You can always tell an enjoyable horror movie by the crappy acting. This isn't great art, but it is perfect entertainment.
Recipe:
A blonde woman, ideally one with a dull soft face, who freaks out.
A sincere manly man who completely lacks a functioning brain.
A meddlesome priest, who snuffs it gruesomely.
A little girl who makes you wanna puke she's that icky cute.
A young smart-aleck who does something stupid.
And a thickset middle-aged native woman - Serbian, Ukrainian, or Mexicana, it doesn't matter; as long as she speaks with foreboding, gloom, and a heavy accent.
We are blessed to live in a country that has made a huge number of these movies.
Eerie music, pointless special effects, bad lighting, and odd creaking sounds.
And lots of thickset gloomy women, or people who act that way.
Let's name the last listed type 'Igoretta' - it's far less impersonal than 'Serb-u-kraino Mexicana', or even the vaguely complimentary 'thickset gloomy woman'.
Her character is the only sane one in the movie. This is because she alerts the audience to impending disaster, often an event which none of the other 'actors' have the sense to foresee.
Igoretta has, in fact, an almost supernatural ability to not be a moron.
She's probably a joy off-screen too, saying things like "who the heck wrote this sucky script?", "you're drunk again", "gottenyu, I should've choked the brat", and "at least I'm being paid for this".
Igoretta has a point. The dim blonde and up to four of the others are romantically involved with the producer of this masterpiece or think this will advance their careers.
Igoretta is the straight man to a passel of idiots.
Igoretta deserves a medal.
THE EVIL!
If at least two of the people listed above snuff it before anyone realizes that there is a monster on the loose / a thousand year old vampire reawakened / a flesh-eating giant maggot zombie / a televangelist going around committing acts of a perverse nature, it's all good.
I vote for the freak-out bitch and the unspeakable little girl.
Nice little girls aren't so sickeningly cute.
And women of spirit don't freak out.
Ideally, Igoretta survives.
Pass the raisinettes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
CONSIDERING A CHAFING DISH
Maybe I look lean and hungry. Somebody 'gifted' me with information which, though it might be important, is a little unusual. Fascinating, even.
Specifically, "Grand Marnier makes women drop their pants".
The person who told me this had large bosoms.
I do not know if her statement was a hint, and I did not ask how she could be so sure of the matter.
If it's true, it could very well change the course of history.
"Grand Marnier makes women drop their pants".
Quite likely she may have been trying to subtly suggest something, but as I was not planning to pursue that angle, it went nowhere.
No, it wasn't the bosoms, though it could well have been.
They were large and seemed carnivorous.
I just wasn't at all interested.
Being picky is a virtue.
"Grand Marnier makes women drop their pants"
The phrasing was actually a whole lot less innocuous than that, and cheerfully delivered. But unfortunately it is rather useless information in any case, as I prefer my dates sober, sane, and sentient.
I've been told that alcohol lowers inhibitions.
But it also lowers intelligence.
Besides, attractive women hardly ever drink.
And never to that level.
AFTERWORD
Crepes: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cr%C3%AApes_Suzette.
A legitimate excuse for Grand Marnier.
Possibly the only one.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Specifically, "Grand Marnier makes women drop their pants".
The person who told me this had large bosoms.
I do not know if her statement was a hint, and I did not ask how she could be so sure of the matter.
If it's true, it could very well change the course of history.
"Grand Marnier makes women drop their pants".
Quite likely she may have been trying to subtly suggest something, but as I was not planning to pursue that angle, it went nowhere.
No, it wasn't the bosoms, though it could well have been.
They were large and seemed carnivorous.
I just wasn't at all interested.
Being picky is a virtue.
"Grand Marnier makes women drop their pants"
The phrasing was actually a whole lot less innocuous than that, and cheerfully delivered. But unfortunately it is rather useless information in any case, as I prefer my dates sober, sane, and sentient.
I've been told that alcohol lowers inhibitions.
But it also lowers intelligence.
Besides, attractive women hardly ever drink.
And never to that level.
AFTERWORD
Crepes: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cr%C3%AApes_Suzette.
A legitimate excuse for Grand Marnier.
Possibly the only one.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 13, 2012
THE ODDITY
Should know better by now. Do NOT approach persons of the opposite gender.
I made the mistake of asking a young lady to breakfast on Sunday.
She has sparkling eyes, wit, and charm.
Okay, she's got a boy friend.
And my idea of breakfast is rice porridge in Chinatown.
Right around noon time.
Ick.
It would've been just as "worthwhile" to ask her out for pizza and coffee.
Mind you, the mental image of a cute blonde woman scarfing down slices of pizza, with coffee, is extremely heartwarming. But it isn't going to happen.
I still remember the darling black-haired miss with the nice forehead at the pizza place, three tables over, and more than a year ago. She and her companions polished off an entire pie.
She looked so very happy, eating with friends.
Sheer savoury pepperoni-filled joy.
Adorable, and greasy.
GIRLISH DINING PLEASURE
Might be better to buy an entire high-school class Melon Liqueur cocktails.
Which is extremely tempting, lord knows.
Unfortunately the modern woman is just NOT interested in happy food.
And will not be going out for dimsum.
Nor rice porridge.
Oh well. And all-righty-then.
On Sunday, I'll be heading into C'town, for rice porridge and a yau tieu. There's a place on Waverly that makes dynamite deep-fried dough sticks to sop in the bowl. It's clean, comfortable, gemütlich.
I'll light up my pipe as soon as I leave.
Wander down Jackson or Washington Street, past the park, down to the bench in Hotaling Alley, where I'll finish smoking.
It's very peaceful there.
Dried fish with peanuts jook. A cup of hot milk-tea.
And one light and freshly fried dough stick.
The total breakfast of champions.
Solitary champions.
I don't really like being by myself.
But it isn't too much.
I'll last.
There could be a peidansou or a lowpoh beng later.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I made the mistake of asking a young lady to breakfast on Sunday.
She has sparkling eyes, wit, and charm.
Okay, she's got a boy friend.
And my idea of breakfast is rice porridge in Chinatown.
Right around noon time.
Ick.
It would've been just as "worthwhile" to ask her out for pizza and coffee.
Mind you, the mental image of a cute blonde woman scarfing down slices of pizza, with coffee, is extremely heartwarming. But it isn't going to happen.
I still remember the darling black-haired miss with the nice forehead at the pizza place, three tables over, and more than a year ago. She and her companions polished off an entire pie.
She looked so very happy, eating with friends.
Sheer savoury pepperoni-filled joy.
Adorable, and greasy.
GIRLISH DINING PLEASURE
Might be better to buy an entire high-school class Melon Liqueur cocktails.
Which is extremely tempting, lord knows.
Unfortunately the modern woman is just NOT interested in happy food.
And will not be going out for dimsum.
Nor rice porridge.
Oh well. And all-righty-then.
On Sunday, I'll be heading into C'town, for rice porridge and a yau tieu. There's a place on Waverly that makes dynamite deep-fried dough sticks to sop in the bowl. It's clean, comfortable, gemütlich.
I'll light up my pipe as soon as I leave.
Wander down Jackson or Washington Street, past the park, down to the bench in Hotaling Alley, where I'll finish smoking.
It's very peaceful there.
Dried fish with peanuts jook. A cup of hot milk-tea.
And one light and freshly fried dough stick.
The total breakfast of champions.
Solitary champions.
I don't really like being by myself.
But it isn't too much.
I'll last.
There could be a peidansou or a lowpoh beng later.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 12, 2012
DO YOU REALLY WANT FRIES WITH THAT?
One of the quintessential tastes of Holland may strike you as peculiar: peanut sauce. You’ve probably had it in Thai restaurants and assumed that it was invented by the Siamese.
Clever folks, those Thailanders.
In actual fact, it belongs to neither the Thais nor the Dutch.
Though it has become an inseparable part of their cuisines.
[Assuming, of course, that the Dutch possess a cuisine. The jury is still out on that. The Thais do have such a thing.]
SOS KATJANG
Peanut sauce was developed in Indonesia several centuries ago, shortly after the introduction of goobers and chilies to the Indies. The locals there use it on any number of dishes, the most well-known of which is satay ('saté' - grilled skewered meat).
It is also used on grilled chicken, on a multitude of salads, as a dip for snack-crunchies, and as an ingredient in more complex creations.
The Dutch employ it in the same way, but in keeping with their heretical nature have also innovated uses that are somewhat unusual.
Like FRIET OORLOG ("French Fries At War"). In which crispy strips of deep-fried spud are accompanied with peanut sauce ('pinda saus') on one side, mayonnaise on the other. With or without other condiments.
Often this is part of a wholesome and nutritious dinner that includes a frikandel-speciaal (with mayonnaise, curry-ketchup, and onions) OR a kroket, even a hefty dollop of stoof vlees saus (stew-meat gravy).
And you thought the French Canadians were nasty, with 'poutine'.
Dot dot dot
Okay, now that you're stomach is no longer churning, I encourage you to try Dutch junk food when next you visit the Netherlands. It's much better than you think. And mayo on your fries is no stranger than potato salad.
The 'frikandel' is a skinless meat sausage which is deep fried, the 'kroket' is béchamel mixed with meat and flavourings, chilled, dipped and breaded, and plunged into hot oil.
The stoof vlees saus is best avoided.
Dot dot dot
Personally, I would eschew the peanut sauce combos.
The Dutch chipper's version of "bumbu katjang" is usually rather appalling.
PEANUT SAUCE - VERSION ONE
One cup peanut butter.
Four TBS brown sugar.
Three TBS lemon or lime juice.
Two TBS soy sauce.
Half TBS chilipaste.
Two or three cloves garlic, minced.
Dash fish sauce.
A few drops of Chinese sesame oil.
Whisk all ingredients together with enough water to make it soupy (about two cups), and cook while stirring till it has achieved the consistency you like.
Let it cool a little before use, as it retains heat much better than you think.
PEANUT SAUCE - VERSION TWO
One small onion, minced.
Three cups coconut milk.
Two cups water.
One cup peanut butter.
Four TBS olive oil.
Two TBS each: sugar, fish sauce, lime juice.
Half TBS each: shrimp paste, chili paste, soy sauce.
Two Tsp ground coriander.
One Tsp each: paprika, turmeric, dry ginger.
Three to five cloves garlic, minced.
Small piece fresh ginger, minced.
Dash or jigger of Tabasco.
Gently fry the onion brown, then put in the shrimp paste, garlic, ginger, chilipaste, and dry spices. When good and fragrant, add the coconut milk and fish sauce, and cook till the oil comes out. Mix in the peanut butter, and while stirring, pour in the water. Cook for a few minutes more, and adjust pourability with water. Because you are using low heat, the whole process can take the better part of an hour.
