JUICY PROSPECTS

Back in Spring of 2011, when I was still a young man, but sadly no longer in the long-time relationship with a bright snarky woman who is still my friend, I got up early one morning and went to the nearby coffee shop. Where they at that time had a row of computers for rental use by customers. Note that through the plate glass windows of the café the vibrator store across the street was fully framed.

Which caused me to write one of my best pieces: HAM SAP LO.
Explaining the most useful term in the Cantonese language, for the benefit of drunken Australians and Brits in Lan Kwai Fong, acting precisely like you would expect drunken Australians and Brits to act in Lan Kwai Fong.


Readers still visit that essay. It must speak to something within.


Mornings have quieted down since then. When I got up this morning, I had my coffee at home, then went out with a pipe in my mouth to have an early walk around the neighborhood and a smoke. This is especially important today, because due to appointments most of the afternoon, I shan't have much opportunity to be a crusty old fart with a pipe again till later. Probably after lunch (early tea-time).

Maybe beef brisket curry (咖喱牛腩 'gaa lei ngau naam') at a favourite haunt. With hot milk tea. Where the waitress has character and at times a sharpish tongue. Which is fun to witness.
A pipe afterwards will be especially enjoyable.

I've never acted like a drunken Australian or Brit. A sane though slightly crazed Englishman, perhaps. Curry, tea, and a pipe. Not in Lan Kwai Fong either, but SF Chinatown.

Sesame oil chicken (麻油雞 'maa yau gai') might be nice too. Instead. In any case, the tea and the pipe afterwards are yat ding ge. Certain. Packing along two old Parker briars and some rubbed-out C&D Red Carpet.




Lan Kwai Fong (蘭桂坊) is one of those places where after seeing it, you would rather not go again. Drinking establishments catering to ex-pats who tend to misbehave. For some reason some of my colleagues years ago knew the place well. Too well. I suspect that the werewolf in product design as well as the marketing department dudes spent most of their time there.




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THAT'S NOT AN OPIUM PIPE

A pleasant fellow on one of the pipe-forums misidentified an item as a "Chinese Opium Waterpipe". It's a common mistake that speaks of both innocence and praeconceptions.
Not all Chinese smoking equipment was intended for the consumption of opium.

Here are some illustrations.

Opium pipe schematic

Chinese water pipes for nicotiana rustica

Common peasant water pipe for tobacco

Điếu Cày for smoking thuốc lào (n. rustica), Vietnamese water pipe

To consume opium, a blob of resin (congealed latex from the seed pod of the opium poppy) is heated over a flame till it bubbles, and the vapours are inhaled. Both nicotiana rustica and nicotiana tabacum are enjoyed by setting fire to the material and sucking in the smoke.

Opium, like hashish, can be mixed with tobacco for combustive use. This is not as common as one might think, and cheap western pipes are best in that regard.


Those long bamboo pipes with small metal bowls that you can barely fit a finger into are for the sparing use of tobacco, exactly like the Japanese kiseru.



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A REGRETTABLE PLACE

Over the last four years or so I've encountered nearly a dozen men who are moving to North Carolina. All of them are middle aged, well-to-do, usually bitter, and they hate it here. They've sold the house in Marin, packed up the furniture and doodads, and can't wait to head on out. Freedom! North Carolina.

This morning I finally figured out why they're like that.

CITE
"Two-thirds of the marriage applications in Buncombe County last year that involved at least one person under 18 originated from people who lived outside of North Carolina, Reisinger said, noting that a 49-year-old man and 17-year-old girl recently came from Kentucky seeking a license.

The county, which includes the popular tourist city of Asheville, is a destination for many adults and child brides from nearby states such as Georgia, Kentucky, South Carolina and Tennessee ... "
END CITE

[Source: North Carolina is child bride destination - SFGate.]


