IT'S THERAPEUTIC!

The Egg informed us that he had been approached by Grilled Pepper. Now, to make sense of that sentence, you have to know that these are nicknames of two smokers who congregate at The Wall around the middle of the day.
Among the listeners were Left Testicle, Seeing Eye, and The Unknown Walrus.
Plus Harry.
Grilled Pepper had told The Egg, while 'allegedly' touching him inappropriately, that he was going to get "lacquered up and drive his motorbike out to the Marin Headlands".


Harry, who has had flashes of anxiety since a person described as "crazier than an outhouse rat" killed himself years ago, apologized for making jokes suggesting that Grilled Pepper would rev up the Vespa and drive that puppy into the rising surf, ending it all.
He's done everything he needs to do - separated from the spouse, quarreled with his tax attorney, and stiffed a partner out of twenty thousand dollars.
But heaven forbid. Instead, somebody was bound to discover the middle-aged real-estate mogul fast asleep in a field, with his little Italian jobbie still firmly clenched between his manly thighs.
Possibly badly dressed, as a final rebellion against pinstripes.

We gave Harry the advice that he and Grilled Pepper should revive their friendship and go do something together. Something to let it all out. Something spiritual.
Something both of them could enjoy.
Whereupon someone else mentioned a place on Pacific Avenue that does high-colonics by appointment only.
For Harry, a cleansing.
For Grilled Pepper, rehabilitation.

"But what if his brain comes out?!?"

Harry does not want that hanging over his head.
I assured him that whatever ensued would not be like the sword of Damocles.
Then, seeing another smoker approaching -- a man whose conversational habits fill me with fear -- I bade the lads at the wall farewell, and went off to get a bite to eat.

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DARK, LIGHT, AND DARK AGAIN

It is always so much darker during the summer rains. Overcast the hue of charcoal and thick torrents of water both combine to cripple the light of day, and one welcomes the yellow glow of public places where one may stay awhile indoors, dry, with something warm to drink or perhaps a snack.


The young woman sat by herself at a round table in the corner. There weren't very many people there, but it seemed busy. Perhaps she had deliberately chosen the spot for a semblance of separation. The waiter brought her coffee and the obligatory two cookies that always come with it in the Netherlands. She did not eat the cookies.
Between thumb and forefinger she held one cube of sugar on the surface of the hot beverage untill half of it had melted, then placed the remainder aside.
Took a sip. Exhaled.
And lit up a corona.
Dutch cigars are drier than Americans are accustomed to, and the tobacco is lightly toasted. They aren't a taste that appeals on this side of the Atlantic, and the best qualities are never exported.
The good ones are long filler, from the former colonies.
Places with names gentled by familiarity.
I could tell that she enjoyed it.
She looked content.


For the next half hour I observed her while pretending to study my newspaper. She read the book that had been flat on the table when she first sipped her coffee, and now that she held it in her hands I could see the title - The Middle Years, by Henry James.
Remarkable. To the best of my knowledge, that has not been translated.
It was a battered copy, possible acquired at De Slegte.
Five floors of second-hand books, mostly English, French, and German, on the Rechtestraat about two blocks from Stratums Eind. Not far away at all, but in this weather, an epic treck.
While she read the ash on her cigar got longer and longer.
With controlled ease she brought it to her mouth regularly, but the ash did not fall.
I envied her expertise, as I can only do that when not preoccupied.
Her eyebrows dimpled as she read, her face was soft in the golden warmth of the restaurant, and her hands were small and elegant.
The corona seemed at that time to be the perfect accesory.
It highlighted her youthful feminine qualites.
Though in that time and place she was ageless.


The speakers announced the arrival of the train for Den Bosch.
She placed the short stub that was left of her cigar in the ashtray to die a gentle death on its own, stowed her book in an old-fashioned satchel such as I remembered from my own high school years, and headed down into the station hall, toward the underpass which led to the platforms.

Shortly afterword my train also arrived, and on my way out I passed the table at which she had been sitting.
The cigar band was still there.
It said 'Besoeki'.
Eastern Java.
Quality.



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THE TOBACCO THAT HELLO KITTY WOULD SMOKE

Just finished a bowlful of McClelland’s Honeydew.
If Hello Kitty had the exceptionally good sense to smoke a pipe, this is what she would smoke. Now, whereas normal felines have teeth which are not suited to clenching a pipe, necessitating special stems just for the pussy market, Hello Kitty is some kind of shovel-jawed freak, and would have no problem whatsoever with a Dunhill Fishtail.
If Dunhill made a Hello Kitty pipe. Which they should!
Lord knows, if you can find Hello Kitty vibrators, Hello Kitty Vodka, Hello Kitty Chainsaw Massacre Tattoos, Hello Kitty Hamburgers, and Hello Kitty S&M slut-harlot bridal suites, in Hello Kitty Love Motels, you really should be able to find Hello Kitty Pipes.

Tell Dunhill to make it happen.

Maybe Hello Kitty borrows someone else’s equipment?
It would certainly make sense.
But I digress.



McClelland’s 221B Series

HONEYDEW

“A subtly sweet, fragrant flake tobacco in the Irish tradition”

The Irish, as is well-known, have certain issues.

To further quote from the tin-blurb: “The sweet, fragrant Honeydew was all gone by the time Susan Cushing offered the container to Sherlock Holmes, but he was undoubtedly familiar with this fine Irish flake’s gratifying flavor, pleasing aroma and gentleness on the palate."

Manufactured by McClelland Tobacco Company, in Kansas City, Missouri, USA.
I haven’t checked whether they have a Hello Kitty store in Kansas City.
I’m sure they do.


I opened this tin about three months ago, and first described it in a post at that time.

