But one must have milk-tea! It's the immutable rule! She spoke with utter conviction, never having considered the alternatives. What else did one go to a 'tea restaurant' for, if not the tea? Hong Kong style milk-tea is made by boiling the beverage for about five minutes, pouring it through cloth into the glass, and adding evaporated milk for sweetness and light. The straining through the sackcloth filter gave the beverage a more velvety mouth-feel. This was very important!
Her companion had not considered these things, and didn't have much of an opinion about the subject. He was hungry, and he wanted to feed her. Watching her complete and dreamy concentration as she tucked in to something yummy was infinitely enchanting. She was too small and skinny, and he looked forward to buying her many more dinners. On her own she did not eat much, often being so distracted by homework that it would be late night by the time she twitched up with an appetite. Her three roommates would be asleep by then, and clanging around in the kitchen was out of the question. He had spoken to her on the phone at those times, as she quietly polished-off some crackers or seaweed chips.
So unhealthy! A woman needs to eat!
He had offered to come pick her up, take her somewhere were there was rich greasy food, put something in her stomach. But no, it wasn't proper for young ladies to be out at midnight. Why not? Well, dangerous, lah. And cold. And too many drunkards, it just looks very bad, and might give strange people ideas...... Well, silly, yes. But most frighteningly of all, that's when everyone turned to pumpkins!
In any case, she absolutely refused.
Midnight was the time to sleep. Otherwise you'd wake up grumpy and tired the next day, and be a zombie in class.
Pre-emptively he got into the habit of picking her up at around five o'clock -- just for a little while, sweetie -- and on some pretext or other leading her down to the old neighborhood. Then, pretending peckishness (actually a very real appetite), he'd finagle her into a coffee shop or cha-chanteng ("tea restaurant"), and persuade her to eat. The hot beverage, as far as he was concerned, was a necessary part of the experience. The caffeine would prevent her from getting sleepy afterwards, and he knew that she would go home and spend at least four more hours studying.
Lord, he would love to be with her at that time!
No, no naughty intentions. She just looked so adorable with her brow furrowed, her face limned by the light of the desk lamp. And with three roommates, anything wicked was out of the question. Keep the door open, and all the lights on. But it would distract her, and the girls she shared the apartment with were inquisitive and social. They would interrupt when he was there. What did he do? Where was he from? Was his family wealthy? Did he want to play mahjong? Oh please, now there's four of us, and she NEVER plays!
Women! So much trouble!
When all he really wanted to do was watch his lady read.
She studied the menu with quite as much seriousness as her textbooks. Roast duck noodles? Or mixed meat and noodles? No, wait, they also had braised yi min with duck meat, so much more textural! But if texture was the determinant, maybe ox-tongue with corn sauce, and spaghetti instead of rice....... Food was as fascinating a subject as clinical psychology.
He deliberately ordered something which could be shared. That way, he'd have an excuse to also have dessert afterwards. He had learned that if he got her her own pudding, she would not touch it. But she'd gladly have some of his, oh only a little, just one more bite, mmmmm, the rest is ALL yours.
She was still so very small and thin. She probably wouldn't develop any more height or bone mass, and it would be years at this rate before she had any plumpness.
He anticipated many more meals together, just "taking her out for tea".
In the meantime, she sipped happily, and dreamed of duck.
Mmmmmmmmm! Roast duck!
A good duck.
NOTES
Hong Kong milk-tea: Heung-Gong naai cha (香港奶茶), usually simply called naai cha (奶茶). Tea-restaurant: a type of restaurant popular in Hong Kong (香港) that incorporates Western style foods and beverages into Chinese cuisine. Usually places where you can grab a quick bite and a stimulating beverage, or dawdle for a while. Called cha-chanteng (茶餐廳) in Cantonese. They're appelled thus because the first beverage is milk-tea. The menu is both varied and flabberghasting. Evaporated milk: milk which has had nearly two thirds of the water dehydrated out, yielding a product with a much longer shelf-life. Called 'daam naai (淡奶), and fairly common in HK.
【淡奶，就係蒸餾過嘅牛奶也。】
Roommate: sat-yau (室友) or tong-ok (同屋). The first term indicates an apartment companion, the second someone who lives in the same residence or house. Seaweed chips: any one of many tasty Japanese snacky things, made with rice flour or tapioca flour, flavoured with seaweed. They're addictive. Zombie: the walking dead. Often suburbanite.
Keep the door open: an essential and trained behavioural pattern, to establish clearly that any suspicions should be out of the question. Mahjong: a Jewish game played with tiles that is very popular in Asia.
Roast duck noodles: siu-ngaap tong min (燒鴨湯麵), which consists of duck chunks in broth with thin wheat flour noodles. $6.95.
Mixed meat noodles: baat-jan tong min (八珍湯麵), organ meats and dried black mushrooms in soup with wheat noodles. $5.95.
Braised yi min with duck meat: ngaap-si gon-siu yi-min (鴨絲幹燒伊麵); sliced duck dry-braised with chewy yellow noodles, very delicious. Please note that 幹 stands in for 乾, which is a little off, due to another meaning of 幹 which you really do not need to know about. $7.50.
Ox-tongue with corn sauce: suk-mai ngau lei (粟米牛利), a very HK preparation, combining a cheap meat with a textural experience. The term 利 means profit, but stands in for 脷, which is the Cantonese word for tongue. $6.75.
With spaghetti instead of rice: spaghetti has become popular in Hong Kong, where the menu will usually use 意粉 (yi fan) instead of the dryly bookish 意大利麵 (yi taai lei min). The choice here is 燴飯或意粉 (wui fan waak yi-fan), with gravied rice or (或) Italian noodles. 燴 means braised with something, but in this case baked en casserole.
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Thursday, February 21, 2013
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
DORITOS GOAT COMMERCIAL
I like goats. Consequently I've hit replay on the now deservedly famous commercial featuring a lovable scamp named 'Moose' several times, with feverish hands. That, gentlemen, is one personable goat!
DORITOS SHOWCASES NEW INTERNET STAR!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ygXhyrPgZ-8.]
Copyright: Doritos®
Not only are their chips packed with serious crunch and bold flavors, the DORITOS® brand is all about bold experiences in snacking and beyond.
If I had been born a goat, this is what I would want to be.
Such personality!
For the truly obsessed, Moose the Goat is also on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/MooseTheGoat.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DORITOS SHOWCASES NEW INTERNET STAR!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ygXhyrPgZ-8.]
Copyright: Doritos®
Not only are their chips packed with serious crunch and bold flavors, the DORITOS® brand is all about bold experiences in snacking and beyond.
If I had been born a goat, this is what I would want to be.
Such personality!
For the truly obsessed, Moose the Goat is also on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/MooseTheGoat.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GOAT CURRY DANCING
One of the dishes that begs for company is goat curry. Not the celebrated Jamaican dish, nor the hot Hyderabadi feast food, but a nice golden-hued treat-your-friends Dutch-Indonesian soup-stew.
I was reminded of this by watching the now famous Doritos Goat commercial, featuring a loveable beast named 'Moose', who commits domestic violence on the timorous quaking beardy man that 'adopts' him. Had I been that fellow, the violence meted out would have been repaid by a session in the kitchen.
But I am not he, and that Doritophile goat is actually too cute to eat.
I'll go the Muslim market at some point to acquire a bit of meat.
Maybe those Doritos would make a good hors d'oeuvre.
While waiting for our dinner to be done.
GOAT CURRY SOUP
Twelve pounds of goat, chunk cut through the bone.
Twelve large cloves of garlic, minced.
Equivalent amount ginger, ditto.
Ten TBS coriander powder.
Three TBS cumin powder.
Three TBS turmeric powder.
Two TBS cayenne powder.
One TBS sugar.
One TBS salt.
Half cup of oil.
Half cup of vinegar.
*And:
Four or five onions, chopped.
*And:
Four whole star anise.
Four sticks cinnamon.
Four stalks lemon grass.
Two TBS whole peppercorns.
Ten jalapeno chilies, left whole.
*And:
Three cans (approx. six cups) of coconut milk.
Six cups (approx. three cans) of good meat stock.
Mix the garlic, ginger, powdered spices, sugar, salt, oil, and vinegar. Rub this all over the goat, massaging it into the meat.
Place it in an enamel ware container or large porcelain dish, cover with plastic wrap, and stick it into the refrigerator for eight to twelve hours. Do not use a stainless steel mixing bowl, as it may react with the vinegar.
You might want to do this the day before the feast.
Sauté the onions in a very roomy pan till glossy golden brown. Add the meat, and fry up fiercely till coloured and fragrant, slightly crusty even.
Add everything else, plus water to cover generously. Simmer gently for three hours, stirring occasionally to keep it from sticking to the bottom.
Adjust the moisture level as needed, to ensure a soupiness.
When the meat is fall-apart tender, fish the lemon grass out.
Ladle it into deep pasta dishes, garnish liberally with parsley and cilantro, and warn your guests about bones, star anise, and cinnamon sticks.
Oh, and the peppercorns; they're kind of exciting.
Serve with hot crusty French bread, boiled potatoes, a few simple vegetables, and salad. Plus lime wedges.
Don't forget to put bottles of hot-sauce on the table for the nuts.
Please note that it is traditional to serve beer with this. However I believe that the beer is better used as part of the cooking liquid, à la flammande.
Use a bottle or two of a good brown ale.
Drink sherry instead.
Why so large a recipe?
Why not?
Man, I love that Doritos goat!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I was reminded of this by watching the now famous Doritos Goat commercial, featuring a loveable beast named 'Moose', who commits domestic violence on the timorous quaking beardy man that 'adopts' him. Had I been that fellow, the violence meted out would have been repaid by a session in the kitchen.
But I am not he, and that Doritophile goat is actually too cute to eat.
I'll go the Muslim market at some point to acquire a bit of meat.
Maybe those Doritos would make a good hors d'oeuvre.
While waiting for our dinner to be done.
GOAT CURRY SOUP
Twelve pounds of goat, chunk cut through the bone.
Twelve large cloves of garlic, minced.
Equivalent amount ginger, ditto.
Ten TBS coriander powder.
Three TBS cumin powder.
Three TBS turmeric powder.
Two TBS cayenne powder.
One TBS sugar.
One TBS salt.
Half cup of oil.
Half cup of vinegar.
*And:
Four or five onions, chopped.
*And:
Four whole star anise.
Four sticks cinnamon.
Four stalks lemon grass.
Two TBS whole peppercorns.
Ten jalapeno chilies, left whole.
*And:
Three cans (approx. six cups) of coconut milk.
Six cups (approx. three cans) of good meat stock.
Mix the garlic, ginger, powdered spices, sugar, salt, oil, and vinegar. Rub this all over the goat, massaging it into the meat.
Place it in an enamel ware container or large porcelain dish, cover with plastic wrap, and stick it into the refrigerator for eight to twelve hours. Do not use a stainless steel mixing bowl, as it may react with the vinegar.
You might want to do this the day before the feast.
Sauté the onions in a very roomy pan till glossy golden brown. Add the meat, and fry up fiercely till coloured and fragrant, slightly crusty even.
Add everything else, plus water to cover generously. Simmer gently for three hours, stirring occasionally to keep it from sticking to the bottom.
Adjust the moisture level as needed, to ensure a soupiness.
When the meat is fall-apart tender, fish the lemon grass out.
Ladle it into deep pasta dishes, garnish liberally with parsley and cilantro, and warn your guests about bones, star anise, and cinnamon sticks.
Oh, and the peppercorns; they're kind of exciting.
Serve with hot crusty French bread, boiled potatoes, a few simple vegetables, and salad. Plus lime wedges.
Don't forget to put bottles of hot-sauce on the table for the nuts.
Please note that it is traditional to serve beer with this. However I believe that the beer is better used as part of the cooking liquid, à la flammande.
Use a bottle or two of a good brown ale.
Drink sherry instead.
Why so large a recipe?
Why not?
Man, I love that Doritos goat!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IT'S A BUCKET!
One of the sights that absolutely sickens me is two people smooching. Huge sloppy kisses and barely restrained groping are NOT suitable for the public street, nor for the eyes of little children, families, or easily startled pets and passers-by.
Or, as it turns out, sour old armadillos.
But that's quite likely just a serious twinge of envy. I actually wouldn't mind doing that myself sometime. Somewhere suitably private, of course.
I've been frightfully lonely these past two and a half years without love, affection, and companionship.
No, I have NO intention of getting a dog. Or a cat. They'd probably object to my pipe-smoking, and insist on vegan kibble in the dish. Besides getting piercings and garish tattoos during their puppyhood. Kittenhood.
