What I'm looking for is a dim sum restaurant or Chinese snack place that is NOT wheel chair accesible. Some place on a slope, or in a crowded narrow alley, with upstairs seating and an uneven floor. Any place, really, that has good food and isn't "mobility impaired friendly".
A new breakfast place opened up around the corner several months ago.
I really hope they prosper, but they'll never get my business. Savage Kitten and her boyfriend like it. So it's off-limits.
Same goes for the Thai place nearby, the creperie, the French restaurant, and the Mexican joint.
As well as the eatery where they make, in her estimation, the best roast pork and duck in Chinatown. He likes it.
I refuse to eat at any restaurant that she and he frequent.
So, inaccessible and hard to get into are on the agenda.
No, I will not tell her about places I like.
Apparently she, that fellow, and her brothers are going to have lunch together soon.
Again.
Her brothers never knew about me.
For over twenty years we were together. She did not introduce me to them.
We lived together since 1993/4.
They didn't know.
Savage Kitten and Wheelie Boy have not even been together for a year. But her brothers have met him. And they're eating together.
You will understand, I hope, that even though I have come to terms with the fact that my love life has entirely evaporated, and I have accepted that the relationship is over, I am not happy with this particular development.
I was the chevalier in her life for over two decades.
But her brothers, her sisters in law, and her nephews, are entirely unaware that I even existed.
That damned Russian Jew, who doesn't even speak a word of Cantonese, and hasn't even half the history of comforting her and being strong for her, is now becoming 'family'.
He is "the boyfriend".
Yes, I know our relationship is over.
I do not regret our shared past at all.
Nor do I even fantasize about restoring it in any way.
What's gone is gone.
I do not begrudge her happiness, and I applaud her courage.
It took guts.
Better late than never.
It would have been nice if I was actually part of it.
But I was never 'family'.
If I ever have another relationship with a woman, it will be with someone who, while she may think me not entirely perfect, will nevertheless have the balls and honesty to introduce me to her relatives at some point.
If I was worth loving for 20 years, I must have some virtues.
Heck, if I was worth having a secret affair with for two decades, surely that proves that there are qualities that glow.
Her brothers. Her sisters in law. Her nephews. Dim sum.
She's trying to find a dim sum place that is on level ground, with wheelchair access, clean and non-offensive to white people.
Perforce then, I must find a dim sum place on a slope, with absolutely NO access for wheel chairs, narrow, crowded, and slightly grotty and grimy.
A restaurant that white people look at and run away screaming.
Some place where she and he can never eat.
A place where I, and an intelligent young lady who accepts me, can eat together.
Narrow, crowded, screamingly loud, with not a word of English on the walls, on the menu, or on the bill.
The type of restaurant where I will feel comfortable, and she won't fear to introduce me to family members eventually.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Savage Kitten. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Savage Kitten. Show all posts
Friday, September 02, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
THE SENIOR-ROOMIE'S UNBEARABLE MOODINESS
My ex-girlfriend's Teddy Bear (aka 'the senior roomie') is trying to rope me into a plot to whack Savage Kitten's current beau. Push him off the end of a pier, or hack him to pieces with a chainsaw.
I must admit, the concept has a certain fey appeal.
There are just two minor problems with the scheme.
The first one is that I would have to do all the heavy lifting - a ten inch tall Teddy Bear just isn't very able in that regard.
The second one is that Savage Kitten and I are no longer a couple. Even if 'Wheelie Boy' were to magically disappear (cease to exist, go on to meet his maker, push up the daisies, join the bleeding choir invisible), that wouldn't change.
That relationship is over. So what, precisely, is in it for me?
The only person who would be happy is ten inches tall - a Teddy Bear with issues, who really needs to get over her feelings of abandonment.
Wheelie Boy's demise - desirable to small ursines though it might be - will not change matters.
I sympathize with the bear, really I do. That is why I have welcomed her over to my side - her young lady is hardly ever in the apartment nowadays, and small bears are apt to get mighty lonely. Distressed, even. She needs company, and a sympathetic ear. It is a pleasure to give her sanctuary, and help her deal with her small ursine anger over recent developments.
But I cope with things differently.
An adult has to approach issues in a mature fashion.
Unlike the Teddy Bear, I am a sober realist, and am moving on.
Meaning that I'm gloomily hiding out at bars and the office, interrupted by snack-visits to Chinatown eateries, long walks with a pipe, and a stinking attitude - oh wait, that's the pipe also.
Not precisely anywhere near young ladies, most of the time. Well, other than the bars, that is. But women who go to bars hardly appeal to me.
Pleasant enough to chat with, not really people you would want to know better.
In any case, not likely to sympathize with a Teddy Bear lurking in my bed.
Nor, for that matter, would she (the aforementioned TB) approve of them.
At times she has a mouth on her, and she's likely to curse them in Cantonese.
Very blunt and expressive Cantonese.
She's rather stubborn.
The senior roomie really would like to eliminate 'Wheelie Boy'. A charming and delightful conceit.
I wouldn't mind dumping him off the end of the pier myself, but that isn't the kind of thing that would be attractive to a prospective sweet young thing.
Homicide is not a love potion.
Come to think of it, most women don't approve of murder.
It's an inexplicable fact - they will look askance.
I don't need any more askance looking.
So the Teddy Bear will just have to do it on her own, and not rely on me.
I sure ain't gonna whack the shmoe.
The past cannot be redeemed.
This Toad is moving on.
Now, if only I can convince some sweet young thing that I'm completely sane, stable, and in all ways both deliciously risky and utterly safe, things will be perfect.
Perhaps I should offer her some bubble gum vodka?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I must admit, the concept has a certain fey appeal.
There are just two minor problems with the scheme.
The first one is that I would have to do all the heavy lifting - a ten inch tall Teddy Bear just isn't very able in that regard.
The second one is that Savage Kitten and I are no longer a couple. Even if 'Wheelie Boy' were to magically disappear (cease to exist, go on to meet his maker, push up the daisies, join the bleeding choir invisible), that wouldn't change.
That relationship is over. So what, precisely, is in it for me?
The only person who would be happy is ten inches tall - a Teddy Bear with issues, who really needs to get over her feelings of abandonment.
Wheelie Boy's demise - desirable to small ursines though it might be - will not change matters.
I sympathize with the bear, really I do. That is why I have welcomed her over to my side - her young lady is hardly ever in the apartment nowadays, and small bears are apt to get mighty lonely. Distressed, even. She needs company, and a sympathetic ear. It is a pleasure to give her sanctuary, and help her deal with her small ursine anger over recent developments.
But I cope with things differently.
An adult has to approach issues in a mature fashion.
Unlike the Teddy Bear, I am a sober realist, and am moving on.
Meaning that I'm gloomily hiding out at bars and the office, interrupted by snack-visits to Chinatown eateries, long walks with a pipe, and a stinking attitude - oh wait, that's the pipe also.
Not precisely anywhere near young ladies, most of the time. Well, other than the bars, that is. But women who go to bars hardly appeal to me.
Pleasant enough to chat with, not really people you would want to know better.
In any case, not likely to sympathize with a Teddy Bear lurking in my bed.
Nor, for that matter, would she (the aforementioned TB) approve of them.
At times she has a mouth on her, and she's likely to curse them in Cantonese.
Very blunt and expressive Cantonese.
She's rather stubborn.
The senior roomie really would like to eliminate 'Wheelie Boy'. A charming and delightful conceit.
I wouldn't mind dumping him off the end of the pier myself, but that isn't the kind of thing that would be attractive to a prospective sweet young thing.
Homicide is not a love potion.
Come to think of it, most women don't approve of murder.
It's an inexplicable fact - they will look askance.
I don't need any more askance looking.
So the Teddy Bear will just have to do it on her own, and not rely on me.
I sure ain't gonna whack the shmoe.
The past cannot be redeemed.
This Toad is moving on.
Now, if only I can convince some sweet young thing that I'm completely sane, stable, and in all ways both deliciously risky and utterly safe, things will be perfect.
Perhaps I should offer her some bubble gum vodka?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
KNOWING WHEN TO SPEAK
Over the years I have learned that there are some things you don't say to a woman.
Common-sense remarks can change in mid-air to a lit stick of dynamite or flying poo, and it is wise to be aware of the possibility of miraculous transformation of your innocuous words. No, there's no logical explanation.
It's one of life's mysteries.
Things that seem perfectly logical to a man may make little sense to the opposite gender.
This morning I remarked to my room-mate and former significant other that she spent an inordinate amount of time getting ready for work, what with tromping to the hallway mirror to check her appearance, then going back into her room to put on a different pair of slacks, try another blouse, a brooch instead of a pin, a clasp instead of a necklace, other shoes......
She looked fine. Stop worrying about it. Perfectly all right, trust me.
To me the whole process is very simple.
Pants. Clean shirt. Run comb through hair. Done.
I rely on my sparkling personality to be sufficient extra adornment.
MIRROR, MIRROR...
Often I'm still happily ensconced in the bathroom with my second cup of coffee, having a cigar, reading, and listening to the flock of wild parrots screeching overhead, or the caws of the neighborhood crows - entirely at peace with the world - when I hear her frantically clipping up to the mirror..... pausing a few seconds, swearing under her breath, returning down the hall.....
I can tell from the footsteps that she is angry and frustrated.
She then does it again, repeatedly. It's VERY disturbing.
I never know when to holler out "have a great day, be well!"
She may be right near the front door, but I can't judge when she's going to open it and leave.
It's a period of mounting tension.
Clean shirt. Pants. Same shoes as yesterday. Simple.
Try it.
You won't need any jewelry either, just be your own sparkling self.
Just like me.
So this morning I said so.
Before I even got to work, there's was a very long message on my voicemail telling me that she had taken a quick poll among her coworkers. Apparently ten minutes is NOT excessive, but in fact WAY under par.
All of them took far longer. Most opined that forty minutes or so was normal.
Why, it was completely unreasonable NOT to take all possible precautions and pro-active measures before leaving the house, and feeling confident about one's appearance was something every woman should do. It was, in fact, a sensible and altogether reasonable practice, more people (especially men) should do it.
Her coworkers were adamant that anything less than half an hour was just not enough!
Okay. That's them.
But I still think it's a waste of time.
As long as they're wearing clothes, the world is a better place.
You are different.
But that's probably one more thing I should add to the list of things not to say.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Common-sense remarks can change in mid-air to a lit stick of dynamite or flying poo, and it is wise to be aware of the possibility of miraculous transformation of your innocuous words. No, there's no logical explanation.
It's one of life's mysteries.
Things that seem perfectly logical to a man may make little sense to the opposite gender.
This morning I remarked to my room-mate and former significant other that she spent an inordinate amount of time getting ready for work, what with tromping to the hallway mirror to check her appearance, then going back into her room to put on a different pair of slacks, try another blouse, a brooch instead of a pin, a clasp instead of a necklace, other shoes......
She looked fine. Stop worrying about it. Perfectly all right, trust me.
To me the whole process is very simple.
Pants. Clean shirt. Run comb through hair. Done.
I rely on my sparkling personality to be sufficient extra adornment.
MIRROR, MIRROR...
Often I'm still happily ensconced in the bathroom with my second cup of coffee, having a cigar, reading, and listening to the flock of wild parrots screeching overhead, or the caws of the neighborhood crows - entirely at peace with the world - when I hear her frantically clipping up to the mirror..... pausing a few seconds, swearing under her breath, returning down the hall.....
I can tell from the footsteps that she is angry and frustrated.
She then does it again, repeatedly. It's VERY disturbing.
I never know when to holler out "have a great day, be well!"
She may be right near the front door, but I can't judge when she's going to open it and leave.
It's a period of mounting tension.
Clean shirt. Pants. Same shoes as yesterday. Simple.
Try it.
You won't need any jewelry either, just be your own sparkling self.
Just like me.
So this morning I said so.
Before I even got to work, there's was a very long message on my voicemail telling me that she had taken a quick poll among her coworkers. Apparently ten minutes is NOT excessive, but in fact WAY under par.
All of them took far longer. Most opined that forty minutes or so was normal.
Why, it was completely unreasonable NOT to take all possible precautions and pro-active measures before leaving the house, and feeling confident about one's appearance was something every woman should do. It was, in fact, a sensible and altogether reasonable practice, more people (especially men) should do it.
Her coworkers were adamant that anything less than half an hour was just not enough!
Okay. That's them.
But I still think it's a waste of time.
As long as they're wearing clothes, the world is a better place.