Since then I have finished quite a few tins of Samuel Gawith flakes of various types, and some lovely pressed tobaccos from other houses, including blondes, browns, and red Virginias.
I've also gone through full Latakia mixtures, strange compounds containing Burley, and here and there other stuffs.
As of this writing, the tin of Honeydew is only half empty. When I put my nose to it, it smells like something a refined junior slut would wear, if she were ditching the prom to go work at the upscale hotels on Nob Hill. Precisely the thing elderly businessmen from Japan or the Midwest would love to sniff their dates wearing.
Don't look so shocked - it's NOT like she'll actually 'do' them. She'll simply encourage them to drink a bit too much, dance a bit too much, and live it up for a change. She knows they're married, and consequently desperate for the company of someone considerably younger than the frau who stayed in Osaka or Podunk or wherever while hubbikins went to SF.
She won't even take their wallets when they finally fall asleep tiddly and fully clothed, back in the hotel room. Though she might scrawl something salacious on the bathroom mirror in pink pink pink lipstick.


THE FRAGRANCE OF HELLO KITTY

Underneath the sweet cloy, a foetid acetic odour still faintly lingers. What they've perfumed this product with may not have been a mortal melon. Conceivably a space-age fungus.
Or something developed by the Defence Department.
Psycho-war division.
I would not describe it as a recognizable fruit. But that is probably because many fragrances have a far broader spectrum when fresh, than purified and reduced.
Much dissipates and fades.

All in all, a very decent Virginia mixture, and the funk soon burns off if treated as such.
It has a discreet natural sweetness, and some depth.
Every bowl so far has been quite pleasant, with ghosting that doesn't last nearly as long as I first thought it would, and is easily countered by something in the stinky Syrian category - to which it will add a beguiling oddness. As aromatics go, it is an exceptionally well-behaved product.
Still not something a big butch hairy gay bear should smoke, but very suitable for summer, outdoors, and horrid icky felines.
Like with other such products, I am smoking it ironically.
Though nevertheless enjoying it.
Not because I have a frilly side.
But because I have a mean streak and a keen sense of perversion.

And also, for some reason, it makes me want to purr.
As well lick myself.

Yes, I will indeed buy more of it.
Consider that a recommendation.

TOBACCO INDEX


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LOOKING FORWARD TO SNACKS

Porcupines and hedgehogs are not the same. From all accounts, porcupines are rather grouchy.
Hedgehogs, on the other hand, make fine companions.
They aren't related to each other.

The first mentioned is an herbivore, meaning it eats nothing but vegetable matter without sauce, spices, or condiments. As with many humans, this makes it unhappy, chronically bad-tempered, and probably leads to loose stools as well as an unpleasant attitude. When they re-incarnate, they become Berkeley Earth Mothers, and insist on sharing their philosophies and profound spirituality with everyone around them.
In lieu of painful barbs.

There are also such people in San Francisco, but not many.
We are far more of a hedgehog kind of place.
Food makes us happy.

Hedgehogs are omnivorous. I've heard they like charsiu (叉燒) and siu-yuk (燒肉), even going so far at times as to devour an entire roast duck a la Cantonaise (火鴨) with their dangerously sharp chopsticks (筷子), but as they are primarily nocturnal (夜行的), I have not myself seen this.
They probably have it delivered in the middle of the night anyway.

This blogger is diurnal, and lacks quils or prickly bits.
I also eat charsiu, siu yuk, and roast duck.
The meaty stuff is great fun.


If a hedgehog is reading this, please know that I will gladly share a table with you. You'll have to get up during the day, however.
I do not know of many places that serve later than nine or ten.
Admittedly, the three items I mentioned refrigerate well.
But other scrumptious things must be eaten fresh.
Jook, cheungfan, hargau, and fupeikuen.
Let me know if you need coffee.
I'll have a pot waiting.



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IF YOU'VE GOT A MOMENT, AND AREN'T DOING ANYTHING ELSE, THEN PERHAPS

It was a query that occupied my mind all the way through my long luxurious soak, late breakfast at a noodle place, and half hour smoke on the bench in my favourite downtown alley till three thirty. A sentence that the more I though about it the more musical it became.  Quite intriguing.
After reading the news on the internet, my mind again returned to the phrase.
A happy and optimistic utterance.
One with charm and verve.
It speaks to me.


“MAY I SEE YOUR NIPPLES?”


I had discovered this sentence while going through my blog stats. Someone had looked for it, and thus found my blog. Typing in the precise question “may I see your nipples” brought a reader here.
What a fortuitous event! But surely this was only abstract curiosity, given that there cannot be an actual personal response to something posted so anonymously, addressed to no one.

“May I see your nipples?”

Consider the kind of individual who would use that phrase as his search criterion. I say ‘his’, because I am fairly certain that it must be a man. Only men have both the interest and the insane optimism that could even bring it into being.  Fondness for nipples is overwhelmingly a masculine preserve – with the exception of very young teenage girls comparing each other’s recent developments – and focuses almost entirely on the female appurtenances.
Male nipples are just not very interesting, they lack significant appeal.
The man asking about the nipples was expressing something.
I hope for his sake that it wasn't existential loneliness.

What prompts the uttering of such a request?

In addition to a rashly positive attitude?

It is an innocently erotic query. It suggests that there is both a reasonable chance of the desired viewing actually taking place, AND that the person to whom it was addressed is a very nice person.
Why so?
As far as the first postulation is concerned, one clearly would not ask to see the nipples if the response was likely to be unfavourable, which suggests that a certain amount of conversation and getting to know each other preceded the question, as well as kind feelings, and in any case developments agreeable to both parties. And as regards the second condition, why would anyone want to see the nipples of someone who is not nice?
What on earth would be the purpose of that?

I cannot imagine being interested enough in a young lady who was not in other ways praiseworthy that I would ask to see her nipples. It is quite doubtful that they would be worth it, even as an intellectual data set.
Yes, I am fascinated by such things, but if the person herself is not someone I really like, developments might ensue that would be problematic at a later date.
And it might suggest a closeness of soul that was not in fact there.
In a word: risky.


TEEVEE!

Slight sidetrack: If a broadcaster wanted to gain market share at the expense of all other television shows, it would be a jolly good idea to have a bright and chipper female college graduate who was nude from the navel up delivering brilliant commentary about sports while eating pizza.
I’m certain that 99% of American men would tune in faithfully, and watch avidly.
Their primary interest would not matter.
Nipples, pizza, and intelligent sports talk.
Trifecta.

