FIRST DOUBLE SOCK DAY

As is usually the case, the final stop was the bakery for a spot of hot milk tea and a pastry. It was peculiarly empty there. Perhaps the overcast darkness had something to do with that; many Cantonese are deathly scared of rain. Which I don't quite understand. They have umbrellas, I've seen them. They know how to use the things, I've seen that too.

Tissk, tissk, young people.

In my day we had to struggle for ten kilometres in howling rainstorms every day just to get to school in the morning. And it was colder than SF. For nearly seven hours we'd sit around the burning corpses of the least liked students, tightly clustered together, for warmth. We would weep copiously and cry for our mothers and free beer. Then slog again through the torrential downpour to get back home. Like it was the end of times. Every single day! Between the last week of October and the beginning of May. This younger generation is soft, I tell you.
Also, we didn't have umbrellas. We were men! We didn't need them!
And they were rare after the war.

Or at least that's how I fondly remember growing up overseas.
It rains a lot more over there. And it's wetter too.
Why, this weather is tropical!
By comparison.

It's low fifties F° out there right now. And the rain won't start till much later.

When I got to the bakery only two old geezers were there, within half an hour three more wandered in. Otherwise empty. Then the proprietress (called a 老闆娘 'lou paan neung' in Cantonese) came in, and spoke to one of them about a medical emergency previously, how does one hail a taxi here, he recommended three taxi drivers he knew, one of whom was a foreign ghost devil (鬼佬 'kwailo') at which point she expressed hesitation because how can one tell them where to go and in any case there were other reasons .....


Second time today that I'm more or less a fellow villager whose eccentricity is that I'm good with English. I guess the grey hair and long familiarity have softened that other weirdness (being Caucasian), and the fact that I write reasonably well further hides it.
Not entirely, of course. I have regrettable characteristics.
Which show no indication of disappearing.


It's probably like my being a smoker.
Some men, you know.


On the way over to the busstop I paused to admire a Heidelberger Degel-Automat (海德堡印刷機 'hoi dak pou yan chaat kei') which was visible through an open doorway of a print shop. Good machines. Still fully functional after half a century.


Anyhow, I know summer and the mellow part of Autumn are truly over, because it was necessary to put on two pairs of socks. Which makes a world of difference.
This will last for about four or five months.
Warm tootsies.



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HOW TO USE A RICE COOKER

From afar, the conversation of the workmen a few gardens over sounds like "kuhongina hamungina". Which I tried to recognize as meaningful till I realized that distance distorted things, and it was in a language I do not speak in any case. So, like my partment mate years ago watching a Taiwanese soap opera, I invented my own dialogue. And actually she wasn't watching so much as simply being in the same room as I was. I was watching. She noticed that the plump ayah and the little girl of the family wept an awful lot (there have to be several weeping jags in a Chinese soap opera otherewise it's not good) and invented some disaster involving cheese in the rice cooker as part of helpfully rendering it in English.

Dramatic exclamations, recrimination, and several well-known cheese names. The result was something of which I gladly would have watched all episodes. Monty Python's cheese shop sketch in a Chinese teevee drama format. Cheddar, mozzarella, and parmesan are widely known in Taiwan, and they have learned how to make cheesy poofs over there along the Japanese model. Which are sort of popular. Asians outside of Indonesia aren't really hep to Gouda, and I would imagine that Limburger is entirely out of the question.

The charcoal grilled bacon cheesburger with thick slices of still juicy apple-wood smoked bacon and oozy melted blue cheese is, probably, not a thing yet there.
Mmmm, also add a big scoop of sautéed mushrooms!

Sounds like an ideal breakfast.

AUTUMN MORNING IN BRABANT

By the way: the cardiologist who performed the angioplasty described the arterial buildup as being rather like parmesan. Really aged parmesan. Feel the Parmigiano Reggiano, little penguin, be the Parmigiano Reggiano, become one with the Parmigiano Reggiano!

What in Dutch we would refer to as an 'oude belegen kaas'.

There's a well-known theory, expressed best in Dutch, that we Netherlanders invented cheese ages ago and all those other Europeans merely imitated us. From which I could deduce that consequently angioplasties also must have been invented there.
Probably by doctor Goropius in the sixteenth century.


Trying to make cheesy poofs at home was undoubtedly what ruined that rice cooker. They're not built for that. Something my apartment mate instinctively knows (she's of Cantonese stock), but plump Minnanwa speaking maidservants in Taiwan probably wouldn't.
Cheese, ricecookers? Newfangled! Combine the two for better!

But I encourage you to experiment.

Aged Gouda, I think.



