Directions: klik untuk memberi makan hamster!
From Pet Games - Hamster Games
Hours of simple-minded fun.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
NO HAIR, NO PANTIES
I think I've finally figured out why men and women don't get along. Men are from right here on planet earth, women are from a very strange place.
We're not speaking the same language.
A man will say "I like being with you". What it means is that he likes being with her. Simple, and straightforward.
That's not something a woman will say. To a woman, the phrase "I like being with you" can only mean "I want to get into your panties". And seeing as most men don't have panties, saying it to a man just doesn't compute.
The subcontext of that sentence, or any other sentence expressing good natured pleasure in her company, can in her mind only refer to panties.
Hers, specifically. Contents of. The.
Instead, a women will make some remark about her hair. Or cheerily offer that puce really suits her.
Um.
Okay.
I like being with you, but I have NO clue what you're on about.
In actual fact, I don't really like being with women.
Well, most women.
Most women are stark-raving batshit.
Why do they talk about hair?
If I were a barber, OR a creepy fetishist, the discussion would thrill me.
The percentage of such people among the general population cannot be large enough to encourage that conversational motif.
Not as a social gambit, not as a survival mechanism.
Would it encourage interaction if I said I had panties too?
Not that I do, mind you, but I'm quite willing to go out and buy them if that means we can actually talk.
Cute panties.
I'll even share them.
No boast, but I think I have good taste in panties.
Over the years I've devoted considerable thought to that subject, but unless you bring it up, I shan't mention them.
It will remain my secret.
That's why I say things like "I like being with you". If you didn't mention your hair, or the colour puce, we might move on to other things, like "hey, how about going to get something to eat", or "wanna see a movie?".
Telling me that you're thinking about dying your hair puce, however, is distinctly a non-starter. It doesn't suggest any further exchange.
Really, what am I to follow that with?
Dear reader, if you were a woman, what would you want me to say?
Brilliant suggestions are welcome.
Feedback, please.
Talk to me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
We're not speaking the same language.
A man will say "I like being with you". What it means is that he likes being with her. Simple, and straightforward.
That's not something a woman will say. To a woman, the phrase "I like being with you" can only mean "I want to get into your panties". And seeing as most men don't have panties, saying it to a man just doesn't compute.
The subcontext of that sentence, or any other sentence expressing good natured pleasure in her company, can in her mind only refer to panties.
Hers, specifically. Contents of. The.
Instead, a women will make some remark about her hair. Or cheerily offer that puce really suits her.
Um.
Okay.
I like being with you, but I have NO clue what you're on about.
In actual fact, I don't really like being with women.
Well, most women.
Most women are stark-raving batshit.
Why do they talk about hair?
If I were a barber, OR a creepy fetishist, the discussion would thrill me.
The percentage of such people among the general population cannot be large enough to encourage that conversational motif.
Not as a social gambit, not as a survival mechanism.
Would it encourage interaction if I said I had panties too?
Not that I do, mind you, but I'm quite willing to go out and buy them if that means we can actually talk.
Cute panties.
I'll even share them.
No boast, but I think I have good taste in panties.
Over the years I've devoted considerable thought to that subject, but unless you bring it up, I shan't mention them.
It will remain my secret.
That's why I say things like "I like being with you". If you didn't mention your hair, or the colour puce, we might move on to other things, like "hey, how about going to get something to eat", or "wanna see a movie?".
Telling me that you're thinking about dying your hair puce, however, is distinctly a non-starter. It doesn't suggest any further exchange.
Really, what am I to follow that with?
Dear reader, if you were a woman, what would you want me to say?
Brilliant suggestions are welcome.
Feedback, please.
Talk to me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
REMEMBERING BAMBOO SHOOT IN COCONUT MILK - GINATAAN LABONG
Batangueños are, on the whole, rather proud of their province. And there is much to be fairly chuffed about - coffee, cattle, Christianity.
The coffee is not at all bad.
Their beef can be good.
As for the Christianity....... opinions differ a bit.
And although their version of Tagalog is purer than Manileño Tagalog by far, it's a bit weird hearing 'eh' after everything.
That's rather Canadian, eh.
Locals point out the national dress shirt ('barong Tagalog') is made with pineapple-leaf fibre from their province, where it actually originated, and they boast about their alcoholic beverages. At times they will also speak of the butterfly knife (balisong), which was invented here, and without which no Batangueño feels fully able to go out in public.
"Eat our fish! And labong cooked in gata!"
One thing that they almost never mention is tikwe.
Which is odd, because that, along with coco jam and Tabacalera cigars, made the biggest oral impression on me.
Batangas produces the ingredients for the first two, and along with several other regions grows some of the contents for the last one.
[Tabacalera is a brand of cigars made by La Flor de la Isabela (as are also 'Don Juan Urquijo', '1881', 'Alhambra' and 'Calixto Lopez'). La Flor is the heir of Compania General de la Tabacos de Filipinas, founded in 1881. Most of the best cigar leaf is grown in Isabella in North-East Luzon. The two best known brands are Alhambra and Tabacalera. Both are hand-made products that are easy to like, reminiscent of Java and Sumatra leaf.]
Tikwe: Sticky rice flour, coconut milk, molasses. Mixed gloopy, then slow cooked to a fudge-like consistency, cut, and cooled. Very simple. Depending on the proportions, it can be sticky, waxy and rich, or soft and chewy.
Halfway between biko (Filipino glutinous rice cake made with whole grains) and dudol (Indonesian glutinous rice taffy).
Batangas is one of the main sugar areas of the Philippines, with azucaleras established there centuries ago. Consequently there is a wide range of sweets made locally, many of them variations on the ingredients listed above. Rice flour, coconut milk, molasses.
Coco jam, which is nice on toasted pan de leche, is also made here.
Both tikwe and pan de leche con coco jam are good with Batangas coffee. Not quite the breakfast of champions, but an excellent basis for the first cigar of the day.
Tikwe. Coffee. Cigars. Rain.
I did not spend very much time in Batangas. While it is a beautiful part of the Philippines, with a number of scenic sights and historic places, it can be a bit unsafe. This is where the revolution against the Spanish started, and where the last general to fight the American invaders kept up the struggle (till 1902). Like any area with a colonial cash-crop economy, especially if sugar and tobacco are part of the equation, the province has produced both poverty and rebelliousness.
The NPA are still active in Batangas today; a quarter of a century ago they practically owned the place.
The great estancias and wealthy conventos have long since been broken up, but the underlying inequalities remain.
DAENG TAN GINATAAN LABONG
That is what it is called in Pangasinan. Dried fish, and julienned bamboo shoot cooked in coconut milk. A Tagalog speaker would call it 'daing at ginataan labong'. Same dish.
The combination is easy. For one pound of fresh bamboo shoot (labong), use one and a half to two cups coconut milk. Cut up the shoot, simmer till tender in salted water. Rinse thoroughly, then squeeze out well. Colour some chopped ginger and garlic in hot oil, add the bamboo shoot and sauté briefly. Then pour in the coconut milk, add a small whole dried fish on top for extra flavour. Simmer till the liquid is slightly thickened and the dried fish can be broken apart.
It should still be soupy enough to wet your plate of rice.
To me any dish with coconut milk requires at least a pinch of turmeric and a little hot chili added during the cooking.
But that isn't essential, and Philippinos omit both ingredients.
The chili in any case can be a fresh paste on the side, or sliced into a little bowl of vinegar.
Daeng tan ginataan labong: It's the dinner of champions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The coffee is not at all bad.
Their beef can be good.
As for the Christianity....... opinions differ a bit.
And although their version of Tagalog is purer than Manileño Tagalog by far, it's a bit weird hearing 'eh' after everything.
That's rather Canadian, eh.
Locals point out the national dress shirt ('barong Tagalog') is made with pineapple-leaf fibre from their province, where it actually originated, and they boast about their alcoholic beverages. At times they will also speak of the butterfly knife (balisong), which was invented here, and without which no Batangueño feels fully able to go out in public.
"Eat our fish! And labong cooked in gata!"
One thing that they almost never mention is tikwe.
Which is odd, because that, along with coco jam and Tabacalera cigars, made the biggest oral impression on me.
Batangas produces the ingredients for the first two, and along with several other regions grows some of the contents for the last one.
[Tabacalera is a brand of cigars made by La Flor de la Isabela (as are also 'Don Juan Urquijo', '1881', 'Alhambra' and 'Calixto Lopez'). La Flor is the heir of Compania General de la Tabacos de Filipinas, founded in 1881. Most of the best cigar leaf is grown in Isabella in North-East Luzon. The two best known brands are Alhambra and Tabacalera. Both are hand-made products that are easy to like, reminiscent of Java and Sumatra leaf.]
Tikwe: Sticky rice flour, coconut milk, molasses. Mixed gloopy, then slow cooked to a fudge-like consistency, cut, and cooled. Very simple. Depending on the proportions, it can be sticky, waxy and rich, or soft and chewy.
Halfway between biko (Filipino glutinous rice cake made with whole grains) and dudol (Indonesian glutinous rice taffy).
Batangas is one of the main sugar areas of the Philippines, with azucaleras established there centuries ago. Consequently there is a wide range of sweets made locally, many of them variations on the ingredients listed above. Rice flour, coconut milk, molasses.
Coco jam, which is nice on toasted pan de leche, is also made here.
Both tikwe and pan de leche con coco jam are good with Batangas coffee. Not quite the breakfast of champions, but an excellent basis for the first cigar of the day.
Tikwe. Coffee. Cigars. Rain.
I did not spend very much time in Batangas. While it is a beautiful part of the Philippines, with a number of scenic sights and historic places, it can be a bit unsafe. This is where the revolution against the Spanish started, and where the last general to fight the American invaders kept up the struggle (till 1902). Like any area with a colonial cash-crop economy, especially if sugar and tobacco are part of the equation, the province has produced both poverty and rebelliousness.
The NPA are still active in Batangas today; a quarter of a century ago they practically owned the place.
The great estancias and wealthy conventos have long since been broken up, but the underlying inequalities remain.
DAENG TAN GINATAAN LABONG
That is what it is called in Pangasinan. Dried fish, and julienned bamboo shoot cooked in coconut milk. A Tagalog speaker would call it 'daing at ginataan labong'. Same dish.
The combination is easy. For one pound of fresh bamboo shoot (labong), use one and a half to two cups coconut milk. Cut up the shoot, simmer till tender in salted water. Rinse thoroughly, then squeeze out well. Colour some chopped ginger and garlic in hot oil, add the bamboo shoot and sauté briefly. Then pour in the coconut milk, add a small whole dried fish on top for extra flavour. Simmer till the liquid is slightly thickened and the dried fish can be broken apart.
It should still be soupy enough to wet your plate of rice.
To me any dish with coconut milk requires at least a pinch of turmeric and a little hot chili added during the cooking.
But that isn't essential, and Philippinos omit both ingredients.
The chili in any case can be a fresh paste on the side, or sliced into a little bowl of vinegar.
Daeng tan ginataan labong: It's the dinner of champions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
A LOVELY BUNCH OF COCONUTS
The first time I had macapuno icecream was in the Philippines – it wasn’t made by anyone in San Francisco yet at that time. Imagine a small store in a seaside settlement that was not particularly picturesque or worth visiting, but there was a wharf where the ferry to the next island over docked several times a day, and people who were waiting for the boat easily became bored.
Especially when the boat was late – which was always.
Boredom transformed equals “ravenous”.
Philippinos think of food as entertainment.
In the Philippines, it usually is. Better than a cock fight.
Nothing had better come between a Philippino and his food. Nothing!
The national passion for good things to stick in one’s mouth completely explains the insane traffic in Manila.
Half of the drivers are rushing somewhere to eat, half of them just ate, and now feel absolutely no hurry whatsoever.
The third half are heading towards an illicit affair, but as the chances of positive and negative outcomes for such adventures are equally divided, there is no appreciable skewing of the statistics. In any case, everyone adheres to their own chosen speed, irrespective entirely of everyone else on the road.
Unless they stop suddenly in the middle of the fast-lane when they see a promising dining spot, all hungry again.
NO SMOKE WITHOUT A COOKING FIRE
The 'Mercado Dandy' at the wharf made money hand over fist.
Ice cream. Grilled isda. Fresh mango juice. San Miguel Beer.
Estofado kambing and babui-masisig. Ginger soda na may yelo.
Small hot packets of savoury-sweet press-rice in banana leaf (katupat), fresh from the fire, best with calamansi juice squeezed over so that the flavours explode right onto your tongue as they burn through the roof of your mouth.
About the latter, the proprietor mr. Punsok dryly explained “is called Pilipine Pizza”.
I found out later that he was the ONLY person to call it that.
[The proprietor: Dandy Punsok. An eloquent man. “Do not buy onboard ship – they are highway robbers only”. “My prices very competitive, for a captured audience”. “Everything is cheaper elsewhere, but here IS elsewhere”.
Only later did I find out that his surname was a wordtwist too. It had originally been Poon. Uncle Poon – in Chinese: Pun Sook.]
Mr. Punsok’s older son was back from college, much preferring to roar around the island on his shiny motorcycle rather than staying in Manila with his aunties till next term.
Unlike most Japanese bikes in the Philippines, his was all glittery chrome and stainless steel, very painful on the eyes even from very far away. You could see its venomous glare on the road long before you heard it coming.
The big motorcycle, with its polish and very audible power, was the pride of the neighborhood. He offered several times to show me the sights on the back, which I declined.
Not that I thought he was a dangerous driver (he was - not an issue).
But by taking the car, I could ride with his two sisters. Sweet girlish company, and air-conditioning! Even though I sat in the front seat, and so had an unobstructed view of the scenery – green green rice fields, cool dark palm groves, patches of forest – I cannot remember much about the island.
Perhaps it was the witty commentary from the backseat that distracted me. Yes.
One day we stopped at an eatery in one of the larger barrios in the extended munisipalidad, where the brother was waiting for us, sitting astride his big shiny monster with an American cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. He looked very rakish.
With the exception of the rice, everything there was deep-fried. Little saucers of vinegar with chopped garlic and a few pieces of sliced green chilies to cut the grease.
The two girls ate sparingly, but I was considerably more careless.
Afterwards we drove to a scenic area where there were beautiful rapids and rocks. By that time the first wave of acid-indigestion had taken hold. Consequently the rapids did not thrill me, as they resembled the fierce roiling going on inside, but I smiled brightly and vocally admired them.
Then we went a few miles uphill, to a historic bridge over a gorge – built by the Japanese with slave-labour. It too, was absolutely gorgeous. But I was abdominally distracted, and while I could and did express very keen appreciation, there were other things on my mind.
