For some reason I woke up thinking about lime marmalade. Several years ago I experimented with making it myself, eventually ending up with a two-day process of blanching and soaking the thinly sliced peel, and extracting whatever pectin was in the pith and flesh after reserving the juice.
I used more lime juice than the amount of limes zested would have yielded (squooze extra limes), and an amount of sugar equal to the amount of liquid after simmering pith, pulp, and juice, for two hours.
The two-day process makes the zest less bitter; unfortunately it will reduce the fragrance slightly also. The result was not so much a jam or jelly as it was a syrup-based compote.
Excellent, but not as easy as simply heading around the corner to the English store to stock-up on a nice British marmalade.
Coopers Thick Cut Oxford.
Among others.
Marmalade is a comfort food, amigo.
It's very lonely out in the desert.
If you don't have marmalade.
I'll also need to restock the cocoa. I cannot understand how, but we've run out entirely. We had five tins sitting on the top of the shared refrigerator at the beginning of the year, including the extra dark and something with a mysterious fragrance. No, to the best of my knowledge my apartment mate has NOT been organizing home-made chocolate syrup and nudity orgies with her boy-friend. Unless she's changed more over time than I realize.
Or understand.
Maybe Wheelie Boy has an obsession.
One of the problems with orgies that involve coating the other person with an edible substance is that the stuff gets into the strangest places. Another issue is that it interferes with your tactile senses and diminishes traction.
Moderation in all things, amigo.
Think it out first.
I have never grasped the full-body romantic treatment with cocoa and other sweet substances. It sounds like it would immensely detract, as well as distract, from the zesty naughtiness at hand. As well as leave an incredible mess, what with sticky torn tarpaulins and smears of crusty goo damned well everywhere. Plus it would attract ants.
Waking up the next day would be a bitch.
There you are, sleeping off your sugar jag, virtually glued to the other person, who is equally miserable -- nausea, stomach cramps, headache, physical aches and pains, stiff joints, and possibly bruises or contusions from the slip'n slide episode -- when you become aware of ants in your hair. Not just your head hair, which inexplicably got sodden with the Hershey's bitter, but also elsewhere. Yes, it tickles. Not what you are presently in the mood for, considering your traumatized state. Itchy itchy. Ants bite when irritated. You are naked and sticky.
And covered with ants.
That's problematic.
The tarp will have to be trashed. It looks a right mess.
Your love-interest also looks trashed.
What were you thinking?
Sticky nipples.
No, I have never experienced this first-hand. But I know people.
My idea of a lively good time with a person of the opposite gender and cocoa is fully clothed. Possibly involving pillows and a throw-rug.
Plus books, stuffed animals, and whipped cream.
No one wakes up with a sugar hangover.
Except, perhaps, the animals.
No self-restraint.
It also involves hot buttered toast.
And antique porcelain plates.
Hence the marmalade.
One positively cannot have an exciting love-life without marmalade.
Or any life at all, whether romantic or not.
It's quite unheard of.
But that's just my idea. I am open to suggestions.
Maybe apricot preserves?
Tell me.
If I ever get involved in a chocolate syrup episode, it will have to be in a hotel room. Pay cash, register under a fake name, and leave before they discover that we wrecked the suite.
Or a one-person event the next time I get dragooned into house-sitting.
Just me by myself with Hershey's and a bad attitude.
Plus dangerous "creativity".
The gift of a home-made marmalade says you care. It really is a sweet idea, and touching. Cocoa is useful and important, however it has no emotional baggage whatsoever. It is neutral.
Furthermore, it may be provided irrespective of relationship.
All households need a goodly supply of cocoa.
But one must also have marmalade.
Share it discretionarily.
If at all.
Unripe citrus fruit is best.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 21, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
IMMIGRANTS, JEWS, AND FAGS
Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead; in some cases, that would be giving them more attention than they warrant. That, of course, is the first reaction to news of the death of the reverend Fred W. Phelps Sr. in Kansas yesterday, aged eighty four years old.
For most of those years, the reverend was a hatefilled caricature of a creed whose already notorious hatreds made caricatures nearly impossible.
A BAPTIST TO MAKE OTHER BAPTISTS PROUD
The reverend Fred Phelps learned his theology at Bob Jones University, the Prairie Bible Institute, a junior college in Pasadena, and by attending various misguided and absurd revival meetings that catered to the simple people of the deep South, the Oklahoman diaspora, and the periphery of civilization.
While at "college", Phelps gained a fan base preaching against the promiscuity and public fornication of his fellow students.
Remarkably, he started dating while attending the Arizona Bible Institute, and ended up marrying the girl in May 1952.
