaviolence with sifu XXX. When she came back, she cruised into the television room all bubbly, having had an enjoyable time talking smack about some of the white people who had also studied megaviolence with that teacher -- understand, please, that I shall not divulge either the type of martial art, or the teacher's name (the circles studying how to inflict major damage on other people are so small and incestuous in the Bay Area that it would breach her and my anonymity) -- most of whom were puffy graceless poseurs into the spiritual and artistic aspects of megaviolence who always felt hurt if deprived of the limelight.
Yes, we white people are drama queens, and it's all about those neat-o costumes.


After a few minutes of happy burbling, she took off her coat and headed to the bathroom. Seconds later an anguished wail rang through the apartment:
"MY BREASTS ARE TOO BIG!"


Sweetheart, you need to take a closer look. It's not your breasts - they're perfectly alright.
Trust me, I have excellent judgment when it comes to such things.
[Besides, you are Chinese-American - big breasts are NOT part of the blueprint. That you actually have a bosom at all is somewhat remarkable.]


Your breasts are NOT too big, your t-shirt is too small. And that's the black padded sports bra you've got on, I recognized it from the fit. It always lifts and cushions in that exact way.

Men are more observant of these details than you women realize. We probably know your undergarments better than you do, having plumbed the subject in great detail. There are good reasons why the Sears-Roebuck catalogue is so well-thumbed - Or was, nearly forty years ago, when as little boys we knew all about some very peculiar feminine underwear, and first learned of support-panels and stretch fabric.
Even in our senescence, we are still avid students of the scantimenties of the opposite sex.


We fervently hope that you do not reciprocate, by the way. Our ragged baggy boxers will not bear the light of day.

And your breast are NOT too big. They're just right.

THE REALITY CHALLENGED FRINGE©

Years ago when you got into a discussion with strangers, there was always a chance that the conversation would head off into deep-space. Perhaps they believed in Masonic conspiracies or were convinced that cucumbers cured cancer.
But there were always certain subtle verbal warning signs that you ignored at your peril, ere you got to the glaring eyes and completely illogical assertions. Astute listeners would seek a graceful way out long before being accused of treason, lying, or space-alien loyalties.


Here in San Francisco, the subtle warning signs included chattiness, eye-contact, friendly sincerity.
So then, answer all questions with a grunt, roll your pupils, and insistently talk about meat and idols to religious types. That, plus several disconcerting nervous tics and much scratching, are guaranteed to keep you out of trouble.

Which explains why it often seems like SF has more disturbed people than anywhere else - We're just acting this way to avoid talking with you. Okay?


Alas, the Reality Challenged Fringe (R.C.F.) have discovered computers, and acquired e-mail. They have modernized.



ELVIS IS ALIVE AND WELL ON THE INTERNET

I mention this, because on one mailing list the discussion keeps returning to the assertion that Obama is a Muslim Communist born in Kenya, put in power by a vast evil conspiracy of ultra-left wing Democrats and Capitalists, with the connivance of most of the Democratic National Committee, the top ranks of the Republican Party, all of the mainstream media (dominated by ultra libs, including Fox), thousand of foreign conspirators, AND a network of traitors and liars put in place years ago in the Federal and State bureaucracies for this specific task.

[Plus, this Obama isn't the real Obama but a convincing simulacrum kept alive by electronic brainwaves.]


The argumentation of the cultists who believe this stuff consists of denying any and all evidence to the contrary, followed by demands to see Obama's birth certificate, 'why won't he show his birth certificate what does he have to hide he's hiding something or else he'd show us his birth certificate that isn't his birth certificate - we want to see the form signed by doctors and spattered with bloodspots from the wild animal sacrifice! It's green and Kenyato-Indonesian for a mooslim I know this waggah waggah!'
Then comes the suggestion that anyone who insists that Obama is validly president must be doing so for traitorous motives and we'll deal with them once the truth comes out.

To give the rest of us all a last chance to see the light, they keep forwarding links to World Net Daily, Obama Crimes (the vendetta website of Hillary loyalist Philip J. Berg, Esquire), and the Washington Times (the rev. Moon's propaganda rag).