The road to an old Spanish convent twisted and bumped gently – but it felt like a roller coaster, with my internal maelstrom accentuating every minor little jolt. There were lovely old buildings there, around a quiet garden where the nuns had grown medical herbs. It would have been very nice to have spent more time there – me and my stomach would have liked to have simply sat in the shade of the trees for a long time – but we had to get back before dark.
The driver pulled no punches, and roared down the road back to the seaside at top speed. We made it back in less than an hour, well before nightfall.
Probably the closest I’ve ever come to being motion sick.
Eighty plus miles an hour. One elderly Philippino nascar-uncle, two bright young Cantonesas home from Saint Scholastica in Malate, and a dyspeptic mukang puteh. Ninety nine bottles of beer giddily coming out of four throats.
Chitty chitty bang bang for the last fifteen miles, but only by three people.
The fourth person was somewhat cabbage-hued at that point.
And couldn’t remember the lyrics to that song.
It had been a lovely day out with two very funny girls.
But the best part was the big bucket of macapuno ice-cream I had for dinner.
So very very very soothing.
I could’ve rubbed it all over myself, it was that good.
Felt much better afterwards.
In retrospect, it was one of the very best days ever.
MACAPUNO
Macapuno is the grated jelly-like flesh of a mutant coconut, often used in Philippino sweets and drinks. Somewhat gelatinous, somewhat aromatic, very good.
Philippino agriculturalists have succeeded in creating a strain of coconut which produces primarily such mutants.
Macapuno is available in the United States mostly in the form of strands in syrup.
In northern California, both Marianne’s and Mitchell’s make macapuno icecream. Marianne’s is in Santa Cruz, Mitchell’s is in SF. Both brands are available at Molly Stone’s.
Mitchell’s ALSO makes ube ice cream, in case you were wondering.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Especially when the boat was late – which was always.
Boredom transformed equals “ravenous”.
Philippinos think of food as entertainment.
In the Philippines, it usually is. Better than a cock fight.
Nothing had better come between a Philippino and his food. Nothing!
The national passion for good things to stick in one’s mouth completely explains the insane traffic in Manila.
Half of the drivers are rushing somewhere to eat, half of them just ate, and now feel absolutely no hurry whatsoever.
The third half are heading towards an illicit affair, but as the chances of positive and negative outcomes for such adventures are equally divided, there is no appreciable skewing of the statistics. In any case, everyone adheres to their own chosen speed, irrespective entirely of everyone else on the road.
Unless they stop suddenly in the middle of the fast-lane when they see a promising dining spot, all hungry again.
NO SMOKE WITHOUT A COOKING FIRE
The 'Mercado Dandy' at the wharf made money hand over fist.
Ice cream. Grilled isda. Fresh mango juice. San Miguel Beer.
Estofado kambing and babui-masisig. Ginger soda na may yelo.
Small hot packets of savoury-sweet press-rice in banana leaf (katupat), fresh from the fire, best with calamansi juice squeezed over so that the flavours explode right onto your tongue as they burn through the roof of your mouth.
About the latter, the proprietor mr. Punsok dryly explained “is called Pilipine Pizza”.
I found out later that he was the ONLY person to call it that.
[The proprietor: Dandy Punsok. An eloquent man. “Do not buy onboard ship – they are highway robbers only”. “My prices very competitive, for a captured audience”. “Everything is cheaper elsewhere, but here IS elsewhere”.
Only later did I find out that his surname was a wordtwist too. It had originally been Poon. Uncle Poon – in Chinese: Pun Sook.]
Mr. Punsok’s older son was back from college, much preferring to roar around the island on his shiny motorcycle rather than staying in Manila with his aunties till next term.
Unlike most Japanese bikes in the Philippines, his was all glittery chrome and stainless steel, very painful on the eyes even from very far away. You could see its venomous glare on the road long before you heard it coming.
The big motorcycle, with its polish and very audible power, was the pride of the neighborhood. He offered several times to show me the sights on the back, which I declined.
Not that I thought he was a dangerous driver (he was - not an issue).
But by taking the car, I could ride with his two sisters. Sweet girlish company, and air-conditioning! Even though I sat in the front seat, and so had an unobstructed view of the scenery – green green rice fields, cool dark palm groves, patches of forest – I cannot remember much about the island.
Perhaps it was the witty commentary from the backseat that distracted me. Yes.
One day we stopped at an eatery in one of the larger barrios in the extended munisipalidad, where the brother was waiting for us, sitting astride his big shiny monster with an American cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. He looked very rakish.
With the exception of the rice, everything there was deep-fried. Little saucers of vinegar with chopped garlic and a few pieces of sliced green chilies to cut the grease.
The two girls ate sparingly, but I was considerably more careless.
Afterwards we drove to a scenic area where there were beautiful rapids and rocks. By that time the first wave of acid-indigestion had taken hold. Consequently the rapids did not thrill me, as they resembled the fierce roiling going on inside, but I smiled brightly and vocally admired them.
Then we went a few miles uphill, to a historic bridge over a gorge – built by the Japanese with slave-labour. It too, was absolutely gorgeous. But I was abdominally distracted, and while I could and did express very keen appreciation, there were other things on my mind.
The road to an old Spanish convent twisted and bumped gently – but it felt like a roller coaster, with my internal maelstrom accentuating every minor little jolt. There were lovely old buildings there, around a quiet garden where the nuns had grown medical herbs. It would have been very nice to have spent more time there – me and my stomach would have liked to have simply sat in the shade of the trees for a long time – but we had to get back before dark.
The driver pulled no punches, and roared down the road back to the seaside at top speed. We made it back in less than an hour, well before nightfall.
Probably the closest I’ve ever come to being motion sick.
Eighty plus miles an hour. One elderly Philippino nascar-uncle, two bright young Cantonesas home from Saint Scholastica in Malate, and a dyspeptic mukang puteh. Ninety nine bottles of beer giddily coming out of four throats.
Chitty chitty bang bang for the last fifteen miles, but only by three people.
The fourth person was somewhat cabbage-hued at that point.
And couldn’t remember the lyrics to that song.
It had been a lovely day out with two very funny girls.
But the best part was the big bucket of macapuno ice-cream I had for dinner.
So very very very soothing.
I could’ve rubbed it all over myself, it was that good.
Felt much better afterwards.
In retrospect, it was one of the very best days ever.
MACAPUNO
Macapuno is the grated jelly-like flesh of a mutant coconut, often used in Philippino sweets and drinks. Somewhat gelatinous, somewhat aromatic, very good.
Philippino agriculturalists have succeeded in creating a strain of coconut which produces primarily such mutants.
Macapuno is available in the United States mostly in the form of strands in syrup.
In northern California, both Marianne’s and Mitchell’s make macapuno icecream. Marianne’s is in Santa Cruz, Mitchell’s is in SF. Both brands are available at Molly Stone’s.
Mitchell’s ALSO makes ube ice cream, in case you were wondering.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
DO YOU FEEL SPECIAL?
It was only a matter of time before it cropped up in the English-language news.
For a few days I've seen it mentioned on Chinese web sites, couched in vague terms - along with photos that have faces blacked out or pixilated to protect the guilty couple.
One had to wonder why - they seemed so proud of what they were doing.
QUOTE:
"Cathay Pacific will delay a marketing campaign, after photographs of crew members allegedly engaging in a sexual act were published."
SOURCE:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-14526285
[Cathay Pacific scandal delays international ad campaign]
QUOTE:
Last week, the Hong Kong-based carrier announced that two crew members photographed in "compromising situations" were no longer working for the company.
A number of photographs were recently published online and in Chinese-language newspapers.
END QUOTE.
There is a realistic fear that the marketing campaign might misfire: "meet the team who go the extra mile to make you feel special".
Under present circumstances that tag-line could be misinterpreted.
Even those of us who will not be flying on 國泰航空公司 anytime soon have dirty minds - I speak only for you, because I myself am remarkably high minded - and will scrunch-up our faces if asked to contemplate the possible meaning of that phrase.
"Meet the team who go the extra mile to make you feel special"
I'm always baffled by people who take photographs of their own sexual acts, and then share them with close friends and family members. Surely they must know that once they've so generously spread the images around they have relinquished control.
What strange pride drives such behaviour?
"Look, mom, no hands!"
If one is doing something zesty with another person, perhaps it should be kept somewhat private.
Discreet sex? Good!
Public naughty? Bad!
Dubious pictures? Stupid!
This all seems so logical and easy to understand.
Mind you, it's not that I don't LIKE lascivious images. Like like like!
But there is an immense gap between liking something, and thinking of it as a personal expression of style suitable for emulation.
Delicious (or otherwise) erotic photos are far better left to the experts.
There are good reasons we we're often told "these people are professionals, don't try this at home".
For one thing the lighting is probably better.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For a few days I've seen it mentioned on Chinese web sites, couched in vague terms - along with photos that have faces blacked out or pixilated to protect the guilty couple.
One had to wonder why - they seemed so proud of what they were doing.
QUOTE:
"Cathay Pacific will delay a marketing campaign, after photographs of crew members allegedly engaging in a sexual act were published."
SOURCE:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-14526285
[Cathay Pacific scandal delays international ad campaign]
QUOTE:
Last week, the Hong Kong-based carrier announced that two crew members photographed in "compromising situations" were no longer working for the company.
A number of photographs were recently published online and in Chinese-language newspapers.
END QUOTE.
There is a realistic fear that the marketing campaign might misfire: "meet the team who go the extra mile to make you feel special".
Under present circumstances that tag-line could be misinterpreted.
Even those of us who will not be flying on 國泰航空公司 anytime soon have dirty minds - I speak only for you, because I myself am remarkably high minded - and will scrunch-up our faces if asked to contemplate the possible meaning of that phrase.
"Meet the team who go the extra mile to make you feel special"
I'm always baffled by people who take photographs of their own sexual acts, and then share them with close friends and family members. Surely they must know that once they've so generously spread the images around they have relinquished control.
What strange pride drives such behaviour?
"Look, mom, no hands!"
If one is doing something zesty with another person, perhaps it should be kept somewhat private.
Discreet sex? Good!
Public naughty? Bad!
Dubious pictures? Stupid!
This all seems so logical and easy to understand.
Mind you, it's not that I don't LIKE lascivious images. Like like like!
But there is an immense gap between liking something, and thinking of it as a personal expression of style suitable for emulation.
Delicious (or otherwise) erotic photos are far better left to the experts.
There are good reasons we we're often told "these people are professionals, don't try this at home".
For one thing the lighting is probably better.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 15, 2011
HERE FOR YOUR EDIFICATION!
A friend indicates that my previous post is profoundly queer.
Reading it left him feeling quite distressed!
I fail to see why..... it was mostly about food.
In order, the following:
Chocolate cake. Wonton noodle soup. Steamed oysters. Roshgullas. Flaky meat pies. Bonbons. Samosas. Dairy.
Yankee pot-roast. Madeleines. Pudding.
Crustaceans. Pizza. Dim sum. Ghee. Oyster Sauce.
Laddoos, rosmalai, sondesh, rimjim, mistee dohi.
Honey.
Cooked zebra.
Whipped cream.
Madeleines. Crisp apples.
Black mustard seed, tej patta, amchur, and cayenne.
These are all very good things!
Literature was also mentioned.
Vampire novels. Famous poet Buddhadev Bhosu. Marcel Proust.
It was a very uplifting post.
And tastefully accented by a classical image, much like painters and poets have done since Greek and Roman times.
EDIFYING VISUAL: VELASQUEZ
So, if you think about it, the previous post was an example of culture in action.
Not problematic at all.
Unless, of course, you do indeed consume overmuch ghee and oyster sauce.
I wouldn't recommend that.
It can't be very good for your health.
Whipped cream is an entirely different matter.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Reading it left him feeling quite distressed!
I fail to see why..... it was mostly about food.
In order, the following:
Chocolate cake. Wonton noodle soup. Steamed oysters. Roshgullas. Flaky meat pies. Bonbons. Samosas. Dairy.
Yankee pot-roast. Madeleines. Pudding.
Crustaceans. Pizza. Dim sum. Ghee. Oyster Sauce.
Laddoos, rosmalai, sondesh, rimjim, mistee dohi.
Honey.
Cooked zebra.
Whipped cream.
Madeleines. Crisp apples.
Black mustard seed, tej patta, amchur, and cayenne.
These are all very good things!
Literature was also mentioned.
Vampire novels. Famous poet Buddhadev Bhosu. Marcel Proust.
It was a very uplifting post.
And tastefully accented by a classical image, much like painters and poets have done since Greek and Roman times.
EDIFYING VISUAL: VELASQUEZ
So, if you think about it, the previous post was an example of culture in action.
Not problematic at all.
Unless, of course, you do indeed consume overmuch ghee and oyster sauce.
I wouldn't recommend that.
It can't be very good for your health.
Whipped cream is an entirely different matter.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NAKED SCHOOL GIRL
One desperate single male, almost certainly Bengali, was pulled into my blog recently by means of the phrase above: 'naked school girl'.
WHAT A LOVELY IDEA!
I assume we're talking about a nineteen or twenty year-old, yes? Someone who has already applied to Berkeley, Stanford, M.I.T., or, heaven preserve us, the institution where my super-brilliant cousin is teaching?
A fine young thing.
By happenstance, frequently quite naked.
A naked schoolgirl!
Perhaps she had disrobed for a bath... or was lying on her bed, airing out AFTER a nice hot shower and a splash of perfumed skin refresher.
Happily thinking about all kinds of nice things.....
Chocolate cake, wonton noodle soup, steamed oysters, roshgullas, flaky meat pies, bon bons, romance novels, romantic vampires, samosas, and dairy products.....
Yankee pot-roast, madeleines, pudding.
Crustaceans, pizza, dim sum.
As well as, perhaps, a vibrant Dutch-American.
Like myself.
Should the occasion arise, I would with pleasure cover your naked form with warm ghee and lick it off.
Or oyster sauce, if you are into an ethnic thing.
The high salt-content would almost certainly give me hyper-tension, or send me into shock - heaven knows at my advanced age (over thirty) it could prove quite a trial - but I'm willing to suffer as long as it makes you happy.
Anything for a giggle. It's worth it.
I am a gallant fellow.
Just dream of my tongue, miss. Velvety, warm, and quite agile.
Let us ignore the symptoms of heart-attack and hypertension, or the sheer nausea from too much salty condiment, turning green and clutching my stomach, on the verge of a gag-reflex.
Cold sweats, shaking, and eyes rolling back in their sockets.
Seizures! It's the big one, Elizabeth!
Hands turning death white.
My trembling and clammy digits.
I am the degenerate the doctor ordered.