Per Wikipedia: "In 1954, the East Side Baptist Church in Topeka hired Phelps as an associate pastor, and then promoted him to be the pastor of their new church, Westboro Baptist, which opened in 1955. Soon after Westboro was established, Phelps broke all ties with East Side Baptist."
That declaration of independence must have been a bit of a surprise for the growing East Side Baptists. Normally branch-offices don't go rogue, and Monty Python-like head into uncharted territory, slaughtering black knights, dodging cows, and insulting Frenchmen. Normally churches don't consist entirely of members of one family either, but given the limited genetic mobility in Kansas it probably isn't entirely unheard of.
Fred Phelps gained cult-status the old-fashioned way.
'Spiritual leader of Tea Party dies, no one cares.'
The reverend Fred Waldron Phelps was truly an American original. His unique views on God, theology, salvation, humility, and the certainty and inevitability of hell for all Catholics, Jews, and Homosexuals, as well as his conviction that universities and the military were veritable hotbeds of heresy and sodomy, endeared him to a multitude.
A multitude that normally remains out of sight.
The military is also sodden with shrimp.
God hates shrimp.
GOD'S ANGRY CARETAKERS
A few years ago members of his flock/family came to San Francisco to rile up the locals. It was a small delegation, including a serious looking woman, a mature man of some sort, and two girls with all the fresh-faced sexual allure of hippie chicks during the summer of love, all bright-eyed and pink-faced. Clear of skin and sound of limb.
Unspoiled little bigoted butterflies.
A breath of Kansas.
No one was killed during their two-day visit.
It was extremely educational. Oh boy.
We lament his passing.
Topeka.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A BAPTIST TO MAKE OTHER BAPTISTS PROUD
The reverend Fred Phelps learned his theology at Bob Jones University, the Prairie Bible Institute, a junior college in Pasadena, and by attending various misguided and absurd revival meetings that catered to the simple people of the deep South, the Oklahoman diaspora, and the periphery of civilization.
While at "college", Phelps gained a fan base preaching against the promiscuity and public fornication of his fellow students.
Remarkably, he started dating while attending the Arizona Bible Institute, and ended up marrying the girl in May 1952.
Per Wikipedia: "In 1954, the East Side Baptist Church in Topeka hired Phelps as an associate pastor, and then promoted him to be the pastor of their new church, Westboro Baptist, which opened in 1955. Soon after Westboro was established, Phelps broke all ties with East Side Baptist."
That declaration of independence must have been a bit of a surprise for the growing East Side Baptists. Normally branch-offices don't go rogue, and Monty Python-like head into uncharted territory, slaughtering black knights, dodging cows, and insulting Frenchmen. Normally churches don't consist entirely of members of one family either, but given the limited genetic mobility in Kansas it probably isn't entirely unheard of.
Fred Phelps gained cult-status the old-fashioned way.
'Spiritual leader of Tea Party dies, no one cares.'
The reverend Fred Waldron Phelps was truly an American original. His unique views on God, theology, salvation, humility, and the certainty and inevitability of hell for all Catholics, Jews, and Homosexuals, as well as his conviction that universities and the military were veritable hotbeds of heresy and sodomy, endeared him to a multitude.
A multitude that normally remains out of sight.
The military is also sodden with shrimp.
God hates shrimp.
GOD'S ANGRY CARETAKERS
A few years ago members of his flock/family came to San Francisco to rile up the locals. It was a small delegation, including a serious looking woman, a mature man of some sort, and two girls with all the fresh-faced sexual allure of hippie chicks during the summer of love, all bright-eyed and pink-faced. Clear of skin and sound of limb.
Unspoiled little bigoted butterflies.
A breath of Kansas.
No one was killed during their two-day visit.
It was extremely educational. Oh boy.
We lament his passing.
Topeka.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
THE COMING PURGE
Sometimes food is NOT the answer to all of life's problems. At least, not Mexican food. I had been feeling a bit unsatisfied -- the blahs, due to a lack of a love life, and the iffyness of the weather -- so I ordered something which consisted of corn tortillas rolled around shredded chicken and deep-fried. With Spanish rice on the side. And crunchy stuff, vegetables I'm fairly sure. And the inevitable shredded lettuce.
Traces of cheese. Plus chilies. And salsa verde.
And a fire-roasted hot chile salsa.
And more crunchy stuff.
Nah, this was not a good substitute for the blandishments of a vivacious young lady with sparkling eyes. Or, even better, a glowering bookish girl-person who wanted nothing more than to be left alone with Faulkner and some cigars.
More like the food equivalent of dating a shallow blonde from small-town California. Somehow I feel that some elements of the meal were too busy texting to pay attention to me.