Any further counter-arguments are met with repeats of sneering denial, more demands for the long form plus treason accusations, and yet more links to World Net Daily, Berg, and the Moonies.


Now I know why this is happening.


See, years ago, most of us successfully switched from Neviim 2.02 to MSRevelation. This meant that we also changed our spreadsheet programmes, graphic interfaces, and our e-mail. It was in many ways a monumental improvement, our lives sped up, and our functionality increased.
We no longer see the error messages from the bowels of the machine.

Consequently, we're not getting the memos. Anymore.
But they are. Still.

I just wish that they'd get on board the space ship already.
Go on, little birdies, fly away now. Be free. Be free.
Say hi to Elvis for us.
Meat. Idols. Meat. Idols. Boo!
Boo again.

DEAR PHARAOH, DUE TO VERY FORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES .....

This blogger is attending two seders this week. But not with his significant other.

No, we're not breaking up, we just realize each other's natural limitations.

While I can really get into Pesach-mode, Savage Kitten would probably be fast asleep, head on the table, before we even got to the matze-ball soup.
She is an antisocial morning person who finds long in-depth disquisitions on subjects in which she has no interest absolutely mind-numbing. She isn't comfortable at all in the company of a lot of people, and is too shy to actively participate in the spoken part of the seder even if she did have the necessary backgrounding. Once her bloodsugar level goes down at night, she goes to sleep. Period. Think tidal inevitability.


There are actually five children at the Pesach table:

1. THE CHACHAM- the wise child: what are the laws and customs of this day?
[Mah ha'edos vehachukkim vehamishpatim asher tzivah Hashem Eloheinu et-chem? Avadim ha'yinu le faro be mitzrayim...]
2. THE RASHA - the wicked child: what does this mean to you?
[Mah ha'avodah hazos lachem? Zevach 'pesach hu le Hashem asher 'pasach' al basei bnei Yisrael b'Mitzraim...]
3. THE TAM - the simple/straightforward child: what's all this then?
[Mah zos?!? Bechozek yad hotzi'anu Hashem m'Mitzrayim m'beis avadim...]
4. SHE-EINO YODEA LISHOL - the child who does not know how to ask.
5. And the SLEEPER, for whom the gefilte fish was probably the only thing remembered.


[Baruch haMakom, baruch Hu; baruch she-noson Torah le amo Yisrael, baruch hu. Keneged arba'ah vanim divrah Torah: echad chacham, ve echad rasha, ve echad tam, ve echad she eino yodea lishol (' ..... concerning four sons, sayeth the Torah; one wise, one wicked, one simple, and one that does not know how to ask').]


Years ago we engaged in the torture that all couples experiment with at first: dragging the other person to social events and office parties, where each mitgedragged significant other was one of the fifty percent of attendees WHO DID NOT KNOW ANYONE ELSE.


"Hi, uh, mister....., yes, well, and how have you been since last year?"


"Oh, fine, miss..., mrs......, uhhhh, erm, yes, fine, so very nice to see you again!"

Yeah, that sure is a thrilling thing to do together.


We eventually realized that such events served no purpose. We are very fond of each other, but parts of our lives do not need to be shared.
I like living la vie Cantonaise vicariously, she appreciates my interactions with the chevra from a distance.


Being a heathen, her method of observing Passover and Easter is both straightforward and surprisingly beautiful: rent The Ten Commandments, sit in front of the teevee with a giant bag of bacon-cheddar chips, and dig that crazy white guy Charlie Heston sounding all ponderous.
Flames, water, lightening, and a wild party. Costumes! Horsies! White hair! Timbrels! Yay!

Then do it all over again the second night.

It's a celebration of freedom.

I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM NOW

Savage Kitten, despite her many admirable qualities, does NOT grasp bathrooms. Every morning I give her fair warning that I will need to "wash" soon, so that she can go and do whatever it is that women do in there (dance widdershins around a tampon or commune with the spirits of their ancestors - I do not wish to know) before I need to use it. Once I'm in the bathroom, I will be occupying it for forty minutes.
A gentleman always gives a lady a last chance to pee - it is the gallant thing to do.
But once I'm in, I'm in.