Do NOT call 911 quite as yet.
Please.
I'm fine. Honest!
This happens all the time.
Convulsions are NORMAL.
Alas, the effect of warm melted ghee would be no less worrisome.
No matter how petite the damsel in question, I figure it would need at least four cups. To the best of my knowledge no one has ever survived four cups of ghee, although IF someone has, it was no doubt a Bengali. Probably a bohut moti maheshyari vakil or banker, who washed down the clarified butter with a few laddoos, a rosmalai or two, sondesh, rimjim, and diluted it all with a BIG bucket of mistee dohi. Mmm, yummers!
Maybe her nudity has other causes. It was a sweltering day, perhaps?
Mom and dad are visiting an aunt in the South-Bay, and she's never had the opportunity to swan about in the buff? Eat bon bons in the nude? There's a full-length mirror in her room, and she wants to see how those high heels make her look?
Hot! Trust me.
They're killers.
Sex-death heels.
You look grand!
Khub shundar!
Where precisely do you want the warm ghee?
Did you know that Buddhadev Bhosu versified enchantingly about rivulets of ghee and honey cascading down the supine body of his mistress?
A surprising fact! Given that he was a small spare man, one would never have suspected so luxurious a frailty.
AFTERTHOUGHT
There's also the distinct possibility that the nudity of the young miss in question is either figmentary or a mental blip.
In the first case, you are just imagining it. Please stop. It isn't good for your emotional health. You'll bust a vein.
If it's merely a mental blip, no harm done, though pursuing the matter on the internet suggests more than mere blip, it actually says 'obsession'.
In which case you might want to seek professional help.
[NOTE: This blog is NOT 'professional help', but rather 'incidental perversion'. Or 'random electronic degeneracy'.
As well as pipe tobacco, zebra cooking tips, and random anecdotes. Sorry.]
Maybe in a fit of forgetfulness she forgot her clothes?
Or she decided to do laundry, and dumped everything in. After all, she's in the house alone, the rest of the family is down in San Jose visiting that aunt, not due back for hours.
Such freedom, such airiness.
Time to get a spot of reading done.
Now, where is that novel about the vampire and the chocolate cake?
Her eyebrows dimple enchantingly as she reads about the saturnine stranger with the platter of sliced Black Forest, whipped cream, dark gooey icing.......
Entranced, she does not notice a drop of moisture trailing down her back.
I can't tell you how often I myself get distracted by À la Recherche du Temps Perdu while in a state of profound undress. There's just something about a good book that encourages nakedness.
You cannot eat madeleines fully clothed - they crumble so.
Picture, if you will, a slim young thing happily flaked out on the couch, glowing all over and fragrant from her recent ablutions, leafing through a thick tome while munching a crisp apple.
Such a lovely thought, don't you agree?
Shame on you, my Bengali friend, now you've got ME convinced that a naked schoolgirl is an altogether splendid thing.
I used to be so wholesome!
For a totally Bong approach to the schoolgirl, pop a handful of mustard seeds (sorshon ka beej) in a cup or two of hot ghee. Then wait for it to cool down to a reasonable temperature before lovingly drizzling it all over the subject. Please note that the little black globules will get everywhere - that is the point of the exercise utterly! Add a sprinkle of tej patta for artistic effect, plus a judicious pinch here and there of dry mango powder and cayenne.
A trickle of cooling dohi would NOT be out of place.
It might look perverse. But it is aesthetically justified.
And turmeric sauce! It's good for the skin!
.
.
.
It is highly advisable that we both step away from the ghee.
Let us purify ourselves by chanting slokas from the shahma sanggeets.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHAT A LOVELY IDEA!
I assume we're talking about a nineteen or twenty year-old, yes? Someone who has already applied to Berkeley, Stanford, M.I.T., or, heaven preserve us, the institution where my super-brilliant cousin is teaching?
A fine young thing.
By happenstance, frequently quite naked.
A naked schoolgirl!
Perhaps she had disrobed for a bath... or was lying on her bed, airing out AFTER a nice hot shower and a splash of perfumed skin refresher.
Happily thinking about all kinds of nice things.....
Chocolate cake, wonton noodle soup, steamed oysters, roshgullas, flaky meat pies, bon bons, romance novels, romantic vampires, samosas, and dairy products.....
Yankee pot-roast, madeleines, pudding.
Crustaceans, pizza, dim sum.
As well as, perhaps, a vibrant Dutch-American.
Like myself.
Should the occasion arise, I would with pleasure cover your naked form with warm ghee and lick it off.
Or oyster sauce, if you are into an ethnic thing.
The high salt-content would almost certainly give me hyper-tension, or send me into shock - heaven knows at my advanced age (over thirty) it could prove quite a trial - but I'm willing to suffer as long as it makes you happy.
Anything for a giggle. It's worth it.
I am a gallant fellow.
Just dream of my tongue, miss. Velvety, warm, and quite agile.
Let us ignore the symptoms of heart-attack and hypertension, or the sheer nausea from too much salty condiment, turning green and clutching my stomach, on the verge of a gag-reflex.
Cold sweats, shaking, and eyes rolling back in their sockets.
Seizures! It's the big one, Elizabeth!
Hands turning death white.
My trembling and clammy digits.
I am the degenerate the doctor ordered.
Do NOT call 911 quite as yet.
Please.
I'm fine. Honest!
This happens all the time.
Convulsions are NORMAL.
Alas, the effect of warm melted ghee would be no less worrisome.
No matter how petite the damsel in question, I figure it would need at least four cups. To the best of my knowledge no one has ever survived four cups of ghee, although IF someone has, it was no doubt a Bengali. Probably a bohut moti maheshyari vakil or banker, who washed down the clarified butter with a few laddoos, a rosmalai or two, sondesh, rimjim, and diluted it all with a BIG bucket of mistee dohi. Mmm, yummers!
Maybe her nudity has other causes. It was a sweltering day, perhaps?
Mom and dad are visiting an aunt in the South-Bay, and she's never had the opportunity to swan about in the buff? Eat bon bons in the nude? There's a full-length mirror in her room, and she wants to see how those high heels make her look?
Hot! Trust me.
They're killers.
Sex-death heels.
You look grand!
Khub shundar!
Where precisely do you want the warm ghee?
Did you know that Buddhadev Bhosu versified enchantingly about rivulets of ghee and honey cascading down the supine body of his mistress?
A surprising fact! Given that he was a small spare man, one would never have suspected so luxurious a frailty.
AFTERTHOUGHT
There's also the distinct possibility that the nudity of the young miss in question is either figmentary or a mental blip.
In the first case, you are just imagining it. Please stop. It isn't good for your emotional health. You'll bust a vein.
If it's merely a mental blip, no harm done, though pursuing the matter on the internet suggests more than mere blip, it actually says 'obsession'.
In which case you might want to seek professional help.
[NOTE: This blog is NOT 'professional help', but rather 'incidental perversion'. Or 'random electronic degeneracy'.
As well as pipe tobacco, zebra cooking tips, and random anecdotes. Sorry.]
Maybe in a fit of forgetfulness she forgot her clothes?
Or she decided to do laundry, and dumped everything in. After all, she's in the house alone, the rest of the family is down in San Jose visiting that aunt, not due back for hours.
Such freedom, such airiness.
Time to get a spot of reading done.
Now, where is that novel about the vampire and the chocolate cake?
Her eyebrows dimple enchantingly as she reads about the saturnine stranger with the platter of sliced Black Forest, whipped cream, dark gooey icing.......
Entranced, she does not notice a drop of moisture trailing down her back.
I can't tell you how often I myself get distracted by À la Recherche du Temps Perdu while in a state of profound undress. There's just something about a good book that encourages nakedness.
You cannot eat madeleines fully clothed - they crumble so.
Picture, if you will, a slim young thing happily flaked out on the couch, glowing all over and fragrant from her recent ablutions, leafing through a thick tome while munching a crisp apple.
Such a lovely thought, don't you agree?
Shame on you, my Bengali friend, now you've got ME convinced that a naked schoolgirl is an altogether splendid thing.
I used to be so wholesome!
For a totally Bong approach to the schoolgirl, pop a handful of mustard seeds (sorshon ka beej) in a cup or two of hot ghee. Then wait for it to cool down to a reasonable temperature before lovingly drizzling it all over the subject. Please note that the little black globules will get everywhere - that is the point of the exercise utterly! Add a sprinkle of tej patta for artistic effect, plus a judicious pinch here and there of dry mango powder and cayenne.
A trickle of cooling dohi would NOT be out of place.
It might look perverse. But it is aesthetically justified.
And turmeric sauce! It's good for the skin!
.
.
.
It is highly advisable that we both step away from the ghee.
Let us purify ourselves by chanting slokas from the shahma sanggeets.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, August 14, 2011
EGGS AND OYSTERS BETTER THAN THE TADICH GRILL
I probably spent too much time at the office over the weekend.
But for a change I did not eat in Chinatown at all.
Instead, I ate at home both days.
Only one meal worth noting.
蠔豉蒸水蛋
STEAMED OMELETTE WITH DRIED OYSTERS
2 large eggs.
Half a cup of water, plus 2 TBS.
Eight dried oysters, soaked, cut in half.
About a quarter of a zucchini, thin sliced.
Half a rasher bacon, chopped and limp-cooked.
Pinch ground pepper.
Pinch sugar.
Drizzle sesame oil.
Minced scallion for garnish.
Whisk the egg and water till smoothly blended. Incorporate the bacon, zucchini and dried oysters, as well as the pinches of pepper and sugar. Pour it into a broad pyrex pie dish and steam it for ten minutes.
Garnish with the scallion and drizzle the sesame oil over.
Very good and comforting with hot rice and a bowl of clear soup with leaf-greens.
NOTE: for extra good, use grease from the bacon to oil the pie dish.
I would have liked to have shared this with someone, in which case there would be other dishes too - perhaps a poached fish with shredded black mushrooms and green pepper, and some stirfried veggies - but you'll no doubt understand that I'm a bit hesitant about dragging in strangers off the street.
They might not like my cooking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But for a change I did not eat in Chinatown at all.
Instead, I ate at home both days.
Only one meal worth noting.
蠔豉蒸水蛋
STEAMED OMELETTE WITH DRIED OYSTERS
2 large eggs.
Half a cup of water, plus 2 TBS.
Eight dried oysters, soaked, cut in half.
About a quarter of a zucchini, thin sliced.
Half a rasher bacon, chopped and limp-cooked.
Pinch ground pepper.
Pinch sugar.
Drizzle sesame oil.
Minced scallion for garnish.
Whisk the egg and water till smoothly blended. Incorporate the bacon, zucchini and dried oysters, as well as the pinches of pepper and sugar. Pour it into a broad pyrex pie dish and steam it for ten minutes.
Garnish with the scallion and drizzle the sesame oil over.
Very good and comforting with hot rice and a bowl of clear soup with leaf-greens.
NOTE: for extra good, use grease from the bacon to oil the pie dish.
I would have liked to have shared this with someone, in which case there would be other dishes too - perhaps a poached fish with shredded black mushrooms and green pepper, and some stirfried veggies - but you'll no doubt understand that I'm a bit hesitant about dragging in strangers off the street.
They might not like my cooking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 13, 2011
WHY DO MEN LIKE BREASTS AND OTHER QUESTIONS
One of the questions I dread is: "what is it with you and Asian women?"
Not because it highlights a fetish - not even close - but because it highlights a level of social confusion.
I don't really have a thing for Asian women. Not enamoured of Japanese women, because so much of what they are and how they think is entirely strange to me. Thai women do not appeal in the slightest - their food is wonderful however, albeit too refined - and Vietnamese women do not have quite the necessary cultural flexibility to fit into my ideas of socializing and friendships. Korean women? Too domineering, and like Mongolian women far too crazy. Philippinas? Admirable, determined, but, erm, manipulative as all git-out and anarchic. Indonesians and Malays speak my language (one of my languages), but good heavens no. Shanghainese are delightful people, but I'm always at a negotiating disadvantage.
So no, not Asian women.
More a specific appreciation of particular Cantonese women, precisely their San Francisco variation.
Along with feisty brunettes, self-confident women, angry women, and just sheer stark raving stubborn women.
Last night I was drinking at a bar next to a Belorussian. I cannot remember what she looked like, but holy handgrenades she was hot. Clearly not because of appearance, given that I cannot describe her, but sweet cheesewhip, because of what came out of her mouth.
She held her own and then some. Wiped the floor with the bartender and a patron.
Brilliant and utterly mad - it's a winning combination.
Don't know if I would find her sexually attractive.......
But I sure hope I run into her crazy self again.
I think she's a brunette, but I'm not sure.
Don't remember her name either. Never asked.
Let's call her Natasha Borisova.
Dynamite.
RHETORICAL QUESTIONS
Why do men like younger women? Probably the absence of tattoos and eccentric piercings - the older they are, the more likely they've made bad choices not involving us.
Why do men like blondes? Frankly, I have no idea. Most bad memories of women in my youth -- well, memories of grammar school hotties -- involve blonde girls from north of the three rivers who sneered at Brabanders and our odd locutions. It kind of predisposes one against their type.
Why do men like small women? In one word: huggable. Good luck with that elephant seal from the Midwest.
Why do men like Cantonese women? Short enough to sniff their hair on the bus without being noticed, and fierce enough to make you feel totally safe and comfy in their presence. While nevertheless giving you that warm false feeling of being protective. Go on, fool yourself.
Who do men like keeping the lights on? Because, dear girl, we really do think you look gorgeous. We like seeing you. All of you. You may have a horrible self-image, but we know better. Como se dice "tasty bon bon" in a language you will understand?
Why do men like breasts?
Oh please! What kind of question is that?
They're nice! We don't have them, you do. We're wired that way.
Why did I like that teenage Palestinian girl at the angry demonstration at Montgomery and Market four years ago?
Well, who wouldn't? The girl was feisty. Had sheer buckets of feist coming out of the wazoo. Fiery little minx. Or was it 'petite version of Sherman Tank'?
Can't remember, but lordy, hot! First time I ever saw tits beings shaken with insulting intent. That leaves an impression on a man.
I'm scarred now.
Can't remember what she looked like, but I'm fairly certain she wasn't blonde.
Also fairly sure she was no more than five feet tall.
I don't know why that's important.
Point is, what you specifically remember of the women who impress you favourably will necessarily incline you towards that type.
And I hang out in Chinatown a lot.
Given that I speak Cantonese, that shouldn't be surprising.
THE EX GIRLFRIEND
When I first met Savage Kitten -- with whom I have lived for over two decades -- I was not interested in Cantonese girls, as I had a mental bug up my you-know-what about Dutch speakers. I didn't want to lose the language, didn't want to ever have children who would not speak like I did.