ANOTHER CITE
"Under current North Carolina law, children as young as 14 can get married if they become pregnant and if a judge allows it. Otherwise, children can wed as young as 16 with parental permission. Alaska is the only other state whose law expressly allows marriages as young as 14."
END CITE

So far I haven't run into any successful Marin businessmen planning to move to Alaska.
But it's probably only a matter of time.


I was thinking of illustrating this post with a picture of a manga heroine, but catering to skeevy old pervs like that ain't quite my bag.


As a side note, the only enjoyable conversations I've had with teenagers in the last decade have involved super-braniac Talmudists and language scholars (Aramaic and Hebrew).
The single exception was a brilliant French speaking lesbian.

The only enjoyable part of talking to the men heading to North Carolina was thinking 'good riddance'. Almost without exception they were assholes and Republicans.



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THOUGHTS ABOUT MIDDLE-AGE

To my great surprise I have received seven new messages in an account I do not even own, per some internet romance site's informative e-mail. It is likely that they are an arm of another site to which I also do not subscribe, which tells me that beautiful women seek older men.
All I can think is that someone told them I was middle-aged and single.

I am middle-aged and single.

Both of those, either by themselves or in combination, are quite normal. Many people experience these things. Trust me.

Singletude can be experienced at all ages, and middle-age goes well with any relationship status.


At least once or twice a week I check my regular e-mail account, where I found the two e-mails mentioned above in the "promos" folder. Other than the subject line, I don't know what's in them. They are now in the trash bin. I learned long ago that there is no reversal of middle-age, and my ideas about "beautiful women" are not standard: if there is abundant evidence of a sense of humour and a keen intelligence, she's beautiful.

There are already a number of beautiful women in my life, but they are not involved in any romantic relationships with me. So the subject line "Find your soulmate - beautiful women seek older men" really should have said: "Find someone with whom to share hot beverages - solvers of crossword puzzles and aficionados of bad puns might be an attractive choice (and in any case there will be lively conversation)". My interest would have been sparked.


There is no cure for middle age.



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ME SPEAK PRETTY!

Chomp. No it wasn't. I thought I had ordered the fish cutlet on a bun with fries, but what came was pork chop on a bun with fries. Not what I wanted, but nevertheless delicious. And unless the food is inedible, I shall not send plates back. I have no neurotic food hang-ups. Besides, it makes as much sense to assume that she misheard as that I mis-spoke.

Chyu paai versus yü paai (豬排 / 魚排).

炸魚排包同薯條，對炸豬排包同薯條。
['jaa yü paai baau tung syu tiu, deui jaa jyu paai baau tung syu tiu']

Or we could assume neither eventuality, seeing as I overheard the waitress remarking to a colleague that I was more intelligible and easier to understand than Toishanese speakers. Mistakes happen. I'll blame mask-mumble.

Anyway, I was glad to be there. Second time since California re-opened, and it used to be a favourite haunt before the pandemic. They now have reduced staff, also a reduced sit down customer load, but they're working like topsy and doing a good take-out business. So I think and fervently hope they'll survive. Better times will come.

Long smoke afterwards on the edge of Portsmouth Square. Sunny day, not hot. Windy. Far too many tourists in the city, but largely they don't stumble past here, being much more evident up on Grant Avenue and on Stockton.


The slightly naughty lingerie place opposite the square is boarded up, and I hope they survive too, as the mannequins tarted up in skimpies are, in a way, rather pleasing. There's a visual thing there. Death-white plastic figurines, with grape purple lace whatsits.


No, I have no intention of placing an illustration of that here.
These things are strictly on a need to know basis.
And the interwebs do not need to know.
Actually, neither do I.


Sorry, the only visual frisson you'll get here today is that picture of a fine briar, Canadian shape, that speaks of a bygone era (fities or sixties) and its self-confident aesthetics and values.
A lovely smoke. Fragrant resinous wisps in late afternoon sunlight.
A walk down an alley, terminating on Montgomery.
Long shadows, bright reflections.
Very enjoyable.