Either version keeps for quite a while in the freezer - double or triple the quantities, cook till thick and let it cool down completely, then roll it as a sausage in plastic wrap, so that you can cut off the quantity you wish to use later.
You can use it in Pinda Brafoe (chicken and peanut soup served with tongtong fu bana), over crisped vegetables, on top of cooked string beans or asparagus, alongside grilled meat, as a dip, or even as a component of noodle dishes.
And also on your French Fries.
Unless you're allergic.
Try it with chunk-cut poached chicken (白切雞) over cold rice stick noodles and lettuce.
If you're Canadian, have it on your poutine.
NOTES
Mayonnaise: what was blessedly provided for the wandering Dutch during their forty year journey across the estuarine swamp.
Oh wait, I'm thinking of a different narrative.
Sorry.
Frikandel: a tarted-up cousin of the meat ball consisting of double-ground meat mixed with powdered rusk, spices (primarily pepper and nutmeg), binders, herbs, and salt. It is rolled into a sausage form, dipped in fine-ground rusk crumbs, beaten egg white, rusk crumbs again, rested, then deep-fried. The meat used in a commercial frikandel is a blend of fatty pork, beef, and chicken
Kroket: the Dutch spelling of croquette. Delay a minute or two before biting into this, as it can burn right through the roof of your mouth and render you grunting for several days.
It is very delicious, better than fried cheese.
Poutine: fries covered with brown gravy and topped with fresh cheese curds. This was invented in Quebec. Not precisely haute cuisine, but definitely darn good, the stuff that warm memories are made of.
Best eaten at a truck stop.
Tongtong: dumplings or stiff wedge-cut cooked glop for sopping up the juices. Similar to matzoh balls. Surinamers use plantains as dumpling material, which is also common in Ghana and Dahomey. Tongtong fu bana (plantain dumplings) in pinda brafu (peanut soup) is a wonderful party dish sure to elicit cries of delighted recognition from not only your Surinamese guests, but also any West-Africans present. Just remember to use a good rich chicken broth as the base of the soup. A few fresh whole chilies floated in the soup during the last twenty minutes of cooking will add a resinous perfume but no heat - you may remove them carefully before serving.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Clever folks, those Thailanders.
In actual fact, it belongs to neither the Thais nor the Dutch.
Though it has become an inseparable part of their cuisines.
[Assuming, of course, that the Dutch possess a cuisine. The jury is still out on that. The Thais do have such a thing.]
SOS KATJANG
Peanut sauce was developed in Indonesia several centuries ago, shortly after the introduction of goobers and chilies to the Indies. The locals there use it on any number of dishes, the most well-known of which is satay ('saté' - grilled skewered meat).
It is also used on grilled chicken, on a multitude of salads, as a dip for snack-crunchies, and as an ingredient in more complex creations.
The Dutch employ it in the same way, but in keeping with their heretical nature have also innovated uses that are somewhat unusual.
Like FRIET OORLOG ("French Fries At War"). In which crispy strips of deep-fried spud are accompanied with peanut sauce ('pinda saus') on one side, mayonnaise on the other. With or without other condiments.
Often this is part of a wholesome and nutritious dinner that includes a frikandel-speciaal (with mayonnaise, curry-ketchup, and onions) OR a kroket, even a hefty dollop of stoof vlees saus (stew-meat gravy).
And you thought the French Canadians were nasty, with 'poutine'.
Dot dot dot
Okay, now that you're stomach is no longer churning, I encourage you to try Dutch junk food when next you visit the Netherlands. It's much better than you think. And mayo on your fries is no stranger than potato salad.
The 'frikandel' is a skinless meat sausage which is deep fried, the 'kroket' is béchamel mixed with meat and flavourings, chilled, dipped and breaded, and plunged into hot oil.
The stoof vlees saus is best avoided.
Dot dot dot
Personally, I would eschew the peanut sauce combos.
The Dutch chipper's version of "bumbu katjang" is usually rather appalling.
PEANUT SAUCE - VERSION ONE
One cup peanut butter.
Four TBS brown sugar.
Three TBS lemon or lime juice.
Two TBS soy sauce.
Half TBS chilipaste.
Two or three cloves garlic, minced.
Dash fish sauce.
A few drops of Chinese sesame oil.
Whisk all ingredients together with enough water to make it soupy (about two cups), and cook while stirring till it has achieved the consistency you like.
Let it cool a little before use, as it retains heat much better than you think.
PEANUT SAUCE - VERSION TWO
One small onion, minced.
Three cups coconut milk.
Two cups water.
One cup peanut butter.
Four TBS olive oil.
Two TBS each: sugar, fish sauce, lime juice.
Half TBS each: shrimp paste, chili paste, soy sauce.
Two Tsp ground coriander.
One Tsp each: paprika, turmeric, dry ginger.
Three to five cloves garlic, minced.
Small piece fresh ginger, minced.
Dash or jigger of Tabasco.
Gently fry the onion brown, then put in the shrimp paste, garlic, ginger, chilipaste, and dry spices. When good and fragrant, add the coconut milk and fish sauce, and cook till the oil comes out. Mix in the peanut butter, and while stirring, pour in the water. Cook for a few minutes more, and adjust pourability with water. Because you are using low heat, the whole process can take the better part of an hour.
Either version keeps for quite a while in the freezer - double or triple the quantities, cook till thick and let it cool down completely, then roll it as a sausage in plastic wrap, so that you can cut off the quantity you wish to use later.
You can use it in Pinda Brafoe (chicken and peanut soup served with tongtong fu bana), over crisped vegetables, on top of cooked string beans or asparagus, alongside grilled meat, as a dip, or even as a component of noodle dishes.
And also on your French Fries.
Unless you're allergic.
Try it with chunk-cut poached chicken (白切雞) over cold rice stick noodles and lettuce.
If you're Canadian, have it on your poutine.
NOTES
Mayonnaise: what was blessedly provided for the wandering Dutch during their forty year journey across the estuarine swamp.
Oh wait, I'm thinking of a different narrative.
Sorry.
Frikandel: a tarted-up cousin of the meat ball consisting of double-ground meat mixed with powdered rusk, spices (primarily pepper and nutmeg), binders, herbs, and salt. It is rolled into a sausage form, dipped in fine-ground rusk crumbs, beaten egg white, rusk crumbs again, rested, then deep-fried. The meat used in a commercial frikandel is a blend of fatty pork, beef, and chicken
Kroket: the Dutch spelling of croquette. Delay a minute or two before biting into this, as it can burn right through the roof of your mouth and render you grunting for several days.
It is very delicious, better than fried cheese.
Poutine: fries covered with brown gravy and topped with fresh cheese curds. This was invented in Quebec. Not precisely haute cuisine, but definitely darn good, the stuff that warm memories are made of.
Best eaten at a truck stop.
Tongtong: dumplings or stiff wedge-cut cooked glop for sopping up the juices. Similar to matzoh balls. Surinamers use plantains as dumpling material, which is also common in Ghana and Dahomey. Tongtong fu bana (plantain dumplings) in pinda brafu (peanut soup) is a wonderful party dish sure to elicit cries of delighted recognition from not only your Surinamese guests, but also any West-Africans present. Just remember to use a good rich chicken broth as the base of the soup. A few fresh whole chilies floated in the soup during the last twenty minutes of cooking will add a resinous perfume but no heat - you may remove them carefully before serving.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
A HEATED ARGUMENT ON THE SUBJECT OF EELS
Surely we all remember the chapter in which Mole gets lost in the Wild Wood, his friend Ratty goes searching for him, and the two of them end up at the home of mr. Badger?
Where, after a splendid repast, they tell their host what Toad has been up to.....
Crashing cars, breaking traffic laws, insulting washerwomen, and generally speaking, behaving like a most reprehensible amphibian.
Toad is, as you will readily understand, a cigar smoker.
Very typical of the type.
Unlike Ratty, Mole, and Badger, who are pipesmokers.
Which is not surprising.
The three friends are probably the most famous pipesmokers in all of British literature, and are in any case far more likeable than that other sort-of-well-known chappie, Holmes, and his clueless medical sidekick. Really, why so many people think of that arrogant oofus and his nerdy interlocutor as the quintessential pipesmokers is quite beyond me.
They are extremely unparadigmatic.
Whereas Ratty, Mole, and Badger are examples to emulate.
Capable, reliable, and sensible. Individuals who maintain cozy and hospitable homes, who have civilized habits and hobbies, gallant fellows who do the right thing, and are considerate, kind, and courteous.
Toad (the cigar smoker) steals cars and horses, insults people, and swaggers around self-importantly boasting. A puffed-up little beast.
EELS!
One can imagine having a cup of tea or a glass of sherry with the pipe smokers, but would rather not associate with Toad.
I'm not sure about Otter, though. I've always pictured him with a fag drooping out of the corner of his mouth.
Especially when he and Ratty are talking about eels.
But hookah smokers are complete degenerates. Very shady characters.
As the illustration below proves beyond a shadow of a doubt.
![]()
In another few minutes I shall head over to the cigar bar.
To smoke my pipe surrounded by the rowdies.
The caterpillar has sweeter company.
I'm quite envious.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Where, after a splendid repast, they tell their host what Toad has been up to.....
Crashing cars, breaking traffic laws, insulting washerwomen, and generally speaking, behaving like a most reprehensible amphibian.
Toad is, as you will readily understand, a cigar smoker.
Very typical of the type.
Unlike Ratty, Mole, and Badger, who are pipesmokers.
Which is not surprising.
The three friends are probably the most famous pipesmokers in all of British literature, and are in any case far more likeable than that other sort-of-well-known chappie, Holmes, and his clueless medical sidekick. Really, why so many people think of that arrogant oofus and his nerdy interlocutor as the quintessential pipesmokers is quite beyond me.
They are extremely unparadigmatic.
Whereas Ratty, Mole, and Badger are examples to emulate.
Capable, reliable, and sensible. Individuals who maintain cozy and hospitable homes, who have civilized habits and hobbies, gallant fellows who do the right thing, and are considerate, kind, and courteous.
Toad (the cigar smoker) steals cars and horses, insults people, and swaggers around self-importantly boasting. A puffed-up little beast.
EELS!
One can imagine having a cup of tea or a glass of sherry with the pipe smokers, but would rather not associate with Toad.
I'm not sure about Otter, though. I've always pictured him with a fag drooping out of the corner of his mouth.
Especially when he and Ratty are talking about eels.
But hookah smokers are complete degenerates. Very shady characters.
As the illustration below proves beyond a shadow of a doubt.
