After a repast consisting of a steamed chicken bun and cheung fan, I pulled out a pipe and some of Greg Pease's latest (Navigator) and was packing the bowl in anticipation of a long dawdling amble down Stockton Street.
Still had coffee left, so it would be a few more minutes.
An elderly woman at the counter had ordered a bowl of noodles with meat chunks on top, and when it came, enthusiastically set about dolling it up with ground white pepper, hot sauce, and hoisin jeung. Bear in mind that this particular place until recently did not have Sriracha ("cock sauce") in the plastic squeeze bottle, but simply had jars of sambal oelek on their condiment trays.
The hoisin was also an innovation.
[Cock-sauce: the affectionate nickname for SriRacha hotsauce manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司) in Rosemead, Southern California.]
Now they probably go through crate after crate of Sriracha; they may have to raise their prices slightly to cover the expense.
But it's probably pleased any number of repeat patrons.
All over Chinatown, Mr. Tran's bottle is capturing hearts and minds. At present you see it in cha chanteng, regular restaurants, snack food places, and even dim sum houses.
The sauce is quite addictive.
OH!
Judging by the humongous amount the woman was sploodging on her noodles, she was a hard-core chili junkie. Remarkable for a Chinatown lady of her generation, but it may explain why she was eating by herself. Oh, the secret shameful passion, oh the orgiastic overload! Oh the sheer intemperance of her actions!
Lady, you're older than me! You should be calmer and more restrained!
Not given to such outrageously over-the-top indulgence.
It's shocking, is what it is! Think of the children!
Oh and by the way - enjoy your meal.
I used as much on my bun.
Good stuff, eh?
I may have mentioned in the past that I like watching women eat. Particularly if they're Cantonese, because unlike White women, who always have that air of "I'm gonna get fat! if I eat something nice" usually coupled with perfectly Wasp tastes, Cantonese women want to have fun with their food. Oh boy Jesus yes.
They may have yielded the best morsels to their brothers and elders while growing up, and if they have husbands, boyfriends, or lovers, the pattern still holds.
But when they're noshing by themselves there is absolutely no filter.
Mine, dammit, and I'm going to enjoy every frickin bite!
One imagines a happy forest creature dancing with chopsticks held aloft around a steaming bowl of meaty goodness. Yay! Yay! Yay!
Someday I will have to ask an office lady in the financial district whether she truly likes that bowl of limp lettuce with flavourless overcooked shredded chicken breast and a drizzle of low-fat raspberry balsamic hooha, or if it's merely filler for an empty spot in her stomach and her soul.
Sweetheart, if you REALLY want salad, have something made with mayonnaise, chunks of smoked pork, garlic, and anchovies. And warm potatoes. Don't worry about what your breath smells like, you're going back to the office, and I hope you ain't planning to kiss anyone till evening. Not while you're at work.
Take a cigar and a cup of espresso too, while you're at it.
Enjoy life. Instead of stressing with the lettuce.
Nah, I cannot see a suburbanite dancing with chopsticks. They're mostly dried-up inside anyway, no gusto for life, and certainly none for food.
But auntie over there, however...........
If she were not nearly so antique, I would've asked her out on a date.
If only to observe while she tackled another bowl of noodles.
In any case, I ordered a second cup of coffee.
Anybody who can look at food with an expression that says she's truly glad to see it, hello old friend how splendid to find you again, has a face worth watching.
It's something very Cantonese.
Other typical facial expressions that appeal are bemusement, the look of happy flabbergastion when unexpectedly discovering something nice, gleeful alertness at witnessing another person making a scene -- Ooh boy! Free entertainment! -- and sometimes, hurt vulnerability, such as hid in the faces of Cherie Chung (鍾楚紅) and Leslie Cheung (張國榮) in many of their most memorable film moments.
I've seen that last on other faces. It's wrenching.
Always subconscious, never deliberate.
A wounded quality laid bare.
Très séduisante.
Spent a pleasant hour after lunch wandering around C'town with my pipe, people watching. Finished up at Naam Hoi Sam Yung Hang (南海参茸行), where I bought some loose leaf tea: 特級烏龍和野山黄金菊 (top quality oolong and wild golden chrysanthemum). Didn't get the hairy crab king this time.
[南海参茸行: 南海集團参茸行有限公司 NAM HAI CORPORATION, 919 Grant Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94108. PH: 415-397-3678. Herbal preparations, patent remedies, and tea.]
Nam Hai has been around far, far longer than all those cutesy-poo tea boutiques where the tourists are given a superficial lesson in Chinese culture, along with sips of overpriced lower-grade muck, and the opportunity to acquire a rather poor quality tea-set: small purple clay pot and four teenie cups. Plus teas to match.
All oh so unique.
There did not used to be so many of those shops. Now there are over a dozen of them, all selling the same merchandise. Stuff that only dumb people would buy.
A selection of strangely flavoured fruity teas and truly mediocre leaves.
Smile, nod, bow, thank you very much please come again!
Real people drink real tea.
And put chili sauce on their food.
What's the point of living without zest?
I think it's time to baptise my newest small teapot.
Bought it a while back. I have a modest collection of such.
It is pointless owning teapots unless you are going to use them.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
SYMPATHY OF SORTS FOR THE SUBURBS
Mark in Pleasanton informs me that for several days earlier this month, the outside temperature at dawn has been twenty-eight degrees. It could have been somewhere else, I'm not entirely sure where he and his spouse live.
TWENTY EIGHT DEGREES!
He mentioned this after another person suggested I should take the opportunity to visit Holland again, now that I have a bit of time. I explained that they're having the opposite of a heat-wave in the Netherlands right now, and I dislike cold-weather intensely. Which is why I live in California.
Unfortunately, I live in the wrong part of California.
San Francisco approximates the Arctic.
With howling wolves.
Still. Twenty eight degrees. That's bitter. About the only thing you want to do when you pad downstairs in your fuzzy bathrobe and fluffy pink rabbit slippers is turn on the coffee, open the back door to let in the foxes and raccoons that are patiently waiting out there, tell them to raid the cat's supper dish and keep quiet while doing so, then shut the door again.
The cat has some weird friends. I swear one of them visited the chicken coop. No, not for food. For warmth. Nothing says winter comfort better than the sweaty press of hot-blooded panicky birds. A moving featherbed.
Pity it smells so bad.
Rolling in the snow at dawn gets most of the frowst off, but still.
Once you've done that you are chilled once more.
Dammit, when IS grumpus gonna open the kitchen door?
I'm freezing out here!
Later on you go into the living room to plonk at the computer, where you discover that the raccoons and foxes are now curled up on the couch, sleeping off their hangovers. They drool and mutter while they doze.
It's like a having a bunch of college kids over.
Live and lithe, with bushy tails.
And bad breath.
Maybe I shouldn't have put the Dominoes pizza in the cat dish. Nothing is worse than carnivore with stale anchovy coming out of its mouth.
Time to light up a pipe and chase those fishy blues away.
Yeah, a strong English blend. Germain & Son.
Latakia, Turkish, Virginia.
That good.
Dang, twenty eight degrees?!?
I'm staying in San Francisco.
Despite everyone with vile non-smoker breath, gibbering flocks of do-gooders, sincere intellectuals, undiscovered artists, and the feral vegans.
This pipe smoker ain't crazy.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TWENTY EIGHT DEGREES!
He mentioned this after another person suggested I should take the opportunity to visit Holland again, now that I have a bit of time. I explained that they're having the opposite of a heat-wave in the Netherlands right now, and I dislike cold-weather intensely. Which is why I live in California.
Unfortunately, I live in the wrong part of California.
San Francisco approximates the Arctic.
With howling wolves.
Still. Twenty eight degrees. That's bitter. About the only thing you want to do when you pad downstairs in your fuzzy bathrobe and fluffy pink rabbit slippers is turn on the coffee, open the back door to let in the foxes and raccoons that are patiently waiting out there, tell them to raid the cat's supper dish and keep quiet while doing so, then shut the door again.
The cat has some weird friends. I swear one of them visited the chicken coop. No, not for food. For warmth. Nothing says winter comfort better than the sweaty press of hot-blooded panicky birds. A moving featherbed.
Pity it smells so bad.
Rolling in the snow at dawn gets most of the frowst off, but still.
Once you've done that you are chilled once more.
Dammit, when IS grumpus gonna open the kitchen door?
I'm freezing out here!
Later on you go into the living room to plonk at the computer, where you discover that the raccoons and foxes are now curled up on the couch, sleeping off their hangovers. They drool and mutter while they doze.
It's like a having a bunch of college kids over.
Live and lithe, with bushy tails.
And bad breath.
Maybe I shouldn't have put the Dominoes pizza in the cat dish. Nothing is worse than carnivore with stale anchovy coming out of its mouth.
Time to light up a pipe and chase those fishy blues away.
Yeah, a strong English blend. Germain & Son.
Latakia, Turkish, Virginia.
That good.
Dang, twenty eight degrees?!?
I'm staying in San Francisco.
Despite everyone with vile non-smoker breath, gibbering flocks of do-gooders, sincere intellectuals, undiscovered artists, and the feral vegans.
This pipe smoker ain't crazy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
MEN WHO SMELL OF CAKE, AND OTHER THINGS
It happened on Kearny near Sutter. Now I know why I seldom go down to that part of town. It's a very strange neck of the woods.
I had been looking around for a shop that is no longer there, when I smelled cake. Nice fresh cake, with a slightly odd undertone of savage musk. When I looked around there were no cake shops nearby. Momentarily the smell got stronger, then faded again. At that point I realized that it had been a middle-aged gentleman (older than me) who had just passed, and I also understood that it was his aftershave. Some older people are less acute in the nose department, and just don't smell themselves really well. Consequently they splash on what others merely sprinkle.
This post is not about sprinkling those past early youth.
Such as men with non-functioning olfactories.
It is about what men shouldn't do.
As well as fragrances.
The smells of a fine cake, alongside a small cup of coffee or tea, is one of the most intensely private of sensations. Fresh moist sponge, perfect fruit, and a subtle drop of vanilla, added to the faint faint nose-whisper of rich whipped cream........ And a toasty hue of coffee in the air, or wine-like black tea.
An aromatic recall of summers past, sunlight, and dense green beyond the curtains. Or a fond memory of early spring rain, darkness during daylight, and a warm room.
Perfect, indeed, entirely by oneself. But cake is made in measures far too large for just one person, so inevitably there is also an association with others, who might not be present when that most delicious slice is guiltily enjoyed alone.
Cake is the distilled epitome of sharing.
I can imagine several personal fragrances I would much rather have on a middle-aged man. Cake must obviously fade into the bottom rung of choices. Perhaps a whiff of pine-tar, or a shadow of gasoline and brake oil. Rope, leather, and saddle grease -- although that is more of a Castro Street affectation, I think.
An suggestion of dark Dutch shag tobacco, for a bright young teenager.
Or tweeds with an underlay of fields, and heather in bloom.
Tannins from oak leaves in Autumn.
