The other day I saw several bins of avocadoes at a busy market in Chinatown. Which surprised me somewhat, as the avocado is not something I normally associate with Cantonese Cuisine.
How do you stirfy or steam an avocado?
More to the point: why?
奶油果 NAI YAU KWOH
The Cantonese, as is well-known, are not prodigious eaters of salsa. And while one can eat the avocado without much preprep, it is a somewhat boring item, being bland and buttery on the tongue, albeit not so greasy.
Guacamole is not something that you will see on many Chinese dinner tables, unless they've lived here quite a while.
But I can very well imagine women fixating on avocado as a skin rejuvenator, smearing it all over their faces in the hope that its rich emollient qualities will make them seem fresher and more radiant.
Or, conceivably, one of them beating it smooth and rubbing it all over herself. In private. Perhaps for healthful purposes.
Maybe the shape of the fruit, and its name in Chinese, are suggestive of certain benefits: breast oil fruit.
In which case, go ahead and rub. It probably won't increase their dimension, if that is what you were counting on, but it's good for the skin, and feels very nice too.
No doubt better than birds nest, which many women use.
Several men bought avocadoes at the market in question.
No way of being certain, but I guess they're married.
Or have girlfriends who requested the fruits.
I would rather NOT imagine the alternative.
I do, however, have a pleasing mental picture of the avocadoes being put to good use.
Fresh and radiant.
NOTE: 'breast-oil' is the Chinese term for butter.
==========================================================================
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Monday, November 12, 2012
Sunday, November 11, 2012
A SHARP AND TANNIC SMELL
Though I prefer to live in a city, as can be deduced from my sneering at the suburbs in several essays on this blog, there are times when I fondly remember smaller towns.
In particular, several places in South East Asia, where the traffic is far less than in the metropoles but no less murderous, and the fields and forests are barely held at bay.
Not jungle - jungle is actually rather unpleasant.
But hillsides with rice paddies and undergrowth.
Wet, verdant, emeraude.
And also I recall villages in North Brabant, where I grew up.
Those locales are more memorable around this time of year, when fallen leaves drift in heaps, brown and crispy, and the world shuts down for a long dark wet spell, cold and Gothic.
Valkenswaard had areas which during the rest of the year were fairly bland, pleasant enough if not remarkable, but in Autumn became glorious, haunting, and deserted. The long twilights evoked more richly at the end of the year, and vegetal fragrances seemed intensely spicy in colder air.
Often there were nose-echoes of leaf-fires from a distance.
As well as cooking smells from nearby kitchens.
Olfactoria were more alive as light faded.
San Francisco is a lovely city, but there aren't enough trees, and nowhere near enough fallen leaves. Small furry things with vicious teeth do not scurry just beyond the edge of sight here, and cats do not prowl, hunting opportune prey; the raccoons would kill them if they did.
I miss brightly lit cafés, beckoning one in for a shot of Genever, a demi tasse of bitter coffee, and a friendly smoke. Being warmly indoors at a village taproom, reading the newspapers or chatting with semi-strangers, as layers of smoke whisp around the cups and glasses, is a way of life.
Going back will not still that memory; one cannot smoke in bars and cafes anymore. The Dutch have become as pedestrian as California in that regard, it's a change forced upon them by Brussels and the bureaucratic dislike of indulgence that their own Calvinists pioneered.
But at least one can probably wander down the Kromstraat or the Dommelsche Weg, where there are trees and shrubbery, smoking a pipe in the darkness, and happily crunching leaves underfoot.
There used to be a plantsoen with trees where the Maastrichter Weg and the Molenstraat intersected, with a bench amid.
I wonder if it's still there?
The cigar bar on Pine Street is a good place to smoke on Autumn evenings, but something is missing. Probably trees and wetness.
As well as Genever and Dutch coffee.
Certain friendly odours.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In particular, several places in South East Asia, where the traffic is far less than in the metropoles but no less murderous, and the fields and forests are barely held at bay.
Not jungle - jungle is actually rather unpleasant.
But hillsides with rice paddies and undergrowth.
Wet, verdant, emeraude.
And also I recall villages in North Brabant, where I grew up.
Those locales are more memorable around this time of year, when fallen leaves drift in heaps, brown and crispy, and the world shuts down for a long dark wet spell, cold and Gothic.
Valkenswaard had areas which during the rest of the year were fairly bland, pleasant enough if not remarkable, but in Autumn became glorious, haunting, and deserted. The long twilights evoked more richly at the end of the year, and vegetal fragrances seemed intensely spicy in colder air.
Often there were nose-echoes of leaf-fires from a distance.
As well as cooking smells from nearby kitchens.
Olfactoria were more alive as light faded.
San Francisco is a lovely city, but there aren't enough trees, and nowhere near enough fallen leaves. Small furry things with vicious teeth do not scurry just beyond the edge of sight here, and cats do not prowl, hunting opportune prey; the raccoons would kill them if they did.
I miss brightly lit cafés, beckoning one in for a shot of Genever, a demi tasse of bitter coffee, and a friendly smoke. Being warmly indoors at a village taproom, reading the newspapers or chatting with semi-strangers, as layers of smoke whisp around the cups and glasses, is a way of life.
Going back will not still that memory; one cannot smoke in bars and cafes anymore. The Dutch have become as pedestrian as California in that regard, it's a change forced upon them by Brussels and the bureaucratic dislike of indulgence that their own Calvinists pioneered.
But at least one can probably wander down the Kromstraat or the Dommelsche Weg, where there are trees and shrubbery, smoking a pipe in the darkness, and happily crunching leaves underfoot.
There used to be a plantsoen with trees where the Maastrichter Weg and the Molenstraat intersected, with a bench amid.
I wonder if it's still there?
The cigar bar on Pine Street is a good place to smoke on Autumn evenings, but something is missing. Probably trees and wetness.
As well as Genever and Dutch coffee.
Certain friendly odours.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IT'S REALLY NOT SUBTLE!
Upon reading the blogpost in which I praised hot greasy hamburgers for breakfast before six in the morning, a meal which if attempted might lead to gastric outrage, especially if no hot sauce or jalapeños were present, a friend remarked that living with me might prove vexing; clearly I was not sane before the coffee took hold.
Well, who is?
It was, I think, the little educational video clip embedded in that piece that roused his eye-brow. Somehow, it did not hit the spot.
It may have even persuaded him that a big fat oozing juices greasy bacon cheese burger was not what, in a sane world, anyone should eat.
Naturally I must vociferously disagree.
Hamburgers are gods.
Revere them.
Worship! them!
Such as the foxy redhead in this next video clip is doing. More praise than that for all manner of burgers is very hard to imagine.
It is poetic - a hymn to juicy things in buns.
OIL SPILL!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmy9CTn6xMs&feature=related .]
There are many things I can imagine for breakfast. A big greasy burger is just one of them.
The Japanese eat dried fish at dawn, with some miso soup to make it moist. They have a diet surprisingly rich in calcium. Indians have zesty curry, Bengalis avidly consume sorson ka maach, and the dutch go for buns with cheese.
Fish features as a wake-me-up in many cuisines.
Soft greasy things star in ours.
Some have fish. Some have crabs.
Well okay, maybe there is a subtext in that song.
Still, doesn't it make you salivate?
Aren't you a better man or woman for having experienced that?
Everyone should have a little oil spill in their lives.
Gusto!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well, who is?
It was, I think, the little educational video clip embedded in that piece that roused his eye-brow. Somehow, it did not hit the spot.
It may have even persuaded him that a big fat oozing juices greasy bacon cheese burger was not what, in a sane world, anyone should eat.
Naturally I must vociferously disagree.
Hamburgers are gods.
Revere them.
Worship! them!
Such as the foxy redhead in this next video clip is doing. More praise than that for all manner of burgers is very hard to imagine.
It is poetic - a hymn to juicy things in buns.
OIL SPILL!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmy9CTn6xMs&feature=related .]
There are many things I can imagine for breakfast. A big greasy burger is just one of them.
The Japanese eat dried fish at dawn, with some miso soup to make it moist. They have a diet surprisingly rich in calcium. Indians have zesty curry, Bengalis avidly consume sorson ka maach, and the dutch go for buns with cheese.
Fish features as a wake-me-up in many cuisines.
Soft greasy things star in ours.
Some have fish. Some have crabs.
Well okay, maybe there is a subtext in that song.
Still, doesn't it make you salivate?
Aren't you a better man or woman for having experienced that?
Everyone should have a little oil spill in their lives.
Gusto!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, November 10, 2012
THE ASCENT
They had all had copious draughts of tea before they got on the cable car. It was quite by chance that they had discovered the pavilion at the bottom of the hill where the trolley line ends; hidden in a courtyard, it did not beckon the passing tourist, nor seem to cater to aught save a few local folk.
It was a very comfortable place. One could perch there for hours, observing the throngs going past the gate at the far end of the enclosure. Mothers with rowdy children sabotaging the return home, customers of the tobacco shop on the corner with lit cheroots happily exhaling clouds of joy, desperate sickos speeding towards relief at the apothecary counter in the Walgreens.