A goldfish who likes strong tobacco would be nice.
Most of my best relationships presently are with inanimate objects. They have such interesting opinions. Chairs, tables, couches. Bookstores.
One of these days I'm going to replenish my spice rack. Other than frequent purchases of hotsauce -- to be used in the middle of the night with horribly unsuitable snacks -- I haven't shopped for strong flavours in years. Maybe it's time to throw out the dried oysters too, as that bag dates from autumn of 2010. Somewhere there's a block of hard shrimp-paste from Malaysia that I was going to use in curries, but never got around to.
As well as a dried fish; a flounder. There were two of them; the first one got used for broth already, as the second will also. The flounder is presently not alone, however, as I have got it a companion; a beautiful and fragrant dried croaker. Suitable for steamed pork patty - haahm yiuk beng.
They make a lovely couple, perhaps I should treat them as puppets?
Why hello, ms. Croaker, you sure look nice today!
Thank you mr. Flounder! Kissy kissy?
Piscine smoochies.
I like the idea of cooking, but the process makes for a lousy solitary vice.
And if you don't bother, you never have to throw out green bacon.
This afternoon I shall have a late lunch, and do some people-watching afterwards. While thus engaged I shall enjoy my pipe; it keeps the other humans at a safe distance. Please don't go near the man with smoke coming out of his mouth, dear, he might bite.
Oh, and he's probably a carnivore. That type, yes.
See, he's even dressed normally!
That's mighty suspicious!
I'll puff fiercely if I have to.
Random concepts: sambal, oyster sauce, dried shrimp, mensen, Isabel Allende, Vietnamese-English Dictionary, Old Gowrie, Keemun tea, keris, sarimanok, scales, a fat egret, combs, Charatan pipe, Cheri Chung Chor Hung, balsamic vinegar, Khartoum, Jacobins, Lumumba, Kashimashi, racing nuns, saffron, shadows, slang, Jan Fabricius, Vergeelde Portretten Uit Een Indisch Familie-album, sour cream & onion, Aṣṭādhyāyī of Pāṇini.
I could have sworn that there was a red stapler around here somewhere.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But that's quite likely just a serious twinge of envy. I actually wouldn't mind doing that myself sometime. Somewhere suitably private, of course.
I've been frightfully lonely these past two and a half years without love, affection, and companionship.
No, I have NO intention of getting a dog. Or a cat. They'd probably object to my pipe-smoking, and insist on vegan kibble in the dish. Besides getting piercings and garish tattoos during their puppyhood. Kittenhood.
A goldfish who likes strong tobacco would be nice.
Most of my best relationships presently are with inanimate objects. They have such interesting opinions. Chairs, tables, couches. Bookstores.
One of these days I'm going to replenish my spice rack. Other than frequent purchases of hotsauce -- to be used in the middle of the night with horribly unsuitable snacks -- I haven't shopped for strong flavours in years. Maybe it's time to throw out the dried oysters too, as that bag dates from autumn of 2010. Somewhere there's a block of hard shrimp-paste from Malaysia that I was going to use in curries, but never got around to.
As well as a dried fish; a flounder. There were two of them; the first one got used for broth already, as the second will also. The flounder is presently not alone, however, as I have got it a companion; a beautiful and fragrant dried croaker. Suitable for steamed pork patty - haahm yiuk beng.
They make a lovely couple, perhaps I should treat them as puppets?
Why hello, ms. Croaker, you sure look nice today!
Thank you mr. Flounder! Kissy kissy?
Piscine smoochies.
I like the idea of cooking, but the process makes for a lousy solitary vice.
And if you don't bother, you never have to throw out green bacon.
This afternoon I shall have a late lunch, and do some people-watching afterwards. While thus engaged I shall enjoy my pipe; it keeps the other humans at a safe distance. Please don't go near the man with smoke coming out of his mouth, dear, he might bite.
Oh, and he's probably a carnivore. That type, yes.
See, he's even dressed normally!
That's mighty suspicious!
I'll puff fiercely if I have to.
Random concepts: sambal, oyster sauce, dried shrimp, mensen, Isabel Allende, Vietnamese-English Dictionary, Old Gowrie, Keemun tea, keris, sarimanok, scales, a fat egret, combs, Charatan pipe, Cheri Chung Chor Hung, balsamic vinegar, Khartoum, Jacobins, Lumumba, Kashimashi, racing nuns, saffron, shadows, slang, Jan Fabricius, Vergeelde Portretten Uit Een Indisch Familie-album, sour cream & onion, Aṣṭādhyāyī of Pāṇini.
I could have sworn that there was a red stapler around here somewhere.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
A BLAZE OF SMOKE AND THUNDER
The BBC, notorious for slanting data for maximum appeal to their audience, has decided that pipe-smoking is an altogether horrible thing that it would be better people forgot about. Good heavens, little kiddie-winkies might think it cool if they knew it existed!
And we should all be protective of children, shouldn't we? As well as vicious harpies and dried-up old flounders who object to any evidence of tobacco in the media. Because it is Sodom and Gomorrah all at once.
What, you may wonder, wax I wroth about?
Quote:
"...the BBC, in its wisdom, or in thrall to its own addiction – which is to political correctness – has chosen to play down Wilson’s pipe in its five-hour tribute to be shown on BBC Parliament."
[End cite.]
That passage is from an article in The Telegraph by Allan Massie, anent a television programme about former prime-minister Harold Wilson.
Methinks the BBC would do far better to run twenty-four hours of praise-song for dentistry, if they were really concerned about the health and oral-hygiene of the British public.
Further quote:
"Pipe-smoking has always been associated with common sense, even wisdom, which is why Mr Badger in The Wind in the Willows smoked a pipe. It is a comforting habit, aiding contemplation."
[End cite.]
A comforting habit, aiding contemplation! What I'm contemplating right now is the end of civilization and it's sneaky replacement with Puritanical right-think. What would, at this moment, be of very great comfort, is if all those kiddie-winkies, harpies, and old flounders went off and buggered themselves.
Quote:
"Simenon’s Maigret puffed his way through every investigation. The actor Rupert Davies was the first person to get the pipe-smoking award, presumably because he played Maigret, and smoked his pipe so well on television. Rather surprisingly perhaps, Dorothy L Sayers’s detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, was also a pipe smoker. I have the notion that Miss Sayers smoked one herself, even if not as devotedly as Simenon. Authors sometimes lend their own habits to their favourite characters.
This may be why Philip Marlowe, greatest of tough-guy private eyes, was a pipe-lover; his creator, Raymond Chandler, was rarely photographed without a briar in mouth or hand. Even so, he wasn’t quite as dedicated as that other distinguished old boy of Dulwich College, P G Wodehouse, still photographed, pipe in mouth and tapping away at his typewriter well into his eighties. The young Evelyn Waugh smoked a pipe, but turned to cigars when he became more prosperous. J B Priestley, however, puffed away well into old age, Pipe Smoker of the Year in 1979.
You seldom see people smoking a pipe in public now, in this country anyway, though it is still a common sight at café tables in Paris. (Back in the Forties and Fifties anyone who wanted to be regarded as a French intellectual copied the example of the prophet of existentialism, Jean-Paul Sartre, and took to a pipe.) "
[End cite.]
The list of celebrated pipe-smokers is endless; that of beloved puritan hatchets, virtually non-existent.
I'm smoking a pipe right now, btw.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And we should all be protective of children, shouldn't we? As well as vicious harpies and dried-up old flounders who object to any evidence of tobacco in the media. Because it is Sodom and Gomorrah all at once.
What, you may wonder, wax I wroth about?
Quote:
"...the BBC, in its wisdom, or in thrall to its own addiction – which is to political correctness – has chosen to play down Wilson’s pipe in its five-hour tribute to be shown on BBC Parliament."
[End cite.]
That passage is from an article in The Telegraph by Allan Massie, anent a television programme about former prime-minister Harold Wilson.
Methinks the BBC would do far better to run twenty-four hours of praise-song for dentistry, if they were really concerned about the health and oral-hygiene of the British public.
Further quote:
"Pipe-smoking has always been associated with common sense, even wisdom, which is why Mr Badger in The Wind in the Willows smoked a pipe. It is a comforting habit, aiding contemplation."
[End cite.]
A comforting habit, aiding contemplation! What I'm contemplating right now is the end of civilization and it's sneaky replacement with Puritanical right-think. What would, at this moment, be of very great comfort, is if all those kiddie-winkies, harpies, and old flounders went off and buggered themselves.
Quote:
"Simenon’s Maigret puffed his way through every investigation. The actor Rupert Davies was the first person to get the pipe-smoking award, presumably because he played Maigret, and smoked his pipe so well on television. Rather surprisingly perhaps, Dorothy L Sayers’s detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, was also a pipe smoker. I have the notion that Miss Sayers smoked one herself, even if not as devotedly as Simenon. Authors sometimes lend their own habits to their favourite characters.
This may be why Philip Marlowe, greatest of tough-guy private eyes, was a pipe-lover; his creator, Raymond Chandler, was rarely photographed without a briar in mouth or hand. Even so, he wasn’t quite as dedicated as that other distinguished old boy of Dulwich College, P G Wodehouse, still photographed, pipe in mouth and tapping away at his typewriter well into his eighties. The young Evelyn Waugh smoked a pipe, but turned to cigars when he became more prosperous. J B Priestley, however, puffed away well into old age, Pipe Smoker of the Year in 1979.
You seldom see people smoking a pipe in public now, in this country anyway, though it is still a common sight at café tables in Paris. (Back in the Forties and Fifties anyone who wanted to be regarded as a French intellectual copied the example of the prophet of existentialism, Jean-Paul Sartre, and took to a pipe.) "
[End cite.]
The list of celebrated pipe-smokers is endless; that of beloved puritan hatchets, virtually non-existent.
I'm smoking a pipe right now, btw.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, February 18, 2013
HONG KONG TASTE - THE STUFF YOU WANT
Fish balls on a stick, egg-puff, milk-tea, wonton noodle, little egg tarts, and a pineapple bun stuffed with meat. If you know what these things are, you may be from Hong Kong.
串魚蛋 (chuen yü dan)
Fish balls on a stick are a quick snack. No, this isn't like gefilte fish in New York, these items are springy and chewy, not particularly fishy, and often deep-fried. But they aren't greasy, as the texture is too dense to allow oil penetration. Often there will be curry oil or curry sauce alongside, but if that is missing simply dump hot sauce over them.
鷄蛋仔 (gai daan chai)
Egg-puff is an airy waffle with globular parts. Cheap, sweet, lavishly dusted with powdered sugar. It's what you need to eat when you have a glass of boba tea (波霸茶). Go ahead, have the BIG cup of honeydew with milk and tapioca balls (蜜瓜波霸奶茶 'mat-gwa bo-ba naai cha').
奶茶 (naai cha)
Milk-tea is made by boiling black tea leaves, straining the resultant murky liquid through a cloth bag, and adding condensed milk. This will wake you up. It's a heartwarming splash of pure goodness.
雲吞麺 (wan tan min)
Wonton noodle is an abomination. Dumplings AND noodles? Sweet little innocent Mandarin-speakers won't touch this, as the combination of those items is NEVER done by civilized people, and the broth is flavoured with dried flounder (左口魚 'jo hau yü') besides. Add some ripped greens for freshness, and garnish with garlic chives (韭菜 'gau choi').
Naturally, it is delicious.
蛋撻 (daan taat)
Little egg tarts are what happens when English-style bakeries as interpreted by Hong Kong Chinese meet Portuguese pastries. Delicous, custardy, and small enough that you want to eat one or two more. Great hot and fresh, with boba tea OR milk-tea.
菠蘿包 (bo lo bau)
The pineapple bun is made by combining a soft sweet bread dough with a top-layer of sugar pastry. The name comes from the cracked appearance of that second dough expanding at a different rate than the first. Toasted, slathered with butter, and stuffed with sandwich meat, this is probably the most dangerous snack on the planet. Yet how delicious!
AND it's hand size!
You've been missing these things. But you know that they are available all over Chinatown. And other than the daan taat at Golden Gate, most people haven't discovered them yet. So go. As soon as school is out, or you are off work, head into the neighborhood and eat yourself a feast.
Might as well have all of them at once.
Life is good.
Live well.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
串魚蛋 (chuen yü dan)
Fish balls on a stick are a quick snack. No, this isn't like gefilte fish in New York, these items are springy and chewy, not particularly fishy, and often deep-fried. But they aren't greasy, as the texture is too dense to allow oil penetration. Often there will be curry oil or curry sauce alongside, but if that is missing simply dump hot sauce over them.