She does not understand why it takes me forty minutes.
Well, shaving takes time. Bathing takes time. Nose and ear hair, ingrown hairs.......
Plus other things. Such as reading - I always take books in there with me. And cigars. And a hot cup of coffee.
She speculates that once I'm ensconced, I fade into a sweet sweet dream-state, and compose giddy little verses about the throne while moaning ecstatically. Or do a little happy dance in the nude.
To her the bathroom is a mere blip on the way to being ready for the world in the morning, and my dawdling baffles her. I know she is envious.

It's private time. Quality time. Smoke time. Reading time.



CONVERSATION

Often, while I'm "smoking", she will come outside the door to tell me something important, or talk about whatever just entered her mind. I'm a little deaf (and she is very soft-spoken), and I've got the bathroom heater going because I do not like to freeze my butt. Plus the door muffles sound too.
So the conversation, as I perceive it, goes something like this:
Savage Kitten: "Mumble mumble mumble MONKEY mumble mumble urrk."
Me: '...Uh huh.'
Savage Kitten: "Mumble mumble burble SHE SAID mumble mumble mumble HAMSTERS."
Me: '...Mmmmmm.'
Savage Kitten: "Grunt whisper burble hiccough DINNER squeak AIRTIGHT whistle snort?"
Me: '...Sounds nice.'

Fortunately she is convinced that I have pre-mature senility, so she will call me during the day to remind me that while I was in the loo I agreed to go to a seafood restaurant at exactly seven-thirty after meeting her in front of the North Beach Library while holding a trout.



EDUCATIONAL

I have learned a lot while in the bathroom.

To whit:
1. I can shave with either hand.
2. Cigars float.
3. Turning on the heater keeps the mirror from fogging up.
4. Ripping out ingrown hairs scars the legs.
5. Wear your reading glasses, or you will hit yourself in the face with the coffee cup and the hot coffee will spill into your lap.
6. Hot coffee is always too hot. Even when it's cold.


This morning I learned something new. Something I really wished I had understood before. It's a revelation! Useful and profound.
Azoy: If you're going to spray the black grot between the tiles with clorox cleaning solution, wait until you are finished with everything else - don't just reach down, grab the bottle, and spray away. While seated.
I also learned that I can shave while weeping, and shower with my eyes closed.

Two hours after I got to the office, I still smelled bleach.

The bathroom is a wonderful place. Some people just do not understand that.

WHATEVER YOU ARE WANTING!

Back in the nineties I worked at an Indian Restaurant. I had gotten the job when I interrupted a conversation between three plastered individuals in a dive on Broadway. Two of them were subcontinental, the third was a Sicilian petty criminal who worked in restaurants when not in jail - a very nice man, by the way, and a regular in that establishment. He drank there most nights, and often played poker with the lads at the back table.
Not that I would know anything about that.


It turned out the Sicilian gentleman did not know where Sri Lanka was, or what several of the spices were that the more English-able of the two gentlemen was trying to explain to him. So I jumped right on in.

After all, I know everything.

Two days later I was hired, after a fifteen minute interview with the boss of the restaurant. Bookkeeper, cashier. And also sane individual who could calmly observe, answer questions, interpret, represent, make sober decisions. We call it a khazanchee, that being the man that guards the iron cash box.
In the mountains of the North West Frontier Province, I would've been equiped with a Lee-Enfield rifle. Here in San Francisco, a severely Dutch attitude was considered sufficient.

As general factotum and supercargo, I was the one who went to tables to explain to customers that the service charge had been added for THEIR! OWN!! GOOD!!!
It had actually been added because the waiters had recognized the customers as being cheapskate Europeans, English, or Indians, and rightly feared being stiffed on the tip - "snnnff, we're French, and we do not tip in France, snnfff!" - and the waiters also knew that I was quite capable of brazenly overruling any objections that there might be.