Several years ago there was a men's cologne with a very pronounced pong of vanilla. Yes, other essences too, as the overall effect was meant to suggest a tropical island, albeit one with carnivorous wildlife. Altogether a bit much. But it went through a phase, and every day you'd get on the elevator and someone was wearing it. You could tell when their own awareness of it's effect weakened, as over a period of weeks the smell got stronger and stronger.
At times it was so horrendous that you wished that someone would get in after eating onions. Or maybe salami, real Italian or Hungarian cured meat, with a juicy reek of garlic. No, tuna fish. My kingdom for some tuna fish!
A basket of orchard peaches, bruised and oozing!
Or even, in a pinch, cake.
As perfumes go, cake isn't so bad.
Men should not smell of cake, however.
Maybe persons of the female gender should.
But rather than wearing cake, it ought to be shared.
Over cups of crema-capped espresso or kermesite-hued tea.
I spent the next few hours thinking of cake. But I did not go search for it, as even one slice is a bit much for an adult. Cake, almost more than anything else, is the province of the young.
People with quick digestions, high metabolisms, tons of rambunctious energy, and above all, extraordinary tolerances for sugar.
Once you're past twenty you quiet down a bit.
Cake comes only on special occasions.
That, too, is a pleasure.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I had been looking around for a shop that is no longer there, when I smelled cake. Nice fresh cake, with a slightly odd undertone of savage musk. When I looked around there were no cake shops nearby. Momentarily the smell got stronger, then faded again. At that point I realized that it had been a middle-aged gentleman (older than me) who had just passed, and I also understood that it was his aftershave. Some older people are less acute in the nose department, and just don't smell themselves really well. Consequently they splash on what others merely sprinkle.
This post is not about sprinkling those past early youth.
Such as men with non-functioning olfactories.
It is about what men shouldn't do.
As well as fragrances.
The smells of a fine cake, alongside a small cup of coffee or tea, is one of the most intensely private of sensations. Fresh moist sponge, perfect fruit, and a subtle drop of vanilla, added to the faint faint nose-whisper of rich whipped cream........ And a toasty hue of coffee in the air, or wine-like black tea.
An aromatic recall of summers past, sunlight, and dense green beyond the curtains. Or a fond memory of early spring rain, darkness during daylight, and a warm room.
Perfect, indeed, entirely by oneself. But cake is made in measures far too large for just one person, so inevitably there is also an association with others, who might not be present when that most delicious slice is guiltily enjoyed alone.
Cake is the distilled epitome of sharing.
I can imagine several personal fragrances I would much rather have on a middle-aged man. Cake must obviously fade into the bottom rung of choices. Perhaps a whiff of pine-tar, or a shadow of gasoline and brake oil. Rope, leather, and saddle grease -- although that is more of a Castro Street affectation, I think.
An suggestion of dark Dutch shag tobacco, for a bright young teenager.
Or tweeds with an underlay of fields, and heather in bloom.
Tannins from oak leaves in Autumn.
Several years ago there was a men's cologne with a very pronounced pong of vanilla. Yes, other essences too, as the overall effect was meant to suggest a tropical island, albeit one with carnivorous wildlife. Altogether a bit much. But it went through a phase, and every day you'd get on the elevator and someone was wearing it. You could tell when their own awareness of it's effect weakened, as over a period of weeks the smell got stronger and stronger.
At times it was so horrendous that you wished that someone would get in after eating onions. Or maybe salami, real Italian or Hungarian cured meat, with a juicy reek of garlic. No, tuna fish. My kingdom for some tuna fish!
A basket of orchard peaches, bruised and oozing!
Or even, in a pinch, cake.
As perfumes go, cake isn't so bad.
Men should not smell of cake, however.
Maybe persons of the female gender should.
But rather than wearing cake, it ought to be shared.
Over cups of crema-capped espresso or kermesite-hued tea.
I spent the next few hours thinking of cake. But I did not go search for it, as even one slice is a bit much for an adult. Cake, almost more than anything else, is the province of the young.
People with quick digestions, high metabolisms, tons of rambunctious energy, and above all, extraordinary tolerances for sugar.
Once you're past twenty you quiet down a bit.
Cake comes only on special occasions.
That, too, is a pleasure.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 21, 2013
MY WIFE DIDN'T GAG!
On several different fora where pipe-smokers hang out a certain pattern becomes apparent after a while. At first you don't even notice it -- especially if you're cruising in for a good read about smelly burning dead poisonous leaves -- but gradually, almost subtly, it sneaks up on you.
Certain remarks. Snide, perhaps, and sneering too.
But all in all extraordinarily touching.
Remarks such as the following:
"She promised not to throw me out, as long as I never smoke that blend in the bed-room again."
"My wife turned green and left the kitchen."
"She wanted new curtains, this was the perfect excuse."
"Guaranteed spouse repellent."
"A great smoke for late at night. Unless you're married. Which I am."
Good lord, I am flabbergasted. These men have wives! Who'dda thunk it?
It turns out that everywhere EXCEPT the great state of California, pipe smokers get hitched. They aren't considered vile anti-social sadists who want nothing better than to enslave little children and Vegans, and ruin, positively RUIN, their innocent little asthmatic lungs. Instead, they're regarded as all-round decent fellows, with a plenitude of wit, gallantry, gentlemanliness, and intellect.
Heck, judging from much of the writing, there is considerable mutual affection; some comments indicate that the spousal unit reacted quite favourably.
Even the pets liked certain tobacco blends.
And the children.
Pipe smokers may actually be better life-partners than Vegans.
And far more interesting conversationalists, too.
As well as pleasingly fragrant.
Remember that.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Certain remarks. Snide, perhaps, and sneering too.
But all in all extraordinarily touching.
Remarks such as the following:
"She promised not to throw me out, as long as I never smoke that blend in the bed-room again."
"My wife turned green and left the kitchen."
"She wanted new curtains, this was the perfect excuse."
"Guaranteed spouse repellent."
"A great smoke for late at night. Unless you're married. Which I am."
Good lord, I am flabbergasted. These men have wives! Who'dda thunk it?
It turns out that everywhere EXCEPT the great state of California, pipe smokers get hitched. They aren't considered vile anti-social sadists who want nothing better than to enslave little children and Vegans, and ruin, positively RUIN, their innocent little asthmatic lungs. Instead, they're regarded as all-round decent fellows, with a plenitude of wit, gallantry, gentlemanliness, and intellect.
Heck, judging from much of the writing, there is considerable mutual affection; some comments indicate that the spousal unit reacted quite favourably.
Even the pets liked certain tobacco blends.
And the children.
Pipe smokers may actually be better life-partners than Vegans.
And far more interesting conversationalists, too.
As well as pleasingly fragrant.
Remember that.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 20, 2013
WE LIKE STINKY MAN!
It is disturbing that little children and small animals like me. Not that I particularly mind, please understand, as innocent affection is always a warm thing to receive. But both of those types of creature do not have filters, and will therefore express their happiness at my attention without restraint.
NIGHTTIME
The other evening I was noticed by a little dog. His owner said "he LIKES you, normally he never does that". The 'that' being spontaneously jumping up on my lap to be petted. The dog, according to his human, was shy around strangers, and skittish. Reserved, she called it.
It was a very friendly quiet creature, and wanted nothing more than to be stroked while it alertly kept everyone else in sight. I may have been a lucky port in a storm, but he was very glad he had found me. Both a good perch, and a hospitable environment. One which petted well.
Sometimes, when you're smoking a pipe, you need two hands. Fiddling with the briar requires it. When you have a small furry person on your lap, who is clearly enjoying a regular skritchy stroke around the shoulders as well as a long full-handed smoothing of the fur down the back, it may be hard to give your smoking equipment the full attention it deserves. Your mind is torn between the needs of the animal -- mmm, strokes -- and the smouldering leaf threatening to go out if not tamped.
Rocky stayed on my lap for nearly forty minutes. He was reserved, but I find it hard to call him shy. A very nice animal, peaceable and with a warm personality. The pipe had gone out half an hour before he had to leave. The tobacco was, I think, the one thing that kept him from kissing me on the chin.
DAYTIME
I sat down at the only space left at the counter, inspected the menu, and told the waitress what I wanted. The little blonde girl sitting next to me with her mom looked astounded at what came out of my mouth. And asked me "what did you say?". Errm, that was 'yuen choi gai kau fan, m-koi. "What's that?" It's chicken and small vegetables over rice, like what it says here: Chinese vegetable and chicken rice plate. She then wanted to know how I knew how to say it differently.
Well, because that's what these markings say.
Oh.
"What's THAT one?" Oh, that's 'gai' (雞), it means chicken.
"And that one?" Si-choi (時菜), seasonable vegetable - it means fresh small cabbages, very sweet.
"Mm, sweet."
Pause.
"Why do they write it like that?" Well, to them it makes more sense because of how their language works than to write our word 'chicken'. To demonstrate, I wrote both 'chicken' and 雞 on the paper napkin. She gravely informed me that it didn't look at all like a fowl, but added, "and so doesn't 'chicken'".
Then her food came, and her mom told her to stop bothering 'that man' and eat.
She observed me out of the corner of her eye.
While I waited for my food, I loaded up a pipe in anticipation of my post-lunch smoke. She was fascinated by this action, but kept eating. Finally she couldn't hold it in any longer, asking "what IS that?" It's a pipe, sweetheart, I use it to smoke tobacco. And this is very nice tobacco, smells a bit like dry fruit, but with a hint of grassy sweetness.
Her mom looked upset and hissed at me "we're teaching her that tobacco is BAD!"
Oh. Sorry.
The kid kept looking over in my direction while finishing what she could.
Her mom meanwhile made sure that she knew tobacco smelled horrid!
Which, if the kid had never noticed, was useless information. Especially because my tobacco smells good. Real good. I winked at the kid. She grinned.
"Mom, I'm done!"
"Okay."
"Why did my mom tell you that tobacco is bad?"
Because it is, sweetheart, very bad.
"Why do you smoke then?"
Well, sometimes people like doing bad things. Kinda like the Cookie Monster, who refuses to eat healthy food and scarfs down all the cookies he can find.
"But cookies are GOOD for him!"
Oh yeah, how do you figure?
"Because he's the cookie monster! He EATS cookies! He wouldn't be called the cookie monster otherwise!"
Okay, that makes sense. But I like pipe tobacco, not cookies. So what does that make me?
"STINKY MAN!"
"Mabel!" Before her mother could say another remonstrative word, I smiled and assured her that it was okay, the child had great powers of observation, it's perfectly all right. Honest!
The mom subsided.
The kid just beamed. Obviously the term "Stinky Man" was a happy inspiration. And accurate too.
When I paid and left, I could hear her telling her mom "I love Stinky Man!"
Stinky Man loves you too, sweetheart.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NIGHTTIME
The other evening I was noticed by a little dog. His owner said "he LIKES you, normally he never does that". The 'that' being spontaneously jumping up on my lap to be petted. The dog, according to his human, was shy around strangers, and skittish. Reserved, she called it.
It was a very friendly quiet creature, and wanted nothing more than to be stroked while it alertly kept everyone else in sight. I may have been a lucky port in a storm, but he was very glad he had found me. Both a good perch, and a hospitable environment. One which petted well.
