It woke me during the night. But I am far more able to tolerate the problem now than years ago, and it never truly irritated me. It is actually something that I find pleasant as well as amusing. Persistent at the time, yet sporadic.
I have no clue what the bird is, but as it remains invisible, I shall probably never know. The range of vocalizations can be quite enormous, and there have been nights that it seemed, judging by the rapidity, shrillness, and variety of its calls, to be quite staggeringly insane.
Perhaps it is a mocking bird.
Perhaps it is stoned on pyracantha berries.
Both of these two perhapses are quite speculative.
Several years ago the noisy little bugger kept up its racket from around ten in the evening till five thirty or six in the morning, several working days in succession. It is very likely that nobody on our block got a good night's sleep that week.
"Chirp chirp chirp, tweeky tweeky tweeky, eeeeeeeeeeeee! "
Mocking birds live several years, even up to two decades in captivity. If this is the same mockingbird as then, we have a sadist nearby who must relish interrupting the repose of two or three hundred people. Which is likely, yes, because the night-time noises can often be quite staggering, but caging a mockingbird to torment the neighborhood for one or two weeks during breeding season is far too creative for most late night brutalists.
Even when it is time to mate.
Perverse, too.
It also does it during the day, without sounding shagged out at all. It has an almost daemonic endurance, and may keep it up for another thirty or forty hours. Don't know. It's supernaturally cheerful. As if possessed.
Again: I don't known if it is actually a mocking bird, whether it gorged on pyracantha berries, or in fact whether any of this is related to the mocking bird sexual cycle. For all I know, it's an angry thrush, pissed at one of the local tenants, and determined to exact a toll on the offending human.
What and who ever the case, it is a regular cheeky little b@$tard.
"Warble warble warble, twitter, wee-oo, wee-oo, ookie!"
It's happily making noise as I write.
Has been vocal all night.
Last week too.
DO YOU DREAM OF ELECTRONIC BEEPING?
I can sleep through the noise now -- heck, I could sleep through an artillery barrage at this point, having tolerated any amount of absurd disturbances while living in North Beach and points further tropical -- but I wonder how the newer arrivals in this neighborhood are taking it. Do dot com yuppies actually come from places where nature calls? Or were they carefully nurtured in sterile environments that lacked an animalistic element?
Judging by they're own behaviours, probably the latter.
They animalize so very badly themselves.
Drunk by nine, comatose by one.
Oblivious 24 seven.
Twitter.
I like the conceptualization, whichever way it swings. On one wing, a randy featherball establishing his territory and attracting a suitable mate, so that rambunctious procreation may take place over successive nights and a new generation of vocal heroes and heroines shall arise, OR a furious small bird thinking "give me some of that pizza, drunken twenty-something e-human, or I will find out where you live and keep you up all night by hanging around outside your bedroom window and insulting you while it is dark and you are helpless".
The bird is a champion, however the facts.
I'm leaving some pizza out tonight.
As a greasy encouragement.
Rewarding wildness.
'Cheese-pah'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 17, 2014
Sunday, March 16, 2014
LITTLE BLACK FEET, LITTLE BLACK FEET!
Don't ask me why I was reading about ferrets. There may be a link to one of my favourite books -- The Wind in the Willows -- but I'm sure it's merely subconscious, not on the front of any lobe.
Ferrets. Weasels. Stoats. And mink.
Polecats, martens, et autres.
One of which is the negripedal mustelid.
Or, as you may know it, the black-footed ferret.
A small wriggly carnivore which decimates prairie dog colonies, with an appetite both ferocious and life-affirming. If wholesale slaughter of prairie dogs can be considered life-affirming, which I maintain it indeed can.
Very much.
Although perhaps less so for prairie dogs.
Form my favourite unprinted knowledge source, Wikipedia:
黑足鼬（學名：Mustela nigripes），是一種原產於北美洲的小型食肉性哺乳動物和唯一原產於北美地區的雪貂，亦是俄國草原臭鼬的近親。鼬科。同科物種有：黃鼬（黃鼠狼）、水貂、臭貂、貂屬和獾亞科。牠與被馴化的白鼬或矇眼貂外型非常相似，常被別人混淆。
黑足鼬是北美著名的瀕危物種。
1937年，加拿大野生黑足鼬滅絕。 1967年在美國被列為瀕危物種。
2008年美國網站《生活科學》評出黑足鼬為全球十大最瀕危的稀有動物物種之一。
[Translation: "The Black-footed Ferret (scientific name: Mustela nigripes), is a small carnivorous mammal and the only one native to North America, originating in North America; itis also a close relative of the Russian steppe skunk. Mustelidae. Included among related species: the weasel ("yellow stoat")), water weasel, stinky mustelid, marten and badger, all of which are a subfamily. Domesticated ferret or mink look very similar to the casual observer, and it is often confused with other types. The Black-footed ferret is notable endangered species in North America. By 1937, the wild black-footed ferret was considered extinct in Canada. In 1967 it was listed as endangered species in the United States. In 2008, the American website "Life Science" named the negriped mustelid one of the rarest animal species on world's top ten most endangered list."]
Pictures of the beast show an intelligent likable face, with inquisitive eyes. Not something that would inspire terror (unless you are a prairie dog), and the creature has the characteristic slinky body of all its kind.
WEASEL WAR DANCE
[Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Jumping_black_footed_ferret.jpg.]
Not kidding. It really is called a "weasel war dance".
From Wikipedia again: "The weasel war dance is a colloquial term for a behavior of excited ferrets and weasels. In wild animals, it is speculated that this dance is used to confuse or disorient prey. In domestic animals, the war dance usually follows play or the successful capture of a toy or a stolen object and is commonly held to mean that the ferret is thoroughly enjoying itself. It consists of a frenzied series of sideways and backwards hops, often accompanied by an arched back, and a frizzy tail. Ferrets are notoriously clumsy in their surroundings during their dance and will often bump into or fall over objects and furniture. Most often, the act includes a clucking vocalization, commonly known as "dooking". It normally indicates happiness. Although the weasel war dance may make a ferret appear frightened or angry, they are often just excited and are usually harmless to humans. The stoat (also known as the Ermine or the Short-tailed weasel) often employs a "war dance" to transfix and attack rabbits."
Successful capture of a toy or stolen object = happiness.
I can imagine myself doing precisely such a thing. It would probably knock over the bowl of noodle soup, spilling hot broth all over the table and dripping down the bedsheet I flung over as a cloth, and frighten the bejazus out of any visiting mice, but man, it would express happiness.
Then, like a typical white person, I would clumsily grasp my chopsticks and attempt to assault what remained of the food.
Mmmmm, juicy porky bits and shredded pickled turnips!
Oh wait. That's a mouse that fainted. Gone all limp.
He's a guest. Shouldn't eat the little fellow.
Oh heck. Chomp.
Are there any more?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Ferrets. Weasels. Stoats. And mink.
Polecats, martens, et autres.
One of which is the negripedal mustelid.
Or, as you may know it, the black-footed ferret.
A small wriggly carnivore which decimates prairie dog colonies, with an appetite both ferocious and life-affirming. If wholesale slaughter of prairie dogs can be considered life-affirming, which I maintain it indeed can.
Very much.
Although perhaps less so for prairie dogs.
Form my favourite unprinted knowledge source, Wikipedia:
黑足鼬（學名：Mustela nigripes），是一種原產於北美洲的小型食肉性哺乳動物和唯一原產於北美地區的雪貂，亦是俄國草原臭鼬的近親。鼬科。同科物種有：黃鼬（黃鼠狼）、水貂、臭貂、貂屬和獾亞科。牠與被馴化的白鼬或矇眼貂外型非常相似，常被別人混淆。
黑足鼬是北美著名的瀕危物種。
1937年，加拿大野生黑足鼬滅絕。 1967年在美國被列為瀕危物種。
2008年美國網站《生活科學》評出黑足鼬為全球十大最瀕危的稀有動物物種之一。
[Translation: "The Black-footed Ferret (scientific name: Mustela nigripes), is a small carnivorous mammal and the only one native to North America, originating in North America; itis also a close relative of the Russian steppe skunk. Mustelidae. Included among related species: the weasel ("yellow stoat")), water weasel, stinky mustelid, marten and badger, all of which are a subfamily. Domesticated ferret or mink look very similar to the casual observer, and it is often confused with other types. The Black-footed ferret is notable endangered species in North America. By 1937, the wild black-footed ferret was considered extinct in Canada. In 1967 it was listed as endangered species in the United States. In 2008, the American website "Life Science" named the negriped mustelid one of the rarest animal species on world's top ten most endangered list."]
Pictures of the beast show an intelligent likable face, with inquisitive eyes. Not something that would inspire terror (unless you are a prairie dog), and the creature has the characteristic slinky body of all its kind.
WEASEL WAR DANCE
[Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Jumping_black_footed_ferret.jpg.]
Not kidding. It really is called a "weasel war dance".
From Wikipedia again: "The weasel war dance is a colloquial term for a behavior of excited ferrets and weasels. In wild animals, it is speculated that this dance is used to confuse or disorient prey. In domestic animals, the war dance usually follows play or the successful capture of a toy or a stolen object and is commonly held to mean that the ferret is thoroughly enjoying itself. It consists of a frenzied series of sideways and backwards hops, often accompanied by an arched back, and a frizzy tail. Ferrets are notoriously clumsy in their surroundings during their dance and will often bump into or fall over objects and furniture. Most often, the act includes a clucking vocalization, commonly known as "dooking". It normally indicates happiness. Although the weasel war dance may make a ferret appear frightened or angry, they are often just excited and are usually harmless to humans. The stoat (also known as the Ermine or the Short-tailed weasel) often employs a "war dance" to transfix and attack rabbits."
Successful capture of a toy or stolen object = happiness.
I can imagine myself doing precisely such a thing. It would probably knock over the bowl of noodle soup, spilling hot broth all over the table and dripping down the bedsheet I flung over as a cloth, and frighten the bejazus out of any visiting mice, but man, it would express happiness.
Then, like a typical white person, I would clumsily grasp my chopsticks and attempt to assault what remained of the food.
Mmmmm, juicy porky bits and shredded pickled turnips!
Oh wait. That's a mouse that fainted. Gone all limp.
He's a guest. Shouldn't eat the little fellow.
Oh heck. Chomp.
Are there any more?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CANTONESA, PURA Y DURA
Two young ladies on the bus. Which caused this blogger to forcefully repress his inner Humbert Humbert. No, they did NOT look like the slutty juvenile temptress that Vladimir Vladimirovich so tastefully described.
Too sweet and innocent.
As well as ladylike.
And refined.
Roundish faces, nice cheeks, elegant moth-antenna eyebrows, full lips and angry eyes. Features and physical characteristics that would make a dead man blush.
I shall not mention what I think their age might have been. Cantonese people always look far younger than they really are. One Cantonese gentleman I know is my age but looks many years more youthful.