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NOT REALLY A CHINATOWN THING

Screaming, shouting, wailing and the gnashing of teeth. A scene from the pit. Infernal noise. Three Cantonese gentlemen talking politics and money over cups of caffeinated beverages. Urban Cantonese are sometimes like American tourists, enchanted with the belief that if you just say it loud enough the other person will understand. And, if necessary, you repeat it.

我唔識玩錢，淨係識玩蛋撻。

One of them asserted at one point that he didn't know how to pursue money, he just knew how to pursue the egg tarts. And then spent the next fifteen minutes talking on point about finance. I, meanwhile, pretended that I didn't know a single word of Cantonese and calmly continued eating my 豆腐炒魚飯 and enjoying my milk tea. My assertion fell on deaf ears, largely because the three gentlemen weren't listening. I know all of them conversationally.
And we've had discussions with each other many times at the same place.
But I'm not fluent enough, or sufficiently glib, to talk politics.
All I know about is tofu and sautéed fish rice.
With a tasty brown sauce.

Usually I don't eat there, because the food is sort of pedestrian.
But if you choose wisely, it's okay 㗎啦。
Good with Sriracha.

Strictly chachanteng, but the milk tea is excellent.

There wasn't a visit to the usual Tuesday night haunts because the bookseller went to New York. So it was an early evening. Probably just as well; the weather has gotten much colder and I haven't pulled my wintercoat out of the closet yet. I'm still pretending it's movie California out there, not arctic blast California.


After dinner, while strolling toward Sacramento Street smoking my pipe, I saw Tat Yee on the opposite side heading toward the karaoke bar. It's quite likely that the dear man is spending all of his retirement having cocktails. Punctuated by crappy pipetobacco.

It would be pointless to introduce him to the good stuff. He's happy with the Captain, and would not know where to get real tobacco anyhow. He doesn't leave Chinatown much.
Everything is available in Chinatown. Just not pipe tobacco.



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THE UNRETICULATED MAN

No one in their right mind would want to see my groin. Even under the best of circumstances, but post-operation good heavens no. So it's probably a good thing that I am not involved with anyone, and not a member of a sauna club. I took a look down there today. Bald, black, and blue. Actually the bruising is more green, yellow, and purple. Please do not imagine this. Wipe your mind clean.

There was also horrid widespread bruising there six years ago after the coronary stent was put in. Which was intellectually interesting. A medical necessity made me freakish for two to three weeks, while improving my life immensely. This angioplasty should do likewise.
In the meantime I'm rather 'prickly' about that.
I was shaved before the incision.

Don't look. I'm hideous.


I'm always fascinated by the colours of nature. As you would probably expect after seeing the illustrations on this blog. Recently they've been landscapes and scenery, what the internet assures me are rather like en plein air painting. Despite not being outdoors but mentally interpreting being outdoors while sitting in the computer room at the back end of my apartment. Sometimes with sunlight streaming in through the blinds.
On the west-facing rump of Nob Hill.

My computer, always comforting, today yielded precisely the hues I did not want to see.
By the way, where they cut me appears to have healed nicely.
Thank you for absolutely not asking.

Lamproderma scintillans is a type of slime mold in the family Lamprodermataceae. Having a knobbled shiny appearance, many members of the genus lamproderma are purply- blueish, with greenish washed tints, often shiny and on a microscopic level almost metallic looking, like miniscule space alien landing craft.


AFTER WORD

The most recently discovered member of the group, Lamproderma vietnamense, is both fuzzy and shiny, with what look like both clusters and globby bits on the outer surface.
It has reticulate (having a net-like surface) spores.

I had fun illustrating lamproderma.
It reminded me of something.



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THE SWEATS

It seems like centuries ago maladies were more exciting as well as more dreadful. Back in Tudor times, England and subsequently the continent were tested by a sweating disease that was deadly in hours. Or not. On average, a resolution in either direction happened over a period of eight to ten hours. Sudor anglicus (the English sweats) was marked by a sudden onset of shivering, perspiration, and ague-like aches, two to three hours, followed by a hot stage with tremors, increased heart rate, dehydration, several other unpleasant symptoms, and profound tiredness. It might prove fatal. While some speculate that it was something like hanta virus, there is also the distinct possibility that it was a relative of something malarial, seeing as it was more frequent in rural areas and moist environments.

Death rates were often over fifty percent of the population.

After four outbreaks, it disappeared.

Bad beer has also been mentioned. That's not entirely unlikely, as wine-swilling Europe was largely unaffected. In those days you did not want to drink ditch or stream water because of water-borne pestilences, so you started the day with beer or wine, had it with your mid-day meal, and continued with those beverages till you collapsed drunk after dark. Repeating the same pattern the next day. It's a miracle that those people accomplished anything at all considering how addled they must have been.