And, in truth, my attention also wandered.
As food went, the only decent part, really, was the fire-roasted hot chile salsa. Not as piquant as they made it out to be, but possessed of a pleasing earthiness. There was a slight sootiness to the taste.
The horchata was too sweet and cinnamony. And, other than that, mildly displeasing.
The ambiance was not conducive, and far too many healthy types came in to order the veggie burrito or the black bean and salad greens tostada. An adult has no need to see shiny spandex or yoga pants while eating.
I can only imagine what the Saint Patrick's Day special was.
Probably green-dyed tofu.
There are two things that would have decisively improved my dining experience.
One: a nice young lady with a bit of temper to eat with...
Two: if it were somewhere else. Somewhere far better.
Obviously I would prefer the first option, but in all honesty I would take either.
The very best part of the meal -- other than the obvious, which was imagining horrible rest of their lives for the yoga-pantsed personages at other tables -- was leaving, and lighting up a cigar afterwards.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes it's better than imaginary sex. It depends on both your mood, and the cigar itself. I'll have to send my very clean compliments to the manufacturers (P. G. C. Hajenius, located on the Rokin at number 1012), who are within easy walking distance of the Centraal Station and several affordable hotels, but nowhere near a Mexican restaurant that seems to cater to spunkless wonders. That Corona with the Sumatra wrapper was exquisite.
Thank you very much, I had a great time.
Let's do it again.
If I stop thinking of romance, I may end up smoking more cigars.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Traces of cheese. Plus chilies. And salsa verde.
And a fire-roasted hot chile salsa.
And more crunchy stuff.
Nah, this was not a good substitute for the blandishments of a vivacious young lady with sparkling eyes. Or, even better, a glowering bookish girl-person who wanted nothing more than to be left alone with Faulkner and some cigars.
More like the food equivalent of dating a shallow blonde from small-town California. Somehow I feel that some elements of the meal were too busy texting to pay attention to me.
And, in truth, my attention also wandered.
As food went, the only decent part, really, was the fire-roasted hot chile salsa. Not as piquant as they made it out to be, but possessed of a pleasing earthiness. There was a slight sootiness to the taste.
The horchata was too sweet and cinnamony. And, other than that, mildly displeasing.
The ambiance was not conducive, and far too many healthy types came in to order the veggie burrito or the black bean and salad greens tostada. An adult has no need to see shiny spandex or yoga pants while eating.
I can only imagine what the Saint Patrick's Day special was.
Probably green-dyed tofu.
There are two things that would have decisively improved my dining experience.
One: a nice young lady with a bit of temper to eat with...
Two: if it were somewhere else. Somewhere far better.
Obviously I would prefer the first option, but in all honesty I would take either.
The very best part of the meal -- other than the obvious, which was imagining horrible rest of their lives for the yoga-pantsed personages at other tables -- was leaving, and lighting up a cigar afterwards.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes it's better than imaginary sex. It depends on both your mood, and the cigar itself. I'll have to send my very clean compliments to the manufacturers (P. G. C. Hajenius, located on the Rokin at number 1012), who are within easy walking distance of the Centraal Station and several affordable hotels, but nowhere near a Mexican restaurant that seems to cater to spunkless wonders. That Corona with the Sumatra wrapper was exquisite.
Thank you very much, I had a great time.
Let's do it again.
If I stop thinking of romance, I may end up smoking more cigars.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE ALIENS HAVE LANDED
The aliens have landed. And they ALL want Obama-care and your jobs. For proof, I offer this news-footage of the daemonic foreigners rioting in a major U.S. city.
THE LEEKS OF WRATH!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMp-Kgw5khw.]
You will kindly note that that is a certifiable foreign language which appears on-screen for the first six seconds, possibly from another galaxy, and obviously a subliminal message.
Most likely it says "all your base are belong to us".
All our base!!!!!
This is a warning for Americans. Someone should alert Newt Gingrich.
Or Glenn Beck, reported to be his spokesman.
You will be struck with space leeks.
And lose all your base.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE LEEKS OF WRATH!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMp-Kgw5khw.]
You will kindly note that that is a certifiable foreign language which appears on-screen for the first six seconds, possibly from another galaxy, and obviously a subliminal message.
Most likely it says "all your base are belong to us".
All our base!!!!!
This is a warning for Americans. Someone should alert Newt Gingrich.
Or Glenn Beck, reported to be his spokesman.
You will be struck with space leeks.
And lose all your base.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
SOME TOFU WAS INVOLVED
First time out to Safeway down past Battery Street in a few weeks. But once I got there, I realized I actually didn't need anything.
So I just bought yoghurt, cheesy bread, and a sourdough loaf.