So for all I know these two young ladies may already be college graduates. It's a talent.
Nor shall I describe them in any great detail. Any accurate explicatum would pull the perverts in. And there are already far too many such.
[Somewhere between twenty and forty would be my guess. Use your fermentive mind, and don't go nasty on the imaginary details. Though if you do, please imagine a savage slap upside your face.]
Neither one wore any scrap of Hello Kitty.
Not consciously alluring.
But, if they were employed at a cigar bar or tobacco shop, they'd make any damned cheroot seem smokeable. Precisely like my classmates years ago who successfully persuaded me as a young lad that the bolknak (which is the quintessence of a figurado vitola) would be an altogether excellent smoke. Or a tuitknak from Hajenius, Oud Kampen (La Reina), De Heeren van Ruysdael, or Justus van Maurik. Exquisite choices.
So elegant! So magnificently femmy wemmy!
Or, for men, masculinny-winnie.
Macho-wacho.
[Bolknak: a fat Dutch torpedo, pointy at both ends, with a gradual taper at the mouth end, a blunter taper at the tip. Tuitknak: a smaller more elegant version of the bolknak. Nearest equivalents are variations on the Perfecto, and it must be mentioned that Oliva makes an excellent version, although the La Libertad short perfecto is not to be sneezed at.]
If these two were selling smokes, the store would be empty of product in mere hours.
We're on fire now, dudes!
Delicious. Divine.
Delightful.
Sometimes I wish I were fifteen years younger.
Yes, ma'am, I will buy that cigar.
Can you light it for me?
Please note: I was going to edit out the creepazoid factor, but on second thought it had to stay. This blog veers close to the cusp of disturbing at times, which may be why some people read it.
It's sort of a hallmark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Too sweet and innocent.
As well as ladylike.
And refined.
Roundish faces, nice cheeks, elegant moth-antenna eyebrows, full lips and angry eyes. Features and physical characteristics that would make a dead man blush.
I shall not mention what I think their age might have been. Cantonese people always look far younger than they really are. One Cantonese gentleman I know is my age but looks many years more youthful.
So for all I know these two young ladies may already be college graduates. It's a talent.
Nor shall I describe them in any great detail. Any accurate explicatum would pull the perverts in. And there are already far too many such.
[Somewhere between twenty and forty would be my guess. Use your fermentive mind, and don't go nasty on the imaginary details. Though if you do, please imagine a savage slap upside your face.]
Neither one wore any scrap of Hello Kitty.
Not consciously alluring.
But, if they were employed at a cigar bar or tobacco shop, they'd make any damned cheroot seem smokeable. Precisely like my classmates years ago who successfully persuaded me as a young lad that the bolknak (which is the quintessence of a figurado vitola) would be an altogether excellent smoke. Or a tuitknak from Hajenius, Oud Kampen (La Reina), De Heeren van Ruysdael, or Justus van Maurik. Exquisite choices.
So elegant! So magnificently femmy wemmy!
Or, for men, masculinny-winnie.
Macho-wacho.
[Bolknak: a fat Dutch torpedo, pointy at both ends, with a gradual taper at the mouth end, a blunter taper at the tip. Tuitknak: a smaller more elegant version of the bolknak. Nearest equivalents are variations on the Perfecto, and it must be mentioned that Oliva makes an excellent version, although the La Libertad short perfecto is not to be sneezed at.]
If these two were selling smokes, the store would be empty of product in mere hours.
We're on fire now, dudes!
Delicious. Divine.
Delightful.
Sometimes I wish I were fifteen years younger.
Yes, ma'am, I will buy that cigar.
Can you light it for me?
Please note: I was going to edit out the creepazoid factor, but on second thought it had to stay. This blog veers close to the cusp of disturbing at times, which may be why some people read it.
It's sort of a hallmark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 15, 2014
WHERE SMOKING IS PERMITTED
Due entirely to my enjoyment of the company of certain people, my Saturday evening routine is set in stone. No change is possible, except within certain parameters. Basically, return to the city and eat dinner in Chinatown, at one of several restaurants where the wait-staff consists entirely of pleasant women who speak Cantonese better than any other language, and would never consider me romantic material no matter what the circumstance. There's no threat there, just a measure of mutual respect.
Most of them are not so young (timorous eighteen somethings) as to realistically still be looking; either they're married already, or heading into a singular and unique maturity.
A few of them qualify as "aunty" (阿姨 'ah yi').
Excellent food, no theatre majors, artists, or snoots.
After that, over to an environment where most of the patrons are either middle aged, or men, or both. Where smoking is permitted.
A CIGAR CLUB
There are a few individuals there whose company is always enjoyable. Yes, I've frequently had pleasant conversations with other folks there, but many people cannot get beyond the voice, the range of facts at my finger tips, the vocabulary, and the sheer oddness of my frames of reference.
Not boasting.
I grew up listening to Oscar Brand singing totally unprintable songs, many of which I had memorized completely by the time I was eight years old, and I devoured my parents humongous library. Reading was an obsessive behavior, and I enjoy the company of people for whom it is the same. Those whose nose is ever in a book.
That, by definition, excludes a large majority.
Add to that the fact that I know next to nothing about sports -- any sport, period -- and you have a portrait of someone who challenges the paradigm.
There are about half a dozen intelligent and likable Saturday night regulars at the place where smoking is permitted. They are fascinating and complex, even though several of them know distressingly much about sports, and can at times be easily distracted by a well-placed ball or foot on the telly. They are more perfectly socialized than I am, apparently, and somehow got infected.
I tend to be a bit lonely during baseball and football season, when everyone is distracted. And my eyes kind of glaze over.
I would bring a book, but that might elicit negative comments.
Reading seems so "anti-social".
Even "unfriendly".
Heaven forfend, don't want to be accused of anything like that, ever. In the middle-ages they burned such people at the stake.
I can already smell the smoldering faggots!
Oh wait..., those are cigars.
Perhaps taking someone there who didn't know diddly about sports, had no interest in spandex men and their balls besides, and devoured books, might be a good idea. We could discreetly, politely, and privately, poo poo the glazed eyes, while reviewing recent reading matter and food adventures for each other's pleasure.
It would by edifying.
At the right moment, we could pull out our ...... books.
When no one notices.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A few of them qualify as "aunty" (阿姨 'ah yi').
Excellent food, no theatre majors, artists, or snoots.
After that, over to an environment where most of the patrons are either middle aged, or men, or both. Where smoking is permitted.
A CIGAR CLUB
There are a few individuals there whose company is always enjoyable. Yes, I've frequently had pleasant conversations with other folks there, but many people cannot get beyond the voice, the range of facts at my finger tips, the vocabulary, and the sheer oddness of my frames of reference.
Not boasting.
I grew up listening to Oscar Brand singing totally unprintable songs, many of which I had memorized completely by the time I was eight years old, and I devoured my parents humongous library. Reading was an obsessive behavior, and I enjoy the company of people for whom it is the same. Those whose nose is ever in a book.
That, by definition, excludes a large majority.
Add to that the fact that I know next to nothing about sports -- any sport, period -- and you have a portrait of someone who challenges the paradigm.
There are about half a dozen intelligent and likable Saturday night regulars at the place where smoking is permitted. They are fascinating and complex, even though several of them know distressingly much about sports, and can at times be easily distracted by a well-placed ball or foot on the telly. They are more perfectly socialized than I am, apparently, and somehow got infected.
I tend to be a bit lonely during baseball and football season, when everyone is distracted. And my eyes kind of glaze over.
I would bring a book, but that might elicit negative comments.
Reading seems so "anti-social".
Even "unfriendly".
Heaven forfend, don't want to be accused of anything like that, ever. In the middle-ages they burned such people at the stake.
I can already smell the smoldering faggots!
Oh wait..., those are cigars.
Perhaps taking someone there who didn't know diddly about sports, had no interest in spandex men and their balls besides, and devoured books, might be a good idea. We could discreetly, politely, and privately, poo poo the glazed eyes, while reviewing recent reading matter and food adventures for each other's pleasure.
It would by edifying.
At the right moment, we could pull out our ...... books.
When no one notices.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 14, 2014
BRUTAL REVIEW
Today is a day for wonton. I just don't know where. Someplace bustling and noisy, and probably just before noon. Due to my ex having a fine old time with her squeezy boo, this blogger has been a bit down in the dumps lately, so it's time for happy food.
At a time of day when no one is smooching over their meal, or making sickening little cooing sounds at someone else.
I don't need to observe hormones in action.
Or hear her phone conversations.
Ick poo. In big buckets.
[I still see her on a regular basis, because we still share the same apartment. In San Francisco, you just don't give up on someone you trust around your sh&t, period. The alternative is much higher rent, and a crackhead schizophrenic psychopath -- or a computer programmer -- as your new apartment mate. Please don't tell me that it's "unhealthy"; I live in San Francisco, I should know from unhealthy?]
No, I do not wish to rekindle the relationship. What's over is over, and she's involved with someone else now. It's been the better part of four years, and our lives and personalities have changed too much.
Still. Twenty one years. I feel more than a little cheated.
There are fewer social options than there were.
Especially for someone of my age.
Which is a young 54.
Yes, I also realize that I can't stand most modern women. I've read too many profiles on OK Cupid, and concluded that none of them are my type. Whatever that is.
You, dear reader, probably think you know what my type is. Certainly a few of you have left comments indicating as much. Please stop thinking that. You could not be more wrong.
My type is probably crazy.
She'd have to be.
Other than briefly listing my usual bugaboos, I shan't mention what's wrong with modern women.
Bugaboos:
Tattoos, handbags, cellular devices.
Drugs. Booze. Superficiality.
Nearly illiterate.
Vacuous.
Most of them are twits, and a complete waste of time.
With minor edits, the same goes for males.
Europeans. Asians. Americans.
Almost everyone.
The moment has come to rekindle my love-affair with food. And to re-occupy my mind with all the books I have never finished because someone wanted to talk.
There's time enough for that now.
This is the age for anthroping very much mis.
At which, unsurprisingly, this bachelor totally excels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I don't need to observe hormones in action.
Or hear her phone conversations.
Ick poo. In big buckets.
[I still see her on a regular basis, because we still share the same apartment. In San Francisco, you just don't give up on someone you trust around your sh&t, period. The alternative is much higher rent, and a crackhead schizophrenic psychopath -- or a computer programmer -- as your new apartment mate. Please don't tell me that it's "unhealthy"; I live in San Francisco, I should know from unhealthy?]
No, I do not wish to rekindle the relationship. What's over is over, and she's involved with someone else now. It's been the better part of four years, and our lives and personalities have changed too much.
Still. Twenty one years. I feel more than a little cheated.
There are fewer social options than there were.
Especially for someone of my age.
Which is a young 54.
Yes, I also realize that I can't stand most modern women. I've read too many profiles on OK Cupid, and concluded that none of them are my type. Whatever that is.
You, dear reader, probably think you know what my type is. Certainly a few of you have left comments indicating as much. Please stop thinking that. You could not be more wrong.