Sometimes, when you're smoking a pipe, you need two hands. Fiddling with the briar requires it. When you have a small furry person on your lap, who is clearly enjoying a regular skritchy stroke around the shoulders as well as a long full-handed smoothing of the fur down the back, it may be hard to give your smoking equipment the full attention it deserves. Your mind is torn between the needs of the animal -- mmm, strokes -- and the smouldering leaf threatening to go out if not tamped.
Rocky stayed on my lap for nearly forty minutes. He was reserved, but I find it hard to call him shy. A very nice animal, peaceable and with a warm personality. The pipe had gone out half an hour before he had to leave. The tobacco was, I think, the one thing that kept him from kissing me on the chin.
DAYTIME
I sat down at the only space left at the counter, inspected the menu, and told the waitress what I wanted. The little blonde girl sitting next to me with her mom looked astounded at what came out of my mouth. And asked me "what did you say?". Errm, that was 'yuen choi gai kau fan, m-koi. "What's that?" It's chicken and small vegetables over rice, like what it says here: Chinese vegetable and chicken rice plate. She then wanted to know how I knew how to say it differently.
Well, because that's what these markings say.
Oh.
"What's THAT one?" Oh, that's 'gai' (雞), it means chicken.
"And that one?" Si-choi (時菜), seasonable vegetable - it means fresh small cabbages, very sweet.
"Mm, sweet."
Pause.
"Why do they write it like that?" Well, to them it makes more sense because of how their language works than to write our word 'chicken'. To demonstrate, I wrote both 'chicken' and 雞 on the paper napkin. She gravely informed me that it didn't look at all like a fowl, but added, "and so doesn't 'chicken'".
Then her food came, and her mom told her to stop bothering 'that man' and eat.
She observed me out of the corner of her eye.
While I waited for my food, I loaded up a pipe in anticipation of my post-lunch smoke. She was fascinated by this action, but kept eating. Finally she couldn't hold it in any longer, asking "what IS that?" It's a pipe, sweetheart, I use it to smoke tobacco. And this is very nice tobacco, smells a bit like dry fruit, but with a hint of grassy sweetness.
Her mom looked upset and hissed at me "we're teaching her that tobacco is BAD!"
Oh. Sorry.
The kid kept looking over in my direction while finishing what she could.
Her mom meanwhile made sure that she knew tobacco smelled horrid!
Which, if the kid had never noticed, was useless information. Especially because my tobacco smells good. Real good. I winked at the kid. She grinned.
"Mom, I'm done!"
"Okay."
"Why did my mom tell you that tobacco is bad?"
Because it is, sweetheart, very bad.
"Why do you smoke then?"
Well, sometimes people like doing bad things. Kinda like the Cookie Monster, who refuses to eat healthy food and scarfs down all the cookies he can find.
"But cookies are GOOD for him!"
Oh yeah, how do you figure?
"Because he's the cookie monster! He EATS cookies! He wouldn't be called the cookie monster otherwise!"
Okay, that makes sense. But I like pipe tobacco, not cookies. So what does that make me?
"STINKY MAN!"
"Mabel!" Before her mother could say another remonstrative word, I smiled and assured her that it was okay, the child had great powers of observation, it's perfectly all right. Honest!
The mom subsided.
The kid just beamed. Obviously the term "Stinky Man" was a happy inspiration. And accurate too.
When I paid and left, I could hear her telling her mom "I love Stinky Man!"
Stinky Man loves you too, sweetheart.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PROFOUND LIFE EVENTS
One of my friends is seriously considering changing his name. This is an important decision, not to be taken lightly. A name, after all, is the handle by which other people remember your personality. Say the words, and the face and mannerisms come to mind.
A very serious decision.
If I were to change my name from 'Bogorodicza Guadalupeskaya', for example, to 'Bingo-Jesus Dingleberry', my friends might well expect something momentous. Surely, they would think, he will grow into that name? And does it reflect the man we already know as well as his previous nomen?
I would have to explain that Bingo-Jesus Dingleberry is much, MUCH easier to remember and pronounce than Bogorodicza Guadalupeskaya, and furthermore matched my conversion from an antiquated branch of Christianity to Native-American religion.
Reborn Man Runs With Dingleberries!
It's very spiritual. I've got a tattoo which says so.
Unfortunately, my friend is thinking of changing his appellation to 'Spike'. Spike Ratchette. Something having to do with his Harley, not sure what.
I cannot see him as 'Spike'. I was thinking more along the lines of Shep Dawg. Or Leonard ('Lenny') Baldy-Whack. The first indicating his physique and personal habits, the second reflective of both gravitas and a profound lack of top-hair.
His choice, however, screams 'middle-age crisis'.
Not something I have much respect for.
Just glue on a ponytail, dude.
His plan is on hold for the time-being. I've managed to convince him that in the interim, while he thinks this thing through, he should get himself some worry beads and a bottle of Bourbon. By acquiring those two things he can cover the span between his refound spirituality and his missing machismo.
When the time comes, I'll happily advise him again.
Regarding his change of name and image.
And how his kids will react.
With hysterical hooting.
And snide comments.
If they need ideas, I will be happy to oblige.
Spike Ratchette. Good lord.
Prickles Dill-Wad
Dingo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A very serious decision.
If I were to change my name from 'Bogorodicza Guadalupeskaya', for example, to 'Bingo-Jesus Dingleberry', my friends might well expect something momentous. Surely, they would think, he will grow into that name? And does it reflect the man we already know as well as his previous nomen?
I would have to explain that Bingo-Jesus Dingleberry is much, MUCH easier to remember and pronounce than Bogorodicza Guadalupeskaya, and furthermore matched my conversion from an antiquated branch of Christianity to Native-American religion.
Reborn Man Runs With Dingleberries!
It's very spiritual. I've got a tattoo which says so.
Unfortunately, my friend is thinking of changing his appellation to 'Spike'. Spike Ratchette. Something having to do with his Harley, not sure what.
I cannot see him as 'Spike'. I was thinking more along the lines of Shep Dawg. Or Leonard ('Lenny') Baldy-Whack. The first indicating his physique and personal habits, the second reflective of both gravitas and a profound lack of top-hair.
His choice, however, screams 'middle-age crisis'.
Not something I have much respect for.
Just glue on a ponytail, dude.
His plan is on hold for the time-being. I've managed to convince him that in the interim, while he thinks this thing through, he should get himself some worry beads and a bottle of Bourbon. By acquiring those two things he can cover the span between his refound spirituality and his missing machismo.
When the time comes, I'll happily advise him again.
Regarding his change of name and image.
And how his kids will react.
With hysterical hooting.
And snide comments.
If they need ideas, I will be happy to oblige.
Spike Ratchette. Good lord.
Prickles Dill-Wad
Dingo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 19, 2013
A FEW WORDS IN PRAISE OF CANTONESE
Sometimes change is disturbing, and altogether horrible. Such as the gradual shift in Chinatown from all Cantonese-speaking to a fair amount of Mandarin. Not only as regards communicating with Chinese from the less interesting parts of China, but also businesses owned by folks from the north.
The other day I went for a nibble at one of my favourite inexpensive snacketarias, only to discover that they now have a Fresh-Off-the-Boat cousin from Toishan (臺山) working the counter. A person of otherwise unassailable character, save that unfortunately she speaks Mandarin better than Cantonese.
Yes, that does make her close to tri-lingual.
Toishanese as a first and fluent tongue.
Mandarin for nearly everyone else.
Cantonese badly, last resort.
I do not particularly like Mandarin. Partly because I speak it very poorly, hardly even at all, and I'm not likely to improve significantly. But mostly because it sounds like mush-mouthed snobs barfing-up hairballs. Even the very best Peking diction does not have the sheer oomph and glory of Hong Kong or Guangzhou Cantonese.
I am by no means fluent in Cantonese, but far more likely to have a conversation and catch the drift of other people talking than with Mandarin.
Mandarin just lacks the right attitude.
Cantonese (粵語, 廣東話) is a beautiful language, possessed of style, guts, a rich and colourful vocabulary, and a history that goes back to the T'ang Dynasty (唐朝 618 - 907 C.E.). Whereas Mandarin (國語) is a harsh-sounding descendant of the speech of shepherds and hinterland bumpkins stuck in North China after the fall of Sung (宋朝 960 - 1279 C.E.) to the barbarians (東胡民族).
Mandarin, in fact, would now not even be spoken if the Manchus (滿族) -- who were ab initio a completely foreign bunch of savages -- had not decided that to prevent any other interlopers from conquering what they had so recently taken by violence and rapine, they would shift the centre of power to Peking (北京).
And, being altogether primitive, they wouldn't bother with finer speech forms, but would gibber in pidjin Pekingese (狂吠話) if they had to communicate at all.
It isn't that long ago that the post-Manchu revolutionaries decided with regret that Mandarin should become the national tongue, because most peasants north of the passes (嶺北) couldn't possibly pronounce Cantonese correctly.
Just too difficult (太難) for the herd.
Until the nineties, Mandarin barely even had a vocabulary to cuss in.
So hearing THAT language spoken by people who don't even have the courtesy to learn Cantonese is particularly unpleasant. Mandarin is the domain of pompous party hacks, pronunciamentoes, and politely obedient official poofle, on both sides of the straights. Not of riotous, often eloquent, and sometimes ribald, outbursts.
But please note that Cantonese people ARE capable of learning Mandarin, and WILL use it to transact business with those folks.
If that doesn't show considerable superiority, I don't know what.
AFTER THOUGHT
It is ironic that Hong Kong movies (香港電影) are watched by Mandarin speakers with considerably greater pleasure than the didactic garbage produced either in the mainland (大陸或中華人民共和國) or on Taiwan (臺灣或中華民國).
If it weren't for Cantonese drive, creativity, and enthusiasm, the Chinese movie industry as such might not even exist, and they'd have to watch baffling song-and-dance dramas produced in Bombay (孟買城).
Hardly an attractive prospect.
The fact that the Cantonese have the best cuisine in China perhaps further proves a point; without them, Chinese food might be all cabbage, all the time.
Note: further 'research' into these matters will be enabled if you pursue these clickable links: 粵 (Yue: Cantonese), 香港電影 (Hong Kong Movies), 香港 (Hong Kong), 菜譜 (recipes), 點心 (dim sum), and San Francisco Chinatown.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The other day I went for a nibble at one of my favourite inexpensive snacketarias, only to discover that they now have a Fresh-Off-the-Boat cousin from Toishan (臺山) working the counter. A person of otherwise unassailable character, save that unfortunately she speaks Mandarin better than Cantonese.
Yes, that does make her close to tri-lingual.
Toishanese as a first and fluent tongue.
Mandarin for nearly everyone else.
Cantonese badly, last resort.
I do not particularly like Mandarin. Partly because I speak it very poorly, hardly even at all, and I'm not likely to improve significantly. But mostly because it sounds like mush-mouthed snobs barfing-up hairballs. Even the very best Peking diction does not have the sheer oomph and glory of Hong Kong or Guangzhou Cantonese.
