A tourist asked the store proprietor about the little statuette of a happy piglet in full Ming Dynasty court costume holding a pineapple. The shopkeeper explained "it mean wealth, good luck, and all family happy!" Which seemed reasonable enough. I was still there a while later when another customer asked about the three-legged frog with a coin in its mouth.
"It mean wealth, good luck, and all family happy!"
Oh.
What about this mechanical cat statue beckoning with its raised paw?
"It mean wealth, good luck and all family happy!"
Evidently darn well everything on that shelf meant 'wealth, good luck, and all family happy'. Heck, the possibilities for symbolizing 'wealth, good luck, and all family happy' are well nigh endless.
Water buffalo ridden by an owl? Wealth, good luck, and all family happy!
Mouse roasting cat over fire? Wealth, good luck, and all family happy!
Motor car filled with bananas? Wealth, good luck, and all family happy!
Caterpillar smoking a hookah? Wealth, good luck, and all family happy!
Angry tentacled cartoon alien? Wealth, good luck, and all family happy!
"All thing here mean 'wealth, good luck, and all family happy!' What you not understand, stupid person?"
Chinese propitious symbolism is a constantly evolving field, where the layers of meaning keep increasing. It's only partly based on tradition, but largely on homonyms and words that sound similar or identical, plus logical fallacies and an enormous dollop of wishful thinking.
Just taking that first item mentioned to illustrate this, the pineapple, in the southern Min languages (閩南話) is called "onglai" (王梨), which sounds similar to 旺賚 or 旺來, meaning 'wealth bestowed' or 'wealth comes'.
Wherefore the fruit symbolizes the desired eventuality.
The pig wearing fancy formal clothes carrying it clearly has acquired money and status. And just to hammer home the point that the figurine is something very good indeed, the scroll behind him says 好運來 (Cantonese: hou wan loi - 'good luck comes'). Wealth, good luck, all family happy! Of course you want this in your house!
And, if you are Fujianese or Chiuchowese, you'll quite likely put a pineapple on the altar in your business, especially during lunar new year.
You'll also eat pineapple tarts around that time.
Because doing so means something to you.
The store around the corner from my apartment has a clown monkey carved out of a coconut, which is not for sale. There is a little tray with spare change in front of it, as well as a small porcelain cup for offering regular libations. Their prosperity has lasted for over thirty years, so it's best to treat him well; he's their own numinous patron, the good luck monkey.
Obviously it's working.
The Vietnamese merchant around the other corner grows habanero chilies (黄燈籠椒) for much the same reason. When the peppers ripen, they look like treasure, small lanterns, or happy fruits such as peaches and oranges.
Very good fortune!
A business woman from Thailand, of mixed Chinese ancestry, has a picture of a chicken drinking champagne and celebrating with confetti and gay paper tape, in front of which she often offers incense. No, I have NO idea what the boozy bird could possibly mean. I'm sure it's based on a very sound bit of word-magic, though. Probably in an obscure dialect I haven't even heard of, or a minority tribal tongue from the Burma-Siam border.
Her shop is thriving, and she recently bought a new car.
Hard work had very little to do with any of it.
Yeah, she's there fifteen hours a day.
It was the champagne chicken.
You have to keep it happy.
Don't take any chances.
Joss-sticks regularly.
Some thing you do because they improve likelinesses. Other things you do because not doing them any longer would change the patterns, and bring bad luck. Once you've recognized the paradigm, you are bound to it.
And almost anything could have a fortunate consequence.
Or potently symbolize your hopes and dreams.
I have a carved wooden seagull on one of my bookshelves with two bottles of men's perfume on its stand. One might think it a ritualistic arrangement. No, there is no significance, it doesn't mean anything.
But it looks like it could.
Wealth, good luck, and all family happy!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
YES VIRGINIA, THERE IS A CHICKEN BUN
Up Sacramento Street to Jones, then left and over to Jackson across the crest of the hill. Down Jackson to Taylor, then left again, past Pacific, to Broadway. I had filled my pipe with matured Virginia at Jones and Jackson as a cablecar rolled by. It was singing by the time I hit Broadway.
While nevertheless aware of my surroundings I couldn't get the Chinese girl with the elegant head and fluttery little hands out of my mind. I had seen her earlier, and other than her youth what had particularly struck me was the intelligence in her face. Here was a person whose mind, one knew, just had to be utterly alive.
Some people even when fully awake look wide asleep, and others have an air of good-natured blitheriness about them. This girl, however, probably solved complex problems while slumbering, and no doubt had interesting dreams. Not a classically beautiful face, but one that radiated gorgeous brilliance. Small, delicate, and still so young. A teenager.
Precisely the kind of person one would wish for a daughter.
Her parents must know that she is precious.
And neat-o to her friends.
EIGHT CABLECARS
After pausing for a while on the steps of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, which is near the Lady Shaw Senior Center (邵逸夫爵士夫人耆英中心) at Broadway and Mason, I headed over to Jackson Street and waited for a cablecar back across the hill. I had finished my pipe by that time, and was no longer abstracted. On a pleasant Spring day, this city is truly gorgeous. All the colours and hues are at their modulated best, and the humidity intensifies the painterliness of the visuals in the middle distance.
Tourists have no clue how to move, and occupy more space than natives. No doubt they come from somewhere wide open, with miles upon miles of Kansas veld between them and other humans. Either that or the vast empty steppes of Hungary and Bohemia; everything is their personal space.
I got off at Leavenworth, just to get away from them.
It's a very pleasant stroll down to Hyde, up past a building on the corner of Washington where two vehicles were being towed ("no parking between 7 A.M and 7 P.M" - for the benefit of a moving van which had reserved the street side), then crossing to the First Chinese Southern Baptist Church (第一華人美南浸信會) at Clay, and down to Sacramento again.
Totally forgot to have lunch! Which was the point of the entire exercise.
Maybe I need to load up another pipe and head back.
Let me think about that for a while.
Noodles. Or a chicken bun.
河粉湯，或者一箇雞飽。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
While nevertheless aware of my surroundings I couldn't get the Chinese girl with the elegant head and fluttery little hands out of my mind. I had seen her earlier, and other than her youth what had particularly struck me was the intelligence in her face. Here was a person whose mind, one knew, just had to be utterly alive.
Some people even when fully awake look wide asleep, and others have an air of good-natured blitheriness about them. This girl, however, probably solved complex problems while slumbering, and no doubt had interesting dreams. Not a classically beautiful face, but one that radiated gorgeous brilliance. Small, delicate, and still so young. A teenager.
Precisely the kind of person one would wish for a daughter.
Her parents must know that she is precious.
And neat-o to her friends.
EIGHT CABLECARS
After pausing for a while on the steps of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, which is near the Lady Shaw Senior Center (邵逸夫爵士夫人耆英中心) at Broadway and Mason, I headed over to Jackson Street and waited for a cablecar back across the hill. I had finished my pipe by that time, and was no longer abstracted. On a pleasant Spring day, this city is truly gorgeous. All the colours and hues are at their modulated best, and the humidity intensifies the painterliness of the visuals in the middle distance.
Tourists have no clue how to move, and occupy more space than natives. No doubt they come from somewhere wide open, with miles upon miles of Kansas veld between them and other humans. Either that or the vast empty steppes of Hungary and Bohemia; everything is their personal space.
I got off at Leavenworth, just to get away from them.
It's a very pleasant stroll down to Hyde, up past a building on the corner of Washington where two vehicles were being towed ("no parking between 7 A.M and 7 P.M" - for the benefit of a moving van which had reserved the street side), then crossing to the First Chinese Southern Baptist Church (第一華人美南浸信會) at Clay, and down to Sacramento again.
Totally forgot to have lunch! Which was the point of the entire exercise.
Maybe I need to load up another pipe and head back.
Let me think about that for a while.
Noodles. Or a chicken bun.
河粉湯，或者一箇雞飽。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NOT A FAT BALDING DEGENERATE
To the anonymous commenter at 7:46 AM: This blogger is NOT a fat balding degenerate; you have mistaken me for someone else.
Nor am I squat and reptilian.
Perhaps you met someone?
In actual fact, I am reasonably trim (not fat), have a good head of hair (not now or likely ever 'balding'), and I am only mildly perverse (all the naughty tendencies of a normal man).
Of average height (not squat), and with clear skin (not reptilian).
Although, if your reptilian observation was based on sudden twitchy movements, slow blinking, and a quick flicky tongue shooting out of the mouth, I am rather jealous of the individual in question.
It sounds like he made quite an impression.
Rather than giving the fat balding degenerate your phone number (I'm sure he asked for it), feel free to communicate it to me. You may use my letterbox (see below). Operators are standing by.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Nor am I squat and reptilian.
Perhaps you met someone?
In actual fact, I am reasonably trim (not fat), have a good head of hair (not now or likely ever 'balding'), and I am only mildly perverse (all the naughty tendencies of a normal man).
Of average height (not squat), and with clear skin (not reptilian).
Although, if your reptilian observation was based on sudden twitchy movements, slow blinking, and a quick flicky tongue shooting out of the mouth, I am rather jealous of the individual in question.
It sounds like he made quite an impression.
Rather than giving the fat balding degenerate your phone number (I'm sure he asked for it), feel free to communicate it to me. You may use my letterbox (see below). Operators are standing by.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 11, 2013
SAN FRANCISCO PROBLEMS
My apartment mate has been sneezing up a storm. The reason being that the nearby Acacia trees are spewing pollen all over the neighborhood. The smell is lovely, rather like anise, but with a faint hint of resin and tannins, even slightly minty. Some people are allergic.
I fully sympathize. All last night I kept hollering "gesundheit".
Our neighbors were probably wandering what the heck was going on, what with explosions from her room, German exclamations from mine.
But that reminds me that there are some issues in this lovely city that remain near-constant irritants. Undoubtedly you expect me to list them.
So I will.
INCONSIDERATE PEOPLE ON THE BUS
Boys, if a woman is standing and you are sitting down, get up. Even if you are a creaky thirty-year old and she is ten. Gentlemen offer ladies their seat, and INSIST that she take it. That's just the way it is. This tin can ain't moving until every Sheila is seated.
Also please do not stand in front of the back door leaning apathetically against the metal pole so that you can text while ignoring everyone who needs to pass. Those messages from your friends, fellow alcoholics, or business associates, will not go bad if you do not attend to them for ten minutes. And that goes for women standing there doing the same.
Get out of the doorway, and move to the back of the bus.
I will push you if I have to.
FREE-RANGE CABLECARS
It does not matter what time I head over to the cablecar stop after nine in the evening, the result is always the same. The people operating it have decided that they're bored, and have started the beast up early. From exactly half a block away I'll see the conveyance that I intended to catch rumbling past without a single passenger. Because, like me, every one else missed it too, having presumed that it would leave California and Market Street at exactly nine thirty or ten o'clock. Or exactly five minutes early. Or last night, exactly thirteen minutes early. Muni employees start dreaming of coffee, bourbon, or video games when it's dark. They cannot fathom that anyone might rely on them.
At this point, I cannot fathom why I do so either.
OH THAT'S SO CUTE!
No it isn't. Adults should not own accoutrements with Hello Kitty images. Girls, you are grown up now, and please act accordingly. Your second childhood does not have to be a matter for public consumption. If you need pointers on how to dress, I am available. I'll help you get slacks and skirts that fit (in other words, not skin-tight show-it-all sausage casings), sensible shoes -- ones that look good but also allow you to walk uphill -- a lovely blouse and cardigan combination (modest yet stylish, but above all, warm), and a coat that is both elegant and practical. As well as a classic handbag or valise, with enough heft that you can use it to clobber someone. For the first time in your life you might be treated as a real person.