You are different.
But that's probably one more thing I should add to the list of things not to say.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, June 12, 2011
AN ACCOMODATING MAN
When I left the house shortly after mid-day, my roommate was zonked out on my bed, curled up with a teddy bear, a degenerate monkey, a froad (i.e. "weird green flippery guy"), several other beasts, and a book about the sexual shenanigans of British royalty.
Her back aches, and it's close to her monthly period. She's in discomfort, and kinda tired.
According to my calculations, the menses are actually due to hit this Wednesday, although they have been one or two days early in the past.
I'm figuring her current cycle at 27 days.
Yes, I'm keeping count - I'm a Dutchman, and I'm neurotic.
Even though it's none of my business, it's good to know these things.
[She's my roommate, but we used to be more involved with each other. That ended quite a while ago. Regarding the cycle-count, I may have mentioned that I'm both neurotic and Dutch - those two characteristics overlap considerably, though not all Dutch are neurotic, and many neurotic people are not actually Dutch. They just as well could be.]
CROWD OF ROWDY FURBALLS
My bed is the larger one in the apartment. It accommodates many more stuffed animals than hers. Though she, being a very slender person, does not cramp them for space when they're over on her side.
Some of them are hers - kitten, teddy bear, froad (the 'WGFG'), cat, small bovine, orange beaver, vampire guinea pig, she-sheep, pervert serpent, and most of the frogs - some are mine: monkey, sock-sheep, big black spider, Steiff raccoon, and all the degenerates.
Plus three dysfunctional teddy bears, a psychopathic hamster, and the odd penguin or two.
It is interesting that she seeks out my critters for comfort.
Partly, I think, because they are rowdy and argumentative.
Anarchists with criminal tendencies, admittedly, but very social.
How I ended up with all the rioters I do not know.
For I myself am a very gentle man.
Quiet and soft-spoken.
Even-keeled.
Calm.
You may stop laughing now. You've made your point. Really, it's rather rude to burst into loud peals of sneering hilarity while someone else is talking.
Actually, I don't know how comforting the WGFG can be at present. Lately he's been venomously speculating about eating the monkey's brain, though he fears it will taste all nanky, and there probably isn't very much there.
But the monkey deserves to die, and he, the FROAD, is determined that the demise will be soon, cruel, and bloody. Stupid monkey, chop you!
The monkey has been making fun of the froad's gas problem, you see.
It's all been very hurtful, and both of them are upset.
Loudly and operatically so.
Given all that going on, in my bed nota bene, you will grasp why I came to the office today.
It's just too darn noisy at home. What with her sleeping and all.
The office is nice and peaceful. I daydream at my desk.
I do the same when the apartment is empty.
I often spend all weekend here.
On the way down I stopped by a bakery in Chinatown and picked up some snackies.
I doubt that she'll have the energy to cook herself something to eat.
A cup of hot milk-tea and a pastry should be just the ticket.
At the very least it will give her the energy to return to her own room and apologize to the other roomies for being gone all day.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Her back aches, and it's close to her monthly period. She's in discomfort, and kinda tired.
According to my calculations, the menses are actually due to hit this Wednesday, although they have been one or two days early in the past.
I'm figuring her current cycle at 27 days.
Yes, I'm keeping count - I'm a Dutchman, and I'm neurotic.
Even though it's none of my business, it's good to know these things.
[She's my roommate, but we used to be more involved with each other. That ended quite a while ago. Regarding the cycle-count, I may have mentioned that I'm both neurotic and Dutch - those two characteristics overlap considerably, though not all Dutch are neurotic, and many neurotic people are not actually Dutch. They just as well could be.]
CROWD OF ROWDY FURBALLS
My bed is the larger one in the apartment. It accommodates many more stuffed animals than hers. Though she, being a very slender person, does not cramp them for space when they're over on her side.
Some of them are hers - kitten, teddy bear, froad (the 'WGFG'), cat, small bovine, orange beaver, vampire guinea pig, she-sheep, pervert serpent, and most of the frogs - some are mine: monkey, sock-sheep, big black spider, Steiff raccoon, and all the degenerates.
Plus three dysfunctional teddy bears, a psychopathic hamster, and the odd penguin or two.
It is interesting that she seeks out my critters for comfort.
Partly, I think, because they are rowdy and argumentative.
Anarchists with criminal tendencies, admittedly, but very social.
How I ended up with all the rioters I do not know.
For I myself am a very gentle man.
Quiet and soft-spoken.
Even-keeled.
Calm.
You may stop laughing now. You've made your point. Really, it's rather rude to burst into loud peals of sneering hilarity while someone else is talking.
Actually, I don't know how comforting the WGFG can be at present. Lately he's been venomously speculating about eating the monkey's brain, though he fears it will taste all nanky, and there probably isn't very much there.
But the monkey deserves to die, and he, the FROAD, is determined that the demise will be soon, cruel, and bloody. Stupid monkey, chop you!
The monkey has been making fun of the froad's gas problem, you see.
It's all been very hurtful, and both of them are upset.
Loudly and operatically so.
Given all that going on, in my bed nota bene, you will grasp why I came to the office today.
It's just too darn noisy at home. What with her sleeping and all.
The office is nice and peaceful. I daydream at my desk.
I do the same when the apartment is empty.
I often spend all weekend here.
On the way down I stopped by a bakery in Chinatown and picked up some snackies.
I doubt that she'll have the energy to cook herself something to eat.
A cup of hot milk-tea and a pastry should be just the ticket.
At the very least it will give her the energy to return to her own room and apologize to the other roomies for being gone all day.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, June 03, 2011
IMAGINING DINNER FOR TWO
The other day Savage Kitten and I discussed the events of the last year.
Of course it didn't solve anything, and given that both of us typify Asperger Syndrome, we didn't communicate very well.
Evenso, I think we are a bit more understanding of each other.
Yes, we'll remain friends. And no, it is very unlikely that we'll ever get back together as a couple.
Just in case you were wondering.
The more than twenty years that we were together were very good years.
But the past cannot be recaptured.
Nor, actually, is there any reason to even try.
Of course, all of this does rather pose a problem, as for over two decades she was the fundament of my life. Now there's just a huge hole.
I've recovered from the imbalance of the first few months, and have largely gotten my bearings back.
Still, there's this giant hole........
Can't really avoid the hole.
It's rather big.
As holes go.
EMPTINESS REMEMBERED
A week ago a friend and I were lamenting that good old-fashioned pornography - full colour photos on thick stock - was a thing of the past. The delightfully smutty magazines that young lads once hid so creatively, so that their parents might never discover their disturbing predilections, have long since been replaced by the internet. Such a pity, it's a loss of a fine tradition. Teenagers today will never understand what their fathers, grandfathers, great grandfather..... plus uncles, family friends, plumbers, parish priests..... once so deliciously indulged in.
My, this IS fine paper! Feel the texture, the weight, the thickness! It's art!
I mentioned that the loss might not be so great, even though it happened while I wasn't paying attention.
I have a filthy mind.
My inner-eye can paint a better image than the finest printing.
My finger tips will feel the textures that I fantasize.
Need I even mention that my nose and ears are also involved?
I can picture a nice young lady sitting opposite me, fully clothed.
Bright lively eyes, and rosy lips slightly parted.
There is a plate of steamed fish, and some stir-fried mustard green with little dried oysters, and a platter of black-bean shrimp, on the table between us.
Her necklace sparkles in the candle-light, languorously she lifts her chopsticks.........
Well of course she lifts chopsticks! What did you expect? Did you really think I would have an interest, perverse or otherwise, in a woman who didn't know how to eat?
The rest of the world can make all the googly eyes it wants at damned big-titted beer-swilling hamburger-fressing types, I am not interested.
Tits, beer, and hamburgers do not make someone desirable.
Being good dinner table company does.
For some reason all of my fantasies nowadays turn into detailed recipes.
It's very strange, I'm not eating more than usual.
In fact, I've actually lost weight.
Haven't been so trim in years.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Of course it didn't solve anything, and given that both of us typify Asperger Syndrome, we didn't communicate very well.
Evenso, I think we are a bit more understanding of each other.
Yes, we'll remain friends. And no, it is very unlikely that we'll ever get back together as a couple.
Just in case you were wondering.
The more than twenty years that we were together were very good years.
But the past cannot be recaptured.
Nor, actually, is there any reason to even try.
Of course, all of this does rather pose a problem, as for over two decades she was the fundament of my life. Now there's just a huge hole.
I've recovered from the imbalance of the first few months, and have largely gotten my bearings back.
Still, there's this giant hole........
Can't really avoid the hole.
It's rather big.
As holes go.
EMPTINESS REMEMBERED
A week ago a friend and I were lamenting that good old-fashioned pornography - full colour photos on thick stock - was a thing of the past. The delightfully smutty magazines that young lads once hid so creatively, so that their parents might never discover their disturbing predilections, have long since been replaced by the internet. Such a pity, it's a loss of a fine tradition. Teenagers today will never understand what their fathers, grandfathers, great grandfather..... plus uncles, family friends, plumbers, parish priests..... once so deliciously indulged in.
My, this IS fine paper! Feel the texture, the weight, the thickness! It's art!
I mentioned that the loss might not be so great, even though it happened while I wasn't paying attention.
I have a filthy mind.
My inner-eye can paint a better image than the finest printing.
My finger tips will feel the textures that I fantasize.
Need I even mention that my nose and ears are also involved?
I can picture a nice young lady sitting opposite me, fully clothed.
Bright lively eyes, and rosy lips slightly parted.
There is a plate of steamed fish, and some stir-fried mustard green with little dried oysters, and a platter of black-bean shrimp, on the table between us.
Her necklace sparkles in the candle-light, languorously she lifts her chopsticks.........
Well of course she lifts chopsticks! What did you expect? Did you really think I would have an interest, perverse or otherwise, in a woman who didn't know how to eat?
The rest of the world can make all the googly eyes it wants at damned big-titted beer-swilling hamburger-fressing types, I am not interested.
Tits, beer, and hamburgers do not make someone desirable.
Being good dinner table company does.
For some reason all of my fantasies nowadays turn into detailed recipes.
It's very strange, I'm not eating more than usual.
In fact, I've actually lost weight.
Haven't been so trim in years.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
TIME TO SCREETCH
Last year Savage Kitten broke up with me.
If you've visited this blog before, you know that.
Since then I've come to some rather pithy understandings about myself.
The primary realization being that I don't really like women.
No, this is not a reaction to Savage Kitten, nor by any means a comment about the person I have known for more than two decades.
Not an admission of gaiety, misogyny, or tantrumic bitterness.
It's more a reaction to what is out there and allegedly on the prowl for single men.
I don't like high-heeled shoes. Yes, they do marvelous things to the rump and the line of the leg - especially when the woman in the high-heels is wearing very little else - but watching somebody trying to walk in those things is excruciating. Given what they do to the back, and the unstable dangerous gait that they cause, the only people who should be wearing them are big-ass drag queens on Polk Street.
I don't like shopping. Accompanying a women on the hunt for something "cute" or "darling" to wear - and the attendant dreariness of "just looking" - is pure torture. Savage Kitten never subjected me to that, and I see no reason why anybody else should. Perhaps it's just stultifying boredom, or intense irritation. But more likely it's the mind-numbing elevator music, lack of intelligent conversation, and the fact that both my caffeine content and bloodsugar level will plummet to heretofore unheard-of depths.
Mind if I kill that stupid Philippina with the shrill voice at the next rack?
I don't like purses. The perfect purse is a monotone backpack or a briefcase.
All you need is something for your wallet, your lipstick, pads or tampons, a hair brush, and the cigarettes which your parents don't know you smoke. If the item in which you transport those things has heft or corners so that you can clobber someone, so much the better.
If it says Gucci or Louis Vuitton, you've probably sold your soul to the devil.
I don't like weepy films or artistic meaningful movies. It's a love story, he's sick and dying, she's going blind, they're living in a garret in Paris? Excellent! Show me his agonizing death NOW, don't waste my time with heartfelt epiphanies, and do a nice quick funeral for both of them, shot in sepia. Can we get out of this place that stinks of stale popcorn, please?
I seriously need to hurl.
The English Patient was one of the most unintentionally funny movies of all time.
I do not like Hello Kitty, nor do I understand the appeal of the troll feline and her kind. However, I do find Hello Kitty urinal targets, Hello Kitty vibrators, Hello Kitty chainsaws, Hello Kitty zombie tattoos, and Hello Kitty coffins for the deservedly deceased fans to be quite amusing. Not that I would want any of that crap around the pad.