I am by no means fluent in Cantonese, but far more likely to have a conversation and catch the drift of other people talking than with Mandarin.
Mandarin just lacks the right attitude.
Cantonese (粵語, 廣東話) is a beautiful language, possessed of style, guts, a rich and colourful vocabulary, and a history that goes back to the T'ang Dynasty (唐朝 618 - 907 C.E.). Whereas Mandarin (國語) is a harsh-sounding descendant of the speech of shepherds and hinterland bumpkins stuck in North China after the fall of Sung (宋朝 960 - 1279 C.E.) to the barbarians (東胡民族).
Mandarin, in fact, would now not even be spoken if the Manchus (滿族) -- who were ab initio a completely foreign bunch of savages -- had not decided that to prevent any other interlopers from conquering what they had so recently taken by violence and rapine, they would shift the centre of power to Peking (北京).
And, being altogether primitive, they wouldn't bother with finer speech forms, but would gibber in pidjin Pekingese (狂吠話) if they had to communicate at all.
It isn't that long ago that the post-Manchu revolutionaries decided with regret that Mandarin should become the national tongue, because most peasants north of the passes (嶺北) couldn't possibly pronounce Cantonese correctly.
Just too difficult (太難) for the herd.
Until the nineties, Mandarin barely even had a vocabulary to cuss in.
So hearing THAT language spoken by people who don't even have the courtesy to learn Cantonese is particularly unpleasant. Mandarin is the domain of pompous party hacks, pronunciamentoes, and politely obedient official poofle, on both sides of the straights. Not of riotous, often eloquent, and sometimes ribald, outbursts.
But please note that Cantonese people ARE capable of learning Mandarin, and WILL use it to transact business with those folks.
If that doesn't show considerable superiority, I don't know what.
AFTER THOUGHT
It is ironic that Hong Kong movies (香港電影) are watched by Mandarin speakers with considerably greater pleasure than the didactic garbage produced either in the mainland (大陸或中華人民共和國) or on Taiwan (臺灣或中華民國).
If it weren't for Cantonese drive, creativity, and enthusiasm, the Chinese movie industry as such might not even exist, and they'd have to watch baffling song-and-dance dramas produced in Bombay (孟買城).
Hardly an attractive prospect.
The fact that the Cantonese have the best cuisine in China perhaps further proves a point; without them, Chinese food might be all cabbage, all the time.
Note: further 'research' into these matters will be enabled if you pursue these clickable links: 粵 (Yue: Cantonese), 香港電影 (Hong Kong Movies), 香港 (Hong Kong), 菜譜 (recipes), 點心 (dim sum), and San Francisco Chinatown.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 18, 2013
AN APOLOGY TO ALL MY GUN-TOTING NUT FRIENDS!
This blogger is truly sorry that he hurt the feelings of several readers of this blog; readers I didn't even know I had. And, consequently, may have lost.
Guys, please come back. I treasure everyone.
Especially folks with weapons.
I never meant to suggest that people who collect assault rifles and doll themselves up in warpaint and camouflage clothing were somehow deficient and barking mad. Far, in fact, be it from me, to even hint at the psychological deficiencies of men with small penises who make up for their lack of masculinity (and their various paranoias and psychoses) by assembling a vast arsenal of big, BIG, things that go bang! And really, not being able to find a girl-friend other than your mom's sister Gertrude who lives in the basement is no blot on your character.
By no means.
BANG! BANG! BANG! AND BANG! WHEE!
I, too, know the sorrow of being girl-friendless. And while hell would freeze over before I even think of dating your mom's sister Gertrude, I shall not question your decision to do so. Really. Both of you are lonesome and only semi-literate, you darn well deserve each other. Make each other happy.
I've learned my lesson. I now know the heartache and pain that passionate gun collectors are feeling at the current commie attempt to take away the one thing that makes life worth living: heavy ordnance.
America's liberty depends on people like you. As ever.
Can't write our nation's history without at least several pages on fire-arm violence and mass-murder. It's one of the most noble manifestations of our success as a society.
It shows how free we are.
Our best and brightest expression of superiority over the rest of the world is our easy access to vast amounts of guns and ammo.
None of this was completely clear to me before this morning.
The sheer eloquence of fervid enthusiasts is often amazing.
I sincerely appreciate your wise words of remonstrance.
They were something that I felt compelled to read.
A necessary but, for this blogger, difficult task.
Due to any number of spelling errors.
Once again, I'm furiously biting my tongue to keep from making a political comment. Just like yesterday. This blog is purely artistic in nature.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Guys, please come back. I treasure everyone.
Especially folks with weapons.
I never meant to suggest that people who collect assault rifles and doll themselves up in warpaint and camouflage clothing were somehow deficient and barking mad. Far, in fact, be it from me, to even hint at the psychological deficiencies of men with small penises who make up for their lack of masculinity (and their various paranoias and psychoses) by assembling a vast arsenal of big, BIG, things that go bang! And really, not being able to find a girl-friend other than your mom's sister Gertrude who lives in the basement is no blot on your character.
By no means.
BANG! BANG! BANG! AND BANG! WHEE!
I, too, know the sorrow of being girl-friendless. And while hell would freeze over before I even think of dating your mom's sister Gertrude, I shall not question your decision to do so. Really. Both of you are lonesome and only semi-literate, you darn well deserve each other. Make each other happy.
I've learned my lesson. I now know the heartache and pain that passionate gun collectors are feeling at the current commie attempt to take away the one thing that makes life worth living: heavy ordnance.
America's liberty depends on people like you. As ever.
Can't write our nation's history without at least several pages on fire-arm violence and mass-murder. It's one of the most noble manifestations of our success as a society.
It shows how free we are.
Our best and brightest expression of superiority over the rest of the world is our easy access to vast amounts of guns and ammo.
None of this was completely clear to me before this morning.
The sheer eloquence of fervid enthusiasts is often amazing.
I sincerely appreciate your wise words of remonstrance.
They were something that I felt compelled to read.
A necessary but, for this blogger, difficult task.
Due to any number of spelling errors.
Once again, I'm furiously biting my tongue to keep from making a political comment. Just like yesterday. This blog is purely artistic in nature.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 17, 2013
WHEN RABBITS GO BAD
Sometimes you just don't know what they're thinking. One moment they're in their cage placidly chewing a carrot, the next moment they're outside, brandishing the assault rifle which they mail-ordered from Second Amendment Psycho dot Com. It's part of their underlying cowardice that they do not go postal unless heavily armed. Encountering other housepets without an ArmaLite is just unthinkable.
Frightening, even.
Rabbits, fundamentally, are chicken.
Which is why they insist on the right to bear arms.
They're afraid that men in black helicopters are coming to take away their prized heavy weapons. But before that happens, they intend to scream and shout, and if possible blow some people up. Whatever it takes.
They're thinking of taking out the sheep.
As well as the cats.
Really.
Some of them drill secretly with face-paint and fatigues, off in the country side, collecting at camps in remote areas where they drink beer and pall around with other varmints. Every one watch out for old Pink Eye over here, he was with the Army during peace-time. That's why there was peace -- the Rooskies weren't going to try anything with the rabid rabbit guarding the frontier.
If this blogger had his druthers, gun sales to insane rabbits would be outlawed. Especially assault rifles and explosive devices. But the powers that be, in their infinite wisdom, decree that the right, nay, duty, of every red-blooded rabbit with masculinity issues to assert a fake sense of machismo be safe-guarded.
Better lock those cages, mama. Don't want Thumper there to bust loose.
He's been unstable and neurotic ever since he failed school.
Most likely grammar school. He's a bit dim.
Likely inbred, too. He's a rabbit.
Bastard got issues.
NOTE: The post above is allegorical. That means it's not real. No actual rabbits are running around with guns in my vicinity, or smearing on the bright green face-paint and shooting at empty beer cans.
And I haven't seen the men in black helicopters for at least several weeks now.
If they exist, they're probably zooming over Texas and Oklahoma and the other road-kill states at this very moment, looking for freedom-loving wildlife.
The normal furry creatures consequently need not worry.
There's nothing in our water that turns people crazy.
I'm biting my tongue to keep from making a sneering political comment.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Frightening, even.
Rabbits, fundamentally, are chicken.
Which is why they insist on the right to bear arms.
They're afraid that men in black helicopters are coming to take away their prized heavy weapons. But before that happens, they intend to scream and shout, and if possible blow some people up. Whatever it takes.
They're thinking of taking out the sheep.
As well as the cats.
Really.
Some of them drill secretly with face-paint and fatigues, off in the country side, collecting at camps in remote areas where they drink beer and pall around with other varmints. Every one watch out for old Pink Eye over here, he was with the Army during peace-time. That's why there was peace -- the Rooskies weren't going to try anything with the rabid rabbit guarding the frontier.
If this blogger had his druthers, gun sales to insane rabbits would be outlawed. Especially assault rifles and explosive devices. But the powers that be, in their infinite wisdom, decree that the right, nay, duty, of every red-blooded rabbit with masculinity issues to assert a fake sense of machismo be safe-guarded.
Better lock those cages, mama. Don't want Thumper there to bust loose.
He's been unstable and neurotic ever since he failed school.
Most likely grammar school. He's a bit dim.
Likely inbred, too. He's a rabbit.
Bastard got issues.
NOTE: The post above is allegorical. That means it's not real. No actual rabbits are running around with guns in my vicinity, or smearing on the bright green face-paint and shooting at empty beer cans.
And I haven't seen the men in black helicopters for at least several weeks now.
If they exist, they're probably zooming over Texas and Oklahoma and the other road-kill states at this very moment, looking for freedom-loving wildlife.
The normal furry creatures consequently need not worry.
There's nothing in our water that turns people crazy.
I'm biting my tongue to keep from making a sneering political comment.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MANHATTAN AFTERNOON
This blogger is a restrained and abstemious person.
I only have good habits. Nothing peculiar.
Nothing I do qualifies as 'bent'.
Especially smoking.
If you see a dapper-looking middle-aged dude walking in your neighborhood with a handsome piece of briar sticking out of his mouth, that might be me. Especially if you live in Sany Francisco, north of California Street; anywhere between Van Ness Avenue and Chinatown.
I like to wander around Nob Hill with a pipe.
Sometime between noon and tea-time.
That's 'San Francisco'. Not 'Manhattan'.
One of the things I'm currently smoking is 'Manhattan'.
Manhattan-ish. Between noon and tea-time.
Hence the title of this post.
MANHATTAN AFTERNOON
Manufactured by Cornell & Diehl.
From the 'Simply Elegant Series'
Tin blurb: Naturally sweet Golden Virginia leaf with a drop of honey sliced into flakes.
The tin I opened dated from 2009.
It bulged in a disturbing way.
Which is a good thing.
Nicely fermented.
It was destabilizing one of the stacks of tins on a bookshelf, so I had to open it. Rubbed it out fully and dried it to the moisture level that I prefer.
The slices of flake where beautiful, of a hue that indicated a lot of deep brown goodness. The aroma was intoxicating, though not overly so. Rubbed out, the constituent tobaccos are somewhat evident, though guessing the proportion of blonde to brunette would be difficult. Some blondes are at heart brunettes.