My type is probably crazy.
She'd have to be.
Other than briefly listing my usual bugaboos, I shan't mention what's wrong with modern women.
Bugaboos:
Tattoos, handbags, cellular devices.
Drugs. Booze. Superficiality.
Nearly illiterate.
Vacuous.
Most of them are twits, and a complete waste of time.
With minor edits, the same goes for males.
Europeans. Asians. Americans.
Almost everyone.
The moment has come to rekindle my love-affair with food. And to re-occupy my mind with all the books I have never finished because someone wanted to talk.
There's time enough for that now.
This is the age for anthroping very much mis.
At which, unsurprisingly, this bachelor totally excels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 13, 2014
WHAT TO DO ON A WEEKDAY
Lunch in the company of others used to be a normal occurrence.
When I still worked at the computer factory in Menlo park, a few of us would regularly head into Palo Alto for something tasty. The delis in the industrial zone ranged from miserable to bloody awful, and civilized people should not have had to eat there. Once I started working in San Francisco, the lunch hour was taken up with reading the internet news, and heading off to the wall for a smoke. Social, yes. But not really with my coworkers. Most of whom had unimaginative tastes and lived in the suburbs; Whitebreadistan.
I have a fantasy of eating lunch with another person during my off-days. Problem is that it's been such a while since I had lunch in company that I might forget to chew. A man with his mouth agape is not a pretty sight. Best, perhaps, to do that at dusk, so the back of the tongue is not quite so visible. And it would have to be with someone who looks good in half-light. Perhaps in a darkened apartment, curtains drawn or blinds closed.
FADE INTO DAYDREAM
Daylight is for surprises. Especially morning, before the coffee has hit the central cortex. When there are still crows flitting about the brain. Hold on tight, it's a bumpy ride.
It always is. Waking up.
Again.
If you know where you are, it must have been a very nice evening. Or maybe you came over with hot coffee at nine A.M. Yours with plenty of milk, mine nearly black. You fell asleep; I marveled.
Your skin, so warm.
The book slid from your grasp as your eyes closed. You looked utterly peaceful, I did not want to wake you up. Perhaps I shoved a big green fuzzy frog into your arms, or brought the last monkey to enter the apartment over to keep you company.
His dark fur is exceptionally soft.
Silky against the cheeks.
He's a nice fellow.
In the silence I turned off the light. Went to the bathroom to wash and get dressed. You still dozed when I returned, when the sun hit the back of the building. The shards of sun that came in through the blinds illuminated your face.
I tweaked the blinds, so that it was bright enough to read.
You didn't stir till lunchtime. Early afternoon.
Your coffee was quite cold by then.
And you wanted a cigar.
Yeah, okay, the final detail is a bit odd. Fantasizing about a young lady who likes cheroots. Yet there are a number of such women, and most of them are quite feminine. It would be even more unrealistic to imagine a girl with a thing for pipe-tobacco and fine briar.
I am, above all, a realist. My dreams do not deviate from the possible.
No matter how improbable or unobtainable that "possible" is.
One problem with the scenario above is that I do not eat breakfast, and often don't have lunch till after two o'clock. Most women are ravenous beasts by then, and normal people experience low blood sugar events without a noon-time meal.
Eating in company is good; if you're hungry.
But not too hungry. Not starving.
That's why I have cookies.
The other somewhat unrealistic elements are that I'm already quite awake by nine o'clock, have had two cups of coffee by then, and am already splashing around in the bath. So I'd come to the front door dripping wet. That, too, is a startling sight, and I'm not sure anyone is ready for that.
I specified "at nine A.M." because my apartment mate will have left for work. And instead of bringing over coffee, how about a having cup of tea instead? I'll put the kettle on, then head back into the bathroom to finish shaving, after which we'll read our books together.
If you want a cigar, that's perfectly all right.
More tea before lunch.
Or dozing.
The final bit of irreality is that in a few hours I shall be in Marin.
Which is where I am every Wednesday and Thursday.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
When I still worked at the computer factory in Menlo park, a few of us would regularly head into Palo Alto for something tasty. The delis in the industrial zone ranged from miserable to bloody awful, and civilized people should not have had to eat there. Once I started working in San Francisco, the lunch hour was taken up with reading the internet news, and heading off to the wall for a smoke. Social, yes. But not really with my coworkers. Most of whom had unimaginative tastes and lived in the suburbs; Whitebreadistan.
I have a fantasy of eating lunch with another person during my off-days. Problem is that it's been such a while since I had lunch in company that I might forget to chew. A man with his mouth agape is not a pretty sight. Best, perhaps, to do that at dusk, so the back of the tongue is not quite so visible. And it would have to be with someone who looks good in half-light. Perhaps in a darkened apartment, curtains drawn or blinds closed.
FADE INTO DAYDREAM
Daylight is for surprises. Especially morning, before the coffee has hit the central cortex. When there are still crows flitting about the brain. Hold on tight, it's a bumpy ride.
It always is. Waking up.
Again.
If you know where you are, it must have been a very nice evening. Or maybe you came over with hot coffee at nine A.M. Yours with plenty of milk, mine nearly black. You fell asleep; I marveled.
Your skin, so warm.
The book slid from your grasp as your eyes closed. You looked utterly peaceful, I did not want to wake you up. Perhaps I shoved a big green fuzzy frog into your arms, or brought the last monkey to enter the apartment over to keep you company.
His dark fur is exceptionally soft.
Silky against the cheeks.
He's a nice fellow.
In the silence I turned off the light. Went to the bathroom to wash and get dressed. You still dozed when I returned, when the sun hit the back of the building. The shards of sun that came in through the blinds illuminated your face.
I tweaked the blinds, so that it was bright enough to read.
You didn't stir till lunchtime. Early afternoon.
Your coffee was quite cold by then.
And you wanted a cigar.
Yeah, okay, the final detail is a bit odd. Fantasizing about a young lady who likes cheroots. Yet there are a number of such women, and most of them are quite feminine. It would be even more unrealistic to imagine a girl with a thing for pipe-tobacco and fine briar.
I am, above all, a realist. My dreams do not deviate from the possible.
No matter how improbable or unobtainable that "possible" is.
One problem with the scenario above is that I do not eat breakfast, and often don't have lunch till after two o'clock. Most women are ravenous beasts by then, and normal people experience low blood sugar events without a noon-time meal.
Eating in company is good; if you're hungry.
But not too hungry. Not starving.
That's why I have cookies.
The other somewhat unrealistic elements are that I'm already quite awake by nine o'clock, have had two cups of coffee by then, and am already splashing around in the bath. So I'd come to the front door dripping wet. That, too, is a startling sight, and I'm not sure anyone is ready for that.
I specified "at nine A.M." because my apartment mate will have left for work. And instead of bringing over coffee, how about a having cup of tea instead? I'll put the kettle on, then head back into the bathroom to finish shaving, after which we'll read our books together.
If you want a cigar, that's perfectly all right.
More tea before lunch.
Or dozing.
The final bit of irreality is that in a few hours I shall be in Marin.
Which is where I am every Wednesday and Thursday.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
NORTH BEACH AS IT USED TO BE
After one of the smut emporia on Broadway closed its doors two years ago, the new tenants kept the name, but just removed the words "xx-rated magazines & novelties", and substituted "cheese and bologna".
Yes, they weren't busting out the same tired old technicolor full frontal nekidity mags -- printed filth has had its day, now the internet provides a higher quality sleaze-experience, complete with sound track -- but they tried to run a late-night Italo-Palestinian delicatessen.
With scant change of décor.
From T and A to sandwich meats; that's quite a change.
Possibly those are a substitute for titillation.
Me, I've always been a salami man.
I can remember years ago when a Russian immigrant who worked there would stand behind the strap-ons counter, in front of the famous "wall of dildos", and hold forth on philosophy.
From Hume through Locke to Heidegger and Sartre.
Exciting intellectual stuff. Magnetic.
It's why we were there.
He was a fascinating man. I wish I could remember his name.
Alas, all I can remember are the dildos.
I had an omelette with sliced stuff in it recently. Perhaps that's why the philosophy lessons came to mind.
I never went in after they started selling cheese and bologna.
Nothing can replace big rubber devices.
Not even food.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, they weren't busting out the same tired old technicolor full frontal nekidity mags -- printed filth has had its day, now the internet provides a higher quality sleaze-experience, complete with sound track -- but they tried to run a late-night Italo-Palestinian delicatessen.
With scant change of décor.
From T and A to sandwich meats; that's quite a change.
Possibly those are a substitute for titillation.
Me, I've always been a salami man.
I can remember years ago when a Russian immigrant who worked there would stand behind the strap-ons counter, in front of the famous "wall of dildos", and hold forth on philosophy.
From Hume through Locke to Heidegger and Sartre.
Exciting intellectual stuff. Magnetic.
It's why we were there.
He was a fascinating man. I wish I could remember his name.
Alas, all I can remember are the dildos.
I had an omelette with sliced stuff in it recently. Perhaps that's why the philosophy lessons came to mind.
I never went in after they started selling cheese and bologna.
Nothing can replace big rubber devices.
Not even food.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHILE THINKING ABOUT CRUSTACEANS
This blogger cannot wait until some misguided youngster, of either gender, asks me for advice regarding the birds and bees.
Because, of course, I know so much more than either of their parents. Who procreated using virtual reality and mousetraps.
It will happen. This is certain.
Poor little fools.
"Uncle Vander Pervert", little Lucinda might say, "what is dating like?"
And I will answer "it's like waging Total War, the video game."
If she asks me about sex, the answer will be the same.
Might as well frighten her away from ever experimenting. Till she's in her thirties, at least. Sex detracts enormously from the college years.
This blogger has not engaged in any of that for quite a while (aeons, at least), and by golly I feel more vibrant and lucid than ever before. Why, I'm positively brilliant at this point, what with not having the distraction of other people's secondary sexual characteristics in my face all the time.
Such as breasts. Which are, always, at more than arm's length.
It's hard, but I've trained myself to never think of nudity. And unlike in my misguided and lamentable past, I never eat naked, except when having crab. Which is so messy as to require a state of undress.
Come to think of it, haven't had crab in a while either.
Something is missing in my life.
Possibly crab.
The closest I come to either Total War (the video game) or dating the appropriate gender is laughing hysterically whenever anyone asks me whether I'm married. Or even seeing someone.
"No", I'll say, "I am quite happy".
Now please stop asking.
Kindly piss off.
See, being single means that all options are on the table. Not a single possibility is closed, everything is in play. Having absolutely no one in your life with whom to share crab means that there are a wealth of choices. There are buttons to push, too numerous to count.
The answer is total positivity. An optimistic attitude.
At some point, possibly, there may be crab.
Perhaps with black bean sauce.
Or melted butter.
Maybe I need to buy a tarpaulin.
Just in case of crustaceans.
Best to be prepared.
Boy scout.
