It has been a very full week, as far as news is concerned. Refugees have struggled across the vast blasted expanse of the Balkans, desperate to reach civilization before the winter and the Yugo werewolves kill them all, people have been stabbed by poor peace-loving pacifist tribalists exercising their deep spiritual natures in Jerusalem, the gangland boss in the Kremlin bombed parts of Syria that had not yet been taken over by crazed Jihadis, several Republicans had conniptions, the Turks picked another fight with the Kurds, and the Saudis lied about the number of dead pilgrims.
There were other things deserving mention.
But this is the most important news:
"Former professional basketball player Lamar Odom has regained consciousness three days after he was found unresponsive inside a Nevada brothel."
[SOURCE: BBC BLATHER.]
For those readers not paying attention, some big black hunk-a-dunk snorted a bucket of cocaine and downed a king's ransom in penis stimulants, then slipped into a coma while blood spewed from several orifices. Dumbass wanted to stay up for several days banging all the poon in sight.
Thought he could do it, too. All he needed was chemistry.
Yes, that has been considered "news" for an entire week.
Every time you looked up, he was there.
A dummy and his dick.
Darn it all, you and I both realize that jamming a fortune in coke up your nostrils, then pounding the miracle dick pills, is a lousy idea. Doing so in a brothel, while probably drunk, insane with lust, and misapprehending that one could and should commit bouncy bouncy with every person there, just adds a lake overflowing with total-batshit to the adventure.
Lamar Odom, however, may be dull as a brick.
He once married Khloe Kardashian.
Not the smartest lump.
Apparently the news organizations of the world assume that we all want to be like him, or are quite fascinated by his fantasy sex life.
He's black, and played sports. He has a dick.
So what's not to like, dammit?!?
Some people, however ...
Consequently, I not only expect copy-cat comas, I absolutely demand them. If every maladjusted slack-whanged mama's boy would just do the same, in the hopes of EITHER succeeding in the bang department OR being in the news with thousands of admiring fans expressing their love, anguish, and emotional support, this world would be a better place.
Surely cocaine and C-alis cannot be that expensive.
Or very hard to find, even in stupid town.
Congressmen use that stuff.
It's a cinch!
You say I'm a bit too peevish? Perhaps unkind and uncaring?
Please understand that the sleazy lives and disgusting antics of celebrities, politicians, and sports figures are just not interesting.
There is no imagination there, they do not do anything that we don't fully expect from them and their ilk.
Now, if the news read that Lamar 'crap-for-brains' Odom had injured himself trying to surreptitiously shag one of Siegfried and Roy's tigers in the middle of the night, perhaps then I would sit up and actually pay attention.
And I really wish he would pull some crazy shiznit like that.
It would indeed be newsworthy.
Fascinating, in fact.
Just do it!
Fercrapsakes, BBC, report the news!
==========================================================================
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Monday, October 19, 2015
ALL ABOUT LUNCH
In complete contrast with what I had for dinner late at night on Saturday, yesterday evening's supper was far more sensible and balanced.
It contained fruit, protein, and starches, in a carefully thought-out arrangement.
It was the very last slice of Tuesday's birthday cake.
The whipped cream had a cherry on top.
Plus there was coffee alongside.
One must have coffee.
With cake.
See, you have to understand that on work-days, lunch is an incredibly late affair, often at tea-time instead of mid-day. Breakfast was the usual two strong cups of coffee before leaving the house around eight, and a cracker or two plus tea after reaching work. That's enough to keep me going for five or six hours, along with several cups of tea and two or three pipefulls of tobacco.
And I tend to get distracted while there. Yesterday I engaged in several disquisitions, involving old briar, bowl size, grain patterns, how tobacco ferments, natural sugars, terpeneols, carotenoids. Plus proteins (present largely in air-cured leaf, i.e. Burley, Maryland, and cigar), acetic acid (lowest in Maryland, highest in Oriental leaf), malic acid (very high in Burley, half that in Oriental, even less in Flue-cured and some others), and, oh lovely phrase, non-volatile aroma precursors (glucosides).
Plus pectin. Tobacco leaf is six to twelve percent pectin.
The sugars present in tobacco, as is well known, mitigate the harshness of the nicotine in the smoke by modifying how the mouth perceives the inhalation.
Nicotine, the most significant alkaloid in the product, is present at up to six percent for some Burleys and Virginias, around two percent for many fine cigar tobaccos, and less than a tenth of a percent for excellent Turkish. Fermentation breaks down some of the leaf constituents, and consequently the amount of nicotine in the leaf AFTER fermentation is between one sixth and one ninth of what it had been before.
What gives much tobacco it's characteristic plummy aroma, however, are the breakdown products of carotenoids.
In any case, for purposes of demonstration and illumination, examples of Latakia, Perique, Black Virginia Cavendish, Plain Cavendish, Burley, Bright Virginia, and Black Stoved Vanilla Cavendish were utilized.
Blending guidelines and proportions were discussed.
Heat and moisture content were mentioned.
Pipes were pensively smoked.
Didn't eat lunch till after four o'clock.
Finished before weirdoes walked in.
Cake, at nine in the evening, was just the ticket. It was very nice cake. That was the last piece. Dark bitter coffee complimented it perfectly.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
It contained fruit, protein, and starches, in a carefully thought-out arrangement.
It was the very last slice of Tuesday's birthday cake.
The whipped cream had a cherry on top.
Plus there was coffee alongside.
One must have coffee.
With cake.
See, you have to understand that on work-days, lunch is an incredibly late affair, often at tea-time instead of mid-day. Breakfast was the usual two strong cups of coffee before leaving the house around eight, and a cracker or two plus tea after reaching work. That's enough to keep me going for five or six hours, along with several cups of tea and two or three pipefulls of tobacco.
And I tend to get distracted while there. Yesterday I engaged in several disquisitions, involving old briar, bowl size, grain patterns, how tobacco ferments, natural sugars, terpeneols, carotenoids. Plus proteins (present largely in air-cured leaf, i.e. Burley, Maryland, and cigar), acetic acid (lowest in Maryland, highest in Oriental leaf), malic acid (very high in Burley, half that in Oriental, even less in Flue-cured and some others), and, oh lovely phrase, non-volatile aroma precursors (glucosides).
Plus pectin. Tobacco leaf is six to twelve percent pectin.
The sugars present in tobacco, as is well known, mitigate the harshness of the nicotine in the smoke by modifying how the mouth perceives the inhalation.
Nicotine, the most significant alkaloid in the product, is present at up to six percent for some Burleys and Virginias, around two percent for many fine cigar tobaccos, and less than a tenth of a percent for excellent Turkish. Fermentation breaks down some of the leaf constituents, and consequently the amount of nicotine in the leaf AFTER fermentation is between one sixth and one ninth of what it had been before.
What gives much tobacco it's characteristic plummy aroma, however, are the breakdown products of carotenoids.
In any case, for purposes of demonstration and illumination, examples of Latakia, Perique, Black Virginia Cavendish, Plain Cavendish, Burley, Bright Virginia, and Black Stoved Vanilla Cavendish were utilized.
Blending guidelines and proportions were discussed.
Heat and moisture content were mentioned.
Pipes were pensively smoked.
Didn't eat lunch till after four o'clock.
Finished before weirdoes walked in.
Cake, at nine in the evening, was just the ticket. It was very nice cake. That was the last piece. Dark bitter coffee complimented it perfectly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 18, 2015
TRANSPORTING SOFT BRAINS
It's either daemonic possession, or a type of acute intellectual failure endemic in Marin County, which is a special place in the universe.
I am, of course, speaking of the Golden Gate bus which carries me back to the city after a long day of assaulting various pudgy middle-aged male sportsfanatic cigarsmokers with whips and cattle-prods.
There was screaming, and loud obscenity.
Some team won today.
The bus contained a broad and enriching slice of humanity, all of them unique individuals, with rich inner lives.
PARAGRAPH TWO
Minor annotation, necessary for understanding why the phone conversation that caught my attention caused me to grimace:
Matterhorn: a very tall mountain in Switzerland, straddling the border with Italy, not too far from France.
Switzerland: a not-insignificant country in Western Europe, sort of centrally located, bordered by Germany in the North, Italy in the South, and France in the West. Money repositories, mountains called Alps, clockmakers, chocolatiers, and Heidi can be found there.
Sweden: a place which is not Switzerland. Sweden is known for hard rotten fish, soft rotten fish, slimy rotten fish, and semifirm rotten fish.
It's really a rather nice country, located in Scandinavia, which is in
Northern Europe. The weather is colder than Switzerland.
Gohverdomme: an exclamation frequently used by Dutchmen.
PARAGRAPH THREE
Cell-phone conversation excerpt.
"I'm on the bus on Van Ness, and you should know that there's actually a Swedish Restaurant in San Francisco!"
"You should tell them! All three of them are totally Swedish, we should take them there."
"No, I just passed it; it looks clean and very nice, and for sure it's Swedish."
"It's called Matterhorn, they have the Swedish flag on the awning."
"Yeah okay then, I'll tell them and let them decide."
"I've never had Swedish food either."
And, other than causing me to swear under my breath (gohverdomme!), it made me realize that there is a substantial overlap of stupidity, ignorance, and silliness (or rank confusion); it's a Venn diagram.
Too many Americans inhabit a Venn Diagram.
We are a Venn diagrammatic people.
Some of us are ignorant. Painfully, cripplingly, ignorant. Others are stupid, and can barely find their way out of a ripped cardboard box. And yet others are silly. Or confused. There is nothing wrong with silly, or confused, but sometimes there is nothing right about it either.
And some of us are all of the above.
Very few of us are both totally Swedish as well as Swiss.
PARAGRAPH FOUR
No, I'm not going to excuse that woman on some spurious grounds, don't be ridiculous. I'm not condemning her either. I'm just saying that that is one heck of a Venn diagram.
Gohverdomme!