鷄蛋仔 (gai daan chai)
Egg-puff is an airy waffle with globular parts. Cheap, sweet, lavishly dusted with powdered sugar. It's what you need to eat when you have a glass of boba tea (波霸茶). Go ahead, have the BIG cup of honeydew with milk and tapioca balls (蜜瓜波霸奶茶 'mat-gwa bo-ba naai cha').
奶茶 (naai cha)
Milk-tea is made by boiling black tea leaves, straining the resultant murky liquid through a cloth bag, and adding condensed milk. This will wake you up. It's a heartwarming splash of pure goodness.
雲吞麺 (wan tan min)
Wonton noodle is an abomination. Dumplings AND noodles? Sweet little innocent Mandarin-speakers won't touch this, as the combination of those items is NEVER done by civilized people, and the broth is flavoured with dried flounder (左口魚 'jo hau yü') besides. Add some ripped greens for freshness, and garnish with garlic chives (韭菜 'gau choi').
Naturally, it is delicious.
蛋撻 (daan taat)
Little egg tarts are what happens when English-style bakeries as interpreted by Hong Kong Chinese meet Portuguese pastries. Delicous, custardy, and small enough that you want to eat one or two more. Great hot and fresh, with boba tea OR milk-tea.
菠蘿包 (bo lo bau)
The pineapple bun is made by combining a soft sweet bread dough with a top-layer of sugar pastry. The name comes from the cracked appearance of that second dough expanding at a different rate than the first. Toasted, slathered with butter, and stuffed with sandwich meat, this is probably the most dangerous snack on the planet. Yet how delicious!
AND it's hand size!
You've been missing these things. But you know that they are available all over Chinatown. And other than the daan taat at Golden Gate, most people haven't discovered them yet. So go. As soon as school is out, or you are off work, head into the neighborhood and eat yourself a feast.
Might as well have all of them at once.
Life is good.
Live well.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 17, 2013
STUPENDOUS EYE CANDY
One of the people I see occasionally at the cigar club has a beautiful wife. They got married back in September, and have taken each other out of circulation. At some point they may enter the gene pool. Which I recommend. They're both intelligent, and the kids will be extremely pretty.
Most men are hung up on appearance. I would be lying if I said that such things didn't mean anything to me. But what a woman looks like is only part of the deal. Imelda Marcos was a beauty queen, and given what we know about that woman now, getting hitched to her was either the worst thing Ferdinand ever did, or, cynically speaking, the best. She had a keenly honed talent for strong-arm robbery and political savagery that made the Borgias look amateurish.
I certainly wouldn't want to be attached to such a person.
And you, dear masculine reader, will upon reflection conclude that you do not want someone like that in your life either.
ADVICE ABOUT THE FIRST DOZEN DATES
It need not be twelve, it could be as many as twenty or thirty. But what you MUST remember is that it is not about sex. It never should be. What both of you are doing is getting acquainted, and figuring out what the other person is like. Is she or he someone you can respect? Does that person have a decent brain? Are there profound similarities?
Is she crazier than a peach-orchard boar?
Again, imagine yourself married to Imelda.
The first ten, twenty, or thirty dates should be about conversation, eating out together, and discovering the things you like doing with each other. Stuff that makes being with that particular someone much more enjoyable than experiencing it alone or with your colleagues from work.
If it's just sex, think Ben Affleck and J-Lo.
FEMALE PERSPECTIVE
Now, suppose you are a woman. Stranger things have happened. Do you trust him? Is he the kind of man who will get you home safely if you've had one glass of champagne too many? Does he respect the waitstaff at restaurants?
Would you let him anywhere near your sister?
If the answer to ANY of those questions is not an unqualified 'yes', you might well ask yourself why you are even in the same room as him.
At the very least, ask yourself whether he's better than a handbag.
What all this means is that for either gender, lots of effort and imagination are required. Discovering cozy little restaurants, quiet parks in which it is pleasant to stroll, coffeeshops where both of you can read for hours, fun adventures, nice parts of town, interesting antique stores.............
Thirty dates. That may take three or four months. Call each other up after work sometime, just to listen. And if you're eating lunch together during the week, DON'T talk about work. Do NOT waffle on about tobacco, sports, handbags, or beanie babies.
Both of you will need a sense of humour. If it does go well between the two of you, that sense of humour will stand you in good stead.
Especially if you end up living together.
Above all, eat.
This blogger, in case you didn't know already, is currently single, and likely to remain so. Obviously NOT the person to go to for any advice about dating.
For all I know, courtship in the modern era involves large amounts of alcohol and energy drinks, plus studs, piercings, shared tattoos, and mental abuse.
So just consider all the above well-meaning avuncular poofle.
Or waffle from a fossil.
My friend who has the lovely spouse probably did not meet her over thrash-dancing at a club, however. They've known each other for years, possibly since college. And I seriously doubt that either of them is into stupendous acts of misbehaviour and tastelessness. I rather suspect that they started off with caffeinated beverages, conversation, and perhaps dinner.
Followed by hand-holding, and walks around town.
Maybe some flowers, and a movie.
She tolerates his smoking, and often joins him when he needs to visit the cigar club for his mental health. So clearly she has his best interests in mind, as I sincerely hope he does hers.
They're a nice couple.
Cute together.
I'm thinking about taking up butterfly collecting. That should be a relatively stress-free hobby for my declining years.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Most men are hung up on appearance. I would be lying if I said that such things didn't mean anything to me. But what a woman looks like is only part of the deal. Imelda Marcos was a beauty queen, and given what we know about that woman now, getting hitched to her was either the worst thing Ferdinand ever did, or, cynically speaking, the best. She had a keenly honed talent for strong-arm robbery and political savagery that made the Borgias look amateurish.
I certainly wouldn't want to be attached to such a person.
And you, dear masculine reader, will upon reflection conclude that you do not want someone like that in your life either.
ADVICE ABOUT THE FIRST DOZEN DATES
It need not be twelve, it could be as many as twenty or thirty. But what you MUST remember is that it is not about sex. It never should be. What both of you are doing is getting acquainted, and figuring out what the other person is like. Is she or he someone you can respect? Does that person have a decent brain? Are there profound similarities?
Is she crazier than a peach-orchard boar?
Again, imagine yourself married to Imelda.
The first ten, twenty, or thirty dates should be about conversation, eating out together, and discovering the things you like doing with each other. Stuff that makes being with that particular someone much more enjoyable than experiencing it alone or with your colleagues from work.
If it's just sex, think Ben Affleck and J-Lo.
FEMALE PERSPECTIVE
Now, suppose you are a woman. Stranger things have happened. Do you trust him? Is he the kind of man who will get you home safely if you've had one glass of champagne too many? Does he respect the waitstaff at restaurants?
Would you let him anywhere near your sister?
If the answer to ANY of those questions is not an unqualified 'yes', you might well ask yourself why you are even in the same room as him.
At the very least, ask yourself whether he's better than a handbag.
What all this means is that for either gender, lots of effort and imagination are required. Discovering cozy little restaurants, quiet parks in which it is pleasant to stroll, coffeeshops where both of you can read for hours, fun adventures, nice parts of town, interesting antique stores.............
Thirty dates. That may take three or four months. Call each other up after work sometime, just to listen. And if you're eating lunch together during the week, DON'T talk about work. Do NOT waffle on about tobacco, sports, handbags, or beanie babies.
Both of you will need a sense of humour. If it does go well between the two of you, that sense of humour will stand you in good stead.
Especially if you end up living together.
Above all, eat.
This blogger, in case you didn't know already, is currently single, and likely to remain so. Obviously NOT the person to go to for any advice about dating.
For all I know, courtship in the modern era involves large amounts of alcohol and energy drinks, plus studs, piercings, shared tattoos, and mental abuse.
So just consider all the above well-meaning avuncular poofle.
Or waffle from a fossil.
My friend who has the lovely spouse probably did not meet her over thrash-dancing at a club, however. They've known each other for years, possibly since college. And I seriously doubt that either of them is into stupendous acts of misbehaviour and tastelessness. I rather suspect that they started off with caffeinated beverages, conversation, and perhaps dinner.
Followed by hand-holding, and walks around town.
Maybe some flowers, and a movie.
She tolerates his smoking, and often joins him when he needs to visit the cigar club for his mental health. So clearly she has his best interests in mind, as I sincerely hope he does hers.
They're a nice couple.
Cute together.
I'm thinking about taking up butterfly collecting. That should be a relatively stress-free hobby for my declining years.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT
There are times before the caffeine from that first cup of coffee in the morning hits me when my mind is somewhat free of its moorings. You, my faithful reader, may opine that that describes much of my mental state, no matter how stimulated and awake I am. You've read some of my blogposts, and you have recommended therapy.
Thank you.
However, I am not nearly as creative as you are.
You came here this morning deliberately.
Having searched for one phrase.
Several times.
What was your search criterion?
"Naked woman wants"
See? It's barely light on a Sunday morning, and you already decided, before heading off to church for a stern lecture on morality from a respected father figure, to troll the internet looking for "naked woman wants". Possibly you were worried that she might lead lesser men astray, OR you worried that she might catch a cold, and you wished to offer her advice. "Put some clothes on, naked woman" you would say, "it's mighty frigid out there". Because it is February, and wherever you are in the temperate zone of the Northern Hemisphere, it is cold.
Maybe the naked woman is NOT in the temperate zone of the Northern Hemisphere. She might be somewhere else. Where nudity was invented.
Australia.
"Naked woman wants"
Just guessing, but anyone who captions their own blog or website thus may have something serious in mind. It's an advertisement, and a call for help.
She's darn well desperate. She desires something that her husband or lesbian lover can't give her, and which she doesn't get from her children, parents, or strangers in the street.
Naked woman wants pancakes.
Naked woman wants moon light.
Naked woman wants a nice hot bath.
Naked woman wants a cup of coffee.
Naked woman wants some horsemeat-free lasagna.
Naked woman wants to become queen of the universe.
Naked woman wants correspondence from a panel of experts.
Naked woman wants the sincere appreciation of a nice blogger.
The possibilities are myriad. I myself can think of any number of things which an unclothed female might want, but not being personally acquainted with the person, I would not dare to hazard a guess. I need to know more about her.
If, hypothetically speaking, I found a naked woman in my apartment, my first instinct would be to offer her a nice fluffy bathrobe and a hot cup of coffee. Because it is February. Only once she was properly warmed-up would we discuss other things. Fragrant oils, fuzzy stuffed animals, a nice hunk of meat, Dutch verse (no doubt many naked women are or could be interested in that subject), existential angst, and things that go bump in the night.
But first there has to be a naked woman.
Who very much wants.
STARK
Until such time as a real live naked woman is actually present, this blogger shall not speculate about her, nor about what it is that she could be searching for.
I shall not imagine any naked women, nor endeavor to speak to their issues, needs, and passions. Instead, I shall wait patiently until a feminine individual in a state of near or complete undress manifests herself, before engaging either her, OR her quandaries.
And so, dear reader, should you.
Now head off to church.
And don't think of naked women.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thank you.
However, I am not nearly as creative as you are.
You came here this morning deliberately.
Having searched for one phrase.
Several times.
What was your search criterion?
"Naked woman wants"
See? It's barely light on a Sunday morning, and you already decided, before heading off to church for a stern lecture on morality from a respected father figure, to troll the internet looking for "naked woman wants". Possibly you were worried that she might lead lesser men astray, OR you worried that she might catch a cold, and you wished to offer her advice. "Put some clothes on, naked woman" you would say, "it's mighty frigid out there". Because it is February, and wherever you are in the temperate zone of the Northern Hemisphere, it is cold.
Maybe the naked woman is NOT in the temperate zone of the Northern Hemisphere. She might be somewhere else. Where nudity was invented.
Australia.
"Naked woman wants"
Just guessing, but anyone who captions their own blog or website thus may have something serious in mind. It's an advertisement, and a call for help.
She's darn well desperate. She desires something that her husband or lesbian lover can't give her, and which she doesn't get from her children, parents, or strangers in the street.
Naked woman wants pancakes.
Naked woman wants moon light.
Naked woman wants a nice hot bath.
Naked woman wants a cup of coffee.
Naked woman wants some horsemeat-free lasagna.
Naked woman wants to become queen of the universe.
Naked woman wants correspondence from a panel of experts.
Naked woman wants the sincere appreciation of a nice blogger.
The possibilities are myriad. I myself can think of any number of things which an unclothed female might want, but not being personally acquainted with the person, I would not dare to hazard a guess. I need to know more about her.