As well as the occasional streetcorner vagrant despondently swigging from a bottle in a bag, or high-arsed hookers strutting for the fat suburbanite Johns looking for a good time Charlie.
While they were there, no one entered the courtyard.
Yet the clientele seemed to change regularly.
The tea pavilion was constantly busy.
Though always half empty.
The end of the line is always a new beginning. The trolley stops for ten minutes, before reversing and going back up the hill.
All of them wished to wait for nightfall ere heading up. It would be better then, with fewer people about. They were aware that their black coats made them somewhat conspicuous, and they felt safe inside this wonderful establishment where there was tea, and where slices of cake and hot buns with butter and preserves could also be found. So cosy! So inviting, and very much like home.
It was quite the warmest place in this cold city.
Really, just a little while longer.
It's nice here.
They had travelled so long, and they were tired.
Long after the sun disappeared between layers of cumuliform clouds in the western sky, the golden orb shining copper and turning the edges of grey masses pink and orange, they paid for their lovely repast, and headed out into the foggy street, over to the cable car platform.
In the cabin, they sat in facing each other. Outside, on the running boards and the benches facing the street, travellers from Europe chattered at each other unintelligibly, tweetering in Scandinavian and Romance tongues like flocks of starlings. Other passengers settled down, wriggling slightly to position spongy masses just so; one must be comfortable, and these seats were hard.
The cable car lurched forward, and trundled toward the intersection. The conductor entered the cabin to collect the fares. When he saw their passes, he grinned knowingly - "don't see many like that nowadays, welcome back!" He assured them that he would tell them when to get off, he knew where they were going.
When he went back out,he left a faint reek of cheroot in the air, and the smell of something warming. Rum?
Definitely an eccentric fellow, but cheerful, and the top hat he wore added a note of gay individualism. It did not go with the uniform. They were sure they would remember him if they ever saw him again, even without the chapeau.
Past the palace at mid-level, where celebrants stood on the pavement outside with cocktails and cigarettes. From inside came tuneless singing, and down past the stairs that took pedestrians to lower levels they could see gay banners, and signboards with cryptic markings. Was this it? It could not be, it seemed, somehow, wrong! The conductor caught their glances, and shook his head, smiling. No, this was not it, though they were welcome to stay here a while, he would pick them up on the next trip.
He knew that they would be waiting.
They looked wistfully at the row of glowing streetlights that faded towards the bay, which they knew was there though they could not see it, and resolved to come back another time, when it was daylight and the vistas were new again.
But not tonight.
Up at the crossroads where most people disembarked, near the top, they anxiously asked "is this the place?" The conductor said no, still a bit longer. Please do not worry. You cannot miss it.
He knew where they were going, and why, and sought to reassure them.
Two more blocks, and except for themselves, the cabin was empty.
Outside there were hardly any other passengers left.
Just a little longer to go, almost, almost.
Then finally, this was it!
They descended from the car, gazed up, and were transformed.
A small child riding on an outside bench noticed, and afterwards excitedly told his mother that he had seen people become crows, and fly into the slowly opening bronze doors of the edifice.
The smallest bird had looked back at him, before entering the light.
Did it recognize him? Surely he would see it again?
She marveled at his imagination.
And did not believe him.
Seeing things!
The conductor, Mr. Samedi, knew otherwise. What children observed sometimes changed them, and might remain for the rest of their lives.
And sometimes just faded from their memory.
Passing, over the length of a lifetime.
When the very last passenger got off a few blocks later, the cable car nosed into the thick layer of fog blanketing the hillside and disappeared, never reaching the other end of the line.
All that remained was an aroma of cigars.
And something warming.
Rum?
From the cathedral above came the sound of bells.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was a very comfortable place. One could perch there for hours, observing the throngs going past the gate at the far end of the enclosure. Mothers with rowdy children sabotaging the return home, customers of the tobacco shop on the corner with lit cheroots happily exhaling clouds of joy, desperate sickos speeding towards relief at the apothecary counter in the Walgreens.
As well as the occasional streetcorner vagrant despondently swigging from a bottle in a bag, or high-arsed hookers strutting for the fat suburbanite Johns looking for a good time Charlie.
While they were there, no one entered the courtyard.
Yet the clientele seemed to change regularly.
The tea pavilion was constantly busy.
Though always half empty.
The end of the line is always a new beginning. The trolley stops for ten minutes, before reversing and going back up the hill.
All of them wished to wait for nightfall ere heading up. It would be better then, with fewer people about. They were aware that their black coats made them somewhat conspicuous, and they felt safe inside this wonderful establishment where there was tea, and where slices of cake and hot buns with butter and preserves could also be found. So cosy! So inviting, and very much like home.
It was quite the warmest place in this cold city.
Really, just a little while longer.
It's nice here.
They had travelled so long, and they were tired.
Long after the sun disappeared between layers of cumuliform clouds in the western sky, the golden orb shining copper and turning the edges of grey masses pink and orange, they paid for their lovely repast, and headed out into the foggy street, over to the cable car platform.
In the cabin, they sat in facing each other. Outside, on the running boards and the benches facing the street, travellers from Europe chattered at each other unintelligibly, tweetering in Scandinavian and Romance tongues like flocks of starlings. Other passengers settled down, wriggling slightly to position spongy masses just so; one must be comfortable, and these seats were hard.
The cable car lurched forward, and trundled toward the intersection. The conductor entered the cabin to collect the fares. When he saw their passes, he grinned knowingly - "don't see many like that nowadays, welcome back!" He assured them that he would tell them when to get off, he knew where they were going.
When he went back out,he left a faint reek of cheroot in the air, and the smell of something warming. Rum?
Definitely an eccentric fellow, but cheerful, and the top hat he wore added a note of gay individualism. It did not go with the uniform. They were sure they would remember him if they ever saw him again, even without the chapeau.
Past the palace at mid-level, where celebrants stood on the pavement outside with cocktails and cigarettes. From inside came tuneless singing, and down past the stairs that took pedestrians to lower levels they could see gay banners, and signboards with cryptic markings. Was this it? It could not be, it seemed, somehow, wrong! The conductor caught their glances, and shook his head, smiling. No, this was not it, though they were welcome to stay here a while, he would pick them up on the next trip.
He knew that they would be waiting.
They looked wistfully at the row of glowing streetlights that faded towards the bay, which they knew was there though they could not see it, and resolved to come back another time, when it was daylight and the vistas were new again.
But not tonight.
Up at the crossroads where most people disembarked, near the top, they anxiously asked "is this the place?" The conductor said no, still a bit longer. Please do not worry. You cannot miss it.
He knew where they were going, and why, and sought to reassure them.
Two more blocks, and except for themselves, the cabin was empty.
Outside there were hardly any other passengers left.
Just a little longer to go, almost, almost.
Then finally, this was it!
They descended from the car, gazed up, and were transformed.
A small child riding on an outside bench noticed, and afterwards excitedly told his mother that he had seen people become crows, and fly into the slowly opening bronze doors of the edifice.
The smallest bird had looked back at him, before entering the light.
Did it recognize him? Surely he would see it again?
She marveled at his imagination.
And did not believe him.
Seeing things!
The conductor, Mr. Samedi, knew otherwise. What children observed sometimes changed them, and might remain for the rest of their lives.
And sometimes just faded from their memory.
Passing, over the length of a lifetime.
When the very last passenger got off a few blocks later, the cable car nosed into the thick layer of fog blanketing the hillside and disappeared, never reaching the other end of the line.
All that remained was an aroma of cigars.
And something warming.
Rum?
From the cathedral above came the sound of bells.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, November 09, 2012
ABOUT BODY TEMPERATURE, AND SMELLY
It’s warm, soft, and incredibly nasty. No, it isn’t steamy shenanigans during the zombie apocalypse, but food in Hayward. It was supposed to be a hot lunch, but I’ll never look at Italian sausages the same way again.
Who on earth puts an entire sandwich in the microwave till the meat is cooked?
Then wraps it in plastic?
You know, getting your wrong on with the living dead might be better than this. Two hours out of San Francisco the wasteland starts. No wonder zombies eat human flesh; in this part of the world it is very well marbled, and pleasingly spongy.
The addition of mushrooms was a note of insanity, there are black lumps oozing out.
The slimy French roll has no traction, and the whole darn thing is falling apart.
Got home too late last night to eat dinner, and left too early this morning to have breakfast. Only five hours sleep, and jangly on caffeine. Low blood-sugar, starving.
In case you were wondering why I’m eating this.
Alone in the office.
It’s actually kind of pleasant pretending to be a zombie devouring his victim here right now. Stumble about making moaning noises, holding out my arms like a tyrannosaurus while crashing into things.
Sing a happy zombie song.
It’s all vowels.
Do not trust people in the suburbs with Italian sausage.
It’s a massacre. I cannot finish this.