TOBACCO INDEX


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PAKISTANI TALENTS

It is obvious that the situation in Afghanistan is the direct result of a massive failure of military intelligence, complete miscalculations in that regard, and outright dishonesty. Heads must roll.
I expect the US government to step up to the plate and sack or backburner everyone whose incompetence caused this.

The rot is also pervasive in the intelligence branches among our allies.
As on our side, blame deflection is in full swing.


From a totally cynical point of view, this is a major black eye, primarily to the United States, as our allies can believably state that they were adhering to our line, and we failed. Our enemies can crow that US imperialism has been clearly shown as a paper tiger with no backbone, and no imperatives to stand by our friends. We have lost standing, the world can doubt our motives and ignore our input.


We should also re-think our relationship with Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, who created and supported the Taliban. Especially Pakistan, whose Inter Services Intelligence branch may very well be the biggest drug mafia the world has ever seen, represented by Pakistani diplomatic missions world wide.


From Wikipedia:
In spite of denials by the Pakistani military, evidence is emerging that elements within the Pakistani military harbored Osama bin Laden with the knowledge of former army chief General Pervez Musharraf and possibly former Chief of Army Staff (COAS) General Ashfaq Pervez Kayani. Former Pakistani General Ziauddin Butt (a.k.a. General Ziauddin Khawaja) revealed at a conference on Pakistani-U.S. relations in October 2011 that according to his knowledge the then former Director-General of Intelligence Bureau of Pakistan (2004–2008), Brigadier Ijaz Shah (retd.), had kept Osama bin Laden in an Intelligence Bureau safe house in Abbottabad.

Pakistani General Ziauddin Butt said Bin Laden had been hidden in Abbottabad by the ISI "with the full knowledge" of Pervez Musharraf but later denied making any such statement, saying his words were altered by the media, he said: "It is the hobby of the Western media to distort the facts for their own purposes." U.S. military officials have increasingly said they do not notify Pakistani officials before conducting operations against the Afghan Taliban or Al Qaeda, because they fear Pakistani officials may tip them off. International officials have accused the ISI of continuing to support and even lead the Taliban today [end cite]


From a less than fully rational or humane point of view, I would like to see Islamabad (actually, everything between Karachi and Peshawar) bombed to smithereens. Give me enough time and I can come up with any number of excellent strategic and political reasons to do so.
Number one being that the Pakistanis engineered this disaster.


Pakistan would look good as a sheet of radioactive glass.



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A SPARK OF LIGHT

A good thing that will come out of the Taliban take-over in Afghanistan is that both Russia (which paid bounties for American lives) and Pakistan (which created and sustained the Taliban) will within a few years have drug problems infinitely worse than they ever had before.
I fondly imagine Petersburg and Moscow gripped by a krododil epidemic of monumental proportions, and Karachi and Islamabad sodden and laid low by filthy needles.
It will be rich deserved.

The corruption necessary to keep Pakistan allowing convoys through was shocking. Inter Services Intelligence and the Pakistani military stiffed us for as much they possibly could. So it's fitting that their source of funding will dry up unless they engage in selling heroin to their own people on a massive scale.

Rationally, it's high time to write off Pakistan as a valid country.
It's a gangster state that shouldn't have existed anyway.

Sarwa Pakistani bak'ri-chodanewala hain.


I also look forward to Iran, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Russia, China, in addition to Pakistan, vying for influence, fighting ruinous proxy wars, and getting thoroughly burned in Afghanistan.

Sod them all.



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MENTAL TWITCH

Morning. Coffee. Pills. Step outside for a smoke. It's foggy, quiet. Down near the main drag a bicyclist goes by. There are no joggers yet, nor dog walkers. It isn't cold.

This, really, is what San Francisco should be like all the time.

We don't actually need fog horns anymore. But like cablecars they're part of the city, their absence would be noticed, detract. In a few hours I'll be heading across the bridge.

I rather like the commute to work.
It's quiet time.


When I woke up, a comedy routine from 'Beyond The Fringe' was running through my head. "And will this wind be so mighty as to lay low the mountains of the earth?"
It gets better with time.