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am, of course, speaking of the Golden Gate bus which carries me back to the city after a long day of assaulting various pudgy middle-aged male sportsfanatic cigarsmokers with whips and cattle-prods.
There was screaming, and loud obscenity.
Some team won today.
The bus contained a broad and enriching slice of humanity, all of them unique individuals, with rich inner lives.
PARAGRAPH TWO
Minor annotation, necessary for understanding why the phone conversation that caught my attention caused me to grimace:
Matterhorn: a very tall mountain in Switzerland, straddling the border with Italy, not too far from France.
Switzerland: a not-insignificant country in Western Europe, sort of centrally located, bordered by Germany in the North, Italy in the South, and France in the West. Money repositories, mountains called Alps, clockmakers, chocolatiers, and Heidi can be found there.
Sweden: a place which is not Switzerland. Sweden is known for hard rotten fish, soft rotten fish, slimy rotten fish, and semifirm rotten fish.
It's really a rather nice country, located in Scandinavia, which is in
Northern Europe. The weather is colder than Switzerland.
Gohverdomme: an exclamation frequently used by Dutchmen.
PARAGRAPH THREE
Cell-phone conversation excerpt.
"I'm on the bus on Van Ness, and you should know that there's actually a Swedish Restaurant in San Francisco!"
"You should tell them! All three of them are totally Swedish, we should take them there."
"No, I just passed it; it looks clean and very nice, and for sure it's Swedish."
"It's called Matterhorn, they have the Swedish flag on the awning."
"Yeah okay then, I'll tell them and let them decide."
"I've never had Swedish food either."
And, other than causing me to swear under my breath (gohverdomme!), it made me realize that there is a substantial overlap of stupidity, ignorance, and silliness (or rank confusion); it's a Venn diagram.
Too many Americans inhabit a Venn Diagram.
We are a Venn diagrammatic people.
Some of us are ignorant. Painfully, cripplingly, ignorant. Others are stupid, and can barely find their way out of a ripped cardboard box. And yet others are silly. Or confused. There is nothing wrong with silly, or confused, but sometimes there is nothing right about it either.
And some of us are all of the above.
Very few of us are both totally Swedish as well as Swiss.
PARAGRAPH FOUR
No, I'm not going to excuse that woman on some spurious grounds, don't be ridiculous. I'm not condemning her either. I'm just saying that that is one heck of a Venn diagram.
Gohverdomme!
THE MATTERHORN
"Matterhorn from Domhütte - 2" by Photo: chil, on Camptocamp.org
Derivative work:Zacharie Grossen - Camptocamp.org.
Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DIGESTION IS MIRACULOUS
A lump of cheddar, some poofy Malaysian-Chinese coconut cookies, and pistachio ice cream, is not the dinner of champions. I realize that now, but last night it seemed like a good idea.
I woke up from a dream featuring two boxes of long thin cigars by Pete Johnson, the fatty thighs of the mayor of Alexandria in Egypt, and Elvis Presley music.
Having been dead for nearly four decades, the King's voice has not improved. It's a bit raspy, and wavering, and it sounds like he has a cough. A bad cough. He's a bit worse for wear, even though Brendan Fraser exclaimed "he's still... still... juicy!"
The driver of our limo in my dream was an orthodox Sunni khatib, which is probably why he was excrutiatingly clean-spoken after crashing the vehicle. No, I do not know why his wife Abeda was with us (she appeared out of nowhere immediately after we hit the brick wall), but I'm sure there's a logical dream-state explanation. Maybe to keep her husband from noticing any other women in baggy black abayas.
Why a khatib? I don't know. Perhaps he was in between mosques.
He was a very eloquent gentleman, Yemeni I believe.
Today is going to be an interesting day in the world of cigar-crazed weasels across the bridge, I can feel it.
Just like last night was all about hairy barbarians.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I woke up from a dream featuring two boxes of long thin cigars by Pete Johnson, the fatty thighs of the mayor of Alexandria in Egypt, and Elvis Presley music.
Having been dead for nearly four decades, the King's voice has not improved. It's a bit raspy, and wavering, and it sounds like he has a cough. A bad cough. He's a bit worse for wear, even though Brendan Fraser exclaimed "he's still... still... juicy!"
The driver of our limo in my dream was an orthodox Sunni khatib, which is probably why he was excrutiatingly clean-spoken after crashing the vehicle. No, I do not know why his wife Abeda was with us (she appeared out of nowhere immediately after we hit the brick wall), but I'm sure there's a logical dream-state explanation. Maybe to keep her husband from noticing any other women in baggy black abayas.
Why a khatib? I don't know. Perhaps he was in between mosques.
He was a very eloquent gentleman, Yemeni I believe.
Today is going to be an interesting day in the world of cigar-crazed weasels across the bridge, I can feel it.
Just like last night was all about hairy barbarians.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 17, 2015
CLIMACTIC PECULIARITIES
One of the infinite riddles of the world is how come the tropical zones are packed with people. More specifically, how can those folks reproduce?
There's probably a perfectly logical explanation which I do not want to hear right now, because my own preferences are to avoid physical contact during the hot clammy-skin season. For me, reproductive behaviour is best done when the temperature encourages closeness while naked. And ideally when the warmth of the other person is like a magnet, drawing one in.
Man, naturally, is a heat vampire.
As is woman, even more so.
Air-conditioning, rain storms, cold weather, hail, and burrowing under the covers, are all conducive to personal contact, whereas summery balm, and temperatures above seventy, are discouraging.
I make mention of this, because on overly hot days many people will utter a silly remark to the effect of "such lovely weather" or "isn't it wonderful out there" as their initial 'brilliant' conversational kickstarter.
Both statements are surreal departures from sanity.
In reality it's neither lovely nor wonderful.
Rather, it is perfectly beastly.
You guys are sick.
Contradictorily, during the hot weather one really wishes to prance around stark naked, but is more sensitive to the unbearable stickiness of skin.
No one sane engages in reproduction under those conditions.
It is tortuous, and quite possibly depraved.
Alas, the nudity is also not done.
Instead, almost all wild passion naturally takes place during the cold season, when people wallow around fully aroused and fully clothed. During a downpour. Out in the rain, when streams of clean cold water pelt them and their partner. Inspired sex alleviates frigid misery marvelously.
The risk of pneumonia adds an indescribable frisson!
Yes, sog, shiver, and freeze, are potent aphrodisiacs, which drive people together and prompt us to surround ourselves all over with antioxidant polyphenols, wet clothing, and warm fuzzy blankets.
I personally am looking immensely forward to winter, when gay young couples will put on thick raincoats and frolic libidaciously down at the intersection while the streets flood, writhing, screaming, and painfully panting, as if experiencing the rapture at the end-times when their souls are violently ripped from their feverishly flushed flesh-husks. How brutal!
Their bodies will melt together and quiver as one when it rains.
Umbrellas will be discarded in the heat of passion.
Along with boots, gloves, and sanity.
Of course, as a bachelor, this does NOT apply to me.
But I shall enjoy watching other people.
Winter is the happiest time.
[One of my friends, a truly depraved s.o.b., suggests that tropical inhabitants procreate because oppressive humidity and one hundred degrees Fahrenheit smell like sex. If this is so, it's the nasty kind, that requires lots of beer and dance-grunting in a nightclub south of Market Street. Which is impossible! Most of the equatorial belt hates beer, and only stocks it for the visiting Australians.
If sex smelled like Australians, there would be far fewer young people.]
E-commerce yuppies and Midwestern immigrants are rutting down on Polk Street this evening. Clearly they are mad. It is still far too warm!
Persons such as myself have perfect self-control, however; so the only way we could consider concupiscence at present is while relaxing, still naked, after a refreshing shower in the utter dark of late late night.
Perhaps even just before dawn, when the rest of you are preparing to go to church to mortify your sinful flesh while the morn is yet cool.
Dang, some of you need to mortify your sinful flesh!
I suggest using tools and condiments.
Whelts and hot sauce
I really hate hot weather.
I wish it to be less.
Fog is nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There's probably a perfectly logical explanation which I do not want to hear right now, because my own preferences are to avoid physical contact during the hot clammy-skin season. For me, reproductive behaviour is best done when the temperature encourages closeness while naked. And ideally when the warmth of the other person is like a magnet, drawing one in.
Man, naturally, is a heat vampire.
As is woman, even more so.
Air-conditioning, rain storms, cold weather, hail, and burrowing under the covers, are all conducive to personal contact, whereas summery balm, and temperatures above seventy, are discouraging.
I make mention of this, because on overly hot days many people will utter a silly remark to the effect of "such lovely weather" or "isn't it wonderful out there" as their initial 'brilliant' conversational kickstarter.
Both statements are surreal departures from sanity.
In reality it's neither lovely nor wonderful.
Rather, it is perfectly beastly.
You guys are sick.
Contradictorily, during the hot weather one really wishes to prance around stark naked, but is more sensitive to the unbearable stickiness of skin.
No one sane engages in reproduction under those conditions.
It is tortuous, and quite possibly depraved.
Alas, the nudity is also not done.
Instead, almost all wild passion naturally takes place during the cold season, when people wallow around fully aroused and fully clothed. During a downpour. Out in the rain, when streams of clean cold water pelt them and their partner. Inspired sex alleviates frigid misery marvelously.
The risk of pneumonia adds an indescribable frisson!
Yes, sog, shiver, and freeze, are potent aphrodisiacs, which drive people together and prompt us to surround ourselves all over with antioxidant polyphenols, wet clothing, and warm fuzzy blankets.
I personally am looking immensely forward to winter, when gay young couples will put on thick raincoats and frolic libidaciously down at the intersection while the streets flood, writhing, screaming, and painfully panting, as if experiencing the rapture at the end-times when their souls are violently ripped from their feverishly flushed flesh-husks. How brutal!
Their bodies will melt together and quiver as one when it rains.
Umbrellas will be discarded in the heat of passion.
Along with boots, gloves, and sanity.
Of course, as a bachelor, this does NOT apply to me.