[Never trust blondes. Good rule to live by.]
I'm about half-way through the tin now, it does not pall. Unlike finer-cut flakes it needs a bit of attention, but the pay-off is well worth it. Smooth, sweet, with a very pleasant rich taste, and an excellent room-note. The drop of honey is more noticeable in the tin-aroma than in the smoke, by a wide margin. And unlike gooped-up blends it does not leave a layer of skank in your bowl.
Remarkably, it is both tangy and creamy at the same time.
Blondes can be a bitch, but this one is very nice.
Smokes down to a fine ash that sounds crisp when stroked across the walls.
Blondes benefit from maturity. This product proves it.
I still have one tin of that vintage left.
* * * * * *
I've always admired the attention to detail that the Tarlers of Cornell & Diehl showed in their products. Craig Cornell Tarler passed away on Tuesday, September 4, 2012, aged eighty-two.
He was an all-round good man, and the fraternity will miss him.
Morganton, North Carolina, is a less exciting place now.
R.I.P.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I only have good habits. Nothing peculiar.
Nothing I do qualifies as 'bent'.
Especially smoking.
If you see a dapper-looking middle-aged dude walking in your neighborhood with a handsome piece of briar sticking out of his mouth, that might be me. Especially if you live in Sany Francisco, north of California Street; anywhere between Van Ness Avenue and Chinatown.
I like to wander around Nob Hill with a pipe.
Sometime between noon and tea-time.
That's 'San Francisco'. Not 'Manhattan'.
One of the things I'm currently smoking is 'Manhattan'.
Manhattan-ish. Between noon and tea-time.
Hence the title of this post.
MANHATTAN AFTERNOON
Manufactured by Cornell & Diehl.
From the 'Simply Elegant Series'
Tin blurb: Naturally sweet Golden Virginia leaf with a drop of honey sliced into flakes.
The tin I opened dated from 2009.
It bulged in a disturbing way.
Which is a good thing.
Nicely fermented.
It was destabilizing one of the stacks of tins on a bookshelf, so I had to open it. Rubbed it out fully and dried it to the moisture level that I prefer.
The slices of flake where beautiful, of a hue that indicated a lot of deep brown goodness. The aroma was intoxicating, though not overly so. Rubbed out, the constituent tobaccos are somewhat evident, though guessing the proportion of blonde to brunette would be difficult. Some blondes are at heart brunettes.
[Never trust blondes. Good rule to live by.]
I'm about half-way through the tin now, it does not pall. Unlike finer-cut flakes it needs a bit of attention, but the pay-off is well worth it. Smooth, sweet, with a very pleasant rich taste, and an excellent room-note. The drop of honey is more noticeable in the tin-aroma than in the smoke, by a wide margin. And unlike gooped-up blends it does not leave a layer of skank in your bowl.
Remarkably, it is both tangy and creamy at the same time.
Blondes can be a bitch, but this one is very nice.
Smokes down to a fine ash that sounds crisp when stroked across the walls.
Blondes benefit from maturity. This product proves it.
I still have one tin of that vintage left.
* * * * * *
I've always admired the attention to detail that the Tarlers of Cornell & Diehl showed in their products. Craig Cornell Tarler passed away on Tuesday, September 4, 2012, aged eighty-two.
He was an all-round good man, and the fraternity will miss him.
Morganton, North Carolina, is a less exciting place now.
R.I.P.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
NATURE'S REMARKABLE BOUNTY
Someone, presumably a regular reader, complains that this blog seems somewhat monochromatic at times. She entered a comment underneath a recent post in which I complained about the weather we are having.
Quote:
"Round faces, small breasts, bright curious eyes. And short stature. This is rapidly becoming a fetish-blog. Do you care about scaring away the regular clientele?"
End quote.
I can see her point. So as a change of pace, let me talk instead about 'angular hatchet faces, humongous bazoombas, dull dead eyes, and yeti physiques'.
Which, as all people know, is a description of ideal femininity.
Illustrated on a weekly basis in Cosmopolitan. For sure.
Ladies who flock in vast, stimulatingly mindless droves, to the shopping area around Union Square.
Spending their every non-working moment hunting for handbags: Christian Louboutin. Louis Vuitton. Ugg. Burberry. Michael Kors. Coach. Gucci.
In between watching the Real Housewives, while curled up in fluffy pink and hugging their giant Hello Kitty dolls.
I also have a Hello Kitty. But it's merely a small one. A cigar-smoking friend gave it to me for Christmas, because she said that she immediately thought of me when she saw it in the store. I've mentioned Hello Kitty often enough that she remembered.
Hello Kitty, as you know, is a fetish of mine.
One of these days I shall have to give her a Partagas, or perhaps a Padrón.
Something from the Anniversary series. I'm fairly certain that she likes maduro wrappers, though that's much more of her husband's thing.
Maybe a Gran Habana. Or an Aroma De Cuba, or a Tatuaje Reserva.
My friend who gifted me with Hello Kitty is neither hatchet nor round faced.
She does have bright curious eyes, and is indeed not built large. Shorter than me, and even though this is just guess-work, she probably weighs fifty pounds less than I do at least. She also has elegant hands. Slim and vibrant.
I will absolutely NOT speculate about her bosom.
She's younger than me, her husband is older.
They're a lovely couple. Very cute together.
Very similar tastes in cigars, identical taste in Bourbon.
I do not think she has a sister.
But I have not asked.
AFTER THOUGHT
In addition to admiring words for large glandular freak Germano-Wasp Midwestern Women, and their somewhat trimmer but no less deep-bosomed cousins in the vast coastal urban hinterland, I must also utter praise for the big, big, BIG all-American men, over six feet tall at least and with large botties encased in shiny fabric, that real Americans drool over nearly every Sunday.
At least until the Super Bowl.
Truly, the ideal end-result of attending college is joining the football team. All across this country, huge handsome athletic types who date delightfully empty-headed blondes are weeping into their pitchers of beer that they were not chosen.
The competition was too fierce.
A vast throng of like-minded hunk-o-ramas swallowed them whole. Maybe they were a little hungover that week, the fraternity had a social event. They got pummeled on the way to the try-out by a stampeding herd of boy beef.
Then they look at their ever-so-feminine and perfectly luscious mutton-brained arm-candy, and realize that in the great game of life they have lost out.
She's not as good as what the Captain of the Squad has.
Woe.
I have nothing but fond, and slightly moist, thoughts for all of these people.
And like them, I also lust after big boobed Barbie and pigskin.
Magic words: Coors. Michelob. Budweiser. Miller Lite. Corona.
Plus Louboutin, Vuitton, Ugg, Burberry, Kors, Coach, and Gucci.
Remember, folks, extraordinary mammaries prove that fortune favours you.
You'll meet the finest people and have a marvelous life.
Hello, Kitty!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Quote:
"Round faces, small breasts, bright curious eyes. And short stature. This is rapidly becoming a fetish-blog. Do you care about scaring away the regular clientele?"
End quote.
I can see her point. So as a change of pace, let me talk instead about 'angular hatchet faces, humongous bazoombas, dull dead eyes, and yeti physiques'.
Which, as all people know, is a description of ideal femininity.
Illustrated on a weekly basis in Cosmopolitan. For sure.
Ladies who flock in vast, stimulatingly mindless droves, to the shopping area around Union Square.
Spending their every non-working moment hunting for handbags: Christian Louboutin. Louis Vuitton. Ugg. Burberry. Michael Kors. Coach. Gucci.
In between watching the Real Housewives, while curled up in fluffy pink and hugging their giant Hello Kitty dolls.
I also have a Hello Kitty. But it's merely a small one. A cigar-smoking friend gave it to me for Christmas, because she said that she immediately thought of me when she saw it in the store. I've mentioned Hello Kitty often enough that she remembered.
Hello Kitty, as you know, is a fetish of mine.
One of these days I shall have to give her a Partagas, or perhaps a Padrón.
Something from the Anniversary series. I'm fairly certain that she likes maduro wrappers, though that's much more of her husband's thing.
Maybe a Gran Habana. Or an Aroma De Cuba, or a Tatuaje Reserva.
My friend who gifted me with Hello Kitty is neither hatchet nor round faced.
She does have bright curious eyes, and is indeed not built large. Shorter than me, and even though this is just guess-work, she probably weighs fifty pounds less than I do at least. She also has elegant hands. Slim and vibrant.
I will absolutely NOT speculate about her bosom.
She's younger than me, her husband is older.
They're a lovely couple. Very cute together.
Very similar tastes in cigars, identical taste in Bourbon.
I do not think she has a sister.
But I have not asked.
AFTER THOUGHT
In addition to admiring words for large glandular freak Germano-Wasp Midwestern Women, and their somewhat trimmer but no less deep-bosomed cousins in the vast coastal urban hinterland, I must also utter praise for the big, big, BIG all-American men, over six feet tall at least and with large botties encased in shiny fabric, that real Americans drool over nearly every Sunday.
At least until the Super Bowl.
Truly, the ideal end-result of attending college is joining the football team. All across this country, huge handsome athletic types who date delightfully empty-headed blondes are weeping into their pitchers of beer that they were not chosen.
The competition was too fierce.
A vast throng of like-minded hunk-o-ramas swallowed them whole. Maybe they were a little hungover that week, the fraternity had a social event. They got pummeled on the way to the try-out by a stampeding herd of boy beef.
Then they look at their ever-so-feminine and perfectly luscious mutton-brained arm-candy, and realize that in the great game of life they have lost out.
She's not as good as what the Captain of the Squad has.
Woe.
I have nothing but fond, and slightly moist, thoughts for all of these people.
And like them, I also lust after big boobed Barbie and pigskin.
Magic words: Coors. Michelob. Budweiser. Miller Lite. Corona.
Plus Louboutin, Vuitton, Ugg, Burberry, Kors, Coach, and Gucci.
Remember, folks, extraordinary mammaries prove that fortune favours you.
You'll meet the finest people and have a marvelous life.
Hello, Kitty!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SOMEONE IN THE CORNER LOOKS VERY GUILTY!
This is very distressing! Nearly every morning, moments after my apartment mate has gone off to work, I wake up to find a small creature rifling my pockets in search of my wallet. A desperate criminal caught red-pawed!
Yesterday it was the sock-sheep, today the one-legged monkey.
At times it has also been the piglet with the little bow.
A six inch tall, cute as topsy, delinquent.
I am a tolerant man. But these rowdy little thieves are trying my patience.
The excuse they proffer -- "I found it!" -- is unacceptable.
It's my leathery thing! Mine!
Miscreants!
Thank heavens they do not smoke. So far they haven't touched the pipe tobacco stockpile, or any of the briars. They are quite unlike teenage humans in that regard.
When I was a teenager, I did not try to find my father's wallet.
I had an after school job, and only needed the extra money I earned for a weekly tin of tobacco, pipe cleaners, and maybe a box of fine cheroots. Plus, every two weeks or so, a canister of loose leaf tea.
On the other hand, the fortnight he spent in London with his girlfriend was a marvelous opportunity. Before the exhaust of his Volkswagen beetle had even faded from the alleyway, I had gone upstairs to the study and raided his desk.