If, hypothetically speaking, I found a naked woman in my apartment, my first instinct would be to offer her a nice fluffy bathrobe and a hot cup of coffee. Because it is February. Only once she was properly warmed-up would we discuss other things. Fragrant oils, fuzzy stuffed animals, a nice hunk of meat, Dutch verse (no doubt many naked women are or could be interested in that subject), existential angst, and things that go bump in the night.
But first there has to be a naked woman.
Who very much wants.
STARK
Until such time as a real live naked woman is actually present, this blogger shall not speculate about her, nor about what it is that she could be searching for.
I shall not imagine any naked women, nor endeavor to speak to their issues, needs, and passions. Instead, I shall wait patiently until a feminine individual in a state of near or complete undress manifests herself, before engaging either her, OR her quandaries.
And so, dear reader, should you.
Now head off to church.
And don't think of naked women.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, February 16, 2013
BREAKING IN A NEW PIPE
Someone commented recently that he was hesitant about revealing to his girl-friend that he smoked a pipe. I could not understand why, as pipes are far more likeable than cigars. One of my friends even remarked, while lighting her stogie, that pipes are a total chick magnet.
Unfortunately, that particular woman is married.
To another cigar smoker.
Which, you will agree, rather casts doubt on her assertion.
"Pipes are a total chick magnet."
And some people, alas, are negatively charged.
People who find pipes and pipe smokers interesting tend to be folks who fondly remember a relative who smoked, with the possible exception of English voters who chose Harold Wilson during the seventies.
If they are men, they will likely take up the habit themselves. Such is largely my case; my father was a pipe smoker when I was small, as were several other admirable people in our circle.
If they are women however, they may be too hesitant to take that leap.
So far, three ladies in the past year have ogled my equipment with a fascination that was deeply disturbing to their husbands. Who should themselves purchase pipes, if only to enchant the women in their lives.
I've never understood why women usually don't go for briar.
They ought to.
It's such a gentle habit.
Maybe they are scared to go into a tobacconists and ask for advice?
If that is so, the problem is easily dealt with. Do some research on line, find out about brands and qualities, and boldly go in. Then lie through your teeth. Announce to the clerkiwerkie that you wish to purchase a briar for your uncle Whizzo, and could you please see some standard shapes within a certain price-range. Discuss the pluses and minuses, pay for the selected item plus a few tins of tobacco from reputable brands, and leave.
[Standard shapes: Sensible pipes of non-extrovert design; classic dimensions, sound manufacture. You do not wish to be known as an eccentric. Normal-looking pipes smoke very well, and their attraction will not pall. Whereas strange freehands and Nordic oddities will eventually leave you wondering why you bought that monstrosity.
Reputable brands: One tin of Best Brown Flake or Golden Glow from Samuel Gawith. One tin of Westminster from G.L.Pease, one tin of Kensington, also from G.L.Pease. Note that both of these are English (Latakia) mixtures, which means that they are on the smoky side. Additionally, one or two tins of Rattray's, either a Virginia or any of the Latakia blends, whichever hits your whim; and one tin of a McClelland flake.
Read about all of them here: Tobacco Reviews
A few tins: Because this will give you a good selection with which to experiment while you familiarize yourself with smoking a pipe. One of them may eventually become your go-to blend, they are all excellent, and you don't have to finish the tin -- you can set it aside to re-discover later, just make sure it doesn't dry out in the interim.]
Also acquire a pipe-tamper ('three piece tool') and a packet of pipe-cleaners.
THE FIRST SMOKE
On an afternoon when you have the time and will not be disturbed, take some tobacco out of the tin, and dry it till it is nearly crumbly. Then fill your new pipe loosely, slightly less than half full. Press the top surface of the tobacco smooth, and light it with a match, gently pulling smoke into your mouth till most or all of the surface is lit. After puffing a little more, tamp down the burning surface slightly, using the three piece tool. Smoke slowly, relight if necessary. It is better that the pipe go out than that you drag furiously to keep it lit.
Re-tamp as needed to compress the burning area.
That first bowl will not be particularly enjoyable, because it takes a while to get the hang of the process, and the pipe is not yet broken in (conditioned). If you don't finish all the tobacco in the pipe, don't worry. Just remove the remnant, chase a pipe-cleaner or two through the shank, and set it aside for a day.
It's a good idea to have a cup of tea or a glass of fruit juice to drink while smoking, as it will soothe the mouth and prevent discomfort.
SUBSEQUENT PROGRESS
Over the next several weeks build up to smoking a full bowl.
By this time there should be a layer of carbon inside the pipe, which will make the pipe smoke cooler, and protects the wood. This is called 'the cake'. When it gets too thick (more than a nickel), you should pare it down gently.
At that point you're probably ready to buy a second pipe.
When the time comes that you smoke more than once a day you should have three or four pipes, so that they can rest between use.
You really do need more than one, as rotating them will make them last for years longer. But we all started with one. And, as our tastes in shapes and qualities changed, that first pipe may have eventually faded out of daily use.
When I was sixteen I got by with eight, only one of which I still have, though I've acquired others since. Bear in mind that pipe-smoking is perfect for neurotic packrats, so the urge to buy just one more will keep recurring.
Rather like shoes and handbags.
If you oversmoke a pipe it will inevitably get soggy, and likely turn rancid. But even the most over-used pipe can be restored to sweetness by filling the bowl almost entirely with non-iodized kosher salt and adding a few drops of liquor to make it pull the tars and cooked-in gunk out of the wood.
Put a pipe-cleaner into the shank before you do this.
After a day's rest you can repeat the treatment, but the final part is removing the salt, rinsing the bowl with liquor (I use whatever whisky I'm drinking), and then running pipe-cleaners moistened with liquor through the stem and shank till they come out clean, which may require quite a considerable number. Take care not to get the alcohol on the outside of the bowl or stem.
After this, rest the pipe for a week. You'll be surprised at how clean and sweat it will taste.
Do not rap the pipe against hard surfaces. Do not leave it in sunlight or warm places. Do not wash it. Do not sand it. Do not lend it to pot-heads.
Do not casually jam it into the tool-drawer. Do not smoke aromatics.
A NOTE ABOUT VIRGINIA TOBACCO
Virginias tend toward nicotine, so one medium-small bowl smoked calmly ("sipped") is the perfect way to start the day.
It takes some smokers a while before they can appreciate Virginias. First off, smoke slow. Really slow. It is best if the pipe threatens to go out occasionally. Secondly, let it whisp at you, and enjoy both the grassy fruity fragrance, as well as the tingle of sweetness on the tongue. Thirdly, unlike English blends (Virginia plus Latakia, and often Turkish, sometimes also Perique), it is okay if the entire surface doesn't light. Often enough tobacco will be smoldering that the smoke can progress from that point on quite satisfactorily.
Lastly, feel free to let it go out if it wants to. Again unlike an English blend, it can be re-lit without significant degradation of taste.
Virginias to consider: Orlik Golden Sliced, MacBaren's Virginia Flake, Wessex Red Virginia Flake, Wessex Brown Virginia Flake, Samuel Gawith's Golden Glow, Germain's Brown flake, and Germain's Medium Flake.
For fuller flavour, try Samuel Gawith Best Brown, or their St. James Flake.
As a total oomph overload, experiment gingerly with Samuel Gawith's 1792 Flake or Bracken Flake, and Peterson's Irish Flake, all of wich have a significant inclusion of Kentucky leaf.
The Rattrays Virginias are also extremely worthwhile: Hal O' The Wynd, Marlin Flake, Old Gowrie, and Brown Clunee.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Unfortunately, that particular woman is married.
To another cigar smoker.
Which, you will agree, rather casts doubt on her assertion.
"Pipes are a total chick magnet."
And some people, alas, are negatively charged.
People who find pipes and pipe smokers interesting tend to be folks who fondly remember a relative who smoked, with the possible exception of English voters who chose Harold Wilson during the seventies.
If they are men, they will likely take up the habit themselves. Such is largely my case; my father was a pipe smoker when I was small, as were several other admirable people in our circle.
If they are women however, they may be too hesitant to take that leap.
So far, three ladies in the past year have ogled my equipment with a fascination that was deeply disturbing to their husbands. Who should themselves purchase pipes, if only to enchant the women in their lives.
I've never understood why women usually don't go for briar.
They ought to.
It's such a gentle habit.
Maybe they are scared to go into a tobacconists and ask for advice?
If that is so, the problem is easily dealt with. Do some research on line, find out about brands and qualities, and boldly go in. Then lie through your teeth. Announce to the clerkiwerkie that you wish to purchase a briar for your uncle Whizzo, and could you please see some standard shapes within a certain price-range. Discuss the pluses and minuses, pay for the selected item plus a few tins of tobacco from reputable brands, and leave.
[Standard shapes: Sensible pipes of non-extrovert design; classic dimensions, sound manufacture. You do not wish to be known as an eccentric. Normal-looking pipes smoke very well, and their attraction will not pall. Whereas strange freehands and Nordic oddities will eventually leave you wondering why you bought that monstrosity.
Reputable brands: One tin of Best Brown Flake or Golden Glow from Samuel Gawith. One tin of Westminster from G.L.Pease, one tin of Kensington, also from G.L.Pease. Note that both of these are English (Latakia) mixtures, which means that they are on the smoky side. Additionally, one or two tins of Rattray's, either a Virginia or any of the Latakia blends, whichever hits your whim; and one tin of a McClelland flake.
Read about all of them here: Tobacco Reviews
A few tins: Because this will give you a good selection with which to experiment while you familiarize yourself with smoking a pipe. One of them may eventually become your go-to blend, they are all excellent, and you don't have to finish the tin -- you can set it aside to re-discover later, just make sure it doesn't dry out in the interim.]
Also acquire a pipe-tamper ('three piece tool') and a packet of pipe-cleaners.
THE FIRST SMOKE
On an afternoon when you have the time and will not be disturbed, take some tobacco out of the tin, and dry it till it is nearly crumbly. Then fill your new pipe loosely, slightly less than half full. Press the top surface of the tobacco smooth, and light it with a match, gently pulling smoke into your mouth till most or all of the surface is lit. After puffing a little more, tamp down the burning surface slightly, using the three piece tool. Smoke slowly, relight if necessary. It is better that the pipe go out than that you drag furiously to keep it lit.
Re-tamp as needed to compress the burning area.
That first bowl will not be particularly enjoyable, because it takes a while to get the hang of the process, and the pipe is not yet broken in (conditioned). If you don't finish all the tobacco in the pipe, don't worry. Just remove the remnant, chase a pipe-cleaner or two through the shank, and set it aside for a day.
It's a good idea to have a cup of tea or a glass of fruit juice to drink while smoking, as it will soothe the mouth and prevent discomfort.
SUBSEQUENT PROGRESS
Over the next several weeks build up to smoking a full bowl.
By this time there should be a layer of carbon inside the pipe, which will make the pipe smoke cooler, and protects the wood. This is called 'the cake'. When it gets too thick (more than a nickel), you should pare it down gently.
At that point you're probably ready to buy a second pipe.
When the time comes that you smoke more than once a day you should have three or four pipes, so that they can rest between use.
You really do need more than one, as rotating them will make them last for years longer. But we all started with one. And, as our tastes in shapes and qualities changed, that first pipe may have eventually faded out of daily use.
When I was sixteen I got by with eight, only one of which I still have, though I've acquired others since. Bear in mind that pipe-smoking is perfect for neurotic packrats, so the urge to buy just one more will keep recurring.
Rather like shoes and handbags.
If you oversmoke a pipe it will inevitably get soggy, and likely turn rancid. But even the most over-used pipe can be restored to sweetness by filling the bowl almost entirely with non-iodized kosher salt and adding a few drops of liquor to make it pull the tars and cooked-in gunk out of the wood.
Put a pipe-cleaner into the shank before you do this.
After a day's rest you can repeat the treatment, but the final part is removing the salt, rinsing the bowl with liquor (I use whatever whisky I'm drinking), and then running pipe-cleaners moistened with liquor through the stem and shank till they come out clean, which may require quite a considerable number. Take care not to get the alcohol on the outside of the bowl or stem.
After this, rest the pipe for a week. You'll be surprised at how clean and sweat it will taste.
Do not rap the pipe against hard surfaces. Do not leave it in sunlight or warm places. Do not wash it. Do not sand it. Do not lend it to pot-heads.
Do not casually jam it into the tool-drawer. Do not smoke aromatics.
A NOTE ABOUT VIRGINIA TOBACCO
Virginias tend toward nicotine, so one medium-small bowl smoked calmly ("sipped") is the perfect way to start the day.