At this point I could mention that many people in the Southern United States adhere to the same pattern. With sixpacks of horrid watery beer. Which is probably safer that the tapwater down there. Alternated with oversweetened ice tea (well, at least the water is boiled to make that). Being constantly scrambled from what they drink may account for their voting patterns.
It would certainly account for Mike Johnson, Tommy Turberville, Louis Gomert, Marjorie Taylor Green, and the governor of Florida.

Personally, I find oversweetened ice tea undrinkable. I don't live in The South, and heck will freeze over before I root for Alabama or Ole Miss. There are better things to do on the weekend, and I don't watch American Football if I can help it.

Vegging in front of the teevee is a fasttrack to diabetes, alcoholism, obesity, and probably several unclean diseases besides becoming a frat boy or a member of a Christian cult.


It's miraculous that they accomplish anything at all considering their addlement.



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MIST ON THE MOORS

It seems like only a week ago that it was the tail end of summer. Warmish. Shirtsleeves. This week it's not like that at all. Might be kind of warm later in the week, Saturday or Sunday.
This morning, however.

Dress thicker. More troll-like and frumpy. It's Autumn.

For most of the morning I'll putz around and have hot beverages. Occasionally retire to my bed with the animals. Who as I imagine it will talk back and tell me to leave those damned frigid feet outside the blanket.

My usual Tuesday lunch place is on vacation for the entire month. Boy will they be surprised when they return ten days hence. When they left it was good weather. It's ten degrees warmer in Hong Kong and Guangzhou.


Warm and wet.
Not here.

The bookseller is heading to New York (more than ten degrees colder), so the usual routine will be out of whack in that regard. Milk tea, snackies, early evening. Fortunately no rain.

Meanwhile, coffee. Sunlight.

Soy sauce. Hot sauce.

A pipe after my apartment mate has left for the day. Another pipe later.



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ADVICE FOR SICK PEOPLE

Got to the follow-up on time, well on time. And spent nearly twenty five minutes meditating before the cardiologist came in. He's a busy man, and as the population gets older and more decrepit, he will be busier. Went over the recent procedure, looked at the incisions, discussed my future as a continuing smoker. Was given a praescription for a fourth medicine, one which helps prevents strokes and thrombosis after an angioplasty, and reduces the risk of major cardiovascular events. It inhibits the clotting protein.
And is classified as a blood thinner.

I shan't mention what it is on Facebook, because the last time I listed one of my medications there (six years ago) I got unwanted medical advice from someone who "knows a doctor".
I also know a doctor. I know five of them. Two of them are in the cardiovascular field. I want their advice more than random words of wisdom from the ginger and turmeric crowd.

Of course that does not mean that I am obedient. After picking up my new pills I went and had a pastry and a cup of milk tea, then lit up a pipe for a slow quiet stroll to the bus stop.
So it's been a good afternoon.

Just in case I needed to explain why I wasn't there last week, I memorized the term 血管成形術 ('huet gun sing ying sut'). Which isn't one that normally crops up in civilian conversations, and most folks won't have a clue anyway. I could've just said 病咗嘅老鬼 ('peng jo ge lou gwai'), but one seeks to be precise. Even if it baffles.

The above illustration (done between my appointment and the pharmacy) is a view of a canal in Utrecht. Autumnal. Haven't been there in years. It's one of my favourite cities in the Netherlands. Note the subtle value shift in the blue of the sky.


Besides Utrecht, other cities well-worth visiting are Amsterdam, Den Haag, 'sHertogenbosch, and Maastricht. Dutch cuisine is odd and not exceptional, but the Indonesian food in both A'dam and the Hague is stellar and infinitely varied.
The Chinese food is okay, lah.


Tilburg and Eindhoven, though I have a fondness for them, are not particularly exciting. That last has a good football team (PSV), and one can have an enjoyable time there, but really, they're a little provincial. Except for their drug scene. World-class.
If that's your bag, you are probably American.
Go for it.




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A LOVELY GRID PATTERN

When the Dutch burgers of New Amsterdam started planning the settlement they laid out a lovely grid pattern, because they were logical and being Dutch, had both strong rectalinear instincts, accountant sensibilities, and an anal obsession with minutiae. My ancestors. Even though generations have passed since we did that, AND bought the entire damn continent for a little over twenty dollars all of the Anglos need to pay rent dammit seeing as it's probably too late to kick y'all out, as well as making a lovely contractual deal with a local tribe of one shiny coin for the scalp of one of those hosers over that hill yonder (superceding the previous lovely deal of a shiny coin for an ear, because who knows where that ear came from and each person normally has two of those things), were part of that group.