In another few minutes I shall head over to the cigar bar.
To smoke my pipe surrounded by the rowdies.
The caterpillar has sweeter company.
I'm quite envious.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LUNCH WITH A SMALL PERSON
Absolutely not. You cannot have ANY of my fried chicken. Stop asking.
No, there are good reasons. You'll understand when you are older.
I absolutely refuse to bribe you with my fried chicken.
It's mine. My lunch. I paid for it.
My chicken.
Emotional blackmail will get you nothing!
Oh stop looking at me like that!
I already told you!
Mine!
You wouldn't like it anyhow.
It's covered in hot sauce. Slathered, drenched, soaked, and sodden.
Tương Ớt Sriracha.
Bad for you. Yummy for me, but you wouldn't like it.
Sorry. I didn't know you were hungry.
I will NOT be swayed by your big sorrowful eyes.
See, I know exactly what would happen. First you'd gobble it down.
Then you'd experience noticeable distress.
Baffling discomfort.
And then you'd lick your privates.
With hot sauce residue all over your tongue.
The cops would end up shooting you, as you run around howling.
The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain!
Either that, or you'd obsessively keep licking to alleviate the burning sensation, like a child sucking its thumb. Exactly so. It's an equivalent.
There's parity there.
You'd probably blame me for the feeling.
And there's nowhere here to take a nice cold shower.
Besides, you wouldn't be able to adjust the water-flow anyway.
What with you being so short and all.
And not having any thumbs.
Or actual hands.
Woof.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, there are good reasons. You'll understand when you are older.
I absolutely refuse to bribe you with my fried chicken.
It's mine. My lunch. I paid for it.
My chicken.
Emotional blackmail will get you nothing!
Oh stop looking at me like that!
I already told you!
Mine!
You wouldn't like it anyhow.
It's covered in hot sauce. Slathered, drenched, soaked, and sodden.
Tương Ớt Sriracha.
Bad for you. Yummy for me, but you wouldn't like it.
Sorry. I didn't know you were hungry.
I will NOT be swayed by your big sorrowful eyes.
See, I know exactly what would happen. First you'd gobble it down.
Then you'd experience noticeable distress.
Baffling discomfort.
And then you'd lick your privates.
With hot sauce residue all over your tongue.
The cops would end up shooting you, as you run around howling.
The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain!
Either that, or you'd obsessively keep licking to alleviate the burning sensation, like a child sucking its thumb. Exactly so. It's an equivalent.
There's parity there.
You'd probably blame me for the feeling.
And there's nowhere here to take a nice cold shower.
Besides, you wouldn't be able to adjust the water-flow anyway.
What with you being so short and all.
And not having any thumbs.
Or actual hands.
Woof.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
FRAGRANT NIGHT
This really was the height of summer. The icy wind at late afternoon brought in billows of fog, and she was freezing. It was difficult to see the overgrown path, and being cold made it even harder. Her eyes watered from the frigid gusts.
The narrow trail seemed to wind quite illogically across the expanse of bracken, undergrowth, gorse, furze.
Suddenly she tripped, and the last thing she remembered was sliding, sliding, sliding.....
She briefly wondered if that hole had always been there, before she lost consciousness.
Sliding, sliding, sliding.....
When she came to her senses, she was surprised to discover that she was comfortably tucked in. Her shoes were off, she no longer had her bright red jacket on, and also, she noted with alarm, her pearl necklace was missing! She sat up in the bed and looked around. What had happened? Where was she?
And who had removed her shoes, jacket, and pearls?
Near the bed was a short cabinet with a Shek-Wan figurine of Chung Kwei - she recognized the familiar bearded visage, and the folding fan outstretched with good luck bats perched upon it - and several short tables with books stacked upon them. Whoever lived here was a bit messy, there was a layer of dust on some of the volumes. The cluttered room was dark, with pockets of black in the corners. The reading light near the bed was not turned on. But thank heavens it was warm. Warm!
In the orange light at the far side of the room was an armchair with an indistinct shape in it. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that whoever sat there was furry.... a whiskered snout in profile, with a pipe jauntily stuck out issuing whisps of smoke.
A stubby paw turned a page in a book.
The feet on the ottoman were hairy and clawed.
"WHO ARE YOU?!?"
The short thickset creature that got up and came toward her introduced himself as mr. Badger, then explained: "I heard a frightful bump at the door, and thought 'darn it, the UPS man has simply thrown my parcel down the hole again'. That's when I discovered you, my dear, lying in a heap on the welcome mat. You were quite frozen, so I carried you in and put you to bed."
"But where are my shoes, my jacket, and my pearls?"
"The footgear is next to the bed - nice sensible loafers, by the way, and you have small feet - and your coat is on the rack. The pearl necklace is on the table, as I was worried it might break if you tossed around too much. You were twitching and shivering so."
While he talked, his eyes twinkled at her over the tops of his reading glasses. As he put the pipe back in his mouth he said "there's a bathroom down the hall, why don't you soak a bit, it will get you nicely warmed up. I'll put a cup of tea outside the door."
A hot bath sounded incredibly appealing - she still felt the effect of the bone-chilling San Francisco fog.
While she dreamily reclined in the soapy water, she heard a clink outside the bathroom, then footsteps receding back towards the other room. She happily picked up the teacup the badger had left and got back in the tub. This was exceedingly nice.
And he had one of her favourite soaps! Ooh, indeed marvelous!
What a kind creature!
A while later she heard him outside the door saying "when you get out, there will be a bowl of jook waiting for you".
And there was. It was a beautiful bowl of rice porridge, and mr. Badger explained that what he had done was add dried oysters and a little thinly sliced smoked bacon to the pot, plus a bit of chopped carrot at the start of cooking to fall apart in the duck broth, and some slivered ginger at the end. Minced scallion and cilantro on top. It's all about rounding out the flavours, you see.
While he talked, he made another pot of tea.
This was utterly delicious, quite the best bowl of jook she had ever had!
The aroma of his pipe tobacco combined with the other fragrances in his kitchen, and she felt supremely comfortable and content.
"Now, when you've finished eating, join me in the main room and read a while. Once you are fully recovered from your misadventure I'll walk you home".
A few hours later, she put her shoes and her red jacket on again, and he draped a thick great-coat around her shoulders. She had had a lovely time just dozing with a book, perched up against the pillows in his bed under a throw rug, and she was nice and toasty from the jook, the cups of tea, and the tiny shot of Scotch whisky he had poured. Perhaps just a little bit woozy. He had insisted that she have some Scotch before they set out, as it would be even colder than it had been at twilight.
Together they walked up the steps from the hollow toward the path she had been on earlier. He held her hand to guide her, because it was too dark to see. No wonder she had fallen down to his front door, the path was so overgrown and twisty. An unwisely chosen shortcut across the park, but thank heavens it had all ended so well.
She was extremely happy that she had met mr. Badger. Such a nice gentleman!
When they got to her house, she thanked him for being so kind.
He smiled, took the great-coat, and wished her a very good night.
As she went upstairs she wondered if perhaps it had all been a dream.
But she could still smell his tobacco, a trace of it lingered in her hair and on her clothes. Smoky. He had told her it was a Latakia blend - he preferred English mixtures. She would have to see if the local tobacconist carried something similar that she could buy him to thank him for his hospitality.
It would give her the most perfect excuse to visit him again.
She really hoped he would invite her in for more tea.
And let her read in the warmth of his house.
It had been a truly wonderful evening.
* * * * * *
This is posted in answer to the person who, reading a previous piece, felt prompted to ask me precisely what my praedilections actually are.
The fairy tale above accurately reflects them.
Badgers love rice porridge, by the way.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The narrow trail seemed to wind quite illogically across the expanse of bracken, undergrowth, gorse, furze.
Suddenly she tripped, and the last thing she remembered was sliding, sliding, sliding.....
She briefly wondered if that hole had always been there, before she lost consciousness.
Sliding, sliding, sliding.....
When she came to her senses, she was surprised to discover that she was comfortably tucked in. Her shoes were off, she no longer had her bright red jacket on, and also, she noted with alarm, her pearl necklace was missing! She sat up in the bed and looked around. What had happened? Where was she?
And who had removed her shoes, jacket, and pearls?
Near the bed was a short cabinet with a Shek-Wan figurine of Chung Kwei - she recognized the familiar bearded visage, and the folding fan outstretched with good luck bats perched upon it - and several short tables with books stacked upon them. Whoever lived here was a bit messy, there was a layer of dust on some of the volumes. The cluttered room was dark, with pockets of black in the corners. The reading light near the bed was not turned on. But thank heavens it was warm. Warm!
In the orange light at the far side of the room was an armchair with an indistinct shape in it. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that whoever sat there was furry.... a whiskered snout in profile, with a pipe jauntily stuck out issuing whisps of smoke.
A stubby paw turned a page in a book.
The feet on the ottoman were hairy and clawed.
"WHO ARE YOU?!?"
The short thickset creature that got up and came toward her introduced himself as mr. Badger, then explained: "I heard a frightful bump at the door, and thought 'darn it, the UPS man has simply thrown my parcel down the hole again'. That's when I discovered you, my dear, lying in a heap on the welcome mat. You were quite frozen, so I carried you in and put you to bed."
"But where are my shoes, my jacket, and my pearls?"
"The footgear is next to the bed - nice sensible loafers, by the way, and you have small feet - and your coat is on the rack. The pearl necklace is on the table, as I was worried it might break if you tossed around too much. You were twitching and shivering so."
While he talked, his eyes twinkled at her over the tops of his reading glasses. As he put the pipe back in his mouth he said "there's a bathroom down the hall, why don't you soak a bit, it will get you nicely warmed up. I'll put a cup of tea outside the door."
A hot bath sounded incredibly appealing - she still felt the effect of the bone-chilling San Francisco fog.
While she dreamily reclined in the soapy water, she heard a clink outside the bathroom, then footsteps receding back towards the other room. She happily picked up the teacup the badger had left and got back in the tub. This was exceedingly nice.
And he had one of her favourite soaps! Ooh, indeed marvelous!
What a kind creature!
A while later she heard him outside the door saying "when you get out, there will be a bowl of jook waiting for you".
And there was. It was a beautiful bowl of rice porridge, and mr. Badger explained that what he had done was add dried oysters and a little thinly sliced smoked bacon to the pot, plus a bit of chopped carrot at the start of cooking to fall apart in the duck broth, and some slivered ginger at the end. Minced scallion and cilantro on top. It's all about rounding out the flavours, you see.
While he talked, he made another pot of tea.
This was utterly delicious, quite the best bowl of jook she had ever had!