“May I see your nipples?”

If I were to ask to see someone’s nipples, it would be because I genuinely wished to see them. That would only be the case if the person in question was someone whom I would like to know better and for a long time, a person of wit, charm, and personality. Reaching that stage happens after conversation and sharing interests, finding out more about her and what kind of person she is, and spending a lot of time with her.
In essence, a very nice person, and a situation of mutual regard.
I am not a patient man, I won’t spend much time with people who aren’t engaging.
Even among people with whom I get along very well, there are none whose nipples I wish to see.

The request to see the nipples is far better than a plea to smell her hair, or hold her hand. It suggests frank aesthetic appreciation, without the creepiness of other approaches.

But what kind of man fires that plea off into the internet?

What does such a man hope to achieve?

“May I see your nipples?”

Without a specific person in mind, asking for permission to see nipples is rather pointless. And if anyone does spontaneously offer to show her nipples, whether in response to so general and anonymous a request, OR quite at random, it is likely that neither the nipples nor the person are really that rewarding.
For instance, suppose I am walking down the street minding my own business and enjoying my pipe, when out of the blue a woman I have never seen before flashes her breasts at me.
What do I do?
If I turn around and hurry away (a logical reaction), she might chase me down the street waving the objectionable things.
If I comment on the dimension or appearance, that’s an ice-breaker which will lead to a conversation I really do not want any part of, ever.
If I choose to ignore the exhibition, she may vociferate fiercely.
As you can see, nipples at random are a problem.
One must fear anonymous nipples.

“May I see your nipples?”

The only circumstances in which that phrase can be voiced are warmly positive. The request expresses a level of comfort and interest, and one hopes that the other side is equally at ease and curious. Supportive, in any case.
This is not an inquiry mooted during stressful circumstances or unpleasant encounters.
If I ask that question, it will be a sincere sign of keen appreciation.
Positive endorsement, tribute to the person’s niceness.
I cannot think of anything more romantic.

“May I see your nipples?”

Not something to be asked lightly.



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SMOKING IS DANGEROUS!

This blogger, being a confirmed smoker, is sometimes slow on the uptake.
After 52 years I've finally realized that smoking is dangerous. No, not talking about all the physical ailments that might ensue (please refer to my mother's long lecture on the evils of tobacco when it was discovered that her younger son had taken up the pipe - she enjoyed THREE cigarettes while delivering her sermon), but about the mental health issues involved.
Insanity rubs off. Consider it a contact-high.


NOT ALL QUIET

I had re-entered the building after enjoying a delicious bit of tobacco. The other person in the elevator recognized me as a kindred spirit, possibly because of the friendly reek of fire and brimstone that still adhered, and gifted me with a long passionate account of his job and how disastrous it was for his social life. While doing so he forgot to key in his floor and rode up to mine. Vibrating and hissing, he was the paradigm of impotent rage against the evil capitalist machine.
His lyric eloquence kept him captivated for more than a dozen floors.
I've never seen him before, and wish to never see him again.
If his job is really that distressing, things might happen.
But he's a fellow smoker, and I should feel sorry.

Earlier this week I had seen one of the cigar smokers at the wall go off on a mime.
Mind you, I too am all in favour of mime-clearing. A mime is a horrible waste.  But a fuming bald gentleman jumping up and down screaming about olive loaves and evil Russians, after having been taunted past reason by a mime, is not a pretty sight.
Aren't mimes supposed to shut up?
This one didn't.
A defective mime.


There are many other examples, but my point is that if I were to hole up at my desk all day, and not visit the real world for the occasional refreshing smoke, far fewer people with exceedingly rich inner lives would cross my path. Yes, the tension might get to me, but life would be more equilibrious.
Unlike me, some other smokers have 'issues'.
And should always be given a wide birth
Doings so maintains peace of mind.

Maybe I need to hang around with non-smokers.
Quietly in the back-ground, discretely perfuming their clothes.
I'm sure they wouldn't object, they'd probably find it comforting.
Young ladies especially should like my calming presence.
After all, I'm a pipesmoker; sane and charming.
And I smell like their favourite uncle.


If you need a man with a pipe at your next party, let me know.

TOBACCO INDEX


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LET US NOT TALK ABOUT SUCH THINGS

Obscene.   There is no other way to describe it.This blogger nearly got violated by a blonde from Alabama.

I had stopped by the karaoke bar for a drink on the way home.  A woman from The South was there, having a marvelous time.  But she wanted to sing, and the master of the platters would not schedule her song till two more people signed up.

I do not sing.  Years ago, when I was temporarily insane, I sang.
Even the non-smokers went out for a cigarette break.
I am wiser now. Kinder too.  Don't sing.

While I am exceedingly fond of breasts, I will not be swayed.
These were fine mammaries.
A bit too large - given that this blogger believes in restraint and balance - but nevertheless quite excellent.  Of pleasing shape and appearance, possibly warm and vibrant.
While I can appreciate breasts of many types, I am quite controlled.
The proximity of booby is not something that bends me.
I am a temperate man, and cannot be bribed.

For some reason unbeknownst to me she judged me "a mighty fine silver fox".
The lighting there may be at fault, though.
As well as the conviction that I could be moved to sing.  She attempted to rub up against me, but the bar-seating has arms, and one can easily swing the chairs to an inconvenient angle so as to sabotage that process.  She had earlier been in close contact with several other potential songbirds.
Admittedly they were dogs, rather loathsome specimens.
But still, one must in all things discriminate.
And no matter what, I shall not sing.

I will admit that I am very fond of 'pulchritude'.
Really.  It rocks my world.

But lava-heat with baggage from Alabama is NOT part of the program.
Even if there is NO singing.