It takes some smokers a while before they can appreciate Virginias. First off, smoke slow. Really slow. It is best if the pipe threatens to go out occasionally. Secondly, let it whisp at you, and enjoy both the grassy fruity fragrance, as well as the tingle of sweetness on the tongue. Thirdly, unlike English blends (Virginia plus Latakia, and often Turkish, sometimes also Perique), it is okay if the entire surface doesn't light. Often enough tobacco will be smoldering that the smoke can progress from that point on quite satisfactorily.
Lastly, feel free to let it go out if it wants to. Again unlike an English blend, it can be re-lit without significant degradation of taste.
Virginias to consider: Orlik Golden Sliced, MacBaren's Virginia Flake, Wessex Red Virginia Flake, Wessex Brown Virginia Flake, Samuel Gawith's Golden Glow, Germain's Brown flake, and Germain's Medium Flake.
For fuller flavour, try Samuel Gawith Best Brown, or their St. James Flake.
As a total oomph overload, experiment gingerly with Samuel Gawith's 1792 Flake or Bracken Flake, and Peterson's Irish Flake, all of wich have a significant inclusion of Kentucky leaf.
The Rattrays Virginias are also extremely worthwhile: Hal O' The Wynd, Marlin Flake, Old Gowrie, and Brown Clunee.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, February 15, 2013
WEEKENDS ARE FOR WATCHING YOU EAT
People-watching is better on Saturdays and Sundays than during the rest of the week. Especially in restaurants. The customers seem happier and less-stressed. And frequently end up doing interesting things.
Yes, I've seen the famous two people eating one long noodle scene once. Two little children who were experimenting while the grownups chatted. When they came within an inch or two of each other the boy panicked. Not entirely sure why, there were numerous adults at the table, and the kids probably weren't even related. No one would have blamed him if he had copped a food-kiss. The little girl was extremely cute.
It would have been adorable.
Not because of any actual intent on my part I eat alone a lot. Which, when out elsewhere, gives me the opportunity to observe other people at their supper.
You will understand that I consequently tend to pick my restaurants carefully; places which are reasonably busy, but not packed. I want to enjoy the food there myself, AND see every other person dining do the same.
Crowded restaurants are not optimal in that regard.
Anonymity is far better in smaller numbers.
And naturally there's a better view.
Happy people, tasty things.
It's utterly lovely.
I never thought I'd end up as a gustatory voyeur. It didn't used to be this way, years ago I was not a solitary diner. But I've always enjoyed watching someone else being delighted over delicious food. My own meal always tastes better in consequence, and I will want to go there again, just to try whatever it was that gave another person so much pleasure.
There is a pickiness to my restaurant choosing. I prefer places that serve dishes that I myself like to eat; seeing other people also tackling similar things creates a sense of sameness. Noodly dishes, soups, and judiciously composed combinations. Little dumplings, rice porridge, and steamed or fried yumminess.
Not junk food, nor even it's more high-fallutin' cousins.
There is hardly any pleasure to be found in seeing someone scarfing down a grease burger. Unless it's a small female tackling a monster. A big bold bacon cheese doublehanded triple-decker, versus a happy sparrow.
Sheer pleasure in giant meaty bites.
That I would pay to see.
I'd have one too.
You want bucket-o-fries or a shake with that?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, I've seen the famous two people eating one long noodle scene once. Two little children who were experimenting while the grownups chatted. When they came within an inch or two of each other the boy panicked. Not entirely sure why, there were numerous adults at the table, and the kids probably weren't even related. No one would have blamed him if he had copped a food-kiss. The little girl was extremely cute.
It would have been adorable.
Not because of any actual intent on my part I eat alone a lot. Which, when out elsewhere, gives me the opportunity to observe other people at their supper.
You will understand that I consequently tend to pick my restaurants carefully; places which are reasonably busy, but not packed. I want to enjoy the food there myself, AND see every other person dining do the same.
Crowded restaurants are not optimal in that regard.
Anonymity is far better in smaller numbers.
And naturally there's a better view.
Happy people, tasty things.
It's utterly lovely.
I never thought I'd end up as a gustatory voyeur. It didn't used to be this way, years ago I was not a solitary diner. But I've always enjoyed watching someone else being delighted over delicious food. My own meal always tastes better in consequence, and I will want to go there again, just to try whatever it was that gave another person so much pleasure.
There is a pickiness to my restaurant choosing. I prefer places that serve dishes that I myself like to eat; seeing other people also tackling similar things creates a sense of sameness. Noodly dishes, soups, and judiciously composed combinations. Little dumplings, rice porridge, and steamed or fried yumminess.
Not junk food, nor even it's more high-fallutin' cousins.
There is hardly any pleasure to be found in seeing someone scarfing down a grease burger. Unless it's a small female tackling a monster. A big bold bacon cheese doublehanded triple-decker, versus a happy sparrow.
Sheer pleasure in giant meaty bites.
That I would pay to see.
I'd have one too.
You want bucket-o-fries or a shake with that?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, February 14, 2013
YOU'VE GOT IT EXACTLY THE WRONG WAY AROUND!
Polk Street in San Francisco is your alternative universe. There are people on the street with both feet firmly planted elsewhere. Normal residents of the city know this, and will take pains to avoid conversations while there. Even with friends. If the space aliens hear you talking, they may join in.
Which is something you will soon regret.
I kept my eyes to myself, but almost got caught anyway.
He screamed in my direction, but I ignored him.
Quickened my pace and got out of there.
BOY, HEY BOY! WHERE WOULD YOU BE WITHOUT A SPOON! YOU TELL ME THAT, BOY, WHERE WOULD YA BE WITHOUT A SPOON? NOWHERE, IS WHAT. NOTHING, YOU WOULD BE NOTHING WITHOUT A G*DDAMNED SPOON!
He himself seemed proof of his thesis. This was not a discussion that appealed to me, however. Much as in his case I would have agreed.
He clearly seemed to be missing, for starters, a spoon.
There are a few things that make life a lot better. Coffee, tea, tobacco, and highly refined sugar. Without these, life on this planet would be colder and nastier, and the presence of spoons could not make up for the lack.
Yes, Starbucks would also be missing -- without coffee, tea, and highly refined sugar, the internet and modern twenty-somethings probably would not exist, and so there would be no need for Starbucks -- but that just isn't enough to make the absence of a delicious warm beverage bearable.
The only thing left would be tobacco.
Without a hot cup of tea, what's the point?
It would be precisely like life in the Soviet Union.
Sure, they had spoons. But what did they use them for?
Coffee, tea, tobacco, and highly refined white sugar. Add animal protein, and you've got the basis for a perfect date.
Romance is possible, even probable.
A choice of spoons is not necessary for this eventuality. Nice to have, but it doesn't contribute that much to a fun evening out.
No, I did not go back to share any of these insights with the man. Being seen talking with him no doubt would have made an extremely bad impression on any passing females, especially if they were grumpy due to a lack of coffee, tea, tobacco, or highly refined white sugar. Any one, or all, of the above.
As you know, I am still searching for precisely such a person.
Preferably one who has her own spoon.
And avoids Starbucks.
Coming soon: Valentine's Day blahs for the single man, OR how to happily avoid even thinking of the fairer sex when you've got plenty of coffee, tea, tobacco, and highly refined white sugar, plus a vast selection of Bourbon and Single Malt, such as might be the case if you intended to spend some time at the Occidental Cigar Club this evening while more attached individuals get robbed blind by SF restaurateurs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which is something you will soon regret.
I kept my eyes to myself, but almost got caught anyway.
He screamed in my direction, but I ignored him.
Quickened my pace and got out of there.
BOY, HEY BOY! WHERE WOULD YOU BE WITHOUT A SPOON! YOU TELL ME THAT, BOY, WHERE WOULD YA BE WITHOUT A SPOON? NOWHERE, IS WHAT. NOTHING, YOU WOULD BE NOTHING WITHOUT A G*DDAMNED SPOON!
He himself seemed proof of his thesis. This was not a discussion that appealed to me, however. Much as in his case I would have agreed.
He clearly seemed to be missing, for starters, a spoon.
There are a few things that make life a lot better. Coffee, tea, tobacco, and highly refined sugar. Without these, life on this planet would be colder and nastier, and the presence of spoons could not make up for the lack.
Yes, Starbucks would also be missing -- without coffee, tea, and highly refined sugar, the internet and modern twenty-somethings probably would not exist, and so there would be no need for Starbucks -- but that just isn't enough to make the absence of a delicious warm beverage bearable.
The only thing left would be tobacco.
Without a hot cup of tea, what's the point?
It would be precisely like life in the Soviet Union.
Sure, they had spoons. But what did they use them for?
Coffee, tea, tobacco, and highly refined white sugar. Add animal protein, and you've got the basis for a perfect date.
Romance is possible, even probable.
A choice of spoons is not necessary for this eventuality. Nice to have, but it doesn't contribute that much to a fun evening out.
No, I did not go back to share any of these insights with the man. Being seen talking with him no doubt would have made an extremely bad impression on any passing females, especially if they were grumpy due to a lack of coffee, tea, tobacco, or highly refined white sugar. Any one, or all, of the above.
As you know, I am still searching for precisely such a person.
Preferably one who has her own spoon.
And avoids Starbucks.
Coming soon: Valentine's Day blahs for the single man, OR how to happily avoid even thinking of the fairer sex when you've got plenty of coffee, tea, tobacco, and highly refined white sugar, plus a vast selection of Bourbon and Single Malt, such as might be the case if you intended to spend some time at the Occidental Cigar Club this evening while more attached individuals get robbed blind by SF restaurateurs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
MISSPENT YOUTHS
The high-school I attended in Valkenswaard no longer exists. It was torn down years ago, and the school system has changed sufficiently in the Netherlands that one cannot accurately describe it as having heirs or successors. Even certain terms used to describe education no longer resonate.
I have remained particularly fond of that institution, however, because that is where I proved myself incapable of speaking Latin or passing French.
Marks of stubbornness more than rebellion.
Regrettable in retrospect.
My French teacher, mijnheer Staals, was baffled at my brilliant inability. Surely someone with so Francophonic a vocabulary as a literate English-speaker should not have issues with the language of Hugo, Dumas, and Flaubert?
I had much opportunity to exhibit my word-hoard, but at that time I just wasn't interested in serious study of Frog-speak. If I ever meet him again, I will sincerely apologize for my inattention and flightiness.
He was a good teacher, and a good man.
And he had a sense of humour.
There are a number of other teachers to whom my apologies also need proffering. None of them are physical-education faculty, as they by their foaming-at-the-mouth enthusiasm for sports and exercise did more to encourage sedentarianism than could possibly be imagined.
Except, of course, for those students who excelled.
Thank god team-sports did not rank high.
We were mostly academic.
BOS LOOP - FOREST RUN
In my first year I failed phys-ed so badly that the school demanded attendance at summer sessions. When I stubbornly insisted on taking remedial algebra instead, they accepted the compromise. In the second year the disciplinarian in charge of exercise decided that as the three required hours were bunched up together on Monday morning, he would have us trot along an extensive route through the local woods while he followed behind in his automobile.
Having stashed pipe and tobacco in a hidden pouch, I veered off-course as soon as possible, and spent the next few hours reading and smoking. Except for the time when it snowed, when I walked briskly just to keep relatively warm. On one of those frigid days, while already on my third pipe, I passed by an outlying classroom and observed other students inside, avidly listening to a geography lesson. The walls betrayed the subject.
Those long runs were extremely enjoyable, in retrospect.
Quite possibly character-building.
During those years I did not form any great attachments to other students, and while I was already fascinated by the opposite gender, falling in love and even developing a crush on a classmate were furthest from my mind, and certainly very un-real prospects. Girls were always the people you went to for algebra-coaching, or whom you tutored in English. Fellow-students, classmates, and occasional co-conspirators. Colleagues, equal members of the gang, perfect young ladies, and therefore entirely off-limits.
ZAKGELD - L'ARGENT DE POCHE
Very few of the girls ever used make-up, and then both subtly and sparingly, so that they could wipe it off before going home. I suspect that lipstick and eye-shadow were the most scandalous thing that they hid from their parents.
But they did not need it. I remember a number of them as being pretty, and very charming besides. Any young woman who can rattle off an entire passage in fluent Latin of French will be infinitely attractive. Especially if she's not even five feet tall, and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette at the time.
Until we were sixteen or seventeen most of us had early curfews, and as an indication of precisely how innocent those times were, none of us had even heard of teenage pregnancy (except me - I had read about it in Time, Newsweek, and The Saturday Review).
Alcohol during those childish years was readily available -- the Dutch have always had very casual attitudes towards juvenile indulgence -- but both common sense and limited funds meant that jollification was kept to one beer. Many of the students were acquainted with tobacco; that too was limited.