You'll grow to like it. Trust me.
It's liberating.
SOMEONE ELSE'S SCREAMING BRATS
Parents, do you see that little Chinese tyke over there? Well-behaved, isn't she? Quiet, too. Now try to imagine your own no-neck monsters like that. Do you at last finally understand why everyone thinks you are raising future mass-murderers and potential Real Housewives?
Children are full of energy, I grasp that. But children can be taught to be considerate of other people. And not scream angrily in public, or throw tantrums and heavy objects. Most of them will easily learn this.
If yours cannot I feel sad for you, and I move that both you and those defective mutant trolls get sent to a desert island.
Honestly, I do not find your kids charming at all.
WHITE PEOPLE TOFU
Beancurd is NOT a substitute for animal protein. It is what it is. Please stop offering it in lieu of the bacon, ground pork, and juicy roast chicken that SHOULD be in that dish.
In fact, if you are white, please stop cooking beancurd.
It tastes lousy when you do.
THE SUBURBS
Berkeley used to be a nice place to visit, Fremont had farms once, Palo Alto was a sleepy college town somewhere else, and San Jose was unimportant. Now it's all filled with those people.
Dang.
NEW YORK
If that place is so great, why aren't you there?
Oh, I forgot; cockroaches & bad weather.
So maybe it wasn't so great after all?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I fully sympathize. All last night I kept hollering "gesundheit".
Our neighbors were probably wandering what the heck was going on, what with explosions from her room, German exclamations from mine.
But that reminds me that there are some issues in this lovely city that remain near-constant irritants. Undoubtedly you expect me to list them.
So I will.
INCONSIDERATE PEOPLE ON THE BUS
Boys, if a woman is standing and you are sitting down, get up. Even if you are a creaky thirty-year old and she is ten. Gentlemen offer ladies their seat, and INSIST that she take it. That's just the way it is. This tin can ain't moving until every Sheila is seated.
Also please do not stand in front of the back door leaning apathetically against the metal pole so that you can text while ignoring everyone who needs to pass. Those messages from your friends, fellow alcoholics, or business associates, will not go bad if you do not attend to them for ten minutes. And that goes for women standing there doing the same.
Get out of the doorway, and move to the back of the bus.
I will push you if I have to.
FREE-RANGE CABLECARS
It does not matter what time I head over to the cablecar stop after nine in the evening, the result is always the same. The people operating it have decided that they're bored, and have started the beast up early. From exactly half a block away I'll see the conveyance that I intended to catch rumbling past without a single passenger. Because, like me, every one else missed it too, having presumed that it would leave California and Market Street at exactly nine thirty or ten o'clock. Or exactly five minutes early. Or last night, exactly thirteen minutes early. Muni employees start dreaming of coffee, bourbon, or video games when it's dark. They cannot fathom that anyone might rely on them.
At this point, I cannot fathom why I do so either.
OH THAT'S SO CUTE!
No it isn't. Adults should not own accoutrements with Hello Kitty images. Girls, you are grown up now, and please act accordingly. Your second childhood does not have to be a matter for public consumption. If you need pointers on how to dress, I am available. I'll help you get slacks and skirts that fit (in other words, not skin-tight show-it-all sausage casings), sensible shoes -- ones that look good but also allow you to walk uphill -- a lovely blouse and cardigan combination (modest yet stylish, but above all, warm), and a coat that is both elegant and practical. As well as a classic handbag or valise, with enough heft that you can use it to clobber someone. For the first time in your life you might be treated as a real person.
You'll grow to like it. Trust me.
It's liberating.
SOMEONE ELSE'S SCREAMING BRATS
Parents, do you see that little Chinese tyke over there? Well-behaved, isn't she? Quiet, too. Now try to imagine your own no-neck monsters like that. Do you at last finally understand why everyone thinks you are raising future mass-murderers and potential Real Housewives?
Children are full of energy, I grasp that. But children can be taught to be considerate of other people. And not scream angrily in public, or throw tantrums and heavy objects. Most of them will easily learn this.
If yours cannot I feel sad for you, and I move that both you and those defective mutant trolls get sent to a desert island.
Honestly, I do not find your kids charming at all.
WHITE PEOPLE TOFU
Beancurd is NOT a substitute for animal protein. It is what it is. Please stop offering it in lieu of the bacon, ground pork, and juicy roast chicken that SHOULD be in that dish.
In fact, if you are white, please stop cooking beancurd.
It tastes lousy when you do.
THE SUBURBS
Berkeley used to be a nice place to visit, Fremont had farms once, Palo Alto was a sleepy college town somewhere else, and San Jose was unimportant. Now it's all filled with those people.
Dang.
NEW YORK
If that place is so great, why aren't you there?
Oh, I forgot; cockroaches & bad weather.
So maybe it wasn't so great after all?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DEFINITION OF AVUNCULAR
I was standing outside the Tosca Cafe on Columbus the other evening when a group of lively blonde ladies stumbled past. One of them hollered "hey boy, am I right that SHE isn't thinking?"
I had to agree. For all of them.
The evidence said so.
HEY BOY!
The young lady who asked the question was half my age. On the one hand it's flattering that she used the term "boy", as that indicates that I can still be regarded as young and vibrant, despite my creaking joints, long elephantine proboscis, and ancient grey-furred skittery lobster claws.
On the other, I am a little too mature to appreciate the casualness of the compliment.
I am not hung up about my age. Yet I am neurotic about it.
In nearly the same way that a tipsy blonde ditz blithely calling me 'boy' is disconcerting, being called "ah sook" (阿叔 "uncle") by an equally young lady in Chinatown is somewhat uncomfortable. Testimony to the fact that she is much more astute, and has keener faculties of observation -- keener faculties period, as she is neither drunk nor in any way a typical caucasoid ditzbitz -- but also an indication that men of my years are NOT in the running for the steaming hot Don Juan she secretly requires.
Why not? I've still got all my marbles!
And more to the point, I know where to go for good food!
In movies, the trim dapper middle-aged gentleman with the gleaming eyes and rascally smile ALWAYS gets the sweet young thing. Not in real life.
In the real world, the sweet young thing is far too intelligent and perspicacious to be taken in by my cosmopolitan charm and sophistication.
She instinctively realizes that underneath my Chow Yunfat-esque or George Clooney-esque veneer, there beats the heart of a crusty old fart. Someone who would shock her parents and aunties if she brought me home. A lover that her friends, relatives, and classmates would consider most unsuitable, and far too fossilized to be a sure bet, if they were ever introduced to me.
"He's too old", they would say, "and he's clearly a dangerous sort". Just look at those shifty eyes! You can tell he's a passionate ladies man, who merely wishes to wine you and dine you, then sweep you off your tiny feet!
As knights go, his armour has gone all rusty, and his white steed is knackered and arthritic; time to put the old goat out to pasture!
The problem, obviously, is all those friends and well-meaning relatives.
Your kin are too quick to judge, they've got preconceptions.
Avoid the problem by never letting them know.
They're distressingly unimaginative; stuff like that just kills romance.
There's this lovely little eatery I know of nearby.
Candlelight, attentive waiters, good food.
Call me if you ever need to talk.
I listen rather well.
And I'm probably far too antique and dessicated to grope you anyway.
You can hardly get more avuncular than that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I had to agree. For all of them.
The evidence said so.
HEY BOY!
The young lady who asked the question was half my age. On the one hand it's flattering that she used the term "boy", as that indicates that I can still be regarded as young and vibrant, despite my creaking joints, long elephantine proboscis, and ancient grey-furred skittery lobster claws.
On the other, I am a little too mature to appreciate the casualness of the compliment.
I am not hung up about my age. Yet I am neurotic about it.
In nearly the same way that a tipsy blonde ditz blithely calling me 'boy' is disconcerting, being called "ah sook" (阿叔 "uncle") by an equally young lady in Chinatown is somewhat uncomfortable. Testimony to the fact that she is much more astute, and has keener faculties of observation -- keener faculties period, as she is neither drunk nor in any way a typical caucasoid ditzbitz -- but also an indication that men of my years are NOT in the running for the steaming hot Don Juan she secretly requires.
Why not? I've still got all my marbles!
And more to the point, I know where to go for good food!
In movies, the trim dapper middle-aged gentleman with the gleaming eyes and rascally smile ALWAYS gets the sweet young thing. Not in real life.
In the real world, the sweet young thing is far too intelligent and perspicacious to be taken in by my cosmopolitan charm and sophistication.
She instinctively realizes that underneath my Chow Yunfat-esque or George Clooney-esque veneer, there beats the heart of a crusty old fart. Someone who would shock her parents and aunties if she brought me home. A lover that her friends, relatives, and classmates would consider most unsuitable, and far too fossilized to be a sure bet, if they were ever introduced to me.
"He's too old", they would say, "and he's clearly a dangerous sort". Just look at those shifty eyes! You can tell he's a passionate ladies man, who merely wishes to wine you and dine you, then sweep you off your tiny feet!
As knights go, his armour has gone all rusty, and his white steed is knackered and arthritic; time to put the old goat out to pasture!
The problem, obviously, is all those friends and well-meaning relatives.
Your kin are too quick to judge, they've got preconceptions.
Avoid the problem by never letting them know.
They're distressingly unimaginative; stuff like that just kills romance.
There's this lovely little eatery I know of nearby.
Candlelight, attentive waiters, good food.
Call me if you ever need to talk.
I listen rather well.
And I'm probably far too antique and dessicated to grope you anyway.
You can hardly get more avuncular than that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 10, 2013
CALIFORNIA: VAST HERDS OF THUNDERING DO-GOODERS
Assemblyman Marc Levine of San Rafael has proposed that Californians shall not smoke in their own homes, if they live in apartment buildings or condos. Assembly Bill 746 would ban smoking in multi-occupant dwellings, anywhere less than twenty feet of such places, and within one hundred feet of playgrounds, schools, or pools.
Marc Levine, clearly, is a fascist.
In that he is not unusual in the great state of California.
This is where vast herds of thundering do-gooders attempt to make life miserable for everyone. Recent proposals have singled-out various foods and materials, local ordinances prohibit even more, and smarmy puritans of every stripe insist that I shall bag my garbage in several separate ways, only eat responsibly, not wear perfume, eschew leather and ALL animal products, boycott certain states and countries, practice random acts of senseless love or whatever that ridiculous phrase is, dispose of bio-waste and post-consumer recycled substances in an anal-retentive fashion, and drink only wholesome green-earth fair trade stimulants.
We shall indignantly avoid sharkfin, codfish, veal, foie gras, Bambi and his pal Thumper, horse meat, bacon, non fully self actualized chicken, or corn syrup, while excoriating any one who consumes those things, and places where that consumption is still possible.
In lieu of all those dead white males, you shall read The Colour Purple.
You MUST vote one way or be shunned for all eternity, and you will NOT use large parts of the English language we were all blessed with because the noble tongue contains terms that are racist, sexist, ageist, patriarchist, heteroist, speciesist, or hurtful to lesbians and morons.
Our greatest contribution to civilization is invasive selfrighteousness, and benevolently instructing lesser mortals and people who are not with the program on how they should live.
Frankly, no.
I'll support one or two causes only. I am totally aware of all those other issues, but I no longer give a damn.