But I shall enjoy watching other people.
Winter is the happiest time.
[One of my friends, a truly depraved s.o.b., suggests that tropical inhabitants procreate because oppressive humidity and one hundred degrees Fahrenheit smell like sex. If this is so, it's the nasty kind, that requires lots of beer and dance-grunting in a nightclub south of Market Street. Which is impossible! Most of the equatorial belt hates beer, and only stocks it for the visiting Australians.
If sex smelled like Australians, there would be far fewer young people.]
E-commerce yuppies and Midwestern immigrants are rutting down on Polk Street this evening. Clearly they are mad. It is still far too warm!
Persons such as myself have perfect self-control, however; so the only way we could consider concupiscence at present is while relaxing, still naked, after a refreshing shower in the utter dark of late late night.
Perhaps even just before dawn, when the rest of you are preparing to go to church to mortify your sinful flesh while the morn is yet cool.
Dang, some of you need to mortify your sinful flesh!
I suggest using tools and condiments.
Whelts and hot sauce
I really hate hot weather.
I wish it to be less.
Fog is nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 16, 2015
BRUTAL NOISES
Peacefully reposing before my alarm went off, I was startled awake by a yelp, squawk, or hoot. This is not unusual.
Yelping, squawking, or hooting.
My apartment mate watches teevee while having her morning coffee and writing e-mails. She is multi-functional at six in the morning.
And given to yelping, squawking, or hooting.
Not infrequently, she yelps, squawks, or hoots, at something happening on teevee.
This morning, she yelped, squawked, or hooted, because some Asian woman in a show was being surprisingly defiant and bold, deliberately pushing an envelope that others did not expect would be pushed.
My apartment mate likes the examples of Asian women doing that.
She is of Asian derivation herself.
Proudly so.
She yelps, squawks, and hoots.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yelping, squawking, or hooting.
My apartment mate watches teevee while having her morning coffee and writing e-mails. She is multi-functional at six in the morning.
And given to yelping, squawking, or hooting.
Not infrequently, she yelps, squawks, or hoots, at something happening on teevee.
This morning, she yelped, squawked, or hooted, because some Asian woman in a show was being surprisingly defiant and bold, deliberately pushing an envelope that others did not expect would be pushed.
My apartment mate likes the examples of Asian women doing that.
She is of Asian derivation herself.
Proudly so.
She yelps, squawks, and hoots.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 15, 2015
POOONJABBY!
Whenever the bookseller and I meet on the bus, we greet each other. Most friendly. "Arre bhai, kia kaise hai." "Oh, thik hai, thik hai, bahot kripalu se, aapna?" "Thik, thik, thik ... " "Bhi thik, bhai." "Jal-raha hai ... "
Per a long-standing tradition, it is in Hindustani.
Reflecting mutual appreciation for curry.
I worked in a Desi restaurant.
Several years ago.
Which is why I think that this video is AWESOME!
JUS REIGN EXPRESSES HIMSELF
INDIAN RESTAURANTS ARE SAVAGE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avHoBGD6Uew.]
Everything in that clip is true. Everything.
I just licked my own elbow.
Bilkol sacha!
Yaar.
BTW, nearly everybody is named Ahluwalia. I don't know why this is so. Jay Ahluwalia. "Allo namaste I can be kindly speaking to mister Ahluwalia, yaar?" Which Ahluwalia please?" "Mister Jay Ahluwalia!"
"Ahhhhhhh, kaun'sa, bhai-saheb, har' kise Jay hai ... "
Well, actually, they aren't. But they've probably changed their handle to something white people can pronounce.
Like mister Jus Reign, whose real name probably is a tongue twister.
I'm guessing something like "Jay Singh", for instance.
Very mushkil, is it.
YOU! ARE A PIECE OF MEAT!
THINGS I HATE ABOUT INDIA
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LG3KlSIsrec.]
I'm like muy sympatico or sumpin' wid diz bro', 'coz I can jus' imagine the heavy conversations he been having with Canadians about India.
Talking with them is bound to be weird, they're not like us.
Things are cold and wet up there, yeh?
It's like, British.
PIZZA? IT'S CALLED THAT IN ENGLISH TOO!
SHIT WHITE GUYS SAY TO BROWN GUYS
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hr4Hh34p3LM.]
Did somebody say 'Desi gangsta'?
Stop shaking my hand.
Pooonjabby!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Per a long-standing tradition, it is in Hindustani.
Reflecting mutual appreciation for curry.
I worked in a Desi restaurant.
Several years ago.
Which is why I think that this video is AWESOME!
JUS REIGN EXPRESSES HIMSELF
INDIAN RESTAURANTS ARE SAVAGE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avHoBGD6Uew.]
Everything in that clip is true. Everything.
I just licked my own elbow.
Bilkol sacha!
Yaar.
BTW, nearly everybody is named Ahluwalia. I don't know why this is so. Jay Ahluwalia. "Allo namaste I can be kindly speaking to mister Ahluwalia, yaar?" Which Ahluwalia please?" "Mister Jay Ahluwalia!"
"Ahhhhhhh, kaun'sa, bhai-saheb, har' kise Jay hai ... "
Well, actually, they aren't. But they've probably changed their handle to something white people can pronounce.
Like mister Jus Reign, whose real name probably is a tongue twister.
I'm guessing something like "Jay Singh", for instance.
Very mushkil, is it.
YOU! ARE A PIECE OF MEAT!
THINGS I HATE ABOUT INDIA
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LG3KlSIsrec.]
I'm like muy sympatico or sumpin' wid diz bro', 'coz I can jus' imagine the heavy conversations he been having with Canadians about India.
Talking with them is bound to be weird, they're not like us.
Things are cold and wet up there, yeh?
It's like, British.
PIZZA? IT'S CALLED THAT IN ENGLISH TOO!
SHIT WHITE GUYS SAY TO BROWN GUYS
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hr4Hh34p3LM.]
Did somebody say 'Desi gangsta'?
Stop shaking my hand.
Pooonjabby!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
HUCKABEE, DOGS, AND TWEETS; BLUNT TRAUMA TO THE BRAIN
Not Trump. Not Jindal. Not Rubio, Cruz, or Bush. The biggest dick among the republican clowns running for presidential candidate may very well be the clueless formah gubnah of Arkinsah, Mike Huckabee.
Who is the father of dog-killer David Huckabee.
This is what the aforementioned formah gubnah tweeted yesterday:
"I trust Bernie Sanders with my tax dollars like I trust a North Korean chef with my labrador!"
Um, what?
Does this man not realize that cracking jokes about people eating dog meat is rightly considered hugely racist? And that he just shot himself in the foot?
Not that I mind Southern Baptists OR southern republicans saying stupid things.
It's why all true Americans look at them with kindness.
The more of them do that, the better.
Who can forget this classic:
"I would love to know more. What I know is troubling enough. And one thing that I do know is his having grown up in Kenya, his view of the Brits, for example, is very different than the average American."
Are all southerners stupid dumb-ass twats?
No, not all. By no means all.
Not even Mike.
AFTER WORD
Governor Huckabee once said that Beyoncé's lyrics were "obnoxious and toxic mental poison." Which is entirely correct. One rather wishes that Bubba Hucka would limit his utterances to critiques of modern music.
Perhaps mixed in with occasional recipes for possum and coon.
* * * * *
LAGNIAPPE
Possum with young potatoes is an excellent dish, by the way, suitable for a family of four. Strip and gut the possum, cut off head, claws, and tail. Rinse very well.
Cut it into large pieces like you would a bird, and simmer in lightly salted water with a bay leaf and a dash of vinegar till tender. About an hour and a half to two hours, but that really depends on the beast.
Boil about three or four pounds of young fingerlings separately, along with two or three chunked carrots.
Then place the possum in an oven-proof dish, arrange the potatoes and carrots around the meat, along with whole jalapeños if you like, and lay four to eight strips of apple-wood smoked bacon overall.
Brown in the oven.
The average wild possum yields about three pounds of usable meat.
At least, around here they do. But avoid urban possum.
City possums are scavengers.
Southerners prefer possum with sweet potatoes, but I am not a fan.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Who is the father of dog-killer David Huckabee.
This is what the aforementioned formah gubnah tweeted yesterday:
"I trust Bernie Sanders with my tax dollars like I trust a North Korean chef with my labrador!"
Um, what?
Does this man not realize that cracking jokes about people eating dog meat is rightly considered hugely racist? And that he just shot himself in the foot?
Not that I mind Southern Baptists OR southern republicans saying stupid things.
It's why all true Americans look at them with kindness.
The more of them do that, the better.
Who can forget this classic:
"I would love to know more. What I know is troubling enough. And one thing that I do know is his having grown up in Kenya, his view of the Brits, for example, is very different than the average American."
Are all southerners stupid dumb-ass twats?
No, not all. By no means all.
Not even Mike.
AFTER WORD
Governor Huckabee once said that Beyoncé's lyrics were "obnoxious and toxic mental poison." Which is entirely correct. One rather wishes that Bubba Hucka would limit his utterances to critiques of modern music.
Perhaps mixed in with occasional recipes for possum and coon.
* * * * *
LAGNIAPPE
Possum with young potatoes is an excellent dish, by the way, suitable for a family of four. Strip and gut the possum, cut off head, claws, and tail. Rinse very well.
Cut it into large pieces like you would a bird, and simmer in lightly salted water with a bay leaf and a dash of vinegar till tender. About an hour and a half to two hours, but that really depends on the beast.
Boil about three or four pounds of young fingerlings separately, along with two or three chunked carrots.
Then place the possum in an oven-proof dish, arrange the potatoes and carrots around the meat, along with whole jalapeños if you like, and lay four to eight strips of apple-wood smoked bacon overall.
Brown in the oven.
The average wild possum yields about three pounds of usable meat.
At least, around here they do. But avoid urban possum.
City possums are scavengers.
Southerners prefer possum with sweet potatoes, but I am not a fan.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHAT IS THAT RACKET?