As a pipe-smoker, I was socially handicapped. No-one could rely on me for an emergency smoke, and I must confess that it wasn't until I had been back in the States for quite a while that I could even roll a decent cigarette. Everyone else happily passed pouches of dark shag back and forth and made smokes for the less dexterous students during recess. Women, it should be mentioned, have more able hands; often their cigarettes were picture perfect.
It's a very appealing skill to have.
DE JEUGDSOOS - THE YOUTH CLUB
During my last few years in Valkenswaard I frequently went to Parsifal in the evening, as it was a place were many of my acquaintances could be found. Parsifal was an institution peculiar to both the time and the place, being a club or society sponsored by the municipality, which was meant to keep us off the street, and easily observed by the police should that prove desirable. Such an institution is called a 'jeugd soos', and usually has a license allowing it to sell beer and wine. The clientele consists of teenagers twixt fourteen and forty.
Such places usually reeked of dark shag tobacco, and the conversation was often political. Most of us would have one beer, nursed over a period of several hours, and a few of us would do our homework there. Given that by that time I had discovered expensive English pipe tobacco, I always drank tea. It cost far less, and I could make the pot last all night. I spent a lot of time at the long table reading books by Nabokov or Kipling rather than at the bar chatting, and regrettably that also limited my exposure to the fairer sex.
The dope-smokers were out in the back yard, by the way.
Pot costs money: English pipe tobacco funds.
Dira necessitatem tabacum est.
Hashish lost out.
NAWOORD - POST SCRIPT
Since returning to the United States I have re-lived much of the time spent in Valkenswaard. In the main, I still have affection for the place, and I can still understand the local dialect. I would have liked to have visited my old school, but it no longer stands. In the eighties, Parsifal had to move out of the building in which it was located. If it still exists, it now caters to another generation.
Everyone has dispersed since then, and few of us still live in town.
There really is almost no reason to go back.
It's a very different place now.
And I'm a different person.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I have remained particularly fond of that institution, however, because that is where I proved myself incapable of speaking Latin or passing French.
Marks of stubbornness more than rebellion.
Regrettable in retrospect.
My French teacher, mijnheer Staals, was baffled at my brilliant inability. Surely someone with so Francophonic a vocabulary as a literate English-speaker should not have issues with the language of Hugo, Dumas, and Flaubert?
I had much opportunity to exhibit my word-hoard, but at that time I just wasn't interested in serious study of Frog-speak. If I ever meet him again, I will sincerely apologize for my inattention and flightiness.
He was a good teacher, and a good man.
And he had a sense of humour.
There are a number of other teachers to whom my apologies also need proffering. None of them are physical-education faculty, as they by their foaming-at-the-mouth enthusiasm for sports and exercise did more to encourage sedentarianism than could possibly be imagined.
Except, of course, for those students who excelled.
Thank god team-sports did not rank high.
We were mostly academic.
BOS LOOP - FOREST RUN
In my first year I failed phys-ed so badly that the school demanded attendance at summer sessions. When I stubbornly insisted on taking remedial algebra instead, they accepted the compromise. In the second year the disciplinarian in charge of exercise decided that as the three required hours were bunched up together on Monday morning, he would have us trot along an extensive route through the local woods while he followed behind in his automobile.
Having stashed pipe and tobacco in a hidden pouch, I veered off-course as soon as possible, and spent the next few hours reading and smoking. Except for the time when it snowed, when I walked briskly just to keep relatively warm. On one of those frigid days, while already on my third pipe, I passed by an outlying classroom and observed other students inside, avidly listening to a geography lesson. The walls betrayed the subject.
Those long runs were extremely enjoyable, in retrospect.
Quite possibly character-building.
During those years I did not form any great attachments to other students, and while I was already fascinated by the opposite gender, falling in love and even developing a crush on a classmate were furthest from my mind, and certainly very un-real prospects. Girls were always the people you went to for algebra-coaching, or whom you tutored in English. Fellow-students, classmates, and occasional co-conspirators. Colleagues, equal members of the gang, perfect young ladies, and therefore entirely off-limits.
ZAKGELD - L'ARGENT DE POCHE
Very few of the girls ever used make-up, and then both subtly and sparingly, so that they could wipe it off before going home. I suspect that lipstick and eye-shadow were the most scandalous thing that they hid from their parents.
But they did not need it. I remember a number of them as being pretty, and very charming besides. Any young woman who can rattle off an entire passage in fluent Latin of French will be infinitely attractive. Especially if she's not even five feet tall, and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette at the time.
Until we were sixteen or seventeen most of us had early curfews, and as an indication of precisely how innocent those times were, none of us had even heard of teenage pregnancy (except me - I had read about it in Time, Newsweek, and The Saturday Review).
Alcohol during those childish years was readily available -- the Dutch have always had very casual attitudes towards juvenile indulgence -- but both common sense and limited funds meant that jollification was kept to one beer. Many of the students were acquainted with tobacco; that too was limited.
As a pipe-smoker, I was socially handicapped. No-one could rely on me for an emergency smoke, and I must confess that it wasn't until I had been back in the States for quite a while that I could even roll a decent cigarette. Everyone else happily passed pouches of dark shag back and forth and made smokes for the less dexterous students during recess. Women, it should be mentioned, have more able hands; often their cigarettes were picture perfect.
It's a very appealing skill to have.
DE JEUGDSOOS - THE YOUTH CLUB
During my last few years in Valkenswaard I frequently went to Parsifal in the evening, as it was a place were many of my acquaintances could be found. Parsifal was an institution peculiar to both the time and the place, being a club or society sponsored by the municipality, which was meant to keep us off the street, and easily observed by the police should that prove desirable. Such an institution is called a 'jeugd soos', and usually has a license allowing it to sell beer and wine. The clientele consists of teenagers twixt fourteen and forty.
Such places usually reeked of dark shag tobacco, and the conversation was often political. Most of us would have one beer, nursed over a period of several hours, and a few of us would do our homework there. Given that by that time I had discovered expensive English pipe tobacco, I always drank tea. It cost far less, and I could make the pot last all night. I spent a lot of time at the long table reading books by Nabokov or Kipling rather than at the bar chatting, and regrettably that also limited my exposure to the fairer sex.
The dope-smokers were out in the back yard, by the way.
Pot costs money: English pipe tobacco funds.
Dira necessitatem tabacum est.
Hashish lost out.
NAWOORD - POST SCRIPT
Since returning to the United States I have re-lived much of the time spent in Valkenswaard. In the main, I still have affection for the place, and I can still understand the local dialect. I would have liked to have visited my old school, but it no longer stands. In the eighties, Parsifal had to move out of the building in which it was located. If it still exists, it now caters to another generation.
Everyone has dispersed since then, and few of us still live in town.
There really is almost no reason to go back.
It's a very different place now.
And I'm a different person.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A MOOD OF APPROACHING SPRING
Matchstick blinds do not afford privacy. They aren't meant to. What they do is let light enter with a breaking of the rays, and lend a sense of distance to the world. But in the evening the view lessens, while brilliance within makes the room from without appear warm and cozy, albeit slightly anonymous.
You cannot tell the details, though the outlines are clear.
On Monday I had gone out to the front steps with a pipe at around five thirty.
It was not yet dark though twilight was nigh. I had intended to take a short walk, but the evening sky above Lafayette Park was lovely from my vantage point, and the trees near the bus stop added magic to the scene.
So I lit up and remained where I was, drinking in the various sights. Across the street, and slightly further down the slope a window shone brightly, the room behind plainly visible through the blinds.
A man sat on the couch next to the fenestre, shortly joined by a woman who snuggled up beside him and fell asleep. No, I have no idea of their ages; their features were masked by distance and the matchstick blinds. They could have been husband and wife, or father and daughter.
All over the city people stayed home on Monday; it was the second day of Chinese New Year. That would likely explain why I have never seen them in their living room before now. New Year is the perfect time for people to be together, and for family members to enjoy each other's company. How you start the year is indicative of how it will continue.
My apartment mate left shortly after noon. I suspect that she spent the rest of the day with her boy friend. I stayed at home, puttering around and reading. The pipe at twilight was the fourth bowl of the day.
Virginia, with an echo of autumn fruit.
Shortly after six o'clock I went back in and fixed myself a cup of tea.
Plus hot buttered toast and marmalade.
The image of the two people across the way stayed with me; my mind's eye remembers nice sights, and will replay such things without any prompting.
They looked extraordinarily at ease together, peaceful and content.
How sweet to slumber next to a family member.
I'm quite fond of our block. There's a very tall acacia by the bus stop nearby, then charming gloomy darkness under the trees near the church at the other end. A line of handsome buildings opposite, and a friendly second storey window with matchstick blinds opaquely shielding a cozy living room.
It looks like the perfect place to perch during a daytime storm.
Imagine looking across to leafy boughs, made hazy behind a veil of water, oneself hidden in the darkness of an unlit room. Perhaps lazily flaked in a dreamstate, as the rain outside washes everything clean.
Doze for an hour or two during the afternoon.
Then awaken to a cup of tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You cannot tell the details, though the outlines are clear.
On Monday I had gone out to the front steps with a pipe at around five thirty.
It was not yet dark though twilight was nigh. I had intended to take a short walk, but the evening sky above Lafayette Park was lovely from my vantage point, and the trees near the bus stop added magic to the scene.
So I lit up and remained where I was, drinking in the various sights. Across the street, and slightly further down the slope a window shone brightly, the room behind plainly visible through the blinds.
A man sat on the couch next to the fenestre, shortly joined by a woman who snuggled up beside him and fell asleep. No, I have no idea of their ages; their features were masked by distance and the matchstick blinds. They could have been husband and wife, or father and daughter.
All over the city people stayed home on Monday; it was the second day of Chinese New Year. That would likely explain why I have never seen them in their living room before now. New Year is the perfect time for people to be together, and for family members to enjoy each other's company. How you start the year is indicative of how it will continue.
My apartment mate left shortly after noon. I suspect that she spent the rest of the day with her boy friend. I stayed at home, puttering around and reading. The pipe at twilight was the fourth bowl of the day.
Virginia, with an echo of autumn fruit.
Shortly after six o'clock I went back in and fixed myself a cup of tea.
Plus hot buttered toast and marmalade.
The image of the two people across the way stayed with me; my mind's eye remembers nice sights, and will replay such things without any prompting.
They looked extraordinarily at ease together, peaceful and content.
How sweet to slumber next to a family member.
I'm quite fond of our block. There's a very tall acacia by the bus stop nearby, then charming gloomy darkness under the trees near the church at the other end. A line of handsome buildings opposite, and a friendly second storey window with matchstick blinds opaquely shielding a cozy living room.
It looks like the perfect place to perch during a daytime storm.
Imagine looking across to leafy boughs, made hazy behind a veil of water, oneself hidden in the darkness of an unlit room. Perhaps lazily flaked in a dreamstate, as the rain outside washes everything clean.
Doze for an hour or two during the afternoon.
Then awaken to a cup of tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
THE PRINCESS AND THE DRAGON: HIDDEN TREASURE!
So today's question is: "where do you hide the bottle of sherry that you would prefer your parents not know about?" It is an extremely important issue, as you feel that dear old Mater and Pater would think you a frightful degenerate if they discovered it. They're rather innocent, and you know that from their point of view, having a sip of oloroso after dinner while you are reading in the living room would be Sodom and Gomorrah revived. So far, they still think that it is oolong in that little porcelain bowl. They've seen you sitting there, and naturally presumed that you were swotting the books. And they will never understand that there is more to studying than mere required reading.....
Mild adventures in literary depravity are also recommended.
Which is where the Spanish fortified wine comes in.
At any age, there are certain things you strive to hide from your parents, for their own peace of mind.
For me that was pipe-smoking, until the cat blew my cover. Ever afterwards my parents worried that I might take up with the wrong crowd, and would perhaps end up as a mercenary in Africa, involved in a political struggle that made no sense. Yes, my father had been a pipe-smoker also, starting before the war when he was still a teenager at Beverly Hills Highschool.
But that did not reassure him.
Perhaps I should have asked him what he had been up to when he was my age.
It may have been far more interesting than he let on.
Parents usually fear that either their children will be just like them and do the same crazy things they did years ago, or they fear that the kids will NOT be like them, and discover new and totally irresponsible crazy things to do.
They seldom realize that reading lascivious verse in Latin or Old-French REQUIRES a spot of sherry. If only to calm frazzled young nerves.
Because it's so exciting!
Personally I would also advise you to take up the therapeutic and thoughtful habit of pipe-smoking, but that is hard to hide, and if your parents ever found out they would suspect you of almost any amount of immorality and perversion.