The aroma of his pipe tobacco combined with the other fragrances in his kitchen, and she felt supremely comfortable and content.
"Now, when you've finished eating, join me in the main room and read a while. Once you are fully recovered from your misadventure I'll walk you home".
A few hours later, she put her shoes and her red jacket on again, and he draped a thick great-coat around her shoulders. She had had a lovely time just dozing with a book, perched up against the pillows in his bed under a throw rug, and she was nice and toasty from the jook, the cups of tea, and the tiny shot of Scotch whisky he had poured. Perhaps just a little bit woozy. He had insisted that she have some Scotch before they set out, as it would be even colder than it had been at twilight.
Together they walked up the steps from the hollow toward the path she had been on earlier. He held her hand to guide her, because it was too dark to see. No wonder she had fallen down to his front door, the path was so overgrown and twisty. An unwisely chosen shortcut across the park, but thank heavens it had all ended so well.
She was extremely happy that she had met mr. Badger. Such a nice gentleman!
When they got to her house, she thanked him for being so kind.
He smiled, took the great-coat, and wished her a very good night.
As she went upstairs she wondered if perhaps it had all been a dream.
But she could still smell his tobacco, a trace of it lingered in her hair and on her clothes. Smoky. He had told her it was a Latakia blend - he preferred English mixtures. She would have to see if the local tobacconist carried something similar that she could buy him to thank him for his hospitality.
It would give her the most perfect excuse to visit him again.
She really hoped he would invite her in for more tea.
And let her read in the warmth of his house.
It had been a truly wonderful evening.
* * * * * *
This is posted in answer to the person who, reading a previous piece, felt prompted to ask me precisely what my praedilections actually are.
The fairy tale above accurately reflects them.
Badgers love rice porridge, by the way.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 09, 2012
BOOK READER KIBBLE
I'm experiencing the belated realization that eating half of two packs of cookies is the same as eating one whole pack of cookies.
This morning, consequently, started off with both a bang and a whimper.
But let us not go there.
In all honesty, I ate them pensively over a two hour period while reading.
Precisely the way most people eat an entire bag of potato chips.
Chips are probably better for you. Higher on the vegetable chain of command. Why, there might even be actual fiber in there! Or nutrition. Trace amounts.
Chocolate chips are NOT a substitute for nutrition.
Or fiber.
Highly refined white flour, highly refined cane sugar (yummy!), interesting baking grease composed of various plant oils (including palm and coconut), and high quality chocolate.
Why doesn't someone invent a cookie made from zucchini, cruciferous vegetables, orange peel, and good nutritious meat?
Just the merest touch of olive oil as the cooking fat.
It would be a blessing if it happened.
On the plus side, I still don't feel hungry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This morning, consequently, started off with both a bang and a whimper.
But let us not go there.
In all honesty, I ate them pensively over a two hour period while reading.
Precisely the way most people eat an entire bag of potato chips.
Chips are probably better for you. Higher on the vegetable chain of command. Why, there might even be actual fiber in there! Or nutrition. Trace amounts.
Chocolate chips are NOT a substitute for nutrition.
Or fiber.
Highly refined white flour, highly refined cane sugar (yummy!), interesting baking grease composed of various plant oils (including palm and coconut), and high quality chocolate.
Why doesn't someone invent a cookie made from zucchini, cruciferous vegetables, orange peel, and good nutritious meat?
Just the merest touch of olive oil as the cooking fat.
It would be a blessing if it happened.
On the plus side, I still don't feel hungry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 08, 2012
BALKAN SOBRANIE MIXTURE AND SAMUEL GAWITH'S 'GOLDEN GLOW' BROKEN VIRGINIA FLAKES
Normally you would not see these two tobaccos in the same title, let alone the same article. But this pipe smoker is often self-indulgent, and at times more than a little perverse (ask me about my praedilections sometime).
Yesterday evening at the monthly meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club, we smoked some Balkan Sobranie with quite a bit of age on it.
Brian from Telford's brought a fifty gramme sample from the early nineties, I cracked a 100 gramme tin that I had been hoarding since 1980 or 1981, when I first started stockpiling.
A vertical sampling, in other words.
AGED BALKAN SOBRANIE
Both tobaccos were fairly dry, both were like drifting through an Ottoman haze because of the years. While it would be hard to distinguish the component leaf in either batch after the passage of so much time, the Latakia was more forward and more noticeable in the older tobacco, though the younger product had a more wine-like tongue, possibly due to changes in the composition (refer to Greg Pease's article on Balkan Sobranie).
Being, as you are probably aware, quite the giddy maniac about this famous smoking mixture, I was in hog-heaven. Both were excellent experiences, and I am grateful that Brian brought the two-decade old stuff.
I had not purchased any Sobranie since the early eighties, and had been rather unaware that any was commonly available from around 1985 onward.
Yes, the Gallaher product and what I had in my hundred gramme tin were not quite the same.
But they were very recognizably close relatives.
I suspect that Gallaher had a heavier hand with the heat, in order to maximize the melding of Latakia into the whole.
Still, it would have been fun to have smoked this stuff during my North Beach years and afterwards. Gallaher may have dicked around the proportions, but they produced a decent product.
Again, I enjoyed myself silly.
Mike-the-chef brought along an ancient tin of Three Nuns (haven't smoked the sample he gave me yet), and a mighty fine peach cobbler, Mike-the-host provided goulash with matzoh balls, both from family held recipes.
We ate well. We ate very well.
We smoked perhaps a wee bit too much.
We are all waking up this morning with the feeling that an angry camel crawled into our mouths armed with a chainsaw and committed messy suicide therein.
GOLDEN GLOW BY SAMUEL GAWITH
Described as broken flake, and consisting of moist and reasonably high quality flue-cured leaf.
As the name indicates, golden Virginia tobacco, pressed to meld.
This tobacco should be approached like a dewey young miss with bright eyes and great curiosity, albeit little actual experience of depravity.
Please imagine creamy skin and happy innocence.
It's a very mild product, with a front of the tongue sweetness. It should not be smoked fast, and never hot-boxed. Instead, calmness and gentleness are recommended. Let it do its own thing, and enjoy the gradual unfolding of its charms. Like all pale Virgins it has goodness, but bites when provoked.
I started yesterday's indulgence with this delightful blonde, reached my peak with the zesty Levantine twins, and finished in the arms of the blonde again.
The last bowl of the night just would not stay lit.
The poor girl kept falling asleep.
Before going to bed, I had a small cigarillo and some coffee.
Yes, utterly depraved, I know.
Envelopes.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yesterday evening at the monthly meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club, we smoked some Balkan Sobranie with quite a bit of age on it.
Brian from Telford's brought a fifty gramme sample from the early nineties, I cracked a 100 gramme tin that I had been hoarding since 1980 or 1981, when I first started stockpiling.
A vertical sampling, in other words.
AGED BALKAN SOBRANIE
Both tobaccos were fairly dry, both were like drifting through an Ottoman haze because of the years. While it would be hard to distinguish the component leaf in either batch after the passage of so much time, the Latakia was more forward and more noticeable in the older tobacco, though the younger product had a more wine-like tongue, possibly due to changes in the composition (refer to Greg Pease's article on Balkan Sobranie).
Being, as you are probably aware, quite the giddy maniac about this famous smoking mixture, I was in hog-heaven. Both were excellent experiences, and I am grateful that Brian brought the two-decade old stuff.
I had not purchased any Sobranie since the early eighties, and had been rather unaware that any was commonly available from around 1985 onward.
Yes, the Gallaher product and what I had in my hundred gramme tin were not quite the same.
But they were very recognizably close relatives.
I suspect that Gallaher had a heavier hand with the heat, in order to maximize the melding of Latakia into the whole.
Still, it would have been fun to have smoked this stuff during my North Beach years and afterwards. Gallaher may have dicked around the proportions, but they produced a decent product.
Again, I enjoyed myself silly.
Mike-the-chef brought along an ancient tin of Three Nuns (haven't smoked the sample he gave me yet), and a mighty fine peach cobbler, Mike-the-host provided goulash with matzoh balls, both from family held recipes.
We ate well. We ate very well.
We smoked perhaps a wee bit too much.
We are all waking up this morning with the feeling that an angry camel crawled into our mouths armed with a chainsaw and committed messy suicide therein.
GOLDEN GLOW BY SAMUEL GAWITH
Described as broken flake, and consisting of moist and reasonably high quality flue-cured leaf.
As the name indicates, golden Virginia tobacco, pressed to meld.
This tobacco should be approached like a dewey young miss with bright eyes and great curiosity, albeit little actual experience of depravity.
Please imagine creamy skin and happy innocence.
It's a very mild product, with a front of the tongue sweetness. It should not be smoked fast, and never hot-boxed. Instead, calmness and gentleness are recommended. Let it do its own thing, and enjoy the gradual unfolding of its charms. Like all pale Virgins it has goodness, but bites when provoked.
I started yesterday's indulgence with this delightful blonde, reached my peak with the zesty Levantine twins, and finished in the arms of the blonde again.
The last bowl of the night just would not stay lit.
The poor girl kept falling asleep.
Before going to bed, I had a small cigarillo and some coffee.
Yes, utterly depraved, I know.
Envelopes.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 07, 2012
MARKETING STRATEGIES FOR TOBACCO
Something that surprises me, given that I’ve blogged about everything under the sun, and have, in fact, presented subjects far more exciting and adventurous, is the popularity of a minor essay composed over two years ago.
NAKED SCHOOLGIRL ON A BED OF TOBACCO
It is my most popular post by a very wide margin. Even my very well thought out 'instructions on raising children article doesn't come close.
The portrait of a naked schoolgirl on a bed of tobacco has garnered many more page views than anything else I've ever written.
The concept fascinates any number of readers from all over the world. Not a day goes by that it isn't visited at least once.
TOBACCO
Obviously, these people are cigarette smokers who are wondering if they should switch to a pipe.
Pipe-smoking has gravitas. Pipe-smoking seems intellectual. Pipe-smoking is a darn fine sporty-looking thing to do.
And it possibly has other benefits - but let's do some internet research first!
Before they know it, they are reading about a naked saleslady with an accordion, as well as butter and soap.
They never knew pipe-smoking opened the doors to such exciting prospects.
A naked schoolgirl on a bed of tobacco is a force for good.
The young lady in question was described as "a lovely Cantonese teenager".
That was a spur of the moment decision, but it could just as easily have been a fiery Indian maiden on a hogshead, or a elfin woman from Iceland wearing a dead swan.
The tobacco was also detailed: Virginias, Turkish, Latakia - what is often termed a medium Oriental blend.