White people should not sing David Bowie. White people should not sing Elton John. White people should not sing smarmy Mandarin love ballads. All of this was already known, but made quite clear last night.
We went in resolved to have just two, after which we would make our escape. Unfortunately, drunken white people waltzing into a Chinese karaoke bar always fascinate me, because I like to observe trainwrecks, so we stayed a little too long. While I was outside smoking, an evil person poured my friend two or several more. In consequence of which, or perhaps to take revenge for, he spilled the beans about my birthday.
After mature consideration, I am convinced that white people should not sing. Ever. Anything. At all.
Croaky sounds.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
We went in resolved to have just two, after which we would make our escape. Unfortunately, drunken white people waltzing into a Chinese karaoke bar always fascinate me, because I like to observe trainwrecks, so we stayed a little too long. While I was outside smoking, an evil person poured my friend two or several more. In consequence of which, or perhaps to take revenge for, he spilled the beans about my birthday.
After mature consideration, I am convinced that white people should not sing. Ever. Anything. At all.
Croaky sounds.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
MICRO ACHIEVEMENTS
On a day such as today, one reviews what one has achieved that deserves mention. Birthdays are a perfect opportunity to take stock, count up the blessings, and dwell on all of life's memorable victories.
Being a total realist, I ain't gonna do that.
Instead, let's just review today.
MORNING
Coffee and a coughing jag, due to the tail-end of a respiratory infection.
Lots of grumbling.
NOON
More coffee. More coughing.
Grumble grumble.
MID AFTERNOON
After a prolonged squawk about the horrid, horrid weather we're having, which makes it impossible to wear a jacket because it's too dang hot, and therefore one's smoking supplies have to be paired down to the very barest minimum -- only one pipe, already pre-loaded, and four pipe cleaners, no more -- the grumpy birthday person made it down to Chinatown.
I should know better than to go the chachanteng on Washington when the people I like aren't working. The snippy lady who works there on Tuesdays still doesn't recognize me, still can't understand my Cantonese, and still demands payment right now. And she nickle'n dimes every step of the way.
Some of it is undoubtedly that stinko attitude that some people have when it comes to Lofans, assuming that we're all rapists and thieves who are going to piss in our seats and run off without paying, some of it is simply an arrogant Hong Kong bitchiness toward everybody. She also snapped (in English!) at a Cantonese lady who simply wanted a pastry and a soda, and she firmly told an elderly Toisanese gentleman precisely where she wanted him to sit! down! and nowhere else.
One white guy waited for twenty minutes before just leaving.
Auld Missus Charm paid him no mind whatsoever.
Customer service, not a clue.
I am quite desensitized to crappy attitudes, but someone may deserve the "up yours Tinkerbelle" award.
Next time better look inside and see who is working before going in.
There are other places to get milk tea.
No coughing.
LATE AFTERNOON
I smoked my pipe at the northern end of Walter Lum, from where I had a splendid view of the newest stark-raving batshit loonies in Portsmouth Square Park. One of whom has an interior dialogue going that may persuade her towards violence or interpretive dance soon, another of whom has a lovely shiny Buddha belly. No, as a smoker I cannot make use of the park; that's strictly for the bug-loose creeps, who of course must be protected from exposure to tobacco.
Tobacco is EVIL.
Unlike pot, which is perfectly kosher.
EARLY EVENING
Watched a little girl play with her mother's hair at the edge of the park.
Then she and her parents went to get ice cream.
It was charming. I don't think they realized that.
Listened in on four Cantonese ladies on bus across the hill. One of whom has a soft pretty face. Then picked up my down comforter from the dry cleaners, and headed home.
My apartment mate brought a huge amount of roast duck from Chinatown.
Pure rich greasy deliciousness!
And there is cake!
Cake!
* * * * *
Later on I shall have coffee and head over to Chinatown for a restrained drinkipoo at a place of dissolution.
It will take a strong mind to keep it within reason.
Management there is delusional.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Being a total realist, I ain't gonna do that.
Instead, let's just review today.
MORNING
Coffee and a coughing jag, due to the tail-end of a respiratory infection.
Lots of grumbling.
NOON
More coffee. More coughing.
Grumble grumble.
MID AFTERNOON
After a prolonged squawk about the horrid, horrid weather we're having, which makes it impossible to wear a jacket because it's too dang hot, and therefore one's smoking supplies have to be paired down to the very barest minimum -- only one pipe, already pre-loaded, and four pipe cleaners, no more -- the grumpy birthday person made it down to Chinatown.
I should know better than to go the chachanteng on Washington when the people I like aren't working. The snippy lady who works there on Tuesdays still doesn't recognize me, still can't understand my Cantonese, and still demands payment right now. And she nickle'n dimes every step of the way.
Some of it is undoubtedly that stinko attitude that some people have when it comes to Lofans, assuming that we're all rapists and thieves who are going to piss in our seats and run off without paying, some of it is simply an arrogant Hong Kong bitchiness toward everybody. She also snapped (in English!) at a Cantonese lady who simply wanted a pastry and a soda, and she firmly told an elderly Toisanese gentleman precisely where she wanted him to sit! down! and nowhere else.
One white guy waited for twenty minutes before just leaving.
Auld Missus Charm paid him no mind whatsoever.
Customer service, not a clue.
I am quite desensitized to crappy attitudes, but someone may deserve the "up yours Tinkerbelle" award.
Next time better look inside and see who is working before going in.
There are other places to get milk tea.
No coughing.
LATE AFTERNOON
I smoked my pipe at the northern end of Walter Lum, from where I had a splendid view of the newest stark-raving batshit loonies in Portsmouth Square Park. One of whom has an interior dialogue going that may persuade her towards violence or interpretive dance soon, another of whom has a lovely shiny Buddha belly. No, as a smoker I cannot make use of the park; that's strictly for the bug-loose creeps, who of course must be protected from exposure to tobacco.
Tobacco is EVIL.
Unlike pot, which is perfectly kosher.
EARLY EVENING
Watched a little girl play with her mother's hair at the edge of the park.
Then she and her parents went to get ice cream.
It was charming. I don't think they realized that.
Listened in on four Cantonese ladies on bus across the hill. One of whom has a soft pretty face. Then picked up my down comforter from the dry cleaners, and headed home.
My apartment mate brought a huge amount of roast duck from Chinatown.
Pure rich greasy deliciousness!
And there is cake!
Cake!
* * * * *
Later on I shall have coffee and head over to Chinatown for a restrained drinkipoo at a place of dissolution.
It will take a strong mind to keep it within reason.
Management there is delusional.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MUST. REMEMBER. TO. ACT. GRACIOUS.
As it turns out, social media won't let me forget that it's my birthday today. Despite the fact that the older an adult becomes, the more any annual count increase should be ignored.
From the very moment I opened my computer, there were reminders.
"Greetings, carbon-based. Inexorable ticking, yay! Enjoy your creaky celebration! We've told everyone you know, we applaud oldness, your operating system is outdated!"
Which, of course, proves that Facebook and Google are staffed wholly by bright young things who do not expect anyone over thirty to use social media. We're still using typewriters or something.
I actually still have a typewriter.
It's UNDERNEATH the computer desk.
Which has two dinosaurs from the nineties on top.
The computer I am presently using is a fold-up jobbie ("laptop", I think they're called) from a few years ago that has way more oomph than any of the other electronic doohickeys in this household. Faster, too.
Actually sits on my lap, without leaving wheals or bruises.
I also have a box-like computizing object from the late eighties, which I only keep because it's a dynamite paperweight, and will make a great conversation piece if I ever invite someone over.
And a 40 meg external storage device.
[Yes, I also still have slide-rules AND drafting equipment, and I know how to use them.]
At this advanced age (over thirty), I would rather not be reminded of my advanced age; I never thought that I would hit over thirty.
I can still remember the troops marching through Paris, as seen on teevee. It was shortly after Moses landed the Ark.
"Oh yeah. The important thing was I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time. They didn't have white onions because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones... "
I will NOT tell you how old I am becoming.
You have no need to know that.
It's over thirty.
Dammit.
Anyhow, tonnes of folks are wishing me happy hip hips and all the rest of that hoohah, and sad to say not a single one of them is a cute round-headed twenty-nine-year-old with a degree in something abstruse and sexy. So it's a very good thing that it's on Facebook, instead of real-life.
I do not want to be smooched by any of my Facebook friends.
Sorry guys, no offense.
Now, where's the cute (female) graduate student with an abiding fascination for abstruse crap? I was told, guaranteed even, that there would be at least one of those if I remained patient, and I should hold out for someone exactly like that.
"Save yourself for the lively scholarette!"
See, she's probably thrilled by fossils.
And I am just the thing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
From the very moment I opened my computer, there were reminders.
"Greetings, carbon-based. Inexorable ticking, yay! Enjoy your creaky celebration! We've told everyone you know, we applaud oldness, your operating system is outdated!"
Which, of course, proves that Facebook and Google are staffed wholly by bright young things who do not expect anyone over thirty to use social media. We're still using typewriters or something.
I actually still have a typewriter.
It's UNDERNEATH the computer desk.
Which has two dinosaurs from the nineties on top.
The computer I am presently using is a fold-up jobbie ("laptop", I think they're called) from a few years ago that has way more oomph than any of the other electronic doohickeys in this household. Faster, too.
Actually sits on my lap, without leaving wheals or bruises.
I also have a box-like computizing object from the late eighties, which I only keep because it's a dynamite paperweight, and will make a great conversation piece if I ever invite someone over.
And a 40 meg external storage device.
[Yes, I also still have slide-rules AND drafting equipment, and I know how to use them.]
At this advanced age (over thirty), I would rather not be reminded of my advanced age; I never thought that I would hit over thirty.
I can still remember the troops marching through Paris, as seen on teevee. It was shortly after Moses landed the Ark.
"Oh yeah. The important thing was I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time. They didn't have white onions because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones... "
I will NOT tell you how old I am becoming.