No, no vegetables. I don't think I'll be cooking at home.
No meat products either. See reason given above.
Man can live on yoghurt and bread.
Especially cheesy bread.
Oh, plus lots of tea with milk and sugar, and the occasional cookie overload. Though one should not overdo cookies and other sweets too often. With that in mind, I did not purchase the mint-flavoured chocolate matzes, OR the kosher for Passover (and all year round) marble cake from Osem. Nor the various groovy types of instant matze-ball mix. Sink, swim, or bob.
Next week, I'll buy the jarred gefilte fish.
It's always time for gefilte fish.
Good with curry paste.
The reason I shan't be cooking at home is that it's quite boring and pointless to cook for oneself, especially when one can go down to Chinatown, get a delicious lunch for seven bucks, and listen in on everybody else.
Because it doesn't matter who hears the discussion.
Or whatever juicy tit-bits are uttered.
I am flabberghasted that a woman who is older than myself is still being addressed as 'leng nui' (靚女 pretty girl) by her co-workers. It speaks of a long-time familiarity, they've probably worked together for years.
Sweatheart, you still have such promise.
It's touching, really. They must have all been so much younger when they started working there. When the 'new' in the restaurant name still indeed meant 'new'. Instead of 'nearly the oldest place on the block'.
The roast duck is as good as ever, so is the charsiu.
Both of those keep you young.
Meat and fat.
There weren't any wild parrots in Sue Bierman Park. Instead, I watched two crows engaged in nest-building behavior. Carefully select twig. Snap-off excess twiggage. Pick up trimmed twig in beak, flap off. Return, repeat.
It must be spring if the crows are ready.
Personally I can't tell the difference between a male crow and a female crow. Other than their faces, they all look alike.
Thank heavens I can distinguish between a 靚女 and a 叻仔 。
I think on Friday I'll purchase some cheese.
To augment the sourdough, of course.
There's a cheese shop nearby.
Good thing I don't have to go to Safeway down at Battery and Jackson for that. Too many energy drinks for yuppies there, and a selection of frozen food that says "we have very whitebread customers, who don't do anything exciting, ever". The people who work there always look stressed, and most of the customers are zoned out (too many energy drinks) or severely fossilized (perhaps they didn't have enough energy drink).
They have a very pedestrian wine selection.
There's no risk involved.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, no vegetables. I don't think I'll be cooking at home.
No meat products either. See reason given above.
Man can live on yoghurt and bread.
Especially cheesy bread.
Oh, plus lots of tea with milk and sugar, and the occasional cookie overload. Though one should not overdo cookies and other sweets too often. With that in mind, I did not purchase the mint-flavoured chocolate matzes, OR the kosher for Passover (and all year round) marble cake from Osem. Nor the various groovy types of instant matze-ball mix. Sink, swim, or bob.
Next week, I'll buy the jarred gefilte fish.
It's always time for gefilte fish.
Good with curry paste.
The reason I shan't be cooking at home is that it's quite boring and pointless to cook for oneself, especially when one can go down to Chinatown, get a delicious lunch for seven bucks, and listen in on everybody else.
Because it doesn't matter who hears the discussion.
Or whatever juicy tit-bits are uttered.
I am flabberghasted that a woman who is older than myself is still being addressed as 'leng nui' (靚女 pretty girl) by her co-workers. It speaks of a long-time familiarity, they've probably worked together for years.
Sweatheart, you still have such promise.
It's touching, really. They must have all been so much younger when they started working there. When the 'new' in the restaurant name still indeed meant 'new'. Instead of 'nearly the oldest place on the block'.
The roast duck is as good as ever, so is the charsiu.
Both of those keep you young.
Meat and fat.
There weren't any wild parrots in Sue Bierman Park. Instead, I watched two crows engaged in nest-building behavior. Carefully select twig. Snap-off excess twiggage. Pick up trimmed twig in beak, flap off. Return, repeat.
It must be spring if the crows are ready.
Personally I can't tell the difference between a male crow and a female crow. Other than their faces, they all look alike.
Thank heavens I can distinguish between a 靚女 and a 叻仔 。
I think on Friday I'll purchase some cheese.
To augment the sourdough, of course.
There's a cheese shop nearby.
Good thing I don't have to go to Safeway down at Battery and Jackson for that. Too many energy drinks for yuppies there, and a selection of frozen food that says "we have very whitebread customers, who don't do anything exciting, ever". The people who work there always look stressed, and most of the customers are zoned out (too many energy drinks) or severely fossilized (perhaps they didn't have enough energy drink).
They have a very pedestrian wine selection.