Savage Kitten within mere minutes made me forget myself.
Of course, she's always thought that my accent in Cantonese was atrocious. Which it is.
Her ability to speak Dutch is limited to "lekker" and a request for raw herring.
So yes, at present I veer towards some Cantonese American women. The combination of fierce stubbornness and hair at the right height to nuzzle and sniff has an immense attraction.
In my own way I am a sensualist.
But it's also completely a moot point. No idea how to go about dating again, not a clue how to meet women, and not devoting any effort at all to such a quest either.
I'm fifty one. In another two months I will be fifty two.
Not exactly the right age to go on a randy hunt.
Quieted down a bit, and realistic.
Not the party-type either.
On weekend evenings I can hear excited girlish squealing from several houses away.
I suspect that the young women in question have tattoos and drink flavoured vodka.
They sound like they're snooty wasps in their late twenties.
I'm sure they would never read my blog, or any other blog.
That, almost automatically, predisposes me against them.
To read is to live.
HOT AND BUTTERY NAP TIME
Some of my dreams are disturbingly erotic. So are yours, do not deny it.
But mine involve baked goods.
Last night I dreamt I was eating scones with melted butter and fruit preserves on a bed with a poofy feather comforter and a rambunctious young lady with silken hair. She wore one of my oversize dress shirts. Her bare legs curled under her were the hue of honey.
Sexy knees!
Mmmm, warm melted butter.
Freshly baked, on an antique porcelain plate. Sunlight coming in through south-west facing windows, so it must have been afternoon right around teatime.
Charming. A necklace accenting her upper chest, above where the shirt was buttoned, the folds of tight-wove cotton emphasizing by what they hid and how they fell all her delightful feminine aspects.
Hot scones. Melted butter. Sweet jam. And strong tea.
I'm fairly sure she was no more than half my age.
I can remember the velvety appearance of her skin, the hue of her hair.
The taste and steam of the cups of tea, with silver spoons and broad saucers, and the warm inviting glow that the late afternoon sunlight gave to her thighs.
We had probably dozed together since after lunch.
Alas, I cannot remember her face.
But her lips were loveable, and her eyes were kind.
I shall have to research scones. Perhaps find a recipe twixt dense muffin and airy beaten biscuit. Something that welcomes warm butter.
Preserves, I already have.
Being single again is a bitch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not because it highlights a fetish - not even close - but because it highlights a level of social confusion.
I don't really have a thing for Asian women. Not enamoured of Japanese women, because so much of what they are and how they think is entirely strange to me. Thai women do not appeal in the slightest - their food is wonderful however, albeit too refined - and Vietnamese women do not have quite the necessary cultural flexibility to fit into my ideas of socializing and friendships. Korean women? Too domineering, and like Mongolian women far too crazy. Philippinas? Admirable, determined, but, erm, manipulative as all git-out and anarchic. Indonesians and Malays speak my language (one of my languages), but good heavens no. Shanghainese are delightful people, but I'm always at a negotiating disadvantage.
So no, not Asian women.
More a specific appreciation of particular Cantonese women, precisely their San Francisco variation.
Along with feisty brunettes, self-confident women, angry women, and just sheer stark raving stubborn women.
Last night I was drinking at a bar next to a Belorussian. I cannot remember what she looked like, but holy handgrenades she was hot. Clearly not because of appearance, given that I cannot describe her, but sweet cheesewhip, because of what came out of her mouth.
She held her own and then some. Wiped the floor with the bartender and a patron.
Brilliant and utterly mad - it's a winning combination.
Don't know if I would find her sexually attractive.......
But I sure hope I run into her crazy self again.
I think she's a brunette, but I'm not sure.
Don't remember her name either. Never asked.
Let's call her Natasha Borisova.
Dynamite.
RHETORICAL QUESTIONS
Why do men like younger women? Probably the absence of tattoos and eccentric piercings - the older they are, the more likely they've made bad choices not involving us.
Why do men like blondes? Frankly, I have no idea. Most bad memories of women in my youth -- well, memories of grammar school hotties -- involve blonde girls from north of the three rivers who sneered at Brabanders and our odd locutions. It kind of predisposes one against their type.
Why do men like small women? In one word: huggable. Good luck with that elephant seal from the Midwest.
Why do men like Cantonese women? Short enough to sniff their hair on the bus without being noticed, and fierce enough to make you feel totally safe and comfy in their presence. While nevertheless giving you that warm false feeling of being protective. Go on, fool yourself.
Who do men like keeping the lights on? Because, dear girl, we really do think you look gorgeous. We like seeing you. All of you. You may have a horrible self-image, but we know better. Como se dice "tasty bon bon" in a language you will understand?
Why do men like breasts?
Oh please! What kind of question is that?
They're nice! We don't have them, you do. We're wired that way.
Why did I like that teenage Palestinian girl at the angry demonstration at Montgomery and Market four years ago?
Well, who wouldn't? The girl was feisty. Had sheer buckets of feist coming out of the wazoo. Fiery little minx. Or was it 'petite version of Sherman Tank'?
Can't remember, but lordy, hot! First time I ever saw tits beings shaken with insulting intent. That leaves an impression on a man.
I'm scarred now.
Can't remember what she looked like, but I'm fairly certain she wasn't blonde.
Also fairly sure she was no more than five feet tall.
I don't know why that's important.
Point is, what you specifically remember of the women who impress you favourably will necessarily incline you towards that type.
And I hang out in Chinatown a lot.
Given that I speak Cantonese, that shouldn't be surprising.
THE EX GIRLFRIEND
When I first met Savage Kitten -- with whom I have lived for over two decades -- I was not interested in Cantonese girls, as I had a mental bug up my you-know-what about Dutch speakers. I didn't want to lose the language, didn't want to ever have children who would not speak like I did.
Savage Kitten within mere minutes made me forget myself.
Of course, she's always thought that my accent in Cantonese was atrocious. Which it is.
Her ability to speak Dutch is limited to "lekker" and a request for raw herring.
So yes, at present I veer towards some Cantonese American women. The combination of fierce stubbornness and hair at the right height to nuzzle and sniff has an immense attraction.
In my own way I am a sensualist.
But it's also completely a moot point. No idea how to go about dating again, not a clue how to meet women, and not devoting any effort at all to such a quest either.
I'm fifty one. In another two months I will be fifty two.
Not exactly the right age to go on a randy hunt.
Quieted down a bit, and realistic.
Not the party-type either.
On weekend evenings I can hear excited girlish squealing from several houses away.
I suspect that the young women in question have tattoos and drink flavoured vodka.
They sound like they're snooty wasps in their late twenties.
I'm sure they would never read my blog, or any other blog.
That, almost automatically, predisposes me against them.
To read is to live.
HOT AND BUTTERY NAP TIME
Some of my dreams are disturbingly erotic. So are yours, do not deny it.
But mine involve baked goods.
Last night I dreamt I was eating scones with melted butter and fruit preserves on a bed with a poofy feather comforter and a rambunctious young lady with silken hair. She wore one of my oversize dress shirts. Her bare legs curled under her were the hue of honey.
Sexy knees!
Mmmm, warm melted butter.
Freshly baked, on an antique porcelain plate. Sunlight coming in through south-west facing windows, so it must have been afternoon right around teatime.
Charming. A necklace accenting her upper chest, above where the shirt was buttoned, the folds of tight-wove cotton emphasizing by what they hid and how they fell all her delightful feminine aspects.
Hot scones. Melted butter. Sweet jam. And strong tea.
I'm fairly sure she was no more than half my age.
I can remember the velvety appearance of her skin, the hue of her hair.
The taste and steam of the cups of tea, with silver spoons and broad saucers, and the warm inviting glow that the late afternoon sunlight gave to her thighs.
We had probably dozed together since after lunch.
Alas, I cannot remember her face.
But her lips were loveable, and her eyes were kind.
I shall have to research scones. Perhaps find a recipe twixt dense muffin and airy beaten biscuit. Something that welcomes warm butter.
Preserves, I already have.
Being single again is a bitch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 12, 2011
BIRDS-EYE VIEW
One of the scenic sights of San Francisco is the pooing man of Nob Hill. Which, as a tourist, you would normally never see, so I will tell you what to do.
I'm a giver.
And I want you to take just one image back to Kansas City when you leave.
Let it be what you remember of our fair city.
At around seven AM position yourself within several feet of the two cars parked just before Leavenworth on Clay Street.
North-west corner.
Wait.
Sometime within the next hour, like a timorous forest creature, the pooing man of Nob Hill will appear.
Then do his little trick.
I know this, because I have seen him a number of times while on the bus. When there is no room to sit, there's a fifty percent change that you will face pooing man, if he's at his accustomed spot.
But don't worry, he won't be facing you, so there is NO chance that you will recognize each other later.
A MAN WITH A GOODLY CIGAR
I was reminded of this by a discussion among the smokers at the wall today.
Trust me, those cigar smokers bring up the strangest subjects.
Must have something to do with nicotine overload.
Pipe smokers NEVER mention such stuff.
We are clean-minded people.
One of them detailed the reason why the local tobacconist now has an iron gate in front of the door.
The proprietor made a mortal enemy, presumably among the local street people.
Though it could very well have been a cigar-smoker.
Some of them are vengeful and unstable.
One of them stepped on a pigeon once.
He claims it was an 'accident'.
Right in front of the shop.
What suspect fortuity!
I would hang out exclusively with my own kind ("pipe gang"), except there's only two and a half of us, whereas there are over a dozen cigar smokers.
The half-member of pipe-gang is actually a whole man, but he dallies far too much with flavoured cheroots and cheap stogies to be considered an equal, and he often talks just like them.
Strange distasteful subjects, ribald humour, unprintable language.
It is distressing to hear their conversations - rather like being in a steamy locker room while sweaty naked frat-boys snap each other's privates with wet rat-tails, telling off-colour jokes and making crude remarks.
They aren't clean-minded, unlike us pipe smokers.
Normally, I do not listen in, but keep quietly to myself, happily dreaming about bra sizes and cotton panties.
The modern brassiere is truly a wonderful accomplishment, don't you think?
And both garments evoke such beauty and grace!
Today, my pure young thoughts were brutally swept away by the depravity and vulgarity of the boys.
Thanks, cigar-gang.
Happy weekend.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I'm a giver.
And I want you to take just one image back to Kansas City when you leave.
Let it be what you remember of our fair city.
At around seven AM position yourself within several feet of the two cars parked just before Leavenworth on Clay Street.
North-west corner.
Wait.
Sometime within the next hour, like a timorous forest creature, the pooing man of Nob Hill will appear.
Then do his little trick.
I know this, because I have seen him a number of times while on the bus. When there is no room to sit, there's a fifty percent change that you will face pooing man, if he's at his accustomed spot.
But don't worry, he won't be facing you, so there is NO chance that you will recognize each other later.
A MAN WITH A GOODLY CIGAR
I was reminded of this by a discussion among the smokers at the wall today.
Trust me, those cigar smokers bring up the strangest subjects.
Must have something to do with nicotine overload.
Pipe smokers NEVER mention such stuff.
We are clean-minded people.
One of them detailed the reason why the local tobacconist now has an iron gate in front of the door.
The proprietor made a mortal enemy, presumably among the local street people.
Though it could very well have been a cigar-smoker.
Some of them are vengeful and unstable.
One of them stepped on a pigeon once.
He claims it was an 'accident'.
Right in front of the shop.
What suspect fortuity!
I would hang out exclusively with my own kind ("pipe gang"), except there's only two and a half of us, whereas there are over a dozen cigar smokers.
The half-member of pipe-gang is actually a whole man, but he dallies far too much with flavoured cheroots and cheap stogies to be considered an equal, and he often talks just like them.
Strange distasteful subjects, ribald humour, unprintable language.
It is distressing to hear their conversations - rather like being in a steamy locker room while sweaty naked frat-boys snap each other's privates with wet rat-tails, telling off-colour jokes and making crude remarks.
They aren't clean-minded, unlike us pipe smokers.
Normally, I do not listen in, but keep quietly to myself, happily dreaming about bra sizes and cotton panties.
The modern brassiere is truly a wonderful accomplishment, don't you think?
And both garments evoke such beauty and grace!
Today, my pure young thoughts were brutally swept away by the depravity and vulgarity of the boys.
Thanks, cigar-gang.
Happy weekend.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, August 11, 2011
ACTIVISTS KINDLY SCHEDULING COPYCAT RIOT FOR YOUR INCONVENIENCE
Apparently the Bay Area's rioting classes would like to imitate the London yobbos, with whom they feel they have much in common.
For those unfamiliar with the Bay Area, the rioting classes here are bike-messengers, tattooed artistic types, unemployables, Berkeley earth-moms, and sundry other fairly useless people.
Per an article on SF Gate, an action is planned for 5:00 PM at the Civic Center Bart Station.
"We wish to remain inconspicuous until the action begins at 5 p.m."
"We will congregate at the center of the platform (next to the elevator). One of our organizers will have a 'Justice for Oscar Grant' patch on his backpack. If you approach him, he will give you a flyer that has information about the action, and watch for his cue to begin the action at 5 p.m. sharp."
"Try to mobilize without public announcement beforehand. This will allow us the element of surprise, and BART will not be able to call in their police force to harass our event."
[Source: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/08/11/BAF91KMA5Q.DTL&tsp=1.]
Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/08/11/BAF91KMA5Q.DTL#ixzz1UkwEJEoM
Dude, let me explain some things to you.
The people you are planning to "entertain" with your self-indulgent public tantrum represent a cross-spectrum of ethnicities, ages, and economic levels. Many of us will be coming off jobs after a long day, several others will be heading towards jobs and facing a long day.
What almost all of us have in common is that we are employed, and likely to be intensely irritated by your actions.
Some of us are borderline psychotic - please remember that.
And also please remember that you too are a skin sack filled with soft wet tissue.
You can be damaged.
Some of us may try to do so.
Remember: eight hours of work, rent to pay, loved ones we are rushing to meet.
Your planned interference may just be the drop that makes us overflow.
We are not English.
We are considerably more inclined to express ourselves physically.
----------------------------------------------------
Now, as an indication of the local moronic fringe's admiration for thuggish behaviour and senseless destruction:
Gibbering insanity:
http://www.indybay.org/newsitems/2011/08/10/18687349.php
Endorsement:
People’s Tribunal on Racism and Police Violence
Coalition for Justice for Oscar Grant
New Years Movement for Justice for Oscar Grant
ONYX
Oakland 100 Support Committee
Members of the National Lawyers Guild
Chairman Fred Hampton Jr. of the Prisoners of Conscience Committee/Black Panther Party Cubs
Angry promoters of hatred:
http://www.indybay.org/newsitems/2011/08/09/18687296.php
Endorsement:
VICTORY TO AFRICAN PEOPLE IN THE US, THE UK, AND THE WORLD! SMASH COLONIAL VIOLENCE! LONG LIVE THE AFRICAN REVOLUTION! UHURU!