Steak is a sacrament, I shall light up a big fat stogie afterwards, and I'm heading down to the kids' playground to teach them inappropriate words while smoking.
Several years ago I was having a cigarillo on my way to work when some bloated wheatgermsnarfing earthmother type saw me on the sidewalk, and screamed venomously "thank you SO much for RUINING my lungs!"
I responded "you're very welcome, ma'am".
I should have bashed her arrogant head in. If you're going to object to tobacco while next to three lanes of fume-spewing near-standstill rush-hour traffic, in a city where the sewer system emits noxious gasses for six months during the dry season and violently unbalanced individuals roam the streets because we don't fund loonie bins and care facilities for the psychotic and the drug-addled, then you deserve to die a painful death.
Our educational system is spiralling out of control and producing graduates less literate than the child-soldiers in Liberia, our healthcare system is both more dangerous and more financially damaging than just quietly dying of the plague would be, our streets are littered with fast-food styrofoam, faeces, and gibbering addicts, most of our politicians are socially indistinguishable from criminals whether it involves real-estate schemes, child-pornography, or sexual and financial favours traded for influence, several of our urban areas are war-zones where gangs shoot more passers-by in their drug battles than the richly deserving members of the other side........
The list of things which SHOULD be tackled is endless; California is a dump and a failed state. And it's people like Marc Levine who make it so.
Him, and the vast herds of thundering do-gooders.
Oh but do keep huffing medical grade marijuana.
It's therapeutic.
Besides, anyone opposing pot is probably just an elderly patriarchalist who eats plastic and whales.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Marc Levine, clearly, is a fascist.
In that he is not unusual in the great state of California.
This is where vast herds of thundering do-gooders attempt to make life miserable for everyone. Recent proposals have singled-out various foods and materials, local ordinances prohibit even more, and smarmy puritans of every stripe insist that I shall bag my garbage in several separate ways, only eat responsibly, not wear perfume, eschew leather and ALL animal products, boycott certain states and countries, practice random acts of senseless love or whatever that ridiculous phrase is, dispose of bio-waste and post-consumer recycled substances in an anal-retentive fashion, and drink only wholesome green-earth fair trade stimulants.
We shall indignantly avoid sharkfin, codfish, veal, foie gras, Bambi and his pal Thumper, horse meat, bacon, non fully self actualized chicken, or corn syrup, while excoriating any one who consumes those things, and places where that consumption is still possible.
In lieu of all those dead white males, you shall read The Colour Purple.
You MUST vote one way or be shunned for all eternity, and you will NOT use large parts of the English language we were all blessed with because the noble tongue contains terms that are racist, sexist, ageist, patriarchist, heteroist, speciesist, or hurtful to lesbians and morons.
Our greatest contribution to civilization is invasive selfrighteousness, and benevolently instructing lesser mortals and people who are not with the program on how they should live.
Frankly, no.
I'll support one or two causes only. I am totally aware of all those other issues, but I no longer give a damn.
Steak is a sacrament, I shall light up a big fat stogie afterwards, and I'm heading down to the kids' playground to teach them inappropriate words while smoking.
Several years ago I was having a cigarillo on my way to work when some bloated wheatgermsnarfing earthmother type saw me on the sidewalk, and screamed venomously "thank you SO much for RUINING my lungs!"
I responded "you're very welcome, ma'am".
I should have bashed her arrogant head in. If you're going to object to tobacco while next to three lanes of fume-spewing near-standstill rush-hour traffic, in a city where the sewer system emits noxious gasses for six months during the dry season and violently unbalanced individuals roam the streets because we don't fund loonie bins and care facilities for the psychotic and the drug-addled, then you deserve to die a painful death.
Our educational system is spiralling out of control and producing graduates less literate than the child-soldiers in Liberia, our healthcare system is both more dangerous and more financially damaging than just quietly dying of the plague would be, our streets are littered with fast-food styrofoam, faeces, and gibbering addicts, most of our politicians are socially indistinguishable from criminals whether it involves real-estate schemes, child-pornography, or sexual and financial favours traded for influence, several of our urban areas are war-zones where gangs shoot more passers-by in their drug battles than the richly deserving members of the other side........
The list of things which SHOULD be tackled is endless; California is a dump and a failed state. And it's people like Marc Levine who make it so.
Him, and the vast herds of thundering do-gooders.
Oh but do keep huffing medical grade marijuana.
It's therapeutic.
Besides, anyone opposing pot is probably just an elderly patriarchalist who eats plastic and whales.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A MAN SHOWING OFF LOVELY BOXER SHORTS
One of the characters in a certain Japanese comic strip who appeals to most readers is Master Happosai, who in addition to being a martial artist of unparalleled skill is also a fossilized dirty old man of monumental proportion. It is that latter aspect which gives him his charm.
How can you not admire a twenty-inch tall depraved person?
I suspect that many of the Japanese adults who read Ranma ½ would like to be just like him when they grow old. Well, except for the women fans. They probably already know someone like that. The type is universal. Even now, I suspect, there is a degenerate elderly midget staring at some girl's panties with saucer-sized google-eyes.
Are there women like that? Like Happosai, that is, but the female version? No, I don't mean cougars, but genuinely perverted ancient sex-maniacs who go around touching younger males inappropriately? And stealing their April-fresh boxer shorts from apartment building clothing lines?
In all fairness, there should be. How sad that reading about them would not excite one iota of envy, but might instead prompt titillated revulsion. Truly we have a long way to go as a civilization.
It's a question of equality.
SUBJECTIVE OBJECTIFICATION
Being safely beyond the tender age when a young man is a sex-object slobbered over by handbag queens at department stores, or chased by sixty-year-old blonde monsters with augmented breasts, lips, eyes, and noses, like the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, I can safely say that.
I can walk down a street past female construction workers without a single one of them whistling or yelling salacious comments at me.
Yep, I'm that old. Besides, I smoke a pipe.
Real women just HATE that.
Sexists.
I think I'll buy myself some nice underwear for my fifty-fourth birthday.
All-cotton boxers, with a cute pattern of fuzzy little animals.
In fancy colours. Or maybe just plain blue.
Still several months to go.
I can barely wait.
Zesty pants.
Heh!
Yes?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I suspect that many of the Japanese adults who read Ranma ½ would like to be just like him when they grow old. Well, except for the women fans. They probably already know someone like that. The type is universal. Even now, I suspect, there is a degenerate elderly midget staring at some girl's panties with saucer-sized google-eyes.
Are there women like that? Like Happosai, that is, but the female version? No, I don't mean cougars, but genuinely perverted ancient sex-maniacs who go around touching younger males inappropriately? And stealing their April-fresh boxer shorts from apartment building clothing lines?
In all fairness, there should be. How sad that reading about them would not excite one iota of envy, but might instead prompt titillated revulsion. Truly we have a long way to go as a civilization.
It's a question of equality.
SUBJECTIVE OBJECTIFICATION
Being safely beyond the tender age when a young man is a sex-object slobbered over by handbag queens at department stores, or chased by sixty-year-old blonde monsters with augmented breasts, lips, eyes, and noses, like the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, I can safely say that.
I can walk down a street past female construction workers without a single one of them whistling or yelling salacious comments at me.
Yep, I'm that old. Besides, I smoke a pipe.
Real women just HATE that.
Sexists.
I think I'll buy myself some nice underwear for my fifty-fourth birthday.
All-cotton boxers, with a cute pattern of fuzzy little animals.
In fancy colours. Or maybe just plain blue.
Still several months to go.
I can barely wait.
Zesty pants.
Heh!
Yes?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 09, 2013
THE WELL-TEMPERED BADGER
Brash young men infest drinking holes on Polk Street. On weekend evenings their excessive behaviour eventually leads to committing unpleasant acts in the doorways of nearby buildings. No, nothing procreative, merely eliminative.
Fortunately they cannot stumble far uphill, and people who live in the upper reaches are rarely exposed to these 'prestations'. Those nights are when good folk find places of refuge, and the pagans come out.
I myself tend to hide out elsewhere on those days. When I was still in my early twenties, I too sometimes indulged a little more than was wise. Not very often though, as being in complete control of my senses and sensibilities has always been high on my list of values. I suspect that even then that wasn't considered normal. Apparently, despite having been raised in the Netherlands, where almost everything is permitted and riotous behaviour is common, I did not consume nearly enough alcohol and illicit substances. Several of my fellow Americans have upon hearing this wondered incredulously what on earth was wrong.
Well, you know, I'm not into that.
But I honestly don't mind watching other people doing stupid things.
On occasion. From a safe distance. Beer and hormones, whoopee.
So please, be yourself.
As brash as you wish.
Other than indulging overmuch in pipe-tobacco, and sometimes excessive quantities of tea, I lead a rather calm life. My idea of a fun is going to a small restaurant somewhere, having something tasty to eat, then loading up a pipe-full of aged Virginia flake OR a nice smelly Latakia blend, and heading out into the foggy city to look for tea and a book to read. As far as I'm concerned, that is far more enjoyable than any orgy.
You will note that at present it is Saturday Evening.
Would you care to guess what I'm doing right now?
I'll give you a hint: it does NOT involve sex or booze.
Both of those things can be quite enjoyable my heavens yes, and one of them even leads to fevered dreams and thrilled trembling. But neither of these are at all costs must haves.
I'm in favour of whiskey in moderation.
And romance, in the unlikely eventuality of it ever happening.
The civilized man is never desperate, and does not leap on the nearest beer keg or sweet young thing just because his eyes are open. There might be objections if he did, and he would regret it the next morning.
Passionate behaviour must be well-considered.
Based on sober inspiration alone.
And the perfect woman.
[The Perfect Woman: something which is statistically impossible. How many people read even one book a month that isn't required by a class or their job? Someone who reads for pleasure is an anomaly nowadays. And beyond that, her conversation and conduct inspire respect and consideration. Such a woman is also remarkable in OTHER ways. This blogger knows of four people who exemplify the pattern: Susie Derkins, Akane Tendo, Audrey Hepburn, and Cherie Chung Chu-hong. Go figger.]
A good time is not based on intoxicants, nor on a fashionable night spot.
Conversation, a smile, and an active mind are the only necessary things.
As well as, possibly, having something to eat at a nice little restaurant, then leaving together for tea, or a bit of reading in a quiet place.
I am not brash.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Fortunately they cannot stumble far uphill, and people who live in the upper reaches are rarely exposed to these 'prestations'. Those nights are when good folk find places of refuge, and the pagans come out.
I myself tend to hide out elsewhere on those days. When I was still in my early twenties, I too sometimes indulged a little more than was wise. Not very often though, as being in complete control of my senses and sensibilities has always been high on my list of values. I suspect that even then that wasn't considered normal. Apparently, despite having been raised in the Netherlands, where almost everything is permitted and riotous behaviour is common, I did not consume nearly enough alcohol and illicit substances. Several of my fellow Americans have upon hearing this wondered incredulously what on earth was wrong.
Well, you know, I'm not into that.
But I honestly don't mind watching other people doing stupid things.
On occasion. From a safe distance. Beer and hormones, whoopee.
So please, be yourself.
As brash as you wish.
Other than indulging overmuch in pipe-tobacco, and sometimes excessive quantities of tea, I lead a rather calm life. My idea of a fun is going to a small restaurant somewhere, having something tasty to eat, then loading up a pipe-full of aged Virginia flake OR a nice smelly Latakia blend, and heading out into the foggy city to look for tea and a book to read. As far as I'm concerned, that is far more enjoyable than any orgy.