You have no need to know that.
It's over thirty.
Dammit.
Anyhow, tonnes of folks are wishing me happy hip hips and all the rest of that hoohah, and sad to say not a single one of them is a cute round-headed twenty-nine-year-old with a degree in something abstruse and sexy. So it's a very good thing that it's on Facebook, instead of real-life.
I do not want to be smooched by any of my Facebook friends.
Sorry guys, no offense.
Now, where's the cute (female) graduate student with an abiding fascination for abstruse crap? I was told, guaranteed even, that there would be at least one of those if I remained patient, and I should hold out for someone exactly like that.
"Save yourself for the lively scholarette!"
See, she's probably thrilled by fossils.
And I am just the thing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 12, 2015
WHAT LIVING IN TEXAS REALLY MEANS
It should come as no surprise that I hate hot weather. Seeing as I am essentially a frigid Northern European, and spent my youth growing up in a cold wet bog. Before settling in lovely tropical San Francisco.
My apartment-mate had three days-off in a row, now it's my turn. Three whole days in which I can, and fully intend to, swan around the apartment stark raving naked. Which is not something I can do with her around, because we are not in a relationship and modesty as well as good taste forbid it.
Stranger thoughts: it used to be illegal in Texas to own more than six (6) dildoes, because the Great State of Texas disapproved of autonomous sex as well as any form of sexual gratification unrelated to procreation.
I assume that meant that if you humped past the age of menopause, the Texas Rangers could lock you up.
Fortunately, that law is in abeyance, but you still cannot have a visible dildo on campus.
Which seems mighty peculiar; how else are Texan university students going to learn?
Did I already mention that I hate hot weather? Hot weather is much more bearable when you're dressed in nothing at all, without anyone watching you. Not your female Chinese American apartment mate, not the Texas Rangers, not avidly entranced Texan college kids.
Nor members of the Texas legislature.
If there were anybody watching, it would be by invitation only.
Inquiries are welcome, but responses are not guaranteed.
Nor is it certain that I will be nude when answering.
For added excitement between now and Friday morning, just keep all of this in mind:
Since 2008 Texans can now own more than six instruments for their own personal gratification, members of the Texas legislature remain uncleanly fascinated with such matters, and stealth-dildos on college campuses are definitely a thing.
If I lived in Texas, I would probably be naked all the time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My apartment-mate had three days-off in a row, now it's my turn. Three whole days in which I can, and fully intend to, swan around the apartment stark raving naked. Which is not something I can do with her around, because we are not in a relationship and modesty as well as good taste forbid it.
Stranger thoughts: it used to be illegal in Texas to own more than six (6) dildoes, because the Great State of Texas disapproved of autonomous sex as well as any form of sexual gratification unrelated to procreation.
I assume that meant that if you humped past the age of menopause, the Texas Rangers could lock you up.
Fortunately, that law is in abeyance, but you still cannot have a visible dildo on campus.
Which seems mighty peculiar; how else are Texan university students going to learn?
Did I already mention that I hate hot weather? Hot weather is much more bearable when you're dressed in nothing at all, without anyone watching you. Not your female Chinese American apartment mate, not the Texas Rangers, not avidly entranced Texan college kids.
Nor members of the Texas legislature.
If there were anybody watching, it would be by invitation only.
Inquiries are welcome, but responses are not guaranteed.
Nor is it certain that I will be nude when answering.
For added excitement between now and Friday morning, just keep all of this in mind:
Since 2008 Texans can now own more than six instruments for their own personal gratification, members of the Texas legislature remain uncleanly fascinated with such matters, and stealth-dildos on college campuses are definitely a thing.
If I lived in Texas, I would probably be naked all the time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 11, 2015
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN
It's taken me this long to realize it. Really, why didn't I grasp this truth sooner? It's positively life-changing!
What it is, is the understanding that I am not a social person, and do not tolerate fools very well.
Last night upon coming home I did not react nicely to a spam-brained rightwinger on a pro-Israel site. And I feel darned good about that.
I also threw some gratuitous nastiness in the direction of a few of my former associates -- a paranoid old git who probably still believes that a Kenyan Muslim Socialist is planning to take away his guns and send him to camp, an often tense and panicked halfwit insect who works in education, a whiny lesbian Jewish nationalist with self-obsession the size of Texas, a bitchy rightwing Eastern European twit, and a featherbrained Berkeleyite flibbertigibbet Republican -- and I sneered at the Jerusalem Post.
The Jerusalem Post! The Jerusalem Post!!!
Why, the nerve of me!
Yeah, they'll probably never read what I said. Largely because they have an unerring talent ("lack of imagination") for reading only material that agrees EXACTLY with all their praeconceptions.
And, seeing as this blogger is not a paid hack for Likud, which lost all balls while shvontslecking Bibi and his acolytes, there is not a single thing I write that will ever come near to crossing their intellectual horizons.
Which, in mittn drinnen, are quite one dimensional.
Not even lines, just pin-point dots.
Tiny ink blobs.
FERVENTLY DISLIKING PAMELA GELLER OR ROBERT SPENCER PROBABLY MAKES ME AN ANTI-SEMITE, OR AT THE VERY LEAST A MUSLIM!
A few years ago, all of the aforementioned dingbats were defiantly fan-girlish about Geert Wilders. And it was apparent that not only was Mr. Wilders the only thing they knew about Dutch politics and Dutch politicians, but also they hadn't much of a clue what he really stood for, who his followers were, and what a reprehensible bunch of backwards scum-sucking slimebags lurked among his devotees.
You know, I rather like Geert Wilders, because I admire a man who wields a mean bottle of blond, and Dutch politics often needs a savage kick in the nether lands ("ene welverdiende schop onder de kont, beste Nederlands-taligen"), but his politics are on the whole self-serving egomaniac drama by a bigoted queen manqué.
Basically Mussolini with a pompadour.
I strongly believe that monolingual ignoramusses, like the previously described dill pickles, really should shut the F up on the subjects of both Geert Wilders as well as Dutch politics; they don't know what they're talking about, they sound stupid and strident, and they come across as embarrassingly rightwing, redneck, and wrong.
Anyhow, now that I clearly see that I am not gifted with enough patience for all conditions and circumstances, and basically would far rather smack the heads of stupid people instead of diplomatically mollifying them and stroking their silly egos, my social life is bound to improve.
When I cannot avoid neurotics, I will happily treat them unkindly.
If I must, I'll be the rabid canary in their coalmine.
Dent them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What it is, is the understanding that I am not a social person, and do not tolerate fools very well.
Last night upon coming home I did not react nicely to a spam-brained rightwinger on a pro-Israel site. And I feel darned good about that.
I also threw some gratuitous nastiness in the direction of a few of my former associates -- a paranoid old git who probably still believes that a Kenyan Muslim Socialist is planning to take away his guns and send him to camp, an often tense and panicked halfwit insect who works in education, a whiny lesbian Jewish nationalist with self-obsession the size of Texas, a bitchy rightwing Eastern European twit, and a featherbrained Berkeleyite flibbertigibbet Republican -- and I sneered at the Jerusalem Post.
The Jerusalem Post! The Jerusalem Post!!!
Why, the nerve of me!
Yeah, they'll probably never read what I said. Largely because they have an unerring talent ("lack of imagination") for reading only material that agrees EXACTLY with all their praeconceptions.
And, seeing as this blogger is not a paid hack for Likud, which lost all balls while shvontslecking Bibi and his acolytes, there is not a single thing I write that will ever come near to crossing their intellectual horizons.
Which, in mittn drinnen, are quite one dimensional.
Not even lines, just pin-point dots.
Tiny ink blobs.
FERVENTLY DISLIKING PAMELA GELLER OR ROBERT SPENCER PROBABLY MAKES ME AN ANTI-SEMITE, OR AT THE VERY LEAST A MUSLIM!
A few years ago, all of the aforementioned dingbats were defiantly fan-girlish about Geert Wilders. And it was apparent that not only was Mr. Wilders the only thing they knew about Dutch politics and Dutch politicians, but also they hadn't much of a clue what he really stood for, who his followers were, and what a reprehensible bunch of backwards scum-sucking slimebags lurked among his devotees.
You know, I rather like Geert Wilders, because I admire a man who wields a mean bottle of blond, and Dutch politics often needs a savage kick in the nether lands ("ene welverdiende schop onder de kont, beste Nederlands-taligen"), but his politics are on the whole self-serving egomaniac drama by a bigoted queen manqué.
Basically Mussolini with a pompadour.
I strongly believe that monolingual ignoramusses, like the previously described dill pickles, really should shut the F up on the subjects of both Geert Wilders as well as Dutch politics; they don't know what they're talking about, they sound stupid and strident, and they come across as embarrassingly rightwing, redneck, and wrong.
Anyhow, now that I clearly see that I am not gifted with enough patience for all conditions and circumstances, and basically would far rather smack the heads of stupid people instead of diplomatically mollifying them and stroking their silly egos, my social life is bound to improve.
When I cannot avoid neurotics, I will happily treat them unkindly.
If I must, I'll be the rabid canary in their coalmine.
Dent them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHEN BRIAR NUTS MINGLE
All things considered I should probably not have had such a good time on Thursday. It simply postponed the inevitable, and made it far worse.
I started the day with a serious cold that interfered with my sense of smell. Which, if you consider my fondness for fine tobacco products, should have told me to lay off smoking for a while, as it would not be as enjoyable as it normally is.
But I had a Virginia blend of my own devising -- think of something similar to Esoterica's Dunbar, but with a smidge of Latakia -- and an aged tin of HH Old Dark Fired with me, as well as half a dozen fine briars. It was a fine day, and the trip to Marin in the morning left me feeling refreshed.
Surely my plugged nose was a minor obstacle?
Pipe club meeting that evening!
Oh boy!
Four cheeses, crudités, dip, chocolate, wine, and sparkling water.