Sailors! My child is hanging out with sailors!
I hide my bottle of sherry in plain view. My apartment mate thinks it's purely for cooking, and never touches it. As for my pipe-smoking, she has always considered that a flaw in my character, and I'm sure her boyfriend thinks the same. Both of them are non-smokers, and never touch alcohol.
They just don't realize that a warming drop of crapularius calms the nerves when investigating the seduction of three fair damsels in an orchard six hundred years ago, or the romantic entanglement of a theologian and philosopher at Paris with the brainiac daughter of a canon eight plus centuries past. Zesty stuff! It could even lead to palpitations! Fortunately, dilute recreational ethanol is a central nervous system depressant of remarkable anxiolytic effect.
You should use it medicinally, while reading heady texts.
So the question remains, where do you hide the bottle?
I would suggest that you secrete it over at my place, but unfortunately I am a degenerate; depraved, immoral, and a frightful pervert.
After all, I'm a pipesmoker.
That's as close to hanging out with sailors as you can get!
They'd fear for your virtue if they found out.
And quite rightly so.
Come by around tea-time one of these days. We'll discuss Abelard and Heloise over cups of Darjeeling. Perhaps with a spot of amontillado.
And some bowls of Irish flake.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Mild adventures in literary depravity are also recommended.
Which is where the Spanish fortified wine comes in.
At any age, there are certain things you strive to hide from your parents, for their own peace of mind.
For me that was pipe-smoking, until the cat blew my cover. Ever afterwards my parents worried that I might take up with the wrong crowd, and would perhaps end up as a mercenary in Africa, involved in a political struggle that made no sense. Yes, my father had been a pipe-smoker also, starting before the war when he was still a teenager at Beverly Hills Highschool.
But that did not reassure him.
Perhaps I should have asked him what he had been up to when he was my age.
It may have been far more interesting than he let on.
Parents usually fear that either their children will be just like them and do the same crazy things they did years ago, or they fear that the kids will NOT be like them, and discover new and totally irresponsible crazy things to do.
They seldom realize that reading lascivious verse in Latin or Old-French REQUIRES a spot of sherry. If only to calm frazzled young nerves.
Because it's so exciting!
Personally I would also advise you to take up the therapeutic and thoughtful habit of pipe-smoking, but that is hard to hide, and if your parents ever found out they would suspect you of almost any amount of immorality and perversion.
Sailors! My child is hanging out with sailors!
I hide my bottle of sherry in plain view. My apartment mate thinks it's purely for cooking, and never touches it. As for my pipe-smoking, she has always considered that a flaw in my character, and I'm sure her boyfriend thinks the same. Both of them are non-smokers, and never touch alcohol.
They just don't realize that a warming drop of crapularius calms the nerves when investigating the seduction of three fair damsels in an orchard six hundred years ago, or the romantic entanglement of a theologian and philosopher at Paris with the brainiac daughter of a canon eight plus centuries past. Zesty stuff! It could even lead to palpitations! Fortunately, dilute recreational ethanol is a central nervous system depressant of remarkable anxiolytic effect.
You should use it medicinally, while reading heady texts.
So the question remains, where do you hide the bottle?
I would suggest that you secrete it over at my place, but unfortunately I am a degenerate; depraved, immoral, and a frightful pervert.
After all, I'm a pipesmoker.
That's as close to hanging out with sailors as you can get!
They'd fear for your virtue if they found out.
And quite rightly so.
Come by around tea-time one of these days. We'll discuss Abelard and Heloise over cups of Darjeeling. Perhaps with a spot of amontillado.
And some bowls of Irish flake.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, February 11, 2013
OLD HOLLYWOOD
Several months ago, when Grant's Tobacconists on Market Street still existed, there was an open tin there from one of my favourite manufacturers.
So I sniffed it. Sniffing is very much something that pipe-smokers do, in which we resemble canines somewhat. It's a nose-brain thing.
But unlike your family dog, we do not go around sniffing the private parts of other creatures. We think we can tell enough about their personality, gender, and state of being from their eyes and their conversation.
No sniff test required.
For example, a scowling Berkeleyite Earthmother Type glaring at my pipe with undisguised disdain is clearly a narrow-minded self-righteous diphead, sexually frustrated, and quite likely constipated too. She needs hydro-therapy, heavy medication to make her more socially smooth, and likely a sharp clout upside the head to get her mind off her own sanctimonious self.
I need not smell any part of her to know that.
Unfortunately, I usually CAN smell her. The reek of cramped shrunken soul, coupled with frowsty tribal shmatte from somewhere spiritual and politically correct, as well as soap made out of backyard compost, carries for at least a block down Market Street during rush hour, to disturbing effect.
It's kind of like soggy dog.
Rancidly moist.
There are precious few people whose private parts I wish to sniff.
You probably have the same problem, don't you?
Let us NOT trade notes.
Anyhow, back to the open tin. As that is what leads to this.
OLD HOLLYWOOD
Cornell & Diehl, Inc.
Tin blurb: A blend of red VA, Latakia, red VA cavendish, Turkish & cubed burley designed to bring out the best in these rich tobaccos.
End cite.
I purchased all tins that were left on the shelf. And recently I augmented my supply. I've been smoking it an awful lot lately. Like many of the Cornell & Diehl products that contain Burley, this is neither a blend to huff or hot-box, nor one to slow-sip.
The best tack is to load lightly, and after setting match to it, let it smolder along with some encouragement. It can be enjoyed slowly and steadily down to the bottom, yielding a spicy and almost perfumy note which is incredibly pleasing.
Lightly sweet, and subtly zesty.
One bowl after the shower, another before lunch. One in mid-afternoon, then one more at tea-time. A blend for lightheartedness in any season.
It performs well in pipes of various bores and depths.
It may actually be modelled after something available in the Los Angeles area when my dad was young. He probably smoked something similar as a boy.
As I recall he preferred light Orientals with a bit of Burley among the Virginia.
His pipes gave ample evidence of that.
Blends like Old Hollywood give a hardness to the carbon layer inside the bowl, without the brittleness associated with standard English Mixtures. On that note alone I would recommend it. But Old Hollywood is also a darn fine all-day blend, with enough spice to intrigue.
Oh, and it definitely irritates the living spit out of sourly self-righteous wheatgerm-snarfing Berkeleyite earthmoms.
But that is purely icing on the cake.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So I sniffed it. Sniffing is very much something that pipe-smokers do, in which we resemble canines somewhat. It's a nose-brain thing.
But unlike your family dog, we do not go around sniffing the private parts of other creatures. We think we can tell enough about their personality, gender, and state of being from their eyes and their conversation.
No sniff test required.
For example, a scowling Berkeleyite Earthmother Type glaring at my pipe with undisguised disdain is clearly a narrow-minded self-righteous diphead, sexually frustrated, and quite likely constipated too. She needs hydro-therapy, heavy medication to make her more socially smooth, and likely a sharp clout upside the head to get her mind off her own sanctimonious self.
I need not smell any part of her to know that.
Unfortunately, I usually CAN smell her. The reek of cramped shrunken soul, coupled with frowsty tribal shmatte from somewhere spiritual and politically correct, as well as soap made out of backyard compost, carries for at least a block down Market Street during rush hour, to disturbing effect.
It's kind of like soggy dog.
Rancidly moist.
There are precious few people whose private parts I wish to sniff.
You probably have the same problem, don't you?
Let us NOT trade notes.
Anyhow, back to the open tin. As that is what leads to this.
OLD HOLLYWOOD
Cornell & Diehl, Inc.
Tin blurb: A blend of red VA, Latakia, red VA cavendish, Turkish & cubed burley designed to bring out the best in these rich tobaccos.
End cite.
I purchased all tins that were left on the shelf. And recently I augmented my supply. I've been smoking it an awful lot lately. Like many of the Cornell & Diehl products that contain Burley, this is neither a blend to huff or hot-box, nor one to slow-sip.
The best tack is to load lightly, and after setting match to it, let it smolder along with some encouragement. It can be enjoyed slowly and steadily down to the bottom, yielding a spicy and almost perfumy note which is incredibly pleasing.
Lightly sweet, and subtly zesty.
One bowl after the shower, another before lunch. One in mid-afternoon, then one more at tea-time. A blend for lightheartedness in any season.
It performs well in pipes of various bores and depths.
It may actually be modelled after something available in the Los Angeles area when my dad was young. He probably smoked something similar as a boy.
As I recall he preferred light Orientals with a bit of Burley among the Virginia.
His pipes gave ample evidence of that.
Blends like Old Hollywood give a hardness to the carbon layer inside the bowl, without the brittleness associated with standard English Mixtures. On that note alone I would recommend it. But Old Hollywood is also a darn fine all-day blend, with enough spice to intrigue.
Oh, and it definitely irritates the living spit out of sourly self-righteous wheatgerm-snarfing Berkeleyite earthmoms.
But that is purely icing on the cake.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 10, 2013
THE OBSESSIVE TEXTS
One of my friends has indicated that I dwell far too much on certain facets of the female human, while another individual claims that my writing is not nearly exciting enough in that regard. As the second person mentioned has indeed published works of an exceedingly rancid nature under a necessary nom de plume, perhaps he might be said to know of what he speaks.
Yet personally, I presume them both wrong. Good scribbling can stimulate, without in any way being blunt or blatant. One can suggest any number of wonderful images, yet not mention anything by name. And physical characteristics need no discourteous descriptions.
In the vignette below I touch upon all these matters.
But I shall assert that it is safe for work.
Totally clean and wholesome.
DE TENERITATIBUS VITIUM
She realized that she needed her Latin dictionary, which was on the top shelf. The study of early mediaeval literature required, always, a review of certain words imperfectly translated into English.
She put down her volume and pushed the ladder into place, then mounted to the top, and reached over. Her pleated skirt ruffled upwards in the draft, and would have flashed a view of an ivory silk petticoat with flowery lace edging, had anyone been watching. Stretching to grab the book taughtened her crisp white cotton blouse and exposed a golden upper arm, and she wobbled dangerously from the effort.
Good thing she had removed her shoes, as even so slight a high-heel would have been risky. She only wore them because they made her feel taller.
In many ways being short was not an advantage.
Her tiny naked toes tensed for traction on the hard rubber of the treads.
She had never seen it described as 'rimula' before. How deliciously depraved! No wonder this dictionary was one of her favourite works!
And why on earth did she keep putting it back up so high? It should be right next to her seat, a constant companion!
It struck her presently that it was time for tea. She went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Gently her hands fondled the smooth porcelain of the teapot as she rinsed it under warm running water. Definitely a black tea.
But which?
A robust Assamese, or fine Ceylon with that evanescent floral quality?
It was a quandary, and she furrowed her brows in concentration.
Two dark and delicate moth antennae, curved and tense.
Assam, definitely. She craved something strong.
A beverage that required creaming.
When she was back in the living room, she put the second cup down on the table next to the armchair, kicked off her shoes, and tucked her feet under as she curled up comfortably. This was perfect, now all she needed was a smoke. After consideration, she pulled her favourite pipe from the rack -- a flawless Peterson System Standard 303 (that's a full-bent apple shape with a military mount, fyi) -- and opened the tin of Rattray's Old Gowrie (a broken flake). Only a year ago she would have smoked Erinmore, which has a top-dressing that reminded her of a summer orchard where she once played as a child, but she had grown away from aromatic Hibernians since then, and now preferred the pure subtleties of pressed Scottish flue-cured tobacco.
Upon touching flame to the bowl, a gentle whisp of incense-like smoke curled toward the open window. Her face softened, girl-like, as she relaxed. The dark hue of the pipe contrasted marvellously with her pale skin, though she did not know it; the shape of the briar bowl complimented the lovely curving line of cheeks and chin and emphasized a perfect girlish femininity.
Lips parted slightly, as she exhaled a puff of smoke.
Late afternoons were meant for languor.
Flake tobaccos require slowness.
Relaxed stimulation.
Happy toe-twiddling.
Plus hot milk-tea.
* * * * *
As you can see, it touches upon every single erotic trope known to man: literature, languages, cloth, colouration, toes, tea, porcelain, and tobacco.
Shapes and textures are mentioned, time and place suggested.
One can easily imagine the person and the circumstances: a small woman with a very keen mind, and good taste. She is all alone in the house, wearing nice clothing, engaged in several dreamy activities of both an intellectual and a sensual nature.
There is even a subtle note of charming vulnerability: dangerous wobbling while grabbing the dictionary, which makes you want to reach out to steady her on that high ladder, lest she fall and hurt herself.
In all ways a perfect woman.
What happens next is anybody's guess.