Decades ago a woman on parole (having shot another person in a fit of passion) asked me to dance with her. There were two things that moved me on to the floor: she was utterly and adorably vulnerable, and she was an exceedingly nice person. 
I am not a brilliant dancer, but she was a very sweet woman, an absolute lady.
No, I cannot remember how she danced. But she had kind eyes.
She was probably justified in her shooting her lover.
No one should hurt a very nice person.
I danced. Herky. Jerky.

The woman from Alabama could probably smell the fact that I have not been involved with the opposite gender in a long time.  Perhaps the radiance of desperate frustration, conceivably also the aura of fresh-faced born-again teenage virginity.  The very air of clean-living without anything sexual interfering or even anywhere in the background.  It may have agitated her, and excited her appetites.  She spent a lot of time waving her boobies at me.
But in all things, I exercise temperance; available booby does not rank.
Certainly not in a room full of other people.

Desirable boobies are proffered in private.
Away from the madding crowd.
With sincerity.

Of course the other thing is that I've made it a point not to pay any attention to such matters while having cocktails.  The worst mistakes a man can make are when alcohol and boobies intersect, and anything that starts with booze cannot possibly end well.
Affairs should really begin with caffeine.
Open eyed, and wide awake.
It's common sense.
Period.


I'm very open-minded.


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TRY SOMETHING DIFFERENT TODAY

It's always disconcerting that people are scared to try something new.
I notice this a lot when searching for snackipoos in Chinatown, especially if the timid little creatures are tourists from the rest of the country or Europe. Edibles that look absolutely scrumptious will scare them, because they've never had it before - "surely that sixty cent pastry is merely a devious scheme to separate us from our hard earned money", they seem to think, "and probably filled with pebbles or spagnum to boot".

Hah, I will not be fooled!
I will keep asking what it is till they give in!

Understandably, this technique never works. The middle-aged lady behind the counter is considerably cleverer than the average European or Kansan, and unlike people on holiday, her bloodsugar level is up, she's had enough sleep, she's full of caffeine, and infinitely devious.

Once the unwise visitor has bitten into the treacherous baked item, the store will magically disappear.
Poof!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Whereupon the downcast victim of the clever subterfuge will find him or herself standing alone on a windswept heath, no humans or buildings in sight, with naught but a black evil crow in a dead tree cawing sarcastically at them.

The only way to keep this from happening is to NOT eat anything you don't recognize.
Ever.


IT'S MAGIC!

You're in a new place, without anyone who would recognize you for hundreds of miles - what do you care if there's a sarcastic crow laughing at you? Maybe it's a good crow. One who wishes you well, and instinctively feels for you, and expresses great sympathy. Who will come over and make comforting cooing sounds, 'there there, little human, there there.'
The worst that can happen is that he offers you some carrion to alleviate your loss.
Don't mind the sarcastic tone, that's just how crows sound.
He'll share his delicious stale pizza.
Go on, trust the crow.

I really wonder how the first human discovered the first meatloaf. There must have been a certificate attached to it listing all the ingredients by proportion, the method of manufacture, and the exact use-by date.
Same goes for everything else that's edible.

Crows probably did the same thing. Refused to touch the deceased meat or discarded Italian snack lying on the pavement untill it was fully vouched for, and explained in great detail. By a reputable agency.
That, my feathered friend, is wheat flour dough, yeast, canned tomato paste, white cheese, and anchovy. It was baked for fifteen minutes at four hundred and fifty degrees Fahrenheit, then sold to a drunken biped who accidentally dropped it on the street.
It has been there for only six hours.
It's still good!


There were times when I would helpfully translate, and try to explain that lotus-seed paste is actually very yummy, and charsiu is infinitely better than wienerschnitzel or mediocre bratwurst.
It was to no avail. The distrust ran too deep.

The only out-of-towners who appreciated the assistance were a bunch of Israelis two years ago, who happily bought all the treif in sight.
I explained to them that 'pine-apple bun' has NO pineapple whatsoever. It is called that way because of the appearance of the baked surface, all crackly.
And really, it is best when filled with charsiu.

"Oh yeah? They can DO that here?"

"Fabulous!"


One should always be willing to try something new. What if refusing to do so means losing out on the most exciting day of your life? What if always hiding prevents you from experiencing fascinating things?  Entrancing tastes, textures, sensations.
Opening up is better than poking with a stick.

I often meet different people, and have brand new conversations.
There are always points of contact we can explore.
When I can, I try to do stuff differently.

What does it taste like? How does it feel?

Unknown foods and new acquaintances are often similar. Hesitancy closes the door to opportunity.
Usually, what one discovers by reaching out, is something remarkable about oneself.
The world is a mirror - and a reflection you may have never seen before.
Rythms, feelings, and adventures are there for the asking.

A cat may not know this nice shaft of sunlight intimately yet, but automatically recognizes that it is good to sleep here.
And perhaps a lovely beastie might interrupt her dreams......
Warm, juicy mouse, wriggly and sweet.
Wonderful.



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DREAM DATE, AND A BOWL OF NOODLES

I went out of my way to listen in. Normally I don't do creepy stuff like that, but the matter they were discussing was, in a word, fascinating.
I couldn't help myself.

I was forced to eat lunch in a hurry in consequence.
Don't like to rush food if it isn't necessary.
That should tell you something.

The two women were discussing the younger sister of one of them, and what caught my ear was the sentence "all she wants to do is eat, sleep, and read".

It described how the young lady chose to occupy her days off.
This is horrifying - she doesn't like to go shopping!
And she reads books by dead people!

[Doesn't go shopping, but likes to read? In that case her conversation is bound to be a lot more interesting than most. Shopping as entertainment is a completely baffling phenomenon. Though, like cretinism, widespread. Shopping and cretinism are probably linked.  Books by dead people suggests very little self-help, importantly meaningful crap, or ego-boosting autobiography. Good stuff.]


ALL SHE WANTS TO DO IS TO EAT, SLEEP, AND READ!

The two women agreed that this showed disturbing abnormality.
They themselves utterly failed to see the point of it.
Weekends are meant for SHOPPING!
Strange weird girl.