If I were a gun nut, I would have Hello Kitty targets for shooting practice.
Large targets - for very large caliber projectiles.
So yes, I cannot say that I really like women.
I would be delighted to find someone who was not a woman.
An individual of the female gender, with quiet good taste, an occasional affection for skirts, who used lipstick once in a while, did not expose her cleavage, and did not insist on femmy-poo crap.
Comfortable being herself. Did her own clothes shopping. Wouldn't squeal over puppies or kittens. Not given to long passive-aggressive fits. Calm. Rational. With a sense of humour.
Someone who would appreciate a box of chocolates or a bunch of tulips at unpredictable moments.
Dinner together, followed by a quiet evening.
No weird food hang-ups. No yoga.
Not someone who texts, but someone who reads and writes.
Not a woman, but a real person.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
If you've visited this blog before, you know that.
Since then I've come to some rather pithy understandings about myself.
The primary realization being that I don't really like women.
No, this is not a reaction to Savage Kitten, nor by any means a comment about the person I have known for more than two decades.
Not an admission of gaiety, misogyny, or tantrumic bitterness.
It's more a reaction to what is out there and allegedly on the prowl for single men.
I don't like high-heeled shoes. Yes, they do marvelous things to the rump and the line of the leg - especially when the woman in the high-heels is wearing very little else - but watching somebody trying to walk in those things is excruciating. Given what they do to the back, and the unstable dangerous gait that they cause, the only people who should be wearing them are big-ass drag queens on Polk Street.
I don't like shopping. Accompanying a women on the hunt for something "cute" or "darling" to wear - and the attendant dreariness of "just looking" - is pure torture. Savage Kitten never subjected me to that, and I see no reason why anybody else should. Perhaps it's just stultifying boredom, or intense irritation. But more likely it's the mind-numbing elevator music, lack of intelligent conversation, and the fact that both my caffeine content and bloodsugar level will plummet to heretofore unheard-of depths.
Mind if I kill that stupid Philippina with the shrill voice at the next rack?
I don't like purses. The perfect purse is a monotone backpack or a briefcase.
All you need is something for your wallet, your lipstick, pads or tampons, a hair brush, and the cigarettes which your parents don't know you smoke. If the item in which you transport those things has heft or corners so that you can clobber someone, so much the better.
If it says Gucci or Louis Vuitton, you've probably sold your soul to the devil.
I don't like weepy films or artistic meaningful movies. It's a love story, he's sick and dying, she's going blind, they're living in a garret in Paris? Excellent! Show me his agonizing death NOW, don't waste my time with heartfelt epiphanies, and do a nice quick funeral for both of them, shot in sepia. Can we get out of this place that stinks of stale popcorn, please?
I seriously need to hurl.
The English Patient was one of the most unintentionally funny movies of all time.
I do not like Hello Kitty, nor do I understand the appeal of the troll feline and her kind. However, I do find Hello Kitty urinal targets, Hello Kitty vibrators, Hello Kitty chainsaws, Hello Kitty zombie tattoos, and Hello Kitty coffins for the deservedly deceased fans to be quite amusing. Not that I would want any of that crap around the pad.
If I were a gun nut, I would have Hello Kitty targets for shooting practice.
Large targets - for very large caliber projectiles.
So yes, I cannot say that I really like women.
I would be delighted to find someone who was not a woman.
An individual of the female gender, with quiet good taste, an occasional affection for skirts, who used lipstick once in a while, did not expose her cleavage, and did not insist on femmy-poo crap.
Comfortable being herself. Did her own clothes shopping. Wouldn't squeal over puppies or kittens. Not given to long passive-aggressive fits. Calm. Rational. With a sense of humour.
Someone who would appreciate a box of chocolates or a bunch of tulips at unpredictable moments.
Dinner together, followed by a quiet evening.
No weird food hang-ups. No yoga.
Not someone who texts, but someone who reads and writes.
Not a woman, but a real person.
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, May 23, 2011
MUST KILL, MUST KILL!
Due to the continued mental instability of the Head Roomie (ms. Bruin), the small she-sheep with the little pink bows (Angus) has been appointed acting Head-Roomie. She will be assisted by the magenta cat (Beanie) and the big black hand-puppet spider (Pierpont).
The senior teddy bear is no longer up to the task.
I'm sure you understand.
Not quite a mental break-down, but definitely too much stress.
Ms. Bruin is very upset that the other human person in the apartment spends so much time with her boy friend.
And I can understand that - what is this world coming to when a woman devotes more attention to some werewolf in a wheelchair than to her oldest companion in the world, that being the teddy bear she's known for longer than anyone else?
For the past several months, ms. Bruin mutters "must kill, must kill" every time his name is mentioned. This obsession with pushing Wheelie Boy off the end of a pier reached crisis proportions over the weekend. She didn't chastise the Froad at all when he hatched a plot to whack one of the other fuzzballs, just snapped "what EVER" and went back to her murderous muttering.
Very disconcerting, I assure you.
Just can't have chaos among the critters. It ain't right.
Something had to be done.
Not all of the little anarchists are happy with the decision to appoint Angus (that being the she-sheep) acting head roomie. Several insisted that they were in fact more suitable for the task, being older, and clearly so much wiser. That last assertion is contradicted by their behaviour heretofore. Thieves, rabble-rousers, rioters, and incendiarists!
They'll just have to suck it up. Change is in the air. This is a good thing.
And no, we will NOT hold a vote on this. We're not running a democracy.
I have authorized Angus to clout dissenters fiercely if they start anything.
Things will be peaceful, or else!
AFTER THOUGHT
The plan to lure Wheelie Boy to the end of pier by laying down a trail of Swedish Princess cake has been shelved temporarily. Logistical issues.
The intended victim would require a plate with one of those little pastry doilies on it for each slice, as well as a clean fork for each serving, and a serviette.
And he probably can't eat more than a few pieces before being full, unfortunately.
"Ooh, what's this? A slice of Swedish Princess Cake! Joy! Ooh, what's that? Another slice of Swedish Princess Cake! Yay! Oooh, and is that ANOTHER slice of Swedish Princess Cake over there? Oh happy day!"
So even though I offered to bankroll ms. Bruin's purchasing of the entire supply of Swedish Princess Cake from that nice bakery in North Beach (up to four hundred dollars worth), he wouldn't follow the lure all the way to the end of the pier. Ms. Bruin will have to think of something else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The senior teddy bear is no longer up to the task.
I'm sure you understand.
Not quite a mental break-down, but definitely too much stress.
Ms. Bruin is very upset that the other human person in the apartment spends so much time with her boy friend.
And I can understand that - what is this world coming to when a woman devotes more attention to some werewolf in a wheelchair than to her oldest companion in the world, that being the teddy bear she's known for longer than anyone else?
For the past several months, ms. Bruin mutters "must kill, must kill" every time his name is mentioned. This obsession with pushing Wheelie Boy off the end of a pier reached crisis proportions over the weekend. She didn't chastise the Froad at all when he hatched a plot to whack one of the other fuzzballs, just snapped "what EVER" and went back to her murderous muttering.
Very disconcerting, I assure you.
Just can't have chaos among the critters. It ain't right.
Something had to be done.
Not all of the little anarchists are happy with the decision to appoint Angus (that being the she-sheep) acting head roomie. Several insisted that they were in fact more suitable for the task, being older, and clearly so much wiser. That last assertion is contradicted by their behaviour heretofore. Thieves, rabble-rousers, rioters, and incendiarists!
They'll just have to suck it up. Change is in the air. This is a good thing.
And no, we will NOT hold a vote on this. We're not running a democracy.
I have authorized Angus to clout dissenters fiercely if they start anything.
Things will be peaceful, or else!
AFTER THOUGHT
The plan to lure Wheelie Boy to the end of pier by laying down a trail of Swedish Princess cake has been shelved temporarily. Logistical issues.
The intended victim would require a plate with one of those little pastry doilies on it for each slice, as well as a clean fork for each serving, and a serviette.
And he probably can't eat more than a few pieces before being full, unfortunately.
"Ooh, what's this? A slice of Swedish Princess Cake! Joy! Ooh, what's that? Another slice of Swedish Princess Cake! Yay! Oooh, and is that ANOTHER slice of Swedish Princess Cake over there? Oh happy day!"
So even though I offered to bankroll ms. Bruin's purchasing of the entire supply of Swedish Princess Cake from that nice bakery in North Beach (up to four hundred dollars worth), he wouldn't follow the lure all the way to the end of the pier. Ms. Bruin will have to think of something else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, April 22, 2011
ALL THESE RIOTOUS BEASTS!
This morning, when I returned from the shower, I found a most disconcerting sight: the Froad was perched on my clothes holding my wallet, and the one-legged monkey (Urasmus) was on my bed with a handbag.
No, I do NOT know why a fuzzy green critter needs money or wants to steal my credit card!
The more disturbing thing is the monkey's 'gender issue'. He's been that way since that accident in the product development department that cost him his leg. Or maybe it was the evil elf in Marketing, who slashed his throat, covered him in ketchup, and stuffed him inside a pumpkin during the Halloween carving contest in 2003.
Urasmus (the monkey) has, mercifully, forgotten all about those nasty events.
But he's been confused ever since.
Like most of the roomies on my side of the apartment he's not entirely sane. He's 'otherwise realitied'.
Savage Kitten's roomies are not like that.
The only roomie on her side who is even mildly nuts is Ms. Bruin, the senior Teddy Bear - who is very upset that my apartment mate spends so much time with Wheelie Boy (Savage Kitten's love interest), and keeps muttering "kill, kill', whenever his name is mentioned.
But that brings up an issue.
What if, hypothetically, a nice young lady comes over to visit me?
Time is not a problem, as Savage Kitten is absent for several hours at a stretch. Plenty of scope for a bit of ..... tea.
The problem is "animalistic" in nature.
How are the roomies going to handle it?
THE HYPOTHETICAL NICE YOUNG LADY
I have this nightmare vision of the Froad patting her down, trying to find her wallet. Or the monkey offering to give her a beehive haircut.
The Lord only knows what Totoro and the blue frog would do.
I suppose I could put them in Savage Kitten's room for the duration.
Except that when all the roomies are together, a riot ensues. One of them will say something outrageous, insults will fly, and there will be thumping and yells.
You can see that this precisely would NOT be conducive to romance.
No one can really put their heart into playing touchie-feelie when there's noise from the other room; it's too distracting.
Maybe I could bribe Angus (the she-sheep with the pretty pink bows) and Ms. Bruin to keep the critters quiet, perhaps tell them a story. That might work.
Alternatively, I could put my roomies on the chair in the teevee room, with a movie on the telly.
The problem with that scheme is that the young lady and I would then have to spend all our time in my bedroom.
Oh wait..... That's sort of the point.
It's still entirely hypothetical, though.
Haven't met anyone with just the right personality. She'll have to get along with my rowdy roommates. The Froad is a hamsaplo, the monkey pushes the envelope, the sock-sheep wants all the attention and admiration he can get. There's also the lizard......
The Raccoon is just nuts - he thinks he's German, and he's a panty thief.
I haven't yet mentioned the violent hamsters or the weasel, nor even the three dysfunctional Teddy Bears that also live on my side.
As you can plainly see, a suitable young lady would have to be exceptional.
Even if all we plan to do is quietly sit together, reading and drinking tea.
A kind and tolerant person with an affinity for little troublemakers.
Someone with imagination, who gets along with rambunctious hairballs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, I do NOT know why a fuzzy green critter needs money or wants to steal my credit card!
The more disturbing thing is the monkey's 'gender issue'. He's been that way since that accident in the product development department that cost him his leg. Or maybe it was the evil elf in Marketing, who slashed his throat, covered him in ketchup, and stuffed him inside a pumpkin during the Halloween carving contest in 2003.
Urasmus (the monkey) has, mercifully, forgotten all about those nasty events.
But he's been confused ever since.
Like most of the roomies on my side of the apartment he's not entirely sane. He's 'otherwise realitied'.
Savage Kitten's roomies are not like that.
The only roomie on her side who is even mildly nuts is Ms. Bruin, the senior Teddy Bear - who is very upset that my apartment mate spends so much time with Wheelie Boy (Savage Kitten's love interest), and keeps muttering "kill, kill', whenever his name is mentioned.
But that brings up an issue.
What if, hypothetically, a nice young lady comes over to visit me?