Obviously, for people who aren't partial to such heady mixtures, something else is required. Perhaps a Danish girl advertising blonde flakes - either MacBarens or Orlik Golden Sliced.
A smart-aleck continental brunette for Semois, a Scottish redhead for aromatic mixtures, and 72 naked ladies wearing full-body burkas for either strong Latakia blends or shisha.
Black for the first mentioned, tie-dye for the latter.
Smokers of Burley, as is well known, are more effectively approached by an immense naked fat man on a bale, along with a bottle of cheap Rye.
No naked schoolgirls for them.
Black twist demands an albino.
Cigarettes for children? Hello Kitty Brand!
Smokers of cheap cheroots probably like asses and sheep.
Bankers with Havanas would drool over naughty pictures of real estate.
It's all about brand placement and market share.
And yes, you should switch to a pipe.
Most definitely.
EXPLICATA
Aromatic mixtures: these are usually blends in which natural and artificial flavourings are both steamed into the leaf during Cavendish processing as well as sprayed on as a top-dressing. The best are only mildly flavoured and use high quality tobacco. The worst are horrifying concoctions of fruit and cake perfumes that will leave your pipe gummy and your nearest and dearest refusing to let you anywhere near their children.
Balkan Mixture: a blend heavy on the Latakia spectrum, with Turkish and Virginia. Black Cavendish: often an air-cured tobacco which is light-pressed, and strongly flavoured with sugar added, then steam-heated till black. Usually reeks of cheap vanilla and leaves a sticky residue on the fingers and in the pipe. There are some versions which are unflavoured and clean, but they are hard to find. Black Virginia: ribbon-cut flue-cured tobacco toasted in a closed container till dark and shiny, which develops a mild caramelization.
Blonde Virginia (Bright Virginia): flue-cured bright-coloured leaf grown on poor soil, which yields an attractive product known for a relatively high natural sugar content. It is suitable for pipe tobacco blends, cigarettes, and producing dark-stoved flakes. Burley: air-cured tobaccos with a low natural sugar content that are suitable for flavouring, though best when pure. They yield a strong smoke with a nutty tone.
Carolina: region where some of the best flue-cured leaf comes from. Cavendish: formerly barrel packed leaf that fermented during long storage, now any type of tobacco which is treated with some pressure and heat, and often flavoured.
Dark-stoved flake: tobacco pressed and heated till quite dark. Drugstore tobacco: the cheapest mixtures available, in a span from relatively unflavoured mostly Burley concoctions to candy-stench Cavendishes made by houses that have no shame. Dutch Cavendish: the best of these are innocuous, the worst are ghastly. English blend: often a compound of Virginias, Turkish, and Latakia, with slightly more restraint than a Balkan mixture. Flake: tobacco which has been pressed in block form to meld the flavours, then sliced. Most often a whole leaf blend of various flue-cured leaves ('Virginia'), though air-cured leaf (Burley, Maryland, and Kentucky) may be added, as well as Perique. It has to be smoked really slow, lest it overheat and cause tongue-burn.
Hello Kitty: drug-slut brain-eating zombie. Latakia: Dark smoke-cured leaf used condimentally in many blends. In the past this was produced only in Syria from Shek El Bint leaf, nowadays it comes primarily from Cyprus where they use Smyrna seed stock. The taste is not quite the same - the Syrian version was wine-like, sec, and leathery, whereas the Cyprian version is resinous with a sweetish undertone.
Maryland: a mild relative of Burley, also air-cured. Thin ribbon cut was the preferred smoke of many people during the day when this was commonly available. Combines well with Virginia. Oriental mixture: a product with Turkish ('Oriental') leaf in noticeable measure, which also includes Latakia and Virginia. Perique: dark leaf tobacco manufactured by controlled rot in tightly packed barrels, which is particularly useful in small proportion to add sweetness, spice, and mildness to blends. If the percentage is too high it will put hair on your chest.
Prilep (Perlepe): area in Macedonia known for Turkish tobacco, which though excellent for pipe mixtures is mostly bought by the cigarette industry and bastardized with the usual chemicals and additives. Red Burley: a type of Burley which is hardly cultivated anymore, the common cultivar nowadays being so-called 'white Burley', frequently simply called 'Burley'. Red Burley is stronger, and not as suitable for many of the treatments to which Burley is subjected. Red Virginia: sweet and mildly flue-cured leaf, often from Virginia or Carolina, although also grown elsewhere. Samsoun: a fragrant leaf from the Black Sea coast. Scandinavian mixtures: the scientific approach to satisfying all tastes, being Burleys and Virginias given a mild Cavendish treatment and often a top dressing that includes licorice extract (narrows the tongue-burn sensation while augmenting the sense of sweetness), anise (also alleviates tongue burn), and other flavourings in often barely noticeable quantities. Some Scandinavian mixtures are quite good, others veer into nightmare territory. Semois tobacco: a variety of tobacco similar to Burley and Maryland, grown on poor soil in the Semois region of Belgium, and air-dried in barns. Shisha: alleged to be tobacco, drenched with molasses and fruit flavours, smoked in hubble bubbles.
Smyrna: a sweet and fragrant Turkish leaf from Izmir. Toasted Cavendish: fire-cured Kentucky leaf. Low in natural sugars. It adds a mild almost chocolaty characteristic to blends, and combines well with a little Turkish. Turkish: tobacco grown in the Balkans, Greece, Turkey, Syria, and Russia, and formerly also in Egypt. Also called 'Oriental'. The soil-type must be rocky, so that it absorbs heat during the day and radiates it out at night. These tobaccos are usually small leafed, and highly resinous, though with a low nicotine content. Twist: leaves spun into a thick cord, lengths of which are sold over the counter. Nowadays there are very few companies that still make such. VaPer: a mixture of Virgninias and Perique which is often pressed and aged before slicing. Virginia: formerly tobacco from Virginia and Carolina only, nowadays a common term for all flue-cured tobaccos of that type. It is grown in Tanzania, Kenya, and India, among other places. Yenidje: a resinous and slightly sharp pale Turkish leaf from the Balkans.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NAKED SCHOOLGIRL ON A BED OF TOBACCO
It is my most popular post by a very wide margin. Even my very well thought out 'instructions on raising children article doesn't come close.
The portrait of a naked schoolgirl on a bed of tobacco has garnered many more page views than anything else I've ever written.
The concept fascinates any number of readers from all over the world. Not a day goes by that it isn't visited at least once.
TOBACCO
Obviously, these people are cigarette smokers who are wondering if they should switch to a pipe.
Pipe-smoking has gravitas. Pipe-smoking seems intellectual. Pipe-smoking is a darn fine sporty-looking thing to do.
And it possibly has other benefits - but let's do some internet research first!
Before they know it, they are reading about a naked saleslady with an accordion, as well as butter and soap.
They never knew pipe-smoking opened the doors to such exciting prospects.
A naked schoolgirl on a bed of tobacco is a force for good.
The young lady in question was described as "a lovely Cantonese teenager".
That was a spur of the moment decision, but it could just as easily have been a fiery Indian maiden on a hogshead, or a elfin woman from Iceland wearing a dead swan.
The tobacco was also detailed: Virginias, Turkish, Latakia - what is often termed a medium Oriental blend.
Obviously, for people who aren't partial to such heady mixtures, something else is required. Perhaps a Danish girl advertising blonde flakes - either MacBarens or Orlik Golden Sliced.
A smart-aleck continental brunette for Semois, a Scottish redhead for aromatic mixtures, and 72 naked ladies wearing full-body burkas for either strong Latakia blends or shisha.
Black for the first mentioned, tie-dye for the latter.
Smokers of Burley, as is well known, are more effectively approached by an immense naked fat man on a bale, along with a bottle of cheap Rye.
No naked schoolgirls for them.
Black twist demands an albino.
Cigarettes for children? Hello Kitty Brand!
Smokers of cheap cheroots probably like asses and sheep.
Bankers with Havanas would drool over naughty pictures of real estate.
It's all about brand placement and market share.
And yes, you should switch to a pipe.
Most definitely.
EXPLICATA
Aromatic mixtures: these are usually blends in which natural and artificial flavourings are both steamed into the leaf during Cavendish processing as well as sprayed on as a top-dressing. The best are only mildly flavoured and use high quality tobacco. The worst are horrifying concoctions of fruit and cake perfumes that will leave your pipe gummy and your nearest and dearest refusing to let you anywhere near their children.
Balkan Mixture: a blend heavy on the Latakia spectrum, with Turkish and Virginia. Black Cavendish: often an air-cured tobacco which is light-pressed, and strongly flavoured with sugar added, then steam-heated till black. Usually reeks of cheap vanilla and leaves a sticky residue on the fingers and in the pipe. There are some versions which are unflavoured and clean, but they are hard to find. Black Virginia: ribbon-cut flue-cured tobacco toasted in a closed container till dark and shiny, which develops a mild caramelization.
Blonde Virginia (Bright Virginia): flue-cured bright-coloured leaf grown on poor soil, which yields an attractive product known for a relatively high natural sugar content. It is suitable for pipe tobacco blends, cigarettes, and producing dark-stoved flakes. Burley: air-cured tobaccos with a low natural sugar content that are suitable for flavouring, though best when pure. They yield a strong smoke with a nutty tone.
Carolina: region where some of the best flue-cured leaf comes from. Cavendish: formerly barrel packed leaf that fermented during long storage, now any type of tobacco which is treated with some pressure and heat, and often flavoured.
Dark-stoved flake: tobacco pressed and heated till quite dark. Drugstore tobacco: the cheapest mixtures available, in a span from relatively unflavoured mostly Burley concoctions to candy-stench Cavendishes made by houses that have no shame. Dutch Cavendish: the best of these are innocuous, the worst are ghastly. English blend: often a compound of Virginias, Turkish, and Latakia, with slightly more restraint than a Balkan mixture. Flake: tobacco which has been pressed in block form to meld the flavours, then sliced. Most often a whole leaf blend of various flue-cured leaves ('Virginia'), though air-cured leaf (Burley, Maryland, and Kentucky) may be added, as well as Perique. It has to be smoked really slow, lest it overheat and cause tongue-burn.
Hello Kitty: drug-slut brain-eating zombie. Latakia: Dark smoke-cured leaf used condimentally in many blends. In the past this was produced only in Syria from Shek El Bint leaf, nowadays it comes primarily from Cyprus where they use Smyrna seed stock. The taste is not quite the same - the Syrian version was wine-like, sec, and leathery, whereas the Cyprian version is resinous with a sweetish undertone.