And seeing as for centuries marriages were substantially within the same creed and culture, until five generations ago we all still spoke Dutch, by four generations many members of the tribe could still read it -- old State Bible translation Dutch and either Datteen or Marnix van Sint Aldegonde -- and although we're now substantially Anglicised, we fondly remember that, technically, we still own the entire shebang all the way to the Pacific Ocean. A deal is a deal.

All of which partly explains why I was dreaming in spreadsheets. Sort by bill dates and open amount, with a formula calculating what that percentage that is of the original invoice figure (in case an easy deduction becomes apparent, defective allowances, agreed upon charges, testing fees, etcetera), and make sure that the notes field text wraps around in the allotted width so that pertinent facts about collection efforts are visible.

International sales, though huge, were the easiest. Prepayment by wire transfer before the goods were released for loading. East coast customers were largely a mess. No, I have no idea whatsoever what product we were manufacturing. But I knew that our English and Indonesian correspondents were in town, so it all had to be done by a certain time this morning, when I have an appointment with the physician who did the angioplasty.

At which point, if I'm on the ball, I shall seek confirmation of the names of the entire team in the operating room, so that I can send a thank you card. I had a lovely time, thank you, you were all very nice. Even though for three hours I was out of it.

[The astute reader will remember that Lotus 1-2-3 was followed by Lotus Symphony, both of which were the greatest thing since sliced bread until Excel came along, which was originally a Macintosh programme, before Windows were introduced. Since then Excel has brutally wiped the floor with its predecessors.]

Slight panic mode: could I get it all done before the CEO and his team met the heads of the foreign companies? Especially as the Indonesians kept interrupting to talk Betawi flavoured Bahasa with me (about food, and eating possibilities in SF), and the English had questions concerning curry places in the city (years ago I was connected to an Indian food enterprise, AND apparently I "speak like a civilised person").


Somehow this was all linked with and prompted by the rain during the night. A constant geroesemoes from beyond the window pane and distant-sounding drumming.



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HIGH CHOLESTEROL EATIES

A dream involving toasted tortillas, roasted chiles, grilled meats, pan juices, fresh herbs, crunchy bits, balsamic vinegar, red wine, good company, over at the country place of a friend whom I haven't seen in years. Happy people. Sunlight. Everybody having a fine time.
It was a remarkable experience.

No, I have no idea how I ended up there. Dreams can't really be exlained. Especially great food dreams. And kitchens that seem to involve several rooms, most of the ground floor.


It was a culturally and culinary diverse and broadminded group of people, so no people from you know where, or you know what backround. No snooty rich Anglos, no Ivy league Wasps.


I don't know about you, but my medication related dreams (from blood pressure pills) often involve food, and never involve Wasps. Unless you categorize Frenchmen, Italians, Greeks, and Dutchmen as Wasps. Which the last mentioned marginally are, but they speak foreignese, much foreignese, so they're kind of deviant in that regard.
Latinos, East Asians, the occasional Indian.
Plus Indonesians and Malays.
Regular California.

I'm trying to remember if I associate with any actual Wasps. Three I think. In Marin County. They're liberal, presently angry, and at odds with their surroundings and its dense populace. They would have enjoyed the party. I'll have to remember to introduce them to my friend. Whom I haven't seen in years. They're very much his kind of people.

All three are retired and intellectually vibrant.

Seeing as I'm recovering from a minor surgical experience, I haven't been in Marin this week. The hiatus has proven enjoyable. And I may have finally caught up on my sleep.

Haven't smoked my pipes in days.
This bothers me.



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DO NOT HOLD THAT THOUGHT

Some readers may wonder what I'm actually like. "Surely", they might say, "uncle Atboth isn't as complete a blister as his silly little essays paint him? That must be just an act. A carefully cultivated image".

Correct.

The reality is worse.
I'm actually a hairy ill-kempt savage.

You would not want to meet me. I might offer candy and make unclean suggestions. Come here, miss, you should really try this Commander's Rope Tobacco. It tastes deliciously like old sweatsock (that's Perique, from Louisiana, it adds a je ne sais quois). As well as this mead which has passed its prime. Great with a hákarl sandwich!

Hákarl is feremented shark from Iceland. It is a delicacy. Precisely what all sweet young things need to experience. Life is hard and miserable. Then you encounter hákarl.
Suddenly you have perspective! Life is sunny, and better than you thought!

I lurk in doorways offering strangers hákarl.
It's why you come to San Francisco.

Self portrait based on one of Jan Prokopic's characters.

Jan Prokopic has nothing to do with hákarl.