I am very surprised that Dick Becker, International A.N.S.W.E.R., and Codepink are NOT among the endorsers. That's very unlike them.
On the other hand, I am not at all surprised that the Members of the National Lawyers Guild undersigned the first cited post.
They're usually on the wrong side.
Fortunately, they can be disbarred.
NOTE: Indybay is always a good place to find out what the foaming fringe are up to. As an organizing tool, however, it has lost its purpose. Once the rioting classes finally figured out that their public forums and mailing lists were a leaky sieve of information and forewarning, they started using FB, twitter, and instant messaging to communicate among the hard-core.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For those unfamiliar with the Bay Area, the rioting classes here are bike-messengers, tattooed artistic types, unemployables, Berkeley earth-moms, and sundry other fairly useless people.
Per an article on SF Gate, an action is planned for 5:00 PM at the Civic Center Bart Station.
"We wish to remain inconspicuous until the action begins at 5 p.m."
"We will congregate at the center of the platform (next to the elevator). One of our organizers will have a 'Justice for Oscar Grant' patch on his backpack. If you approach him, he will give you a flyer that has information about the action, and watch for his cue to begin the action at 5 p.m. sharp."
"Try to mobilize without public announcement beforehand. This will allow us the element of surprise, and BART will not be able to call in their police force to harass our event."
[Source: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/08/11/BAF91KMA5Q.DTL&tsp=1.]
Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/08/11/BAF91KMA5Q.DTL#ixzz1UkwEJEoM
Dude, let me explain some things to you.
The people you are planning to "entertain" with your self-indulgent public tantrum represent a cross-spectrum of ethnicities, ages, and economic levels. Many of us will be coming off jobs after a long day, several others will be heading towards jobs and facing a long day.
What almost all of us have in common is that we are employed, and likely to be intensely irritated by your actions.
Some of us are borderline psychotic - please remember that.
And also please remember that you too are a skin sack filled with soft wet tissue.
You can be damaged.
Some of us may try to do so.
Remember: eight hours of work, rent to pay, loved ones we are rushing to meet.
Your planned interference may just be the drop that makes us overflow.
We are not English.
We are considerably more inclined to express ourselves physically.
----------------------------------------------------
Now, as an indication of the local moronic fringe's admiration for thuggish behaviour and senseless destruction:
Gibbering insanity:
http://www.indybay.org/newsitems/2011/08/10/18687349.php
Endorsement:
People’s Tribunal on Racism and Police Violence
Coalition for Justice for Oscar Grant
New Years Movement for Justice for Oscar Grant
ONYX
Oakland 100 Support Committee
Members of the National Lawyers Guild
Chairman Fred Hampton Jr. of the Prisoners of Conscience Committee/Black Panther Party Cubs
Angry promoters of hatred:
http://www.indybay.org/newsitems/2011/08/09/18687296.php
Endorsement:
VICTORY TO AFRICAN PEOPLE IN THE US, THE UK, AND THE WORLD! SMASH COLONIAL VIOLENCE! LONG LIVE THE AFRICAN REVOLUTION! UHURU!
I am very surprised that Dick Becker, International A.N.S.W.E.R., and Codepink are NOT among the endorsers. That's very unlike them.
On the other hand, I am not at all surprised that the Members of the National Lawyers Guild undersigned the first cited post.
They're usually on the wrong side.
Fortunately, they can be disbarred.
NOTE: Indybay is always a good place to find out what the foaming fringe are up to. As an organizing tool, however, it has lost its purpose. Once the rioting classes finally figured out that their public forums and mailing lists were a leaky sieve of information and forewarning, they started using FB, twitter, and instant messaging to communicate among the hard-core.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
JACKNIFE PLUG, BY G. L. PEASE - ROWBOATS, ROPE, TAR PAPER, AND A GUN
Following my experiment with Triple Play, which you may recall is a pressed tobacco in brick form by Greg Pease, it was only fair that I should also try his Jacknife Plug. Never mind that I think that a solid block of pressed tobacco that one has to tackle with a steak knife is ‘precious’ in the modern era.
After all, that’s what cutting machines in factories are for, right?
Grudgingly, and with extreme reluctance, I admit that I was wrong.
I cannot imagine this stuff tasting as good if it were presented otherwise.
JACKNIFE PLUG
[New World Collection - G. L. Pease]
Tin description:
JackKnife Plug - dark-fired Kentucky leaf and ripe red Virginia tobaccos, with their deep, earthy flavors, are layered on a central core of golden flue-cured for a hint of bright sweetness, then pressed and matured in cakes, and finally cut into 2oz blocks. Slice it thick and rub it out for a ribbon cut, thin for a shag, or chop it into cubes. The choice is yours.
Either use a heavy cleaver pressed down in the manner of a Cantonese chef, or go at it with your finest Ginsu knife. Reduce it to more manageable shreds with a pair of kitchen shears. Then rub it.
Only after it looks like something you can smoke should you dry it to the right moisture level.
Hacking and rubbing do not take much time, and it should not prove onerous to prepare a two or three day supply in between watching the eleven o'clock news and popping your favourite animé porn disc into the VCR.
Or, in my case "The Life-cycle of the Common Pipistrelle" - (3 disc set).
I don't watch animé porn. But I will assume that you are normal.
This is a wonderful tobacco to smoke when everybody else is asleep.
You don't want them awake, they might disturb you.
Instead of leaving you the heck alone with this splendid stuff.
You and your mild perversions.
There's an undertone of sweetness, and while it is a nicotine-rich product, it does not catch the throat or tingle the glands in your mouth the way some other overweight tobaccos do. Nor does it taste heavy. Instead, it has an earthy saveur that bears slow contemplation.
Slightly suggestive of chocolate and cigars, though that impression is fleeting.
Becomes somewhat spicier as the bowl progresses.
Yields a very soft crumbly ash.
This tobacco will persuade you that telecommuting is a damned fine idea.
Just thinking about being able to smoke this during the working day brings a warm glow.
Either that, or you could retire to a tarred shack out in the Sacramento delta and shoot river rats and seagulls in a contemplative manner.
As if that were meditational, not just for the pot.
I really really like it.
Haven't cut myself yet.
So SEVERAL thumbs up.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
After all, that’s what cutting machines in factories are for, right?
Grudgingly, and with extreme reluctance, I admit that I was wrong.
I cannot imagine this stuff tasting as good if it were presented otherwise.
JACKNIFE PLUG
[New World Collection - G. L. Pease]
Tin description:
JackKnife Plug - dark-fired Kentucky leaf and ripe red Virginia tobaccos, with their deep, earthy flavors, are layered on a central core of golden flue-cured for a hint of bright sweetness, then pressed and matured in cakes, and finally cut into 2oz blocks. Slice it thick and rub it out for a ribbon cut, thin for a shag, or chop it into cubes. The choice is yours.
Either use a heavy cleaver pressed down in the manner of a Cantonese chef, or go at it with your finest Ginsu knife. Reduce it to more manageable shreds with a pair of kitchen shears. Then rub it.
Only after it looks like something you can smoke should you dry it to the right moisture level.
Hacking and rubbing do not take much time, and it should not prove onerous to prepare a two or three day supply in between watching the eleven o'clock news and popping your favourite animé porn disc into the VCR.
Or, in my case "The Life-cycle of the Common Pipistrelle" - (3 disc set).
I don't watch animé porn. But I will assume that you are normal.
This is a wonderful tobacco to smoke when everybody else is asleep.
You don't want them awake, they might disturb you.
Instead of leaving you the heck alone with this splendid stuff.
You and your mild perversions.
There's an undertone of sweetness, and while it is a nicotine-rich product, it does not catch the throat or tingle the glands in your mouth the way some other overweight tobaccos do. Nor does it taste heavy. Instead, it has an earthy saveur that bears slow contemplation.
Slightly suggestive of chocolate and cigars, though that impression is fleeting.
Becomes somewhat spicier as the bowl progresses.
Yields a very soft crumbly ash.
This tobacco will persuade you that telecommuting is a damned fine idea.
Just thinking about being able to smoke this during the working day brings a warm glow.
Either that, or you could retire to a tarred shack out in the Sacramento delta and shoot river rats and seagulls in a contemplative manner.
As if that were meditational, not just for the pot.
I really really like it.
Haven't cut myself yet.
So SEVERAL thumbs up.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LONDON RIOTS, INTEGRATION, SIKHS
One of the things established by the London riots is that multi-culturalism really works, and benefits society.
The criminals represent a nice cross-section of ethnicities, all of them English-speaking. And in that they speak with that typical lower-class British accent that sets your teeth on edge, even the non-Anglo-Saxon members of the mob prove that they have integrated completely.
The looters, of whatever origin, are British through and through.
All in all, the anarchy of the past three days has been a truly splendid demonstration that the British lower-class weltanschauung appeals across an incredibly broad social spectrum.
As an aside, I should mention that there are some British linguistic hues that are absolutely nauseating – not all of them English, some of them Scottish. Largely this is because of the yobbo behaviour familiarly associated with such speech-mannerisms.
When British soccer hooligans riot or get puking drunk, at home or abroad, those very same repulsive accents are extremely well represented.
Drunks, vandals, opportunists, thugs, and potential gang-rapists.
Charming.
No wonder the British were the most unloved imperial power till we Yanks came along.
Waheguru ji ka khalsa, waheguru ji ki fateh!
But the one thing that thoroughly stands out is the very English resolve of the Sikh community of Southall to bash the bejayzes out of any hoodlums who might try to start something in their neighborhood. Last night, several hundred sardars gathered to defend their place of worship (the Sri Guru Singh Sabha Gurdwara) and their community. Throughout the night, the riot-jugend sent in exploratory parties, which took one look at the Sikhs and decided that setting fire to other districts might be far more profitable.
Per an article by Jiten Karia in the Financial Times:
"At this temple, a massing of Southall’s Sikh community acted as sentries to protect against any rioting threat that dared make its presence felt."
End quote.
[SOURCE: Southall Sikhs gather ... .]
Likely the prospect of being clobbered by a bunch of Punjabis armed with hockey sticks and antique talwars was distinctly uninviting to Britain's urban unemployables.
'Chun kar az hama hilate dar guzast, Halal ast burdan ba shamshir dast.'
It is never advisable to piss-off the Sikhs - doing so can make very bad things happen.
As Guru Gobind advised his followers, "When all other means have failed, it is right to draw the sword".
The likelihood that misbehavior would result in danger to life and limb was enough to prevent the yobbo-caste from crapping in Southall.
More so than the slim possibility of being arrested by the over-stretched London authorities.
"We haven’t got any real external support from the police as this was organised within the community, but we’d be surprised if any of the rioters came here -- we’re here to show that we will not take this."
[Community member Tejpal Singh, quoted in same article cited above.]
I would advise the English to establish many more gurdwaras, and invite in far more Sikhs.
Doing so will promote order and maintain the peace.
A Sardar's home is, after all, his castle.
Or at the very least, a redoubt from which he will not lightly be dislodged.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The criminals represent a nice cross-section of ethnicities, all of them English-speaking. And in that they speak with that typical lower-class British accent that sets your teeth on edge, even the non-Anglo-Saxon members of the mob prove that they have integrated completely.
The looters, of whatever origin, are British through and through.
All in all, the anarchy of the past three days has been a truly splendid demonstration that the British lower-class weltanschauung appeals across an incredibly broad social spectrum.
As an aside, I should mention that there are some British linguistic hues that are absolutely nauseating – not all of them English, some of them Scottish. Largely this is because of the yobbo behaviour familiarly associated with such speech-mannerisms.
When British soccer hooligans riot or get puking drunk, at home or abroad, those very same repulsive accents are extremely well represented.
Drunks, vandals, opportunists, thugs, and potential gang-rapists.
Charming.
No wonder the British were the most unloved imperial power till we Yanks came along.
Waheguru ji ka khalsa, waheguru ji ki fateh!
But the one thing that thoroughly stands out is the very English resolve of the Sikh community of Southall to bash the bejayzes out of any hoodlums who might try to start something in their neighborhood. Last night, several hundred sardars gathered to defend their place of worship (the Sri Guru Singh Sabha Gurdwara) and their community. Throughout the night, the riot-jugend sent in exploratory parties, which took one look at the Sikhs and decided that setting fire to other districts might be far more profitable.
Per an article by Jiten Karia in the Financial Times:
"At this temple, a massing of Southall’s Sikh community acted as sentries to protect against any rioting threat that dared make its presence felt."
End quote.
[SOURCE: Southall Sikhs gather ... .]
Likely the prospect of being clobbered by a bunch of Punjabis armed with hockey sticks and antique talwars was distinctly uninviting to Britain's urban unemployables.
'Chun kar az hama hilate dar guzast, Halal ast burdan ba shamshir dast.'
It is never advisable to piss-off the Sikhs - doing so can make very bad things happen.
As Guru Gobind advised his followers, "When all other means have failed, it is right to draw the sword".
The likelihood that misbehavior would result in danger to life and limb was enough to prevent the yobbo-caste from crapping in Southall.
More so than the slim possibility of being arrested by the over-stretched London authorities.
"We haven’t got any real external support from the police as this was organised within the community, but we’d be surprised if any of the rioters came here -- we’re here to show that we will not take this."
[Community member Tejpal Singh, quoted in same article cited above.]
I would advise the English to establish many more gurdwaras, and invite in far more Sikhs.
Doing so will promote order and maintain the peace.
A Sardar's home is, after all, his castle.
Or at the very least, a redoubt from which he will not lightly be dislodged.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
A KINDER GENTLER ENGLAND
Now that the rioting nogoodniks are destroying London and Manchester, it is time to remember a kinder gentler England. An England before Maggie Thatcher. An England before the post-war Labour Party gutted the place.
An England before the blitz, before the depression.
An England where an individual of Anuritic persuasion could steal a motorcar and drive off, happily going 'poop poop, poop poop' to himself, in cheerful imitation of vehicular noise.
IRREPRESSIBLE AMPHIBIAN
I've always admired mr. Toad. No, not because we are in any way alike - I did not steal a car, though I did crash one, and we shall not speak of the small aircraft - but because of the sheer joyous incorrigibility of the beast.
Mr. Toad is deliciously wicked. In a very innocent sort of way.
Which is why the sentence passed on him is so heart-rending.