Crab.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Because, of course, I know so much more than either of their parents. Who procreated using virtual reality and mousetraps.
It will happen. This is certain.
Poor little fools.
"Uncle Vander Pervert", little Lucinda might say, "what is dating like?"
And I will answer "it's like waging Total War, the video game."
If she asks me about sex, the answer will be the same.
Might as well frighten her away from ever experimenting. Till she's in her thirties, at least. Sex detracts enormously from the college years.
This blogger has not engaged in any of that for quite a while (aeons, at least), and by golly I feel more vibrant and lucid than ever before. Why, I'm positively brilliant at this point, what with not having the distraction of other people's secondary sexual characteristics in my face all the time.
Such as breasts. Which are, always, at more than arm's length.
It's hard, but I've trained myself to never think of nudity. And unlike in my misguided and lamentable past, I never eat naked, except when having crab. Which is so messy as to require a state of undress.
Come to think of it, haven't had crab in a while either.
Something is missing in my life.
Possibly crab.
The closest I come to either Total War (the video game) or dating the appropriate gender is laughing hysterically whenever anyone asks me whether I'm married. Or even seeing someone.
"No", I'll say, "I am quite happy".
Now please stop asking.
Kindly piss off.
See, being single means that all options are on the table. Not a single possibility is closed, everything is in play. Having absolutely no one in your life with whom to share crab means that there are a wealth of choices. There are buttons to push, too numerous to count.
The answer is total positivity. An optimistic attitude.
At some point, possibly, there may be crab.
Perhaps with black bean sauce.
Or melted butter.
Maybe I need to buy a tarpaulin.
Just in case of crustaceans.
Best to be prepared.
Boy scout.
Crab.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
WHEN THE URGE FOR COOKIES STRIKES
After our relationship changed to just friends in 2010, Savage Kitten took up with someone else, whom I never have to meet though she still lives in the apartment we share (her room, my room, and the common space), and with whom the only contact necessary is hollering out "yo, your dumbass boyfriend is on the phone" when he calls to speak with her.
Please understand that "yo, your dumbass boyfriend etcetera" is just a metaphoric translation of what I actually say. She'd probably be a little irritated if I actually used that phrase.
We live uphill, and upstairs. He's in a wheel chair.
Even if she wanted him over, he can't visit.
So she goes over to his place.
The other reason I don't actually refer to him as the dumbass boyfriend in her presence is that it would probably prompt her to tell me, as just a possible example "your dumbass girlfriend just used up all the hot water", if, hypothetically speaking, I actually found another woman with whom to share any aspect of my life, or someone crazy-curious enough to investigate just how messy my quarters really are. The phrase "yo, your dumbass Snookie Pie ate ALL the cookies" has a certain ring to it, I'll admit, but it isn't one I want Savage Kitten to utter.
It's unlikely, but I want to be prepared.
I'm a little peculiar that way.
There are cookies.
Always.
No, I'm not shocked at her shamelessly carrying on with an unmarried man. She's very discreet, and this is the twenty first century. Cantonese women are no longer obliged to get hitched at a young age, and many of them at some point in their lives have relationships that would startle their ancestors. Very normal relationships too.
Some of which last for years, and in many ways resemble marriage.
Whatever happens is a private matter.
Consequently, I'm not going to speculate in any way at all about my ex-girlfriend and her beau. It wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to do so, and it just isn't my business. She's merely an apartment mate, and entitled to her privacy. Our break was clean, sudden, and preceded her developing an affection for Wheelie Boy.
IT'S DELICIOUS, YAAR!
But I do know where she and he are eating dinner tonight.
The reason being that I just went through the recent internet searches on this computer -- usually she looks at jewelry sites -- and found a restaurant.
She's eating Indian food.
I've enjoyed almost no Indian food in nearly four years. Since, in fact, Savage Kitten ended the relationship. I like Indian food, but it's somewhat tainted by association.
We frequently went to the local Indian restaurants for dinner together.
Since then, a number of spice combinations have become painful.
Contradictorily, Cantonese food does not have that problem.
She hardly ever cooked it and we never ate it elsewhere.
And in any case I made it more often than she did.
Cantonese food is totally safe.
I should go out to dinner tonight myself, to a Cantonese restaurant even, but I do not feel like it. Instead, I'll just go to bed early and read a book.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Please understand that "yo, your dumbass boyfriend etcetera" is just a metaphoric translation of what I actually say. She'd probably be a little irritated if I actually used that phrase.
We live uphill, and upstairs. He's in a wheel chair.
Even if she wanted him over, he can't visit.
So she goes over to his place.
The other reason I don't actually refer to him as the dumbass boyfriend in her presence is that it would probably prompt her to tell me, as just a possible example "your dumbass girlfriend just used up all the hot water", if, hypothetically speaking, I actually found another woman with whom to share any aspect of my life, or someone crazy-curious enough to investigate just how messy my quarters really are. The phrase "yo, your dumbass Snookie Pie ate ALL the cookies" has a certain ring to it, I'll admit, but it isn't one I want Savage Kitten to utter.
It's unlikely, but I want to be prepared.
I'm a little peculiar that way.
There are cookies.
Always.
No, I'm not shocked at her shamelessly carrying on with an unmarried man. She's very discreet, and this is the twenty first century. Cantonese women are no longer obliged to get hitched at a young age, and many of them at some point in their lives have relationships that would startle their ancestors. Very normal relationships too.
Some of which last for years, and in many ways resemble marriage.
Whatever happens is a private matter.
Consequently, I'm not going to speculate in any way at all about my ex-girlfriend and her beau. It wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to do so, and it just isn't my business. She's merely an apartment mate, and entitled to her privacy. Our break was clean, sudden, and preceded her developing an affection for Wheelie Boy.
IT'S DELICIOUS, YAAR!
But I do know where she and he are eating dinner tonight.
The reason being that I just went through the recent internet searches on this computer -- usually she looks at jewelry sites -- and found a restaurant.
She's eating Indian food.
I've enjoyed almost no Indian food in nearly four years. Since, in fact, Savage Kitten ended the relationship. I like Indian food, but it's somewhat tainted by association.
We frequently went to the local Indian restaurants for dinner together.
Since then, a number of spice combinations have become painful.
Contradictorily, Cantonese food does not have that problem.
She hardly ever cooked it and we never ate it elsewhere.
And in any case I made it more often than she did.
Cantonese food is totally safe.
I should go out to dinner tonight myself, to a Cantonese restaurant even, but I do not feel like it. Instead, I'll just go to bed early and read a book.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PROPORTIONAL DIVIDERS
An early dinner recently became an immensely frustrating experience. No, both the food and the service were more than up to standard, the cutlery and glassware were quite clean and shiny, as was the entire restaurant. And the food was unexceptionally excellent. It is by no means due to anything that the restaurant had a handle on that I was frustrated.
Well, maybe one thing that they can be blamed for.
Their waitress. Her clothes.
Particularly.
And at this point I might as well admit that I am at times a giant hamsaplo.
[The term 'hamsaplo' is explicated here: Aunt Mildred.]
The Vietnamese coffee was perfect, and the bitter melon and chicken over rice was entirely up to snuff. They add a little more fermented black bean to the saucing than other places, but the vegetable was pleasingly crunchy and startling in its intensity. It was a splendid foil, in fact, for the hotsauce of which I plooped a liberal measure on my plate.
Food and drink-wise, it was a completely satisfying experience.
There weren't many other customers there at the time.
One member of the staff remembered me.
And was happy to see me again.
She's learning English.
Which is hard.
[Vietnamese coffee: cà phê sữa đá (咖啡奶冰 'ka-fei naai-bing'). Bittermelon and Chicken over Rice: 涼瓜雞球飯 ('leung gwa gai kau fan'). Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwa'), 凉瓜 ('leung gwa'); momocordica charantia. Fermented black beans: 豆豉 ('dau si'); a dry condimental substance remoistend and mashed, it accounts for a dark speckled sauce with a savoury taste in a number of preparations. Hotsauce: Tương Ớt Sriracha (是拉差香甜辣椒醬 'silaja heung-tim laat-chiu jeung'), which is manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司 'wui fung sik-pan gung-si') in the wilds of Southern California (南加州 'naam ga jau'; 野蠻南域 'ye maan naam wik').]
I always like it when Chinese people finally learn English, because my Cantonese is not entirely fluent (understatement) and it just makes it so much easier to communicate when there's a fallback position. English is the default fallback, even if both of us also speak Mandarin.
Cantonese people speaking Mandarin sound nearly as bad as white people (such as myself) using that tongue, and my ability with, lets say, Teochew, Hakka, and Hokkien is virtually non-existent.
Not even mentioning Shanghainese.
[Cantonese: 廣東話 ('gwong jau wa'), 粵語 ('yuet yü'). Mandarin: 官話 ('gwun wa'), 北京話 ('baak keng wa'), 普通話 ('po tong wa'), 國語 ('gwok yü'). Teochew: (潮州話 'chew jau wa'). Hakka: (客家話 'hak gaa wa'). Hokkien: (福建話 'fuk kin wa'), 福州話 ('fuk jau wa'), 廈門話 ('haa mun wa'). Shanghainese: 上海話 ('seung hoi wa').]
Many years ago I was able to converse at a kindergarten level in Hokkien, but every time I opened my mouth, people would look at me funny. Finally someone said "you know, I have an auntie who lives in the hills who still talks like that".
Apparently his auntie was an idiot.
[Idiot: su ku. His auntie is an idiot: "I e lao gu si kung ngaa bo e".]
YAT DEUI LIN-TAU M-KIN JO LAA?
Anyhow, what frustrated me while eating was not the English-learner, who is a very pleasant middle-aged woman and mother of at least two young adults, but the waitress.
Who is considerably younger, and bi-lingual.
I kept wondering where her nipples were.
An attractive young lady, with a lovely smile and lively eyes. Soft-looking hands. Clearly intelligent. And extremely nice though meaty thighs -- they had good proportion, and her legs tapered curvily, and I've always liked what dark semi-opaque panty hose do to the view -- as well as lovely knees (see previously mentioned dark hose).
Circumstantial evidence suggests that she is flat-chested. Or reasonably so. And there's nothing wrong with that, it really works for some people.
Very well, in fact.
Further circumstantial evidence indicated that whatever brassiere she employed had a certain amount of padding, for both support and comfort.
As well as a safeguard against chafing.
Which is also important.
[Nipple: 奶頭 ('naai tau'), 姩頭 ('nin tau').]
If I had had my proportional dividers and a drafting compass on me (and the triangles and French-curves), I probably could have determined the exact location of the nipples, based on distances and degrees, but it still would have been no more than an educated guess. And in all probability she might have objected to the process. There's even a distinct probability that the considerable charm she normally displayed would be replaced by something approaching screaming fury and indignation.
Women are funny that way.
It remained an intellectual problem, but investigating the matter, which is not any of my business, would have encountered obstructions.
I used to be a draughtsman; some things stay with you.