Maryland: a mild relative of Burley, also air-cured. Thin ribbon cut was the preferred smoke of many people during the day when this was commonly available. Combines well with Virginia. Oriental mixture: a product with Turkish ('Oriental') leaf in noticeable measure, which also includes Latakia and Virginia. Perique: dark leaf tobacco manufactured by controlled rot in tightly packed barrels, which is particularly useful in small proportion to add sweetness, spice, and mildness to blends. If the percentage is too high it will put hair on your chest.
Prilep (Perlepe): area in Macedonia known for Turkish tobacco, which though excellent for pipe mixtures is mostly bought by the cigarette industry and bastardized with the usual chemicals and additives. Red Burley: a type of Burley which is hardly cultivated anymore, the common cultivar nowadays being so-called 'white Burley', frequently simply called 'Burley'. Red Burley is stronger, and not as suitable for many of the treatments to which Burley is subjected. Red Virginia: sweet and mildly flue-cured leaf, often from Virginia or Carolina, although also grown elsewhere. Samsoun: a fragrant leaf from the Black Sea coast. Scandinavian mixtures: the scientific approach to satisfying all tastes, being Burleys and Virginias given a mild Cavendish treatment and often a top dressing that includes licorice extract (narrows the tongue-burn sensation while augmenting the sense of sweetness), anise (also alleviates tongue burn), and other flavourings in often barely noticeable quantities. Some Scandinavian mixtures are quite good, others veer into nightmare territory. Semois tobacco: a variety of tobacco similar to Burley and Maryland, grown on poor soil in the Semois region of Belgium, and air-dried in barns. Shisha: alleged to be tobacco, drenched with molasses and fruit flavours, smoked in hubble bubbles.
Smyrna: a sweet and fragrant Turkish leaf from Izmir. Toasted Cavendish: fire-cured Kentucky leaf. Low in natural sugars. It adds a mild almost chocolaty characteristic to blends, and combines well with a little Turkish. Turkish: tobacco grown in the Balkans, Greece, Turkey, Syria, and Russia, and formerly also in Egypt. Also called 'Oriental'. The soil-type must be rocky, so that it absorbs heat during the day and radiates it out at night. These tobaccos are usually small leafed, and highly resinous, though with a low nicotine content. Twist: leaves spun into a thick cord, lengths of which are sold over the counter. Nowadays there are very few companies that still make such. VaPer: a mixture of Virgninias and Perique which is often pressed and aged before slicing. Virginia: formerly tobacco from Virginia and Carolina only, nowadays a common term for all flue-cured tobaccos of that type. It is grown in Tanzania, Kenya, and India, among other places. Yenidje: a resinous and slightly sharp pale Turkish leaf from the Balkans.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 06, 2012
LIGHTLY FLUFFED BRAINS
The perverse obsessions of Cigar Gang (the folks at "The Wall") are reaching disturbing proportion.
Today one of them begged me for information, writing “as an expert on the social anthropology of Ancient Mesopotamian mating rituals, what is your opinion regarding this?”
Okay!
Me so expert Mesopotamian bouncy stuff!
Oh yeah!
Given the blithering innocence of his query, I felt confident winging it.
Dear Grass-Eye,
Glad you asked.
It obviously refers to chickens.
Not, as Hamster von Strumpel and Simon Peabody would have it, the live chicken biting and scratching during abusive sessions, but the feather duster wielded as a potent symbol of masculinity and dominance, flicked till a crescendo has been reached.
Compare, for instance, with the fly-whisks illustrated in Pharaonic frescoes, and still a symbol of virile royalty in parts of Asia.
Chickens additionally signify a diet rich on oily curries, with a sufficiency of turmeric, ginger, and black pepper. All of these ingredients were exotic recent imports in the Ancient Near-East (Mesopotamia), and therefore were considered to increase power and drive.
Especially if the curry also included oysters.
Which is a great combination, by the way - chicken, chicken liver, kidneys, and plenty of fresh oysters added later to poach in the hot spicy gravy.
If you have no fresh oysters, the same savoury effect may be achieved by adding mussels or clams. Even a dash of amber fish sauce, or dollop of stinky fish-paste (rather like the garum which the Romans used in their cooking, and very suitable as a personal unguent at an orgy).
Buon gusto!
---ATBOTH
Expert on Ancient Mesopotamian mating rituals.
[NOTE: Firewall objectionable crap has been removed, so that Agent Left Testicle. can also participate in the discussion. Being, as is known, the primary instigator of these kinds of e-mail exchanges and an s-disturber besides. Troubled childhood, traumatic teenage years.]
**The information contained in this email message is confidential information intended only for the use of the individual or entity to which it is addressed. If the reader of this message is not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any dissemination, distribution or copy of this message is strictly prohibited. If you have received this email in error, please immediately notify the sender and delete the message.
CIGAR-SMOKING YAHOOS
That was this morning. At mid-day, when I arrived at the wall, the Cigar Gang dudes were chivying "Lefty", who was looking considerably the worse for wear. It must have been a long evening last night, what with him giving guided tours of his favourite Oak-town basements to orphans or some such. Which he does for charity.
They snapped at his heels like a pack of feral dogs.
Or rats killing the sick members of the herd.
Tomorrow all of them will meet at the collider to discuss the script.
I have other plans, and better things to do. Involving normal people.
Consequently I shan't be anywhere near the strange yobbos at all.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Today one of them begged me for information, writing “as an expert on the social anthropology of Ancient Mesopotamian mating rituals, what is your opinion regarding this?”
Okay!
Me so expert Mesopotamian bouncy stuff!
Oh yeah!
Given the blithering innocence of his query, I felt confident winging it.
Dear Grass-Eye,
Glad you asked.
It obviously refers to chickens.
Not, as Hamster von Strumpel and Simon Peabody would have it, the live chicken biting and scratching during abusive sessions, but the feather duster wielded as a potent symbol of masculinity and dominance, flicked till a crescendo has been reached.
Compare, for instance, with the fly-whisks illustrated in Pharaonic frescoes, and still a symbol of virile royalty in parts of Asia.
Chickens additionally signify a diet rich on oily curries, with a sufficiency of turmeric, ginger, and black pepper. All of these ingredients were exotic recent imports in the Ancient Near-East (Mesopotamia), and therefore were considered to increase power and drive.
Especially if the curry also included oysters.
Which is a great combination, by the way - chicken, chicken liver, kidneys, and plenty of fresh oysters added later to poach in the hot spicy gravy.
If you have no fresh oysters, the same savoury effect may be achieved by adding mussels or clams. Even a dash of amber fish sauce, or dollop of stinky fish-paste (rather like the garum which the Romans used in their cooking, and very suitable as a personal unguent at an orgy).
Buon gusto!
---ATBOTH
Expert on Ancient Mesopotamian mating rituals.
[NOTE: Firewall objectionable crap has been removed, so that Agent Left Testicle. can also participate in the discussion. Being, as is known, the primary instigator of these kinds of e-mail exchanges and an s-disturber besides. Troubled childhood, traumatic teenage years.]
**The information contained in this email message is confidential information intended only for the use of the individual or entity to which it is addressed. If the reader of this message is not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any dissemination, distribution or copy of this message is strictly prohibited. If you have received this email in error, please immediately notify the sender and delete the message.
CIGAR-SMOKING YAHOOS
That was this morning. At mid-day, when I arrived at the wall, the Cigar Gang dudes were chivying "Lefty", who was looking considerably the worse for wear. It must have been a long evening last night, what with him giving guided tours of his favourite Oak-town basements to orphans or some such. Which he does for charity.
They snapped at his heels like a pack of feral dogs.
Or rats killing the sick members of the herd.
Tomorrow all of them will meet at the collider to discuss the script.
I have other plans, and better things to do. Involving normal people.
Consequently I shan't be anywhere near the strange yobbos at all.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 05, 2012
MAGIC MYSTICAL MEETING - AND THE GENERAL LEDGER CODE FOR 'DEDUCTIONS'
Sometime later today I have a meeting with the CFO to go over the accounts. It was originally scheduled for ten days ago, then rescheduled for Friday, then Tuesday.
It was re-re-re-scheduled for this morning.
But I was told that this afternoon is more likely, don’t know when, be ready at any time to regurgitate crucial information.
Regurgitate?
Can do!
Not exactly with that precise guide in mind, I had some deep-fried fish and hot sauce over rice for lunch.
Perhaps not the most intelligent thing I’ve ever done.
My tongue now feels pleasantly tingly.
So does my stomach.
Fried fish and hotsauce is soul-food where I come from, pardner.
I’ve had much better fish, though. It’s hard to get good fried fish in this country. That’s the direct result of the soul-destroying influx of English speakers into the New Netherlands colony after the British pulled one of those staggering bits of international effrontery for which they are famous. It’s bad enough that they took over most of the known world, but did they have to bring their fish?
Nothing could be more American than hot sauce over a bucket of fried fish.
It’s the combination of old-world vernuft and new world ingredients.
Vernuft is good. Especially old-world vernuft.
But darnitall, shouldn’t have used the old-world grease.
It got kinda nasty during the long trek via buffalo caravan from the east-coast. I’m almost certain that the frying-medium they used was either whale oil or bear-grease, just like in the old country.
There was a Spammatic hint, and evidence of overcooking.
Fried fish is not supposed to be leathery.
Except in England.
Yeah, this meeting is going to be good. Exciting, even.
If I look sick during, don’t be surprised.
I come prepared for business.
And I’m fully loaded.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was re-re-re-scheduled for this morning.
But I was told that this afternoon is more likely, don’t know when, be ready at any time to regurgitate crucial information.
Regurgitate?
Can do!
Not exactly with that precise guide in mind, I had some deep-fried fish and hot sauce over rice for lunch.
Perhaps not the most intelligent thing I’ve ever done.
My tongue now feels pleasantly tingly.
So does my stomach.
Fried fish and hotsauce is soul-food where I come from, pardner.
I’ve had much better fish, though. It’s hard to get good fried fish in this country. That’s the direct result of the soul-destroying influx of English speakers into the New Netherlands colony after the British pulled one of those staggering bits of international effrontery for which they are famous. It’s bad enough that they took over most of the known world, but did they have to bring their fish?
Nothing could be more American than hot sauce over a bucket of fried fish.
It’s the combination of old-world vernuft and new world ingredients.
Vernuft is good. Especially old-world vernuft.
But darnitall, shouldn’t have used the old-world grease.
It got kinda nasty during the long trek via buffalo caravan from the east-coast. I’m almost certain that the frying-medium they used was either whale oil or bear-grease, just like in the old country.
There was a Spammatic hint, and evidence of overcooking.
Fried fish is not supposed to be leathery.
Except in England.
Yeah, this meeting is going to be good. Exciting, even.
If I look sick during, don’t be surprised.