"She anxiously awaited the bowl of mussels in broth which the waiter would bring. It was so nice to go out for dinner with her friend. This was something to which she intensely looked forward, and it was a pity his job took up so much of his time. His presence was enjoyable, his physical proximity exciting."
Or:
"It was fun to go to the cigar bar with a fellow-pipesmoker, especially one with a devilish gleam in his eye. It kept the young single bankers from bothering her, and she especially enjoyed seeing their evident envy.
'How on earth did that old codger end up so lucky', they seemed to think. What they did not understand was that wit, kindness, and the comforting smell of Latakia were infinitely more attractive than youthful arrogance and pin-stripe suits."
Even:
"Both of them finished their smoke at nearly the same moment. It always amazed her that without even consciously planning it, they put just enough tobacco in their pipes to last the stroll over the crest of the hill, so that by the time they reached her street they had cleaned and put away their briars. As they turned the corner and her doorway came into view, she clenched his hand, hard. It was big, strong, and warm. So very lovely to spend a while with him after dinner!
Before she mounted the steps, she leaned up and kissed him. He smelled nice! A smoky autumnal scent adhered to his whiskers. One day, she would invite him in."
I find all of this quite dreamy. Don't you?
The only thing NOT mentioned is a necklace, which you'll just have to imagine.
Perhaps pearls that highlight velvety skin, or a locket that by its pending placement accents a discrete feminine definition.
[The same young lady, or perhaps her cousin, in a very similar book-reading and pipe-smoking scene, can be found here: "What's for dinner?". The novel mentioned there is The Sandglass, by Romesh Gunesekera. Yes, a young lady with a pipe and a book is a recurring theme.
As well as a pleasant tale-spin tool.]
By the way: all proper young women should absolutely consider a Peterson System Standard 303 as one of their first pipes. It's a shape that can suggest both good breeding and exciting stubbornness, besides accenting the lovely curve of the cheek. Plus it isn't too capacious, so it is absolutely perfect for a mid-afternoon smoke, right around tea-time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yet personally, I presume them both wrong. Good scribbling can stimulate, without in any way being blunt or blatant. One can suggest any number of wonderful images, yet not mention anything by name. And physical characteristics need no discourteous descriptions.
In the vignette below I touch upon all these matters.
But I shall assert that it is safe for work.
Totally clean and wholesome.
DE TENERITATIBUS VITIUM
She realized that she needed her Latin dictionary, which was on the top shelf. The study of early mediaeval literature required, always, a review of certain words imperfectly translated into English.
She put down her volume and pushed the ladder into place, then mounted to the top, and reached over. Her pleated skirt ruffled upwards in the draft, and would have flashed a view of an ivory silk petticoat with flowery lace edging, had anyone been watching. Stretching to grab the book taughtened her crisp white cotton blouse and exposed a golden upper arm, and she wobbled dangerously from the effort.
Good thing she had removed her shoes, as even so slight a high-heel would have been risky. She only wore them because they made her feel taller.
In many ways being short was not an advantage.
Her tiny naked toes tensed for traction on the hard rubber of the treads.
She had never seen it described as 'rimula' before. How deliciously depraved! No wonder this dictionary was one of her favourite works!
And why on earth did she keep putting it back up so high? It should be right next to her seat, a constant companion!
It struck her presently that it was time for tea. She went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Gently her hands fondled the smooth porcelain of the teapot as she rinsed it under warm running water. Definitely a black tea.
But which?
A robust Assamese, or fine Ceylon with that evanescent floral quality?
It was a quandary, and she furrowed her brows in concentration.
Two dark and delicate moth antennae, curved and tense.
Assam, definitely. She craved something strong.
A beverage that required creaming.
When she was back in the living room, she put the second cup down on the table next to the armchair, kicked off her shoes, and tucked her feet under as she curled up comfortably. This was perfect, now all she needed was a smoke. After consideration, she pulled her favourite pipe from the rack -- a flawless Peterson System Standard 303 (that's a full-bent apple shape with a military mount, fyi) -- and opened the tin of Rattray's Old Gowrie (a broken flake). Only a year ago she would have smoked Erinmore, which has a top-dressing that reminded her of a summer orchard where she once played as a child, but she had grown away from aromatic Hibernians since then, and now preferred the pure subtleties of pressed Scottish flue-cured tobacco.
Upon touching flame to the bowl, a gentle whisp of incense-like smoke curled toward the open window. Her face softened, girl-like, as she relaxed. The dark hue of the pipe contrasted marvellously with her pale skin, though she did not know it; the shape of the briar bowl complimented the lovely curving line of cheeks and chin and emphasized a perfect girlish femininity.
Lips parted slightly, as she exhaled a puff of smoke.
Late afternoons were meant for languor.
Flake tobaccos require slowness.
Relaxed stimulation.
Happy toe-twiddling.
Plus hot milk-tea.
* * * * *
As you can see, it touches upon every single erotic trope known to man: literature, languages, cloth, colouration, toes, tea, porcelain, and tobacco.
Shapes and textures are mentioned, time and place suggested.
One can easily imagine the person and the circumstances: a small woman with a very keen mind, and good taste. She is all alone in the house, wearing nice clothing, engaged in several dreamy activities of both an intellectual and a sensual nature.
There is even a subtle note of charming vulnerability: dangerous wobbling while grabbing the dictionary, which makes you want to reach out to steady her on that high ladder, lest she fall and hurt herself.
In all ways a perfect woman.
What happens next is anybody's guess.
"She anxiously awaited the bowl of mussels in broth which the waiter would bring. It was so nice to go out for dinner with her friend. This was something to which she intensely looked forward, and it was a pity his job took up so much of his time. His presence was enjoyable, his physical proximity exciting."
Or:
"It was fun to go to the cigar bar with a fellow-pipesmoker, especially one with a devilish gleam in his eye. It kept the young single bankers from bothering her, and she especially enjoyed seeing their evident envy.
'How on earth did that old codger end up so lucky', they seemed to think. What they did not understand was that wit, kindness, and the comforting smell of Latakia were infinitely more attractive than youthful arrogance and pin-stripe suits."
Even:
"Both of them finished their smoke at nearly the same moment. It always amazed her that without even consciously planning it, they put just enough tobacco in their pipes to last the stroll over the crest of the hill, so that by the time they reached her street they had cleaned and put away their briars. As they turned the corner and her doorway came into view, she clenched his hand, hard. It was big, strong, and warm. So very lovely to spend a while with him after dinner!
Before she mounted the steps, she leaned up and kissed him. He smelled nice! A smoky autumnal scent adhered to his whiskers. One day, she would invite him in."
I find all of this quite dreamy. Don't you?
The only thing NOT mentioned is a necklace, which you'll just have to imagine.
Perhaps pearls that highlight velvety skin, or a locket that by its pending placement accents a discrete feminine definition.
[The same young lady, or perhaps her cousin, in a very similar book-reading and pipe-smoking scene, can be found here: "What's for dinner?". The novel mentioned there is The Sandglass, by Romesh Gunesekera. Yes, a young lady with a pipe and a book is a recurring theme.
As well as a pleasant tale-spin tool.]
By the way: all proper young women should absolutely consider a Peterson System Standard 303 as one of their first pipes. It's a shape that can suggest both good breeding and exciting stubbornness, besides accenting the lovely curve of the cheek. Plus it isn't too capacious, so it is absolutely perfect for a mid-afternoon smoke, right around tea-time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE SUNDAY MORNING SERMON
Some readers have remarked about subconscious bigotry in recent blog posts here. They feel that singling out unclothed Berkeley Lesbians and middle-aged gay men disrobing on Castro street shows an unhealthy obsession with sexuality. And, perhaps also, that certain backwood ideas still thrive in the garbage dump I call my brain. No, not about what gay people do to each other, and whether that's good or bad. They recognize that I do not give a hoot what other people do for their amorous twinkles.
It is not about the twinkles.
It's about nekkid.
They (these readers) feel that I am judgemental about nudity.
I'll admit it; I am judgemental . But it isn't unhealthy.
If I were fascinated by the unclothedness of people such as the Castro Street protesters who take any opportunity to show-off their dessicated old privates and wave them at passersby, or the raggedy ancient she-elephants of Berkeley and their self-serving self-exposure under the slogan "breasts not bombs" in 2005, as well as too many other opportunistic flags of convenience since then, that would indeed be unhealthy. Diseased and depraved, even. Anyone who finds such foul exhibitionism both good and fascinating is one heck of a sick puppy. Nothing, in this blogger's view, is more appalling than middle-aged gits with a surplus of ego forcing other people to see their flab, wattles, spongy crepe surfaces, and severely elongated droops.
It's just not a very social thing to do.
Particularly in public places.
However!
I am ready to be un-appalled.
If, for instance, a number of people who looked precisely like Michelangelo's David, or Botticelli's Venus Anadyomene, were to stage a slow theatrical amble through my neighborhood -- perhaps striking poses or attitudes every few feet or so -- I would by no means object. Why, I might even pull out the old lawn chair and admire their parade from a better vantage point!
Basically, anyone who even comes close to the images that Paul Cezanne, Barbarelli, Moore, William Adolph Bouguereau, Guido Reni, or Michelangelo Merisi Da Caravaggio so stellarly immortalized, can stroll through my neighborhood in a state of undress, day or night, without any objection from me. It's not at all about sexism, but an aesthetic interest.
Please don't burn my eyes with ookle.
Being quite heterosexual, and nevertheless sexist, I would definitely appreciate it if these models were slightly shorter than me, and considerably more youthful. It would cheer me no end. Why, it might even leave an indelible impression!
Feel free, in fact, to startle me, oh you delicious springy things!
The gazelle-like female form is infinitely fascinating.
I haven't seen it in ages, but I remember.
An aesthete I remain.
But in principle I would still have to object. Public nudity is justifiably proscribed, and is furthermore considered somewhat of a health issue.
Besides, it's quite chilly in the city, most of the time, and there's a very real danger of pneumonia. So if someone would please volunteer to drag all those ugly exhibitionist freaks on Castro Street indoors and wrap them warmly in tarpaulin, I promise I'll try the same for the ladies of Nob Hill.
I believe it's the very least I can do.
I am a considerate man.
I wouldn't want the local church-goers to see them.
Or my neighbors.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is not about the twinkles.
It's about nekkid.
They (these readers) feel that I am judgemental about nudity.
I'll admit it; I am judgemental . But it isn't unhealthy.
If I were fascinated by the unclothedness of people such as the Castro Street protesters who take any opportunity to show-off their dessicated old privates and wave them at passersby, or the raggedy ancient she-elephants of Berkeley and their self-serving self-exposure under the slogan "breasts not bombs" in 2005, as well as too many other opportunistic flags of convenience since then, that would indeed be unhealthy. Diseased and depraved, even. Anyone who finds such foul exhibitionism both good and fascinating is one heck of a sick puppy. Nothing, in this blogger's view, is more appalling than middle-aged gits with a surplus of ego forcing other people to see their flab, wattles, spongy crepe surfaces, and severely elongated droops.
It's just not a very social thing to do.
Particularly in public places.
However!
I am ready to be un-appalled.
If, for instance, a number of people who looked precisely like Michelangelo's David, or Botticelli's Venus Anadyomene, were to stage a slow theatrical amble through my neighborhood -- perhaps striking poses or attitudes every few feet or so -- I would by no means object. Why, I might even pull out the old lawn chair and admire their parade from a better vantage point!
Basically, anyone who even comes close to the images that Paul Cezanne, Barbarelli, Moore, William Adolph Bouguereau, Guido Reni, or Michelangelo Merisi Da Caravaggio so stellarly immortalized, can stroll through my neighborhood in a state of undress, day or night, without any objection from me. It's not at all about sexism, but an aesthetic interest.
Please don't burn my eyes with ookle.
Being quite heterosexual, and nevertheless sexist, I would definitely appreciate it if these models were slightly shorter than me, and considerably more youthful. It would cheer me no end. Why, it might even leave an indelible impression!
Feel free, in fact, to startle me, oh you delicious springy things!
The gazelle-like female form is infinitely fascinating.
I haven't seen it in ages, but I remember.
An aesthete I remain.
But in principle I would still have to object. Public nudity is justifiably proscribed, and is furthermore considered somewhat of a health issue.
Besides, it's quite chilly in the city, most of the time, and there's a very real danger of pneumonia. So if someone would please volunteer to drag all those ugly exhibitionist freaks on Castro Street indoors and wrap them warmly in tarpaulin, I promise I'll try the same for the ladies of Nob Hill.
I believe it's the very least I can do.
I am a considerate man.
I wouldn't want the local church-goers to see them.
Or my neighbors.
==========================================================================
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...