Time is not a problem, as Savage Kitten is absent for several hours at a stretch. Plenty of scope for a bit of ..... tea.
The problem is "animalistic" in nature.
How are the roomies going to handle it?
THE HYPOTHETICAL NICE YOUNG LADY
I have this nightmare vision of the Froad patting her down, trying to find her wallet. Or the monkey offering to give her a beehive haircut.
The Lord only knows what Totoro and the blue frog would do.
I suppose I could put them in Savage Kitten's room for the duration.
Except that when all the roomies are together, a riot ensues. One of them will say something outrageous, insults will fly, and there will be thumping and yells.
You can see that this precisely would NOT be conducive to romance.
No one can really put their heart into playing touchie-feelie when there's noise from the other room; it's too distracting.
Maybe I could bribe Angus (the she-sheep with the pretty pink bows) and Ms. Bruin to keep the critters quiet, perhaps tell them a story. That might work.
Alternatively, I could put my roomies on the chair in the teevee room, with a movie on the telly.
The problem with that scheme is that the young lady and I would then have to spend all our time in my bedroom.
Oh wait..... That's sort of the point.
It's still entirely hypothetical, though.
Haven't met anyone with just the right personality. She'll have to get along with my rowdy roommates. The Froad is a hamsaplo, the monkey pushes the envelope, the sock-sheep wants all the attention and admiration he can get. There's also the lizard......
The Raccoon is just nuts - he thinks he's German, and he's a panty thief.
I haven't yet mentioned the violent hamsters or the weasel, nor even the three dysfunctional Teddy Bears that also live on my side.
As you can plainly see, a suitable young lady would have to be exceptional.
Even if all we plan to do is quietly sit together, reading and drinking tea.
A kind and tolerant person with an affinity for little troublemakers.
Someone with imagination, who gets along with rambunctious hairballs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, April 15, 2011
SMALL GANGSTERS
The other day, my roommate Savage Kitten was gloating over the white hairs she had pulled out.
White hairs will show up a bit more on her head than on mine, and like many women she is far more concerned about her appearance than she has any reason to be.
She looks delicious, always has.
But she attends to details - stray whites get yanked.
Which is why we have any number of tweezers in the house.
We do not share a bed, but we share the tweezers.
We have tweezers in common.
Several of them.
We share a number of things: the television room, the kitchen - pots, pans, plates, cutlery, and implements - the hallway, and the bathroom.
We do NOT share the roomies. That being the small stuffed entities such as the sock-sheep, the violent piglet, the one-legged monkey, the froad, and the chief roomie (ms. Bruin), otherwise known as 'The Senior Teddybear'.
She only has one teddy bear, I have three.
The first one I found one night sitting all by himself on a bench at a bus-stop for a line that stopped running after seven in the evening. So I took him home.
The second one appeared one day and never left.
The third bear was patiently waiting outside a local drugstore after closing time.
Long after closing time.
All my teddy bears have 'issues'.
Actually, most of my little furry roommates are problematic.
I can't figure it out.
Why are hers sane, and mine unbalanced?
And how come the nuts are in my room?
So yes, we do NOT share the roomies. She has hers, I have mine.
She channels for ALL of them, they speak with her voices.
The other day one of them jabbed me with the tweezers.
Then scurried off giggling.
I suppose I should've worried when I saw the little miscreant with the tweezers.
None of the little sh*tdisturbers have white hair.
Riotous behaviour - it keeps them young.
They're thugs, I tell you.
Short fuzzy thugs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
White hairs will show up a bit more on her head than on mine, and like many women she is far more concerned about her appearance than she has any reason to be.
She looks delicious, always has.
But she attends to details - stray whites get yanked.
Which is why we have any number of tweezers in the house.
We do not share a bed, but we share the tweezers.
We have tweezers in common.
Several of them.
We share a number of things: the television room, the kitchen - pots, pans, plates, cutlery, and implements - the hallway, and the bathroom.
We do NOT share the roomies. That being the small stuffed entities such as the sock-sheep, the violent piglet, the one-legged monkey, the froad, and the chief roomie (ms. Bruin), otherwise known as 'The Senior Teddybear'.
She only has one teddy bear, I have three.
The first one I found one night sitting all by himself on a bench at a bus-stop for a line that stopped running after seven in the evening. So I took him home.
The second one appeared one day and never left.
The third bear was patiently waiting outside a local drugstore after closing time.
Long after closing time.
All my teddy bears have 'issues'.
Actually, most of my little furry roommates are problematic.
I can't figure it out.
Why are hers sane, and mine unbalanced?
And how come the nuts are in my room?
So yes, we do NOT share the roomies. She has hers, I have mine.
She channels for ALL of them, they speak with her voices.
The other day one of them jabbed me with the tweezers.
Then scurried off giggling.
I suppose I should've worried when I saw the little miscreant with the tweezers.
None of the little sh*tdisturbers have white hair.
Riotous behaviour - it keeps them young.
They're thugs, I tell you.
Short fuzzy thugs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, April 11, 2011
PROTECT YOUR CREDIT CARD
You cannot always get what you want. Life isn't fair, nor is it realistic to expect that it be so.
This blogger is at all times a realist. That's why I've told the monkey that no, he cannot have a banana plantation, and I have no intention whatsoever of allowing him to fondle my "plasticky thing" (credit card). I know what he'd do with it. The moment I'm out of sight, he'll be using it to purchase a plot of land with bananas, from an outfit that normally sells parcels of submerged swamp in Florida. He also wants to run a wig shop.
See, the monkey has absolutely NO business sense.
He isn't a realist.
I am.
You can't always get what you want.
But you CAN get dinner.
Savage Kitten and I are going out to an Indian restaurant this evening.
She suggested it, which means that I will have to fight her for the honour of paying the bill. She's rather stubborn that way.
But she's the one that needs cheering up (boyfriend issues), so I'm determined to win this fight.
I'm paying. Me. No, I will not rochambeau you for it. Hush, small woman.
You insisted on paying last time.
My turn.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This blogger is at all times a realist. That's why I've told the monkey that no, he cannot have a banana plantation, and I have no intention whatsoever of allowing him to fondle my "plasticky thing" (credit card). I know what he'd do with it. The moment I'm out of sight, he'll be using it to purchase a plot of land with bananas, from an outfit that normally sells parcels of submerged swamp in Florida. He also wants to run a wig shop.
See, the monkey has absolutely NO business sense.
He isn't a realist.
I am.
You can't always get what you want.
But you CAN get dinner.
Savage Kitten and I are going out to an Indian restaurant this evening.
She suggested it, which means that I will have to fight her for the honour of paying the bill. She's rather stubborn that way.
But she's the one that needs cheering up (boyfriend issues), so I'm determined to win this fight.
I'm paying. Me. No, I will not rochambeau you for it. Hush, small woman.
You insisted on paying last time.
My turn.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO EAT?
Saturday and Sunday are a problem nowadays. And this coming weekend promises to be a doozy in that regard. Savage Kitten is preparing for a family event - the yearly grave cleaning - and will therefore be out of the house most of the time.
[The cleaning of the tombs is a traditional Chinese practice known as Ching Ming (清明節) observed on the fifteenth day after the Spring Equinox. Chinese-Americans customarily do it on the nearest weekend before or after that date.]
Last weekend she assembled the dry provisions, this Saturday the wet things are on the list. Sunday morning will be when she gets the boiled chicken and the buns, before driving off to meet her siblings in Colma.
After which she'll certainly spend whatever hours are left of the weekend with her sweetie (aka "Wheelie Boy").
Yes, I am quite as tired of hearing about her new boy friend that pissant as you are. Sorry.
EMPTY LAIR SYNDROME
Point is, the house will be empty.
I'll probably flee to the office for the duration.
By one or two o'clock on both days I'll start feeling ravenous and wondering whether I should head into Chinatown for a bite - it will have been several hours since 'coffee-shave-shower' by that time.
Around four o'clock I may give in and do exactly that.
Teatime, breakfast, lunch, dinner - it's 'tinksher'!
Noodles, pastries, or dumplings.
Good, but not really a meal.
A meal, pretty much by definition, is shared. Rice and various dishes.
The closest a restaurant comes to that paradigm for the single diner is a riceplate. And there are TWO things wrong with that! The first is that ordering a riceplate advertises your inability to share - either because you're the only one at the table, OR something far worse.
The second thing is that riceplates are boring.
A meal consists of RICE, various SHARED dishes, and ANOTHER PERSON.
Anything else is a snack, or mere fuel.
Imagine, if you will, that I sit down and order something approaching a meal by myself. In addition to the rice, that would be a meat dish and one or two vegetable dishes. For instance steamed fatty pork with ginger, stirfried yau choi, and perhaps some mussels or oysters or a fish.
You can see the problem, can't you? There's only one of me.
That's WAY too much food for one person. And one person by himself will not have a great appetite to begin with.
A meal like that would also highlight the solitude, both for the person eating and for the restaurant staff.
That isn't the kind of 'attention' I want from myself or from others!
In addition to having no one to talk with while waiting for the 'feast'.
"Mmmmm, these shrimp are delicious, aren't they?
Go on, have some more of the gingered eel. Oooh, have you TASTED this pork and bittermelon? It's deeeelicious! Yummy, squid with black beans, miuchoi with garlic and oyster sauce, and dry shrimp mushroom taufoo egg custard!"
There are no real restaurant dishes that come in minute portions.
Outside of pretentious overpriced nouvelle places, that is - I rather doubt that such a place would even know what to do with real food anyway.
When I cook at home, two or three dishes seems like an awful lot of work for just one person. I usually just slop something together, if I bother to cook in the first place.
Fish doesn't even come in a single portion size.
There have been some weekends when I didn't bother to eat until I got home, and then simply had some cookies and tea in front of the television before going to bed. Which is the often what I do on weekdays also.
But at least during the week the lunch places in the financial district are open.
DINNER IS A METAPHOR FOR..... DINNER!
Now, I know what you're going to say.
Either you're going to suggest that I have an unhealthy obsession with eating Chinese food, or I should simply grab someone, anyone, to go out to eat with.
To the first statement I will offer that the problem is far worse when it comes to other styles of food - one order of rice pilaf and one order of murgh makhni equals one major serving of acid indigestion - and to the second I will object that merely sharing a table is NOT at all the same as sharing a meal. If each person is merely eating their own stuff, you might as well not eat together at all.
Very anglo Protestant people act like that - and can you say 'maladjusted' and 'dysfunctional'?
Kinda like carnivores snapping the moment another wolf comes near.
Mine, do you hear me, mine! My dead moose!
G'wan, git yer own! Snarl!
It is an intense pleasure to yield the better piece or the tastier morsel to someone else.
Here, please have some more of this. I'm so glad you like it.
Pass me your bowl, I'll scoop you some more rice.
The words 'yes please' and 'oh thank you' embody positive social interaction.
Contrariwise the phrase "I ain't touching that, it's WEIRD" is no fun at all.
Food tastes better shared.
That's just the way it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[The cleaning of the tombs is a traditional Chinese practice known as Ching Ming (清明節) observed on the fifteenth day after the Spring Equinox. Chinese-Americans customarily do it on the nearest weekend before or after that date.]
Last weekend she assembled the dry provisions, this Saturday the wet things are on the list. Sunday morning will be when she gets the boiled chicken and the buns, before driving off to meet her siblings in Colma.
After which she'll certainly spend whatever hours are left of the weekend with her sweetie (aka "Wheelie Boy").
Yes, I am quite as tired of hearing about her new boy friend that pissant as you are. Sorry.
EMPTY LAIR SYNDROME
Point is, the house will be empty.
I'll probably flee to the office for the duration.
By one or two o'clock on both days I'll start feeling ravenous and wondering whether I should head into Chinatown for a bite - it will have been several hours since 'coffee-shave-shower' by that time.
Around four o'clock I may give in and do exactly that.
Teatime, breakfast, lunch, dinner - it's 'tinksher'!
Noodles, pastries, or dumplings.
Good, but not really a meal.
A meal, pretty much by definition, is shared. Rice and various dishes.
The closest a restaurant comes to that paradigm for the single diner is a riceplate. And there are TWO things wrong with that! The first is that ordering a riceplate advertises your inability to share - either because you're the only one at the table, OR something far worse.
The second thing is that riceplates are boring.
A meal consists of RICE, various SHARED dishes, and ANOTHER PERSON.
Anything else is a snack, or mere fuel.