You will note that at present it is Saturday Evening.
Would you care to guess what I'm doing right now?
I'll give you a hint: it does NOT involve sex or booze.
Both of those things can be quite enjoyable my heavens yes, and one of them even leads to fevered dreams and thrilled trembling. But neither of these are at all costs must haves.
I'm in favour of whiskey in moderation.
And romance, in the unlikely eventuality of it ever happening.
The civilized man is never desperate, and does not leap on the nearest beer keg or sweet young thing just because his eyes are open. There might be objections if he did, and he would regret it the next morning.
Passionate behaviour must be well-considered.
Based on sober inspiration alone.
And the perfect woman.
[The Perfect Woman: something which is statistically impossible. How many people read even one book a month that isn't required by a class or their job? Someone who reads for pleasure is an anomaly nowadays. And beyond that, her conversation and conduct inspire respect and consideration. Such a woman is also remarkable in OTHER ways. This blogger knows of four people who exemplify the pattern: Susie Derkins, Akane Tendo, Audrey Hepburn, and Cherie Chung Chu-hong. Go figger.]
A good time is not based on intoxicants, nor on a fashionable night spot.
Conversation, a smile, and an active mind are the only necessary things.
As well as, possibly, having something to eat at a nice little restaurant, then leaving together for tea, or a bit of reading in a quiet place.
I am not brash.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 08, 2013
LAPSANG SOUCHONG TEA AND OTHER TASTES
Winston Churchill was fond of it; it reminded him of his mis-spent youth.
The substance is Lapsang souchong tea (拉山小種 or 拉普山小種), a smoke-cured beverage that originated in the mountains of Fujian province in China, which many white men like, and most Chinese people rather dismiss.
Caucasians and Chinese have had differing tea preferences ever since the Western world discovered the fragrant leaf.
Part of that divergence in taste has to do with trade lines and supplies.
Tea loses much of its flavour over time, and during the age of sail the conditions to which the leaf was subjected in transit did nothing to alleviate that situation, but rather made it worse. Naturally people who lived farthest from tea-growing areas tended towards the more heavily fermented and processed product, and equally naturally, jazzing-up the drink creatively became customary. Hence the Tibetans adding rancid yak butter, onions, and salt, while the English treated it as a pleasant variation on the sweetened hot-milk beverages with which they were familiar. Americans, as is well known, had been long so unfamiliar with tea that they invented all manner of herbal muck as substitutes, and in any case preferred coffee or methamphetamines (so-called 'diet pills') for stimulation.
Many of the teas regarded highly in the English-speaking world are scarcely known in the Chinese environment, though they are grown there: Keemun (祁門茶), Lapsang-Souchong (拉山茶), and Golden Tippy Yunnan (滇紅茶), to name but three.
Flavoured teas are universally regarded as depraved, or leastways dubious.
Lichee black tea (荔枝紅茶) is strictly for white-folks, and few Chinese will even touch the stuff. There are other aromatized teas, but they are similarly regarded. Jasmine tea is the exception.
[Keemun: 祁門紅茶 ('kei-mun hong chaa') from Anhui (安徽 'on-wui') in eastern China, much preferred for expensive English blends. Golden tippy Yunnan: 金芽滇紅 ('kam ngaa din hong') and 滇紅茶 ('din hong chaa') is a black tea developed during the latter half of the twentieth century, primarily for export. Lichee tea: 荔枝紅茶 ('lei-ji hong chaa') is black tea with lichee fragments added, hence a curiosity for export, fine for ice-tea.
Jasmine tea: 茉莉花茶 ('mut-lei faa cha'), also called 香片 ('heung pin': fragrant slivers) comes traditionally from Fujian province (福建省 'fuk-gin saang'), and is very popular among southern Chinese. Its taste is tangy and slightly astringent.]
Jasmine tea utilizes green or slightly fermented leaves placed in the vicinity of fresh jasmine flowers for four or five hours, which will permeate the tea with the fragrance of the little white blossoms. This may be done several times, the tea being re-dried after each iteration. The finest quality Jasmine tea will often have very little if any inclusion of dried jasmine, relying instead on the process to imbue the desired flavour. Lesser qualities may have a higher proportion of white petals if only to show that jasmine was indeed used. It is commonly a component of the typical Chinese restaurant blend (a mixture of Jasmine tea, lower grade Oolong or Shui Hsien, and a touch of Pu-Erh for digestive benefit). Like Oolong, the higher grades fetch enormous prices.
[Oolong: 烏龍 ('wu-lung': dark dragon), a semi-fermented Fujianese tea also produced in a number of other areas, of which there is a great variety of types and qualities, some of which are quite expensive. Shop around and find one that particularly appeals to you, then acquire a small purple sand teapot (宜興茶壺 'yi-heng chaa-wu', or 紫砂茶壺 'ji-saa chaa-wu'), and indulge. Brewed strong (gungfu style: 功夫茶式 'gung fu chaa sik'; also called 'old folks tea': 老人茶 'lou yan chaa'), it can be a wonderful exploration.
Shui Hsien (水仙茶 'seui-sin chaa': water fairy tea; the daffodil is called water fairy, btw) is a medium-ferment from Fujian province that has a nectar-like fragrance at the higher grades, a toasty smell at the lower end. Pu-Erh: 普洱茶 ('pou nei chaa'), a fermented and oxidized pressed tea from Yunnan province (雲南 'wan-naam') reputed to be healthful and good for the digestion. You will most often encounter it at dim sum restaurants.]
Lapsang souchong is not thus. By Chinese standards, it is too heavy, and anything worth drinking should NOT be cured over smoke. That may also explain why the Chinese usually prefer Cognac over Scotch, inter alia.
拉山小種 LAPSANG SOUCHONG
In Chinese stores, Lapsang souchong is more commonly called 正山小种 ('jeng-saan siu-jong'), rather than the geographically more exact 拉普山小種 ('laahp pou saan siu-jong'). The term 'souchong' (小种 siu-jong: lesser planting, minor cultivation, sub-variety) applies to the lower leaves, and almost always means a coarser and less delicate product, without the fragrance and sweetness of the buds.
[Buds: one tip and one or two small leaflets, plucked before the heat of mid-day; pekoe (白毫 white fuzz, pronounced 'pek-ho' in Fujian dialect, 'baak hou' in 'Cantonese', so named in reference to the slight remnant of downy filaments still adhering after harvest).]
What distinguishes Lapsang souchong from all other teas is that the leaves are speed-dried over smouldering pine wood fires, thus contributing terpeneols specific to coniferous plants. The result is a remarkable beverage, the taste and smell of which have been likened to both dried fruits as well as, remarkably, barbecued meat and Latakia tobacco.
It is frequently included in Russian Caravan blends, along with Keemun (see mention above), with, in the versions found in many franchise coffee shops, a minor addition of something lighter in the Oolong or Shui Hsien category.
By itself, Lapsang souchong may be described as wine-like, semi-robust, slightly resinous, sweet, perfumy, and smoky.
It goes well with cured salmon.
Or kippers for breakfast.
Altogether lovely.
Some pipe and cigar smokers regard it as the perfect beverage to accompany their indulgence, as it pairs harmoniously with both the fruitiness of the fully fermented tobaccos in flakes or cheroots, as well as the tarry quality of their favourite stinky leaf -- Latakia.
This blogger is not thus. I like Lapsang souchong, but not nearly as much as my apartment mate, a nonsmoker who despaired of ever finding that one brand of favoured Russian Caravan which disappeared from the shelves, and since has developed a remarkable fondness for the straight leaf unblended.
What I prefer while I'm engaged in a pipe is Oolong (gently soothing), jasmine (mouth-cleansing), or even plain red (black) tea. Often I will simply pour some boiling water over a bag of Lipton (立頓紅茶 'laahp-deun hong chaa'). Four or five of those during the day make life so much brighter, and the mind inestimably clearer.
I often describe my mental state as whacked to the gills.
That's only a slight exaggeration.
I start the day with one or two cups of strong coffee. After coming out of the bath, I have an infusion of hairy crab king (毛蟹王茶 'mou-haai wong cha', a greenish Oolong-type much liked in Japan).
All of this gets me up to speed. Everything else is maintenance.
But I might end the day with a bowl of lapsang souchong.
My pots and my favourite goiwun are well-stained.
[Goiwun: (蓋碗 cover + bowl), a handleless cup for brewing, with a lid and a deep saucer. One can drink directly from it, canting the lid slightly, or while with the forefinger holding the lid firm and keeping the leaves within, tip it over another bowl or several small cups to pour. It is also called a chaa-jung (茶盅).]
The number of pipes smoked in a day does not correlate to the quantity of tea that will be swilled. These two habits are independent of each other, their happy overlap merely fortuitous.
Obviously I recommend acquiring both for a well-balanced life.
But your relatives may disagree.
Oh well.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The substance is Lapsang souchong tea (拉山小種 or 拉普山小種), a smoke-cured beverage that originated in the mountains of Fujian province in China, which many white men like, and most Chinese people rather dismiss.
Caucasians and Chinese have had differing tea preferences ever since the Western world discovered the fragrant leaf.
Part of that divergence in taste has to do with trade lines and supplies.
Tea loses much of its flavour over time, and during the age of sail the conditions to which the leaf was subjected in transit did nothing to alleviate that situation, but rather made it worse. Naturally people who lived farthest from tea-growing areas tended towards the more heavily fermented and processed product, and equally naturally, jazzing-up the drink creatively became customary. Hence the Tibetans adding rancid yak butter, onions, and salt, while the English treated it as a pleasant variation on the sweetened hot-milk beverages with which they were familiar. Americans, as is well known, had been long so unfamiliar with tea that they invented all manner of herbal muck as substitutes, and in any case preferred coffee or methamphetamines (so-called 'diet pills') for stimulation.
Many of the teas regarded highly in the English-speaking world are scarcely known in the Chinese environment, though they are grown there: Keemun (祁門茶), Lapsang-Souchong (拉山茶), and Golden Tippy Yunnan (滇紅茶), to name but three.
Flavoured teas are universally regarded as depraved, or leastways dubious.
Lichee black tea (荔枝紅茶) is strictly for white-folks, and few Chinese will even touch the stuff. There are other aromatized teas, but they are similarly regarded. Jasmine tea is the exception.
[Keemun: 祁門紅茶 ('kei-mun hong chaa') from Anhui (安徽 'on-wui') in eastern China, much preferred for expensive English blends. Golden tippy Yunnan: 金芽滇紅 ('kam ngaa din hong') and 滇紅茶 ('din hong chaa') is a black tea developed during the latter half of the twentieth century, primarily for export. Lichee tea: 荔枝紅茶 ('lei-ji hong chaa') is black tea with lichee fragments added, hence a curiosity for export, fine for ice-tea.
Jasmine tea: 茉莉花茶 ('mut-lei faa cha'), also called 香片 ('heung pin': fragrant slivers) comes traditionally from Fujian province (福建省 'fuk-gin saang'), and is very popular among southern Chinese. Its taste is tangy and slightly astringent.]
Jasmine tea utilizes green or slightly fermented leaves placed in the vicinity of fresh jasmine flowers for four or five hours, which will permeate the tea with the fragrance of the little white blossoms. This may be done several times, the tea being re-dried after each iteration. The finest quality Jasmine tea will often have very little if any inclusion of dried jasmine, relying instead on the process to imbue the desired flavour. Lesser qualities may have a higher proportion of white petals if only to show that jasmine was indeed used. It is commonly a component of the typical Chinese restaurant blend (a mixture of Jasmine tea, lower grade Oolong or Shui Hsien, and a touch of Pu-Erh for digestive benefit). Like Oolong, the higher grades fetch enormous prices.