He animates with a computer.

I am strangely obsessed with fermented fish products. It reflects my Dutch heritage. Among our other peculiar comestibles, besides things which are not quite Icelandic fermented shark but confusingly similar, is salty strong licorice ("zoute drop"), and something called salmiak.
Licorice assertively flavoured with ammonium chloride. Which I like, but you would probably hate. Ammonium chloride is found in guano deposits, among other places.

The guano deposits act of 1856 allows the United States Government to take possession of unclaimed islands with rich guano deposits. Possibly so that the damned Yankees can commercially hold us Dutchmen over a barrel.

Guano is bat pooh.



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OFF AND ON

There is a grimness to early mornings in November. Especially when the weather is not cooperating. Yesterday was cloudy, rainy at times, and depressingly dark by teatime. Today does not look to be much better. But today I'm going to have to take the new leg out for a stroll, because the medical advice is that after one or two days of being a lazy ass with the leg elevated, I should gradually break it in to normal use.

Yeah, okay, no pipe smoking while wandering around the neighborhood. As a courtesy to the specialist who did the angioplasty. Also precautionary, don't want to jinx the healing process. But there are four lovely Peterson pipes from the nineteen sixties or earlier which would be enjoyable this coming week, along with three much more recent Petes. And I've sliced up some G.L. Pease's Géométrie in preparation. I will probably have a smoke once I get down to Chinatown after the follow up appointment tomorrow. If the leg is good enough to hike across town to the medical office, it's good enough for a slow quiet smoke.


Plus I need to be out of sight of at least two Cantonese women when I do so. The first one is my apartment mate, the second my landlady. Both know that nicotine is non-conducive to healing, and both sort of kind of in a way are disheartened by the horrible habits of men.
Most especially when convalescing.

Me is a men. I habitual horribilties have.
Especially when convalescing.

The Shanghainese woman who does dumplings probably assumes that men must have bad habits, why it's natural it's what the beasts do, so I guess I'll go get dumplings tomorrow. There is an area with sheltered doorways nearby in case it rains.


The combination of dumplings, tea, and a pipe afterwards is magic.
Sort of Dutch, English, Irish, and Hong Kongish.
Especially on a wet day.



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TOO EARLY FOR CLEAN LIVING

The view from Nob Hill toward the North East is rather beautiful, especially through foliage. But it was a dream, very likely influenced by blood pressure meds, that segued bafflingly from the landing of a restaurant in Chinatown where a mahjong game was in progress to an apartment at the upper level of the slope. Very spacious and sunny. My apartment mate would have loved the chambers assigned to her. As well as the faint smells of curry from elsewhere in the building.

There are very few Chinese who do not know how to play mahjong. My apartment mate is one of them, and I suspect both my landlady and my regular care physician are others.
I learned it from Filippinas in Los Angeles.

This comes to mind particularly because the current plans are to rip up Portsmouth Square and "improve" it, a project starting in a few months. Which will displace all the olds people playing gin rummy (in lieu of, and similar to mahjong) there for a year or two, then provide them with a lovely social hall where undoubtedly playing cards will be severely discouraged because we can't have that, and nickel stakes might be involved! And they'll quarrel and cuss as they do, and bring in a box of greasy take-out snacks, and what IS it with these old people why can't they behave properly, quietly acting dignified, colourful, and civilized?

Or in any case dress better, smile more, and be properly appreciative?

You haven't dealt with elderly Cantonese much, have you?
Games of chance are part of the program.
As are loud disputes.
And food.

Carefully supervised tai chi and art projects to keep their minds active do seem nice, and are sweet, but they'll rebell against that. They haven't lived this long to take well-meaning lectures and guidance from non-Canto fluent social workers kindly.

Don't be surprised to find cigarette butts in your clean space with all the no-smoking signs. As well as chicken boness, and a water kettle plugged into the nearest electrical outlet.

They won't like the civic art you put there either. There is NOTHING appealling about a child's picture poster telling theme to exercise more and avoid diabetes.

Grampa will be outside smoking some ciggies with his friends.
Smuggled-in no taxes paid luxury mainland brands.
It's what you do after snacking.
Pastries!


So anyhow, the proposed indoor space will have artistic displays colourfully showcasing Chinatown culture for the tourists, as well as well-behaved elderly people making a good impression, plus children being quiet in docented endeavors, all proper. The civic fathers (and mothers) will approve. This is what an ethnic community is supposed to be.

Not loud card games and Toishanese cusswords!



You know, the same old geezers I see in the waiting room at the clinic, I pass afterwards as they're lighting up on the way to the nearest bakery to further the cause of borderline diabetic living. Or heading to a dimsum place to cough over black bean and garlic spareribs and rice.