I knew exactly where his pipes were.
Spent a glorious fourteen days smoking fine English pipe tobacco in gorgeous briar, far better than the measly pieces of wood that I owned.
I made sure I ran pipe cleaners through them after each use, and that none of them were dinged, scratched, or otherwise damaged.
He must have wondered at the powerful reek of Latakia in the house when he returned, strongest near his microscope and the draughting equipment, but he didn't say anything.
If I ever have children, I will quite naturally suspect them of doing the same.
Practise makes perfect; by the time they graduate from high-school, they should know all about Turkish, Latakia, flue-cured ribbons, aged flake, plain cavendish, dark twist, Perique, Maryland...........
At least I darn well hope so.
In the meantime, I think I should have either the small she-sheep or the senior teddy bear guard my pants while I sleep. Perhaps mr. Oyster. They seem to be the only non-human members of the household with an ethical fundament.
Problem is that they live in the other bedroom and rather eschew my side of the apartment for being seedy and riotous. I'll have to bribe them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yesterday it was the sock-sheep, today the one-legged monkey.
At times it has also been the piglet with the little bow.
A six inch tall, cute as topsy, delinquent.
I am a tolerant man. But these rowdy little thieves are trying my patience.
The excuse they proffer -- "I found it!" -- is unacceptable.
It's my leathery thing! Mine!
Miscreants!
Thank heavens they do not smoke. So far they haven't touched the pipe tobacco stockpile, or any of the briars. They are quite unlike teenage humans in that regard.
When I was a teenager, I did not try to find my father's wallet.
I had an after school job, and only needed the extra money I earned for a weekly tin of tobacco, pipe cleaners, and maybe a box of fine cheroots. Plus, every two weeks or so, a canister of loose leaf tea.
On the other hand, the fortnight he spent in London with his girlfriend was a marvelous opportunity. Before the exhaust of his Volkswagen beetle had even faded from the alleyway, I had gone upstairs to the study and raided his desk.
I knew exactly where his pipes were.
Spent a glorious fourteen days smoking fine English pipe tobacco in gorgeous briar, far better than the measly pieces of wood that I owned.
I made sure I ran pipe cleaners through them after each use, and that none of them were dinged, scratched, or otherwise damaged.
He must have wondered at the powerful reek of Latakia in the house when he returned, strongest near his microscope and the draughting equipment, but he didn't say anything.
If I ever have children, I will quite naturally suspect them of doing the same.
Practise makes perfect; by the time they graduate from high-school, they should know all about Turkish, Latakia, flue-cured ribbons, aged flake, plain cavendish, dark twist, Perique, Maryland...........
At least I darn well hope so.
In the meantime, I think I should have either the small she-sheep or the senior teddy bear guard my pants while I sleep. Perhaps mr. Oyster. They seem to be the only non-human members of the household with an ethical fundament.
Problem is that they live in the other bedroom and rather eschew my side of the apartment for being seedy and riotous. I'll have to bribe them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
A VERY POTONG-GE YAN
There are several Chinese restaurants where I dare not go anymore. No, it isn't that I misbehaved there, or did something incredibly stupid. It's just that I am not special. That is to say, not nearly as special as they've made me out to be.
Folks, there are over fifty million people world wide who speak Cantonese.
It was inevitable that one or two of them would be Caucasian.
And this blogger does not speak it well enough to be treated like the second coming of Christ.
Believe me, there are people who cringe when I try.
Not even the first coming of whatsisname.
I can read it better than I speak.
That isn't saying much.
一個好普通嘅人！
YAT GO HOU 'AVERAGE' YAN
I get embarassed when people treat me as some wonderful fabulous super-genius special lusus naturae. White guy speaking Cantonese. Whoopee.
Speaking Cantonese very badly at that.
Consequently, there are several dishes which I have not had in Chinatown in a very long while. Steamed meat patty with salt fish (鹹魚肉餅 haahm yü yiuk beng), for instance. Or steamed water eggs (蒸水蛋 jing sui dan) with a side of oyster sauce broccoli (蠔油蘭芯 hou yau lan sam). Pork and salted vegetable in noodle soup (雪菜肉絲湯米粉 suet choi yiuk si tong mai fan) is another one of those things.
The places where I would go to get those are off limits. Their renditions are extremely good, but I'm not just another customer there.
The spotlight of attention feels too hot.
I'm waiting for them to forget that I exist.
多一杯奶茶，唔該。
DO YAT PUI NAI-CHA, M-GOI.
Please just act like I'm normal, okay? There must be millions of people who can read the menu. I'm sure they come in here all the time.
And really, if you keep trying to engage me in conversation, you'll soon discover that I'm quite unable to formulate more than a few sentences in your language before the lingual clumsiness kicks in, and I say something so staggeringly unintelligible that you're left wondering whether I flew in from outer space.
非常快會發現，呢個人唔識講粤語幾好.......
也許佢係頭先從火星嚟嘅咩?
But I would like another cup of milk-tea.
Thank you. It's very nice.
真係正，多謝。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Folks, there are over fifty million people world wide who speak Cantonese.
It was inevitable that one or two of them would be Caucasian.
And this blogger does not speak it well enough to be treated like the second coming of Christ.
Believe me, there are people who cringe when I try.
Not even the first coming of whatsisname.
I can read it better than I speak.
That isn't saying much.
一個好普通嘅人！
YAT GO HOU 'AVERAGE' YAN
I get embarassed when people treat me as some wonderful fabulous super-genius special lusus naturae. White guy speaking Cantonese. Whoopee.
Speaking Cantonese very badly at that.
Consequently, there are several dishes which I have not had in Chinatown in a very long while. Steamed meat patty with salt fish (鹹魚肉餅 haahm yü yiuk beng), for instance. Or steamed water eggs (蒸水蛋 jing sui dan) with a side of oyster sauce broccoli (蠔油蘭芯 hou yau lan sam). Pork and salted vegetable in noodle soup (雪菜肉絲湯米粉 suet choi yiuk si tong mai fan) is another one of those things.
The places where I would go to get those are off limits. Their renditions are extremely good, but I'm not just another customer there.
The spotlight of attention feels too hot.
I'm waiting for them to forget that I exist.
多一杯奶茶，唔該。
DO YAT PUI NAI-CHA, M-GOI.
Please just act like I'm normal, okay? There must be millions of people who can read the menu. I'm sure they come in here all the time.
And really, if you keep trying to engage me in conversation, you'll soon discover that I'm quite unable to formulate more than a few sentences in your language before the lingual clumsiness kicks in, and I say something so staggeringly unintelligible that you're left wondering whether I flew in from outer space.
非常快會發現，呢個人唔識講粤語幾好.......
也許佢係頭先從火星嚟嘅咩?
But I would like another cup of milk-tea.
Thank you. It's very nice.
真係正，多謝。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GENERAL NOTES ON BLENDING TOBACCOS
General notes on blending tobaccos:
Latakia: up to fifty percent (the so-called "Latakia Dump" range), generally between thirty to forty, and still marvelous at fifteen, or even ten. Often needs judicious paring with things like Turkish ('Izmir') and robust Virginias.
Turkish: thinnish on it's own, very musky / fragrant. More than 25% is somewhat excessive.
Virginia (flue-cured): various types - medium flake rubbed out can be the largest percentage (up to eighty or ninety percent, but well worthwhile at fifteen to thirty five); plain (unflavoured) virginia cavendish smooths out and almost erases strong elements but doesn't add much worthwhile (use between five and twenty five percent of total blend); red ribbon adds smokeability at up to fifteen percent, bright ribbon does the same but is harsher; both red and bright ribbon should be used at the lower end of the scale, probably no more than ten percent. Black virginia ribbon and plain black cavendish are sweet and deep, and help the Latakia work with Virginias. Usually single digits.
Toasted cavendish (actually fire-cured Kentucky): adds a marvelous note to Turkish, and combines well with Latakia. But it will easily take over at proportions greater than fifteen percent.
Perique: a chimera and a joker among the leaves. At two or three percent barely noticeable, but tongue-bite reducing. Seven or eight percent adds quite a whoomp. Anything over ten percent grows hair inside your lungs.
Burley: if even one third of the blend is burley, it's a burley blend. Used to modify the taste of something else it is best below fifteen percent.
Maryland ribbon: this is what the Dutch call 'Baai Tabak', after the Chesapeake from whence it was exported. Air-cured, like Burley, but milder, almost bland. Adds smokeability without strongly influencing the tenor of the blend. Use between five and twenty percent.
Virginias and Burleys are also grown in many other countries, not just the United States.
Canada, Thailand, India, Tanzania, et autres.
Turkish varieties are usually combined, offerings of specific types are somewhat doubtful and unusual. Latakia was grown in Syria (Hatay Prefecture), but nowadays comes from Cyprus.
Perique only comes from Louisiana.
Try not to use more than six different tobaccos, four or five is best. Decide which one you want to dominate the blend and what other characteristics you want noticeable, and adjust the proportions from there.
Test batches should be small quantities, and expect that you may not finish smoking that batch. Smoke one bowl right after blending and make notes.
Smoke more bowls after several days, and if it still tastes interesting, more bowls a few weeks later, when you can reasonably expect the tobaccos to have married. Sometimes what was marvelous at the very beginning becomes pedestrian after a few weeks.
Most blending tobaccos available to tobacco stores and amateurs are fairly standardized. The interesting stuff is usually not available at retail levels.
Always keep notes.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Latakia: up to fifty percent (the so-called "Latakia Dump" range), generally between thirty to forty, and still marvelous at fifteen, or even ten. Often needs judicious paring with things like Turkish ('Izmir') and robust Virginias.
Turkish: thinnish on it's own, very musky / fragrant. More than 25% is somewhat excessive.
Virginia (flue-cured): various types - medium flake rubbed out can be the largest percentage (up to eighty or ninety percent, but well worthwhile at fifteen to thirty five); plain (unflavoured) virginia cavendish smooths out and almost erases strong elements but doesn't add much worthwhile (use between five and twenty five percent of total blend); red ribbon adds smokeability at up to fifteen percent, bright ribbon does the same but is harsher; both red and bright ribbon should be used at the lower end of the scale, probably no more than ten percent. Black virginia ribbon and plain black cavendish are sweet and deep, and help the Latakia work with Virginias. Usually single digits.
Toasted cavendish (actually fire-cured Kentucky): adds a marvelous note to Turkish, and combines well with Latakia. But it will easily take over at proportions greater than fifteen percent.
Perique: a chimera and a joker among the leaves. At two or three percent barely noticeable, but tongue-bite reducing. Seven or eight percent adds quite a whoomp. Anything over ten percent grows hair inside your lungs.
Burley: if even one third of the blend is burley, it's a burley blend. Used to modify the taste of something else it is best below fifteen percent.
Maryland ribbon: this is what the Dutch call 'Baai Tabak', after the Chesapeake from whence it was exported. Air-cured, like Burley, but milder, almost bland. Adds smokeability without strongly influencing the tenor of the blend. Use between five and twenty percent.