What a waste of time now that she's graduated from college!
Needless to say, I disagreed with their assessment.
From my p.o.v., she was absolutely ideal.


EATING, SLEEPING, READING

What a marvelous way to spend a Saturday or Sunday! This blogger cannot think of anything better. And the idea of helping a young lady do exactly that is immensely appealing! Well, the eating and sleeping part. Far be it from me to interrupt her reading.
Unless, of course, she absolutely wanted me to. For the purposes of eating. Or sleeping.
If I had had my business cards on me, I would've interrupted their chatter to beg them to introduce me.
A girl who reads? Extraordinary!

I trailed them for more than three blocks. The younger sister, I gathered, wasn't at all interested in make-up, didn't like to go to the Westfield Mall with her cousins, sneered at expensive impractical footwear and designer fripperies, and was, in the words of her sibling, a "real drippy poop".
No fun at all. Always had her nose in a book. Last time they all went out for noodles she had come along, and had been social enough. Then went home by herself instead of window shopping with the rest of them.
She liked noodles. More than anything else, the promise of noodles would lure her out. But it was rather pointless to do so, as immediately upon scarfing down the noodles she wanted to get back to her book.
How boring!

Did I already mention that as far as I'm concerned she seemed like a perfect young lady? Utterly divine, in fact.


Refused to have her nails done when she'd been given a gift certificate. Wouldn't hear of pedicures, rouge, liner, or even waxing her eye-brows. Such thick eye-brows too! The older sister wailed "those things look like fuzzy bugs! Gross!!!"
I had caught a glimpse of the speaker's face in a plate glass window by this time, and could see that if it hadn't been for over-enthusiastic trimming, plucking, waxing, base and highlights, technicolour smears on the eyelids, powder, and purple blush, she would've been very pretty.
Rather than looking artificial, even mummified.
When she mentioned that her reprehensible younger sibling even refused to get contact lenses, I very nearly swooned.

A stubbornly literate young lady with glasses, who likes noodles.
That sounds like just the nicest thing!

I wonder what she studied in college?
Probably whole bucket-loads of dead authors.
And there's almost nothing better than dead authors!


Except, conceivably, noodles.


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WHAT IS DIM SUM?

While heading down Jackson Street the other day I overheard a woman asking her companion "what is dim sum?" She was staring at Dick Lee's, which promises the very best dim sum a tourist could ever wish for.
I felt like answering her question, but didn't do so.
Life is too short for random education.

Dim sum is a way of waking up.  Dim sum is an attitude and a way of life. Dim sum is what you do when there are several of you with different tastes and body humours. Dim sum is snack, tea, conversation, and entertainment.


WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST?

Dim sum is a selection of tasty things, mostly savoury, and easy on the digestion, served in a frenetic atmosphere where everyone is getting whacked on tea. An endless parade of carts go past, with offerings that look yummy and enchanting. Frantic gesticulation greets the servers, and people from two or three tables away might even plaintively cry "leave some for me!"
They fear that the cart will be empty by the time it reaches them.
It has been so long, so very long, since they've eaten!
Despite the abundant evidence on their table.


"Oh please leave some for me!"


Dim sum is retired gentlemen bringing their pet birds in elaborate cages to an upstairs restaurant at early morning near Flower Market Road. The birds are hung from rods that span the space above the tables, and while snacking and swilling tea the elderly gentlemen will compare prize specimens, admire plumage, and encourage their pets to preen and vocalize.
Dim sum is a rangy looking fellow with one foot hurked up on his chair reading today's edition of The Star, while abstractedly reaching out with his chopsticks for the chilipepper and fermented bean-paste pork balls.
Dim sum is Cantonese people trying to explain in English what these things are to native speakers of Hokkien, while everyone else is thinking " oh just have some, and then you will know".
Dim sum is several elderly aunties giddy on life, yummy snackipoos, bucket after bucket of Pu-Erh and Chrysanthemum tea, and the sheer wonderful liberating absence of their husbands for several hours, my heavens you never saw such happy girls!
Dim sum is children stabbing each other under the table with their chopsticks after the eating has slowed down, while their elders are deep in conversation over the last of the siu mai and hargau, not noticing what the little brats are up to.


WHAT IS DIM SUM?

Dim sum is a messy crowded place with wonderful snackie things, and little pastries, and plates of spare ribs, and comforting sheet noodle, and perhaps a bowl of jook.

Dim sum is what you eat when you don't want to deal with serious German ladies visiting San Francisco for the first time, who are dressed for all the world like street people, and cannot have meat, gluten, or peanuts.

Dim sum is what you had before heading down to Hotaling Alley to enjoy a quiet smoke by yourself, dreaming of what might be, and observing birds and the occasional pedestrian through fragrant whisps of tobacco.
Essex Brown Flake in a Hardcastle bent bulldog.
Dim sum is delicious.



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THINGS SINGLE MEN DO

There's something wonderful about having good food places nearby. Around the corner from the apartment is a stellar bakery which does magnificent pastries and cakes, and a little further on is a steak restaurant that looks like the set of a gangster movie from the thirties. Deeply padded banquettes, spotless tablecloths, and old-fashioned drapery.
The meat is really good.
Steak and Cake.
Breakfast of champions.
Or dinner.
Snack.

It's kind of a pity at times that I am such a temperate man.

I have simple tastes, and seldom indulge in luxurious or extravagant dining. At least, not anymore. It seems rather pointless doing so by oneself, and it might even be considered degenerate.
I rather miss it.

My best and worst meals nowadays are the experimental things I cook for myself in the middle of the night.

Such as chorizo with hot sauce, curry paste, bacon grease, and ground peanuts.
Plus ginger, shrimp paste, crumbled cashews, and chopped scallion.
Think of it as Mexican - Thai - Indonesian - Treif.
Four of my favourite cuisines!

Dumped it over stirfried stringbeans and noodles, for a dish that might be described as Chinese gone off the deep end. Mixed with left-field Mexican, Thai, and Indonesian; a multi-cultural mongrel.
It certainly wasn't Dutch, and didn't resemble American food.
I might be the only person who would enjoy it.
Yes, it was utterly delicious.
Passionately good.