Before heading to a social club to play mahjong.
For several hours. With food to go.



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IMPORTANT LOCAL COLOUR

Are you beset by spam-callers? When you're at home recovering from minor surgery, do irritating subcontinental individuals call you about accidents you have not been in involving a vehicle you never had with another vehicle that also probably did not exist? In the last two years? For which you were not at fault, and you haven't received a pay out yet?
Steve and Cedric: very fine Tamilian gentlemen oh yes.

喂，死印度人，邊個想聽你嘅廢話？

If so, you too need to learn to speak Cantonese. Cedric hung up as soon as I spoke.
Of course, I could have reverted to English, and asked him or Steve why my groin was orange and prickly. For which the answer would have been that that is where they cut me open to insert a device to root out the plaque in my femoral artery (on the right side). Shaving and painting with a disinfectant was required. Unlike the coronary stent, they didn't fill me to the rafters with blood thinners, so there is no bruising where the medical grade rotorooter rested on my pelvis (unless that orange is minor bruising, but I doubt it).
And I did not wake up next to the moaning woman's room.

[The femoral artery (股動脈 'gu dong mak') runs from the upper thigh down past the knee, where it branches into the tibial arteries (脛骨脈 'ging gwat mak') providing oxygen and building blocks to the calves and feet. It is hugely important, and when not in prime condition can be a royal pain in the dotdotdot. Angioplasty: 血管成形術 ('huet gun sing jing sut').]

So I did not get to watch Animal Planet for seven and a half hours throughout the night.
Yes, I feel somewhat cheated. Hyenas and their breakfast are almost an essential part of the experience. That's what the moaning woman next door is for. Geek chorus (stet).
Apropriately miserable background noises.

The illustration above is NOT the vast African veld, there are no zebras being assaulted by hyenas or lions robbing the latter of their prey. It's a memory picture of what the Malpy Fens look like south of Valkenswaard.

It's a nature reserve. Bleak and scenic. Birds. No flying zebras.

A desolate expanse of heather, reeds, small dirt hillocks, tall grasses, quicksand, marsh fowl. Weasels. There are also lizards there, and small snakes. Plus feral natives. Hunting is not permitted; the hyenas are out of luck.


The advice after an angioplasty is to spend most of the two or three days afterwards resting, don't exert yourself much, keep your leg elevated, and abstain from smoking. And ignore the orange in your crotch. So yesterday I got dressed, fixed myself fried rice with small meat chunks and bittermelon, plus coffee or tea periodically.

What I wanted to do was head across the hill to smoke my pipe after a fatty lunch, but eh, no smoking. And I was not fit to deal with people, having been instructed to postpone showering or changing the dressing on the three new holes in my body till Saturday (today) at the earliest. I did not feel clean enough for the public street. Not grungy, mind you.


Six years ago I asked the nurse who came by at daybreak what was with that moaning next door. "Oh, that's just a demented woman". Well, why is she moaning? "she doesn't like being here. And she's demented".

No hospital visit is complete without a demented person.
I feel strongly about that. This is San Francisco.
We have standards to uphold here.

Alas, no hyenas.



AFTERWORD

My landlady dropped by yesterday with two kinds of jook (粥), an oil strip for dipping (油條), and some dimsummy items. So the invalid is recovering nicely. This was very kind of her.



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BEFORE THE AGE OF CANDY DRINKS

Having just listened to a friend on social media recite the berakha (Moroccan rite) for rain falling in huge quatities for the first time this wet season, it is ironic that sun is shining in through the window. And slightly insulting, too. Which is a datum that unless you are Dutch, fairly familiar with the Portuguese Synagogue in Mokum Alef though not Jewish yourself, a linguaphile as well as peculiarly Brabantish, and living in a culturally multi-facetted city, may not make much sense to you. It's a time, a place, a different place, and a personal thing.
It's the weather we're having.

After yesterday morning, it is obvious to me that both my apartment mate (the person who lives in the other bedroom) and I myself are more than a little bit borderline spectrumish verging on autistic. The medical procedure started around seven thirty. We arrived at the vein and vascular place for my check-in shortly after six. In a rainstorm. Plenty of time. Neither she nor I saw anything unusual about doing so. I know that I like to be way ahead of the appointed time for doctors. And apparently she sees nothing wrong with being there no ifsandsorbuts more than an hour early either. She had brought a book.

Yeah, you know, if it had been the last helicopter out of a burning city, both of us and several of our friends would be on the tarmac with full thermos flasks and umbrellas several months before the first bombs fell, at the right spot, with comfy blankets and correct papers. Plus foreign currency for lodging in wherever when we got there. And emergency numbers. Because someone would have told us to be on time.