Virginias and Burleys are also grown in many other countries, not just the United States.
Canada, Thailand, India, Tanzania, et autres.
Turkish varieties are usually combined, offerings of specific types are somewhat doubtful and unusual. Latakia was grown in Syria (Hatay Prefecture), but nowadays comes from Cyprus.
Perique only comes from Louisiana.
Try not to use more than six different tobaccos, four or five is best. Decide which one you want to dominate the blend and what other characteristics you want noticeable, and adjust the proportions from there.
Test batches should be small quantities, and expect that you may not finish smoking that batch. Smoke one bowl right after blending and make notes.
Smoke more bowls after several days, and if it still tastes interesting, more bowls a few weeks later, when you can reasonably expect the tobaccos to have married. Sometimes what was marvelous at the very beginning becomes pedestrian after a few weeks.
Most blending tobaccos available to tobacco stores and amateurs are fairly standardized. The interesting stuff is usually not available at retail levels.
Always keep notes.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 14, 2013
ON THE IMPORTANCE OF CIVILIZED STANDARDS
What's utterly essential is the tea tray. One should always have a well-set tea-tray awaiting one when one comes home, or arranged somewhere near the desk or bookcases. Perhaps to the right of the computer.
I wish everyone knew this.
When I was a teenager in Valkenswaard, during summer I would take my tea-tray out to the courtyard, and spend many happy hours reading with a pot of tea, my own special cup and saucer (blue and white porcelain), a glass of water, and the various smokers requisites. Assam or Lapsang Souchong, Kipling, Saki, or Nabokov, and a tin of Balkan tobacco for the pipe.
And, often, one of the cats.
Unlike my high-school classmates and various other human associates, the cats did not object to the fragrance of fine tobacco, and seemed to actually like it.
Felines are clearly superior beings.
One can only look forward to the day when they reveal themselves.
As our brilliant alien overlords.
Miao.
At Fweebink (my affectionate nickname for the computer company at which I worked from 1993 to 1997) I had a somewhat larger tea-tray. Two large ceramic pots, plus various mugs, spoons, and creamers. There were four other people there who liked a spot of tea during the day. Very civilised.
During the years that I worked at the Indian restaurant I kept a lacquer tray with a canister of tea and a celadon pot in the wine cabinet, which I would pull out and charge-up during my evening shifts. The beer cabinet on top of which the pens, receipts, and calculator lived, kept blasting hot air straight into my kneecaps, and consequently I would've been heat-prostrate and dehydrated without the help of tea. Yes, there is tea at Indian restaurants, but it's masala chai.
Not really what's required.
Besides....
Aj kaun chai benaiha-hai? Who made the tea today?
Voh badbuwalli untni? That foul-smelling she-camel?
Toh mera yeh nahi pinahoga. Then I will not drink it.
The foul-smelling she-camel insisted that no one else knew how to prepare masala chai (black tea, green cardamom, fennel seeds, cinnamon stick, water, sugar, milk), and daily threw out the perfectly excellent chai made by Jaghir. Hah, stupid Panjabi, what does HE know about tea? Nearly as little as the gaura!
Throughout the years a number of other women who worked at the Indian place also insisted that neither Panjabis nor gaura-log knew anything about making tea.
One hesitated to drink anything that they had brewed.
I miss Jaghir. The last time I saw him was in the mid-nineties, before he went on vacation for two months. When he came back, it was discovered at Kennedy Airport that he had not one but over a dozen passports with him, not all of them with his name, though every document had his handsome photo in the front.
Last I heard he had opened an American Restaurant in Jullundur.
A very capable gentleman, our Jaghir.
Good chai.
At the company that got sold back in November, where I worked for over twelve years, there were several handsome mugs on my credenza, in between tins of tobacco and various canisters. I drank between four and eight cups of black or jasmine per day.
A man has to stay hydrated, don't you know.
Counting beans is serious business.
The ideal tea-tray has a teapot, a special cup & saucer, and a tin of pipe tobacco. Even if you're a non-smoker. The pipe tobacco lends an air of gentility and old fashioned attitude to the entire thing. Think of it as an olla podrida.
Non-smokers can open it occasionally and smell the fragrant tobacco within (Rattrays is always a good choice), and fondly remember an uncle or an aunt who liked a pipe in late afternoon. Perhaps while reading the San Francisco Examiner, back when it was still a real newspaper with a large number of scribblers and a crime reporter.
Crimes haven't disappeared since then. But the Examiner is now less than a shadow of itself. The Chronicle is somewhat better, but newspapers are no longer what they used to be. Hardly anyone reads nowadays in any case.
There's still tea. Black tea. And pipe tobacco.
Both are far better than Starbucks.
Much healthier, too.
If you spent all morning working or studying, you will want to talk a walk sometime between noon and one o'clock, just to get the circulation going again.
The tea-tray will be waiting for you when you return.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I wish everyone knew this.
When I was a teenager in Valkenswaard, during summer I would take my tea-tray out to the courtyard, and spend many happy hours reading with a pot of tea, my own special cup and saucer (blue and white porcelain), a glass of water, and the various smokers requisites. Assam or Lapsang Souchong, Kipling, Saki, or Nabokov, and a tin of Balkan tobacco for the pipe.
And, often, one of the cats.
Unlike my high-school classmates and various other human associates, the cats did not object to the fragrance of fine tobacco, and seemed to actually like it.
Felines are clearly superior beings.
One can only look forward to the day when they reveal themselves.
As our brilliant alien overlords.
Miao.
At Fweebink (my affectionate nickname for the computer company at which I worked from 1993 to 1997) I had a somewhat larger tea-tray. Two large ceramic pots, plus various mugs, spoons, and creamers. There were four other people there who liked a spot of tea during the day. Very civilised.
During the years that I worked at the Indian restaurant I kept a lacquer tray with a canister of tea and a celadon pot in the wine cabinet, which I would pull out and charge-up during my evening shifts. The beer cabinet on top of which the pens, receipts, and calculator lived, kept blasting hot air straight into my kneecaps, and consequently I would've been heat-prostrate and dehydrated without the help of tea. Yes, there is tea at Indian restaurants, but it's masala chai.
Not really what's required.
Besides....
Aj kaun chai benaiha-hai? Who made the tea today?
Voh badbuwalli untni? That foul-smelling she-camel?
Toh mera yeh nahi pinahoga. Then I will not drink it.
The foul-smelling she-camel insisted that no one else knew how to prepare masala chai (black tea, green cardamom, fennel seeds, cinnamon stick, water, sugar, milk), and daily threw out the perfectly excellent chai made by Jaghir. Hah, stupid Panjabi, what does HE know about tea? Nearly as little as the gaura!
Throughout the years a number of other women who worked at the Indian place also insisted that neither Panjabis nor gaura-log knew anything about making tea.
One hesitated to drink anything that they had brewed.
I miss Jaghir. The last time I saw him was in the mid-nineties, before he went on vacation for two months. When he came back, it was discovered at Kennedy Airport that he had not one but over a dozen passports with him, not all of them with his name, though every document had his handsome photo in the front.
Last I heard he had opened an American Restaurant in Jullundur.
A very capable gentleman, our Jaghir.
Good chai.
At the company that got sold back in November, where I worked for over twelve years, there were several handsome mugs on my credenza, in between tins of tobacco and various canisters. I drank between four and eight cups of black or jasmine per day.
A man has to stay hydrated, don't you know.
Counting beans is serious business.
The ideal tea-tray has a teapot, a special cup & saucer, and a tin of pipe tobacco. Even if you're a non-smoker. The pipe tobacco lends an air of gentility and old fashioned attitude to the entire thing. Think of it as an olla podrida.
Non-smokers can open it occasionally and smell the fragrant tobacco within (Rattrays is always a good choice), and fondly remember an uncle or an aunt who liked a pipe in late afternoon. Perhaps while reading the San Francisco Examiner, back when it was still a real newspaper with a large number of scribblers and a crime reporter.
Crimes haven't disappeared since then. But the Examiner is now less than a shadow of itself. The Chronicle is somewhat better, but newspapers are no longer what they used to be. Hardly anyone reads nowadays in any case.
There's still tea. Black tea. And pipe tobacco.
Both are far better than Starbucks.
Much healthier, too.
If you spent all morning working or studying, you will want to talk a walk sometime between noon and one o'clock, just to get the circulation going again.
The tea-tray will be waiting for you when you return.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 13, 2013
BRITNEY SPEARS, PARIS HILTON, AND CHRISTINA AGUILERA; AND OTHER MONSTERS
One of the search criteria that crops up regularly as the pathway by which someone new finds this blog is "boobs too big for shirt".
Suffice to say that I confess myself baffled. I doubt that I've mentioned breasts often enough here to even qualify as mildly perverse. Pipe tobacco and food have been mentioned FAR more often.
Even so, the phrase "pipe tobacco too big for shirt" doesn't have quite the panache of that other phrase, and "Chinese food to big for shirt" suggests strange dining practises involving lobster.
SOMETHING TOO BIG!
If I had my druthers, it would be the lobster. I am much more enchanted by humongous lobsters than excessive mammary blessings. One of the reasons I gave up on both Penthouse and Playboy magazines in my early twenties was the surplus of breasts and dearth of good articles. No, the excuse that we only bought those publications for the writing cannot hold; the articles were crap.
And big spongy mounds are just boring.
Unlike this blog, of course.
I assure you that you will NOT find huge bosoms here.
This blogger tends to avoid such things. One cannot have a conversation with a woman whose endowments frighten one. She'd have to have one hell of a brain to overcome those obstacles. And regarding shirts, I was not aware that it was so hard to find something in the right size. Yes, it might take a bit of a search.....
But when the worst comes to the worst, you can either shop at Rochester Big & Tall, OR have them tailor-made.
Even the best of shirts improve when your tailor adjusts them a bit.
Anyhow.
The people who use that phrase to find this blog are obviously not the sadly afflicted women themselves, but more likely their slope-browed kin, who are obsessed. It's a hormonal thing, very unfortunate and distressing.
Trauma, emotional scarring, and simple-mindedness.
Psychotherapy might help. Or electroshock.
The breast fetish is a mother complex.
Not so pipe tobacco.
Or food.
AFTER WORD
Whence the title of this post? Well, the most popular google searches in 2004 were 'Britney Spears', 'Paris Hilton', and 'Christina Aquilera'. Which I found out by reading 'Pearls Before Swine', a very fine sardonic comic strip by Stephan Pastis. So I thought I'd opportunistically lure in a better class of reader than the breast men. I actually have bugger-all to say about Britney, Paris, and Christina. Zero.
For all intents and purposes, they don't score anywhere on my own interest-scale, and I'm hard put to identify them in a police line-up, or remember what they did that made them famous.
What field are they in? Astro-physics? The fine arts?
You tell me. You came here because of them.
I know they aren't in pipe-tobacco.
Or involved with food.
Lobsters?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Suffice to say that I confess myself baffled. I doubt that I've mentioned breasts often enough here to even qualify as mildly perverse. Pipe tobacco and food have been mentioned FAR more often.