I regretted it several hours later, early Sunday morning. The chorizo was the same devil sausage I mentioned a few weeks ago, a thoroughly evil and perverse product. The curry paste had Thai chilies in it. Both of these items released all of their incendiary goodness upon encountering the digestive system. It was a gradual and long drawn out process, which led to some very interesting, even psychedelic, dream visions.
Followed by profound regret.


I also regret not having made enough for lunch today.


There are few places near work with interesting food.



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MIDDLE-AGED PERVERSIONS

The other evening there were two conversations involving sexual preferences at the Occidental.
One of them was about someone's rich inner life, and the travails of being into Sado-Masochism. It was, in a fashion, a fascination little excursus.
This blogger is not into S&M, by the way. No, not even curious.
I am rather unimaginative in my predilections.


The other discussion started off when a middle-aged lawyer assumed that a slim willowy Chinese woman smoking a cigar was the paid floozy of the trim and elderly Chinese gentleman accompanying her. It was, as it turned out, a wildly inaccurate guess. She took his mistake with good grace.
Probably because he mentioned the obvious age difference.
In actual fact, she and her companion were approximately the same age. Her lack of visible grey, and her girlish figure, made it seem like she was at least a generation younger.

I've met her companion before. It turns out that both he and the young lady who was older than me had recently eaten at one of my favourite Chinatown restaurants, the name of which you do not need to know because they really cannot take any more casual visitors asking for cashew chicken or tomato beef, and we compared dining experiences while the middle-aged lawyer slunk out of the picture.

Ms. Wong then talked about the fetish that men have for little Asian women.
Seeing as she qualified on that score my ears perked up.
I had recently blogged about that very subject!

[This post: YOUR PERFECT GIRLFRIEND.]


LITTLE ASIAN WOMEN

I'm not entirely sure why so many men have fantasies about petite yellow flowers, but it seems to me that most of them simply want a girl friend who will obediently shut up and listen. Which, in many cases, appeals to them far more than any looks, intelligence, or quirky personality traits. And quite possibly they become convinced that only Asian women fit the bill precisely.

Which many of them probably do.

How..... boring.

I shan't deny that some Asian women are quite lovely.
But only if their faces are doing something.
Blandness has no appeal at all.

One of my favourite people is in fact an Asian female.
A small, petite, elfin Cantonese woman.
Who is at least thirty years older than me.
When I first met her she was working at a coffee shop, and though I could not tell her age at the time, it was somewhat obvious that she was of another generation. Like many Cantonese women she dyed her hair to hide the grey, and unlike white women of the same age she had hardly any wrinkles.
She was fascinated by other people, and keenly interested in what they did, what they thought, how they felt. Not a forward person, but self-confident, alive, and herself interesting.
She still is.

Since she retired she's been to Alaska, Japan, Cuba, Egypt, Italy, and Northern Europe. She likes talking about what she found there, and the people she met while travelling. But she also wants to know what you did.
And did you have a good time doing it?


Another Cantonese woman of whom I am very fond has strong opinions, a vibrant albeit eccentric sense of humour, and fevered passions for antique jewelry, lobster, and the depraved behaviour of European nobility.
Shy, yes. But eloquent, witty, and fierce.

In fact, no woman whom I consider a friend is bland. Not a single one of them is likely to shut up and obediently listen while a man goes on and on. That just isn't something they can do. They are far too intelligent for that.

My fantasies do not involve women with shapeless minds.
I'll admit that I like quietness.
But exactly like conversation, it has to be shared.
One-sided silence is deadly, and meek little girlie-girls are nauseating.



The only women worth knowing are the ones who are stubborn and talk back.
If they have a mop of dark hair and small hands, this too is good.
Oh, and a lively interest in food. That really is essential.



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CAKE!

Shan't be where I expected to be this evening. Reason being that I just remembered that today is Tim's birthday, and that there will be a party.
No, I will not bring flowers or cake.
Cake will be there.

Neither Tim nor I act our age. How, exactly, does one do so when everybody significantly younger than us seems at times to be an idiot? And will end up still being an idiot when they hit our age.
If we act any age at all, it is someone else's.

I like to think that I act like a teenager who is mature beyond his years.
Someone you would love to meet, because I am vibrant and lively.
An upstanding young man, who will go far.
Feel free to encourage that fantasy.

In another ten weeks it will be my birthday. At which time you may congratulate me, and exclaim "my, how you've grown!"
I will be duly flattered, especially if you say I am now quite a fine fellow.
Why, I'll be going away to college soon!

No, I don't need any cake. It excites my gout.
Which I will not mention at the time.

And just like this evening, I will take a wee slice to be sociable.
Cake is such a happy word. It has lovely connotations.

But truth be told, I would rather have a nice young thing snogging me than cake.
We can pretend that it's cake.


Strawberries and icing!



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IT'S ALWAYS TIME FOR TEA

She looked around with a semblance of the curiosity that normally animated her. There were such interesting people here! Truly, some of them looked so strange! But the feeling of tiredness she felt prevented her from drinking them all in. She rubbed her eyes and face, and leaned against the shoulder of her father. Not asleep, not by a long shot. But not really awake either.
Her cheeks were very flushed. And to the observer, they were nearly the same hue as her rosy lips.
At Clay and Powell the man got up and his daughter followed him. When they were off the bus he took her hand, and gently led the feverish little girl down the street.
He had looked worried on the ride down hill. Clearly he was very fond of her.
Probably only a summer flue.
Once she's in bed, things will be better.