There's no risk involved.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SPECULATION REGARDING MH370
If I were to hazard a guess as to where and what happened to Malaysian Airlines flight MH370, after all the available evidence I would guess that it might very well be in the mangrove swamps just south of Karachi (south-south-west of Thatta, 150 miles west-north-west of Bhuj). After deviating off course it could have merged into a route recognized as used by several flights from Bangkok at very similar early morning times by various airlines, perhaps with a disguised identity -- false identification in the on-board communication systems -- and 'fallen out of sight' again just after crossing from Indian Airspace into Pakistan.
Please note that such speculation is clever gibberish at best, and mirrors in part what unhinged conspiracy theorists such as Rupert Murdoch have blithely tweeted without any shred of evidence.
Still, indications are that if this was a deliberate act, it took years of planning and preparation. Which suggests sleepers in Kuala Lumpur, and quite considerable skill sets.
After what the ISI did in Bombay (2008), the Pakistanis are natural suspects. A history of rogue-elementism, connections with a range of terrorist organizations (several of which they control or direct), links to the international drug trade, the technical and logistical know-how, and an organizational structure rife with jihadis and opportunists, while never-the-less maintaining a high level of secrecy and deniability.......
Remember that Al Qaeda kingpin we took out in Abbotabad?
Well co-ordinated tribal attacks on fuel convoys?
The assault on the Indian Parliament?
THE MARHO KOTRI WILDLIFE SANCTUARY
Pattar Creek, Danoo Creek, Khai Creek, Kanno Channo Creek, Katri Creek, Dambir Creek, Pitiani Creek, Khanana Creek, Katonaro Creek, Supethar Creek, Paniar Creek, Diyo Creek, Dabbo Creek, Kukiwari Creek, Subh Creek, Gorabiyo Creek, Mudiwaro Creek, Khilanwari Creek, Jua Creek, Rumwah Creek, Dundri Creek, Richhal Creek, Kuchar Creek, Chhan Creek, Bedewari Creek ......
There are numerous people of South-Asian extraction in Malaysia. Many citizens are Muslims. All that would be necessary is a convincing cover-story for any agents, connections among certain levels of the government and ruling classes, and patience.
And a plausible motive.
What possible motive is behind this?
That last one escapes my unhinged imagination.
There are just too many strange scenarios to contemplate.
Even a completely logical distrust and suspicion of Pakistan and its loathsome people, combined with a sneering dislike of the Malays, cannot produce anything that remotely makes sense.
Despite the well-known Malay hatred of the Chinese, Pakistani duplicity and greed, and an abundant willingness by Muslim extremists to murder non-believers, taken into account.
Or considering the immense impact that a brazen and spectacular terrorist act involving a few hundred innocent civilians and one or two major powers as targets would have.
Still. Mangroves. Flight paths. Know-how. Psychopathic hatred.
Until the plane is found, speculation is natural.
And the Pakistanis have a 'history'.
Oh by the way, the very great likelihood that once we've completely left Afghanistan (end of 2014) we'll have no use whatsoever for Pakistan, and will cease subsidizing their corrupt politicians and military entirely -- cut them loose and forsake that miserable excuse for a country -- and that the United States Dollar flood will run dry for them, does not play into this.
I doubt that they have enough foresight to consider that.
Those that do will simply bail out.
Or kill each other.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Please note that such speculation is clever gibberish at best, and mirrors in part what unhinged conspiracy theorists such as Rupert Murdoch have blithely tweeted without any shred of evidence.
Still, indications are that if this was a deliberate act, it took years of planning and preparation. Which suggests sleepers in Kuala Lumpur, and quite considerable skill sets.
After what the ISI did in Bombay (2008), the Pakistanis are natural suspects. A history of rogue-elementism, connections with a range of terrorist organizations (several of which they control or direct), links to the international drug trade, the technical and logistical know-how, and an organizational structure rife with jihadis and opportunists, while never-the-less maintaining a high level of secrecy and deniability.......
Remember that Al Qaeda kingpin we took out in Abbotabad?
Well co-ordinated tribal attacks on fuel convoys?
The assault on the Indian Parliament?
THE MARHO KOTRI WILDLIFE SANCTUARY
Pattar Creek, Danoo Creek, Khai Creek, Kanno Channo Creek, Katri Creek, Dambir Creek, Pitiani Creek, Khanana Creek, Katonaro Creek, Supethar Creek, Paniar Creek, Diyo Creek, Dabbo Creek, Kukiwari Creek, Subh Creek, Gorabiyo Creek, Mudiwaro Creek, Khilanwari Creek, Jua Creek, Rumwah Creek, Dundri Creek, Richhal Creek, Kuchar Creek, Chhan Creek, Bedewari Creek ......