I come prepared for business.
And I’m fully loaded.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 04, 2012
ALL SYRUP SUPER SQUISHY!
Some people aren't very good at dealing with reality. Others are defined by the methods they use for deflecting inconvenient incontrovertibilities.
All of us, in our own way, are borderline mad.
It's what makes us unique individuals.
Though in the main often similar.
Individuality often repeats.
HUMMINGBIRD, LITTLE GRASSHOPPER, HUMMINGBIRD!
I was at a neighborhood oasis the other evening having a cocktail after work - having cleaned up an account which had been a right mess for over a year, my brain was fried - when a bunch of bright and sparkling young people came in and sat next to me.
They were obviously foreigners in these climes, and I asked them where they were from. The tall young lady with a very broad leather belt over her jeans was from Minnesota, one of them was from NY, and a young gentleman admitted that he hailed from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
What had brought him out here was Jack Kerouac's book "On The Road".
He admired Kerouac, and in large part could identify with him, see him as in some way representing him. Especially because Jack Kerouac had described Harrisburg as a cursed city, gloom-filled, and ghastly. A veritable armpit.
"It was the night of the Ghost of the Susquehanna. The Ghost was a shriveled little old man with a paper satchel who claimed he was headed for 'Canady.'...He was about sixty years old; he talked incessantly of the meals he had, how much butter they gave him for pancakes, how many extra slices of bread......"
The gentleman from Harrisburg fully agreed with Jack's assessment. It had made him respect the man, because Jack had instantly recognized the dreary dysfunction of the place. That, more than anything else, spoke to him, and he had devoured all of Jack Kerouac's books because of it.
Was there, he wanted to know, someone of equal stature that I respected, whom I could say spoke for me and elucidated my life-view better than almost any other person?
Well, yes. But it really reflects my imperfect fit with reality.
Apu Nahasapeemapetilon.
Especially during that episode in which Apu had been up for ninety six hours, working at the Kwik-E Mart. After which he temporarily thought that he was a hummingbird.
We've all been there, haven't we?
[Note: for over two minutes of Apu channeling the profound and admirable hummingbird, go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bz3fWAtOMV4. Go. Life is too short to embed that video on this blog. It could lead to an existential crisis or something. Lord knows I don't want you to have that.]
Apu is the most likeable person in the series by far, probably the most intelligent, and, far more than Homer or any other character, represents an everyman with whom people can identify. His hopes, his fears, his snide comments, are all expressions of an individualism that stubbornly refuses defeat.
There is far too much Homer Simpson in this world.
And not nearly enough Apu.
Homer: Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Apu: San Francisco, Outer Space.
Get rid of Homer.
Liberate the Apu within.
Don't Bogart that squishy, and if you survive, please come again.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
All of us, in our own way, are borderline mad.
It's what makes us unique individuals.
Though in the main often similar.
Individuality often repeats.
HUMMINGBIRD, LITTLE GRASSHOPPER, HUMMINGBIRD!
I was at a neighborhood oasis the other evening having a cocktail after work - having cleaned up an account which had been a right mess for over a year, my brain was fried - when a bunch of bright and sparkling young people came in and sat next to me.
They were obviously foreigners in these climes, and I asked them where they were from. The tall young lady with a very broad leather belt over her jeans was from Minnesota, one of them was from NY, and a young gentleman admitted that he hailed from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
What had brought him out here was Jack Kerouac's book "On The Road".
He admired Kerouac, and in large part could identify with him, see him as in some way representing him. Especially because Jack Kerouac had described Harrisburg as a cursed city, gloom-filled, and ghastly. A veritable armpit.
"It was the night of the Ghost of the Susquehanna. The Ghost was a shriveled little old man with a paper satchel who claimed he was headed for 'Canady.'...He was about sixty years old; he talked incessantly of the meals he had, how much butter they gave him for pancakes, how many extra slices of bread......"
The gentleman from Harrisburg fully agreed with Jack's assessment. It had made him respect the man, because Jack had instantly recognized the dreary dysfunction of the place. That, more than anything else, spoke to him, and he had devoured all of Jack Kerouac's books because of it.
Was there, he wanted to know, someone of equal stature that I respected, whom I could say spoke for me and elucidated my life-view better than almost any other person?
Well, yes. But it really reflects my imperfect fit with reality.
Apu Nahasapeemapetilon.
Especially during that episode in which Apu had been up for ninety six hours, working at the Kwik-E Mart. After which he temporarily thought that he was a hummingbird.
We've all been there, haven't we?
[Note: for over two minutes of Apu channeling the profound and admirable hummingbird, go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bz3fWAtOMV4. Go. Life is too short to embed that video on this blog. It could lead to an existential crisis or something. Lord knows I don't want you to have that.]
Apu is the most likeable person in the series by far, probably the most intelligent, and, far more than Homer or any other character, represents an everyman with whom people can identify. His hopes, his fears, his snide comments, are all expressions of an individualism that stubbornly refuses defeat.
There is far too much Homer Simpson in this world.
And not nearly enough Apu.
Homer: Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Apu: San Francisco, Outer Space.
Get rid of Homer.
Liberate the Apu within.
Don't Bogart that squishy, and if you survive, please come again.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HAPPY JULY FOURTH
In honour of our national holiday, here are two songs suitable for the occasion. Please enjoy.
NATIONAL ANTHEM!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOM-TmZBzZo.]
VIVA IMPERIALISMO!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3G84iG3Ny3o.]
Now, go on out there and celebrate.
I think that flaming jello shots are appropriate.
Nothing says America quite as well as burning and booze.
Happy Fourth.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NATIONAL ANTHEM!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOM-TmZBzZo.]
VIVA IMPERIALISMO!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3G84iG3Ny3o.]
Now, go on out there and celebrate.
I think that flaming jello shots are appropriate.
Nothing says America quite as well as burning and booze.
Happy Fourth.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 03, 2012
ODD COUPLE
Alright, who took the bucket? I demand an answer. It was a very NICE bucket!
Some conversations, one knows from the get-go, aren't going anywhere good. Listening in on the neighbors can be educational, but is seldom a life-enriching experience.
Unless your neighbors are Savage Kitten and myself.
[Savage Kitten, for those of you who are new to the program, is my roommate. Years ago we were an item, but that ended. She's still a good person - people don't change just because they change - and I'm still an irascible old cuss. Frustrated, yes, but a gentleman. She has her own room. We come and go our separate ways, seeing each other in the kitchen or television room.]
The other day she chastised me for not having washed my plate the night before.
"What the heck happened? Did one of the zombies in your closet come out and vomit?!? Dude, can't you do the dishes once in a while? This is absolutely disgusting, what did you eat? Was it still alive when you pulled it kicking and screaming from the trap? Oh I know, you caught one of the neighborhood children and skinned them. Should've grabbed a chihuahua instead, nobody would miss the little turd machines. Not even the bubble-headed blonde what owned the brute. Just don't bring her home.
Man, roasted chihuahua, that's nasty! You're a real barbarian at times."
In actual fact, she does not have Tourette's Syndrome.
Just an active imagination, and a lively tongue.
And she's full of beans in the morning.
Piss and vinegar, always.
Despite her snide attitude she's also a softie.
Over more than two decades I've learned exactly what to hide from her, so that she doesn't feel incredibly sad.
I no longer mention the incidents of poverty and despair I've seen, nor the unhappiness of people I know. No unpleasant news items, no tragedies.
Don't want her face to crumple.
[Aspergers. I cannot help grasping despair, she cannot even recognize the visual evidence of it, cannot see it. Consequently she has no defenses whatsoever when it is made plain When she realizes that there is misery it hurts her right to the bone. Fortunately her Aspergers blinds her to what is often obvious. It's a small blessing. I've spent twenty years trying to keep stuff out of her world. Emotionally I cannot deal with her recognizing unhappiness of that scale.]
But I will say that I do the dishes. Regularly. Often, in fact.
I need to stress this. And I've mentioned it to her, albeit defensively.
She doesn't notice it, doesn't remember that she left a coffee mug stained with chocolate, tea-sludge, and ginger shreds in the sink. Or that marmot that she hunted down and tortured to death. It died horribly.
When putrefying Hobbit corpses disappear, she doesn't wonder how it happened.
And the less said about the occasional burnt sauce pan, the better.
I never heat up milk. And then forget about it.
Or meat - little charred chops.
See, that's one of the reasons we still live together - I'm a saint.
And her rhetorical exuberance still brings a smile to my face.
POST SCRIPTUM: The reason I (sometimes!) leave dishes in the sink at night is because it gives me an excuse to run the water in the morning. That way I do not have to use what has been standing in the pipes all night for my cup of coffee. Yes, I know that San Francisco's agua del grifo is considerably purer than many other places, and that the chance of leprosy, the plague, and tea-partyism being spread by stale water is non-existent.
Still. There's a method. Logic.
Besides, she's Felix Ungar.
Please note that her exclamatory statement regarding the dishes was delivered near an open window to the airwell we share with other tenants and the people in the building next door. They probably all heard it, as the accoustics are excellent. For twenty years they've been looking at me funny. Whenever they see me, they cringe.
They've heard all about my sadism and brutality.
From the kitchen window at the airwell.
Dramatically declaimed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some conversations, one knows from the get-go, aren't going anywhere good. Listening in on the neighbors can be educational, but is seldom a life-enriching experience.
Unless your neighbors are Savage Kitten and myself.
[Savage Kitten, for those of you who are new to the program, is my roommate. Years ago we were an item, but that ended. She's still a good person - people don't change just because they change - and I'm still an irascible old cuss. Frustrated, yes, but a gentleman. She has her own room. We come and go our separate ways, seeing each other in the kitchen or television room.]
The other day she chastised me for not having washed my plate the night before.
"What the heck happened? Did one of the zombies in your closet come out and vomit?!? Dude, can't you do the dishes once in a while? This is absolutely disgusting, what did you eat? Was it still alive when you pulled it kicking and screaming from the trap? Oh I know, you caught one of the neighborhood children and skinned them. Should've grabbed a chihuahua instead, nobody would miss the little turd machines. Not even the bubble-headed blonde what owned the brute. Just don't bring her home.
Man, roasted chihuahua, that's nasty! You're a real barbarian at times."
In actual fact, she does not have Tourette's Syndrome.
Just an active imagination, and a lively tongue.
And she's full of beans in the morning.
Piss and vinegar, always.
Despite her snide attitude she's also a softie.
Over more than two decades I've learned exactly what to hide from her, so that she doesn't feel incredibly sad.
I no longer mention the incidents of poverty and despair I've seen, nor the unhappiness of people I know. No unpleasant news items, no tragedies.