A dozen solid citizens with fine wooden objects.
Plus crackers and biscotti.
By that time I couldn't smell a damned thing.
In all honesty I cannot remember much of the actual meeting. Some weird Scandinavian blends were on the table, dark Virginias, funky aromatic mixtures, as well as two jars of Perique.
It was a good meeting.
ECCENTRICITY AND OBSESSION
On the way back to the city, I described the Henry Darger Cocktail to Michael, as well as the background necessary to understanding it.
It's an adventurous libation.
Take a long drink glass, fill it with ice cubes, pour in an ounce and a half of Bourbon, drizzle grenadine, dash of bitters, and fill it up to the brim with soda water or ginger ale. Add a swizzle stick or bendy straw
Drop in a cocktail cherry for decoration.
Hard-core Shirley Temple.
Henry Darger.
At this point, having already had six pipefuls during the day, as well as the odd cigar or two, my cold seemed deceptively in remission, but it may have been just clubbed into obedience.
Liquor affects the mind, more so when you're running a fever.
For some reason I cannot fathom, I was insistent, when I left the Oxxy several hours later, that anti-gmo activists, anti-vaxers, and the toxic far right wing of the Republican party were all equally insane.
Rabid, dangerous, and unmitigatedly evil.
I was in high spirits.
Friday, consequently, was a little slice of hell. Full blown flu symptoms, plugged respiratory apparatus, gastric distress, and an achy shaky fever. The headstrong postponement of symptoms simply made it all worse, and combining this with a hangover added a tinge of utter misery.
I did not leave the house all day on Friday.
Or change into grown-up clothes.
Weak tea, and soup.
Sore throat, bad cough, trouble breathing.
Nor did I smoke a pipe, though I did mix up another batch of my blend.
I spent most of the day on the internet picking fights with anti-vaxxers and organic food activists, including idiots who believe that the flu-shot is going to be used to wipe out fifteen percent of the world population because of something that Bill Gates said.
I'm blaming Republicans and health nuts for everything that is wrong in this world. As well as shitty aromatics.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I started the day with a serious cold that interfered with my sense of smell. Which, if you consider my fondness for fine tobacco products, should have told me to lay off smoking for a while, as it would not be as enjoyable as it normally is.
But I had a Virginia blend of my own devising -- think of something similar to Esoterica's Dunbar, but with a smidge of Latakia -- and an aged tin of HH Old Dark Fired with me, as well as half a dozen fine briars. It was a fine day, and the trip to Marin in the morning left me feeling refreshed.
Surely my plugged nose was a minor obstacle?
Pipe club meeting that evening!
Oh boy!
Four cheeses, crudités, dip, chocolate, wine, and sparkling water.
A dozen solid citizens with fine wooden objects.
Plus crackers and biscotti.
By that time I couldn't smell a damned thing.
In all honesty I cannot remember much of the actual meeting. Some weird Scandinavian blends were on the table, dark Virginias, funky aromatic mixtures, as well as two jars of Perique.
It was a good meeting.
ECCENTRICITY AND OBSESSION
On the way back to the city, I described the Henry Darger Cocktail to Michael, as well as the background necessary to understanding it.
It's an adventurous libation.
Take a long drink glass, fill it with ice cubes, pour in an ounce and a half of Bourbon, drizzle grenadine, dash of bitters, and fill it up to the brim with soda water or ginger ale. Add a swizzle stick or bendy straw
Drop in a cocktail cherry for decoration.
Hard-core Shirley Temple.
Henry Darger.
At this point, having already had six pipefuls during the day, as well as the odd cigar or two, my cold seemed deceptively in remission, but it may have been just clubbed into obedience.
Liquor affects the mind, more so when you're running a fever.
For some reason I cannot fathom, I was insistent, when I left the Oxxy several hours later, that anti-gmo activists, anti-vaxers, and the toxic far right wing of the Republican party were all equally insane.
Rabid, dangerous, and unmitigatedly evil.
I was in high spirits.
Friday, consequently, was a little slice of hell. Full blown flu symptoms, plugged respiratory apparatus, gastric distress, and an achy shaky fever. The headstrong postponement of symptoms simply made it all worse, and combining this with a hangover added a tinge of utter misery.
I did not leave the house all day on Friday.
Or change into grown-up clothes.
Weak tea, and soup.
Sore throat, bad cough, trouble breathing.
Nor did I smoke a pipe, though I did mix up another batch of my blend.
I spent most of the day on the internet picking fights with anti-vaxxers and organic food activists, including idiots who believe that the flu-shot is going to be used to wipe out fifteen percent of the world population because of something that Bill Gates said.
I'm blaming Republicans and health nuts for everything that is wrong in this world. As well as shitty aromatics.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 10, 2015
JUST ANOTHER TATTOOED SLAG
This blogger finally knows who Nikki Minaj is! Basically, she's a black Lady Gaga, connected somehow to the music industry, with multiple wigs, a big big booty, and mighty gazoombaliciousness!
This is important to very many people.
I hadn't heard of her till now.
She's got a tattoo.
上帝與你常在
Like a lot of tattoos that use Chinese characters, it is deeply meaningful, possessed of mysterious beauty, far more than there could ever possibly be in English. 上帝與你常在 shàngdì yǔ nǐ cháng zài.
Because Chinese was built specifically so that hip Westerners could express themselves better and more spiritually.
It means 'god is with you always'.
Non-Chinese with character script tattoos are like East Asians with funky text clothing. Such messages as "everyone loving to do the freedoms", "scenery is best", "eternal state cheese", "what it do", "you not stare salty hand". That last peculiarly appropriate to lady with big bust.
But crazy Engrish clothing can be taken off.
Tattoos are permanent zaniness.
Silly skin whimsy.
My favourite tattoo with English translated into Chinese is this:
先死亡然後羞辱
I asked the proud Caucasian fellow with that on his arm what it meant. He beamed at me, and patiently explained that it was Chinese (!), and said "death before dishonor".
Wow. That's deep. Both martial and meaningful.
What it actually says is 'first death then humiliation'. Basically a request that the wearer be killed and his corpse subsequently abused.
It's okay, mystical white dude, we can do that.
Please, you no worry about a thing!
We obey! Respect!
Very zen.
If from the above you gather that this blogger does not like tattoos, that is absolutely correct. If you are a savage from the jungles -- erm, so sorry, a "meaningful original culture" person with "traditional wisdom" from the primeval forests of Sarawak -- tattoos are acceptable. With your tribal background and heritage they probably mean that you brutally killed several Japanese soldiers and collected their heads.
And you've ridden the whales.
Danced with wolves.
Contrariwise, if you are a typical American or European urbanite with tattoos, it just means that you are a pretentious dickhead.
Or a gangmember, and possibly stupid.
THE CRACK-HO AESTHETIC
As for this Minaj person, I've tried watching her videos, regarding that as necessary research, and part of the process of catching up on modern culture; she seems to be a fairly influential "artist", and one of the musical giants of the present age. So help me, I can't do it. She's a lousy performer and has an irritating voice. Her videos are nasty, suffused with sleaziness, and while glib and polished, altogether repulsive.
She's a breast-obsessed vulgarian.
And a foulmouthed piece.
A rap-tile.
Who the hell is Li'l Wayne?
How nice to know that she is Christian.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This is important to very many people.
I hadn't heard of her till now.
She's got a tattoo.
上帝與你常在
Like a lot of tattoos that use Chinese characters, it is deeply meaningful, possessed of mysterious beauty, far more than there could ever possibly be in English. 上帝與你常在 shàngdì yǔ nǐ cháng zài.
Because Chinese was built specifically so that hip Westerners could express themselves better and more spiritually.
It means 'god is with you always'.
Non-Chinese with character script tattoos are like East Asians with funky text clothing. Such messages as "everyone loving to do the freedoms", "scenery is best", "eternal state cheese", "what it do", "you not stare salty hand". That last peculiarly appropriate to lady with big bust.
But crazy Engrish clothing can be taken off.
Tattoos are permanent zaniness.
Silly skin whimsy.
My favourite tattoo with English translated into Chinese is this:
先死亡然後羞辱
I asked the proud Caucasian fellow with that on his arm what it meant. He beamed at me, and patiently explained that it was Chinese (!), and said "death before dishonor".
Wow. That's deep. Both martial and meaningful.
What it actually says is 'first death then humiliation'. Basically a request that the wearer be killed and his corpse subsequently abused.
It's okay, mystical white dude, we can do that.
Please, you no worry about a thing!
We obey! Respect!
Very zen.
If from the above you gather that this blogger does not like tattoos, that is absolutely correct. If you are a savage from the jungles -- erm, so sorry, a "meaningful original culture" person with "traditional wisdom" from the primeval forests of Sarawak -- tattoos are acceptable. With your tribal background and heritage they probably mean that you brutally killed several Japanese soldiers and collected their heads.
And you've ridden the whales.
Danced with wolves.
Contrariwise, if you are a typical American or European urbanite with tattoos, it just means that you are a pretentious dickhead.
Or a gangmember, and possibly stupid.
THE CRACK-HO AESTHETIC
As for this Minaj person, I've tried watching her videos, regarding that as necessary research, and part of the process of catching up on modern culture; she seems to be a fairly influential "artist", and one of the musical giants of the present age. So help me, I can't do it. She's a lousy performer and has an irritating voice. Her videos are nasty, suffused with sleaziness, and while glib and polished, altogether repulsive.
She's a breast-obsessed vulgarian.
And a foulmouthed piece.
A rap-tile.
Who the hell is Li'l Wayne?
How nice to know that she is Christian.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 09, 2015
KINDLY SNEERING WORDS ANENT BREAKFAST CEREAL
Like all faux-intellectuals, I occasionally read foreign newspapers to keep abreast of the world. Often I will imagine that I have a pack of Gaulloises or Gitanes on my café table and that some snake-waisted aproned Frog twit is sneering at the Americans at the next table, but not at me because I am cool and hip, and somehow the service industry personnel in Foreignia can instinctively recognize that.