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THE REST OF THE DAY WITH DOGS

Okay, yesterday's post was incredibly mean-spirited. And I'm sorry. I really don't want large numbers of my fellow citizens to croak. I actually want them to croak horribly, gasping for breath, and unable to even wail or moan due to lack of air, because they are stupid selfish mofos. And by the way, if their unvaxxed children are not wearing masks, they are clearly expendable.


Here's a guest-post from a good friend.

[Essay from John O.]


Lord help us, we’re all going to die.
Really. At this point it's just a SHORT matter of time.

I’m in Georgia, where the spread of Covid is horrendous. Worse, while spread is very ugly here in Georgia, this state is virtually surrounded by South Carolina (worse), Alabama (worse), and FLORIDA (DeSantis), like a death claw forming around us. So, I had to go today to the local Publix to pick up some prescriptions that they ineptly LOST LAST WEEK, and decided to grab a few items while the pharmacist STILL had to put my order together since it somehow was NOT done despite the recognition by the store, two hours earlier, that they messed the original order up. The clerk says, "Oh, it's not been two hours, sir", to which I pointed out that I drove to Physical Therapy, had a full session there, drove home, took my three dogs outside, and THEN came back to the store. Two full hours later. I’m feeling up to my neck in stupid. Begging, in fact, for a mere whiff of intellect. (Other than my own, obviously.)

As I walked through the store I saw at least four or five EMPLOYEES who were either unmasked or wearing their masks so that their noses were fully exposed – essentially, then, unmasked, since they were clearly breathing. I was, of course, fully and properly masked, and what made me feel like I couldn’t breathe was, by now, being so deeply drowning in the store’s level of thick, gooey, sticky, slimy stupid. Ceiling high stupid, and Publix has high ceilings.

I got to the checkout, where the item bagger was unmasked, and told the properly masked cashier that I would not allow an unmasked person to bag my groceries, and that said unmasked employee needed to stand at least six feet from me. The bagger got a look on her face that was like I was the one in the wrong. No, miss, I’m completely right, despite clearly being a bit of an asshole about it. I then went to Customer Service, where the clerk had his mask pulled down off of his nose, and asked to speak to the store manager. The store manager came out and, yes, his nose was fully exposed. Nobody handling the food we consume has the first clue regarding sanitation or viral spread, or they simply don’t care. (Skip back to the first sentence of this rant and re-read it, the words appropriate again now, then go on to the next paragraph. I'm sure that if you're an anti-masker these instructions will be way over your head.)

Next week, when their spouse or child is in the hospital, on a ventilator and near death, these are the exact same motherfuckers (please note that I saved all profanity for this exact point of my rant) who will dare to appear on national news sobbing and begging for help while saying that they wish they HAD gotten a vaccine three or four months ago when they became so absolutely easy to obtain (I got dose #2 on April 10, asshole, which was four months ago, before the Delta variant was a glint in Satan's eye). And free, too. Name another medical procedure you can get for FREE other than a Covid vaccination. (Free sure beats the cost of being in a hospital, on a ventilator, in the ICU, with about a dozen lines running to your body and Lord knows what being pumped into it, for a undetermined length of time which may, due to your death, leave the bills for your loving care in the loving care of your beloved survivors.)

I hate everyone today, and am spending the rest of it with just my dogs.

[End cite.]

I'd just like to add the following: to several people who dropped by where I work yesterday and today, and well over a dozen people on the bus, both days, WEAR YOUR GODDAMNED MASKS, ASSHOLES! Also, to Golden Gate Transit, you guys suck balls. Seriously. Your shitty attitude, mediocre service, and apathy about masks sets new standards of low.


Please note that, like I do with many quotes on this site, I put John O's entire screed into a different font: Georgia. I often use Georgia. It's a lovely typeface. Appropriate, too.



AFTERWORD

Publix is a supermarket chain with over twelve hundred locations in the Southeastern United States. Not everyone who works there is an idiot. A few of them have graduated high school.




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MAH FREEDUMS!