[Oolong: 烏龍 ('wu-lung': dark dragon), a semi-fermented Fujianese tea also produced in a number of other areas, of which there is a great variety of types and qualities, some of which are quite expensive. Shop around and find one that particularly appeals to you, then acquire a small purple sand teapot (宜興茶壺 'yi-heng chaa-wu', or 紫砂茶壺 'ji-saa chaa-wu'), and indulge. Brewed strong (gungfu style: 功夫茶式 'gung fu chaa sik'; also called 'old folks tea': 老人茶 'lou yan chaa'), it can be a wonderful exploration.
Shui Hsien (水仙茶 'seui-sin chaa': water fairy tea; the daffodil is called water fairy, btw) is a medium-ferment from Fujian province that has a nectar-like fragrance at the higher grades, a toasty smell at the lower end. Pu-Erh: 普洱茶 ('pou nei chaa'), a fermented and oxidized pressed tea from Yunnan province (雲南 'wan-naam') reputed to be healthful and good for the digestion. You will most often encounter it at dim sum restaurants.]
Lapsang souchong is not thus. By Chinese standards, it is too heavy, and anything worth drinking should NOT be cured over smoke. That may also explain why the Chinese usually prefer Cognac over Scotch, inter alia.
拉山小種 LAPSANG SOUCHONG
In Chinese stores, Lapsang souchong is more commonly called 正山小种 ('jeng-saan siu-jong'), rather than the geographically more exact 拉普山小種 ('laahp pou saan siu-jong'). The term 'souchong' (小种 siu-jong: lesser planting, minor cultivation, sub-variety) applies to the lower leaves, and almost always means a coarser and less delicate product, without the fragrance and sweetness of the buds.
[Buds: one tip and one or two small leaflets, plucked before the heat of mid-day; pekoe (白毫 white fuzz, pronounced 'pek-ho' in Fujian dialect, 'baak hou' in 'Cantonese', so named in reference to the slight remnant of downy filaments still adhering after harvest).]
What distinguishes Lapsang souchong from all other teas is that the leaves are speed-dried over smouldering pine wood fires, thus contributing terpeneols specific to coniferous plants. The result is a remarkable beverage, the taste and smell of which have been likened to both dried fruits as well as, remarkably, barbecued meat and Latakia tobacco.
It is frequently included in Russian Caravan blends, along with Keemun (see mention above), with, in the versions found in many franchise coffee shops, a minor addition of something lighter in the Oolong or Shui Hsien category.
By itself, Lapsang souchong may be described as wine-like, semi-robust, slightly resinous, sweet, perfumy, and smoky.
It goes well with cured salmon.
Or kippers for breakfast.
Altogether lovely.
Some pipe and cigar smokers regard it as the perfect beverage to accompany their indulgence, as it pairs harmoniously with both the fruitiness of the fully fermented tobaccos in flakes or cheroots, as well as the tarry quality of their favourite stinky leaf -- Latakia.
This blogger is not thus. I like Lapsang souchong, but not nearly as much as my apartment mate, a nonsmoker who despaired of ever finding that one brand of favoured Russian Caravan which disappeared from the shelves, and since has developed a remarkable fondness for the straight leaf unblended.
What I prefer while I'm engaged in a pipe is Oolong (gently soothing), jasmine (mouth-cleansing), or even plain red (black) tea. Often I will simply pour some boiling water over a bag of Lipton (立頓紅茶 'laahp-deun hong chaa'). Four or five of those during the day make life so much brighter, and the mind inestimably clearer.
I often describe my mental state as whacked to the gills.
That's only a slight exaggeration.
I start the day with one or two cups of strong coffee. After coming out of the bath, I have an infusion of hairy crab king (毛蟹王茶 'mou-haai wong cha', a greenish Oolong-type much liked in Japan).
All of this gets me up to speed. Everything else is maintenance.
But I might end the day with a bowl of lapsang souchong.
My pots and my favourite goiwun are well-stained.
[Goiwun: (蓋碗 cover + bowl), a handleless cup for brewing, with a lid and a deep saucer. One can drink directly from it, canting the lid slightly, or while with the forefinger holding the lid firm and keeping the leaves within, tip it over another bowl or several small cups to pour. It is also called a chaa-jung (茶盅).]
The number of pipes smoked in a day does not correlate to the quantity of tea that will be swilled. These two habits are independent of each other, their happy overlap merely fortuitous.
Obviously I recommend acquiring both for a well-balanced life.
But your relatives may disagree.
Oh well.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 07, 2013
EXPRESSING APPRECIATION FOR EUROPEAN VISITORS
There were four intoxicated European gentlemen at the cigar club that evening. It was a Sunday, and I suspect that they were in town for the internet security conference scheduled in the week ahead. All four of them represented precisely the kind of people you do not want in charge of your personal data.
The term gentlemen, in this case, is mis-applied.
They were complete bounders.
Boys, no matter your overcharged hormones and flawed education, can you at least act civilized? Yes, I know most of the young men on the other side of the Atlantic are sexually twisted and completely dysfunctional, besides generally thinking of women as things to be used, abused, and discarded, but can you please try to remember that you are in San Francisco?
This isn't Europe.
Really, a modicum of gallantry is not so hard. Talking about your favourite depravities with your Euro-trash buddies will not create a good impression. Certainly not if your common tongue is English, and we have to listen in.
Everything you so blithely shared with everyone who could not tune you out indicated that Fins and Spaniards might well be irredeemably vile.
What I had to hear proved you scum; you aren't fit for civilized society.
You have no manners, no morals, and not a shred of decency.
Do your wives and mothers know how evil you are?
How about the company that employs you?
I really wish European companies would think about the people they send over here to represent them at conventions and trade shows. We already have a fairly low opinion about not particularly hygienic snobs from Neanderthalia; sending us more despicable excuses for humanity will not improve matters.
I may have on this blog occasionally spoken ill of the French. And for that my apologies are in order. So far the ONLY old-worlders who have NOT shown themselves unmitigated human sewage are the French and Italians.
The rest do not particularly impress.
In future, dear Europe, please keep your people.
But send us your beer and whisky.
They're rather good.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The term gentlemen, in this case, is mis-applied.
They were complete bounders.
Boys, no matter your overcharged hormones and flawed education, can you at least act civilized? Yes, I know most of the young men on the other side of the Atlantic are sexually twisted and completely dysfunctional, besides generally thinking of women as things to be used, abused, and discarded, but can you please try to remember that you are in San Francisco?
This isn't Europe.
Really, a modicum of gallantry is not so hard. Talking about your favourite depravities with your Euro-trash buddies will not create a good impression. Certainly not if your common tongue is English, and we have to listen in.
Everything you so blithely shared with everyone who could not tune you out indicated that Fins and Spaniards might well be irredeemably vile.
What I had to hear proved you scum; you aren't fit for civilized society.
You have no manners, no morals, and not a shred of decency.
Do your wives and mothers know how evil you are?
How about the company that employs you?
I really wish European companies would think about the people they send over here to represent them at conventions and trade shows. We already have a fairly low opinion about not particularly hygienic snobs from Neanderthalia; sending us more despicable excuses for humanity will not improve matters.
I may have on this blog occasionally spoken ill of the French. And for that my apologies are in order. So far the ONLY old-worlders who have NOT shown themselves unmitigated human sewage are the French and Italians.
The rest do not particularly impress.
In future, dear Europe, please keep your people.
But send us your beer and whisky.
They're rather good.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
A SUITABLE PIPE TOBACCO FOR A WOMAN
Back in the seventies many manufacturers started producing tobacco mixtures with what can only be described as whore-house scents.
At that time it was virtually unthinkable that a well-bred woman would smoke a pipe in public, and such people were clearly not the intended audience for these noxious concoctions.
Their dissolute older brothers were.
There is something very unnatural about a cavendish that reeks of strawberries and coconut. It's Frankenleaf.
Unsurprisingly, such things appealed to men of questionable tastes.
As well as highly individualistic clothing choices.
Back then such people did not have tattoos or piercings, and the poor dears had to express themselves in a different vulgar fashion.
One of the selling points of these perfumed monstrosities was that they would not offend the gentler sex. It is more than likely that they offended so well that the anti-smoking movement was given a boost beyond all reason.
Even pipe-smokers like this blogger were almighty upset.
For years, whenever I smelled burnt cherries or chocolate vanilla and boiled nicotine exudate bubbling in the unclean brier of some macho degenerate half a block away, I was outraged, and resolved to give the hairy savage a piece of my mind. Of course my youthful indignation was tempered by the realization that it is useless to lecture such people, as it only makes them more convinced of their own irresistible sex appeal. They will puff up, and think to themselves "dang I must be studly....... because of this wonderful aroma of tropical fruits and nuts!"
It was usually a balding dweeb with a beer gut.
Pathetic, but let the man be.
He's got issues.
Idiot.
If a man shouldn't smoke crap, then a woman should not either.
A WOODSY SORT OF SMELL
In the early eighties I knew a woman whose taste in pipes and tobacco was beyond compare. One of her prizes was a Sasieni sandblast that made men swivel their heads when she entered the room. To my knowledge, she never ever smoked an aromatic therein, solamente full Latakia mixtures (Drucquer & Sons Blend 805 -- now no longer made). The fragrance was heady and sensual, and added more to her attraction than she could possible realize.
Because of her, all over Berkeley there are middle-aged men who still associate the smell of certain tobaccos with likable lovable women. Especially bespectacled brainiacs with a ready wit and impeccable taste.
She didn't drink, by the way. That wasn't her thing.
Good books, fine pipes, excellent tobaccos.
Absolutely ladylike. Well-bred.
Nice women should smoke nice tobacco. Leave the questionable fruity stuff for questionably fruity boys.
Go for smoky Latakia blends and good pressed Virginias. Perhaps something full and dark, or a robust British flake. Even a Burley mixture for solitude, and also if you have a fondness for corncobs.
In fact, there is nothing wrong with a corncob; properly cared-for these will last for years and yield an excellent smoke, especially if you stuff air-cured leaves in them. Burley and a cob are miraculous.
But under most circumstances, the well-bred young lady should probably tend toward fine tinned tobacco with a noticeable Latakia content, up to nearly half of the mixture. These inspire thoughtfulness and vibrancy, and abundantly reward the woman of good taste. Nothing adds to a good book as much as a nice long smoke, quietly by oneself, while any relatives or roommates who lack understanding are off gallivanting about elsewhere.
If you were to have a spot of sherry or a cup of oolong tea while thus engaged, that would be excellent too.
Looking around my own rather crowded living quarters, I can spot several tobaccos that would be utterly perfect.
Wilderness, Legends, Three Oaks - made by McClelland.
These are well-balanced full Latakia mixtures.
Over two hundred tins of G.L.Pease tobaccos, mostly somewhere in the Oriental spectrum, ranging from mild Latakia and Turkish content all the way up to Westminster, which is a lovely full mixture with a profoundly old-fashioned character, splendid with a strong cuppa.
Samuel Gawith and Germains are well-represented - again, full Orientals, additionally various lovely Virginia compounds.
A three year supply of Rattrays, mostly the Virginias, but also Accountants, Black Mallory, and Red Rapparee.