The woman was visibly upset. She and her daughter had run for the bus, but when they got there the doors had closed. It could not be the fear that they would not reach their destination that made her look so anguished - the next 30 Stockton bus was only a block away, and another after that - but the wasted effort. So close! After running, too!
It would have been a very tight squeeze anyway, to me it looked like not one person more could have jammed on board, let alone two. And they were also carrying shopping bags. The 30 Stockton often resembles the last helicopter out of Saigon, but this one was particularly full.
Both females slumped with that defiantly pissed attitude still in their shoulders and on their faces.
They were resigned to not being allowed on board, despite their best efforts at making it before the vehicle lurched forward again. But not 'resigned'. Definitely NOT!
The teenager looked sullen, her mother frustrated.
My bus! I mean, our bus! Dammit!
There's ALWAYS room for one more!


She brought the sausage bun up to her mouth and chomped down with gusto. My heavens, it was delicious! She savoured the meaty goodness, the sweet doughy exterior, the fullness of taste in her mouth.
Seeing an elderly auntie so thoroughly enjoying what was obviously a desperately needed bite to eat was slightly disconcerting. I've never been particularly fond of hotdogs baked in pastry, and truth be told those things have their greatest fans among the very young. A hot dog is mostly filler and fat, with salt added. Those things aren't, strictly speaking, the acme of edible. But if you've been too busy to have lunch, hunger ennobles even pedestrian snack foods.
Evenso, these are not refined eaties by anyone's standards; the round reddened meaty tip sticking out of the pillowy bready part looks rather obscene, shocking even.
Elderly aunties emasculating food - not the prettiest sight.
Still, commendable enjoyment.
The old lady has vim.


I had two steamed chicken buns and some rice-sheet noodle with fresh shrimp. Hot sauce on everything. The buns always remind me of young breasts because of their shape, yet they lack the wonderfully velvety feel of real mammaries, as well as the delightful peachy hue.
Think of them as white white zombie tits, if you cannot get bosoms out of your mind.
They are extremely tasty, especially warm and with a drop of soy or a dash of red pepper sauce.
Finished up with a chindui filled with dowsa paste. So good! So good!
The owner recognized me while she was preparing incense for General Kwan, whose image looked out over the store from his perch high up near the ceiling.
She smiled and gave a friendly greeting.
It's been so very long, ah?
Man-man sik.


Chinatown is filled with the sounds of various funny languages. Does anyone even communicate with those yelps and grunts? Still, I understand that the Germans and Italians manage to share data with each other by speaking their own tongues, and no doubt those dialects sound dulcet to their ears.
Hard though that is to grasp.
The real problem with tourists is that they block sidewalks and crossings, and cluster in oblivious little herds at the doorways to shops. In addition to stopping without warning to take photos or exclaim wonderingly over things that don't exist in Europe.
I flee from their flocking to the alley near the TransAmerica Pyramid. On the way there a desperate young couple ask where Union Square is.
Two streets up, then eight blocks over to the left.
Without a doubt they wish to go shopping.
Ere the Euro devalues further.


Distantly comes the sound of Cantonese opera, closer by various bird vocalizations.
A seagull cries somewhere, and a flock of tweety creatures screech among the trees.
Small fluttery things move among the branches, a hummingbird stands still in mid-air.
The restaurants on both sides of the alley are preparing for the dinner crowd; I can hear the tinkle of silverware that someone on the other side of that window pane is placing alongside the plates.


Finished smoking my pipe and got to the office by tea-time.
Saturday afternoons are meant for puttering around.
Either solitarily or with another person.
There's no one else, however.
Not yet. Not yet.



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THANK YOU, COME AGAIN!

One theme which I do not think reviewers have stressed in Hayao Miyazaki's corpus of animated films is the import of conveyance. Most famously, there is the cat bus in Totoro - an image so iconic that one can even find merchandise resembling the feline - but in all his other movies there are memorable scenes of locomotion, in which the characters in transit are shown pensive or expectant, and the journey itself is as cinematographically important as the destination.
Kiki's Delivery Service features it perhaps more than other movies, but Howl's Moving Castle uses mobility almost constantly to indicate change, transience, lack of predictability.

The train ride near the end of Spirited Away is, by contrast, a border-marker between fear and uncertainty on the one hand and resolution and salvation on the other.
And, quite likely, the most significant part of the movie.

[Totoro: the eponymatic character in My Neighbor Totoro, who is a large furry forest creature that befriends two children. Kiki's Delivery Service: a movie about a teenage witch achieving self-confidence. Howl's Moving Castle features a young lady transformed to an old woman by magic, which, remarkably, gives her greater individual freedom. Spirited Away is a tale about a dragon, a little girl, and a witch in a bath house, and is quite the most lavish of Miyazaki's movies, a must see for the visual experience alone; dark, gorgeous, and thematically rich.]


It should be noted that Miyazaki almost always features a strong female as the main character. Men, in many cases, are static in his art; the women are the individuals doing things, having significant experiences, going places.
The story revolves around the heroine, and she is seldom still.
Quiet, yes. But it is silence with a point, not inaction.


These past few weeks the tourists have thronged the usual venues in San Francisco, and as was to be expected the Cablecars have not escaped their freneticism. Normally, when I take the trolley up Nob Hill, it is mostly local people heading home. All of July it has been crowded with the foreign element heading back to the Holiday Inn, anxious to get inside.
As well as those who ride just so that they can say that they have done so.

They are not pensive or expectant. Change is not part of the programme. The journey is predictable and barely experienced, the destination lacks significance. There is a masculinity about the enterprise which is almost competitive, and nearly pointless.

Strong people sitting quietly, with purpose and a place to go, do not feature.

Only late at night, when all the outsiders are warm in their standardized hotel beds and filled with pizza, does the scene shift to dreamscapes with pensive and expectant people doing things and going somewhere.
Friendly trolls in dreamy solitude.
Changes are in the air.
Moisture too.
Fog.

There are fabulous imaginary creatures on the cablecar.
But such 'people' always avoid the tourists.
That's why they travel at night.


Visitors pay six dollars per ride, one way, or they purchase an all-day ticket for fourteen dollars.
Residents often have a monthly Muni pass, which allows unlimited transit.
Mythical beasts sneak on without paying.


The California Street Cablecar ties the neighborhood together.

When we go away, this is what we come home to.



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OH MY FOOT!