Even so, the phrase "pipe tobacco too big for shirt" doesn't have quite the panache of that other phrase, and "Chinese food to big for shirt" suggests strange dining practises involving lobster.
SOMETHING TOO BIG!
If I had my druthers, it would be the lobster. I am much more enchanted by humongous lobsters than excessive mammary blessings. One of the reasons I gave up on both Penthouse and Playboy magazines in my early twenties was the surplus of breasts and dearth of good articles. No, the excuse that we only bought those publications for the writing cannot hold; the articles were crap.
And big spongy mounds are just boring.
Unlike this blog, of course.
I assure you that you will NOT find huge bosoms here.
This blogger tends to avoid such things. One cannot have a conversation with a woman whose endowments frighten one. She'd have to have one hell of a brain to overcome those obstacles. And regarding shirts, I was not aware that it was so hard to find something in the right size. Yes, it might take a bit of a search.....
But when the worst comes to the worst, you can either shop at Rochester Big & Tall, OR have them tailor-made.
Even the best of shirts improve when your tailor adjusts them a bit.
Anyhow.
The people who use that phrase to find this blog are obviously not the sadly afflicted women themselves, but more likely their slope-browed kin, who are obsessed. It's a hormonal thing, very unfortunate and distressing.
Trauma, emotional scarring, and simple-mindedness.
Psychotherapy might help. Or electroshock.
The breast fetish is a mother complex.
Not so pipe tobacco.
Or food.
AFTER WORD
Whence the title of this post? Well, the most popular google searches in 2004 were 'Britney Spears', 'Paris Hilton', and 'Christina Aquilera'. Which I found out by reading 'Pearls Before Swine', a very fine sardonic comic strip by Stephan Pastis. So I thought I'd opportunistically lure in a better class of reader than the breast men. I actually have bugger-all to say about Britney, Paris, and Christina. Zero.
For all intents and purposes, they don't score anywhere on my own interest-scale, and I'm hard put to identify them in a police line-up, or remember what they did that made them famous.
What field are they in? Astro-physics? The fine arts?
You tell me. You came here because of them.
I know they aren't in pipe-tobacco.
Or involved with food.
Lobsters?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PITY THE POOR PYTHONS
In a desperate move aimed at eradicating a non-native species that has gone rogue, the great state of Florida is organizing a Burmese Python hunt.
QUOTE:
The US state of Florida is set to begin a competitive Burmese python hunt, in an attempt to rid the Everglades wetlands of the invasive species.
About 550 people have signed up to compete for two prizes: $1,000 (£620) for the longest python killed and $1,500 for the most pythons taken.
[Source; http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-20994982. ]
My money is on the snakes.
Some snakes are smarter than humans.
Some humans.
Probably everyone named Cooter.
"The state will train hunters to avoid mistaking the python for native snakes"
If you ask me, and this is just a hunch, sending a whole bunch of folks armed to the teeth into the middle of a vast bog to find something many of them don't recognize, may be a recipe for disaster. Or at least high comedy. Kinda like one of those scenes in a zombie movie, where someone accidentally kills an uninfected person. "Why did you shoot him, Cooter, why?" "Well, ah thunked he wuz a sumby!"
Or in this case, Cooter thought that the other person looked Burmese.
1:100 and 1:3
Statistics are not in favour of this venture. One out of every hundred people is a howling psychopath, and one out of every three is subclinically neurotic.
Over five hundred folks with guns, heading into a swamp.
One out of three - that's over 180 Cooters.
Plus at least five Super-Cooters.
Gonna be educational.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
QUOTE:
The US state of Florida is set to begin a competitive Burmese python hunt, in an attempt to rid the Everglades wetlands of the invasive species.
About 550 people have signed up to compete for two prizes: $1,000 (£620) for the longest python killed and $1,500 for the most pythons taken.
[Source; http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-20994982. ]
My money is on the snakes.
Some snakes are smarter than humans.
Some humans.
Probably everyone named Cooter.
"The state will train hunters to avoid mistaking the python for native snakes"
If you ask me, and this is just a hunch, sending a whole bunch of folks armed to the teeth into the middle of a vast bog to find something many of them don't recognize, may be a recipe for disaster. Or at least high comedy. Kinda like one of those scenes in a zombie movie, where someone accidentally kills an uninfected person. "Why did you shoot him, Cooter, why?" "Well, ah thunked he wuz a sumby!"
Or in this case, Cooter thought that the other person looked Burmese.
1:100 and 1:3
Statistics are not in favour of this venture. One out of every hundred people is a howling psychopath, and one out of every three is subclinically neurotic.
Over five hundred folks with guns, heading into a swamp.
One out of three - that's over 180 Cooters.
Plus at least five Super-Cooters.
Gonna be educational.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 12, 2013
THE SEASONAL HUMBUG, REVISITED
The cocoa, coffee, and tea are all harmoniously combined. Good lord I'm alive!
Which in this case, naturally, means "wired to the gills". Itself a darn good thing, given the weather we're having. Hot beverages are called for. And those have been drunk, several times, since early morning. I've spent all day indoors, more or less. Except for a quick scoot across the hill for something to eat, which necessitated more warm liquids.
A day of infinite variety. Coffee. Black tea with milk and sugar. Hot chocolate. More tea. Pale jasmine tea and a tall glass of Vietnamese coffee, no ice.
Milk-tea. Coffee. Cocoa.
Pipe-smoke: Wessex Red Virginia flake, Escudo, Rattray's Accountants' Mixture, Dunhill 965. More Wessex. A blend of my own devising.
More Rattrays.
Except for the second time I loaded up a pipe with Wessex, these were all half-bowls, as I cannot smoke in the apartment, save in the kitchen near the open window behind the closed door. The post-lunch Wessex was marked by high-as-a-kiteness from the jasmine tea and Vietnamese coffee, as well as severe frost-bite, hypothermia, chilblains, convulsions from heat-loss, and assorted limbs and noses falling off. While walking through C'town with my pipe.
A stroll, they say, is good for the digestion.
I really envy women right now.
Not stupid, unlike men.
They stay inside.
Warmth!
If, at this point, you are guessing that miserable weather causes hyperbole, AND that I passionately long for warmer winds, you very well may be right.
This blogger is not a cold fish. And consequently does not like winter.
Except to look at. Silver-grey skies, soft rainy hazes, and all that crap.
If I were a woman, I would be indoors right now, munching crisp green apples while reading a mystery novel, in the nude. On an easy chair near the living room window overlooking the street, as the summer twilight fades to dusk and the shadows lengthen. Shiny hair in dis-array, my youthful curves delineated and limned by faintly golden directional light. A gentle warm breeze would occasionally part the curtains, affording a tempting glimpse of my glowing skin to any passersby three stories up, should they cast a glance in this direction. Either that, or it would be early spring, and though raining cats and dogs it would not be cold, but instead a very pleasant temperature outside.
I'd still be nude, though.
Pearls, fresh apples, and nudity. Plus a mystery novel. That's what this blogger needs. NOT frozen fingers, chilled extremities, a pounding headache from too much caffeine and fellow-citizens who cruelly gloat over the wintry weather.
"I like the cold season in San Francisco"
Oh yeah? Have you considered stuffing a sock in it? Highly recommended, before grumpy middle-aged pipesmokers AND a horde of naked women mob you, and tear the flesh from your bones. No, we're not hungry -- we've been snacking since dawn -- but we think that those bones and your clothes, oiled with a bit of grease from your fat head, would make a lovely BONFIRE!
So warm, and bright enough to read by!
Miss, have you finished that mystery novel?
Good, then let us discuss apples, and temptation.
Later this evening I will make the trek by dogsled across the frozen tundra of Nob Hill to the Occidental Cigar Bar, to spend several hours in smoke, surrounded by people who should NOT be naked, and whom I do not EVER wish to see munching apples in the buff while a warmish spring rain falls outside.
For crapsakes, gentlemen, close those living room curtains!
It's people like you that cause nightmares.
No mystery there.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which in this case, naturally, means "wired to the gills". Itself a darn good thing, given the weather we're having. Hot beverages are called for. And those have been drunk, several times, since early morning. I've spent all day indoors, more or less. Except for a quick scoot across the hill for something to eat, which necessitated more warm liquids.
A day of infinite variety. Coffee. Black tea with milk and sugar. Hot chocolate. More tea. Pale jasmine tea and a tall glass of Vietnamese coffee, no ice.
Milk-tea. Coffee. Cocoa.
Pipe-smoke: Wessex Red Virginia flake, Escudo, Rattray's Accountants' Mixture, Dunhill 965. More Wessex. A blend of my own devising.
More Rattrays.
Except for the second time I loaded up a pipe with Wessex, these were all half-bowls, as I cannot smoke in the apartment, save in the kitchen near the open window behind the closed door. The post-lunch Wessex was marked by high-as-a-kiteness from the jasmine tea and Vietnamese coffee, as well as severe frost-bite, hypothermia, chilblains, convulsions from heat-loss, and assorted limbs and noses falling off. While walking through C'town with my pipe.
A stroll, they say, is good for the digestion.
I really envy women right now.
Not stupid, unlike men.
They stay inside.
Warmth!
If, at this point, you are guessing that miserable weather causes hyperbole, AND that I passionately long for warmer winds, you very well may be right.
This blogger is not a cold fish. And consequently does not like winter.
Except to look at. Silver-grey skies, soft rainy hazes, and all that crap.
If I were a woman, I would be indoors right now, munching crisp green apples while reading a mystery novel, in the nude. On an easy chair near the living room window overlooking the street, as the summer twilight fades to dusk and the shadows lengthen. Shiny hair in dis-array, my youthful curves delineated and limned by faintly golden directional light. A gentle warm breeze would occasionally part the curtains, affording a tempting glimpse of my glowing skin to any passersby three stories up, should they cast a glance in this direction. Either that, or it would be early spring, and though raining cats and dogs it would not be cold, but instead a very pleasant temperature outside.
I'd still be nude, though.
Pearls, fresh apples, and nudity. Plus a mystery novel. That's what this blogger needs. NOT frozen fingers, chilled extremities, a pounding headache from too much caffeine and fellow-citizens who cruelly gloat over the wintry weather.
"I like the cold season in San Francisco"
Oh yeah? Have you considered stuffing a sock in it? Highly recommended, before grumpy middle-aged pipesmokers AND a horde of naked women mob you, and tear the flesh from your bones. No, we're not hungry -- we've been snacking since dawn -- but we think that those bones and your clothes, oiled with a bit of grease from your fat head, would make a lovely BONFIRE!
So warm, and bright enough to read by!
Miss, have you finished that mystery novel?
Good, then let us discuss apples, and temptation.
Later this evening I will make the trek by dogsled across the frozen tundra of Nob Hill to the Occidental Cigar Bar, to spend several hours in smoke, surrounded by people who should NOT be naked, and whom I do not EVER wish to see munching apples in the buff while a warmish spring rain falls outside.
For crapsakes, gentlemen, close those living room curtains!
It's people like you that cause nightmares.
No mystery there.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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MAKING EXCUSES
So the question might be asked "how come we haven't seen "Jayder" in over a month? Well gee. He's "gone", d...