Florida, Mississippi, and Texas have situations where medical care is breaking down, due to the rising number of covid cases and the ICUs being full. Meanwhile, in Ohio, Missouri, and Tennessee, rightwingers are loosing their minds over mask mandates. As a resident of San Francisco, California, I have given up giving a damn about idiots. Five of my friends, all of them vaccinated, caught break-through covid from unmasked hosebags, and every day I see people without masks, mostly tourists, blithely wandering around with their at-risk infants and kids, entirely social undistanced and unmasked.

So from my point of view, it's perfectly okay if the idiots in the great American outback keep catching covid and dying. Really, it's fine. There are too many of them, they're dumb as fenceposts, and they are using up valuable resources.

I also know several anti-vaxxers.
They're expendable.



The silver lining, and it's absolutely enormous, is that after this is over, real estate prices will drop, the collectibles market will be wide open again, the bison can return in vast herds thundering in the new empty zones, and gas prices will go lower than ever.

Florida will revert to swamp, Texas will have a higher average IQ than now, and Mississippi will be desperate for canned luncheon meat and ramen noodles.

The economic opportunities will make us all rich.


Now if only we could get rid of the damned tourists and Karens, things would be perfect.

There is NO point in sending any more vaccines to several places.
They'll just go to waste.




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THAT'S THE STUFF

If you step out in the middle of the night to have a final pipe smoke, you must come back and have some peach pie. That is neither a rule nor tradition, but it ought to be. It's a question of karmically matching, and balanced tastes. Well, unless you smoke aromatics, in which case a nice plate of raw beef would be perfect. No capers, no chiles en escabeche, no salt and pepper, no rye bread; just raw bloody beef oozing juices onto the plate.
Obviously I do not smoke aromatic mixtures.
The pie was delicious, btw.

Sometime last summer I put the pipe shown above back into one of the storage boxes, but why that was needful baffles me. It's a pretty good smoke, and reminds me of the last five years at Bush Street, as well as Marty Pulvers, who sold it to me. He's doing well, according to Calvin.
I haven't seen him in over a year, but Calvin was at the recent meeting of the pipe club.
All of us are still more or less vibrantly alive and full of beans.

And, in at least one case, peach pie. Courtesy of my apartment mate, who satisfies her pastry cravings by regularly purchasing turnovers, cookies, fruit pies, and kouign-amanns. These are all available in this neighborhood. Being a San Francisco-born Chinese American, she very understandably has a butter fetish, as well as an inability to read the Chinese names of anything at Chinatown bakeries.

[Stuff in Chinatown bakeries: here's a handy list.]

As a Europe-raised America-born Dutch American grouchy codger, butter runs in my veins, and while I like the stuff, I've been there and done that. Little chicken pies (雞批), old wife cakes (老婆餠), charsiu turnovers (叉燒酥), flat buns studded with embedded hot dog pieces (金錢包) are more my bag. Great with a spot of tea right around four o'clock.

[金錢包:又稱「肉鬆熱狗麵包」。These are very Chinatown. Soft bread dough, sliced hot dog, pork floss. Poor folks food, working class, and something at which Northerners and tourists probably instinctively sneer.]

In another week or two, the first mooncakes (月餅) should be available. The Autumn Festival (中秋節) occurs on Tuesday September 21 this year. It's something to which I always look forward. Favourite bakeries, favourite fillings.




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WE WILL FIND YOU!

It ought to be obvious by now that anti-science morons are loud, obnoxious, and determined to spread disease. There was a strident protest against masks Tuesday night at a school board meeting in Williamson County, Tennessee, and a frenzied mob nearly lynched the experts advocating for a mask mandate. One nutball asserted that there was no pandemic, while others also not wearing masks yelled their opposition and savagely threatened people who advocated common sense. This in a school district where Covid is already rife.

Basically, it was a mass spreader event.
With "freedums", and hysteria.