"To my mind" observed the Chairman of the Bench of Magistrates cheerfully, "the only difficulty that presents itself in this otherwise very clear case is, how we can possibly make it sufficiently hot for the incorrigible rogue and hardened ruffian whom we see cowering in the dock before us."
Twenty years in the slammer. For a non-violent crime.
"Then the brutal minions of the law fell upon the hapless Toad; loaded him with chains, and dragged him from the Court House, shrieking, praying, protesting; across the market-place, where the playful populace, always as severe upon detected crime as they are sympathetic and helpful when one is merely 'wanted', assailed him with jeers, carrots, and popular catchwords; past hooting school children, their innocent faces lit up with the pleasure they ever derive from the sight of a gentleman in difficulties ---[CUT]--- past sentries who coughed in a horrid sarcastic way...."
Schoolchildren, carrots, and sarcastic coughing! No one deserves that.
Especially not someone who looks so dashing in tweeds.
Mr. Toad has the kind of bright cheerful optimism that makes you root for him and hope that all ends well, even though you know that his type are disruptive, and usually make a mess of things. Mr. Toad, despite his wealth and his mansion, is the quintessential little guy.
Mr. Toad is, in fact, every man's 'everyman'.
We all wish at times to act like him, and get away with monumental acts of madness.
Poop poop, poop poop!"
At some point today, close your eyes and imagine that you are enjoying a beautiful summer day in England - trees, wildflowers, gentle zephyrs. Indulge your amphibian side.
You will feel much better despite the stock market and the riots.
Please ignore me as I steal your motorcar.
It's for a very good cause.
Poop poop, poop poop!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
An England before the blitz, before the depression.
An England where an individual of Anuritic persuasion could steal a motorcar and drive off, happily going 'poop poop, poop poop' to himself, in cheerful imitation of vehicular noise.
IRREPRESSIBLE AMPHIBIAN
I've always admired mr. Toad. No, not because we are in any way alike - I did not steal a car, though I did crash one, and we shall not speak of the small aircraft - but because of the sheer joyous incorrigibility of the beast.
Mr. Toad is deliciously wicked. In a very innocent sort of way.
Which is why the sentence passed on him is so heart-rending.
"To my mind" observed the Chairman of the Bench of Magistrates cheerfully, "the only difficulty that presents itself in this otherwise very clear case is, how we can possibly make it sufficiently hot for the incorrigible rogue and hardened ruffian whom we see cowering in the dock before us."
Twenty years in the slammer. For a non-violent crime.
"Then the brutal minions of the law fell upon the hapless Toad; loaded him with chains, and dragged him from the Court House, shrieking, praying, protesting; across the market-place, where the playful populace, always as severe upon detected crime as they are sympathetic and helpful when one is merely 'wanted', assailed him with jeers, carrots, and popular catchwords; past hooting school children, their innocent faces lit up with the pleasure they ever derive from the sight of a gentleman in difficulties ---[CUT]--- past sentries who coughed in a horrid sarcastic way...."
Schoolchildren, carrots, and sarcastic coughing! No one deserves that.
Especially not someone who looks so dashing in tweeds.
Mr. Toad has the kind of bright cheerful optimism that makes you root for him and hope that all ends well, even though you know that his type are disruptive, and usually make a mess of things. Mr. Toad, despite his wealth and his mansion, is the quintessential little guy.
Mr. Toad is, in fact, every man's 'everyman'.
We all wish at times to act like him, and get away with monumental acts of madness.
Poop poop, poop poop!"
At some point today, close your eyes and imagine that you are enjoying a beautiful summer day in England - trees, wildflowers, gentle zephyrs. Indulge your amphibian side.
You will feel much better despite the stock market and the riots.
Please ignore me as I steal your motorcar.
It's for a very good cause.
Poop poop, poop poop!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 08, 2011
AN ODD FASCINATION WITH PUDDING
Someone mentioned bread-pudding today. So of course, as the stereo-typical frustrated single male, I automatically thought of breasts. There is a great range of similarity between a fine bread-pudding, and a lovely breast.
Custard.
Not, please understand, the texture or mouthfeel. It's the appearance, and certainly the visual essence.
Mental imagery and tactile things.
I haven't had bread-pudding in so long I cannot even remember what it smells like.
Unlike many males, I am not a bread-pudding man.
Well, not overly so.
To my mind, the ideal serving of bread-pudding is small and diplomatic.
That way, one can have another helping, without feeling bloated or over-indulgent.
You will no doubt grasp that the restaurant chain 'Hooters', which presents both enormous breasts and spicy chicken wings, consequently holds no attraction for me whatsoever.
Chicken wings - feh, I say.
That will not lure me in.
Bread-pudding, on the other hand......
Do they have excellent bread-pudding?
It just might tempt me.
Did I mention that it has been a while?
If some sweet young thing were to offer me bread-pudding, I would lavish her with flowers.
And whipped cream.
Bread-pudding NEEDS whipped cream.
This post should NOT be construed as an obscene proposition.
I would really love some bread-pudding, that's all there is to it.
Don't read anything into this.
Repeat: not obscene!
At all.
Well, except for the whipped cream, that is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Custard.
Not, please understand, the texture or mouthfeel. It's the appearance, and certainly the visual essence.
Mental imagery and tactile things.
I haven't had bread-pudding in so long I cannot even remember what it smells like.
Unlike many males, I am not a bread-pudding man.
Well, not overly so.
To my mind, the ideal serving of bread-pudding is small and diplomatic.
That way, one can have another helping, without feeling bloated or over-indulgent.
You will no doubt grasp that the restaurant chain 'Hooters', which presents both enormous breasts and spicy chicken wings, consequently holds no attraction for me whatsoever.
Chicken wings - feh, I say.
That will not lure me in.
Bread-pudding, on the other hand......
Do they have excellent bread-pudding?
It just might tempt me.
Did I mention that it has been a while?
If some sweet young thing were to offer me bread-pudding, I would lavish her with flowers.
And whipped cream.
Bread-pudding NEEDS whipped cream.
This post should NOT be construed as an obscene proposition.
I would really love some bread-pudding, that's all there is to it.
Don't read anything into this.
Repeat: not obscene!
At all.
Well, except for the whipped cream, that is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MO: TO TOUCH, TO STROKE - SOMETIMES TO COPY OR IMITATE
A friend kindly alerts me to a yearly cultural event of no mean significance. Which, if it were adopted universally, might lead to world peace.
OR social discord on a monumental scale.
Either way, I'm open for experimentation, and I hope you are too.
摸奶節 MO NAI JIT
This, precisely and approximately, is a Chinese regional festival oddly reminiscent of Sadie Hawkins Day, celebrated by members of the Yi ethnic group (彝族) in Ejia village (鄂嘉鎮), located in Yunnan province (雲南), Cho-hung county (楚雄).
The orthodox version of the origin tale of this observance is that so many young men perished during wars fourteen centuries ago that their ghosts threatened to come back and claim brides among the living, by taking ten "untouched" girls to the underworld during the Hungry Ghost Festival.
[Hungry Ghost Festival: 盂蘭盆 (Yu Lan Pun), or 盂蘭節 (Yu Lan Jit). The fourteenth day of the seventh lunar month, which this year falls on August 13th. In Northern China, for some obscure reason, it is one day later. This is when the departed can return to the world, revisiting their old haunts and disturbing the living. Food, drink, and incense are offered to the spirits to appease them, and lucky rituals are performed.]
In order to avoid that fate, local maidens invited men touch their breasts.
Since then, unmarried women from fifteen years of age on up do likewise during the three days of the festival (7/14 - 7/16).
No doubt this is a potent ice-breaker that leads to deep friendship in a number of cases.
"And, now that I have your complete attention....."
Bosom-touching, it happily turns out, invites good luck.
There may be other meanings in the custom that have been obscured over time. Possibly a mass courtship festival, such as some other ethnic groups in Southern China still celebrate, but just as likely a ritual to prevent unmarried women coming back from the dead to claim a man.
According to popular superstition, a woman who commits suicide at night while wearing bridal red can return to the world as a dangerous spirit, wreaking vengeance on those who drove her to desperation. Folk-belief holds that female energies are dangerous, especially if unchecked. And unmarried women are considered both a liability and a socially destructive force in much of East-Asian society.
Whether or not such elements played a part in the origin of this local festival is not really important, however.
What matters is that it prevents ill-fortune, and honours the deceased.
Unattached breasts are being felt for the very best of motives.
In the interests of both scientific inquiry and social harmony I propose that this festival be adopted for a trial period here in the Bay Area.
Let's see how it works out.
It might promote peace.
Worth trying, at least.
* * * * *
摸 MO: Touch gently, stroke, feel the pulse, fondle.
摹 MO: Copy, imitate. Sometimes also 摸.
奶 NAI: Milk. Dairy product. Breast, mammary gland.
節 JIT: Node in bamboo. Section. Festival.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
OR social discord on a monumental scale.
Either way, I'm open for experimentation, and I hope you are too.
摸奶節 MO NAI JIT
This, precisely and approximately, is a Chinese regional festival oddly reminiscent of Sadie Hawkins Day, celebrated by members of the Yi ethnic group (彝族) in Ejia village (鄂嘉鎮), located in Yunnan province (雲南), Cho-hung county (楚雄).
The orthodox version of the origin tale of this observance is that so many young men perished during wars fourteen centuries ago that their ghosts threatened to come back and claim brides among the living, by taking ten "untouched" girls to the underworld during the Hungry Ghost Festival.
[Hungry Ghost Festival: 盂蘭盆 (Yu Lan Pun), or 盂蘭節 (Yu Lan Jit). The fourteenth day of the seventh lunar month, which this year falls on August 13th. In Northern China, for some obscure reason, it is one day later. This is when the departed can return to the world, revisiting their old haunts and disturbing the living. Food, drink, and incense are offered to the spirits to appease them, and lucky rituals are performed.]
In order to avoid that fate, local maidens invited men touch their breasts.
Since then, unmarried women from fifteen years of age on up do likewise during the three days of the festival (7/14 - 7/16).
No doubt this is a potent ice-breaker that leads to deep friendship in a number of cases.
"And, now that I have your complete attention....."
Bosom-touching, it happily turns out, invites good luck.
There may be other meanings in the custom that have been obscured over time. Possibly a mass courtship festival, such as some other ethnic groups in Southern China still celebrate, but just as likely a ritual to prevent unmarried women coming back from the dead to claim a man.
According to popular superstition, a woman who commits suicide at night while wearing bridal red can return to the world as a dangerous spirit, wreaking vengeance on those who drove her to desperation. Folk-belief holds that female energies are dangerous, especially if unchecked. And unmarried women are considered both a liability and a socially destructive force in much of East-Asian society.
Whether or not such elements played a part in the origin of this local festival is not really important, however.
What matters is that it prevents ill-fortune, and honours the deceased.
Unattached breasts are being felt for the very best of motives.
In the interests of both scientific inquiry and social harmony I propose that this festival be adopted for a trial period here in the Bay Area.
Let's see how it works out.
It might promote peace.
Worth trying, at least.
* * * * *
摸 MO: Touch gently, stroke, feel the pulse, fondle.
摹 MO: Copy, imitate. Sometimes also 摸.
奶 NAI: Milk. Dairy product. Breast, mammary gland.
節 JIT: Node in bamboo. Section. Festival.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, August 07, 2011
FRUITS AND NUTS
The strangest thing was where the conversation occurred. One does not expect to engage savage puritans in a bar. Really, do you associate liquor with stern disapproval?
But a warm brandy is medicinal after an enervating day. Especially one in which the fog rolls in early and obscures the edifying sight of Alcatraz, where people who richly deserved that fate spend the rest of their lives thinking over what they have done, the crimes that brought them to that place.
These two tourists had unwisely saved the wharf and the splendid view of our most notorious jail for last.
Wicked San Francisco weather robbed them, and it was cold!
He was a lay-preacher from Missouri. She was his mother. Together they were visiting San Francisco for the first time, to see badness up close.
Or at least that's what I got out of his grumbled responses. He was not happy to be here. So from my point of view, given his radiant disapproval of everything good and bright, his vacation was a resounding success.
I wished them both a truly splendid time in San Francisco, knowing that it would make them miserable.
CULINARY CAPITAL
Apparently, one of our many grievous mistakes is not only tolerating heterodox cuisines, but encouraging them. Civilized people might indulge in Spaghetti Bolognese on a night when the stove was out, but several of our favourites here are so exotic and inhuman as to be depraved. As examples, he mentioned Chinese food, Thai food, and Japanese. Totally inedible! He was despondent about us and our decadence.
See, strong flavours excite the passions and inflame the membranes, and make our juices thicken.
Unlike food in Missouri, I guess. Which probably leaves one cold and limp.
I took issue with his assertion that Chinese food inflamed membranes, and bought him another Brandy to co-opt him into continuing the conversation. His mother looked grim at this point, so I excited her passions with some more of the bar's fine coffee.
She remarked that she NEVER drank coffee in the evening, it kept her up.
You're in San Francisco, ma'am. Live a little.
Spices, he asserted, as well as overly rich meats, and strong seafoods, all worked on the hormones and the endocrines - too much was sure to bring illness and depravity. Especially seafood! The proof was all around us, why, San Francisco was FILLED with homosexuals and bestialists!
I will admit that I am fond of the word 'bestialist', because it sounds so close to 'pastoralist' - undoubtedly in the more hinterland portions of the country there is a close overlap - and, as do many urbanites, I fantasize about a return to gentler simpler times, when we all baled hay, ate meatloaf, and lived in Missouri.
I told him so, while helpfully pointing out that there were hardly any beasts in San Francisco, ergo precious few bestialists.
That, it turns out, is where homosexuals come in. Homosexual behaviours are a substitute for bestial practices, and he blamed it ALL on the food.
Chinese cuisine, Thai cuisine, and Japanese cuisine - all overloaded with rich seafoods. That's why San Francisco was sick, it was the Asians and their food, and you could tell it by their squinting eyes. They were just loaded with all kinds of foreign perversions, homosexuals and bestialists all!
When I pointed out that the huge number of Asian American children in the city rather indicated that non-standard sexual practices might not be as common among the fish-eaters as he thought, he muttered something about 'adoption' and life-style choices.
Things are not always what they seem.
He knew. I didn't.
For clean sober living, nothing beat fresh fruits, vegetables, and nuts. All the vitamins a man needed were in those three. Beef, pork, eggs, and dairy provided necessary energy and protein.
But one shouldn't overdo it.
Seafood, especially, was an effete and dangerous source of animal fibre.