Unfortunately it is way too early to attack that bottle of bourbon in the office supply cabinet. Civilized people do not drink till evening.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Who on earth puts an entire sandwich in the microwave till the meat is cooked?
Then wraps it in plastic?
You know, getting your wrong on with the living dead might be better than this. Two hours out of San Francisco the wasteland starts. No wonder zombies eat human flesh; in this part of the world it is very well marbled, and pleasingly spongy.
The addition of mushrooms was a note of insanity, there are black lumps oozing out.
The slimy French roll has no traction, and the whole darn thing is falling apart.
Got home too late last night to eat dinner, and left too early this morning to have breakfast. Only five hours sleep, and jangly on caffeine. Low blood-sugar, starving.
In case you were wondering why I’m eating this.
Alone in the office.
It’s actually kind of pleasant pretending to be a zombie devouring his victim here right now. Stumble about making moaning noises, holding out my arms like a tyrannosaurus while crashing into things.
Sing a happy zombie song.
It’s all vowels.
Do not trust people in the suburbs with Italian sausage.
It’s a massacre. I cannot finish this.
Unfortunately it is way too early to attack that bottle of bourbon in the office supply cabinet. Civilized people do not drink till evening.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, November 08, 2012
REPUBLICAN PARTY DEVIL WORSHIPPERS
Two days ago Americans rejected a narrow-minded and mean-spirited view of the country, albeit by only a very slim majority. Predictably those parts of the country that have embraced the modern era voted Democrat, while the interior and southern crotch asserted an almost stone-age sensibility.
A PARTY BUILT ON XENOPHOBIA, RESENTMENT, AND GREED
To a large extent, Republican voters represent a weltanschauung that is white, ignorant, and male.
Yes, there are women in their world..... one suspects that their lives are nasty, brutish, and short.
Or at least filled with men who are nasty, brutish, and short.
Quote: "But the Republicans don’t have a Hispanic problem. They have an America problem, a country that is growing more diverse and, on a wide range of issues, shows a sensible moderation and social tolerance far out of step with radio ranting and Tea Party rigidity. It wasn’t just Hispanics who heartily rejected Republicans on Tuesday. It also was African-Americans, Asian-Americans, young people and, to perhaps the greatest effect, women." End quote.
[Source: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/08/opinion/the-republicans-post-election-day.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20121108.]
Both Romney and Obama have urged reconciliation.
This blogger does not have an appetite for that.
Venomously dishonest attacks on the president, on the democratic party, and on reasonably nuanced points of view, continued for four years.
Rabid right-wing pundits soured the discourse, possibly beyond any salvation; whether compromise & bi-partisanship in the coming years can be possible is very uncertain.
If the hate-filled ranting rightwing scum responsible for much of the bile continue their bloviating, the divide can only grow.
Which may be exactly what they want.
It is high time that the Republican rank and file disavow the extremists.
Though I fear that that may be the majority of the G.O.P.
Certainly most of their loudmouths.
It's probably a religious thing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A PARTY BUILT ON XENOPHOBIA, RESENTMENT, AND GREED
To a large extent, Republican voters represent a weltanschauung that is white, ignorant, and male.
Yes, there are women in their world..... one suspects that their lives are nasty, brutish, and short.
Or at least filled with men who are nasty, brutish, and short.
Quote: "But the Republicans don’t have a Hispanic problem. They have an America problem, a country that is growing more diverse and, on a wide range of issues, shows a sensible moderation and social tolerance far out of step with radio ranting and Tea Party rigidity. It wasn’t just Hispanics who heartily rejected Republicans on Tuesday. It also was African-Americans, Asian-Americans, young people and, to perhaps the greatest effect, women." End quote.
[Source: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/08/opinion/the-republicans-post-election-day.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20121108.]
Both Romney and Obama have urged reconciliation.
This blogger does not have an appetite for that.
Venomously dishonest attacks on the president, on the democratic party, and on reasonably nuanced points of view, continued for four years.
Rabid right-wing pundits soured the discourse, possibly beyond any salvation; whether compromise & bi-partisanship in the coming years can be possible is very uncertain.
If the hate-filled ranting rightwing scum responsible for much of the bile continue their bloviating, the divide can only grow.
Which may be exactly what they want.
It is high time that the Republican rank and file disavow the extremists.
Though I fear that that may be the majority of the G.O.P.
Certainly most of their loudmouths.
It's probably a religious thing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
NOTES ON THE ELECTION
Always carry spare socks. This is the considered opinion of our head of product development, pursuant last night’s debacle, for the slope-browed retrogrades upset over the election.
Who probably don’t wear socks, because those things are new-fangled and way too complicated.
I am still waiting for Karl Rove’s concession speech.
As well as Donald Trump’s.
FAT HEADS
Several "journalists" from overseas consider us all fools and utterly evil. Again.
Folks, if you do not live in the United States, perhaps you should just shut the 'F' up about our affairs?
We really do not care what you think.
I note, by the way, that several of the slope-browed retrogrades are determined to foment revolution and subvert the government, now that their candidate has been blown out of the water.
You can probably blame FOX news for their insanity.
Watching FOX kills brain cells.
Final comment: if electoral votes were assigned according to junk food ratios, we'd now have a Mormon president.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Who probably don’t wear socks, because those things are new-fangled and way too complicated.
I am still waiting for Karl Rove’s concession speech.
As well as Donald Trump’s.
FAT HEADS
Several "journalists" from overseas consider us all fools and utterly evil. Again.
Folks, if you do not live in the United States, perhaps you should just shut the 'F' up about our affairs?
We really do not care what you think.
I note, by the way, that several of the slope-browed retrogrades are determined to foment revolution and subvert the government, now that their candidate has been blown out of the water.
You can probably blame FOX news for their insanity.
Watching FOX kills brain cells.
Final comment: if electoral votes were assigned according to junk food ratios, we'd now have a Mormon president.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, November 06, 2012
A TENDER SUBJECT
One reader, who may have been severely influenced by fermented grain products, urged me to write about bottoms.
Sorry, I have no insights about bottoms.
I have a bottom.
But I have never seen it.
Even though it is the only bottom in my life.
It's out of sight.
No other bottoms are in view.
Not at this very moment, nor generally speaking.
Bottoms can be extremely charming.
I vaguely remember that.
Hail, bottoms!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sorry, I have no insights about bottoms.
I have a bottom.
But I have never seen it.
Even though it is the only bottom in my life.
It's out of sight.
No other bottoms are in view.
Not at this very moment, nor generally speaking.
Bottoms can be extremely charming.
I vaguely remember that.
Hail, bottoms!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, November 05, 2012
IT'S OFFICIAL: WOMEN ARE NUTS
Attempting to understand what the hoopla is, this blogger read the Wikipedia entry for ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’.
Which forces me into one conclusion:
A large number of my female fellow men are stark-raving bonkers.
Depraved hussies, who have twisted and unclean sexualities.
QUOTE:
"…tension between Ana and Christian eventually comes to a head after Ana asks Christian to punish her in order to show her how extreme a BDSM relationship with him could be. Christian fulfills Ana's request, beating her with a belt, only for Ana to realize that the two of them are incompatible."
END QUOTE.
It took a whupping to make you realize that?
And millions of women read this crap?
Good lord.
Yuck.
Ladies, how about some nice clean porn instead?
You know, happy people without weird fetishes, hang-ups, or neuroses. Literary smut about nice normal people who rather like each other, for whom sex is admittedly fun as blazes, but not the only part of the relationship.
Maybe they share a healthy interest in philately, or both of them collect antique watches. Something cozy, and intrinsically appealing to mildly obsessive types.
"She looked up from her bitter morning brew, and noticed the handsome middle-aged pipe collector with the graying goatee observing her from the other side of the Chinatown coffee shop. He was pretending to read the newspaper while eyeing her, but she knew better. The copy of 世界新聞 was upside down, you see. She noted with interest the headline which revealed that the provincial party secretary in Jiangsu had been arrested for anti-revolutionary crimes: an addiction to spanking, paid for out of the 'Public Funds for the Betterment of Morality among the Indigent'."
See, it's already got you hooked. A time and place are described, as well as keen knowledge-sets, among two people in a warm and nurturing environment. Perhaps he is a Dutch-American, and she could be anything from a shapely intellectual Germanic type (yes, such people exist!) through sparky red-head with a brain, to a literate and witty local woman.
Perhaps one with dark hair, dark eyes, and a foul mouth.
The only unrealistic aspect is the newspaper wrong way up, but it adds a romantic note of fluster.
All you have to do is imagine your own wholesome self in one of the roles.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which forces me into one conclusion:
A large number of my female fellow men are stark-raving bonkers.
Depraved hussies, who have twisted and unclean sexualities.
QUOTE:
"…tension between Ana and Christian eventually comes to a head after Ana asks Christian to punish her in order to show her how extreme a BDSM relationship with him could be. Christian fulfills Ana's request, beating her with a belt, only for Ana to realize that the two of them are incompatible."
END QUOTE.