That's Williamson County, Tennessee. Which is the science heart of the Nashville-Davidson - Murfreesboro - Franklin, TN Metropolitan Statistical Area. A veritable paradise.

People probably lick doorknobs there.


Fortunately for us, they are over two thousand miles away. While they are no doubt as civilized as you would expect for that part of the world, that's setting the bar perhaps unreasonably low, darn near rock bottom. But you hardly can't get any lower than them there folks.

Any further down and they'd have to cut back on the alphabet. Only twenty letters. A nice round number. Easy to remember. And no more Arabic numerals! If Roman numerals were good enough for Jesus, they're good enough for everybody! Pi is three.

I'm sure they're all mighty fine people. Just ignore all those reports of cannibalism and incest.
Probably only a few families, hallowed pre-civil war traditions and all that.

The biggest hospital in that foetid neck of the woods is the Williamson Medical Center at 4321 Carothers Parkway, in Franklin. An excellent place. Experienced vaccinators and intubators.


For tourism in the years to come, keep August 10 in mind. Future annual celebration of 'Freedom Day' in Williamson County, Tennessee. Fun for the entire family.
Sorry, that's 'Freedums' Day.
My bad.



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ADJUST FOR BUGS IN THE AIR

Several of my father's colleagues fondly remembered Java before the war. Quite a few had somewhat harsher memories of the post-war period. This division (actually an overlap for a few of them) was quite natural. Before the war they were still teenagers or children, afterwards they were in displaced persons camps, besieged in cities, or involved in the "politionele acties" out in the countryside. For the Dutch, Java in the late nineteen forties was not the same.
And after that, it wasn't theirs anymore.

My memories of jungle country are different. Not Java -- there is almost no jungle left -- and not imbued with threat. Just random dangerous things, because scratches, bruises, and cuts, get easily infected in that climate, and there are some horrible infections to be had, along with animals that either threaten or react as if threatened. Which depends on size.
And I spent very little time in that terrain.

Even here in California, I avoid wilderness areas. There are things out there that wish to cause discomfort or physical debility. Dry all wet surfaces, avoid standing water, use medicated foot and crotch powder. Wear loose clothing, disinfect insect bites. Be wary of contact with plants that are unfamiliar.

Watch out for booby traps. Especially in the Emerald Triangle.

I'll frankly confess that I prefer the urban zone.

Actually, any place where food comes in shops, hot sauce can be easily found, and efficient motorized transport is not uncommon. And in hotter weather, clean potable water, insect repellent, and perhaps air conditioning.

Mosquito netting is a marvelous invention. So is curry, but really that's all you can do with scraggy chicken. And without regular cups of tea for hydration and the fact that making it requires boiled water -- kills the boojums -- civilized life would be nearly impossible.


One of my friends recounts the time he spent in the wilderness out in Utah. So very far from civilization, oh it was glorious, the open spaces, the fabulous rocks, the clean air.... the lack of savage city folks with their cell phones, blaring music, news programs, intent on killing him.
The freedom and security of a recreational vehicle with a water tank.


Dude, that's like Texas, but without the cannibals.


Heading out soon to shop for food. And hot sauce.
A snack in an insect-free environment.
And a spot of milk-tea.

I'll probably smoke a pipe afterwards.
To keep the mosquitoes away.
Yeah, right. Mosquitoes



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THE SOUNDS OF NATURE

Over on the East Coast, a friend with professional expertise in conservancy and a keen mind is reading about the Greek poets of antiquity while enjoying a sweet tea and a pipeful of tobacco.

Life is good.


"... the loons are calling loudly tonight with horned, Barred, and saw whet owls. A beautiful night."


The sounds of nature at night in my neck of the woods are yowling drunks, roaring motor bikes, and from a distance elephant seals and fog horns. Early in the morning it's more "natural": crows and parrots. Seagulls.

Of course, some mornings it's the loud protests of the turkey vulture (Sydney Fylbert) as the head sheep practices Aikido on him (he's an unwilling participant in that, but the roomies wish to prevent him eating the little girl hamster or sexually harassing the she-sheep), or the one-legged monkey clouting him a good one when he comes too close to the smaller creatures. Usually that's in my apartment mate's room. And all is well in the world.