In retrospect, the light and shade in the street outside the clinic, as observed several times through windows before and after surgery, was quite interesting. Blues, greys, and pinkish light on buff walls or reflected from smooth surfaces. Apparently the building dates from 1986. So it's four decades old, more or less. Oddly, I cannot remember the hole in the ground that must have been dug to lay the foundations, though that is a part of the city I am quite familiar with. There used to be a very mediocre pastry and donut place across the street.

There used to be many more very mediocre pastry and donut places in this city. Before the no-smoking rules went into effect. One could chain-smoke over a crappy baked thing for hours during rainy weather in many neighborhoods. The hot coffee was horrible, and the company often skeevy, but with two or three newspapers and an ashtray who cared?

One imagines the draughtsmen and engineers in bad donut holes slowly being replaced by nurses and surgeons, plus international tourists despairing over finding a decent croissant, from Geary Street all the way to the wharf. Before better coffee drove all the small greasy places out of existence, and Gauloises or Gitanes got replaced by surreptitious raspberry watermelon vapes and generous lines of cocaine in Starbucks bathrooms.


When ahstrays and newspapers started disappearing coffee shops and crappy bakeries with counter seating lost their allure. Almost all the skeevy late night coffee shops are gone now.
Neither Gauloises or Gitanes are imported anymore.
And they're no longer French.

Les temps ont changé.



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CONTEMPLATING GOOD WOOD

Today was a perfect day to head over to a medical facility while it was still pitch black outside and have men with scalpels and prongs root around in your lower insides. It rained all day. Perfect indoor weather. As a result of my angioplasy I now have a hole near my groing which should heal soon, and a peculiar other wordly feeling in my right leg. Plus general malaise and slight aches here and there.

The typical bachelor regimen for physical improvement after matters medical involves chilipaste and coffee. Unfortunately, a comforting pipe is right out, because nicotine ain't good for the healing membranes or some such. Gregor Samsa woke up from a disturbed sleep around tea time, determined to be the best cockroach he could possibly be. As always, the beckoning prospects of capsaicin, caffeine, and nicotine, promised cheer and improvement, a gilding of the dull light from the cloudcast sky outside.

With profound gloom in his withered heart he understood that mamselle nicotine would have to wait. His apartment mate (a human) was at home, and although asleep in her room, she would undoubtedly wig on to it if he stepped (stumbled) outide for a smoke. His pipes should stay cold in any case till walking was both a distinct AND unproblematic possibility.

Curses, foiled.

Somewhere, a sadistic vegan anti-smoker is cackling. Mean glee.

Tomorrow is also not very likely. I probably shouldn't stress things by wandering around the neighborhood. Healing process and all that jazz. Saturday and Sunday are obviously right out. Perhaps Monday after my follow-up appointment.
In celebration.


I will probably spend a lot of time crawling inside my head this weekend, meditating.


Maybe I shouldn't have had that cup of coffee. It makes me more keenly aware of the fact that the two nearest briars are a Dunhill Bruyere billiard, and a silver banded Peterson sandblast fatty. Splendid smokes. They cry out for attention.
There there, my lovelies, there there.



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THE ODDNESS WEATHER

Keep the leg elevated, and don't do anything stupid. That's more or less what they tell you after an angioplasty when they send you home. Being male, naturally I can't stop thinking of stupid things to do. I mean, why else get up at four in the morning if there's nothing stupid? Anyhow, I had delayed taking all my meds till after it was all over. They insisted that upon leaving I should use a wheelchair. I did not require the wheelchair beyond that.

Apparently they had to do a double-ender. Go in from both the groin AND the foot. One hell of a blockage mid-thigh. Took more time than usual too. So I was right to curse and swear in several languages when on my feet too long. And I can feel good about that.

And I can imagine the utterances from their side when they encountered a foot-long arterial clog down there. Probably something along the lines of "holy crap how did the old bastard even walk with that?!?" Magic. I am filled with the bad juju your mom warned you about.


Sadly, what all this means is that I no longer have quite as good a reason to cuss sotto voce in several languages obscenely to myself all the time.

Also, they had warned me that the leg would feel peculiar for a while.
Which it does. Quite. Not bad, just ... eccentric.

Now, the other thing is smoking. I am at home surrounded by fine briars, that wink at me and pose alluringly. An open tin of Red Flake by C&D in one direction, some Capstan I popped the other day nearby. Big jars af various blends in a bookshelf opposite. It's tempting.

My apartment mate is in the same room as myself, on her own computer. I think she knows I'm supposed to stay off the stuff while healing. I am frustrated.