Imagine, if you will, that I sit down and order something approaching a meal by myself. In addition to the rice, that would be a meat dish and one or two vegetable dishes. For instance steamed fatty pork with ginger, stirfried yau choi, and perhaps some mussels or oysters or a fish.
You can see the problem, can't you? There's only one of me.
That's WAY too much food for one person. And one person by himself will not have a great appetite to begin with.
A meal like that would also highlight the solitude, both for the person eating and for the restaurant staff.
That isn't the kind of 'attention' I want from myself or from others!
In addition to having no one to talk with while waiting for the 'feast'.
"Mmmmm, these shrimp are delicious, aren't they?
Go on, have some more of the gingered eel. Oooh, have you TASTED this pork and bittermelon? It's deeeelicious! Yummy, squid with black beans, miuchoi with garlic and oyster sauce, and dry shrimp mushroom taufoo egg custard!"
There are no real restaurant dishes that come in minute portions.
Outside of pretentious overpriced nouvelle places, that is - I rather doubt that such a place would even know what to do with real food anyway.
When I cook at home, two or three dishes seems like an awful lot of work for just one person. I usually just slop something together, if I bother to cook in the first place.
Fish doesn't even come in a single portion size.
There have been some weekends when I didn't bother to eat until I got home, and then simply had some cookies and tea in front of the television before going to bed. Which is the often what I do on weekdays also.
But at least during the week the lunch places in the financial district are open.
DINNER IS A METAPHOR FOR..... DINNER!
Now, I know what you're going to say.
Either you're going to suggest that I have an unhealthy obsession with eating Chinese food, or I should simply grab someone, anyone, to go out to eat with.
To the first statement I will offer that the problem is far worse when it comes to other styles of food - one order of rice pilaf and one order of murgh makhni equals one major serving of acid indigestion - and to the second I will object that merely sharing a table is NOT at all the same as sharing a meal. If each person is merely eating their own stuff, you might as well not eat together at all.
Very anglo Protestant people act like that - and can you say 'maladjusted' and 'dysfunctional'?
Kinda like carnivores snapping the moment another wolf comes near.
Mine, do you hear me, mine! My dead moose!
G'wan, git yer own! Snarl!
It is an intense pleasure to yield the better piece or the tastier morsel to someone else.
Here, please have some more of this. I'm so glad you like it.
Pass me your bowl, I'll scoop you some more rice.
The words 'yes please' and 'oh thank you' embody positive social interaction.
Contrariwise the phrase "I ain't touching that, it's WEIRD" is no fun at all.
Food tastes better shared.
That's just the way it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 27, 2011
FEELINGS, NOTHING MORE THAN FEELINGS.....
At times Savage Kitten notices that I am despondent or downcast, despite my best attempts to hide it from her. She then concernedly asks if there's anything she can do to help. There is, but then again, there isn't.
[Well yes, honeypie - kindly roll the clock back to BEFORE you met him. Earlier than that even, BEFORE you decided our relationship was no longer viable. Before you became convinced that affairs that have lasted twenty years are like old clothes too worn to keep. Roll the clock back to when I was happy and oblivious to any cracks on the horizon.]
She often says that I should learn to let people do things for me. It's hard for my friends if I turn down help and comfort. I should just reach out.
[My dear, what help and comfort can I ask of you at this point? I do not want you back, as you gave up on our relationship and have moved on - should I wish to make you unhappy? Could I really ask that you toss your own happiness just because I'm being a gloomy old toad? Do I really want to dwell in a perpetual past? It cannot be like it ever was again.]
It's true. I've always had a hard time showing vulnerability.
In Holland, showing vulnerability usually meant glee and gloating from the little cannibalistic savages with which I attended school. So also in the hot-house sneeringly superior "intellectual" atmosphere of Berkeley.
And among the young and savage hipster crowds of San Francisco, vulnerability simply indicates suckertude. Today's young adults are rather like piranhas in that regard. I'm fairly self-reliant in any case.
I stave off depression by thinking of tea, tobacco, and sex a lot.
Tea and tobacco are fair constants - nothing depressing there.
Thoughts about sex, however, are both bittersweet, and emotionally trying.
And completely hypothetical, dammit.
Despite tea and tobacco being 'emotionally' safe, they do present certain problems. Too much tea, and I'll stay up all night hacking up hairballs and munching plate after plate of buttered toast. Consequently ending up even more emotionally unstable - exhaustion has that effect - and showing up at work pretty much stir crazy and gibberant. With digestive problems to boot.
[Really, you can't have more than three cups of strong black tea with milk and sugar without at least one plate of buttered toast. And maybe a smidge of thick peel Oxford marmalade. It compliments both Assam and Ceylon. And that requires another bowl of something heavy on the smoky Syrian, while you make another pot of tea.]
As you can guess, that is NOT an optimum condition. The ideal would be a correct balance between tea, tobacco, and sex. Moderation in all things. Heck, some emotional support, and just affectionate hugging from someone who was mine and mine alone would be nice.
While I smoke, swill more tea, and prepare the umpteenth plate of hot buttered toast, I often day-dream about a hypothetical young woman with a pleated skirt, a physics text book, small comfy shoes, broad-range interests, a vocabulary to match, and laughing eyes.
A young lady with warm cheeks.
Toast. Something intense about toast. And molten butter.
Oh yes. Baby, baby, baby.
More tobacco.
Latakia.
Tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Well yes, honeypie - kindly roll the clock back to BEFORE you met him. Earlier than that even, BEFORE you decided our relationship was no longer viable. Before you became convinced that affairs that have lasted twenty years are like old clothes too worn to keep. Roll the clock back to when I was happy and oblivious to any cracks on the horizon.]
She often says that I should learn to let people do things for me. It's hard for my friends if I turn down help and comfort. I should just reach out.
[My dear, what help and comfort can I ask of you at this point? I do not want you back, as you gave up on our relationship and have moved on - should I wish to make you unhappy? Could I really ask that you toss your own happiness just because I'm being a gloomy old toad? Do I really want to dwell in a perpetual past? It cannot be like it ever was again.]
It's true. I've always had a hard time showing vulnerability.
In Holland, showing vulnerability usually meant glee and gloating from the little cannibalistic savages with which I attended school. So also in the hot-house sneeringly superior "intellectual" atmosphere of Berkeley.
And among the young and savage hipster crowds of San Francisco, vulnerability simply indicates suckertude. Today's young adults are rather like piranhas in that regard. I'm fairly self-reliant in any case.
I stave off depression by thinking of tea, tobacco, and sex a lot.
Tea and tobacco are fair constants - nothing depressing there.
Thoughts about sex, however, are both bittersweet, and emotionally trying.
And completely hypothetical, dammit.
Despite tea and tobacco being 'emotionally' safe, they do present certain problems. Too much tea, and I'll stay up all night hacking up hairballs and munching plate after plate of buttered toast. Consequently ending up even more emotionally unstable - exhaustion has that effect - and showing up at work pretty much stir crazy and gibberant. With digestive problems to boot.
[Really, you can't have more than three cups of strong black tea with milk and sugar without at least one plate of buttered toast. And maybe a smidge of thick peel Oxford marmalade. It compliments both Assam and Ceylon. And that requires another bowl of something heavy on the smoky Syrian, while you make another pot of tea.]
As you can guess, that is NOT an optimum condition. The ideal would be a correct balance between tea, tobacco, and sex. Moderation in all things. Heck, some emotional support, and just affectionate hugging from someone who was mine and mine alone would be nice.
While I smoke, swill more tea, and prepare the umpteenth plate of hot buttered toast, I often day-dream about a hypothetical young woman with a pleated skirt, a physics text book, small comfy shoes, broad-range interests, a vocabulary to match, and laughing eyes.
A young lady with warm cheeks.
Toast. Something intense about toast. And molten butter.
Oh yes. Baby, baby, baby.
More tobacco.
Latakia.
Tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 26, 2011
GRUMPY OLD TOAD SEEKS WOMAN WHO LIKES FLIES
Most men going through a mid-life crisis acquire a sports car and a trophy wife. Either that, or like Hollywood celebrities they do something particularly stupid and tacky. So by that definition, I am neither most men nor going through a mid-life crisis.
Boruch Hashem.
There are, however, a few things that I would seek to change. For one thing, my social life. There isn’t anything really wrong with my social life, other than that it basically doesn’t exist. It wasn’t that extensive to begin with, it’s gone now. My calendar is wide open, my evenings are free, and my weekends are entirely empty.
Every weekend for a number of years I would head into the Eastbay for conversation and coffee. After a few hours of that I would return to San Francisco and take Savage Kitten out to dinner at an Indian restaurant.
Then I found out that many people were there only for the free coffee, so I stopped going. I still gladly associate with the “rational fringe” (Rabbit Mom, Betelnuts, Snack, Bridge-playing Toireh Leyner, and a blogging woman whose last name sounds like a mythological beast).
But there is no reason to go to the East-Bay anymore.
At least not frequently. And I really dislike Oakland.
Savage Kitten broke off our relationship in mid-summer last year. Consequently I no longer go to an Indian Restaurant on Saturday night, and now almost never have dinner with another person at any other time either.
About the only thing that has stayed fairly constant is visiting a local bar for a cocktail in the evening. Which, if you think about it, is a piss-poor excuse for a social life. It’s neither conversationally fertile, nor conducive towards any intimacies or real friendships.
Sort of the generic Scotch-buy of human contact.
Obviously, my sex life has also changed - it no longer exists at all.
In any way, shape, or form.
And I live in San Francisco.
I used to really enjoy the weekend. Coffee, snacks, Indian Food, Savage Kitten. Tea, cuddling, dinner together, and snackies.
Now, the only good thing about the weekend is that I can catch up on sleep.
I spend several hours by myself at the office.
There isn’t anything else.
I’m glad when Monday rolls around.
HELLO, ANY OF YOU NICE YOUNG LADIES READING THIS LATE AT NIGHT WHILE YOU’RE TAKING A BREAK FROM WRITING THAT RESEARCH PAPER, WANT TO GO OUT SOMETIME TO A RESTAURANT FOR A QUIET STRESS-FREE DINNER, JUST THE TWO OF US, I’LL GET YOU HOME AT A DECENT HOUR? HELLO?
I’M CLEAN AND NEAT, I KNOW HOW TO ACT LIKE A GENTLEMAN, I CAN AFFORD A TAXI, AND I DON’T HAVE ANY DISTRACTING TATTOOS OR EMBARASSING NERVOUS TICS. I SHAVE EVERY DAY, TRIM THE BEARD REGULARLY, BRUSH MY HAIR, AND KNOW HOW TO USE A KNIFE AND FORK, HELLOOOOOO?!?
ANIMAL PROTEIN, SATURATED FATS, SALTY THINGS. SEAFOOD!
Why did I even put that up there?
Well....... It works in movies?
Perhaps on the off-chance that it might succeed. Maybe there actually is a nice young thing reading my blog, charmed or intrigued by my quirkiness or interesting character traits. Not particularly likely, quite doubtful even.
Nor really a statistical probability either.
Realistically speaking the thinnest of likelihoods, but, like the odds of winning the lottery, you don’t stand any chance if you don’t play. And by shouting out the invitation above, no matter how misguided and desperate the attempt, it feels like the possibilities have already increased exponentially.
In any case, the chances of finding someone with whom I can get along are probably slightly greater among the readers of this blog than among the general population. That they are here at all shows that we have some interests in common.
I just hope it isn’t some of the more disturbing things I’ve written about.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Boruch Hashem.
There are, however, a few things that I would seek to change. For one thing, my social life. There isn’t anything really wrong with my social life, other than that it basically doesn’t exist. It wasn’t that extensive to begin with, it’s gone now. My calendar is wide open, my evenings are free, and my weekends are entirely empty.
Every weekend for a number of years I would head into the Eastbay for conversation and coffee. After a few hours of that I would return to San Francisco and take Savage Kitten out to dinner at an Indian restaurant.
Then I found out that many people were there only for the free coffee, so I stopped going. I still gladly associate with the “rational fringe” (Rabbit Mom, Betelnuts, Snack, Bridge-playing Toireh Leyner, and a blogging woman whose last name sounds like a mythological beast).
But there is no reason to go to the East-Bay anymore.
At least not frequently. And I really dislike Oakland.
Savage Kitten broke off our relationship in mid-summer last year. Consequently I no longer go to an Indian Restaurant on Saturday night, and now almost never have dinner with another person at any other time either.
About the only thing that has stayed fairly constant is visiting a local bar for a cocktail in the evening. Which, if you think about it, is a piss-poor excuse for a social life. It’s neither conversationally fertile, nor conducive towards any intimacies or real friendships.