There are numerous people of South-Asian extraction in Malaysia. Many citizens are Muslims. All that would be necessary is a convincing cover-story for any agents, connections among certain levels of the government and ruling classes, and patience.
And a plausible motive.
What possible motive is behind this?
That last one escapes my unhinged imagination.
There are just too many strange scenarios to contemplate.
Even a completely logical distrust and suspicion of Pakistan and its loathsome people, combined with a sneering dislike of the Malays, cannot produce anything that remotely makes sense.
Despite the well-known Malay hatred of the Chinese, Pakistani duplicity and greed, and an abundant willingness by Muslim extremists to murder non-believers, taken into account.
Or considering the immense impact that a brazen and spectacular terrorist act involving a few hundred innocent civilians and one or two major powers as targets would have.
Still. Mangroves. Flight paths. Know-how. Psychopathic hatred.
Until the plane is found, speculation is natural.
And the Pakistanis have a 'history'.
Oh by the way, the very great likelihood that once we've completely left Afghanistan (end of 2014) we'll have no use whatsoever for Pakistan, and will cease subsidizing their corrupt politicians and military entirely -- cut them loose and forsake that miserable excuse for a country -- and that the United States Dollar flood will run dry for them, does not play into this.
I doubt that they have enough foresight to consider that.
Those that do will simply bail out.
Or kill each other.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT
Sometimes stuff shows up in my inbox that has no conceivable spammatic content, being, more or less communications from a reader-base that wishes to talk without revealing themselves to the general public, or which believes that their query has no interest for many others.
I cater to both types. I may not answer immediately, as several folks in Germany and the Netherlands now realize, but I do eventually answer.
Please note: if there were evidence that the querent was a young female adult who had Wind-In-The-Willowish fantasies about enjoying a cup of coffee with the Badger of Nob Hill, or wished to read Conrad and Faulkner in his presence while quietly enjoying his stimulating company -- which has been described as 'comforting', 'wicked', 'nurturing' and 'life-affirming', in a civilized animal (mustelid) sort of way -- I might respond considerably sooner. Vibrant female persons, between twenty and forty, who are smaller than a badger, and shorter too, get my complete attention.
I am quite fond of weasels, stoats, and martens.
Pole cats and lithe carnivores.
As well as otters.
One person, whom I shall identify as "The February 11th Maccabee", whose original question is partially answered 'here', recently asked if there was a hotsauce which was spicier than Sriracha.
"By the way, do you know if a company makes a sauce as good as the red rooster Sriracha, but hotter? I've found that whatever I'm trying to flavor tastes too much of Sriracha by the time I've added enough for it to be spicy, so that I've had to use two hot sauces! Perhaps the most popular company has an extra-spicy version?"
Sriracha (滙豐食品公司 Huy Fong Foods Corporation) does not make anything stronger. But naturally I remember two sauces that use Habanero chilies: Melinda's, and Dave's.
HOWLING AT THE MOON
["The merciless peppers of Quetzal-Tenango, grown deep in the jungle by inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum."]
I first encountered Dave's Insanity Sauce several years ago, when Duckwhistle Chin was gloating over his most recent acquisition. He happily let me have a taste, and I marveled at it's intensity. Yes, that is a rather spicy item. It burns. He knew I liked being kicked in the mouth, so he was pleased that I appreciated his sauce as an excellent addition to hamburgers or stewed stringy inedible marshbirds.
While we were talking, we decided that the Redheaded Stepchild, in charge of human resources (and possibly the sheep dip) needed to be exposed to Dave's. So we went into the room where he sat, and innocently told him that we had a sauce we thought he might like, if he ever ventured into spicy territory, but we weren't sure. It might not be flavourful enough. We were hesitant. He probably eschewed such childish things.
We layed it on thick. The Redheaded Stepchild swallowed it up, because we were appealing to his ego and his manly self-image. He was ready to try our humble offering, but he wanted us to go first, just to prove it wasn't poisoned.
Duckwhistle downed a modest spoonful. I did likewise.
Then the Redheaded Stepchild demonstrated what a super hero he was by taking a big gulp.
He had barely said "nah, this ain't ..." when his face turned fire-truck red, and he started sputtering. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help coughing like a cat with hairballs, an asthmatic infant gasping for air, an inveterate cigarette smoker horking up a lung, or a lion seal bellowing down at the pier. For ten whole minutes. Discreetly and diplomatically he lay down on the floor and contorted.
Duckwhistle and I sat there with stone faces.
Duckwhistle has very little capacity to register capsaicin. Some people are like that. And for myself, I've learned that when a point is to be made, I can ignore almost any amount of pain.
It's good, trust me.
Zen.