Very nearly started figuring it out with the mound of steamed rice.
I'll definitely go there again, but the next time I might sit facing the other direction.
No, I shan't ask her out. One should never date the waitresses at restaurants that one likes going to. Or even think of it. Such things must inevitably lead to lessened dining options for oneself, and potentially cause further problems for the young ladies in the excercise.
Besides, I don't know anything about her.
Not enough to go by.
She's nice.
And that will have to remain all that I know.
Dining by myself makes me keenly aware of the fact that I have not had a relationship for several years. There is much that I miss about that.
Conversation, holding hands, a smile, and sparkling eyes.
Many things, in fact.
None of which require proportional dividers.
I guess the excess of hotsauce is to compensate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well, maybe one thing that they can be blamed for.
Their waitress. Her clothes.
Particularly.
And at this point I might as well admit that I am at times a giant hamsaplo.
[The term 'hamsaplo' is explicated here: Aunt Mildred.]
The Vietnamese coffee was perfect, and the bitter melon and chicken over rice was entirely up to snuff. They add a little more fermented black bean to the saucing than other places, but the vegetable was pleasingly crunchy and startling in its intensity. It was a splendid foil, in fact, for the hotsauce of which I plooped a liberal measure on my plate.
Food and drink-wise, it was a completely satisfying experience.
There weren't many other customers there at the time.
One member of the staff remembered me.
And was happy to see me again.
She's learning English.
Which is hard.
[Vietnamese coffee: cà phê sữa đá (咖啡奶冰 'ka-fei naai-bing'). Bittermelon and Chicken over Rice: 涼瓜雞球飯 ('leung gwa gai kau fan'). Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwa'), 凉瓜 ('leung gwa'); momocordica charantia. Fermented black beans: 豆豉 ('dau si'); a dry condimental substance remoistend and mashed, it accounts for a dark speckled sauce with a savoury taste in a number of preparations. Hotsauce: Tương Ớt Sriracha (是拉差香甜辣椒醬 'silaja heung-tim laat-chiu jeung'), which is manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司 'wui fung sik-pan gung-si') in the wilds of Southern California (南加州 'naam ga jau'; 野蠻南域 'ye maan naam wik').]
I always like it when Chinese people finally learn English, because my Cantonese is not entirely fluent (understatement) and it just makes it so much easier to communicate when there's a fallback position. English is the default fallback, even if both of us also speak Mandarin.
Cantonese people speaking Mandarin sound nearly as bad as white people (such as myself) using that tongue, and my ability with, lets say, Teochew, Hakka, and Hokkien is virtually non-existent.
Not even mentioning Shanghainese.
[Cantonese: 廣東話 ('gwong jau wa'), 粵語 ('yuet yü'). Mandarin: 官話 ('gwun wa'), 北京話 ('baak keng wa'), 普通話 ('po tong wa'), 國語 ('gwok yü'). Teochew: (潮州話 'chew jau wa'). Hakka: (客家話 'hak gaa wa'). Hokkien: (福建話 'fuk kin wa'), 福州話 ('fuk jau wa'), 廈門話 ('haa mun wa'). Shanghainese: 上海話 ('seung hoi wa').]
Many years ago I was able to converse at a kindergarten level in Hokkien, but every time I opened my mouth, people would look at me funny. Finally someone said "you know, I have an auntie who lives in the hills who still talks like that".
Apparently his auntie was an idiot.
[Idiot: su ku. His auntie is an idiot: "I e lao gu si kung ngaa bo e".]
YAT DEUI LIN-TAU M-KIN JO LAA?
Anyhow, what frustrated me while eating was not the English-learner, who is a very pleasant middle-aged woman and mother of at least two young adults, but the waitress.
Who is considerably younger, and bi-lingual.
I kept wondering where her nipples were.
An attractive young lady, with a lovely smile and lively eyes. Soft-looking hands. Clearly intelligent. And extremely nice though meaty thighs -- they had good proportion, and her legs tapered curvily, and I've always liked what dark semi-opaque panty hose do to the view -- as well as lovely knees (see previously mentioned dark hose).
Circumstantial evidence suggests that she is flat-chested. Or reasonably so. And there's nothing wrong with that, it really works for some people.
Very well, in fact.
Further circumstantial evidence indicated that whatever brassiere she employed had a certain amount of padding, for both support and comfort.
As well as a safeguard against chafing.
Which is also important.
[Nipple: 奶頭 ('naai tau'), 姩頭 ('nin tau').]
If I had had my proportional dividers and a drafting compass on me (and the triangles and French-curves), I probably could have determined the exact location of the nipples, based on distances and degrees, but it still would have been no more than an educated guess. And in all probability she might have objected to the process. There's even a distinct probability that the considerable charm she normally displayed would be replaced by something approaching screaming fury and indignation.
Women are funny that way.
It remained an intellectual problem, but investigating the matter, which is not any of my business, would have encountered obstructions.
I used to be a draughtsman; some things stay with you.
Very nearly started figuring it out with the mound of steamed rice.
I'll definitely go there again, but the next time I might sit facing the other direction.
No, I shan't ask her out. One should never date the waitresses at restaurants that one likes going to. Or even think of it. Such things must inevitably lead to lessened dining options for oneself, and potentially cause further problems for the young ladies in the excercise.
Besides, I don't know anything about her.
Not enough to go by.
She's nice.
And that will have to remain all that I know.
Dining by myself makes me keenly aware of the fact that I have not had a relationship for several years. There is much that I miss about that.
Conversation, holding hands, a smile, and sparkling eyes.
Many things, in fact.
None of which require proportional dividers.
I guess the excess of hotsauce is to compensate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 10, 2014
HAEMOWHATSIS
A friend mentioned me in a post about garlic and dill, asafoetida, and haemorrhoids. Which duly flatters me. Apparently his breath has recently stunk, and he didn't go to a housewarming party in Jaffa. If you knew him, you would understand the connection.
But feel free to speculate if you don't.
Personally, I've always thought of housewarming parties as a giant pain in the sphincter. There you are, surrounded by the newness of it all, in the company of several people you do not know, trying to make happy in a relatively quiet way so that the landlord will not have a pretext to kick out the new tenant.
"Dammit, your friends wrecked the stairwell, and the smell won't go away. So you will have to. You have until Tuesday."
And on Tuesday, his brutish cousin Grunter comes over to beat up the recalcitrant party thrower, who has not left yet. But, impressed by the damage to the stairwell, Grunter stays for an impromptu festivity.
Which involves booze, illicit substances, and strippers. And a disco ball. At eleven o'clock in the morning, in the stairwell. Which you wrecked during the housewarming party. With your unbelievable smells. If you were quieter, and a much more civilized person, this would NOT have happened; it's all your fault.
It's a horrible responsibility.
Years ago, someone I knew threw a housewarming party after he moved into the loft above the bakery. I was not invited, and for several weeks afterwards I resented the implied unfamiliarity. Especially because someone else kept boasting about the fun, the good cheer, the warm embrace of comradeship, and all the other good stuff.
I had heard the noise and seen the flashing lights of the disco ball on my way home that evening, so I knew that a rousing good time had taken place.
I very much wished the baker had not retired and let out his loft.
I've never liked housewarming parties.
Or disco.
[I'm fairly okay with extra potent garlic and dill cream cheese, though. Especially with lots of mashed fresh garlic. Bagel day sounds like a giant opportunity.]
Now, decades later, I realize that disco balls have become cool again, because they're retro. At any moment, bellbottoms, beads, and tie-dye will come back into fashion too. Along with illicit substances, which were very popular then. And patchouli.
I'm rather glad my landlords haven't rented to any of the young google or twitter yuppies filling the city. I don't want the sound of the horny hordes stampeding up and down the stairs at all hours of the night. Or screams, hoots, and excessive gaiety elsewhere in the building.
The quietness is nice, there are no wild parties.
No flashing lights, no loud disco music.
No garlic and dill cream cheese.
Nor even asafoetida.
Haemorrhoids.
None.
On a somewhat related note, I should inform you that I did not experience sex until after I left the Netherlands, and I avoid illicit substances and people who use such things.
I mention these matters because when I returned to the States, most people assumed that I had spent my years over there either madly rutting in a drug-induced haze, or sucking giant spleeve in Amsterdam bordellos.
No such thing; I lived a relatively normal life.
Like most teenagers at that time.
According to Wikipædia:
"Asafoetida, انگدان, آنغوزه or asafetida (Ferula assa-foetida) / æsəˈfɛtɨdə /, is the dried latex (gum oleoresin) exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula, a perennial herb that grows 1 to 1.5 m tall. The species is native to the deserts of Iran, mountains of Afghanistan, and is mainly cultivated in nearby India. As its name suggests, asafoetida has a fetid smell (see etymology below) but in cooked dishes it delivers a smooth flavor reminiscent of leeks. It is also known as asant, food of the gods, giant fennel, jowani badian, stinking gum, Devil's dung, hing, kayam and ting."
And, fascinatingly:
"It was familiar in the early Mediterranean, having come by land across Iran. Though it is generally forgotten now in Europe, it is still widely used in India. It emerged into Europe from a conquering expedition of Alexander the Great, who, after returning from a trip to northeastern Persia, thought they had found a plant almost identical to the famed silphium of Cyrene in North Africa—though less tasty. Dioscorides, in the first century, wrote, "the Cyrenaic kind, even if one just tastes it, at once arouses a humour throughout the body and has a very healthy aroma, so that it is not noticed on the breath, or only a little; but the Median [Iranian] is weaker in power and has a nastier smell." Nevertheless, it could be substituted for silphium in cooking, which was fortunate, because a few decades after Dioscorides's time, the true silphium of Cyrene became extinct, and asafoetida became more popular amongst physicians, as well as cooks."
It's connection to haemorrhoids and housewarming parties in Jaffa must remain one of the mysteries of life. Though I suspect that like drugs and sex in Holland, there is less there than meets the eye.
In all honesty, I wouldn't mind a discreet bit of excessive gaiety.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But feel free to speculate if you don't.
Personally, I've always thought of housewarming parties as a giant pain in the sphincter. There you are, surrounded by the newness of it all, in the company of several people you do not know, trying to make happy in a relatively quiet way so that the landlord will not have a pretext to kick out the new tenant.
"Dammit, your friends wrecked the stairwell, and the smell won't go away. So you will have to. You have until Tuesday."
And on Tuesday, his brutish cousin Grunter comes over to beat up the recalcitrant party thrower, who has not left yet. But, impressed by the damage to the stairwell, Grunter stays for an impromptu festivity.
Which involves booze, illicit substances, and strippers. And a disco ball. At eleven o'clock in the morning, in the stairwell. Which you wrecked during the housewarming party. With your unbelievable smells. If you were quieter, and a much more civilized person, this would NOT have happened; it's all your fault.
It's a horrible responsibility.