As I take another imaginary drag on a non-existent French cigarette, my eye spies the comment of the day.
"A spelling error is the only comeback you have you stuck up, head-up-your-fundament little Tory bootlick"
Wow. Such a set of precious mental images! Big British fundaments, and bootlicking class warfare!
This comment was underneath an article describing anti-gentrification protests by revolutionary worker types in a depressed and filthy part of London.
Customers at a cereal café felt trapped and frightened when an anarchic mob pelted the outside with paint and tried to storm the entrance.
Guardian readers protesting gentrification!
A cereal café?!?
I'm afraid I'm just terminally unhip. I cannot imagine myself ever patronizing a place that specializes in breakfast cereals. Instead, I see myself taking my screamingly British yobbo hangover to a teahouse and having cheungfun, siu mai, fu pei kuen, and a comforting bowl of jook.
While puffing on my imaginary French cigarette.
Washing it all down with buckets of kuk fa po nei.
Because real men can dig dim sum.
And lots of tea.
Commercial breakfast cereal products are the work of the devil.
Cereal-eaters are all a bunch of sailors.
Sailors!
Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of a silly person.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As I take another imaginary drag on a non-existent French cigarette, my eye spies the comment of the day.
"A spelling error is the only comeback you have you stuck up, head-up-your-fundament little Tory bootlick"
Wow. Such a set of precious mental images! Big British fundaments, and bootlicking class warfare!
This comment was underneath an article describing anti-gentrification protests by revolutionary worker types in a depressed and filthy part of London.
Customers at a cereal café felt trapped and frightened when an anarchic mob pelted the outside with paint and tried to storm the entrance.
Guardian readers protesting gentrification!
A cereal café?!?
I'm afraid I'm just terminally unhip. I cannot imagine myself ever patronizing a place that specializes in breakfast cereals. Instead, I see myself taking my screamingly British yobbo hangover to a teahouse and having cheungfun, siu mai, fu pei kuen, and a comforting bowl of jook.
While puffing on my imaginary French cigarette.
Washing it all down with buckets of kuk fa po nei.
Because real men can dig dim sum.
And lots of tea.
Commercial breakfast cereal products are the work of the devil.
Cereal-eaters are all a bunch of sailors.
Sailors!
Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of a silly person.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 08, 2015
SCENES OF HEART RENDING DESPAIR AND TRAGEDY!
Lunch was exceptionally excellent! Glutinous rice in bamboo leaf, daan bing, and a chicken bun. Yes, an absence of vegetables, but realistically who the heck expects vegetables during lunch?
Oh wait, some people think vegetables ARE lunch. There's a place with a snooty French name on Sacramento right below Kearny street which has salad for twelve dollars. Snooty salad. They probably loathe their neighbors the Cantonese, and look down upon normal Americans.
"Ve are Frantch; ze salad is ze acme of kvee-seen!"
Yeah, something like that. My salad-free lunch was, including coffee, around six bucks. The glutinous rice packet had pork and lok dau, and was absolutely perfect. Compact, glistening inside its fragrant wrapping, and smoothly dense.
Glutinous rice with meat steamed inside a lotus-leaf cone (粽 'jung'; joong) is both travel and convenience food, a quick lunch, and a great home comfort food. It is richly evocative, and has a place deep within the soul.
It is beloved, and worthy of song.
"Tzu bi, tzu nan, daai mia lang; pe-bu pua lai, chin ha tang; hu gwa be sz gwe ch tang ....."
Hokkien-speakers might instantly recognize the lyrics of a famous Taiwanese ballad there about a miserable childhood of studying hard amidst familial tragedy and hardship, and selling joong to survive.
Specifically, roast meat joong.
[自悲自嘆歹命人，父母本來真疼痛；乎我讀書幾多冬，出業頭路無半項；暫時來賣燒肉粽 。燒肉粽，燒肉粽，賣燒肉粽！]
In the lips of the immortal Kwek Kim-hoat (郭金發), it was a tearjerker of distinction.
"Sio baa tsang, sio baa tsang; bwe-e-e sio ba tsang."
Yeah, no, not the Cantonese pronunciation. I do not know if the Cantonese sing about joong ("tsang"). They probably do, but I've never heard their song.
There's also a version with peanuts and roast pork, and I am told that white vegans do it with gmo-free tofu (or mashed chickpeas for the allergics, and sensitive folks) and quinoa.
Haven't tried their version, it ranks with tofurky on my bucket list.
I'll get to it eventually, when forced by a hysteric person.
Real joong is terrific with a touch of soy sauce.
All around me, crazy-ass white people are eating salad, brown rice, and soy-free substitutes for tofu, but not in Chinatown.
Wheatless spicy vegan sausage crumbles!
And snooty French salad.
Good lord, folks.
Politically incorrect food is yummy and nutritious. Just need to throw that out there. Meat, hot animal grease, bloody protein, and the suffering little lambs who all had faces once. Dressed with soy sauce, garlic, and high-gluten something or other.
Okay, enough of the food-rant, now for the pathos.
CORNER OF STOCKTON AND SACRAMENTO
When I was lighting my pipe after leaving the eatery where I had enjoyed my sensible lunch, I became aware of pained and angstig wailing, nay, sobs both uncontrollable and borderline frightening in their intensity.
Deep, emotional, and betraying a horrifying sense of despair.
I have no idea what had upset the little girl.
But she was totally sincere.
There is something operatic about Cantonese women when they let it all out. Unrestrained weeping and self-torture, coupled with any and all sense of decorum thrown to the wind, the devil with what my family will say, let me go, piss off, and leave me alone!
In a six year old without the adult tools to deal with "it", but with all the emotional clockwork fully functional, it can be utterly adorable.
She was a beautiful child, made much more so by her misery. Very tiny, but her school uniform showed that she was already at that age when life starts turning complicated (letters, numbers, and characters of more than five strokes), and the concerns of a new world of classmates and learning weigh heavily upon one.
Actually I am just guessing here, I don't know.
It was all hopeless, hopeless!
I couldn't understand a word she said, and I didn't want to seem a snoop. So I just observed her auntie being patient albeit not entirely understanding, and then crossing the street with her and her brother, carrying the little girl's Hello Kitty backpack for her. Her brother may have already been in second grade, and seemed wiser, more mature, and blandly insensitive to his little sister's troubled state, as little boys frequently are. He may have been the indirect (or deliberate) cause of it.
Far too studiously innocent.
Probably said something.
From Stockton and Sacramento down to Grant, she was still fiercely and passionately tragic. The three of them moved slow enough, what with the drama, that by ambling down to Waverly Place on the north side of the street I could keep pace with them.
They disappeared from view right around the entrance to Nam Kue School (南僑學校 'naam kiu hok haau') just past Grant Avenue.
Maybe it was the prospect of Chinese classes after regular school that had her so upset. Her little friends probably had at least one or two hours of play ahead of them (being no doubt bad girls from disreputable families), but she was being robbed of that freedom!
It was SO unfair!
Again, I am still guessing. The Cantonese female can become obsessed with equitability and fairness, both of which must be personally perceived and experienced. Unequal treatment of them results in fierce resentment. Which may lead to unrestrained wailing.
And she seemed like a very sweet kid, merely upset at the injustice.
There was a principled quality to her despair.
Yep. Quite adorable.
I'm a softie.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Oh wait, some people think vegetables ARE lunch. There's a place with a snooty French name on Sacramento right below Kearny street which has salad for twelve dollars. Snooty salad. They probably loathe their neighbors the Cantonese, and look down upon normal Americans.
"Ve are Frantch; ze salad is ze acme of kvee-seen!"
Yeah, something like that. My salad-free lunch was, including coffee, around six bucks. The glutinous rice packet had pork and lok dau, and was absolutely perfect. Compact, glistening inside its fragrant wrapping, and smoothly dense.
Glutinous rice with meat steamed inside a lotus-leaf cone (粽 'jung'; joong) is both travel and convenience food, a quick lunch, and a great home comfort food. It is richly evocative, and has a place deep within the soul.
It is beloved, and worthy of song.
"Tzu bi, tzu nan, daai mia lang; pe-bu pua lai, chin ha tang; hu gwa be sz gwe ch tang ....."
Hokkien-speakers might instantly recognize the lyrics of a famous Taiwanese ballad there about a miserable childhood of studying hard amidst familial tragedy and hardship, and selling joong to survive.
Specifically, roast meat joong.
[自悲自嘆歹命人，父母本來真疼痛；乎我讀書幾多冬，出業頭路無半項；暫時來賣燒肉粽 。燒肉粽，燒肉粽，賣燒肉粽！]
In the lips of the immortal Kwek Kim-hoat (郭金發), it was a tearjerker of distinction.
"Sio baa tsang, sio baa tsang; bwe-e-e sio ba tsang."
Yeah, no, not the Cantonese pronunciation. I do not know if the Cantonese sing about joong ("tsang"). They probably do, but I've never heard their song.
There's also a version with peanuts and roast pork, and I am told that white vegans do it with gmo-free tofu (or mashed chickpeas for the allergics, and sensitive folks) and quinoa.
Haven't tried their version, it ranks with tofurky on my bucket list.
I'll get to it eventually, when forced by a hysteric person.
Real joong is terrific with a touch of soy sauce.
All around me, crazy-ass white people are eating salad, brown rice, and soy-free substitutes for tofu, but not in Chinatown.
Wheatless spicy vegan sausage crumbles!
And snooty French salad.
Good lord, folks.
Politically incorrect food is yummy and nutritious. Just need to throw that out there. Meat, hot animal grease, bloody protein, and the suffering little lambs who all had faces once. Dressed with soy sauce, garlic, and high-gluten something or other.
Okay, enough of the food-rant, now for the pathos.
CORNER OF STOCKTON AND SACRAMENTO
When I was lighting my pipe after leaving the eatery where I had enjoyed my sensible lunch, I became aware of pained and angstig wailing, nay, sobs both uncontrollable and borderline frightening in their intensity.