When he had finally recovered enough to stop spluttering and convulsing, the Redheaded Stepchild swore that he would never speak to us again, we were evil, positively demented and daemonic, the worst computer engineer and credit dude respectively ever in the whole universe, this was a dark day, he wouldn't forget, and he would get even.
The next week he was boasting to the geeks in the back about this fabulous hot sauce he had discovered, why, it was amazing.
A brilliant discovery. He deserved praise.
Unfortunately, he broke his promise to never speak to us again.
Kept asking us in private how we did it.
We never told.
There are other hotsauces that use extra hot peppers. There are even condiments that use the Bhut Jolokia (ghost pepper) from Assam, a mutant that looks totally innocent and ornamental, but which packs in a fire three to five times hotter than Habanero.
One sauce that has gotten rave reviews is Habanero Hotsauce by Blackmarket Hotsauce dot com. They make an entire range of interesting condiments, and are fresh and zesty.
For further happy exploration among the oral nitroglycerin, go to the list at Insane Chicken, and scope out the impressive selection.
It's from 2012, so some of the sauces may no longer be made.
No, I haven't tried them all. Not even most of them.
I do make my own hot preparations, though.
When I can find fresh habaneros.
Now, returning to the concept of a small woman with a book and badger fetish, who lives somewhere Nob, Russian, or Telegraph hills, I cannot tell you how much the concept captures my interest. If she were to also be a cigar smoker, or at the very least did not mind the fine aromas of pipes and cheroots, I would be thrilled beyond measure. Correspondence may lead to lunch, almost definitely to coffee or tea and cookies.
I knew some restaurants that do good fish.
As well as clay pot cooking.
Most of them have bottles of Sriracha.
But we could bring our own.
AFTERWORD
I rearranged my humidors yesterday. It turns out I have far too many cigars. Including several fine pre-revolutionary Nicaraguans, and some long cheroots from the Philippines that were made to order. I smoked three cigars; a thin Dutchman, a Dominican robusto, and a double corona.
The last two sticks while taking a walk, as it was too close to my apartment mate's estimated time of return to risk doing so indoors. Even though I shut her door tightly when she leaves in the morning, and open all the windows, she still gets a bit miffed if she smells the fancy fragrances.
Fortunately the weather is pleasant enough to wander.
Smoking that substance Californians hate.
Scaring women and horses.
And children.
Precious(!) children.
Mustn't forget the children.
The nasty little f*^kers are our future.
Yes, I really am up at 3:40AM, think about cigars and hotsauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I cater to both types. I may not answer immediately, as several folks in Germany and the Netherlands now realize, but I do eventually answer.
Please note: if there were evidence that the querent was a young female adult who had Wind-In-The-Willowish fantasies about enjoying a cup of coffee with the Badger of Nob Hill, or wished to read Conrad and Faulkner in his presence while quietly enjoying his stimulating company -- which has been described as 'comforting', 'wicked', 'nurturing' and 'life-affirming', in a civilized animal (mustelid) sort of way -- I might respond considerably sooner. Vibrant female persons, between twenty and forty, who are smaller than a badger, and shorter too, get my complete attention.
I am quite fond of weasels, stoats, and martens.
Pole cats and lithe carnivores.
As well as otters.
One person, whom I shall identify as "The February 11th Maccabee", whose original question is partially answered 'here', recently asked if there was a hotsauce which was spicier than Sriracha.
"By the way, do you know if a company makes a sauce as good as the red rooster Sriracha, but hotter? I've found that whatever I'm trying to flavor tastes too much of Sriracha by the time I've added enough for it to be spicy, so that I've had to use two hot sauces! Perhaps the most popular company has an extra-spicy version?"
Sriracha (滙豐食品公司 Huy Fong Foods Corporation) does not make anything stronger. But naturally I remember two sauces that use Habanero chilies: Melinda's, and Dave's.
HOWLING AT THE MOON
["The merciless peppers of Quetzal-Tenango, grown deep in the jungle by inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum."]
I first encountered Dave's Insanity Sauce several years ago, when Duckwhistle Chin was gloating over his most recent acquisition. He happily let me have a taste, and I marveled at it's intensity. Yes, that is a rather spicy item. It burns. He knew I liked being kicked in the mouth, so he was pleased that I appreciated his sauce as an excellent addition to hamburgers or stewed stringy inedible marshbirds.
While we were talking, we decided that the Redheaded Stepchild, in charge of human resources (and possibly the sheep dip) needed to be exposed to Dave's. So we went into the room where he sat, and innocently told him that we had a sauce we thought he might like, if he ever ventured into spicy territory, but we weren't sure. It might not be flavourful enough. We were hesitant. He probably eschewed such childish things.