I beckoned the flamingly gay bartender over and indicated that we were dry as he said this, and without missing a beat or even noticing that he was now on his third brandy, mister Missouri continued his 'instruction'. His mother was entranced by her son's brilliant eloquence, and on her second cup of coffee - she too was unaware of the refill.
While he wasn't entirely on board with fruits and nuts, he stated that despite their excessive and concentrated taste, they packed a lot of nutrition - again he mentioned 'endocrines' - and unlike slimy suggestive fish, fruits and nuts were totally innocent.
"Fruits and nuts, innocent? I beg to differ!"
He asked why - fruits and nuts spoke of childhood joys and clean-living!
"Exactly! There is nothing so self-indulgent and sexual as a fruit!"
He blanched, and took a gulp of his brandy. What one earth was I on about, he demanded to know, surely I was barking mad?
I pointed out that fruits are intensely pleasurable, and the mouth is the most sexualized, nay, sinful of organs. Seduction and lust issue forth from the oral cavity; the mouth itself is warmly symbolic of passion and temptation.
"Just imagine moist ruby lips enfolding a fruit, savouring the juices! Firm apples, sinfully explicit - have another brandy - pears, like fresh firm...... and more coffee over here! - ripe mangoes even more so, and plumply erotic besides. Peaches! Fresh, fragrant peaches! With their downy feminine skin!"
He and his mother looked distressed. This was not how the lecture was supposed to go. Clearly, the well-practiced rhetorical routine had gone amiss.
"Guavas, frankly erotic, to be eaten and savoured! Papaya, just soft enough to remind the fertile mind of tactile things, graspy longing!"
Was there no limit to the lust I saw in fruit?
"None. All fruits are reminders of sex, they resemble reproductive organs and erogenous zones, and the essential props exaggerate it all!"
Props? Props?
"Damask tablecloths, the veritable bedsheets of sensuous eating! Stiffly starched napkins, to wipe juices off your flushed face. Fruit knives, to open and spread the inviting flesh!
Polished table legs, curvaceous and feely. Oh hot mouth, stroke!"
Huh? What?
And worst of all, warm golden pastries enfolding them, with creams and sauces. Imagine firm purple plums, fully ripe with taught skins, in a nest of fresh-baked warmth, the crumbs rich and buttery - your crimson lips open to receive the naughty fruit, sucking the skin off and licking its silky sweet flesh, that glistens wetly... so tempting, so tempting.....
At this point both of them hurriedly finished their drinks and got up. The conversation, they made clear, was over. Why heavens look at the time!
Thank you good bye.
I pursued them out the door, wailing about sweet gooey custard sauce erupting from my flaky fruit pocket, my warm cream for dipping strawberries, vanilla ice cream melting over my juicy poached pears - floods and waves of sweetness, melting, melting, melting....
"And you're sucking it all down on a high speed train, shooting through the wet wet night like the banana of god!"
I don't know why I said that last bit, it made absolutely NO sense.
It added energy and panic to their exit.
When the cold night air hit them, I could tell that the four stiff brandies suddenly took their full effect. He could barely walk straight.
Perhaps he shouldn't have tried running.
He might not have smacked into the brick wall.
Or the cement.
I'm sure he and his mom will remember San Francisco.
Given how much coffee the old lady drank, she's going to be up all night.
Maybe she'll finally be asleep by the time his hangover kicks in.
That will be good, won't it?
I like spreading happiness and joy, I really do.
Just think of what they can tell the folks back home about our fair city!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But a warm brandy is medicinal after an enervating day. Especially one in which the fog rolls in early and obscures the edifying sight of Alcatraz, where people who richly deserved that fate spend the rest of their lives thinking over what they have done, the crimes that brought them to that place.
These two tourists had unwisely saved the wharf and the splendid view of our most notorious jail for last.
Wicked San Francisco weather robbed them, and it was cold!
He was a lay-preacher from Missouri. She was his mother. Together they were visiting San Francisco for the first time, to see badness up close.
Or at least that's what I got out of his grumbled responses. He was not happy to be here. So from my point of view, given his radiant disapproval of everything good and bright, his vacation was a resounding success.
I wished them both a truly splendid time in San Francisco, knowing that it would make them miserable.
CULINARY CAPITAL
Apparently, one of our many grievous mistakes is not only tolerating heterodox cuisines, but encouraging them. Civilized people might indulge in Spaghetti Bolognese on a night when the stove was out, but several of our favourites here are so exotic and inhuman as to be depraved. As examples, he mentioned Chinese food, Thai food, and Japanese. Totally inedible! He was despondent about us and our decadence.
See, strong flavours excite the passions and inflame the membranes, and make our juices thicken.
Unlike food in Missouri, I guess. Which probably leaves one cold and limp.
I took issue with his assertion that Chinese food inflamed membranes, and bought him another Brandy to co-opt him into continuing the conversation. His mother looked grim at this point, so I excited her passions with some more of the bar's fine coffee.
She remarked that she NEVER drank coffee in the evening, it kept her up.
You're in San Francisco, ma'am. Live a little.
Spices, he asserted, as well as overly rich meats, and strong seafoods, all worked on the hormones and the endocrines - too much was sure to bring illness and depravity. Especially seafood! The proof was all around us, why, San Francisco was FILLED with homosexuals and bestialists!
I will admit that I am fond of the word 'bestialist', because it sounds so close to 'pastoralist' - undoubtedly in the more hinterland portions of the country there is a close overlap - and, as do many urbanites, I fantasize about a return to gentler simpler times, when we all baled hay, ate meatloaf, and lived in Missouri.
I told him so, while helpfully pointing out that there were hardly any beasts in San Francisco, ergo precious few bestialists.
That, it turns out, is where homosexuals come in. Homosexual behaviours are a substitute for bestial practices, and he blamed it ALL on the food.
Chinese cuisine, Thai cuisine, and Japanese cuisine - all overloaded with rich seafoods. That's why San Francisco was sick, it was the Asians and their food, and you could tell it by their squinting eyes. They were just loaded with all kinds of foreign perversions, homosexuals and bestialists all!
When I pointed out that the huge number of Asian American children in the city rather indicated that non-standard sexual practices might not be as common among the fish-eaters as he thought, he muttered something about 'adoption' and life-style choices.
Things are not always what they seem.
He knew. I didn't.
For clean sober living, nothing beat fresh fruits, vegetables, and nuts. All the vitamins a man needed were in those three. Beef, pork, eggs, and dairy provided necessary energy and protein.
But one shouldn't overdo it.
Seafood, especially, was an effete and dangerous source of animal fibre.
I beckoned the flamingly gay bartender over and indicated that we were dry as he said this, and without missing a beat or even noticing that he was now on his third brandy, mister Missouri continued his 'instruction'. His mother was entranced by her son's brilliant eloquence, and on her second cup of coffee - she too was unaware of the refill.
While he wasn't entirely on board with fruits and nuts, he stated that despite their excessive and concentrated taste, they packed a lot of nutrition - again he mentioned 'endocrines' - and unlike slimy suggestive fish, fruits and nuts were totally innocent.
"Fruits and nuts, innocent? I beg to differ!"
He asked why - fruits and nuts spoke of childhood joys and clean-living!
"Exactly! There is nothing so self-indulgent and sexual as a fruit!"
He blanched, and took a gulp of his brandy. What one earth was I on about, he demanded to know, surely I was barking mad?
I pointed out that fruits are intensely pleasurable, and the mouth is the most sexualized, nay, sinful of organs. Seduction and lust issue forth from the oral cavity; the mouth itself is warmly symbolic of passion and temptation.
"Just imagine moist ruby lips enfolding a fruit, savouring the juices! Firm apples, sinfully explicit - have another brandy - pears, like fresh firm...... and more coffee over here! - ripe mangoes even more so, and plumply erotic besides. Peaches! Fresh, fragrant peaches! With their downy feminine skin!"
He and his mother looked distressed. This was not how the lecture was supposed to go. Clearly, the well-practiced rhetorical routine had gone amiss.
"Guavas, frankly erotic, to be eaten and savoured! Papaya, just soft enough to remind the fertile mind of tactile things, graspy longing!"
Was there no limit to the lust I saw in fruit?
"None. All fruits are reminders of sex, they resemble reproductive organs and erogenous zones, and the essential props exaggerate it all!"
Props? Props?
"Damask tablecloths, the veritable bedsheets of sensuous eating! Stiffly starched napkins, to wipe juices off your flushed face. Fruit knives, to open and spread the inviting flesh!
Polished table legs, curvaceous and feely. Oh hot mouth, stroke!"
Huh? What?
And worst of all, warm golden pastries enfolding them, with creams and sauces. Imagine firm purple plums, fully ripe with taught skins, in a nest of fresh-baked warmth, the crumbs rich and buttery - your crimson lips open to receive the naughty fruit, sucking the skin off and licking its silky sweet flesh, that glistens wetly... so tempting, so tempting.....
At this point both of them hurriedly finished their drinks and got up. The conversation, they made clear, was over. Why heavens look at the time!
Thank you good bye.
I pursued them out the door, wailing about sweet gooey custard sauce erupting from my flaky fruit pocket, my warm cream for dipping strawberries, vanilla ice cream melting over my juicy poached pears - floods and waves of sweetness, melting, melting, melting....
"And you're sucking it all down on a high speed train, shooting through the wet wet night like the banana of god!"
I don't know why I said that last bit, it made absolutely NO sense.
It added energy and panic to their exit.
When the cold night air hit them, I could tell that the four stiff brandies suddenly took their full effect. He could barely walk straight.
Perhaps he shouldn't have tried running.
He might not have smacked into the brick wall.
Or the cement.
I'm sure he and his mom will remember San Francisco.
Given how much coffee the old lady drank, she's going to be up all night.
Maybe she'll finally be asleep by the time his hangover kicks in.
That will be good, won't it?
I like spreading happiness and joy, I really do.
Just think of what they can tell the folks back home about our fair city!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 06, 2011
KWUN TONG - HONG KONG'S CHANGING ORIGINAL SUBURB, PLUS A RESTAURANT
Kwun Tong is different, it isn't as you remember it.
Back in the fifties and sixties this was a newly developed residential and industrial suburb of Hong Kong, one of the very first built-up areas outside of Kowloon. Many apartment buildings were thrown up to provide housing for the influx of people from the mainland and the countryside who came to HK, and a multitude of factories employed many of them at fairly low wages.
You may recall cheap plastic flowers (膠花) in the sixties? They came from here.
This is where the Hong Kong plastic industry found its surest foothold, and most of the companies that remain in Kwun Tong still manufacture plastics, as well as consumer electronics, computer parts, and utilitarian objects.
[Kwun Tong (觀塘): "view ponds", formerly Kun Tong ('official ponds' 官塘). Originally an area of salt pans across the water from Tsimshatsui (尖沙嘴), which is on the western spur of the Kowloon Peninsula (九龍半島).]
Housing estates were built along the upper levels, facing Kai Tak (啟德機場 'kai tak kei-cheung'), but also in the flat zone along the typhoon shelter which separated Kwun Tong from Kai Tak.
The early multi-storey apartment blocks were miserable, horribly small, with shared bathrooms, kitchens, and washing areas. Many people lived crowded together in what were "affectionately" described as 雞寮 ('kai liu'): chicken coops.
During the early years, because of overcrowding and a lack of basic facilities, the roofs of many buildings were used for recreation and as school rooms.
Many of the older buildings have been torn down and replaced, and the airport ceased operating in 1998.
The whole area is now being 'renewed'.
Most of the locals are not very excited about that.
觀塘區
KWUN TONG KUI - KWUN TONG DISTRICT
From Ngau Tau Kok (牛頭角 'cow head horn') to Lam Tin (藍田 'blue field'): from the granite quarries and Amoy Brand Soy Sauce to the salt fields and the Lei Yue Mun (鯉魚門 'Carp Gate') highway interchange.
[Note that Lam Tin used to be called Ham Tin (鹹田): salty fields. Housing estates were built on the cerrito overlooking the coastal flats here.]
The older industrial area is a long grim rectangular stretch alongside the typhoon shelter, right across a narrow body of water from Kai Tak. It consists of fairly narrow streets, multi-storey factory buildings, cement apartment blocks, and broader commercial cross-roads leading to the housing estates on the upper levels. This neighborhood forms what could be called the third point of the triangle, the other points being Ngau Tau Kok and Lam Tin.
Tai Yip Street (大業街) crosses Kai Fuk Road (啟福道) before it turns into Kwun Tong Road (觀塘道). Tai Yip runs from north west to south east, parallel to the harbour and Kai Tak Airport. There's an interruption of three blocks, whereupon as if continuing Tai Yip Street, Hung To Road (鴻圖道) commences in the same direction, parallel to Wai Yip Street (偉業街) and Hoi Bun Road (海濱道), each nearer the water.
Between Kwun Tong Road and Hoi Bun Road, are a huge number of older commercial and factory buildings, within several blocks around the Tsun Yip Street Playground (駿業街遊樂場). The southeastern edge of this zone is the Kwun Tong Bypass (觀塘繞道), where it has turned east and heads towards Lei Yue Mun Road (鯉魚門道). The curve of Kwun Tong Bypass is roughly parallel to the southern end of Kai Tak, where the Kwun Tong Typhoon Shelter (觀塘避風) terminates.
To the immediate south of the area thus demarcated are the Sai Tso Wan Recreation Ground (晒草灣遊樂場) and Cha Kwo Ling (茶果嶺 'tea fruit peak').
There's a Seven Eleven near the corner of Tsun Yip Street (駿業街) and Hung To Road (鴻圖道). Across Tsun Yip is the 'East Harbour Seafood Restaurant' (Tung Kong Hoi Sien Jau Lau 東港海鮮酒樓) on the right hand side (east), and Wing Wah Mechanical Co. Ltd (榮華電工材料有限公司) on the left corner (west).
The area immediately surrounding Nanyang Plaza (南洋廣場) looks grungy as all git-out, although the Nanyang Plaza Building itself is rather impressive. This area mostly consists of multi-storey factories, warehouse and commercial spaces, and electronics businesses. After two long blocks Hung To Road crosses Hoi Yuen Road (開源道), proceeding one more block to King Yip Street, just before the Kwun Tong Bypass. At the end of the block, opposite the Yue Xiu Industrial Building, on the right hand side are two restaurants - the Hap Lei Hoi Sien Jau Ka (合利海鮮酒家), the San Ming Yuen Jau Ka (新明園酒家).
[The Cantonese term 'hoisin' (海鮮) means 'sea fresh'. It is one of the most important expressions in this food-obsessed culture.]
If you wish to park anywhere on the street here, good 你嘅 luck, ha?
It's entirely impossible!