It took a whupping to make you realize that?
And millions of women read this crap?
Good lord.
Yuck.
Ladies, how about some nice clean porn instead?
You know, happy people without weird fetishes, hang-ups, or neuroses. Literary smut about nice normal people who rather like each other, for whom sex is admittedly fun as blazes, but not the only part of the relationship.
Maybe they share a healthy interest in philately, or both of them collect antique watches. Something cozy, and intrinsically appealing to mildly obsessive types.
"She looked up from her bitter morning brew, and noticed the handsome middle-aged pipe collector with the graying goatee observing her from the other side of the Chinatown coffee shop. He was pretending to read the newspaper while eyeing her, but she knew better. The copy of 世界新聞 was upside down, you see. She noted with interest the headline which revealed that the provincial party secretary in Jiangsu had been arrested for anti-revolutionary crimes: an addiction to spanking, paid for out of the 'Public Funds for the Betterment of Morality among the Indigent'."
See, it's already got you hooked. A time and place are described, as well as keen knowledge-sets, among two people in a warm and nurturing environment. Perhaps he is a Dutch-American, and she could be anything from a shapely intellectual Germanic type (yes, such people exist!) through sparky red-head with a brain, to a literate and witty local woman.
Perhaps one with dark hair, dark eyes, and a foul mouth.
The only unrealistic aspect is the newspaper wrong way up, but it adds a romantic note of fluster.
All you have to do is imagine your own wholesome self in one of the roles.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NINE IS DIVISIBLE BY THREE!
Sometimes you want a burger. It will hit the spot. A nice juicy burger will answer all of life's questions.
Eating a burger pushes existential angst away.
NEW BACON-INGS!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAgYbiWh5rY.]
You do NOT want a free sample! You want the entire thing. Trust me, I'd eat here. At 5:44 in the morning. Bob's burgers. For breakfast.
Explanation for this post: woke up at four o'clock. My alarm clock was set for twenty past five. I'm supposed to be at the office in Hayward at eight.
Commute takes about two hours.
The brain is not frozen.
Neither are the patties.
It's all fresh-ground.
Lord Of The Flies - The Restaurant.
It comes with candy!
Is that a rash?
There's no wait.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Eating a burger pushes existential angst away.
NEW BACON-INGS!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAgYbiWh5rY.]
You do NOT want a free sample! You want the entire thing. Trust me, I'd eat here. At 5:44 in the morning. Bob's burgers. For breakfast.
Explanation for this post: woke up at four o'clock. My alarm clock was set for twenty past five. I'm supposed to be at the office in Hayward at eight.
Commute takes about two hours.
The brain is not frozen.
Neither are the patties.
It's all fresh-ground.
Lord Of The Flies - The Restaurant.
It comes with candy!
Is that a rash?
There's no wait.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, November 04, 2012
BADGERS DO NOT VACUUM!
The apartment mate has suggested that I might want to vacuum my room sometime.
I've got news: badgers do not vacuum. Bunny rabbits vacuum. Ferrets too.
Moles probably vacuum also, as well as mop and scrub.
But they're quite obsessive-compulsive.
As literate people realize.
The only reason why a bachelor vacuums his digs is because he has prospects of feminine company.
A bit of casual dusting, rearranging of books and pipes, and fondling the enormous collection of pipe tobacco (enough to survive the coming zombie apocalypse), and that's it. There is no reason at all for anything more.
No prospects of any friends coming over.
Why should I vacuum?
After six months the dust doesn't get any worse.
This single badger maintains personal cleanliness purely because it feels more comfortable to be reasonably laundered, washed, and shaved.
I sometimes groom my pelt when no one is watching.
But as far as the carpet is concerned on the one hand, or the thin veneer of dust here and there on the other, no.
I have neither allergies nor any visitors.
There is no point
The moment I vacuum, you will know that events have taken an interesting turn for the better. Why, I might even put a vase with lovely flowers in my room.
Rearrange the books and pipes frantically.
No perfumed candles, however.
I am not crazy.
I'm afraid that my apartment mate is unrealistic. She frequently vacuums her room and common areas. I am not entirely sure why. As far as I can tell she isn't romantically inclined.
Perhaps it is a queer obsession.
I am a badger. I do not understand women.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I've got news: badgers do not vacuum. Bunny rabbits vacuum. Ferrets too.
Moles probably vacuum also, as well as mop and scrub.
But they're quite obsessive-compulsive.
As literate people realize.
The only reason why a bachelor vacuums his digs is because he has prospects of feminine company.
A bit of casual dusting, rearranging of books and pipes, and fondling the enormous collection of pipe tobacco (enough to survive the coming zombie apocalypse), and that's it. There is no reason at all for anything more.
No prospects of any friends coming over.
Why should I vacuum?
After six months the dust doesn't get any worse.
This single badger maintains personal cleanliness purely because it feels more comfortable to be reasonably laundered, washed, and shaved.
I sometimes groom my pelt when no one is watching.
But as far as the carpet is concerned on the one hand, or the thin veneer of dust here and there on the other, no.
I have neither allergies nor any visitors.
There is no point
The moment I vacuum, you will know that events have taken an interesting turn for the better. Why, I might even put a vase with lovely flowers in my room.
Rearrange the books and pipes frantically.
No perfumed candles, however.
I am not crazy.
I'm afraid that my apartment mate is unrealistic. She frequently vacuums her room and common areas. I am not entirely sure why. As far as I can tell she isn't romantically inclined.
Perhaps it is a queer obsession.
I am a badger. I do not understand women.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I AM YOUR EVIL RELATIVE
Both of them were fascinated. It is quite likely that they had never seen a pipesmoker before, though I'm sure they must have already been exposed to white people. They kept circling around me, and I could tell that they were keenly observing my every action.
Middle-aged white dudes calmly puffing on a briar while leaning against one of the pillars of the Chinatown Phone Exchange aren't "normal".
Normal people aren't white. Normal people do not smoke. Normal people don't have a piece of wood sticking out of their mouth.
Dang I'm interesting!
Their parents were at the next-door restaurant chowing down on a splendid dinner. Only their bird-like grandma was keeping an eye on them. I felt almost like the witch in Hansel und Gretel. If I had really wanted, I could have roasted them and had a fine meal.
But I had a full bowl of flake going, and the pipe had just hit cruising level.
No way would I interrupt that for casual protein.
And they instinctively realized that.
Early evening, just after dusk. A lot of little old people still on the street, as well as several folks for whom C'town is a new experience.
Later at the cigar bar, pipe smokers were still a new experience.
According to many people, you don't see us often anymore.
I may have introduced three Chabadniks to pipe-smoking.
That's a mighty fine thing.
I would rather have taught the two little Chinese kids, though.
Innocence seems so much more so with pipe in mouth.
Besides, I was smoking a smooth apple shape, verging on a Prince.
The girl especially would've looked darling with that.
Pigtails and a polished blonde bowl.
Yowza, readers, Yowza.
However, I have been assured, countless times, that humans still in the single digits should avoid tobacco. Apparently it stunts your growth, leads to shrunken testicles, and makes you unlovable in the extreme. Teeth will fall out, and the esophagus shall bleed.
Short folks will develop wrinkles, and start playing cards.
Quite likely the world will end too.
If children smoke.
Just call me "uncle bad influence".
Come here, little girl, would you like a nice Virginia and Perique blend?
How about something with Turkish and Latakia?
I've got both, just ask.
Heh.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Middle-aged white dudes calmly puffing on a briar while leaning against one of the pillars of the Chinatown Phone Exchange aren't "normal".
Normal people aren't white. Normal people do not smoke. Normal people don't have a piece of wood sticking out of their mouth.
Dang I'm interesting!
Their parents were at the next-door restaurant chowing down on a splendid dinner. Only their bird-like grandma was keeping an eye on them. I felt almost like the witch in Hansel und Gretel. If I had really wanted, I could have roasted them and had a fine meal.
But I had a full bowl of flake going, and the pipe had just hit cruising level.
No way would I interrupt that for casual protein.
And they instinctively realized that.
Early evening, just after dusk. A lot of little old people still on the street, as well as several folks for whom C'town is a new experience.
Later at the cigar bar, pipe smokers were still a new experience.
According to many people, you don't see us often anymore.
I may have introduced three Chabadniks to pipe-smoking.
That's a mighty fine thing.
I would rather have taught the two little Chinese kids, though.
Innocence seems so much more so with pipe in mouth.
Besides, I was smoking a smooth apple shape, verging on a Prince.
The girl especially would've looked darling with that.
Pigtails and a polished blonde bowl.
Yowza, readers, Yowza.
However, I have been assured, countless times, that humans still in the single digits should avoid tobacco. Apparently it stunts your growth, leads to shrunken testicles, and makes you unlovable in the extreme. Teeth will fall out, and the esophagus shall bleed.
Short folks will develop wrinkles, and start playing cards.
Quite likely the world will end too.
If children smoke.
Just call me "uncle bad influence".