Sort of the generic Scotch-buy of human contact.
Obviously, my sex life has also changed - it no longer exists at all.
In any way, shape, or form.
And I live in San Francisco.
I used to really enjoy the weekend. Coffee, snacks, Indian Food, Savage Kitten. Tea, cuddling, dinner together, and snackies.
Now, the only good thing about the weekend is that I can catch up on sleep.
I spend several hours by myself at the office.
There isn’t anything else.
I’m glad when Monday rolls around.
HELLO, ANY OF YOU NICE YOUNG LADIES READING THIS LATE AT NIGHT WHILE YOU’RE TAKING A BREAK FROM WRITING THAT RESEARCH PAPER, WANT TO GO OUT SOMETIME TO A RESTAURANT FOR A QUIET STRESS-FREE DINNER, JUST THE TWO OF US, I’LL GET YOU HOME AT A DECENT HOUR? HELLO?
I’M CLEAN AND NEAT, I KNOW HOW TO ACT LIKE A GENTLEMAN, I CAN AFFORD A TAXI, AND I DON’T HAVE ANY DISTRACTING TATTOOS OR EMBARASSING NERVOUS TICS. I SHAVE EVERY DAY, TRIM THE BEARD REGULARLY, BRUSH MY HAIR, AND KNOW HOW TO USE A KNIFE AND FORK, HELLOOOOOO?!?
ANIMAL PROTEIN, SATURATED FATS, SALTY THINGS. SEAFOOD!
Why did I even put that up there?
Well....... It works in movies?
Perhaps on the off-chance that it might succeed. Maybe there actually is a nice young thing reading my blog, charmed or intrigued by my quirkiness or interesting character traits. Not particularly likely, quite doubtful even.
Nor really a statistical probability either.
Realistically speaking the thinnest of likelihoods, but, like the odds of winning the lottery, you don’t stand any chance if you don’t play. And by shouting out the invitation above, no matter how misguided and desperate the attempt, it feels like the possibilities have already increased exponentially.
In any case, the chances of finding someone with whom I can get along are probably slightly greater among the readers of this blog than among the general population. That they are here at all shows that we have some interests in common.
I just hope it isn’t some of the more disturbing things I’ve written about.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
IT AIN'T EASY BEING GREEN
Over the past few weeks the changes in the relationship between my roommate (my former love-interest) and myself have become much clearer. And I've realized something which is somewhat disturbing.
I'm far better at being an older brother than I ever thought possible.
I never knew that about myself.
You see, for the past fortnight she's been in a state of high emotion.
Anger at her boy-friend (variously describable as either 'Wheelie Boy' or 'That over-sexed Russian Jew'), plus despair, agony, exultation, girlish joy, and the warm happy glow of "He's so CUUUUUTE".
This bubbly teenage enthusiasm is something I have never seen in her before.
Perhaps during the two decades she and I were lovers it was barely above the shadow of a whisper.
So from one perspective, breaking up has been liberating.
Now, as merely a roommate and friend, I am probably better able to notice things. A certain emotional distance improves perspective. My voyeuristic side is getting quite an earful.
During all this excitement I am providing her with patient consideration, plus cups of tea when necessary. Nice hot tea.
Precisely like an older sibling would.
"It ain't easy being green"
[------Kermit the Frog]
For many years I was as stable as I could be, to such an extent that I am now more comfortable NOT voicing my own feelings, nor entirely at ease when others volunteer theirs. It is a protective skill. She was dealing with a labile family situation, and digesting the emotional scars that her upbringing bequeathed her. So my staying away from operatic forms of self-expression seemed like the best thing - the idea being to ensure an island of calm and sanity.
[Sanity is of course a relative term. Some people, including her, would probably not describe me and my environs as, strictly speaking, sane. Or even arguably normal. Opinions may validly differ, though mine is probably the right one. ]
Kermit the Frog never had to endure so much drama as there has been at 'Chez Toad' recently.
But I never-the-less have more respect for that little green dude now than ever before.
If I look like I'm flapping my flippery arms frantically, there are very good reasons.
The star performers in the show are being "themselves".
Expressively so.
And that, you will understand, will stress out any amphibian.
Especially one who must act 'mature', and 'nurturing'.
[Mature and nurturing? Some people would be mighty surprised at this self-description. It's a matter of opinion. Just remember that I'm growing into the role of rational frog, and as with all new things, observers may not recognize what they see at first.]
The more real-life starts to resemble the Muppet Show, the more I realize that Kermit as the one voice of reason among all the cast members was truly a great man. Great animal. Frog. Green person. Amphibian American.
How he managed to maintain his equanimity is beyond me.
It sure ain't easy being green.
This frog needs a soothing spot of tea himself.
==========================================================================
NOTE: As always, anyone who wants to send me a soft girlish 'ribbit' is more than welcome to do so:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence, and I'll gladly share a nice cup of Oolong.
==========================================================================
I'm far better at being an older brother than I ever thought possible.
I never knew that about myself.
You see, for the past fortnight she's been in a state of high emotion.
Anger at her boy-friend (variously describable as either 'Wheelie Boy' or 'That over-sexed Russian Jew'), plus despair, agony, exultation, girlish joy, and the warm happy glow of "He's so CUUUUUTE".
This bubbly teenage enthusiasm is something I have never seen in her before.
Perhaps during the two decades she and I were lovers it was barely above the shadow of a whisper.
So from one perspective, breaking up has been liberating.
Now, as merely a roommate and friend, I am probably better able to notice things. A certain emotional distance improves perspective. My voyeuristic side is getting quite an earful.
During all this excitement I am providing her with patient consideration, plus cups of tea when necessary. Nice hot tea.
Precisely like an older sibling would.
"It ain't easy being green"
[------Kermit the Frog]
For many years I was as stable as I could be, to such an extent that I am now more comfortable NOT voicing my own feelings, nor entirely at ease when others volunteer theirs. It is a protective skill. She was dealing with a labile family situation, and digesting the emotional scars that her upbringing bequeathed her. So my staying away from operatic forms of self-expression seemed like the best thing - the idea being to ensure an island of calm and sanity.
[Sanity is of course a relative term. Some people, including her, would probably not describe me and my environs as, strictly speaking, sane. Or even arguably normal. Opinions may validly differ, though mine is probably the right one. ]
Kermit the Frog never had to endure so much drama as there has been at 'Chez Toad' recently.
But I never-the-less have more respect for that little green dude now than ever before.
If I look like I'm flapping my flippery arms frantically, there are very good reasons.
The star performers in the show are being "themselves".
Expressively so.
And that, you will understand, will stress out any amphibian.
Especially one who must act 'mature', and 'nurturing'.
[Mature and nurturing? Some people would be mighty surprised at this self-description. It's a matter of opinion. Just remember that I'm growing into the role of rational frog, and as with all new things, observers may not recognize what they see at first.]
The more real-life starts to resemble the Muppet Show, the more I realize that Kermit as the one voice of reason among all the cast members was truly a great man. Great animal. Frog. Green person. Amphibian American.
How he managed to maintain his equanimity is beyond me.
It sure ain't easy being green.
This frog needs a soothing spot of tea himself.
==========================================================================
NOTE: As always, anyone who wants to send me a soft girlish 'ribbit' is more than welcome to do so:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence, and I'll gladly share a nice cup of Oolong.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 14, 2011
RETURNING TO FAMILIAR STREETS
Saturday I spent nearly the entire day at the office by myself, simply reading and puttering around. The office is where I spend a lot of time now, since Savage Kitten and I broke up. It's not that I hate being in the same apartment as her - far from it - but there is far less at the office to spark regret and moodiness.
There is a lot there to distract me and keep me busy, and I like the quietness.
It's a coping mechanism. It works.
At around six o'clock, not having eating anything all day, I headed over to Chinatown for a snack.
A waitress at a coffee shop remembered me from twenty five years ago, and at a different coffee shop.
平園咖啡店
The Ping Yuen Coffee Shop was a longtime fixture on Jackson Street (昃臣街), about three blocks from where I lived at the time. In those days I always dropped by a coffee shop or bakery after work, to read the newspapers while having a bite.
Ping Yuen was one of the regular places, and they stayed open later. Which meant that I could spend more time reading.
[Newspapers: The San Francisco Chronicle, The Examiner, 星島日報, 國際日報, and of course the 金山時報. That last was strictly local, one of the oldest newspapers on the West-Coast. ]
After coffee I would often go down the street to the Great Star Theatre (大明星戲院) to catch a movie.
去戲院睇電影
The Great Star was where I first saw Chow Yun-fat (周潤發) in The Story of Woo Viet ('Wu-yuet dik gusi': 胡越的故事), The Recruiter ('Liptau': 獵頭) and A Better Tomorrow ('Yinghong pun sei': 英雄本色).
I can't really remember him in the first two movies, but in A better Tomorrow, he made one hell of an impression.
Since then I saw Underground Love ('Dei-haa tsing': 地下情) at the same theatre, as well as City on Fire ('Long fu fong wan': 龍虎風雲). That last one mentioned may very well be the best Chow Yun-fat movie ever made. However it ain't something you want your kids to watch, at least not until they've seen an actual murder or two. City on Fire, together with Tragic Hero ('Yinghong how hon': 英雄好漢), thoroughly epitomize both the Hong Kong crime movie genre as well as the new style of Cantonese cinema that developed during the eighties.
For a quieter and far more all-family acceptable introduction to Chow Yun-fat's work, you might like An Autumn's Tale ('Chau tien dik chongwa': 秋天的童話), in which he plays opposite the stellar Cherie Chung ('Chong Chu-hong': 鍾楚紅) in a gentle romantic story of two people who are rather mismatched.
A lighthearted comedy in which he stars is The Eighth Happiness ('Baat sing bo hey': 八星報喜), and especially charming in its own way is the goofy Diary of a Big Man ('Taai cheung-fu yat-kei': 大丈夫日記), in which he tries to break up with one woman, who takes it as a proposal and accepts, then tries to impart the ghastly news to his other girlfriend, only to end up hitched to both women, neither of whom know about the existence of each other for most of the tale. It's a light-hearted romp about a man who has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle, and is too gentle to be honest with either woman.
I've seen most of the movies Chow Yun-fat has ever made, but I've never seen the television series that first made him famous: The Bund ('Seunghoi tan': 上海灘).
The theme song from that series is, however, indelibly imprinted on my memory ..... 浪奔, 浪流,萬里滔滔江水永不休..... "waves rush, waves flow, for ten thousand miles the river's torrent does not cease", here well sung by Andy Lau ('Lau Tak-wa': 劉德華), who has also been in numerous great movies.
The series-name is sometimes given as 'Shanghai Shoals' - a much better translation of the title.
[Note: theme song to The Bund (上海灘) originally sung by Frances Yip ('Yip Lai-yi': 葉麗儀). Original sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OM8Y0_OnFgg. Concert performance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uBkWv8L0eg Note also that the modernized character version of her name looks virtually meaningless: 叶丽仪. Seriously, can anyone read that?!? Like Chow Yun-fat and Cherrie Chung, Frances Yip is Hakka.]
[Additional note, March 29, 2013: The link embedded under「浪奔, 浪流」had disappeared. In searching for a new link, I ran across this, which is delightfully strange. Hatsune Miku (a Japanese computer voice program) singing the theme song. Not bad.]
Those were good days. The Taai Ming Sing Hey Yuen closed sometime in the early nineties, the Ping Yuen Coffee shop ceased operations at roughly the same time. Jackson Street has changed a bit.
鄉音無改鬢毛衰
It was quite a pleasant surprise running into someone I knew from that long ago. Extremely flattering that she still remembered me, and could actually recognize me.
My hair has greyed a bit since then, but my voice is still the same.
And I'm still, apparently, one heck of a 靚仔.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There is a lot there to distract me and keep me busy, and I like the quietness.
It's a coping mechanism. It works.
At around six o'clock, not having eating anything all day, I headed over to Chinatown for a snack.
A waitress at a coffee shop remembered me from twenty five years ago, and at a different coffee shop.
平園咖啡店
The Ping Yuen Coffee Shop was a longtime fixture on Jackson Street (昃臣街), about three blocks from where I lived at the time. In those days I always dropped by a coffee shop or bakery after work, to read the newspapers while having a bite.
Ping Yuen was one of the regular places, and they stayed open later. Which meant that I could spend more time reading.