Years ago, someone I knew threw a housewarming party after he moved into the loft above the bakery. I was not invited, and for several weeks afterwards I resented the implied unfamiliarity. Especially because someone else kept boasting about the fun, the good cheer, the warm embrace of comradeship, and all the other good stuff.
I had heard the noise and seen the flashing lights of the disco ball on my way home that evening, so I knew that a rousing good time had taken place.
I very much wished the baker had not retired and let out his loft.
I've never liked housewarming parties.
Or disco.
[I'm fairly okay with extra potent garlic and dill cream cheese, though. Especially with lots of mashed fresh garlic. Bagel day sounds like a giant opportunity.]
Now, decades later, I realize that disco balls have become cool again, because they're retro. At any moment, bellbottoms, beads, and tie-dye will come back into fashion too. Along with illicit substances, which were very popular then. And patchouli.
I'm rather glad my landlords haven't rented to any of the young google or twitter yuppies filling the city. I don't want the sound of the horny hordes stampeding up and down the stairs at all hours of the night. Or screams, hoots, and excessive gaiety elsewhere in the building.
The quietness is nice, there are no wild parties.
No flashing lights, no loud disco music.
No garlic and dill cream cheese.
Nor even asafoetida.
Haemorrhoids.
None.
On a somewhat related note, I should inform you that I did not experience sex until after I left the Netherlands, and I avoid illicit substances and people who use such things.
I mention these matters because when I returned to the States, most people assumed that I had spent my years over there either madly rutting in a drug-induced haze, or sucking giant spleeve in Amsterdam bordellos.
No such thing; I lived a relatively normal life.
Like most teenagers at that time.
According to Wikipædia:
"Asafoetida, انگدان, آنغوزه or asafetida (Ferula assa-foetida) / æsəˈfɛtɨdə /, is the dried latex (gum oleoresin) exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula, a perennial herb that grows 1 to 1.5 m tall. The species is native to the deserts of Iran, mountains of Afghanistan, and is mainly cultivated in nearby India. As its name suggests, asafoetida has a fetid smell (see etymology below) but in cooked dishes it delivers a smooth flavor reminiscent of leeks. It is also known as asant, food of the gods, giant fennel, jowani badian, stinking gum, Devil's dung, hing, kayam and ting."
And, fascinatingly:
"It was familiar in the early Mediterranean, having come by land across Iran. Though it is generally forgotten now in Europe, it is still widely used in India. It emerged into Europe from a conquering expedition of Alexander the Great, who, after returning from a trip to northeastern Persia, thought they had found a plant almost identical to the famed silphium of Cyrene in North Africa—though less tasty. Dioscorides, in the first century, wrote, "the Cyrenaic kind, even if one just tastes it, at once arouses a humour throughout the body and has a very healthy aroma, so that it is not noticed on the breath, or only a little; but the Median [Iranian] is weaker in power and has a nastier smell." Nevertheless, it could be substituted for silphium in cooking, which was fortunate, because a few decades after Dioscorides's time, the true silphium of Cyrene became extinct, and asafoetida became more popular amongst physicians, as well as cooks."
It's connection to haemorrhoids and housewarming parties in Jaffa must remain one of the mysteries of life. Though I suspect that like drugs and sex in Holland, there is less there than meets the eye.
In all honesty, I wouldn't mind a discreet bit of excessive gaiety.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 09, 2014
HE TWIRLS!
"If he's an African prince, then just maybe he's back in Africa!" It sounded like an interesting conversation, so quite naturally I listened in.
However, once they mentioned spanking, I closed my ears.
I may be fifty-four years old, but my ears remain clean.
'I don't know nuttin' 'bout no spankin' miz Scarlett.'
The modern age, you will grant, is disturbing.
And there is almost no ginger in the ale.
White people are scared of taste.
Plucky little charwomen.
Sometimes I wish I were a fly on the wall. Other people's discussions can be interesting, but as a human you risk being pulled in to their world. As a bug, all you need to worry about is staying outside of smack-reach.
"I don't know if I want to get naked and have everybody else see me without clothes"
"You're mispronunciation tells me you're either ignorant or English"
Both of those conversational gambits presage mayhem. The first begs the response "me neither if I was you", the second invites a sock in the jaw.
Again, stay out of smack reach.
Irrespective of the scene, I tend to stick around the edge of the crowd rather than anywhere near the centre. And I always know where the exit is, and how far I am in relation to same. A quick escape is always one of the possibilities. More to the point, I make sure that no one invites me to bachelor parties -- there's always one man who after fifteen ill-considered shots of rye gets everyone in trouble, or suggests heading to the strip show and twerking -- or other embarrassing events of an alleged social slant.
Bridal showers, speed dating, football games, singles parties, monkey hugging, beer and barbecue, ladies nights (errm, the male equivalent: bourbon nights), dolls tea parties, and the like.
There are several words that I feel should never be used casually, or in public, or, in fact, with anyone other than the person whose naughtiness delightfully matches your own. No need to mention these locutions; you know what they are, even if regrettably you lack wickedness at present.
We are judged by our friends. And what they say.
I am rather like Kermit the Frog that way.
Assume that my friends are muppets.
Clean-spoken, and innocent.
Occasionally rowdy.
Never foul.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
However, once they mentioned spanking, I closed my ears.
I may be fifty-four years old, but my ears remain clean.
'I don't know nuttin' 'bout no spankin' miz Scarlett.'
The modern age, you will grant, is disturbing.
And there is almost no ginger in the ale.
White people are scared of taste.
Plucky little charwomen.
Sometimes I wish I were a fly on the wall. Other people's discussions can be interesting, but as a human you risk being pulled in to their world. As a bug, all you need to worry about is staying outside of smack-reach.
"I don't know if I want to get naked and have everybody else see me without clothes"
"You're mispronunciation tells me you're either ignorant or English"
Both of those conversational gambits presage mayhem. The first begs the response "me neither if I was you", the second invites a sock in the jaw.
Again, stay out of smack reach.
Irrespective of the scene, I tend to stick around the edge of the crowd rather than anywhere near the centre. And I always know where the exit is, and how far I am in relation to same. A quick escape is always one of the possibilities. More to the point, I make sure that no one invites me to bachelor parties -- there's always one man who after fifteen ill-considered shots of rye gets everyone in trouble, or suggests heading to the strip show and twerking -- or other embarrassing events of an alleged social slant.
Bridal showers, speed dating, football games, singles parties, monkey hugging, beer and barbecue, ladies nights (errm, the male equivalent: bourbon nights), dolls tea parties, and the like.
There are several words that I feel should never be used casually, or in public, or, in fact, with anyone other than the person whose naughtiness delightfully matches your own. No need to mention these locutions; you know what they are, even if regrettably you lack wickedness at present.
We are judged by our friends. And what they say.
I am rather like Kermit the Frog that way.
Assume that my friends are muppets.
Clean-spoken, and innocent.
Occasionally rowdy.
Never foul.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AVUNCULAR FETISH HARANGUE
There were TWO search criteria that caught my eye this morning. As you know, I scope out the various paths by which people find my blog semi-regularly, one of the main methods being the noting of search terms that random goobers world-wide type into their engine which then finds them this blog.
I like being found. It's better than being an orphan.
All alone in a deep dark world.
Today there were TWO priceless searches.
That brought readers to this very blog.
ONE: "How are Cantonese girls so pretty?"
TWO: "Naked Europe Schoolgirl."
Darnitall, I probably know these guys! Or I feel that I do. Maybe it's a question of auras or karma.
Cantonese girls are pretty if you think they are pretty. The prettiest Cantonese girls are quirky faced to the point of kinda ugly, but with both brilliant intelligence and a level of defiant self-consciousness; precisely like all other pretty girls on the planet. Stupid and indecisive just aren't "pretty" characteristics. Brains are. Think about it; you've talked her into going out to dinner with you. There is a long dull silence between the cocktail and the lobster thermidore. Is that attractive? Or would you rather have someone who can talk world politics, give snarky reviews of teevee shows, and explain algebra? While at the same time making tongue in cheek Monty Python references, and showing a keen appreciation for Arrested Development and Pride and Prejudice?
That could be an intelligent young lady of ANY ethnic background.
If she's Cantonese, she is like all others, one hot mamma. It actually doesn't matter what racial group -- even if you are stereotypic and have a fetish -- an intelligent and well-balance witty conversationalist is by definition a keeper. You had best cleave to her like super-glue.
The question is: are you good enough for her?
If not, just pay for dinner.
Then slink off.
As far as Naked Schoolgirls from Europe are concerned, this is quite a problematic fascination. Schoolgirls are, usually, too young to be legally naked. The exceptions may have been held back several years, especially if they are lower-class Anglo-Saxons, and then their intelligence is severely to be doubted. If they are below eighteen, please rethink the entire paradigm; too young and emotionally un-developed.
If, exceptionally, they are over eighteen years old, they might have the mental acuity of a pile of bricks. In which case any and all conversation will be stultifying, and possibly Eastern European. Frustrating, at least.
Which should prompt the intelligent querant into flight.
No matter how voluptuous the sexy moron.
Slink away, she's only 15 watts!
In short: stop looking for either blonde or black-haired temptresses of a youthful nature. Instead, search for algebra and Sudoku freaks. If they are of a discrete feminine build, in addition to being fascinating and frustrating conversationalists, that is the icing on the cake. But their physical type should not be the prime consideratum.
Can they read?
Do they use words of more than two syllables?
Is their conversation fascinating, infuriating, stimulating, entrancing, and absorbing?
Did taking them out to a restaurant leave you feeling like there are things you should've said that would keep them talking, and in that discussion, kept you guessing?
Some Cantonese girls are indeed "so pretty". And some European schoolgirls are naked.
These are mighty good thing, and very appetizing indeed.
But there is more than that.
Talk.
In another two hours I shall be heading out to Marin County. While I'm there, I may very well think of pretty Cantonese girls, as well as naked European maidens. That is neither here nor there.
Without conversational ability and more than a modicum of brains, the pretty Cantoneseness OR the European nudity is a waste of time.
Nice. But pointless.
By the way: I am a naked European schoolgirl, and my tits glow in the dark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I like being found. It's better than being an orphan.
All alone in a deep dark world.
Today there were TWO priceless searches.
That brought readers to this very blog.
ONE: "How are Cantonese girls so pretty?"
TWO: "Naked Europe Schoolgirl."
Darnitall, I probably know these guys! Or I feel that I do. Maybe it's a question of auras or karma.
Cantonese girls are pretty if you think they are pretty. The prettiest Cantonese girls are quirky faced to the point of kinda ugly, but with both brilliant intelligence and a level of defiant self-consciousness; precisely like all other pretty girls on the planet. Stupid and indecisive just aren't "pretty" characteristics. Brains are. Think about it; you've talked her into going out to dinner with you. There is a long dull silence between the cocktail and the lobster thermidore. Is that attractive? Or would you rather have someone who can talk world politics, give snarky reviews of teevee shows, and explain algebra? While at the same time making tongue in cheek Monty Python references, and showing a keen appreciation for Arrested Development and Pride and Prejudice?