Come here, little girl, would you like a nice Virginia and Perique blend?
How about something with Turkish and Latakia?
I've got both, just ask.
Heh.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, November 02, 2012
WORKING WITH VERY YOUNG CALVES - MOO!
Due to unforeseen circumstances, the usual plans for delivery of lunch to our outpost of humanity in the savage veldt of Hayward fell by the wayside today.
We were on our own. Which is very sad.
[Background: regular readers will know that the company moved to a warehouse location in the East Bay recently, forsaking our rather splendid digs in San Francisco. It is a hardship, as many of us live in the city, and some do not have vehicles. So to alleviate our suffering, the company makes sure that we don’t have to fend for ourselves amid the growling savages out here in the industrial wastelands several miles from anywhere.]
In consequence of this development, I discovered that some people are instinctively group feeders – let’s call them bovines – and some people are solitary diners – the rogue elephants, so to speak.
Herds versus bulls.
An e-mail I sent asking if anyone was planning to drive anywhere for lunch got one response.
Just one.
"I’m not, I have to run an errand."
That makes the person who answered one of three rogue elephants in the company.
But only for a day. Another R.E. was too busy.
So actually, there is only one.
I'm well-mannered, considerate, cheerful, and I don't smell too badly.
But nevertheless, rogue elephant.
Not fit company for the self-acknowledged splendid folks in Operations, Sales, Marketing, or Management.
I handle bill collection.
I'm other.
I am the rogue elephant, roaming the swamp and terrifying the natives, I am the heavy tusked bull devouring the villagers and their adorable children!
I trample fields of sorghum and cause starvation.
Hear me trumpet!
Oh well, screw it. Wasn't looking forward to eating with that bunch of drips anyway.
It's extremely of peaceful here with none of them around. No long disquisitions about shopping, shoes, real housewives of wherever, baseball, football, ice hockey, or golf.
Hayward - the place that 'indigestion' calls home.
Having just finished the karmic equivalent of a can of cat food from the only deli within hiking distance, I will now go outside and smoke a bowl of Orlik Golden Sliced (a fine flake tobacco) while communing with the local corvid population. There's a tree not too far away, where three crows live.
They're cheerful fellows, perfect company.
Birds really do not seem to mind that I'm old and smelly, and cannot discourse wittily about shopping, shoes, real housewives, baseball, and football.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
We were on our own. Which is very sad.
[Background: regular readers will know that the company moved to a warehouse location in the East Bay recently, forsaking our rather splendid digs in San Francisco. It is a hardship, as many of us live in the city, and some do not have vehicles. So to alleviate our suffering, the company makes sure that we don’t have to fend for ourselves amid the growling savages out here in the industrial wastelands several miles from anywhere.]
In consequence of this development, I discovered that some people are instinctively group feeders – let’s call them bovines – and some people are solitary diners – the rogue elephants, so to speak.
Herds versus bulls.
An e-mail I sent asking if anyone was planning to drive anywhere for lunch got one response.
Just one.
"I’m not, I have to run an errand."
That makes the person who answered one of three rogue elephants in the company.
But only for a day. Another R.E. was too busy.
So actually, there is only one.
I'm well-mannered, considerate, cheerful, and I don't smell too badly.
But nevertheless, rogue elephant.
Not fit company for the self-acknowledged splendid folks in Operations, Sales, Marketing, or Management.
I handle bill collection.
I'm other.
I am the rogue elephant, roaming the swamp and terrifying the natives, I am the heavy tusked bull devouring the villagers and their adorable children!
I trample fields of sorghum and cause starvation.
Hear me trumpet!
Oh well, screw it. Wasn't looking forward to eating with that bunch of drips anyway.
It's extremely of peaceful here with none of them around. No long disquisitions about shopping, shoes, real housewives of wherever, baseball, football, ice hockey, or golf.
Hayward - the place that 'indigestion' calls home.
Having just finished the karmic equivalent of a can of cat food from the only deli within hiking distance, I will now go outside and smoke a bowl of Orlik Golden Sliced (a fine flake tobacco) while communing with the local corvid population. There's a tree not too far away, where three crows live.
They're cheerful fellows, perfect company.
Birds really do not seem to mind that I'm old and smelly, and cannot discourse wittily about shopping, shoes, real housewives, baseball, and football.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BENEFICIAL INFORMATION, REGULARLY REGARDING FEET!
Sometimes spam is complimentary! Consider this gem: "Nice Blog!! Great Post !! Like your Blog and your ideas and i think its benificial for us and i keep to visit your blog regularly because i got lot of information through you blog.".
Truly wonderful words. The post under which it was placed, and from which it was duly scrubbed, is not germane. The point is that the reader felt it was a very nice blog post, and was almighty impressed by the beneficiality of all. I am worth visiting, regularly, and there is information here!
"Nice Blog!! Great Post !! Like your Blog and your ideas and i think its benificial for us and i keep to visit your blog regularly because i got lot of information through you blog."
The person who made that comment probably wishes that readers would be so moved by his insight that they would say to themselves "what a sensitive reader, surely I should click on his link, and happily browse through the commercial offerings that may be found".
Much like the makers of Atlanta Falcons Jerseys, Christian Louboutin, Isabell Marant, Ugg, Bootsoutlet, Birkin Bag, Cheapuggs, Genuine Boots, Hermes, Bootspascher, Bootsuggnederland, and many other visitors here.
Who leave endearing urls under my posts several dozen times a day.
There are times when all the reader-reactions consist of advertising.
Pipe fittings, electric cigarettes, magic pills, clothing, and footwear.
Mostly boots.
Boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots!
Ugg.
If you came here to read, it is surely because you are fascinated by footwear. Soft supple leather gently and delicately, lovingly even, enfolding the fragile female foot, caressing the skin through which faintly blue veining shows, which feels warm and velvety to the manly man's touch, plus slightly moist. Those darling toes, that finely sculpted instep, the arched curve of the bridge, where silken texture gradually gives way to a flexible crêpe at the junction of digits.
Are toes actually digits? What would you call them. Pedal digits? Podagigitties? It does not matter.
You break out in a mild and dewy sweat, barely noticeable, at this point, slightly warm and tense; precisely like the objects in question, in their tailored leather husks.
Fragrances. Oh.
It's all comfortably form-fitting.
You find podiatrists incredible.
Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, you will go the boot store on Market Street, and run your nose along the rows. There's nothing like that new boot smell.
If I see you, I will surreptitiously take photos, to be uploaded to a file-sharing site and admired by the millions.
Why?
Because I am " boots, boots, boots!"
Good lord, it's six o'clock in the morning and I'm already gibbering.
Informative, and beneficial.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Truly wonderful words. The post under which it was placed, and from which it was duly scrubbed, is not germane. The point is that the reader felt it was a very nice blog post, and was almighty impressed by the beneficiality of all. I am worth visiting, regularly, and there is information here!
"Nice Blog!! Great Post !! Like your Blog and your ideas and i think its benificial for us and i keep to visit your blog regularly because i got lot of information through you blog."
The person who made that comment probably wishes that readers would be so moved by his insight that they would say to themselves "what a sensitive reader, surely I should click on his link, and happily browse through the commercial offerings that may be found".
Much like the makers of Atlanta Falcons Jerseys, Christian Louboutin, Isabell Marant, Ugg, Bootsoutlet, Birkin Bag, Cheapuggs, Genuine Boots, Hermes, Bootspascher, Bootsuggnederland, and many other visitors here.
Who leave endearing urls under my posts several dozen times a day.
There are times when all the reader-reactions consist of advertising.
Pipe fittings, electric cigarettes, magic pills, clothing, and footwear.
Mostly boots.
Boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots!
Ugg.
If you came here to read, it is surely because you are fascinated by footwear. Soft supple leather gently and delicately, lovingly even, enfolding the fragile female foot, caressing the skin through which faintly blue veining shows, which feels warm and velvety to the manly man's touch, plus slightly moist. Those darling toes, that finely sculpted instep, the arched curve of the bridge, where silken texture gradually gives way to a flexible crêpe at the junction of digits.
Are toes actually digits? What would you call them. Pedal digits? Podagigitties? It does not matter.
You break out in a mild and dewy sweat, barely noticeable, at this point, slightly warm and tense; precisely like the objects in question, in their tailored leather husks.
Fragrances. Oh.
It's all comfortably form-fitting.
You find podiatrists incredible.
Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, you will go the boot store on Market Street, and run your nose along the rows. There's nothing like that new boot smell.
If I see you, I will surreptitiously take photos, to be uploaded to a file-sharing site and admired by the millions.
Why?
Because I am " boots, boots, boots!"
Good lord, it's six o'clock in the morning and I'm already gibbering.
Informative, and beneficial.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
HELPFUL CREDIT SUGGESTIONS
Since the company's move from San Francisco to Hayward six weeks ago, many of our most important daily needs are taken care of, as a means of ameliorating the fact that we are now in the middle of a bleak industrial park built amidst miles upon miles of malarial swamp, with nothing but crows, insects, angry seagulls, and the foetid odour of Limburger cheese from the salt pans for company.