There's a brand new promenade along Hoi Bun Road (海濱道) at the water's edge if you need a break from drear and drab. But getting there takes a little strategizing. And quite a few of the natives haven't ever been there.
You can see Tsimshatsui across the water, and also Central on Hong Kong Island to the south, dimly through the air pollution.
裕民坊與銀都戲院
YUE MAN SQUARE & SILVER CITY MOVIE THEATRE
The centre of town, east of the industrial stretch and north of all the fancy new housing developments and shopping centres is the area around Yue Man Square, where you will find most of the older business patronized by long-time residents.
The entire area is being renewed, and will have changed considerably in a few years, although there is a growing consciousness of the importance of local colour and tradition.
One 'landmark' which bit the dust is the old Silver City Theatre (銀都戲院) on Fu Yan street (輔仁街) at the west side of Yue Man Square (裕民坊), which had a run of forty six years before closing its doors forever in July 2009. Up until the mid-nineties, it showed mostly mainland movies, having no truck with the glib products churned out by Hong Kong studios, but declining attendance, changing audience patterns, and above all video tapes and later discs put paid to what had once been a thriving and beloved entertainment center.
Many old-timers fondly remember sneaking in as children, and occasionally drunks would doss down in the seats to sleep off their liquor.
It, too, is slated for 'renewal'.
上海榮華川菜館
SEUNG HOI WING WAH CHUEN TSOI KOON
The Shanghai Wing Wah Szechuan Restaurant
Ground Floor, 15 Shung Yan Street, Kwun Tong.
[觀塘, 崇仁街 15號, 地下]
This long-established business is small, but quite good. It's on the corner of Fu Yan Street and a nondescript alley way (崇仁街 Shung Yan Street), right were Fu Yan Street turns west, on the ground floor of a twelve or thirteen storey old-style apartment building, right next to a Yunnan eatery, opposite grocery stores and a meat market. This, really, is home turf for many people. The red-topped bus lines go up this street from Yue Man Square.
It's barely a five minute walk from the old Silver City Theatre.
Family run, clean, fast, and often very busy. But the prices are reasonable, and the food is excellent.
Expect to pay between HK$ 30 to 60 for lunch, between HK$ 75 and 150 for dinner.
One thing you MUST try are the Shanghai Soup Dumplings (小籠包). They are known for them.
Shanghai Soup Dumplings are one of those things people will passionately disagree about, but the plain fact of the matter is that speed is the essential quality. If it takes too long to dish them up, the hot broth will have melded into the dough. Either way, there will be a bone-soup taste to the item.
Lovely when hot, gummy when cold.
RECOMMENDED DISHES
豆沙窩餅 Fried Sweet Bean-paste Fold-overs. Very Shanghainese!
東坡肉 Tung-Po Pork (slow cooked long and fragrant, served over tender fresh baby bokchoi).
回鍋肉 Twice-cooked Pork - a superior version.
砂鍋雲吞雞 Clay Pot Wonton Chicken.
擔擔麵 Tan Tan Noodles. Superior, but something I'm particularly fond of.
酸辣湯 Hot and Sour Soup - extremely popular here.
紅燒獅子頭 Savoury Braised Large Meat Balls.
乾扁四季豆 Spicy Dry-fried Stringbeans.
八寶茶 Eight Treasure Tea (hot) - very popular.
糖醋魚柳 Sweet and Sour Willow-fish.
糖醋排骨 Sweet and Sour Spare Ribs.
紅油抄手 Red Oil Dumplings - a famous Szechuanese variation on wonton.
口水雞 Poached & Sauced Chicken.
花雕醉雞 Drunken Chicken (made with Fa Diu ricewine) - very highly recommended.
蒜泥白肉 Garlic Sauce Poached Pork (cold) - very old-fashioned and delicious.
奶油津白 Tientsin Cabbage in Cream Sauce garnished with Chinhua Ham - old school, excellent.
糖醋魚塊 Sweet and Sour Fish Chunks.
麻婆豆腐 Ma Po Toufu - an old stand-by.
雞絲粉皮 Chicken Shred Pale Ribbon Noodle.
宮保雞丁 Kung Pao Chicken - a safe standard.
LAGNIAPPE - THE TSIM CHAI KEE RESTAURANT IN CENTRAL
沾仔記 Tsim Chai Kee Noodle
Shop B, G/F Jade Centre, 98 Wellington Street, Central
[中環, 威靈頓街 98號, 地下]
Black sign, gold characters. Lunch time line outside.
Recommended Dishes:
鯪魚球雲吞 Ling-fish balls with wonton
牛肉河招牌雲吞麵 Beef brisket house special wonton noodles
鮮蝦雲吞麵 Fresh shrimp wonton noodles
A friend came back from Hong Kong, and tells me that while Mak's wonton are good, Jim's shrimp wonton are much better.
Quote: "biggest darn shrimp EVER! Ho taai-ge, ho mei-ge, sahp fan ji sahp SAN-SIEN" (very big, very tasty, one hundred percent FRESH).
I'll take his word for it. Sometime I'll have to try them myself.
But I do wish he wasn't quite so boastful and gloating over his discovery.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Back in the fifties and sixties this was a newly developed residential and industrial suburb of Hong Kong, one of the very first built-up areas outside of Kowloon. Many apartment buildings were thrown up to provide housing for the influx of people from the mainland and the countryside who came to HK, and a multitude of factories employed many of them at fairly low wages.
You may recall cheap plastic flowers (膠花) in the sixties? They came from here.
This is where the Hong Kong plastic industry found its surest foothold, and most of the companies that remain in Kwun Tong still manufacture plastics, as well as consumer electronics, computer parts, and utilitarian objects.
[Kwun Tong (觀塘): "view ponds", formerly Kun Tong ('official ponds' 官塘). Originally an area of salt pans across the water from Tsimshatsui (尖沙嘴), which is on the western spur of the Kowloon Peninsula (九龍半島).]
Housing estates were built along the upper levels, facing Kai Tak (啟德機場 'kai tak kei-cheung'), but also in the flat zone along the typhoon shelter which separated Kwun Tong from Kai Tak.
The early multi-storey apartment blocks were miserable, horribly small, with shared bathrooms, kitchens, and washing areas. Many people lived crowded together in what were "affectionately" described as 雞寮 ('kai liu'): chicken coops.
During the early years, because of overcrowding and a lack of basic facilities, the roofs of many buildings were used for recreation and as school rooms.
Many of the older buildings have been torn down and replaced, and the airport ceased operating in 1998.
The whole area is now being 'renewed'.
Most of the locals are not very excited about that.
觀塘區
KWUN TONG KUI - KWUN TONG DISTRICT
From Ngau Tau Kok (牛頭角 'cow head horn') to Lam Tin (藍田 'blue field'): from the granite quarries and Amoy Brand Soy Sauce to the salt fields and the Lei Yue Mun (鯉魚門 'Carp Gate') highway interchange.
[Note that Lam Tin used to be called Ham Tin (鹹田): salty fields. Housing estates were built on the cerrito overlooking the coastal flats here.]
The older industrial area is a long grim rectangular stretch alongside the typhoon shelter, right across a narrow body of water from Kai Tak. It consists of fairly narrow streets, multi-storey factory buildings, cement apartment blocks, and broader commercial cross-roads leading to the housing estates on the upper levels. This neighborhood forms what could be called the third point of the triangle, the other points being Ngau Tau Kok and Lam Tin.
Tai Yip Street (大業街) crosses Kai Fuk Road (啟福道) before it turns into Kwun Tong Road (觀塘道). Tai Yip runs from north west to south east, parallel to the harbour and Kai Tak Airport. There's an interruption of three blocks, whereupon as if continuing Tai Yip Street, Hung To Road (鴻圖道) commences in the same direction, parallel to Wai Yip Street (偉業街) and Hoi Bun Road (海濱道), each nearer the water.
Between Kwun Tong Road and Hoi Bun Road, are a huge number of older commercial and factory buildings, within several blocks around the Tsun Yip Street Playground (駿業街遊樂場). The southeastern edge of this zone is the Kwun Tong Bypass (觀塘繞道), where it has turned east and heads towards Lei Yue Mun Road (鯉魚門道). The curve of Kwun Tong Bypass is roughly parallel to the southern end of Kai Tak, where the Kwun Tong Typhoon Shelter (觀塘避風) terminates.
To the immediate south of the area thus demarcated are the Sai Tso Wan Recreation Ground (晒草灣遊樂場) and Cha Kwo Ling (茶果嶺 'tea fruit peak').
There's a Seven Eleven near the corner of Tsun Yip Street (駿業街) and Hung To Road (鴻圖道). Across Tsun Yip is the 'East Harbour Seafood Restaurant' (Tung Kong Hoi Sien Jau Lau 東港海鮮酒樓) on the right hand side (east), and Wing Wah Mechanical Co. Ltd (榮華電工材料有限公司) on the left corner (west).
The area immediately surrounding Nanyang Plaza (南洋廣場) looks grungy as all git-out, although the Nanyang Plaza Building itself is rather impressive. This area mostly consists of multi-storey factories, warehouse and commercial spaces, and electronics businesses. After two long blocks Hung To Road crosses Hoi Yuen Road (開源道), proceeding one more block to King Yip Street, just before the Kwun Tong Bypass. At the end of the block, opposite the Yue Xiu Industrial Building, on the right hand side are two restaurants - the Hap Lei Hoi Sien Jau Ka (合利海鮮酒家), the San Ming Yuen Jau Ka (新明園酒家).
[The Cantonese term 'hoisin' (海鮮) means 'sea fresh'. It is one of the most important expressions in this food-obsessed culture.]
If you wish to park anywhere on the street here, good 你嘅 luck, ha?
It's entirely impossible!
There's a brand new promenade along Hoi Bun Road (海濱道) at the water's edge if you need a break from drear and drab. But getting there takes a little strategizing. And quite a few of the natives haven't ever been there.
You can see Tsimshatsui across the water, and also Central on Hong Kong Island to the south, dimly through the air pollution.
裕民坊與銀都戲院
YUE MAN SQUARE & SILVER CITY MOVIE THEATRE
The centre of town, east of the industrial stretch and north of all the fancy new housing developments and shopping centres is the area around Yue Man Square, where you will find most of the older business patronized by long-time residents.
The entire area is being renewed, and will have changed considerably in a few years, although there is a growing consciousness of the importance of local colour and tradition.
One 'landmark' which bit the dust is the old Silver City Theatre (銀都戲院) on Fu Yan street (輔仁街) at the west side of Yue Man Square (裕民坊), which had a run of forty six years before closing its doors forever in July 2009. Up until the mid-nineties, it showed mostly mainland movies, having no truck with the glib products churned out by Hong Kong studios, but declining attendance, changing audience patterns, and above all video tapes and later discs put paid to what had once been a thriving and beloved entertainment center.
Many old-timers fondly remember sneaking in as children, and occasionally drunks would doss down in the seats to sleep off their liquor.
It, too, is slated for 'renewal'.
上海榮華川菜館
SEUNG HOI WING WAH CHUEN TSOI KOON
The Shanghai Wing Wah Szechuan Restaurant
Ground Floor, 15 Shung Yan Street, Kwun Tong.
[觀塘, 崇仁街 15號, 地下]
This long-established business is small, but quite good. It's on the corner of Fu Yan Street and a nondescript alley way (崇仁街 Shung Yan Street), right were Fu Yan Street turns west, on the ground floor of a twelve or thirteen storey old-style apartment building, right next to a Yunnan eatery, opposite grocery stores and a meat market. This, really, is home turf for many people. The red-topped bus lines go up this street from Yue Man Square.
It's barely a five minute walk from the old Silver City Theatre.
Family run, clean, fast, and often very busy. But the prices are reasonable, and the food is excellent.
Expect to pay between HK$ 30 to 60 for lunch, between HK$ 75 and 150 for dinner.
One thing you MUST try are the Shanghai Soup Dumplings (小籠包). They are known for them.
Shanghai Soup Dumplings are one of those things people will passionately disagree about, but the plain fact of the matter is that speed is the essential quality. If it takes too long to dish them up, the hot broth will have melded into the dough. Either way, there will be a bone-soup taste to the item.
Lovely when hot, gummy when cold.
RECOMMENDED DISHES
豆沙窩餅 Fried Sweet Bean-paste Fold-overs. Very Shanghainese!
東坡肉 Tung-Po Pork (slow cooked long and fragrant, served over tender fresh baby bokchoi).
回鍋肉 Twice-cooked Pork - a superior version.
砂鍋雲吞雞 Clay Pot Wonton Chicken.
擔擔麵 Tan Tan Noodles. Superior, but something I'm particularly fond of.
酸辣湯 Hot and Sour Soup - extremely popular here.
紅燒獅子頭 Savoury Braised Large Meat Balls.
乾扁四季豆 Spicy Dry-fried Stringbeans.
八寶茶 Eight Treasure Tea (hot) - very popular.
糖醋魚柳 Sweet and Sour Willow-fish.
糖醋排骨 Sweet and Sour Spare Ribs.
紅油抄手 Red Oil Dumplings - a famous Szechuanese variation on wonton.
口水雞 Poached & Sauced Chicken.
花雕醉雞 Drunken Chicken (made with Fa Diu ricewine) - very highly recommended.
蒜泥白肉 Garlic Sauce Poached Pork (cold) - very old-fashioned and delicious.
奶油津白 Tientsin Cabbage in Cream Sauce garnished with Chinhua Ham - old school, excellent.
糖醋魚塊 Sweet and Sour Fish Chunks.
麻婆豆腐 Ma Po Toufu - an old stand-by.
雞絲粉皮 Chicken Shred Pale Ribbon Noodle.
宮保雞丁 Kung Pao Chicken - a safe standard.
LAGNIAPPE - THE TSIM CHAI KEE RESTAURANT IN CENTRAL
沾仔記 Tsim Chai Kee Noodle
Shop B, G/F Jade Centre, 98 Wellington Street, Central
[中環, 威靈頓街 98號, 地下]
Black sign, gold characters. Lunch time line outside.
Recommended Dishes:
鯪魚球雲吞 Ling-fish balls with wonton
牛肉河招牌雲吞麵 Beef brisket house special wonton noodles
鮮蝦雲吞麵 Fresh shrimp wonton noodles
A friend came back from Hong Kong, and tells me that while Mak's wonton are good, Jim's shrimp wonton are much better.
Quote: "biggest darn shrimp EVER! Ho taai-ge, ho mei-ge, sahp fan ji sahp SAN-SIEN" (very big, very tasty, one hundred percent FRESH).
I'll take his word for it. Sometime I'll have to try them myself.
But I do wish he wasn't quite so boastful and gloating over his discovery.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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