Deep, emotional, and betraying a horrifying sense of despair.
I have no idea what had upset the little girl.
But she was totally sincere.
There is something operatic about Cantonese women when they let it all out. Unrestrained weeping and self-torture, coupled with any and all sense of decorum thrown to the wind, the devil with what my family will say, let me go, piss off, and leave me alone!
In a six year old without the adult tools to deal with "it", but with all the emotional clockwork fully functional, it can be utterly adorable.
She was a beautiful child, made much more so by her misery. Very tiny, but her school uniform showed that she was already at that age when life starts turning complicated (letters, numbers, and characters of more than five strokes), and the concerns of a new world of classmates and learning weigh heavily upon one.
Actually I am just guessing here, I don't know.
It was all hopeless, hopeless!
I couldn't understand a word she said, and I didn't want to seem a snoop. So I just observed her auntie being patient albeit not entirely understanding, and then crossing the street with her and her brother, carrying the little girl's Hello Kitty backpack for her. Her brother may have already been in second grade, and seemed wiser, more mature, and blandly insensitive to his little sister's troubled state, as little boys frequently are. He may have been the indirect (or deliberate) cause of it.
Far too studiously innocent.
Probably said something.
From Stockton and Sacramento down to Grant, she was still fiercely and passionately tragic. The three of them moved slow enough, what with the drama, that by ambling down to Waverly Place on the north side of the street I could keep pace with them.
They disappeared from view right around the entrance to Nam Kue School (南僑學校 'naam kiu hok haau') just past Grant Avenue.
Maybe it was the prospect of Chinese classes after regular school that had her so upset. Her little friends probably had at least one or two hours of play ahead of them (being no doubt bad girls from disreputable families), but she was being robbed of that freedom!
It was SO unfair!
Again, I am still guessing. The Cantonese female can become obsessed with equitability and fairness, both of which must be personally perceived and experienced. Unequal treatment of them results in fierce resentment. Which may lead to unrestrained wailing.
And she seemed like a very sweet kid, merely upset at the injustice.
There was a principled quality to her despair.
Yep. Quite adorable.
I'm a softie.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 07, 2015
HI JACKIE
One thing this blogger does at least twice each day is ditch spam.
At the present time, the daily dose of viagratic nonsense and hey-guys-look-at-me spume seems to come mostly from Russia, the Ukraine, and Thailand, with never the less very significant contributions from Taiwan, Korea, and naturally the United States.
We invented spam, so of course we excel at it.
Heck, we practically breathe it.
E pluribus spam!
Buckets!
Sometimes I delete everything in my spam folder without actually looking at the material as calmly and carefully as I really should.
I apologize for such undersight.
And that, please understand, is what I thought I must have done upon reading a recent comment.
Jackie wrote:
好耐你仲未reply我呀。我中秋節喺屋企，家人搵我識唔識加州，我話係呀，佢哋仲搵我關於文森明里尼嘅屋企，但係我淨係睇你嘅blog，而家佢哋等我回答，拜託話我知，唔係嘅話我會丟臉㗎！
呢個係我搵你嘅post：
唔該晒！我啱啱睇咗你嘅blog。我仲未去咗美國呀，上次喺美洲時去緬尼吐巴行山，但係我知道你屋企喺三藩市，and嗰度近住比華利山。 你點想呀？also我嘅英語冇咁好呀，我想知道squatter嗰個word乜意思嘅呀？仝蝗蟲有關係嗎？因為佢哋都周街踎嗮… 唔該晒！我啱啱睇咗你嘅blog Inside Vincente Minnelli's Long-Abandoned Beverly Hills Mansion
[End cite.]
Say what?!? You've been waiting a long time for my response?
Oh crap, I must've ditched what you wrote, I'm sorry!
It wasn't till the middle of the night that I discovered Jackie's original comment ("好似蝗蟲都去加州㗎喇，世界冇地方冇紅衛兵，even歷史上台山殖民地嘅三藩市都唔安全。嗰次你冇回話我嘅post呀，話唔埋冇go through呀，我真想知道你點想呀。比華利山仝三藩市都周街有大陸squatter，... "), which was of course underneath the post in which I presented three different versions of the marching song of the eight route army, which I've heard several times this past month.
答复查詢
Anyhow, I'm presently slightly hungover (宿醉的一啲), it's Wednesday morning, the sun is shining (dammit), I'm full of coffee, and there's a pipe filled with Old Dark Fired in my mouth. So here goes.
Vincente Minneli (文森明里尼) is, alas, entirely beyond my field of knowledge, but I do know that his mansion has been empty for years, and has been taking over by squatters. And the word 'squatter' seems to be what is throwing you for a loop.
In this context, 'squatter' means someone breaking the law by living in a house or apartment that they neither own nor rent, where they have no legal right to be.
[在此情況下，'squatter'嘅意思喺“棚戶區者”，意為一個人非法住在一個房子或公寓。]
Actually, San Francisco is not really that close to Beverly Hills, there's a distance of four hundred miles (slightly further than Hong Kong to Changsha; 大致類似香港至長沙喺距離，差唔多咁遠) as well as a whole world of separation. Those folks are not like us. They're weird and vulgar, kind of appalling (比華利山人，呀，怪怪啲和庸俗嘅，慘不忍睹).
Regarding the word 'locust' as used in connection with the Minnelli mansion squatters: 蝗蟲的內涵喺貪婪的犯罪分子，佢哋真像一個瘟疫。
To a limited extent, the Red Guards (紅衛兵) oddly come to mind, but squatters have no ideology, and their political thought is often entirely unformulated. Squatting is SO free-enterprise!
But locusts, never the less.
An infestation.
蟲豸也。
By the way, I shall be looking forward with great interest to the soccer match on the seventeenth of November. It's probably the most important contest of the year.
POST SCRIPTUM
Readers who do not speak Cantonese may not understand most of the non-English text above, especially Mandarin speakers. So sorry, there is nothing to be done about that.
Cantonese is similar to Mandarin in some ways.
But very far indeed from the north.
粵語普通話唔同個囉…
唔好意思！
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
At the present time, the daily dose of viagratic nonsense and hey-guys-look-at-me spume seems to come mostly from Russia, the Ukraine, and Thailand, with never the less very significant contributions from Taiwan, Korea, and naturally the United States.
We invented spam, so of course we excel at it.
Heck, we practically breathe it.
E pluribus spam!
Buckets!
Sometimes I delete everything in my spam folder without actually looking at the material as calmly and carefully as I really should.
I apologize for such undersight.
And that, please understand, is what I thought I must have done upon reading a recent comment.
Jackie wrote:
好耐你仲未reply我呀。我中秋節喺屋企，家人搵我識唔識加州，我話係呀，佢哋仲搵我關於文森明里尼嘅屋企，但係我淨係睇你嘅blog，而家佢哋等我回答，拜託話我知，唔係嘅話我會丟臉㗎！
呢個係我搵你嘅post：
唔該晒！我啱啱睇咗你嘅blog。我仲未去咗美國呀，上次喺美洲時去緬尼吐巴行山，但係我知道你屋企喺三藩市，and嗰度近住比華利山。 你點想呀？also我嘅英語冇咁好呀，我想知道squatter嗰個word乜意思嘅呀？仝蝗蟲有關係嗎？因為佢哋都周街踎嗮… 唔該晒！我啱啱睇咗你嘅blog Inside Vincente Minnelli's Long-Abandoned Beverly Hills Mansion
[End cite.]
Say what?!? You've been waiting a long time for my response?
Oh crap, I must've ditched what you wrote, I'm sorry!
It wasn't till the middle of the night that I discovered Jackie's original comment ("好似蝗蟲都去加州㗎喇，世界冇地方冇紅衛兵，even歷史上台山殖民地嘅三藩市都唔安全。嗰次你冇回話我嘅post呀，話唔埋冇go through呀，我真想知道你點想呀。比華利山仝三藩市都周街有大陸squatter，... "), which was of course underneath the post in which I presented three different versions of the marching song of the eight route army, which I've heard several times this past month.
答复查詢
Anyhow, I'm presently slightly hungover (宿醉的一啲), it's Wednesday morning, the sun is shining (dammit), I'm full of coffee, and there's a pipe filled with Old Dark Fired in my mouth. So here goes.
Vincente Minneli (文森明里尼) is, alas, entirely beyond my field of knowledge, but I do know that his mansion has been empty for years, and has been taking over by squatters. And the word 'squatter' seems to be what is throwing you for a loop.
In this context, 'squatter' means someone breaking the law by living in a house or apartment that they neither own nor rent, where they have no legal right to be.
[在此情況下，'squatter'嘅意思喺“棚戶區者”，意為一個人非法住在一個房子或公寓。]
Actually, San Francisco is not really that close to Beverly Hills, there's a distance of four hundred miles (slightly further than Hong Kong to Changsha; 大致類似香港至長沙喺距離，差唔多咁遠) as well as a whole world of separation. Those folks are not like us. They're weird and vulgar, kind of appalling (比華利山人，呀，怪怪啲和庸俗嘅，慘不忍睹).
Regarding the word 'locust' as used in connection with the Minnelli mansion squatters: 蝗蟲的內涵喺貪婪的犯罪分子，佢哋真像一個瘟疫。
To a limited extent, the Red Guards (紅衛兵) oddly come to mind, but squatters have no ideology, and their political thought is often entirely unformulated. Squatting is SO free-enterprise!
But locusts, never the less.
An infestation.
蟲豸也。
By the way, I shall be looking forward with great interest to the soccer match on the seventeenth of November. It's probably the most important contest of the year.
POST SCRIPTUM
Readers who do not speak Cantonese may not understand most of the non-English text above, especially Mandarin speakers. So sorry, there is nothing to be done about that.
Cantonese is similar to Mandarin in some ways.
But very far indeed from the north.
粵語普通話唔同個囉…
唔好意思！
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