To that end, there are bottles of Jack Daniels and Stolichnaya in the supply cabinet.
As the Credit & Collections Department of this fine company, which designs and sells colourful extruded plastic manufactured to exacting specifications and precise tolerances, this blogger feels that that is utterly insufficient.
Only Bourbon and Vodka?
I mentioned Limburger Cheese, did I not?
Very well then.
The Management Team and Marketing Department are undoubtedly happy with the Jack and Stoly that caters to their deep and heartfelt needs.
Accounting and Finance require more.
SUGGESTIONS
Shots of Fernet Branca every day. It's a digestive aid.
We're in Hayward. We're sensitive.
Seagulls and Limburger.
Credit & Collections (me) feels that additionally a few bottles of fine single malt are needed. NOT Ardbeg, as that tastes like run-off from the Tracy tire fire and would only remind us that we are in Hayward surrounded by Limburger cheese, but something else.
I'm thinking Glenmorangie, or Macallen 17 yr old.
Seventeen year olds can be great fun!
Unlike ten or twelve year olds.
I champion maturity.
Please remember the Limburger.
It's Hayward.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To that end, there are bottles of Jack Daniels and Stolichnaya in the supply cabinet.
As the Credit & Collections Department of this fine company, which designs and sells colourful extruded plastic manufactured to exacting specifications and precise tolerances, this blogger feels that that is utterly insufficient.
Only Bourbon and Vodka?
I mentioned Limburger Cheese, did I not?
Very well then.
The Management Team and Marketing Department are undoubtedly happy with the Jack and Stoly that caters to their deep and heartfelt needs.
Accounting and Finance require more.
SUGGESTIONS
Shots of Fernet Branca every day. It's a digestive aid.
We're in Hayward. We're sensitive.
Seagulls and Limburger.
Credit & Collections (me) feels that additionally a few bottles of fine single malt are needed. NOT Ardbeg, as that tastes like run-off from the Tracy tire fire and would only remind us that we are in Hayward surrounded by Limburger cheese, but something else.
I'm thinking Glenmorangie, or Macallen 17 yr old.
Seventeen year olds can be great fun!
Unlike ten or twelve year olds.
I champion maturity.
Please remember the Limburger.
It's Hayward.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
THE SHARED FEAST
Back in two thousand and seven is when I last spoke to him. He passed away shortly afterwards. He was in his late seventies, more or less. And yes, it was a lovely memorial service.
Everyone was there. Including his mistress.
Who was not even thirty at that time.
No, it isn't what you think at all.
She wasn't a gold digger.
And he was never a dirty old man yearning for fresh meat.
That is to say, he very well may have been a dirty old man lusting after juicy young things, but it was neither fiduciary interest that moved her, nor randy old hormones that drove him.
Any dirty-old-manhood on his part was purely intellectual.
As it usually is for men who achieve solid maturity.
The relationship was almost semi-platonic.
He knew Latin.
She wished to learn better Latin.
He was a language maven, had been all his life.
She was a medieavalist going into medical transcription.
Initially she paid him. He very gallantly turned that money into lovely dinners at cozy restaurants, which eventually became little trips out of town at nice bed and breakfast places in the wine country, as well as a few little cruises to Alaska or the Caribbean. He liked having a companion who shared similar interests, and she enjoyed being around him because he was a delightful old fellow, and keenly interested in food and strange foreign cultures. It seemed like a natural fit, despite the huge difference in age between them.
Yeah, they slept together.
Both of them were full of energy.
I know this, but really that's all I know.
I was in a large part responsible for the two of them hooking up.
Him I knew because we argued over passages of the Pentateuch - he knew the Latin, I construed the Hebrew, both of us went off of published analyses and commentaries. Her I knew because a friend had introduced us, thinking that a language nut might be able to get her Latin up to par (medical transcription uses bastardized Latin, Greek, and gibberish - very bastardized gibberish).
I realized early on that I was no help whatsoever.
So I introduced the two of them.
They took it from there.
Initially he had NO interest in food or funky foreign cultures. He despised everything that wasn't meat and potatoes, considered all native societies where people walk around semi-clothed rather primitive, and spent much of his time since retirement playing bridge and reading.
But she was fun to be with. She liked to eat. And she was hot.
Hot in the sense that any intelligent woman is hot.
Meaning that she was unremarkable.
But intellectually magnetic.
Quite the keeper.
Yes, hot.
I have no clue when they finally started relating on a physical level. It was probably after a dinner at a nice restaurant, and I'm guessing they quoted Latin at each other till both of them were silly. While the lights were low.
She admitted later that she rather enjoyed people assuming that he was her grandfather.
"Oh, I cannot go home with you, I'm with grampa, and I have to make sure he takes his pills tonight."
He wasn't on medication, and he was full of beans besides.
But it's a good excuse.
Because she liked Thai food, and Vietnamese noodle soups, and Jamaican jerk chicken, he quietly started finding out about stuff that wasn't standard issue white food. Without telling her. Then he would spring a little eatery on her, and order things that he knew pleased her.
I don't think she ever figured out his methodological approach, though.
She was just tickled pink that she had a man to eat with.
Who wasn't freaked out by foreign muck.
And liked eating with her.
Whatever this funky cross between old rope and compost heap is, it tastes just fine with the right person across the table orgasming over its delicate flavour and exquisite texture.
Say, what is this crap anyway?
I often had to explain strange dishes to him, as we all know that that is what I do best.
I know goofy food. You cannot study South East Asian languages without delving into the diet. And truth be told, I've always been fascinated by what people put in their mouths.
I knew what he was doing. Research, and familiarization.
They were together for over five years before he crashed the Ferrari.
Yes, they had a wonderful time together.
A perfect couple.
He never got to see her old and wrinkled. She didn't have to get used to him slowly losing his acuity, or his vibrantly spunky attitude.
It may have ended at the best possible time.
They had never married.
At the memorial service, many of his friends assumed that she was the beloved grand daughter.
She smiled politely, and helped them reminisce about the old man.
After it was over, I took her to a bar and got her drunk.
Cabbed her over to her aunt's house.
Picked her up again for breakfast, and took her around town.
She had always known this day would come.
Still, too sudden, too soon.
Dang.
The estate and insurance gave her enough to travel around the world. She cut the trip short less than a quarter of the way through, somewhere in the Andes, because it just wasn't fun eating foreign food without him. She finished her training and moved to east coast. She has two daughters now, whom I have not met.
I probably never will. Last time I talked to her, she admitted that she had told them about their "great grand father". Who was a splendid old fellow, keenly adventurous, a food maven.
He flew planes in Korea and Vietnam, you know.
Had a classics degree, taught Latin.
You should have met him.
A marvelous chap.
And he really liked trying new foods.
He actually preferred meat and potatoes.
But I need not mention that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Everyone was there. Including his mistress.
Who was not even thirty at that time.
No, it isn't what you think at all.
She wasn't a gold digger.
And he was never a dirty old man yearning for fresh meat.
That is to say, he very well may have been a dirty old man lusting after juicy young things, but it was neither fiduciary interest that moved her, nor randy old hormones that drove him.
Any dirty-old-manhood on his part was purely intellectual.
As it usually is for men who achieve solid maturity.
The relationship was almost semi-platonic.
He knew Latin.
She wished to learn better Latin.
He was a language maven, had been all his life.
She was a medieavalist going into medical transcription.
Initially she paid him. He very gallantly turned that money into lovely dinners at cozy restaurants, which eventually became little trips out of town at nice bed and breakfast places in the wine country, as well as a few little cruises to Alaska or the Caribbean. He liked having a companion who shared similar interests, and she enjoyed being around him because he was a delightful old fellow, and keenly interested in food and strange foreign cultures. It seemed like a natural fit, despite the huge difference in age between them.
Yeah, they slept together.
Both of them were full of energy.
I know this, but really that's all I know.
I was in a large part responsible for the two of them hooking up.
Him I knew because we argued over passages of the Pentateuch - he knew the Latin, I construed the Hebrew, both of us went off of published analyses and commentaries. Her I knew because a friend had introduced us, thinking that a language nut might be able to get her Latin up to par (medical transcription uses bastardized Latin, Greek, and gibberish - very bastardized gibberish).
I realized early on that I was no help whatsoever.
So I introduced the two of them.
They took it from there.
Initially he had NO interest in food or funky foreign cultures. He despised everything that wasn't meat and potatoes, considered all native societies where people walk around semi-clothed rather primitive, and spent much of his time since retirement playing bridge and reading.
But she was fun to be with. She liked to eat. And she was hot.
Hot in the sense that any intelligent woman is hot.
Meaning that she was unremarkable.
But intellectually magnetic.
Quite the keeper.
Yes, hot.
I have no clue when they finally started relating on a physical level. It was probably after a dinner at a nice restaurant, and I'm guessing they quoted Latin at each other till both of them were silly. While the lights were low.