Several boxes filled with tins by Cornell & Diehl in Morganton; full Latakia, exotics, and Burley blends.
More boxes, containing various Dunhill tobaccos, nicely matured.
And of course numerous jars with my own blending experiments, the majority of which range from 20% Latakia to 42.5 percent. Given that I do not have access to the range of raw leaf that commercial blenders can command, I seldom go beyond the low forty range in my Oriental mixes.
My best blends are around one third Latakia or slightly more, and one of which I'm particularly fond is only in the low twenties. In all cases I rely on a good solid Virginia flake to give spirit to the blend; that is key.
After you've had one or two bowls, and before your housemates come home, air the place out a bit, and wash your face. If necessary, fry up some bacon to confuse their sense of smell.
Yes, you will still have an echo of a dark perfume.
But it will be mysterious and alluring.
Quite complimentary.
Enchanting.
A few good pipes, a selection of tobaccos, a favourite tea-cup, and a private place to smoke. That, and a book you cannot put down. Can you imagine anything nicer?
If your room overlooks a garden, open the window one summer evening and enjoy a bowl of flake in the twilight. It will be magical.
AFTER THOUGHT
Of course it is not a good idea to drink tea late at night, and while sherry or singlemalt are nice, you might not have them on hand.
And perhaps you do not drink alcohol.
In that case, I recommend a glass filled with equal measures of ginger ale and cold water, pepped-up with a squeeze of lime. The slight sweetness and the acid will prevent dry-mouth or minor discomfort on the tongue, and will also help bring out the flavours of the tobacco.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
At that time it was virtually unthinkable that a well-bred woman would smoke a pipe in public, and such people were clearly not the intended audience for these noxious concoctions.
Their dissolute older brothers were.
There is something very unnatural about a cavendish that reeks of strawberries and coconut. It's Frankenleaf.
Unsurprisingly, such things appealed to men of questionable tastes.
As well as highly individualistic clothing choices.
Back then such people did not have tattoos or piercings, and the poor dears had to express themselves in a different vulgar fashion.
One of the selling points of these perfumed monstrosities was that they would not offend the gentler sex. It is more than likely that they offended so well that the anti-smoking movement was given a boost beyond all reason.
Even pipe-smokers like this blogger were almighty upset.
For years, whenever I smelled burnt cherries or chocolate vanilla and boiled nicotine exudate bubbling in the unclean brier of some macho degenerate half a block away, I was outraged, and resolved to give the hairy savage a piece of my mind. Of course my youthful indignation was tempered by the realization that it is useless to lecture such people, as it only makes them more convinced of their own irresistible sex appeal. They will puff up, and think to themselves "dang I must be studly....... because of this wonderful aroma of tropical fruits and nuts!"
It was usually a balding dweeb with a beer gut.
Pathetic, but let the man be.
He's got issues.
Idiot.
If a man shouldn't smoke crap, then a woman should not either.
A WOODSY SORT OF SMELL
In the early eighties I knew a woman whose taste in pipes and tobacco was beyond compare. One of her prizes was a Sasieni sandblast that made men swivel their heads when she entered the room. To my knowledge, she never ever smoked an aromatic therein, solamente full Latakia mixtures (Drucquer & Sons Blend 805 -- now no longer made). The fragrance was heady and sensual, and added more to her attraction than she could possible realize.
Because of her, all over Berkeley there are middle-aged men who still associate the smell of certain tobaccos with likable lovable women. Especially bespectacled brainiacs with a ready wit and impeccable taste.
She didn't drink, by the way. That wasn't her thing.
Good books, fine pipes, excellent tobaccos.
Absolutely ladylike. Well-bred.
Nice women should smoke nice tobacco. Leave the questionable fruity stuff for questionably fruity boys.
Go for smoky Latakia blends and good pressed Virginias. Perhaps something full and dark, or a robust British flake. Even a Burley mixture for solitude, and also if you have a fondness for corncobs.
In fact, there is nothing wrong with a corncob; properly cared-for these will last for years and yield an excellent smoke, especially if you stuff air-cured leaves in them. Burley and a cob are miraculous.
But under most circumstances, the well-bred young lady should probably tend toward fine tinned tobacco with a noticeable Latakia content, up to nearly half of the mixture. These inspire thoughtfulness and vibrancy, and abundantly reward the woman of good taste. Nothing adds to a good book as much as a nice long smoke, quietly by oneself, while any relatives or roommates who lack understanding are off gallivanting about elsewhere.
If you were to have a spot of sherry or a cup of oolong tea while thus engaged, that would be excellent too.
Looking around my own rather crowded living quarters, I can spot several tobaccos that would be utterly perfect.
Wilderness, Legends, Three Oaks - made by McClelland.
These are well-balanced full Latakia mixtures.
Over two hundred tins of G.L.Pease tobaccos, mostly somewhere in the Oriental spectrum, ranging from mild Latakia and Turkish content all the way up to Westminster, which is a lovely full mixture with a profoundly old-fashioned character, splendid with a strong cuppa.
Samuel Gawith and Germains are well-represented - again, full Orientals, additionally various lovely Virginia compounds.
A three year supply of Rattrays, mostly the Virginias, but also Accountants, Black Mallory, and Red Rapparee.
Several boxes filled with tins by Cornell & Diehl in Morganton; full Latakia, exotics, and Burley blends.
More boxes, containing various Dunhill tobaccos, nicely matured.
And of course numerous jars with my own blending experiments, the majority of which range from 20% Latakia to 42.5 percent. Given that I do not have access to the range of raw leaf that commercial blenders can command, I seldom go beyond the low forty range in my Oriental mixes.
My best blends are around one third Latakia or slightly more, and one of which I'm particularly fond is only in the low twenties. In all cases I rely on a good solid Virginia flake to give spirit to the blend; that is key.
After you've had one or two bowls, and before your housemates come home, air the place out a bit, and wash your face. If necessary, fry up some bacon to confuse their sense of smell.
Yes, you will still have an echo of a dark perfume.
But it will be mysterious and alluring.
Quite complimentary.
Enchanting.
A few good pipes, a selection of tobaccos, a favourite tea-cup, and a private place to smoke. That, and a book you cannot put down. Can you imagine anything nicer?
If your room overlooks a garden, open the window one summer evening and enjoy a bowl of flake in the twilight. It will be magical.
AFTER THOUGHT
Of course it is not a good idea to drink tea late at night, and while sherry or singlemalt are nice, you might not have them on hand.
And perhaps you do not drink alcohol.
In that case, I recommend a glass filled with equal measures of ginger ale and cold water, pepped-up with a squeeze of lime. The slight sweetness and the acid will prevent dry-mouth or minor discomfort on the tongue, and will also help bring out the flavours of the tobacco.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
STEAMED CUSTARD BUNS
I am the cream-filled bun of your dreams, I am just about packed with goodness. Meaning that I am up to sixty percent water, and the brain is in the vicinity of seventy percent -- a very moist organ -- though if you are female, you have less moisture than I do. Compared to men, women are a bit dry. Feel free to look it up. And no, I shall not tell you what berserk internet search yielded these facts.
That will just have to remain a mystery to intrigue you.
On the same day I found this out, someone else searched the internet looking for "dimsum cream bun name". Which brought them directly to me.
Specifically, this post: DIM SUM.
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2012/03/dim-sum-kinds-names-pronunciation.html.]
CREAM BUNS
What bun were they looking for?
Probably the 奶皇飽 (naai wong bau): steamed custard bun.
But that isn't the only item you might find at a tea house which contains rich dairy filling, there are also these:
奶黃馬拉卷 (naai wong maa laai kuen): steamed custard rolled cake.
菠蘿奶王飽 (po lo naai wong bau): custard pineapple bun.
朱古力瑞士卷 (chyu gu lik sui si kuen): Chocolate Swiss roll made with chocolate in the dough and a whipped cream filling.
瑞士卷 (sui si kuen): Swiss roll; sheet cake spread with cream and jam, rolled up, and cut in circular slices.
奶皇飽
About the best steamed custard buns one can say this: "譁，咁非凡啦，蛋黃味同奶味配搭剛剛好，又香又滑啊，真想食幾個㗎啦喎！"
'Wow, this is exceptional! The custard is just perfect, fragrant and smooth;
I really wanna scarf down several of these!'
[Wah, gam fei-faan laa, daan-wong mei tong naai mei puidaap gong-gong hou, yau heung yau gwat ah, jan seung sik gei go ge-le-woh!]
There are superlatives in that sentence.
For the other items listed, you will often find that 蛋黃味與奶味 are also 配搭剛剛好. But more than likely, they will be encountered in a Chinatown bakery, rather than a regular tea house.
In my own personal case, the daan-wong (蛋黃 egg-yolk) and naai-mei (奶味 cream-taste) are not nearly so well balanced. Probably too great a water content (水含量太高了 seui haam-leung taai gou le).
Rich in both protein and calories, though.
Likely somewhat imperfect.
Not superlative.
唔係非凡。
眞嘅。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
On the same day I found this out, someone else searched the internet looking for "dimsum cream bun name". Which brought them directly to me.
Specifically, this post: DIM SUM.
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2012/03/dim-sum-kinds-names-pronunciation.html.]
CREAM BUNS
What bun were they looking for?
Probably the 奶皇飽 (naai wong bau): steamed custard bun.
But that isn't the only item you might find at a tea house which contains rich dairy filling, there are also these:
奶黃馬拉卷 (naai wong maa laai kuen): steamed custard rolled cake.
菠蘿奶王飽 (po lo naai wong bau): custard pineapple bun.
朱古力瑞士卷 (chyu gu lik sui si kuen): Chocolate Swiss roll made with chocolate in the dough and a whipped cream filling.
瑞士卷 (sui si kuen): Swiss roll; sheet cake spread with cream and jam, rolled up, and cut in circular slices.
奶皇飽
About the best steamed custard buns one can say this: "譁，咁非凡啦，蛋黃味同奶味配搭剛剛好，又香又滑啊，真想食幾個㗎啦喎！"
'Wow, this is exceptional! The custard is just perfect, fragrant and smooth;
I really wanna scarf down several of these!'
[Wah, gam fei-faan laa, daan-wong mei tong naai mei puidaap gong-gong hou, yau heung yau gwat ah, jan seung sik gei go ge-le-woh!]
There are superlatives in that sentence.
For the other items listed, you will often find that 蛋黃味與奶味 are also 配搭剛剛好. But more than likely, they will be encountered in a Chinatown bakery, rather than a regular tea house.
In my own personal case, the daan-wong (蛋黃 egg-yolk) and naai-mei (奶味 cream-taste) are not nearly so well balanced. Probably too great a water content (水含量太高了 seui haam-leung taai gou le).
Rich in both protein and calories, though.
Likely somewhat imperfect.
Not superlative.
唔係非凡。
眞嘅。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 05, 2013
DREAMING OF NOODLE SOUP
Returnees from abroad often describe their trip in glowing terms. Oddly, few if any ever mention the food in any great detail, it's always the atmosphere, the sights, the shopping experience, and this fabulous little hotel near the museum or the park, or somewhere in the old part of town.
Yes, food afficionadoes will note what they ate and why they liked it; but this is seldom simple appreciation for a good bite to eat, usually it's a neurotic analysis of presentation, ingredients, technique, and the colourful native ambiance.
What I want to hear is how fatty the roast pork was, and was it indeed totally scrumptious? Did it make you cast aside your inhibitions and rub it all over your face? Does your beard STILL smell like charsiu?