Don't want her face to crumple.
[Aspergers. I cannot help grasping despair, she cannot even recognize the visual evidence of it, cannot see it. Consequently she has no defenses whatsoever when it is made plain When she realizes that there is misery it hurts her right to the bone. Fortunately her Aspergers blinds her to what is often obvious. It's a small blessing. I've spent twenty years trying to keep stuff out of her world. Emotionally I cannot deal with her recognizing unhappiness of that scale.]
But I will say that I do the dishes. Regularly. Often, in fact.
I need to stress this. And I've mentioned it to her, albeit defensively.
She doesn't notice it, doesn't remember that she left a coffee mug stained with chocolate, tea-sludge, and ginger shreds in the sink. Or that marmot that she hunted down and tortured to death. It died horribly.
When putrefying Hobbit corpses disappear, she doesn't wonder how it happened.
And the less said about the occasional burnt sauce pan, the better.
I never heat up milk. And then forget about it.
Or meat - little charred chops.
See, that's one of the reasons we still live together - I'm a saint.
And her rhetorical exuberance still brings a smile to my face.
POST SCRIPTUM: The reason I (sometimes!) leave dishes in the sink at night is because it gives me an excuse to run the water in the morning. That way I do not have to use what has been standing in the pipes all night for my cup of coffee. Yes, I know that San Francisco's agua del grifo is considerably purer than many other places, and that the chance of leprosy, the plague, and tea-partyism being spread by stale water is non-existent.
Still. There's a method. Logic.
Besides, she's Felix Ungar.
Please note that her exclamatory statement regarding the dishes was delivered near an open window to the airwell we share with other tenants and the people in the building next door. They probably all heard it, as the accoustics are excellent. For twenty years they've been looking at me funny. Whenever they see me, they cringe.
They've heard all about my sadism and brutality.
From the kitchen window at the airwell.
Dramatically declaimed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 02, 2012
HOT SAUCE ON EVERYTHING!
Over the past few weeks I’ve realized that I need new friends. Not there’s a darn thing wrong with the friends I already have, mind you, and I very much intend on keeping them.
I value my friendships.
It’s just that I don’t have exceptionally many of them.
I am not a very friend-friendly person.
I tend to fall into ruts and routines. After a while I’ll start to figure out someone’s though patterns, and then anticipate methodologies of circumventing some conversational gambits, and shooting down other discussions before the horse has had a chance to leave the gate.
New people keep you on your toes. You never know what they’re going to say.
Yes, a number of my old friends keep surprising me; they’ve got springy minds.
But I still require a regular lack of complete predictability.
An old friend who has since died once lamented the gradual attrition among his circle. Most of whom were antiquities.
My advice at that time was that he needed to get out and start making younger friends. Acquire greater breadth in his social life. The ideal, I told him at the time, was to have a whole bunch of freshly buoyant folks at every birthday party happily eating cake.
Some even in their single digits – they’ll get older eventually.
At the very least, several strong young men.
Coffins can be mighty heavy.
I need to follow my own advice. There’s always far too much cake, someone else needs to help me eat it.
Well, not so much strong young men, as I have no intention of leaving soon.
Besides, by the time I go, caskets will be auto-levitational.
As well as foldably disposable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I value my friendships.
It’s just that I don’t have exceptionally many of them.
I am not a very friend-friendly person.
I tend to fall into ruts and routines. After a while I’ll start to figure out someone’s though patterns, and then anticipate methodologies of circumventing some conversational gambits, and shooting down other discussions before the horse has had a chance to leave the gate.
New people keep you on your toes. You never know what they’re going to say.
Yes, a number of my old friends keep surprising me; they’ve got springy minds.
But I still require a regular lack of complete predictability.
An old friend who has since died once lamented the gradual attrition among his circle. Most of whom were antiquities.
My advice at that time was that he needed to get out and start making younger friends. Acquire greater breadth in his social life. The ideal, I told him at the time, was to have a whole bunch of freshly buoyant folks at every birthday party happily eating cake.
Some even in their single digits – they’ll get older eventually.
At the very least, several strong young men.
Coffins can be mighty heavy.
I need to follow my own advice. There’s always far too much cake, someone else needs to help me eat it.
Well, not so much strong young men, as I have no intention of leaving soon.
Besides, by the time I go, caskets will be auto-levitational.
As well as foldably disposable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 01, 2012
TEMPTING LUNCH
The waitress seated me at the same table as an old gentleman eating roast pork over rice (燒肉飯). The table was large enough for twelve, and it made sense to put the lone lunch eaters there.
Later we were joined by one more.
The elderly gentleman did not finish all his rice, but he clearly enjoyed every scrumptious bit of pork. Judging by his contentment, I'll have to try it the next time.
The rice porridge I had was very lovely too.
I enjoy being in a clean spacious place with good-natured people. The wait-staff can best be described as attentively casual - efficient and capable, but not pushy or rigid.
It wasn't crowded in mid-afternoon - there were a number of empty tables - but it was never-the-less bustling. They're open from eight in the morning till nine in the evening, and they have a larger selection of jook than many other places.
I wonder how evenings are.
SAAM CHOI YAT TONG 三菜一湯
Like a number of other Chinatown places it has a set-priced three items (any choice) plus soup deal going. That, really, would be a perfect dinner, but only if there was another person to eat with.
Arrangements like that are actually perfect for small families, and I've seen people happily scarfing down an array of hometown dishes at the place on Broadway, as well as in the small eatery near the park that also boasts three plus soup.
It would be too much for one person.
The menu does not mention steamed eggs (蒸水蛋), but I'm sure they could do it. They've also got things listed on the wall that aren't on the menu, such as 薑葱田雞 and 龍蝦. The latter is quite affordable, only about seventeen dollars.
The roast duck (燒鴨) is probably significantly better than the place on Jackson Street, as that is what most of the people clustered up front were purchasing.
It looks like it would be an ideal place for food and conversation.
I seriously need to take a university student there.
If I can find one. They're rather rare.
And likely to be skittish.
In the meantime, I'll continue exploring their selection of jook and rice plates.
As well as the noodles.
No, I'm not going to tell you the name or where it's located.
It's one of those places I'm saving for myself.
And perhaps sometime someone else.
* * * * * *
Smoked a post-lunch pipe on a bench in a quiet alleyway in the Financial District. It's a nice place to dream for a few hours on a weekend.
Almost nobody passed through, and with hardly any traffic on the nearby streets, I could hear birds in the trees on the next block.
All in all a very pleasant summer day.
A badger by himself.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Later we were joined by one more.
The elderly gentleman did not finish all his rice, but he clearly enjoyed every scrumptious bit of pork. Judging by his contentment, I'll have to try it the next time.
The rice porridge I had was very lovely too.
I enjoy being in a clean spacious place with good-natured people. The wait-staff can best be described as attentively casual - efficient and capable, but not pushy or rigid.
It wasn't crowded in mid-afternoon - there were a number of empty tables - but it was never-the-less bustling. They're open from eight in the morning till nine in the evening, and they have a larger selection of jook than many other places.
I wonder how evenings are.
SAAM CHOI YAT TONG 三菜一湯
Like a number of other Chinatown places it has a set-priced three items (any choice) plus soup deal going. That, really, would be a perfect dinner, but only if there was another person to eat with.
Arrangements like that are actually perfect for small families, and I've seen people happily scarfing down an array of hometown dishes at the place on Broadway, as well as in the small eatery near the park that also boasts three plus soup.
It would be too much for one person.
The menu does not mention steamed eggs (蒸水蛋), but I'm sure they could do it. They've also got things listed on the wall that aren't on the menu, such as 薑葱田雞 and 龍蝦. The latter is quite affordable, only about seventeen dollars.
The roast duck (燒鴨) is probably significantly better than the place on Jackson Street, as that is what most of the people clustered up front were purchasing.
It looks like it would be an ideal place for food and conversation.
I seriously need to take a university student there.
If I can find one. They're rather rare.
And likely to be skittish.
In the meantime, I'll continue exploring their selection of jook and rice plates.
As well as the noodles.
No, I'm not going to tell you the name or where it's located.
It's one of those places I'm saving for myself.
And perhaps sometime someone else.
* * * * * *
Smoked a post-lunch pipe on a bench in a quiet alleyway in the Financial District. It's a nice place to dream for a few hours on a weekend.
Almost nobody passed through, and with hardly any traffic on the nearby streets, I could hear birds in the trees on the next block.
All in all a very pleasant summer day.
A badger by himself.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SUPPORT YOUR TEAM!
As you read this, the Spanish and Portuguese Italians are fighting it out over tuna salad El Copa Mundial the Eurotrash Euro Cup.
So, to laud that momentous event, which will be decided in favour of the winner, I’m honouring Canada, which isn’t in this match.
Or any match. Canada and soccer aren’t really sympatico.
Real men play hockey. Soccer is for benders.
Sorry, I mean European "heroes".
Whatever.
HELLO SAILORS!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XvopEMKAnCM&feature=related.]
I don't know. It's just a cool song. Better than those chest-thumping hymns the Euries have been singing while they fight in the stands. Plus it's in English, so people can understand what they're singing about. To me, all those European anthems sound like Kraut war songs. Crap about shining helmets, proud farmers, and butterflies.
The Hindenburg, the Hohnfriedberger, and Infants of the Patriarchy.
Followed by unintelligible monkey sounds.
Europe is a ruddy jungle, eh.
Wolf Island.
Please note: No Europeans were harmed in the making of this post. We tried, but the bastards were all watching wanky men poncing around a lawn kicking a tiny little ball.
Oh well. May the best man win. Best men.
Hairy gits in short pants.
Enough said.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So, to laud that momentous event, which will be decided in favour of the winner, I’m honouring Canada, which isn’t in this match.
Or any match. Canada and soccer aren’t really sympatico.
Real men play hockey. Soccer is for benders.
Sorry, I mean European "heroes".
Whatever.
HELLO SAILORS!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XvopEMKAnCM&feature=related.]
I don't know. It's just a cool song. Better than those chest-thumping hymns the Euries have been singing while they fight in the stands. Plus it's in English, so people can understand what they're singing about. To me, all those European anthems sound like Kraut war songs. Crap about shining helmets, proud farmers, and butterflies.
The Hindenburg, the Hohnfriedberger, and Infants of the Patriarchy.
Followed by unintelligible monkey sounds.
Europe is a ruddy jungle, eh.
Wolf Island.
Please note: No Europeans were harmed in the making of this post. We tried, but the bastards were all watching wanky men poncing around a lawn kicking a tiny little ball.
Oh well. May the best man win. Best men.
Hairy gits in short pants.
Enough said.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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