This is a very noisy place before she goes off to work.

C. DeCurtis -- Brakner

Last night, when he posted about the book, tea, and birds, he was smoking an old Brakner filled with Sun Bear. Brakners, with the "antique" finish, can be splendid pipes. They are well regarded. In Puerto Rico, one gentleman is smoking a Stanwell freehand while alert to weather warnings. Castellos in Georgia posts about his dog, who since being rescued has gentled down considerably. A Norwegian puffs on a smooth poker before heading off to work, the Sicilian is revisiting the place of his birth (where there is a Greek temple), a Michigander started the day with a small Dunhill and a classic blend, and someone else is fascinated by how a car engine works. The former military man who studied Russian laments that his barber is on vacation, and he will look shaggy. He still looks military, so "shaggy" isn't the word.


There are, of course, many pictures of pipes on that page.
It's like birds comparing their fabulous plumage.


In a professional capacity I've seen several Brakners over the years. They are piss-elegant. One day I may own one.


What's fascinating to me about all this is the textures and smells with which phlegmatic men in many different places become enchanted, and that soothe them as they go about their daily lives, with evenkeeled temperaments, other interests, and quirks. On a different forum page, a gentleman from Delft posts photos taken during his early morning walk in the city, right next to Indonesians posting dinner and street scenes. Tweeds. Beirut. Stubby Lumberman Partial Rustic. Grandkids. Ohio. Cyprus. Jute bags of coffee beans. Cringy puns. Sheet rock.
Unloading intermodal freight containers at a port in Norway.

On the whole, these are calm likeable men.

As a passionate and excitable Dutchman (that Latin character, don't you know), I may be out of place. But I'm flying under the radar, so to speak.

Medium flake in a flying saucer, shortly after she left for work.

TOBACCO INDEX


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PINK AT THE BONE

Some of us go to Chinese restaurants not only for the food, but just so we won't have to deal with white weirdness. The restaurants which I patronize nowadays are usually good for that. They're the kinds of places that white folks avoid. Which meant that when I walked in, all the other customers with one exception were Chinese.

But good times weren't about to last. By the time I left over half the people in there were not Chinese. The beleaguered waitress asked me to explain what the couple at the next table were saying. Is the chicken very well done? Or is there (as is common in Chinese restaurants that cater to Cantonese people) distinct pink near the bone? Well, that was a two way street.

[That's not exactly what they said, but extrapolating from everything else they said it's what they meant.]

I explained to the waitress that some people freak out if they see chicken blood or crimson bones (有啲人唔好見雞血，唔要骨紅 'yau di yan m-hou kin gai huet, m-yiu gwat hong').
And persuaded the table to order the fried chicken instead (炸雞 'jaa gai').

For some reason that meant I knew everything about Jews, crime, and dark criminal royals who are actually secret Kurdish Jews. And all those crimes! A lifetime! What?
Sweet Jesus, what is this raving nutball talking about?

[The waitress is a very nice person; she doesn't deserve crazy shiznit.]


There are over a dozen kwailo in this place, and the loonies sit next to me. Why couldn't it have been that nice Mexican family? Even the two kvetchy New York ladies drinking boba tea?


Turns out the chicken was well-done. No trace of pink.


My meal was also excellent.


涼瓜煎蛋飯 。




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THE PRECIOUS, THE PRECIOUS!

As you would expect by now, if you've been reading this blog fairly regularly, all the Chinese people on the streets in Chinatown were either smokers or wore masks. The smokers largely gave wide berths to others, and stayed out of everyone's way. The white people, who were probably tourists, showed every indication of not knowing how masks work, and that they wished to catch something fatal themselves or gaily spread it to others.

You could even figure out which white children were expendable.

No masks, rambunctious, in crowded places.