If you can describe how the hint of star-anise and licorice root, combined with the savoury quality and sheer toothsomeness, over a layer of chewy noodles, gave you a mental orgasm and made you order five more portions just so the moment would never end, I would probably demand that you continue talking for another hour and let us go get a bite to eat right now I know a fabulous place that does baked empanadas to die for that's really close by.
Would you care for another cocktail?
Nothing quite beats an intelligent women with a keen mind for food talking about what she recently ate. There's the half-closing of her eyes as on her mind's tongue she tastes it again, that relaxed semi-smile as she dreamily remembers the wonderful time she had with that cracked ginger crab, a slight parting of moistened lips as all the flavours surge back, and a hoarse low-voiced purr when her taste buds tingle with revived memories.
Quickened breath, sparkling eyes, glowing face.
Fresh eel, steamed black bean clams, grilled frog. Delicious duck, with a hint of smoke. Oyster sauce kailan, mussels, and shrimp.
It takes years to sharpen that sensitivity, often into maturity. But everyone looks so much younger while so engaged.
Magic.
Last night I dreamed of noodle soup. A big bowl of seafood broth, clear but rich, with large chunks of fish barely poached therein. The addition of turmeric and spices to the stock provided a perfect foil, fresh greens gave a beautiful contrast and added sweetness, and the merest spoonful of chilipaste floated into the surface of the soup rounded out the taste.
Broad rice-stick noodles.
Naturally I woke up in a sweat. It was the tropical environment.
No, not where I am now, but where I was while dreaming.
Some place with ninety degree weather.
A jade-green country.
I should have soup. Sometime soon.
Don't know where right now.
But it will be good.
Crisp green chilies. Fresh cilantro. Wedge of lime.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, food afficionadoes will note what they ate and why they liked it; but this is seldom simple appreciation for a good bite to eat, usually it's a neurotic analysis of presentation, ingredients, technique, and the colourful native ambiance.
What I want to hear is how fatty the roast pork was, and was it indeed totally scrumptious? Did it make you cast aside your inhibitions and rub it all over your face? Does your beard STILL smell like charsiu?
If you can describe how the hint of star-anise and licorice root, combined with the savoury quality and sheer toothsomeness, over a layer of chewy noodles, gave you a mental orgasm and made you order five more portions just so the moment would never end, I would probably demand that you continue talking for another hour and let us go get a bite to eat right now I know a fabulous place that does baked empanadas to die for that's really close by.
Would you care for another cocktail?
Nothing quite beats an intelligent women with a keen mind for food talking about what she recently ate. There's the half-closing of her eyes as on her mind's tongue she tastes it again, that relaxed semi-smile as she dreamily remembers the wonderful time she had with that cracked ginger crab, a slight parting of moistened lips as all the flavours surge back, and a hoarse low-voiced purr when her taste buds tingle with revived memories.
Quickened breath, sparkling eyes, glowing face.
Fresh eel, steamed black bean clams, grilled frog. Delicious duck, with a hint of smoke. Oyster sauce kailan, mussels, and shrimp.
It takes years to sharpen that sensitivity, often into maturity. But everyone looks so much younger while so engaged.
Magic.
Last night I dreamed of noodle soup. A big bowl of seafood broth, clear but rich, with large chunks of fish barely poached therein. The addition of turmeric and spices to the stock provided a perfect foil, fresh greens gave a beautiful contrast and added sweetness, and the merest spoonful of chilipaste floated into the surface of the soup rounded out the taste.
Broad rice-stick noodles.
Naturally I woke up in a sweat. It was the tropical environment.
No, not where I am now, but where I was while dreaming.
Some place with ninety degree weather.
A jade-green country.
I should have soup. Sometime soon.
Don't know where right now.
But it will be good.
Crisp green chilies. Fresh cilantro. Wedge of lime.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 04, 2013
BATHING SUIT BODY
Chivalry is not dead in San Francisco. Recently a fresh-faced young adult tried to offer me his seat. AND he called me sir. After being startled, I demurred and thanked him for the offer. I shall now insist, for the record, that I do not look old. Just a little older. Yes, there is salt and pepper in my beard.
But I am far younger than Sean Connery, and a hell of a lot trimmer.
Repeat: not old. Not at all. And certainly not yet.
I'm barely past my juvenile delinquence.
I think of it as sprightly mature.
Still young, quite vigorous.
But no longer stupid.
Feel free to agree!
I suspect that factors contributing to the perception of 'old' are that I dress properly, and have no tattoos. That is rather 'old school'. In my day, by the way, we did not refer to that as 'old school'. I'm trying to show how hip I am by consciously using a locution from the teenage subculture. Hella yes.
No piercings either. Positively retro.
Still, rather sweet of that young fellow to be so gallant.
But I'm far too used to standing on the bus to avail myself of that opportunity. Possibly because the bus line I use most often has so many passengers much more deserving of a seat that it would be ungentlemanly of me to plonk my carcass down. That's something that the folks commuting from the avenues to jobs in the financial district do.
This blogger is far too healthy and fit for that. Ancient folks, and young mothers with infants, should sit. Pregnant ladies should sit. Young ladies with book-filled backpacks should sit.
I've still got a bathing suit body.
I shall stand.
*bathing suit body: please imagine one of those one-piece striped jobs that Edwardian sportive types wore in illustrations by Ogdred Weary or Eduard Blutig. Precisely so. But minus the obligatory handle-bar mustache.
Sort of the slightly reprobate country curate.
Un émeutier avec une odeur de tabac.
Alors, où est mon vélocipède?
Y at-il une boîte-sordide à proximité?
I'm only fifty three, in case you were wondering.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But I am far younger than Sean Connery, and a hell of a lot trimmer.
Repeat: not old. Not at all. And certainly not yet.
I'm barely past my juvenile delinquence.
I think of it as sprightly mature.
Still young, quite vigorous.
But no longer stupid.
Feel free to agree!
I suspect that factors contributing to the perception of 'old' are that I dress properly, and have no tattoos. That is rather 'old school'. In my day, by the way, we did not refer to that as 'old school'. I'm trying to show how hip I am by consciously using a locution from the teenage subculture. Hella yes.
No piercings either. Positively retro.
Still, rather sweet of that young fellow to be so gallant.
But I'm far too used to standing on the bus to avail myself of that opportunity. Possibly because the bus line I use most often has so many passengers much more deserving of a seat that it would be ungentlemanly of me to plonk my carcass down. That's something that the folks commuting from the avenues to jobs in the financial district do.
This blogger is far too healthy and fit for that. Ancient folks, and young mothers with infants, should sit. Pregnant ladies should sit. Young ladies with book-filled backpacks should sit.
I've still got a bathing suit body.
I shall stand.
*bathing suit body: please imagine one of those one-piece striped jobs that Edwardian sportive types wore in illustrations by Ogdred Weary or Eduard Blutig. Precisely so. But minus the obligatory handle-bar mustache.
Sort of the slightly reprobate country curate.
Un émeutier avec une odeur de tabac.
Alors, où est mon vélocipède?
Y at-il une boîte-sordide à proximité?
I'm only fifty three, in case you were wondering.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 03, 2013
WAITING FOR THE WEASELS
The cigarette nearly burned his fingers. He had dozed off, and the Camel had smoldered down almost to the filter. He tossed it in a puddle and lit another. Have to stay awake, have to stay awake!
The deep portico of the abandoned church was perfect; no one would see him in the shadows, and only the bums would resent his being there. He knew they wanted to sleep, but he had a job to do. They would just have to wait.
A horde of shadowy figures carrying cardboard and old rugs lurked under the nearby trees. They could smell a cop from a mile off. If it had just been another civilian, they would no doubt have rushed him, stifling his screams with their filthy pillows and smelly blankets, then ripped him apart and feasted. Before settling in for the night.
But officers of the peace are dangerous.
And he probably wasn't alone.
He wasn't alone.
Around the corner, quietly and patiently, his colleagues waited. If the sting went as planned they would all be eating donuts before dawn.
A shot rang out.
Dang, stuff was happening. The three men erupted out of the unmarked van simultaneously, and raced up the street swearing. Their service pistols were drawn. There were more shots, and they could hear someone moaning.
When they got to the church it was all over.
Stanko still had the second cigarette in his mouth.
A long ash drooped, about to fall.
He looked twitchy.
"We should've known they'd be packing."
Fifteen wounded weasels. And two small furry corpses.
The gang had planned to rendezvous at their hideout in the basement of the church, entering through the hole in the door. Yes, they were fully armed.
And when they found the cop waiting for them, instead of the cannibalistic street-urchins that normally guarded the place, they intended to kill him.
It is quite unfortunate that hunting rifles are rather cumbersome, and require considerably more manual dexterity than small wildlife is capable of.
As well as opposable thumbs.
It wasn't the massacre they intended.
With the elimination of this gang of feral miscreants -- the survivors were sent to jail for several years -- the threat to the city's pigeon population decreased. The police knew that tax-paying citizens needed protection. And the pigeons had complained to city hall about so many of their number being eaten; do something! Apprehend the carnivorous vermin!
Pigeons were an important voting-bloc.
Smelly, but influential.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The deep portico of the abandoned church was perfect; no one would see him in the shadows, and only the bums would resent his being there. He knew they wanted to sleep, but he had a job to do. They would just have to wait.
A horde of shadowy figures carrying cardboard and old rugs lurked under the nearby trees. They could smell a cop from a mile off. If it had just been another civilian, they would no doubt have rushed him, stifling his screams with their filthy pillows and smelly blankets, then ripped him apart and feasted. Before settling in for the night.
But officers of the peace are dangerous.
And he probably wasn't alone.
He wasn't alone.
Around the corner, quietly and patiently, his colleagues waited. If the sting went as planned they would all be eating donuts before dawn.
A shot rang out.
Dang, stuff was happening. The three men erupted out of the unmarked van simultaneously, and raced up the street swearing. Their service pistols were drawn. There were more shots, and they could hear someone moaning.
When they got to the church it was all over.
Stanko still had the second cigarette in his mouth.
A long ash drooped, about to fall.
He looked twitchy.
"We should've known they'd be packing."
Fifteen wounded weasels. And two small furry corpses.
The gang had planned to rendezvous at their hideout in the basement of the church, entering through the hole in the door. Yes, they were fully armed.
And when they found the cop waiting for them, instead of the cannibalistic street-urchins that normally guarded the place, they intended to kill him.
It is quite unfortunate that hunting rifles are rather cumbersome, and require considerably more manual dexterity than small wildlife is capable of.
As well as opposable thumbs.
It wasn't the massacre they intended.
With the elimination of this gang of feral miscreants -- the survivors were sent to jail for several years -- the threat to the city's pigeon population decreased. The police knew that tax-paying citizens needed protection. And the pigeons had complained to city hall about so many of their number being eaten; do something! Apprehend the carnivorous vermin!
Pigeons were an important voting-bloc.
Smelly, but influential.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I'M FULL OF BEANS!
This blogger invites individuals with a lively streak of eccentricity and a keen appreciation for stuffed animals to establish contact. If they might also have a fondness for middle-aged gits who reek subtly of pipe-tobacco, and often drink tea, so much the better.
Deposit your witty communiqués in my letterbox .
Thank you.
Egg roll cookies. I have egg roll cookies!
Badgers: nature's perfect gentlemen.
Deposit your witty communiqués in my letterbox .
Thank you.
Egg roll cookies. I have egg roll cookies!