That could be an intelligent young lady of ANY ethnic background.
If she's Cantonese, she is like all others, one hot mamma. It actually doesn't matter what racial group -- even if you are stereotypic and have a fetish -- an intelligent and well-balance witty conversationalist is by definition a keeper. You had best cleave to her like super-glue.
The question is: are you good enough for her?
If not, just pay for dinner.
Then slink off.
As far as Naked Schoolgirls from Europe are concerned, this is quite a problematic fascination. Schoolgirls are, usually, too young to be legally naked. The exceptions may have been held back several years, especially if they are lower-class Anglo-Saxons, and then their intelligence is severely to be doubted. If they are below eighteen, please rethink the entire paradigm; too young and emotionally un-developed.
If, exceptionally, they are over eighteen years old, they might have the mental acuity of a pile of bricks. In which case any and all conversation will be stultifying, and possibly Eastern European. Frustrating, at least.
Which should prompt the intelligent querant into flight.
No matter how voluptuous the sexy moron.
Slink away, she's only 15 watts!
In short: stop looking for either blonde or black-haired temptresses of a youthful nature. Instead, search for algebra and Sudoku freaks. If they are of a discrete feminine build, in addition to being fascinating and frustrating conversationalists, that is the icing on the cake. But their physical type should not be the prime consideratum.
Can they read?
Do they use words of more than two syllables?
Is their conversation fascinating, infuriating, stimulating, entrancing, and absorbing?
Did taking them out to a restaurant leave you feeling like there are things you should've said that would keep them talking, and in that discussion, kept you guessing?
Some Cantonese girls are indeed "so pretty". And some European schoolgirls are naked.
These are mighty good thing, and very appetizing indeed.
But there is more than that.
Talk.
In another two hours I shall be heading out to Marin County. While I'm there, I may very well think of pretty Cantonese girls, as well as naked European maidens. That is neither here nor there.
Without conversational ability and more than a modicum of brains, the pretty Cantoneseness OR the European nudity is a waste of time.
Nice. But pointless.
By the way: I am a naked European schoolgirl, and my tits glow in the dark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 08, 2014
IT'S A LIFE-STYLE CHOICE
At the recent meeting of the pipe club, rather than a lighthearted and informational lecture about some facet of our hobby (neurotic obsession), we instead discussed our very first pipes, and how we started off as pipe-smokers. Some of us began in high-school, many later as university students. A pipe, it seemed, was fitting in an academic environment.
Naturally I agree; nothing says "collegiate" more than a fine briar.
So I was shocked, surprised, and disappointed. Utterly.
That no one took it up in a girls school.
And why not, I wish to know?
Female pipe smokers?
So civilized!
Perhaps because none of us are women. That would explain a lot.
Well, maybe there are such beings. But our local pipe club consists entirely of very likable gentlemen, many of them several years past Gymnasium or Universität in age; from youngish to "avuncular".
Women have not joined, though we would welcome them.
No matter their age or background.
Collegially.
Fond fantasy of mine: young lady starts smoking a pipe while enrolled at Holy Rood Latin Academy For Girls. By the time she hits Oxford, she's developed a taste for full-bodied Balkan Mixtures. After a stint as a mercenary in Bosnia and Rwanda, she begins to dabble in the Virginia-Perique mixtures she eschewed as a lass, and discovers a taste for fine red and brown flue-cured compounds made tangy with Louisiana leaf.
In her early thirties, she goes into local politics. Henceforth there will be sherry at all city council meetings.
Either that, or sweet fruity cocktails served ironically with Hello Kitty swizzle sticks.
At the beginning of our meeting, the cigar smokers in the lounge were hooting up a storm. Unlike us pipe men, they cannot express themselves without excessive usage of the F word. And they are loud, too.
It resembled a homo-erotic mating frenzy.
Very uncouth of them.
After the meeting ended, four of us repaired to the only commercial establishment in San Francisco where you may smoke indoors.
Which was filled with big beefy middle-aged fratboys and loud drunken blondes. Nothing, absolutely nothing, harshes a civilized mellow more than the voice of a brassy fag huffing fishwife, blitheringly blotto.
Fortunately the worst exemplar was carted off by her swain, leaving the floor to somewhat less appalling bimborettas; still a pain in the gand, but the fever level went down.
Another fond fantasy: barely post-teenage Asian American garbed like a manga death-goth-nurse strides in with an AK 47 and clears the room of all loud intoxicated suburbanites, then, satisfied that the selective massacre restored sanity and civilization, lights up a Leon Jimines Belicoso (Connecticut wrapper, Dominican long-filler), puts her still smoking weapon on the blood-stained counter and orders a Flying Grasshopper (crème de menthe, crème de cacao, and vodka), which the shaking bartender silently and unprotestingly places in front of her.
She pulls out a well-worn copy of Death In Venice (Thomas Mann), removes the bookmark, and continues reading where she left off.
Gustav has returned to his hotel, and started drinking heavily.
He obsesses over the lithe and beautiful Polish boy.
Youthful, lissome, and positively Greek!
Mein himmel, so schön ist er!
Auch sehr epizän.
In the now quiet and peaceful smoking environment, the four pipe smokers and the ladylike cigar-chomping Asian American terrorista enjoy their tobacco and chosen libations, while the bartender wonders why nobody thought of doing this before. Scrubbing with lead, that is.
Why, it's SO much better than it was! Heavenly!
Bitch to clean up tomorrow, though.
Good that there are tiles.
Instead of wood.
Floor.
After finishing their pints of Guiness, the other three pipe smokers left.
I joined K-chai at his table near the window, and we talked about the Ukraine, crazy American ideas about foreign policy, and Cuban exiles.
Later we drove through the darkened post-midnight city, wondering where all the drunks had gone. I speculated that if they were white and young, they had gotten an early start, and were already three sheets and several coronas to the wind. If they were the typical middle-aged depressants of this quarter of the city, they might be lying in their hotel rooms with a tourniquet and a filthy needle, dreaming dreams of faded hippy glory. Polk Street was nearly empty, except for a few people lined up outside the donut place. No doubt computer engineers getting a sugar fix, there is more code-monkeying to be done!
As you first read this, it is Saturday night. The city is awash with intemperance, the cigar bar has pulled in the rabid mob, who wish to start their orgies with a fine cheroot. If it were up to me, the place would be filled with pipe smokers, gothic nurses quietly reading (or polishing their Kalashnikovs), and cups of jasmine tea. Well, not really filled. Maybe only a dozen people or so, and variations on a grasshopper.
With a Hello Kitty swizzle stick.
See, I am a rather civilized fellow, unlike the majority of cigar smokers. Or twenty-something dotcommers. Who are all deviants and alcoholics.
I doubt a single one of them has read Thomas Mann.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Naturally I agree; nothing says "collegiate" more than a fine briar.
So I was shocked, surprised, and disappointed. Utterly.
That no one took it up in a girls school.
And why not, I wish to know?
Female pipe smokers?
So civilized!
Perhaps because none of us are women. That would explain a lot.
Well, maybe there are such beings. But our local pipe club consists entirely of very likable gentlemen, many of them several years past Gymnasium or Universität in age; from youngish to "avuncular".
Women have not joined, though we would welcome them.
No matter their age or background.
Collegially.
Fond fantasy of mine: young lady starts smoking a pipe while enrolled at Holy Rood Latin Academy For Girls. By the time she hits Oxford, she's developed a taste for full-bodied Balkan Mixtures. After a stint as a mercenary in Bosnia and Rwanda, she begins to dabble in the Virginia-Perique mixtures she eschewed as a lass, and discovers a taste for fine red and brown flue-cured compounds made tangy with Louisiana leaf.
In her early thirties, she goes into local politics. Henceforth there will be sherry at all city council meetings.
Either that, or sweet fruity cocktails served ironically with Hello Kitty swizzle sticks.
At the beginning of our meeting, the cigar smokers in the lounge were hooting up a storm. Unlike us pipe men, they cannot express themselves without excessive usage of the F word. And they are loud, too.
It resembled a homo-erotic mating frenzy.
Very uncouth of them.
After the meeting ended, four of us repaired to the only commercial establishment in San Francisco where you may smoke indoors.
Which was filled with big beefy middle-aged fratboys and loud drunken blondes. Nothing, absolutely nothing, harshes a civilized mellow more than the voice of a brassy fag huffing fishwife, blitheringly blotto.
Fortunately the worst exemplar was carted off by her swain, leaving the floor to somewhat less appalling bimborettas; still a pain in the gand, but the fever level went down.
Another fond fantasy: barely post-teenage Asian American garbed like a manga death-goth-nurse strides in with an AK 47 and clears the room of all loud intoxicated suburbanites, then, satisfied that the selective massacre restored sanity and civilization, lights up a Leon Jimines Belicoso (Connecticut wrapper, Dominican long-filler), puts her still smoking weapon on the blood-stained counter and orders a Flying Grasshopper (crème de menthe, crème de cacao, and vodka), which the shaking bartender silently and unprotestingly places in front of her.
She pulls out a well-worn copy of Death In Venice (Thomas Mann), removes the bookmark, and continues reading where she left off.
Gustav has returned to his hotel, and started drinking heavily.
He obsesses over the lithe and beautiful Polish boy.
Youthful, lissome, and positively Greek!
Mein himmel, so schön ist er!
Auch sehr epizän.
In the now quiet and peaceful smoking environment, the four pipe smokers and the ladylike cigar-chomping Asian American terrorista enjoy their tobacco and chosen libations, while the bartender wonders why nobody thought of doing this before. Scrubbing with lead, that is.
Why, it's SO much better than it was! Heavenly!
Bitch to clean up tomorrow, though.
Good that there are tiles.
Instead of wood.
Floor.
After finishing their pints of Guiness, the other three pipe smokers left.
I joined K-chai at his table near the window, and we talked about the Ukraine, crazy American ideas about foreign policy, and Cuban exiles.
Later we drove through the darkened post-midnight city, wondering where all the drunks had gone. I speculated that if they were white and young, they had gotten an early start, and were already three sheets and several coronas to the wind. If they were the typical middle-aged depressants of this quarter of the city, they might be lying in their hotel rooms with a tourniquet and a filthy needle, dreaming dreams of faded hippy glory. Polk Street was nearly empty, except for a few people lined up outside the donut place. No doubt computer engineers getting a sugar fix, there is more code-monkeying to be done!
As you first read this, it is Saturday night. The city is awash with intemperance, the cigar bar has pulled in the rabid mob, who wish to start their orgies with a fine cheroot. If it were up to me, the place would be filled with pipe smokers, gothic nurses quietly reading (or polishing their Kalashnikovs), and cups of jasmine tea. Well, not really filled. Maybe only a dozen people or so, and variations on a grasshopper.
With a Hello Kitty swizzle stick.