She admitted later that she rather enjoyed people assuming that he was her grandfather.
"Oh, I cannot go home with you, I'm with grampa, and I have to make sure he takes his pills tonight."
He wasn't on medication, and he was full of beans besides.
But it's a good excuse.
Because she liked Thai food, and Vietnamese noodle soups, and Jamaican jerk chicken, he quietly started finding out about stuff that wasn't standard issue white food. Without telling her. Then he would spring a little eatery on her, and order things that he knew pleased her.
I don't think she ever figured out his methodological approach, though.
She was just tickled pink that she had a man to eat with.
Who wasn't freaked out by foreign muck.
And liked eating with her.
Whatever this funky cross between old rope and compost heap is, it tastes just fine with the right person across the table orgasming over its delicate flavour and exquisite texture.
Say, what is this crap anyway?
I often had to explain strange dishes to him, as we all know that that is what I do best.
I know goofy food. You cannot study South East Asian languages without delving into the diet. And truth be told, I've always been fascinated by what people put in their mouths.
I knew what he was doing. Research, and familiarization.
They were together for over five years before he crashed the Ferrari.
Yes, they had a wonderful time together.
A perfect couple.
He never got to see her old and wrinkled. She didn't have to get used to him slowly losing his acuity, or his vibrantly spunky attitude.
It may have ended at the best possible time.
They had never married.
At the memorial service, many of his friends assumed that she was the beloved grand daughter.
She smiled politely, and helped them reminisce about the old man.
After it was over, I took her to a bar and got her drunk.
Cabbed her over to her aunt's house.
Picked her up again for breakfast, and took her around town.
She had always known this day would come.
Still, too sudden, too soon.
Dang.
The estate and insurance gave her enough to travel around the world. She cut the trip short less than a quarter of the way through, somewhere in the Andes, because it just wasn't fun eating foreign food without him. She finished her training and moved to east coast. She has two daughters now, whom I have not met.
I probably never will. Last time I talked to her, she admitted that she had told them about their "great grand father". Who was a splendid old fellow, keenly adventurous, a food maven.
He flew planes in Korea and Vietnam, you know.
Had a classics degree, taught Latin.
You should have met him.
A marvelous chap.
And he really liked trying new foods.
He actually preferred meat and potatoes.
But I need not mention that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHISKY IS GOOD FOR SOME THINGS
Yes, she's seeing Wheelie Boy again.
Despite the heartbreak he caused her.
It's her life, and she's in love. Probably for the first time ever.
The past two years have been queer.
She's happy.
Whenever she's on the phone with him she looks radiant. It makes me wonder what really happened during the twenty one years that we were together. I have never seen her act this way, and she has never been so giddy. It's a surprise.
I wish I had seen it when we were an item.
I was in love with her then, but I know now that she did not feel the same, or so intensely.
I do not want her back, nor would I ever try to win her heart again.
She was not at all like that when we were lovers, and it will always remain impossible for her to be as delirious with me as she is with him.
I grasp that, and I've gotten over it.
Now that I see what she feels, it could not be the same between us.
We can't be a couple again. Everything is different.
And we are not that kind of people.
What's over, is over.
Even if - when - she breaks up with Wheelie Boy again, I shan't take advantage of the situation. Both because of my own pride as well as my respect for her.
She wasn't anywhere near as passionate about me as she is for Wheelie Boy, and she will not feel that way about me in the future.
I doubt now that she ever even understood what I felt.
She inspired me, but I didn't inspire her.
We didn't mature at the same rate either. I had to be an adult earlier than was normal, she was always a little less grown up than her age.
The other day while I was waiting at the bus stop I saw her head down the street to get a snack at the store. She looked then as she has always looked - like someone you just want to protect.
Vulnerable, fragile, innocent.
She seems so very young.
I loved her very much for over two decades.
But she probably considered me more a companion than a soulmate.
We are still friends. We'll always be friends.
Wheelie Boy is her first real love.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Despite the heartbreak he caused her.
It's her life, and she's in love. Probably for the first time ever.
The past two years have been queer.
She's happy.
Whenever she's on the phone with him she looks radiant. It makes me wonder what really happened during the twenty one years that we were together. I have never seen her act this way, and she has never been so giddy. It's a surprise.
I wish I had seen it when we were an item.
I was in love with her then, but I know now that she did not feel the same, or so intensely.
I do not want her back, nor would I ever try to win her heart again.
She was not at all like that when we were lovers, and it will always remain impossible for her to be as delirious with me as she is with him.
I grasp that, and I've gotten over it.
Now that I see what she feels, it could not be the same between us.
We can't be a couple again. Everything is different.
And we are not that kind of people.
What's over, is over.
Even if - when - she breaks up with Wheelie Boy again, I shan't take advantage of the situation. Both because of my own pride as well as my respect for her.
She wasn't anywhere near as passionate about me as she is for Wheelie Boy, and she will not feel that way about me in the future.
I doubt now that she ever even understood what I felt.
She inspired me, but I didn't inspire her.
We didn't mature at the same rate either. I had to be an adult earlier than was normal, she was always a little less grown up than her age.
The other day while I was waiting at the bus stop I saw her head down the street to get a snack at the store. She looked then as she has always looked - like someone you just want to protect.
Vulnerable, fragile, innocent.
She seems so very young.
I loved her very much for over two decades.
But she probably considered me more a companion than a soulmate.
We are still friends. We'll always be friends.
Wheelie Boy is her first real love.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 28, 2012
DONUTS AT CLOSING TIME
Yesterday after a few snoots of pipe tobacco at the cigar bar, I headed over to Polk Street near my house. Seeing as it's Halloween Weekend in San Francisco, Polk was a veritable feast for the eye.
For some reason young people are exhibitionistic at certain times of the year, and this blogger can only applaud that.
I myself was dressed-up as a perfectly normal and discreet street-corner dirty old man. Everyday garb, nothing suspect, nothing risqué.
Clean slacks, clean shirt, neat hair, spectacles.
Smelling mildly of cheroots.
While drinking in the ambulatory zoo, a friend spotted me. We hung out together while watching. He was amazed at all the young ladies with huge amounts of their real estate showing (gratuitous Monty Python reference), and I enjoyed the wonderful curvy thighs on display.
I did say perfectly normal street-corner D.O.M, did I not?
A mermaid with pendulous bosoms wobbled past, and a young zombie with a gaping bullet hole above a rosy nipple nearly crashed into her.
I observed to my friend that high heels were certainly not sensible footwear when you're out of water or have just been shot. There are times when you should think about comfort, correct posture, and your lower back, and this really seemed like one of those times. Irrespective of breast size.
Two young ladies nearby negotiated with a limo driver to get back to Oakland. It would cost them eighty dollars. Which is exorbitant, but who wants to be stranded overnight in the wrong city after Bay Area Rapid Transit has stopped running?
Especially while wearing nearly nothing?
This is very much the wrong city.
For such a mode of dress.
I'm sure their parents had not vetted the costumes.
They looked ... remarkable.
Surely they could've found a friend who would let them crash overnight? They had cell-phones, though I'm not sure where they stashed those while not in use.
"LET THEM SLEEP ON YOUR FLOOR!"
Well, that is a mighty attractive concept, but firstly I am not acquainted with them, and for all I know they could be psychopaths who would love nothing better than to slice up a middle-aged man and feed the lean meaty scraps to the sharks in the bay. And secondly, you do realize that my roommate would be more than a little bit disturbed to find two curvaceous and extremely young Goth bunny-rabbits huddled on my floor tomorrow morning?
She would suspect me of perversion.
Even if nothing had happened.
"Suspect you of perversion? You mean after all these years she still hasn't figured you out yet?!?"
Thank you for your vote of confidence.
And no, she hasn't. I was a gentleman while we were an item, and I've remained a gentleman. The filth is purely internal.
"Crap she's innocent!!!"
No, she was a gentleman too. Remarkable for someone of her gender.
"You should've offered those two cutey-pies your floor, and just told your roommate that you were discussing religion with them all night."
I'm certain she wouldn't believe that. I've never discussed theology with her, and she knows how my mind works. She'd rightly suspect me of ulterior motives in extending the invite, as would they.
"Still, you need the excitement in your life. Imagine if, in a fit of drunken insanity, both of them decided to jump your hot middle-aged body and bang you silly. It could happen, don't laugh! But if you refuse to approach people, it ain't ever gonna happen. Live a little,man, I know I would in your position. Be giddy sometime! You're too frustrated."
Somehow he doesn't understand that frustration is infinitely better than regret.
"What regret? What possible regret could there be?!?"
Well, what if they were actually very nice girls, liable to suffer emotionally afterwards? You know, sweet and intelligent, and likely to get hurt by an unsuitable relationship?
"Dude, you always overthink sex, stop being such a friggin' intellectual - you'll never get any that way!"
Probably true, but at my age thinking about sex always means 'overthinking'.
It's something I'm very good at, as I am a thoughtful man.