Podagra affects one to two percent of the population, according to medical statistics. Which is incredibly disappointing! Formerly it was the king of diseases and the disease of kings, afflicting only blue-bloods and geniuses.
Now it has become 'democratic'.

Far be it from me to deny the hoi-polloi an equal chance at misery, but it would be vastly preferable if they suffered from something more pedestrian.

A proletarian affliction.

When it comes to agony, I am a snob.
My ailments are elite and unusual.
Everybody else's, common.

My metatarsal-phalangeal joint is special.
It is the most upper-class English part of me.
Likely a right bastard, maybe even Anglo-Norman.

[SOURCE: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:The_gout_james_gillray.jpg]


Gout is often caused by diets rich in booze, meat, fructose-sweetened crap, and certain seafoods - particularly shellfish and crustaceans.
Conversely, coffee and tea, dairy, and vitamin C decrease incidence.
What this means is that I should rigorously minimize red meat, avoid sweet beverages, and abstain almost entirely from oysters.
Upping the stimulant intake is probably recommended.
Okay.
Can do.
Gonna spend the rest of my life wired to the eye-brows.
Bring on the cheesy substances!
Fromage.


THOMAS SYDENHAM IS A YENTA!

In the past, severely disapproving Protestant physicians (see person mentioned above) ascribed gout to dissolution and excessive venery.
Given that they also blamed the latter for blindness, deafness, idiocy, incontinence, distemper, whooping cough, and pregnancy, it seems likely that what they were expressing was sheer jealousy.
And rightly so!

I am by no means dissolute. My life exemplifies restraint.
And habits almost Spartan in their cleanliness.

And as far as the venery is concerned, there is none. Not a smidgen. Venery has NOT been part of the programme in so long that if it cropped up I might not even know what to do with it.
More's the pity and dammit!
Haven't done anything remotely venerous in years.
Noah landed the Ark more recently than I have engaged in venerosity.
Heck, given the utter void, nay, outer-space-like vacuum that represents the options for venery extant in the San Francisco social scene, where shallow superficial twats and glib sneering young consumerites pollute the discourse and frighten away virgins twixt timorous and born-again chaste, scare reasonable women into a life of nunnery, drain and discard the past-twenties (of both genders), and by their ghastly excess paint all matters sensual as irredeemably vile, depraved, disgusting, filthy, and disappointing, it would be a miracle of titanic proportion if a nice young lady ever looked at me in this town and innocently decided "hey, foxy looking middle aged gentleman trim and erect with a pleasing twinkle in his eye I need to boff him how do I attract his attention?"
Indeed.
Methinks the medical men (like Dr. Sydenham) need to stuff a sock in it.
Throbbing big toes, twitchy feet, night sweats, feverish delirium (that last is slightly exaggerated, it has not yet been that bad), and sundry other goutish symptoms are NOT caused by 'venery'.

Why, rather than being the cause, that which they blame is the cure!


I'll prove it.


In order to do so I'll need a volunteer.



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BLACK, ROWDY, AND RAMBUNCTIOUS

Corvids: nature’s little fluffy fratboys.
I was under the mistaken impression that crows and ravens preferred carrion. Or at least thoroughly destroyed sources of protein, like roadkill (i.e. pigeons, bunnies, chihuahuas).
I misjudged them entirely.
They like beer. And risky behaviour.

I already knew they liked pizza, as I previously mentioned.

But the beer thing is a new one.

ME WANT!

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XxRXYdFD99s&feature=related.]

Happy bird aims directly at the can of beer. This blogger is not particularly fond of suds, but "Feathers" there seems like such a likable fellow that I'm tempted to buy a few brewskis and go looking for little black drinking buddies.

If you see an indistinct and rowdy clump at the far end of an alley, that will be me and my new friends.
I'll be the one smoking a pipe.


As far as tempting fate is concerned, fratboys take chances that no one in their right mind would. Possibly due to inbreeding. But corvids (crows and ravens), though enjoying the same frisson, actually know what they're doing.
Like fratboys, they can be opportunistic thieves.

MINE!

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0w9q125TSI&feature=related.]

The first forty nine seconds are absolutely delightful. The rest is remarkable.


Capping the youtube evidence that corvids are a helluvalot more intelligent than fratboys is this little piece.

KICK IT!

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqLU-o7N7Kw&feature=related.]



There is a corvid (possibly Corvus corax - the 'Common Raven') that lives near the Transamerica Pyramid. I've heard cawing on weekend afternoons when I'm in the area smoking a post-lunch pipe. It's quiet enough there that few other sounds are even noticeable.
And if there's one corvid, there's probably another one close by.
Cawing is a communicative behaviour.


I'm not likely to put out any opened cans of beer to tempt the creatures, as that might draw in fratboys or crazy street people instead.
But a few meatballs, that should work......



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BOTHER ME

Are you a raccoon?  It's a valid question - are you a raccoon? That is to say, is the world your oyster, or does it seem like you own it? 
Are you willing to let yourself be seen, and do you explore new things?
Do you have an adventurous and flexible mind?
And small deft hands?

Raccoons are not very shy.  They aren't forward either, but they aren't embarrassed or easily discouraged.  If they think that a particularly zesty garbage dump bears further investigation, they will do what is necessary.  Explore, discover, investigate. And, conceivably, come off the better for it.
They know that life isn't always predictable.
That's what makes it so interesting.
Always something new.

The other day at a place I occasionally visit one of the regulars came in with his older sister from somewhere else. 
Over the next half hour he introduced her to several people.
Actually, he introduced her to almost everybody.

Discretely.

I have excellent peripheral vision.
He knows me. We've talked.

I believe I come across to some people as being a bit aloof.  Like a man who should not be bothered.
Quiet and standoffish. A broomstick you know where.
This is not an accurate impression. 
I am not English.

Street people, little children, and animals find me easy to talk to.

So, if you see me, feel free to pretend that you are a raccoon. 
You'll find me surprisingly easy to approach.
I'm gentle, and I don't bite.

And I am more than willing to share zesty garbage.



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