See, I am a rather civilized fellow, unlike the majority of cigar smokers. Or twenty-something dotcommers. Who are all deviants and alcoholics.
I doubt a single one of them has read Thomas Mann.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 07, 2014
BACHELOR VEGETABLES
Reviewing the meals of the past seven days, I notice with both pleasure and delight that most of it was healthy by gum. We shall ignore the salami and cookies, however.
There were lots of vegetables!
The following items qualify as green crap suitable for a nutritious and satisfying single man's diet:
1) Capers. They're VERY green! They even taste green! Something so utterly greeny-green tasting can only be good for you.
2) Pickled pepperoncini. It's like sauerkraut and chili combined. Full of vitamin C.
3) Fresh green chili peppers. Crispy crunchy salad!
4) Thai green chili paste.
5) Hot sauce. Concentrated vegetable goodness!
6) Ketchup. Purely of vegetable origin.
Budding chefs will be pleased to know that you can stirfry with all of these.
They're also good with goat cheese, peanut butter, and crackers.
There is lots of yoghurt in the ideal bachelor diet.
Other things of vegetable origin:
Coffee. Tea. Bread.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There were lots of vegetables!
The following items qualify as green crap suitable for a nutritious and satisfying single man's diet:
1) Capers. They're VERY green! They even taste green! Something so utterly greeny-green tasting can only be good for you.
2) Pickled pepperoncini. It's like sauerkraut and chili combined. Full of vitamin C.
3) Fresh green chili peppers. Crispy crunchy salad!
4) Thai green chili paste.
5) Hot sauce. Concentrated vegetable goodness!
6) Ketchup. Purely of vegetable origin.
Budding chefs will be pleased to know that you can stirfry with all of these.
They're also good with goat cheese, peanut butter, and crackers.
There is lots of yoghurt in the ideal bachelor diet.
Other things of vegetable origin:
Coffee. Tea. Bread.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AN APPROPRIATE TIME FOR THAT
My current schedule sees me elsewhere four days a week. Most of that time is indoors. Three days are my own: Monday, Tuesday, and Friday.
Even if it is cold or rainy, I will spend some time outside.
But those three days the apartment is mine alone.
Well, except for the stuffed animals.
Who are a riotous bunch of beasts.
All men should have a collection of stuffed animals; it will give them someone to read to. My current reading list includes A Wrinkle In Time, Tribal Cultures, India of the Princes, several dictionaries, and manga.
I'm actually re-reading Azumanga Daioh, as well as Chibi Vampire.
[Azumanga Daioh was written by Kiyohiko Azuma, and came out in English about a decade ago. Chibi Vampire, in fourteen volumes, was published in English starting in 2006.]
The stuffed animals breathlessly await each new development in both of those manga. They thrill along with Osaka-san, Chiyo-chan, and Kaorin, while expressing appreciative oohs and aahs over the adventures of Karin Maaka and her grim-faced love-interest Kenta Usui.
It's a roller-coaster of excitement.
The stuff about tribal cultures rather bores them.
They don't have the curiosity required.
Humans, they know, are pigs.
Are trolls animals? Or a form of human, just magical, hairy, and rotund?
I ask, because I have three representations of Totoro, who was the troll in a famous anime movie. One grins, one looks quizzical and grabs my pipe whenever I put it down, and the third is only an inch tall and quite upset about that.
An inch tall fuzzy wuzzy has very little gravitas.
And is inclined to hop angrily.
On all three days I'll head out to Chinatown around mid-afternoon, for a snack and often the final pipe of the day (as I need to let the apartment air out before my apartment mate returns at six).
The stuffed animals usually doze during that period; the excitement they experienced being read to and misbehaving during the morning pooped them out. Frantic attempts to find my wallet or steal my credit card came to naught, sips of my coffee or tea gave them a buzz, and the fights and sniping they embarked upon from the moment they woke up have run their course.
At least I think they nap while I'm away.
But I'm not sure.
One of these days I'll have to hide in the closet to find out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Even if it is cold or rainy, I will spend some time outside.
But those three days the apartment is mine alone.
Well, except for the stuffed animals.
Who are a riotous bunch of beasts.
All men should have a collection of stuffed animals; it will give them someone to read to. My current reading list includes A Wrinkle In Time, Tribal Cultures, India of the Princes, several dictionaries, and manga.
I'm actually re-reading Azumanga Daioh, as well as Chibi Vampire.
[Azumanga Daioh was written by Kiyohiko Azuma, and came out in English about a decade ago. Chibi Vampire, in fourteen volumes, was published in English starting in 2006.]
The stuffed animals breathlessly await each new development in both of those manga. They thrill along with Osaka-san, Chiyo-chan, and Kaorin, while expressing appreciative oohs and aahs over the adventures of Karin Maaka and her grim-faced love-interest Kenta Usui.
It's a roller-coaster of excitement.
The stuff about tribal cultures rather bores them.
They don't have the curiosity required.
Humans, they know, are pigs.
Are trolls animals? Or a form of human, just magical, hairy, and rotund?
I ask, because I have three representations of Totoro, who was the troll in a famous anime movie. One grins, one looks quizzical and grabs my pipe whenever I put it down, and the third is only an inch tall and quite upset about that.
An inch tall fuzzy wuzzy has very little gravitas.
And is inclined to hop angrily.
On all three days I'll head out to Chinatown around mid-afternoon, for a snack and often the final pipe of the day (as I need to let the apartment air out before my apartment mate returns at six).
The stuffed animals usually doze during that period; the excitement they experienced being read to and misbehaving during the morning pooped them out. Frantic attempts to find my wallet or steal my credit card came to naught, sips of my coffee or tea gave them a buzz, and the fights and sniping they embarked upon from the moment they woke up have run their course.
At least I think they nap while I'm away.
But I'm not sure.
One of these days I'll have to hide in the closet to find out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 06, 2014
AN UNEXPURGATED CODE
-------------------------
This WAS going to be an extremely vicious and vituperative screed, damning modern standards of behavior. But I decided against it, and erased the draft. It was far too mean-spirited.
The only part left is the afterthought.
-------------------------
AFTERTHOUGHT
If you ever see me squiring a young lady around town -- miracles are possible, and yes it would surprise me too if it ever happened -- please just assume that she is my niece or my calligraphy student. And in all possible ways a fine upstanding person of sound morals, keen discernment, and impeccable character.
Do not speculate any further than that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
TEATIME? FULL OF BEANS!
The other day I had a splendid lunch at Hon's Wun-Tun House down on Kearney Street. The place was nearly filled at one o'clock on a Monday afternoon, but thank heavens hardly any white people. Mind you, I like white people. Some of my best friends are white. And I, also, am white. Whiter than that you cannot get. But white people, by and large, talk funny and eat with trepidation. In addition to asking irrelevant questions like "is the rice stick noodle made with brown rice?" and "do you have any wheat and gluten free vegan dishes?"
Then they'll bellyache about the soy sauce or something.
Real food does not change its colours for neurotics.
Which many white folks nowadays are.
洪記麵家 "Hung Gei Mien Ga"
HON'S WUN-TUN HOUSE (CA.) LTD.
648 Kearny Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
415-433-3966
Most of the patrons were middle-aged Chinese (Cantonese) people, whose clothing and language indicated that they came there by choice rather than mere convenience, and many of them did so habitually, because they had known the place for years.
Realistically, the reason to go there is won ton noodle soup (雲吞麵), stewed pigs knuckle (南乳豬手), stewed brisket (牛腩), beef tendon (牛筋) and seui gaau (水餃). They also do other things, but NOT vegan kibble, brown rice crap, or gluten-free muck. If you want any of those last three items, maybe you should eat elsewhere. There's always someplace that caters to your kind, even when you are away from your ethnic enclave (in the suburbs). There are several restaurants that exist exclusively to welcome problematic nutballs in other parts of the city.....
I've reviewed a number of them: eat vegetarians!
I hope that's helpful.
Hon's Wun Tun House.
It's good. It's cheap. It's got meat.
I had the chasiu wonton with rice stick noodles.
叉燒雲吞粉。
Ate with gusto. Broth, noodles, dumplings, and barbecue pork.
Departed happy as a clam (譁，蜆笑噉開心㗎！).
Which pleasant mental state lasted till I got to Safeway, where the sour oppressive atmosphere of hatchet-faced old folks from the condo tower above the store left me drained and enervated.
There's just something about vicious about elderly middle-classes.
It's that cannibalistic aura that many of them have.
They got theirs, screw everyone else.
Maybe they're just related to too many people who have wheat and gluten allergies, avoid meat, and demand brown rice or vegan crap.
Family dinners must be really frustrating for them.
Probably gives them constipation.
That, or the prunes.
I had fully recovered by tea-time, in case you were wondering. Felt like smoking another pipe, and going out into the public thoroughfare to blow noxious fumes at people's children and pets. Boo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Then they'll bellyache about the soy sauce or something.
Real food does not change its colours for neurotics.
Which many white folks nowadays are.
洪記麵家 "Hung Gei Mien Ga"
HON'S WUN-TUN HOUSE (CA.) LTD.
648 Kearny Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
415-433-3966
Most of the patrons were middle-aged Chinese (Cantonese) people, whose clothing and language indicated that they came there by choice rather than mere convenience, and many of them did so habitually, because they had known the place for years.
Realistically, the reason to go there is won ton noodle soup (雲吞麵), stewed pigs knuckle (南乳豬手), stewed brisket (牛腩), beef tendon (牛筋) and seui gaau (水餃). They also do other things, but NOT vegan kibble, brown rice crap, or gluten-free muck. If you want any of those last three items, maybe you should eat elsewhere. There's always someplace that caters to your kind, even when you are away from your ethnic enclave (in the suburbs). There are several restaurants that exist exclusively to welcome problematic nutballs in other parts of the city.....
I've reviewed a number of them: eat vegetarians!
I hope that's helpful.
Hon's Wun Tun House.
It's good. It's cheap. It's got meat.
I had the chasiu wonton with rice stick noodles.
叉燒雲吞粉。
Ate with gusto. Broth, noodles, dumplings, and barbecue pork.
Departed happy as a clam (譁，蜆笑噉開心㗎！).
Which pleasant mental state lasted till I got to Safeway, where the sour oppressive atmosphere of hatchet-faced old folks from the condo tower above the store left me drained and enervated.
There's just something about vicious about elderly middle-classes.
It's that cannibalistic aura that many of them have.
They got theirs, screw everyone else.
Maybe they're just related to too many people who have wheat and gluten allergies, avoid meat, and demand brown rice or vegan crap.
Family dinners must be really frustrating for them.
Probably gives them constipation.
That, or the prunes.
I had fully recovered by tea-time, in case you were wondering. Felt like smoking another pipe, and going out into the public thoroughfare to blow noxious fumes at people's children and pets. Boo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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ALL OF YOU TALK FUNNY
All in all I am fairly pleased that some restaurants in Chinatown have a customer base that's almost entirely non-tourist. After all, ha...