[Newspapers: The San Francisco Chronicle, The Examiner, 星島日報, 國際日報, and of course the 金山時報. That last was strictly local, one of the oldest newspapers on the West-Coast. ]
After coffee I would often go down the street to the Great Star Theatre (大明星戲院) to catch a movie.
去戲院睇電影
The Great Star was where I first saw Chow Yun-fat (周潤發) in The Story of Woo Viet ('Wu-yuet dik gusi': 胡越的故事), The Recruiter ('Liptau': 獵頭) and A Better Tomorrow ('Yinghong pun sei': 英雄本色).
I can't really remember him in the first two movies, but in A better Tomorrow, he made one hell of an impression.
Since then I saw Underground Love ('Dei-haa tsing': 地下情) at the same theatre, as well as City on Fire ('Long fu fong wan': 龍虎風雲). That last one mentioned may very well be the best Chow Yun-fat movie ever made. However it ain't something you want your kids to watch, at least not until they've seen an actual murder or two. City on Fire, together with Tragic Hero ('Yinghong how hon': 英雄好漢), thoroughly epitomize both the Hong Kong crime movie genre as well as the new style of Cantonese cinema that developed during the eighties.
For a quieter and far more all-family acceptable introduction to Chow Yun-fat's work, you might like An Autumn's Tale ('Chau tien dik chongwa': 秋天的童話), in which he plays opposite the stellar Cherie Chung ('Chong Chu-hong': 鍾楚紅) in a gentle romantic story of two people who are rather mismatched.
A lighthearted comedy in which he stars is The Eighth Happiness ('Baat sing bo hey': 八星報喜), and especially charming in its own way is the goofy Diary of a Big Man ('Taai cheung-fu yat-kei': 大丈夫日記), in which he tries to break up with one woman, who takes it as a proposal and accepts, then tries to impart the ghastly news to his other girlfriend, only to end up hitched to both women, neither of whom know about the existence of each other for most of the tale. It's a light-hearted romp about a man who has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle, and is too gentle to be honest with either woman.
I've seen most of the movies Chow Yun-fat has ever made, but I've never seen the television series that first made him famous: The Bund ('Seunghoi tan': 上海灘).
The theme song from that series is, however, indelibly imprinted on my memory ..... 浪奔, 浪流,萬里滔滔江水永不休..... "waves rush, waves flow, for ten thousand miles the river's torrent does not cease", here well sung by Andy Lau ('Lau Tak-wa': 劉德華), who has also been in numerous great movies.
The series-name is sometimes given as 'Shanghai Shoals' - a much better translation of the title.
[Note: theme song to The Bund (上海灘) originally sung by Frances Yip ('Yip Lai-yi': 葉麗儀). Original sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OM8Y0_OnFgg. Concert performance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uBkWv8L0eg Note also that the modernized character version of her name looks virtually meaningless: 叶丽仪. Seriously, can anyone read that?!? Like Chow Yun-fat and Cherrie Chung, Frances Yip is Hakka.]
[Additional note, March 29, 2013: The link embedded under「浪奔, 浪流」had disappeared. In searching for a new link, I ran across this, which is delightfully strange. Hatsune Miku (a Japanese computer voice program) singing the theme song. Not bad.]
Those were good days. The Taai Ming Sing Hey Yuen closed sometime in the early nineties, the Ping Yuen Coffee shop ceased operations at roughly the same time. Jackson Street has changed a bit.
鄉音無改鬢毛衰
It was quite a pleasant surprise running into someone I knew from that long ago. Extremely flattering that she still remembered me, and could actually recognize me.
My hair has greyed a bit since then, but my voice is still the same.
And I'm still, apparently, one heck of a 靚仔.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 13, 2011
NIGHT MOORING
I guess it's a question of what I'm really comfortable with.
Your reasons make the most sense to you, the least sense to me.
But it wasn't my choice.
Late at night I occasionally look in at you when you're sleeping. You look so peaceful.
Ms. Bruin the teddy bear, your oldest friend and roommate, has a protective furry arm around you, as if to say "back off, boy, she's safe here".
And you are - I will always want you to have that security.
I enjoy the fact that you are still living with me, even though to a certain (large) extent it cramps my style.
[Purely hypothetical cramping, of course - I haven't found anyone new. Despite my screamingly butch and more than acceptable masculinity, this being San Francisco, I am S. out of L.
Not metrosexual enough, not artistic enough, and just hella not hip enough.]
I know that you still enjoy my company, because the various small critters (one-legged monkey, purple cat, rude little sock-sheep, Steiff Raccoon, et autres) still talk to me on the days when you are at home. Or try to steal my laundry money, while cheerfully insulting each other.
They are rather silent when you are gone.
At some point, there may be another voice or two.
Fuzzy additions to the raucous tribe.
A new voice, new conversations.
It's a possibility.
Even in this town there must be some folks who aren't into scarification, freakazoid clothing choices, punctured skin, carefully cultivated eccentricity, and studiously unique forms of self-expression.
There have just got to be real people, even in San Francisco.
Exceptional by reason of character, rather than by attempt.
In the meantime I will continue to look in on you when you are asleep. You look so innocent lying there........ all the worries of the day erased by repose.
A roommate now. Just a roommate.
Very nice, still. It's a comforting sight.
It says that this place is home.
You're a good friend.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Your reasons make the most sense to you, the least sense to me.
But it wasn't my choice.
Late at night I occasionally look in at you when you're sleeping. You look so peaceful.
Ms. Bruin the teddy bear, your oldest friend and roommate, has a protective furry arm around you, as if to say "back off, boy, she's safe here".
And you are - I will always want you to have that security.
I enjoy the fact that you are still living with me, even though to a certain (large) extent it cramps my style.
[Purely hypothetical cramping, of course - I haven't found anyone new. Despite my screamingly butch and more than acceptable masculinity, this being San Francisco, I am S. out of L.
Not metrosexual enough, not artistic enough, and just hella not hip enough.]
I know that you still enjoy my company, because the various small critters (one-legged monkey, purple cat, rude little sock-sheep, Steiff Raccoon, et autres) still talk to me on the days when you are at home. Or try to steal my laundry money, while cheerfully insulting each other.
They are rather silent when you are gone.
At some point, there may be another voice or two.
Fuzzy additions to the raucous tribe.
A new voice, new conversations.
It's a possibility.
Even in this town there must be some folks who aren't into scarification, freakazoid clothing choices, punctured skin, carefully cultivated eccentricity, and studiously unique forms of self-expression.
There have just got to be real people, even in San Francisco.
Exceptional by reason of character, rather than by attempt.
In the meantime I will continue to look in on you when you are asleep. You look so innocent lying there........ all the worries of the day erased by repose.
A roommate now. Just a roommate.
Very nice, still. It's a comforting sight.
It says that this place is home.
You're a good friend.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
RESISTING MY PETTY BONE
Hard to figure out what to think right now.
Don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
Recently she and her boyfriend have been experiencing severe friction.
The situation between them isn't going well.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I won't go into the whys and wherefores of their issues, as that is a private matter. But of course I'm taking her side. I can't help it.
Even though our relationship is over, I nevertheless want that woman to be happy.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
So I shan't gloat about this turn of events. She's not a happy camper right now, and it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I could've predicted that this would happen. I've never understood why she ended our relationship, but at this point I recognize the process. And I know what bugs her.
I'm still feeling burnt from how she broke up with me, what she said at that time, and the brutal finality of the cut.
So if her thing with him ends, there will be no attempt to pick up where we left off.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I'm not waiting in the wings.
I have too much pride and self-respect, and I have moved on.
It was wonderful while it lasted - but I was not able to read the writing on the wall, and it's completely over now. It has been over for quite a while.
The past cannot be recaptured.
When things end, they end.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
So I am absolutely NOT going to gloat. Not a smile will crack my face. I'll be gentle and supportive, because that's what friends do. She's very dear to me after all these years, and I want to continue knowing her. Gloating isn't right, and would be quite destructive.
I'm attempting to be a decent person about all this.
Gotta keep trying.
I shall not gloat.
Besides, I'm way too tired to gloat anyhow.
She woke up at four this morning, and consequently I woke up shortly thereafter.
Had my morning coffee before it was even light out.
I'm in no condition to gloat.
Betcha the poor girl will be absolutely exhausted by this evening.
I should probably get her some soup.
After she's fallen asleep I will smoke in the teevee room.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
Recently she and her boyfriend have been experiencing severe friction.
The situation between them isn't going well.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I won't go into the whys and wherefores of their issues, as that is a private matter. But of course I'm taking her side. I can't help it.
Even though our relationship is over, I nevertheless want that woman to be happy.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
So I shan't gloat about this turn of events. She's not a happy camper right now, and it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I could've predicted that this would happen. I've never understood why she ended our relationship, but at this point I recognize the process. And I know what bugs her.
I'm still feeling burnt from how she broke up with me, what she said at that time, and the brutal finality of the cut.
So if her thing with him ends, there will be no attempt to pick up where we left off.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I'm not waiting in the wings.
I have too much pride and self-respect, and I have moved on.
It was wonderful while it lasted - but I was not able to read the writing on the wall, and it's completely over now. It has been over for quite a while.
The past cannot be recaptured.
When things end, they end.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
So I am absolutely NOT going to gloat. Not a smile will crack my face. I'll be gentle and supportive, because that's what friends do. She's very dear to me after all these years, and I want to continue knowing her. Gloating isn't right, and would be quite destructive.
I'm attempting to be a decent person about all this.
Gotta keep trying.
I shall not gloat.
Besides, I'm way too tired to gloat anyhow.
She woke up at four this morning, and consequently I woke up shortly thereafter.
Had my morning coffee before it was even light out.
I'm in no condition to gloat.
Betcha the poor girl will be absolutely exhausted by this evening.
I should probably get her some soup.
After she's fallen asleep I will smoke in the teevee room.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 20, 2011
THE FLU
She intended to drive him to whatever event the other Aspergers had planned for today. But it wasn't in the cards.
She had the flu.
This wasn't the normal flu - it was the shivering, aching, I''m about to faint flu.
I had the same flu three months ago.
Getting home on the cable car that day was torturous - the notorious bore was on board, and for almost ten blocks I avoided eye contact, evaded any kind of acknowledgement - lest an antiquated sad-sack failure drench me with details of his miserable existence (prior to the invention of the cable-car, of course).
I've heard him several times - he finds a victim, and tells them about his life - it's always the same shpiel. Where he worked, which celebrities he knew, their amazing peculiarities, my heavens those were the days. Excruciating.
She was dressed to kill. Damn, she was hot hot hot! Yet she looked like hell warmed over. It took energetic persuading to keep her from driving to the Marina. She would have fainted before she even got half-way there, that bad, caused an accident.
Did I ever mention that she is the most stubborn person I know?
We walked back from where she parked the car together. Slow moving, step by step, holding her up and patiently guiding her in the rain.
It's a miracle that she got home.
She's asleep now, boruch Hashem.
I didn't get to the office as I planned. I stayed with her all day. She's in my bed now, sweaty and semi-delirious. She feels cold, so cold, so cold - there are several layers of warm cover on top of her.
She'll recover tomorrow - this flu takes about a two days.....
I spoke with him this evening. He's glad that someone is taking care of her.
Well, she's still my friend. I want that girl to be better.
And really, she should be healthy. Happy.
She'll be fine.
Tomorrow.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
She had the flu.
This wasn't the normal flu - it was the shivering, aching, I''m about to faint flu.
I had the same flu three months ago.
Getting home on the cable car that day was torturous - the notorious bore was on board, and for almost ten blocks I avoided eye contact, evaded any kind of acknowledgement - lest an antiquated sad-sack failure drench me with details of his miserable existence (prior to the invention of the cable-car, of course).
I've heard him several times - he finds a victim, and tells them about his life - it's always the same shpiel. Where he worked, which celebrities he knew, their amazing peculiarities, my heavens those were the days. Excruciating.
She was dressed to kill. Damn, she was hot hot hot! Yet she looked like hell warmed over. It took energetic persuading to keep her from driving to the Marina. She would have fainted before she even got half-way there, that bad, caused an accident.
Did I ever mention that she is the most stubborn person I know?
We walked back from where she parked the car together. Slow moving, step by step, holding her up and patiently guiding her in the rain.
It's a miracle that she got home.
She's asleep now, boruch Hashem.
I didn't get to the office as I planned. I stayed with her all day. She's in my bed now, sweaty and semi-delirious. She feels cold, so cold, so cold - there are several layers of warm cover on top of her.