Having finally had coffee, I am hatching strategems. She will eventually go have a nap. Our alarms went off at four in the morning. I caught up on my sleep while under anaesthesia.

I shall keep me posted.



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TRANQUILITY AND A SHOVEL

About ten minutes after I had given the Indonesian Chinese lady in the downstairs front apartment some fruits and fresh produce (and so making sure she's still with us), my landlady was knocking on my door to hand over some food so that I'll be strengthened and fed before the procedure tomorrow morning. I'll point out that she is older than me, but I shan't tell you by how much. One does not speak of a woman's age, and I don't want to talk about mine. We also discussed the possibility of quitting tobacco, because nicotine hampers the body's healing mechanisms in addition to being inflammatorial to blood vessels lining.

Yes, okay, I'll not smoke from midnight till four days hence when I see the surgeon for a follow up. Shortly afterwards, in all likelyhood, I'll be filling a pipe and lighting up. Because I'm incorrigible, and a bad-tempered fossil even under the best of circumstances.

The problem will be avoiding overly strenuous actions when I'm back at work.


Can one even be called 'alive' if one does not throw heavy cinderblocks at rightwing dillheads? Asking for a "friend", you understand, as violence toward the fascists of the world is not my thing. I am a peaceful even-tempered liberal murderous psychopath.

Far be it from me etcetera etcetera.

Om, shanti shanti, om.

Why, I just want to be alone in my garden with the gladioli and the chrysanthemums. Yes. Butterflies and hummingbirds. Sunlight. Daffodils. Smelling the roses. Lovely fragrant roses. Dense thickly overgrown rose bushes with inch-long sharp thorns that rip the living flesh off, the wargrade biohazard of plants, weapons of very painful mass destruction, aimed at religious freaks and dunderheaded rightwingers.

There are savage hamsters armed with razorsharp claws and teeth there.
Lego blocks to maim the unwary strewn damned well everywhere.
And juicy pineapple chunks for all their pizza!
Ham and anchovies!

A veritable pox upon their cattle!

Yeah, it's a darn good thing that I've taken off for a week. I shall be scarcely bearable, and putting up with the senile rightwingers in the backroom while I'm avoiding tobacco and not smoking my pipes would be impossible.



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WILD OLD PEOPLE

A site I do not want to visit advertised itself on my computer, with a slogan indicating senile passion possibilities and a picture that showed a smiling younger hugely bosomed woman. Good lord. How does she feed herself? Something that big in certain departments needs two pound of raw meat every meal. What do investors really think of older male Americans? Did some entrepreneur convince them we run around slobbering over ambulatory watermelon plantations? I am offended! Enormously!

Nurse Ratchett, I am ready for my tea now.

Just wheel me out to the municipal garbage heap so that I may smoke my stogies without disturing members of generation dingbat; they're offended by tobacco. And they think of my kind as unrestrainedly hormonal and lust-filled. Besides ruining the planet and supporting al the wrong causes, our generation was responsible for 'I love Lucy', 'The Honey Mooners', and two decades of plastic and horrible music. All of which left us addled and sex-crazed.

One major reason to not click on that site is that inevitably it would lead to being robbed of my life savings by fully breasted Slavic women, fully breasted Japanese women, tottering Carol Dodaesque Filippinas, hot Mamba Latinas, and both French and Nordic arguably female persons without a shred of decency in their impossibly voluptuous bodies.

There's a scene in a Hong Kong movie where our hero, a short pudgy fellow, is slow dancing with a tall overly busty Shanghainese lady. That came to mind, as well as that time a friend married a girl from overseas who as soon as she arrived in the United States ran off into the great American outback and was never seen again.

One imagines his wife roaming the vast forests hunting down possums and beavers for dinner. She's dreamed about that all of her big-breasted life, growing up in the slums of Slovakoganggat, kicking tin cans and helpless tourists who strayed away from the group. Blood dripping down her jaws onto her overly generous frontage, trails of ichor gleaming eerily behind her in the permanent semi-dark.


Nurse Ratchett! Nurse Ratchett! I want my tea!


When I stepped outside for a smoke much earlier today a shaggy person, male, no breasts, staggered off the doorstep where he had been sleeping. Quite as feral as the ladies on those Eastern European websites, considerably less cannibalistic and dangerous. And very likely not at all interested in senior bachelors.

Red Virginia flake from Jeremy Reed. It's what all calm and not male enhancement pill crazed mature adults smoke. In a very nice Dublin & London Peterson long shank.

Nurse Ratchett? I do NOT need any valium today.
Nor any restraint devices.
Just tea.



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