It's something I can very well understand. It's all about 'Freedums', and both childcare and later college are hideously expensive. So getting rid of them early means one can purchase not only a gameboy, but also a new car, and possibly even a house. Extra beers in any case.

Kids whom one likes, and who might get into college, are worth keeping.

Away from busy streets, and fully masked.


I do not have children. I actually like the little blighters. Especially if they are small, bright, and well-behaved. So I look forward to the pandemic eventually being over, and little groups of them re-appearing.

In the meantime, I'll take satisfaction in keeping out of the way of others while smoking my pipe, and giving wide berths to people. Most especially children under twelve.
It seems the responsible thing to do.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THE "OFFICIAL" ANSWER IS NINE

Apparently the way I was taught PEMDAS is wrong. And I blame all of you heretics and slope-brows for that. We were taught Mijnheer Van Dalen Wacht Op Antwoord: M(achtsverheffen; powers of), V(ermenigvuldigen; multiplication), D(elen; division), W(orteltrekken; deriving the root), O(ptellen; addition), A(ftrekken; subtraction). And solve what's in brackets first.

MVDWOA. PEMDAS.

So in the problem 6÷2(1+2)=? it becomes 6 divided by 2 times 3. Multiplication first, ergo 6 divided by 6. Which is one. Now, somewhere between 1916 and today (1917, to be exact), the idiots took over. And the order of operations is not sequential anymore as regards multiplication and division, but linear, left to right. Which makes NO sense whatsoever, and that's why we have Covid, and antimaskers trying to run things.


The correct, orthodox, and logical answer is 1.
Six, divided by two times three. Equals one.

The modern, idiot, stupid, incredibly dumb answer is 9.
Six divided by two, then multiplied by three.
Three times three equals nine.



I hate you people. I really, really hate you people.




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THE MEETING OF THE HONOURABLE GENTLEPERSONS

The local pipe club met again this past weekend, and while I was there, I was not "there" there. Meaning that while I was within distance, I did not actually attend. They were out on the lawn.
I was indoors. So I haven't a clue what they talked about. Grady was there, for the first time in ages, looking spry and zesty with his cane and ready smile, Ioannis, Mike A. and Mike B., Joel, and several others. Calvin came inside briefly. Oh, it must have been great fun.
At safe social distances, because none of us are idiots.

From past experience, I know that Virginia smokers were well represented, Balkans slightly less, and Aromatic tobaccos barely at all. Tastes in Whisky range all across the board, cognac and rum scarcely a whisper, and absolutely NO froo froo liqueurs, thank you very much.
We are, on the whole, a temperate lot.

I think for the next meeting I shall bring some teapots. Let's see if traditional mid-afternoon refreshments are their bag. Seeing as we're not going to allow alcoholic beverages in full view of passing school children or pregnant women saving dolphins. As it might shock them.
Evidence of daemon-tobacco being enjoyed is bad enough.
It's traumatizing, tell you what.

As is usual on days when I work, I had five briars in my bag.
Because of the mask thing, I only smoked three bowls.

Long after I got home I went outside for a walk with something from the tea tray. Accompanied by a hot blonde: Virginia flake by Cornell & Diehl. It had already turned dark, and fog was thick at the top of the hill. Ruckus from the bars on Polk Street was hardly noticeable, and drunks don't make it very far up to relieve themselves in doorways.


This was probably the first meeting where no Dutch speakers were actually present. The solid South African gentleman wasn't in attendance as far as I could tell, M.K. lives in Boston and rarely makes it out here, and I remained indoors. So it must have been light and gay and superficial, and no detailed discussions of complicated subjects. No Shakespeare, Proust, colonial history, religion, food, philosophy, or Asian art. And absolutely no Hello Kitty.

Possibly they talked about dogs.
Existential angst.
Football.



I am disappointed that there was no evidence of perversion or nude dancing. That's traditional in Northern California in the middle of summer, dammit, and we're known for being naked hippies with drugs and hot tubs! Free love! Save the whales! Tie dye!

Perhaps next year.

TOBACCO INDEX


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