She'll recover tomorrow - this flu takes about a two days.....
I spoke with him this evening. He's glad that someone is taking care of her.
Well, she's still my friend. I want that girl to be better.
And really, she should be healthy. Happy.
She'll be fine.
Tomorrow.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, February 14, 2011
AT ALL TIMES, THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT IS
A few days ago my roommate and I were discussing a fictional event in a movie about Queen Victoria, when the subject of male behaviour versus female behaviour came up.
It became apparent that we are not entirely on the same page.
She is at times a fiercely raging suffragette.
I am incapable of rejecting rigid conditioning.
This is not the first time we've had this conversation - many years ago she huffily informed me that she could open the door very well on her own thank you, and I cheerily responded that anyone that clever should always go through the door first - just to make sure she doesn't stab me in the back, or cripple me with a well-aimed kick.
Now, after you please.
She also has this odd idea that age counts for more than gender, and that somehow relative status plays some role in appropriate behaviour vis-a-vis the other person.
I disagree.
Gentlemen open doors for females and elderly people. Gentlemen offer their seats to ladies on the bus, even if the woman is considerably younger.
While it would indeed be rather ridiculous to offer one's seat to a spunky teenager, it is never the less courteous and proper to open doors for a female person of any age.
Pregnant people should always be offered a seat. So should parents with young children. So should middle-aged women, crumbly old men, and young girls who are carrying stuff.
It's as simple as that.
Status doesn't really enter into it. It does not matter that women are legally equal, or that they can pull their own weight.
Proper conduct is by no means merely maintaining the pretense that they are the weaker sex.
Rather, it's a question of one's own self-respect, and the continued smooth functioning of society.
Some things are done simply because they must be done.
There is no other choice.
And that, my dear, is why we cover our mouths when we yawn, shave every day of the week, and do not scratch our balls in public.
Now, if only I could persuade the young hoodlums on the bus to stop venting their crotches and sit up straight, life would be perfect.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It became apparent that we are not entirely on the same page.
She is at times a fiercely raging suffragette.
I am incapable of rejecting rigid conditioning.
This is not the first time we've had this conversation - many years ago she huffily informed me that she could open the door very well on her own thank you, and I cheerily responded that anyone that clever should always go through the door first - just to make sure she doesn't stab me in the back, or cripple me with a well-aimed kick.
Now, after you please.
She also has this odd idea that age counts for more than gender, and that somehow relative status plays some role in appropriate behaviour vis-a-vis the other person.
I disagree.
Gentlemen open doors for females and elderly people. Gentlemen offer their seats to ladies on the bus, even if the woman is considerably younger.
While it would indeed be rather ridiculous to offer one's seat to a spunky teenager, it is never the less courteous and proper to open doors for a female person of any age.
Pregnant people should always be offered a seat. So should parents with young children. So should middle-aged women, crumbly old men, and young girls who are carrying stuff.
It's as simple as that.
Status doesn't really enter into it. It does not matter that women are legally equal, or that they can pull their own weight.
Proper conduct is by no means merely maintaining the pretense that they are the weaker sex.
Rather, it's a question of one's own self-respect, and the continued smooth functioning of society.
Some things are done simply because they must be done.
There is no other choice.
And that, my dear, is why we cover our mouths when we yawn, shave every day of the week, and do not scratch our balls in public.
Now, if only I could persuade the young hoodlums on the bus to stop venting their crotches and sit up straight, life would be perfect.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 13, 2011
THE RECLUSE AT THE TOP OF THE BUILDING
As you know I’m spending more time at the office on weekends. Partly because I'm peevish, partly because I'm digesting the recent changes in my life.
Savage Kitten broke off our long-time relationship half a year ago. I've accepted that, and am moving on. But I still haven't fully come to terms with the fact that I am now a single man again.
It isn't the easiest thing to do. I haven't been a free agent in years.
How should I proceed? Women have changed since last I looked.
Aaaack.
It's nice and quiet here. I have a few pipes at my desk, in case I want to go outside for a long smoke break. Tins of tobacco. Tea. Aspirin.
A stuffed armadillo, a life-like plastic lizard, small wooden monkeys, and a cheerfully smiling Totoro-chan. Toys. Magazines. Rubber bands.
Plus books.
My cubicle is a home away from home.
BOOKS IN MY OFFICE LIBRARY
Subversion as Foreign Policy, by Kahin & Kahin.
The Abu Ghraib Investigations, by Public Affairs Reports.
Mahabharata, by Rajagoplachari.
Beyond Belief, by Elaine Pagels.
Book of J, by Harold Bloom and David Rosenberg.
Everyman's Talmud, by Abraham Cohen.
Webster's New Geographical Dictionary.
Complete Guide to Credit and Collection Law, by Winston & Winston.
2002 Supplement, Complete Guide to Credit and Collection Law, by Winston and Winston.
Head Hunting in the Solomon Islands, by Caroline Mytinger.
The Message of the Qur'ān, by Muhammad Asad.
Emes ve Emunah - A Sfas Emes Companion, by Nosson Chayim Leff.
Igrois Pinky - Responsa and Other Scholarly Writings of Rabbi Pinky Schmeckeldtein, SHLITA.
Dictionary of International Trade, by Edward G. Hinkelman.
Rand-McNally Premier World Atlas.
The I-Ching, by Wilhelm / Baynes.
The Roots of English, by Robert Claiborne.Dictionary of Word Origins, by John Aito.
Nederlands Etymologisch Woordenboek, by Jan de Vries.
Chinese Characters - Their origin, etymology, history, classification and signification, by Dr. L. Wieger, S.J.
558 Easy-to-use Chinese/English Dictionary of Words and Phrases, by Edward PH. H. Woo.
Far East New Epoch English-Chinese Dictionary - The Far East Book Company.
English/Chinese Dictionary of Accounting - Wan Li Book Company Ltd.
正草隶篆四体字典 ('jeng chou dai suen sei tai ji-din') - Shanghai Bookstore Press.
That last item requires a little explanation. It's a dictionary of script-styles, with the main emphasis on the lesser-sealscript variations of the characters, which is of primary use to both the philologist and the calligrapher, specifically the seal-carver.
Chinese seals are often highly individualistic, reflecting both the sense of line and balance of the artist as well as the taste and education of the person who commissioned the seal.
To clarify what I'm on about, here is a close up of several entries on page 141 - all characters have the hand radical on the left side.
The modern form of the character is at the top of each cell, intermediate and calligraphic forms in the middle, and the oldest versions at the bottom of the cell, showing the shapes standardized in the era before brushes where used.
At that time the script had moved beyond divinatory markings carved on tortoise shells and cow bones to rounded characters painted onto bamboo slats with a type of felt-tip - a reed with a wick leading to an attached ink reserve. Once the fine-tip brush was invented, certain curves were no longer easy to make, but writing speed was enormously improved. Inevitably more fluid forms of the characters developed, and the two script styles co-existed for several centuries before finally the brush versions became the official standard.
When the Loma Prieta earthquake happened I was working temporary jobs through an agency. Immediately after the quake business dried up somewhat, and making enough money became a struggle. One day a friend whose father is a talented calligrapher asked me to make him two seals.
I was carving them at a coffee shop the next day and five more people requested seals. Over the next year I carved a few hundred chops, mostly for Chinatown customers, although several commissions came from Caucasians and Japanese-Americans.
Here are two seals with which I marked ownership of the above mentioned dictionary:
Early work, but maybe not too bad. Rather like drafting.
Seals are used to sign one's name, to identify a collection of books and paintings, or even to assert authorship, authenticate documents, express a particular mood.
Many people have several seals - correct personal name, literary name, nicknames, studio and book room names, even quotes from favorite texts.
The material is not very expensive, if you don't want chicken blood, longevity mountain, or mutton fat - those stones are much more pricey, and the Japanese and Taiwanese buy the best ones. For daily signature purposes the Japanese use wood or ivory chops, but stone reflects the calligraphic ability of the craftsman much better.
Perhaps I should bring in some stones and carve on weekends.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Savage Kitten broke off our long-time relationship half a year ago. I've accepted that, and am moving on. But I still haven't fully come to terms with the fact that I am now a single man again.
It isn't the easiest thing to do. I haven't been a free agent in years.
How should I proceed? Women have changed since last I looked.
Aaaack.
It's nice and quiet here. I have a few pipes at my desk, in case I want to go outside for a long smoke break. Tins of tobacco. Tea. Aspirin.
A stuffed armadillo, a life-like plastic lizard, small wooden monkeys, and a cheerfully smiling Totoro-chan. Toys. Magazines. Rubber bands.
Plus books.
My cubicle is a home away from home.
BOOKS IN MY OFFICE LIBRARY
Subversion as Foreign Policy, by Kahin & Kahin.
The Abu Ghraib Investigations, by Public Affairs Reports.
Mahabharata, by Rajagoplachari.
Beyond Belief, by Elaine Pagels.
Book of J, by Harold Bloom and David Rosenberg.
Everyman's Talmud, by Abraham Cohen.
Webster's New Geographical Dictionary.
Complete Guide to Credit and Collection Law, by Winston & Winston.
2002 Supplement, Complete Guide to Credit and Collection Law, by Winston and Winston.
Head Hunting in the Solomon Islands, by Caroline Mytinger.
The Message of the Qur'ān, by Muhammad Asad.
Emes ve Emunah - A Sfas Emes Companion, by Nosson Chayim Leff.
Igrois Pinky - Responsa and Other Scholarly Writings of Rabbi Pinky Schmeckeldtein, SHLITA.
Dictionary of International Trade, by Edward G. Hinkelman.
Rand-McNally Premier World Atlas.
The I-Ching, by Wilhelm / Baynes.
The Roots of English, by Robert Claiborne.Dictionary of Word Origins, by John Aito.
Nederlands Etymologisch Woordenboek, by Jan de Vries.
Chinese Characters - Their origin, etymology, history, classification and signification, by Dr. L. Wieger, S.J.
558 Easy-to-use Chinese/English Dictionary of Words and Phrases, by Edward PH. H. Woo.
Far East New Epoch English-Chinese Dictionary - The Far East Book Company.
English/Chinese Dictionary of Accounting - Wan Li Book Company Ltd.
正草隶篆四体字典 ('jeng chou dai suen sei tai ji-din') - Shanghai Bookstore Press.
That last item requires a little explanation. It's a dictionary of script-styles, with the main emphasis on the lesser-sealscript variations of the characters, which is of primary use to both the philologist and the calligrapher, specifically the seal-carver.
Chinese seals are often highly individualistic, reflecting both the sense of line and balance of the artist as well as the taste and education of the person who commissioned the seal.
To clarify what I'm on about, here is a close up of several entries on page 141 - all characters have the hand radical on the left side.
The modern form of the character is at the top of each cell, intermediate and calligraphic forms in the middle, and the oldest versions at the bottom of the cell, showing the shapes standardized in the era before brushes where used.
At that time the script had moved beyond divinatory markings carved on tortoise shells and cow bones to rounded characters painted onto bamboo slats with a type of felt-tip - a reed with a wick leading to an attached ink reserve. Once the fine-tip brush was invented, certain curves were no longer easy to make, but writing speed was enormously improved. Inevitably more fluid forms of the characters developed, and the two script styles co-existed for several centuries before finally the brush versions became the official standard.
When the Loma Prieta earthquake happened I was working temporary jobs through an agency. Immediately after the quake business dried up somewhat, and making enough money became a struggle. One day a friend whose father is a talented calligrapher asked me to make him two seals.
I was carving them at a coffee shop the next day and five more people requested seals. Over the next year I carved a few hundred chops, mostly for Chinatown customers, although several commissions came from Caucasians and Japanese-Americans.
Here are two seals with which I marked ownership of the above mentioned dictionary:
Early work, but maybe not too bad. Rather like drafting.Seals are used to sign one's name, to identify a collection of books and paintings, or even to assert authorship, authenticate documents, express a particular mood.
Many people have several seals - correct personal name, literary name, nicknames, studio and book room names, even quotes from favorite texts.
The material is not very expensive, if you don't want chicken blood, longevity mountain, or mutton fat - those stones are much more pricey, and the Japanese and Taiwanese buy the best ones. For daily signature purposes the Japanese use wood or ivory chops, but stone reflects the calligraphic ability of the craftsman much better.
Perhaps I should bring in some stones and carve on weekends.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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Donald John Trump, in the middle of the night, got up to write: " P eople are sick and tired of having to change their clocks twice a y...