Customer: "The chicken, it was not as good as it is in Hyderabad..."
Me: "But you ate absolutely ALL of it!"
Customer: "The achar, we usually expect that to be provided free..."
Me: "The menu says that it costs three dollars, and I know you saw the menu!"
Customer: "The chapatti was not so hot..."
Me: "Which one? You had over two dozen of them!"
Customer: "The owner usually gives a discount..."
Me: "The owner isn't here, but I am!"

As for English people, and the information that Indian food in England is infinitely better in London than in San Francisco, I am so very sorry, but this isn't London, it is San Francisco - are there any questions?

What many Europeans, English, and Indians, fail to understand is that tips are not optional - the staff NEED that money to pay their rent, and they really aren't living high off the hog. Five gentlemen working full time and living in a studio apartment is not the lap of luxury by any standard. A family of four in a Tenderloin one-bedroom? That really does not qualify as excessive comfort.
This is San Francisco. We are one of the most expensive cities in the world. And you are paying far less for your dinner than if the place was run by white people with snooty French accents. So stop being such a miser.

Anyhoooooo......

I also answered the phone. One of the most memorable conversations went like this:
Indian caller: "(Sigh)... I am keenly wishing to speak to mister Singh"
Me: "Which one?"
IC: "(Sigh)... It would then be mister J. Singh."
Me: "Which one?"
IC: "(Sigh)... Jack Singh."
Me: "Are you desiring to converse with Jagdeesh Singh, Jagtar Singh, Jagmohan Singh, Jagjeet Singh, Jagvinder Singh, Jangjit Singh Aluwalia, Jangjit Singh Bangi, Jagroop Singh, or Joginder Singh?"
IC: "Oh for Ram's sake, just let me speak to mister Patel!
Me: "Do you mean Ashwin Patel, Mantoo Patel, Harirambhai Patel, Parteeb Patel, Anirud Patel .....?"

Once down at one of the city offices, at very nearly five o'clock, I tried to ask the counter-clerk (an Indian, coincidentally) a question. Before I could even finish my sentence, he slammed the window down, snapping: "what everrr you are wantinggggg, we are NOT havinggg!"

I often felt like I was channeling for that fine gentleman while working at the restaurant.



VENKY IS IN THE HOUSE!

Many of the people who called did not wish to speak to an Anglo. An Anglo just would not be able to answer their questions, nor understand what they were calling about. They insisted on speaking to the manager.

We did not have a manager. We had a headwaiter - who did not want to talk to them. We had a chief clerk down in the basement - who did not want to talk to them. We had a head chef - who would not want to talk to them at all.
And there was myself. I had answered the phone because it was right next to the cash box. But they did not wish to talk to me.

Very well then. I shall go get the "manager".
Put phone down, take a breath, pinch throat, and stare up at ceiling while picking the phone back up.

"Hallooo, this is Venky (Venkataraman) Injinir, I can be helping you pleez? You are vanting, yes?!?"

Almost always this led to a phone conversation that was satisfactory all around. Their questions got answered (did I already mention that I know everything?), reservations for small family parties of fifteen hundred people were made, dietary preferences and food-taboos were noted, and whatever they were wanting, was truly and indeed very much being had.

The only time it didn't work was when the owner's wife called.

The first time Venky (Venkataraman) Injinir answered, no problem. She never even wondered why some outrageously-accented South-Indian was working among all the North Indians.
She asked to speak to her son, I passed the phone, and thought no more about it.

Second time, she and Venky (Venkataraman) Injinir had a delightful but brief conversation about how there is no apam or murungai at all to be had alas in San Francisco, but aam ka achaar almost as proper as in Chettinad, heavens to betsy! Then her son came on the line, and I hung up.
Her son later informed me that I was a very exceptional sort of Tamil, obviously of good family. His mom was exceedingly pleased that they had managed to find such an exemplary Madrassi.

The third time, I had a cold. After a few minutes she exclaimed "Atboth, is that you!?!?!"
Without another word I handed the phone to her son and went into the kitchen to have a fit of the vapours.



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