"You're an idiot!!!"
I really don't know what is going through my friend's mind. I'm dispassionately observing natives wearing colourful costumes while they're engaged in a fascinating cultural manifestation, he's audibly drooling, muttering things like "wouldya look at those...", "ooh, wow, man", and "yes, it IS too warm to wear a bra ... on your head".
I am not like that at all.
Cool, and even somewhat apathetic.
Perhaps a maelstrom inside, but externally mellow.
"So, describe your ideal woman"
The inquiry came out of the blue. Without thinking I flapped out "smaller than me, petite, considerably younger, round-faced and dark-haired, and significantly more intelligent".
After a moment I added "with glasses".
"Why glasses?"
Because "wise men make passes at girls who wear glasses".
It's good advice, and words to live by.
"That's just wrong, dude. It's "DON'T make passes" at them."
I'm sure he misremembers. Poetry would not lead us astray.
He was momentarily distracted by a cluster of naughty schoolgirls swishing their little frilly skirts, as well as two buff gentlemen wielding tennis racquets. Only one of whom had a skirt. But is was very fetching. White, and pleated.
While a trio of musclemen wearing 'panty emergency patrol' teeshirts went up the street, he resumed the conversation.
"So, why more intelligent than you? That's crazy. Wouldn't it be much better to find someone a bit less intelligent? Not only easier by far, but she'd never see entirely through you, unlike the rest of us."
Of course she has to be more intelligent! Someone needs to be the sensible one in this relationship, and it sure as heck ain't gonna be me!
Several more young ladies walked by, showing off between them precisely all the right parts, as well as several interesting angles. Being technically inclined, and as a former mechanical draughtsman, I know all about the benefits of cut-away views.
A lime green thong looks better coming than going, if you ask me, but differences of opinion regarding that are inevitable.
Degustibus non disputandem est, as they say.
My friend is not single.
What he saw was not good for his mental well-being.
Nor, and I'm just guessing here, for his relationship with his partner.
Who will probably slap him severely when he brings home an "evening gown" for her with hardly any actual material, but lots of glittery straps and tassels.
Which, after my sincere encouragement he has decided to do.
I am a mature man. Sort of the wise elder.
Perspective, and insight.
Trust me.
At around bar closing time, when the flocking had reached a frenzy, he asked me if I saw anything I liked. Surely one would have to be virtually dead to not take advantage of all the heat?
If you can't catch something during a street orgy, you just ain't trying!
"Yeah, that one over there who just came out of Bob's Donuts. She looks demure and sober, she's dressed properly, and she probably still lives at home; her parents would never let her out of the house at this hour if she didn't look decent. Very sweet."
"Dude, what kind of parents would let their daughter out of the house at all at two o'clock in the friggin' morning?!?"
Parents who had a sudden urge for donuts.
It makes sense to me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For some reason young people are exhibitionistic at certain times of the year, and this blogger can only applaud that.
I myself was dressed-up as a perfectly normal and discreet street-corner dirty old man. Everyday garb, nothing suspect, nothing risqué.
Clean slacks, clean shirt, neat hair, spectacles.
Smelling mildly of cheroots.
While drinking in the ambulatory zoo, a friend spotted me. We hung out together while watching. He was amazed at all the young ladies with huge amounts of their real estate showing (gratuitous Monty Python reference), and I enjoyed the wonderful curvy thighs on display.
I did say perfectly normal street-corner D.O.M, did I not?
A mermaid with pendulous bosoms wobbled past, and a young zombie with a gaping bullet hole above a rosy nipple nearly crashed into her.
I observed to my friend that high heels were certainly not sensible footwear when you're out of water or have just been shot. There are times when you should think about comfort, correct posture, and your lower back, and this really seemed like one of those times. Irrespective of breast size.
Two young ladies nearby negotiated with a limo driver to get back to Oakland. It would cost them eighty dollars. Which is exorbitant, but who wants to be stranded overnight in the wrong city after Bay Area Rapid Transit has stopped running?
Especially while wearing nearly nothing?
This is very much the wrong city.
For such a mode of dress.
I'm sure their parents had not vetted the costumes.
They looked ... remarkable.
Surely they could've found a friend who would let them crash overnight? They had cell-phones, though I'm not sure where they stashed those while not in use.
"LET THEM SLEEP ON YOUR FLOOR!"
Well, that is a mighty attractive concept, but firstly I am not acquainted with them, and for all I know they could be psychopaths who would love nothing better than to slice up a middle-aged man and feed the lean meaty scraps to the sharks in the bay. And secondly, you do realize that my roommate would be more than a little bit disturbed to find two curvaceous and extremely young Goth bunny-rabbits huddled on my floor tomorrow morning?
She would suspect me of perversion.
Even if nothing had happened.
"Suspect you of perversion? You mean after all these years she still hasn't figured you out yet?!?"
Thank you for your vote of confidence.
And no, she hasn't. I was a gentleman while we were an item, and I've remained a gentleman. The filth is purely internal.
"Crap she's innocent!!!"
No, she was a gentleman too. Remarkable for someone of her gender.
"You should've offered those two cutey-pies your floor, and just told your roommate that you were discussing religion with them all night."
I'm certain she wouldn't believe that. I've never discussed theology with her, and she knows how my mind works. She'd rightly suspect me of ulterior motives in extending the invite, as would they.
"Still, you need the excitement in your life. Imagine if, in a fit of drunken insanity, both of them decided to jump your hot middle-aged body and bang you silly. It could happen, don't laugh! But if you refuse to approach people, it ain't ever gonna happen. Live a little,man, I know I would in your position. Be giddy sometime! You're too frustrated."
Somehow he doesn't understand that frustration is infinitely better than regret.
"What regret? What possible regret could there be?!?"
Well, what if they were actually very nice girls, liable to suffer emotionally afterwards? You know, sweet and intelligent, and likely to get hurt by an unsuitable relationship?
"Dude, you always overthink sex, stop being such a friggin' intellectual - you'll never get any that way!"
Probably true, but at my age thinking about sex always means 'overthinking'.
It's something I'm very good at, as I am a thoughtful man.
"You're an idiot!!!"
I really don't know what is going through my friend's mind. I'm dispassionately observing natives wearing colourful costumes while they're engaged in a fascinating cultural manifestation, he's audibly drooling, muttering things like "wouldya look at those...", "ooh, wow, man", and "yes, it IS too warm to wear a bra ... on your head".
I am not like that at all.
Cool, and even somewhat apathetic.
Perhaps a maelstrom inside, but externally mellow.
"So, describe your ideal woman"
The inquiry came out of the blue. Without thinking I flapped out "smaller than me, petite, considerably younger, round-faced and dark-haired, and significantly more intelligent".
After a moment I added "with glasses".
"Why glasses?"
Because "wise men make passes at girls who wear glasses".
It's good advice, and words to live by.
"That's just wrong, dude. It's "DON'T make passes" at them."
I'm sure he misremembers. Poetry would not lead us astray.
He was momentarily distracted by a cluster of naughty schoolgirls swishing their little frilly skirts, as well as two buff gentlemen wielding tennis racquets. Only one of whom had a skirt. But is was very fetching. White, and pleated.
While a trio of musclemen wearing 'panty emergency patrol' teeshirts went up the street, he resumed the conversation.
"So, why more intelligent than you? That's crazy. Wouldn't it be much better to find someone a bit less intelligent? Not only easier by far, but she'd never see entirely through you, unlike the rest of us."
Of course she has to be more intelligent! Someone needs to be the sensible one in this relationship, and it sure as heck ain't gonna be me!
Several more young ladies walked by, showing off between them precisely all the right parts, as well as several interesting angles. Being technically inclined, and as a former mechanical draughtsman, I know all about the benefits of cut-away views.
A lime green thong looks better coming than going, if you ask me, but differences of opinion regarding that are inevitable.
Degustibus non disputandem est, as they say.
My friend is not single.
What he saw was not good for his mental well-being.
Nor, and I'm just guessing here, for his relationship with his partner.
Who will probably slap him severely when he brings home an "evening gown" for her with hardly any actual material, but lots of glittery straps and tassels.
Which, after my sincere encouragement he has decided to do.
I am a mature man. Sort of the wise elder.
Perspective, and insight.
Trust me.
At around bar closing time, when the flocking had reached a frenzy, he asked me if I saw anything I liked. Surely one would have to be virtually dead to not take advantage of all the heat?
If you can't catch something during a street orgy, you just ain't trying!
"Yeah, that one over there who just came out of Bob's Donuts. She looks demure and sober, she's dressed properly, and she probably still lives at home; her parents would never let her out of the house at this hour if she didn't look decent. Very sweet."
"Dude, what kind of parents would let their daughter out of the house at all at two o'clock in the friggin' morning?!?"
Parents who had a sudden urge for donuts.
It makes sense to me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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ALL OF YOU TALK FUNNY
All in all I am fairly pleased that some restaurants in Chinatown have a customer base that's almost entirely non-tourist. After all, ha...