Badgers: nature's perfect gentlemen.
Saturday, March 02, 2013
THIS SHOP DOES NOT RECEIVE THE JAPANESE, THE PHILIPPINES, THE VIETNAMESE OR DOG
Mr. Wang in Peking put a sign in the window of his restaurant kindly informing passers-by of his standards, which caused an uproar. He has since then taken it down voluntarily, as he says because of all the fuss.
The sign read: 本店不接待日本人，菲律宾人，越南人，和狗。
The meaning was that he would not serve people from Japan, the Philippines, or Vietnam. And NO dogs, please.
His reason for this action was continuing ire at those three nations for opposing China's attempt to claim a bunch of small islands that China seems to believe belongs to them.
I shall not judge the territorial dispute, but I wonder if it is wise to cause culinary incidents.
[Pronunciation of 本店不接待日本人，菲律宾人，越南人，和狗 in Cantonese:
"pun dim pat jip-doi Jatpun yan, Feilutpan yan, Yuetnaam yan, wo gau".
Clearly mr. Wang only knows the Mandarin idiom (北方話), as this is not quite how a civilized person would write it; it isn't in Cantonese.]
Mr. Wang did have a valid point, though. And no, it was not discriminatory, merely a principled but unclearly reasoned socio-political stand. He probably couldn't guarantee that he or his staff and clientele would not suddenly and savagely attack the honourable smelly foreign visitors with cleavers if they showed themselves, far better to warn them away in the first place.
Maybe the waitresses would burst into tears if faced with someone speaking weird gibberish from Japan, the Philippines, or Vietnam, then dump gasoline over them, followed by setting them on fire and spitting at their burning corpses.
Perhaps some of his regular patrons are jingoist axe murderers.
It is even possible that staff from the Ministry For Accepting Humble Tribute From Savage Nations regularly dined at his fine establishment, and would be outraged if they had to eat in the offensive presence of tattooed barbarians gobbling their food and scratching their pits.
As who wouldn't; it's nasty.
I sympathise completely.
The Japanese discriminate against everyone, but especially against foreigners. Previously, their involvement with the rest of Asia caused profound regret.
Philippinos easily devolve into bloodthirsty criminals, and pretty much hate the Chinese and the entire civilized world.
Vietnam mistreated the Chinese minority so frightfully in the seventies and eighties that they fled in droves; their overloaded boats fell prey to the Thai, who robbed them, raped the women and children, and then often slit every one's throats and sank the vessels.
[Those Siamese, it is well to remember, have a stellar reputation and are admired and respected by their neighbors in South East Asia. They are so cultured and refined!
Even all the snooty Europeans think so. They forgot about the boat people.]
The amount of fury the sign generated among English-reading Philippinos would have been amusing, were it not for the extraordinarily venomous tone, the blatant and disgusting racism they exhibited in response, their unacceptably foul language, and the spelling errors. Talaga.
Rather a pity the inhabitants of that place ever learned English.
Oh well, they still want to marry Americans.
And grow up using ketchup.
Passionately.
I rather wish someone had spoken up for the dogs, though. There is no reason whatsoever to keep dogs out of restaurants.
Dogs have good taste.
AFTER THOUGHT
Why are there even any Japanese, Philippinos, and Vietnamese in Peking? The food is not particularly good, the air-pollution is horrifying, and the eccentric locals speak a strangely unintelligible language.
Far better to visit Hong Kong, where one can dine exceptionally well, the natives are full of beans, and nearly everyone speaks Cantonese.
Also, unlike the far north, people don't spit everywhere.
You can even get sushi in Hong Kong.
For your dog.
本店不接待日本人，菲律宾人，越南人，和狗。
The restaurant in question, 百年鹵煮 (century brined foods), is an eatery in Hou Hai district (后海區) that serves Peking-style barbecue and prepared meats (京式滷味). The proprietor, mr. Wang (王先生) hails from Pudding City (保定市) in Hebei province (河北), where they have probably never seen any Japanese, Philippinos, or Vietnamese. They do have dogs there.
But they almost certainly lack Hong Kong food of any kind.
PS: 菲律賓人在網際網路上的卑鄙評論讀過了之後，這裏的博客寫手也不想接待菲律賓人。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The sign read: 本店不接待日本人，菲律宾人，越南人，和狗。
The meaning was that he would not serve people from Japan, the Philippines, or Vietnam. And NO dogs, please.
His reason for this action was continuing ire at those three nations for opposing China's attempt to claim a bunch of small islands that China seems to believe belongs to them.
I shall not judge the territorial dispute, but I wonder if it is wise to cause culinary incidents.
[Pronunciation of 本店不接待日本人，菲律宾人，越南人，和狗 in Cantonese:
"pun dim pat jip-doi Jatpun yan, Feilutpan yan, Yuetnaam yan, wo gau".
Clearly mr. Wang only knows the Mandarin idiom (北方話), as this is not quite how a civilized person would write it; it isn't in Cantonese.]
Mr. Wang did have a valid point, though. And no, it was not discriminatory, merely a principled but unclearly reasoned socio-political stand. He probably couldn't guarantee that he or his staff and clientele would not suddenly and savagely attack the honourable smelly foreign visitors with cleavers if they showed themselves, far better to warn them away in the first place.
Maybe the waitresses would burst into tears if faced with someone speaking weird gibberish from Japan, the Philippines, or Vietnam, then dump gasoline over them, followed by setting them on fire and spitting at their burning corpses.
Perhaps some of his regular patrons are jingoist axe murderers.
It is even possible that staff from the Ministry For Accepting Humble Tribute From Savage Nations regularly dined at his fine establishment, and would be outraged if they had to eat in the offensive presence of tattooed barbarians gobbling their food and scratching their pits.
As who wouldn't; it's nasty.
I sympathise completely.
The Japanese discriminate against everyone, but especially against foreigners. Previously, their involvement with the rest of Asia caused profound regret.
Philippinos easily devolve into bloodthirsty criminals, and pretty much hate the Chinese and the entire civilized world.
Vietnam mistreated the Chinese minority so frightfully in the seventies and eighties that they fled in droves; their overloaded boats fell prey to the Thai, who robbed them, raped the women and children, and then often slit every one's throats and sank the vessels.
[Those Siamese, it is well to remember, have a stellar reputation and are admired and respected by their neighbors in South East Asia. They are so cultured and refined!
Even all the snooty Europeans think so. They forgot about the boat people.]
The amount of fury the sign generated among English-reading Philippinos would have been amusing, were it not for the extraordinarily venomous tone, the blatant and disgusting racism they exhibited in response, their unacceptably foul language, and the spelling errors. Talaga.
Rather a pity the inhabitants of that place ever learned English.
Oh well, they still want to marry Americans.
And grow up using ketchup.
Passionately.
I rather wish someone had spoken up for the dogs, though. There is no reason whatsoever to keep dogs out of restaurants.
Dogs have good taste.
AFTER THOUGHT
Why are there even any Japanese, Philippinos, and Vietnamese in Peking? The food is not particularly good, the air-pollution is horrifying, and the eccentric locals speak a strangely unintelligible language.
Far better to visit Hong Kong, where one can dine exceptionally well, the natives are full of beans, and nearly everyone speaks Cantonese.
Also, unlike the far north, people don't spit everywhere.
You can even get sushi in Hong Kong.
For your dog.
本店不接待日本人，菲律宾人，越南人，和狗。
The restaurant in question, 百年鹵煮 (century brined foods), is an eatery in Hou Hai district (后海區) that serves Peking-style barbecue and prepared meats (京式滷味). The proprietor, mr. Wang (王先生) hails from Pudding City (保定市) in Hebei province (河北), where they have probably never seen any Japanese, Philippinos, or Vietnamese. They do have dogs there.
But they almost certainly lack Hong Kong food of any kind.
PS: 菲律賓人在網際網路上的卑鄙評論讀過了之後，這裏的博客寫手也不想接待菲律賓人。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 01, 2013
WET IN THE HEAD
The rainy season has not been particularly wet this year. A cause for sadness, perhaps. Nothing beats being comfortably indoors while heavy rain lashes the pavement outside, sending up tall spetters and rushing torrents towards the storm-drains. At times like those I wish I lived in the front of the apartment building, so that I could look out at the street and enjoy the sheets of silver.
If this were a forest, small animals would scurry for cover, or shelter underneath large floppy leaves.
Woodsmoke would be discernible. Perhaps from my own hearth.
And all day might be tea-time.
Wet weather is perfect for smelly individuals such as myself. No one minds the fragrance of tobacco, when everything else reeks so much more powerfully.
A fully-packed office elevator, for instance, will carry the scent of soggy dog or sodden designer clothing (faint perfume of dry-cleaning fluid mixed with water and car-exhaust) for several hours after the morning rush.
Barely are the bureaucratic drone-folk dry again, or it is lunch time, when they must once more brave the downpour.
That, probably, accounts for many broken diets.
Everywhere is near a burger joint.
With that in mind, I recommend commandeering the office toaster. Not only is that device suited to crisping your bagel, it can also be used for thick slices of bread, darkened to golden crunchy, and slathered with butter. On top of which you could spread chunky marmalade, OR thin slivers of prosciutto. Even, if you did not work with a passel of picky office-ladies, some freshly mixed tuna salad. Which is why you should always have a can of Starkist at your desk, and a jar of bitter orange preserve in the fridge.
Plus butter. Office work depends on butter.
Years ago one of my co-workers kept his hot sauce in the office refrigerator. Which was not wise. Desperate members of the sales crew one day made off with it, to spend all of an inclement afternoon dousing their tortilla chips.
I doubt that anyone puts marmalade on crunchy snacks.
Except, perhaps, bachelors and college boys.
Toast. Marmalade. Butter.
It's a mantra.
Mentally, I am inside during a downpour right now. I have finished my pipe, and I am making myself some toast. All is well with the world.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
If this were a forest, small animals would scurry for cover, or shelter underneath large floppy leaves.
Woodsmoke would be discernible. Perhaps from my own hearth.
And all day might be tea-time.
Wet weather is perfect for smelly individuals such as myself. No one minds the fragrance of tobacco, when everything else reeks so much more powerfully.
A fully-packed office elevator, for instance, will carry the scent of soggy dog or sodden designer clothing (faint perfume of dry-cleaning fluid mixed with water and car-exhaust) for several hours after the morning rush.
Barely are the bureaucratic drone-folk dry again, or it is lunch time, when they must once more brave the downpour.
That, probably, accounts for many broken diets.
Everywhere is near a burger joint.
With that in mind, I recommend commandeering the office toaster. Not only is that device suited to crisping your bagel, it can also be used for thick slices of bread, darkened to golden crunchy, and slathered with butter. On top of which you could spread chunky marmalade, OR thin slivers of prosciutto. Even, if you did not work with a passel of picky office-ladies, some freshly mixed tuna salad. Which is why you should always have a can of Starkist at your desk, and a jar of bitter orange preserve in the fridge.
Plus butter. Office work depends on butter.
Years ago one of my co-workers kept his hot sauce in the office refrigerator. Which was not wise. Desperate members of the sales crew one day made off with it, to spend all of an inclement afternoon dousing their tortilla chips.
I doubt that anyone puts marmalade on crunchy snacks.
Except, perhaps, bachelors and college boys.
Toast. Marmalade. Butter.
It's a mantra.
Mentally, I am inside during a downpour right now. I have finished my pipe, and I am making myself some toast. All is well with the world.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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