We layed it on thick. The Redheaded Stepchild swallowed it up, because we were appealing to his ego and his manly self-image. He was ready to try our humble offering, but he wanted us to go first, just to prove it wasn't poisoned.
Duckwhistle downed a modest spoonful. I did likewise.
Then the Redheaded Stepchild demonstrated what a super hero he was by taking a big gulp.
He had barely said "nah, this ain't ..." when his face turned fire-truck red, and he started sputtering. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help coughing like a cat with hairballs, an asthmatic infant gasping for air, an inveterate cigarette smoker horking up a lung, or a lion seal bellowing down at the pier. For ten whole minutes. Discreetly and diplomatically he lay down on the floor and contorted.
Duckwhistle and I sat there with stone faces.
Duckwhistle has very little capacity to register capsaicin. Some people are like that. And for myself, I've learned that when a point is to be made, I can ignore almost any amount of pain.
It's good, trust me.
Zen.
When he had finally recovered enough to stop spluttering and convulsing, the Redheaded Stepchild swore that he would never speak to us again, we were evil, positively demented and daemonic, the worst computer engineer and credit dude respectively ever in the whole universe, this was a dark day, he wouldn't forget, and he would get even.
The next week he was boasting to the geeks in the back about this fabulous hot sauce he had discovered, why, it was amazing.
A brilliant discovery. He deserved praise.
Unfortunately, he broke his promise to never speak to us again.
Kept asking us in private how we did it.
We never told.
There are other hotsauces that use extra hot peppers. There are even condiments that use the Bhut Jolokia (ghost pepper) from Assam, a mutant that looks totally innocent and ornamental, but which packs in a fire three to five times hotter than Habanero.
One sauce that has gotten rave reviews is Habanero Hotsauce by Blackmarket Hotsauce dot com. They make an entire range of interesting condiments, and are fresh and zesty.
For further happy exploration among the oral nitroglycerin, go to the list at Insane Chicken, and scope out the impressive selection.
It's from 2012, so some of the sauces may no longer be made.
No, I haven't tried them all. Not even most of them.
I do make my own hot preparations, though.
When I can find fresh habaneros.
Now, returning to the concept of a small woman with a book and badger fetish, who lives somewhere Nob, Russian, or Telegraph hills, I cannot tell you how much the concept captures my interest. If she were to also be a cigar smoker, or at the very least did not mind the fine aromas of pipes and cheroots, I would be thrilled beyond measure. Correspondence may lead to lunch, almost definitely to coffee or tea and cookies.
I knew some restaurants that do good fish.
As well as clay pot cooking.
Most of them have bottles of Sriracha.
But we could bring our own.
AFTERWORD
I rearranged my humidors yesterday. It turns out I have far too many cigars. Including several fine pre-revolutionary Nicaraguans, and some long cheroots from the Philippines that were made to order. I smoked three cigars; a thin Dutchman, a Dominican robusto, and a double corona.
The last two sticks while taking a walk, as it was too close to my apartment mate's estimated time of return to risk doing so indoors. Even though I shut her door tightly when she leaves in the morning, and open all the windows, she still gets a bit miffed if she smells the fancy fragrances.
Fortunately the weather is pleasant enough to wander.
Smoking that substance Californians hate.
Scaring women and horses.
And children.
Precious(!) children.
Mustn't forget the children.
The nasty little f*^kers are our future.
Yes, I really am up at 3:40AM, think about cigars and hotsauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 17, 2014
NOISY LITTLE BUGGER
It woke me during the night. But I am far more able to tolerate the problem now than years ago, and it never truly irritated me. It is actually something that I find pleasant as well as amusing. Persistent at the time, yet sporadic.
I have no clue what the bird is, but as it remains invisible, I shall probably never know. The range of vocalizations can be quite enormous, and there have been nights that it seemed, judging by the rapidity, shrillness, and variety of its calls, to be quite staggeringly insane.
Perhaps it is a mocking bird.
Perhaps it is stoned on pyracantha berries.
Both of these two perhapses are quite speculative.
Several years ago the noisy little bugger kept up its racket from around ten in the evening till five thirty or six in the morning, several working days in succession. It is very likely that nobody on our block got a good night's sleep that week.
"Chirp chirp chirp, tweeky tweeky tweeky, eeeeeeeeeeeee! "
Mocking birds live several years, even up to two decades in captivity. If this is the same mockingbird as then, we have a sadist nearby who must relish interrupting the repose of two or three hundred people. Which is likely, yes, because the night-time noises can often be quite staggering, but caging a mockingbird to torment the neighborhood for one or two weeks during breeding season is far too creative for most late night brutalists.
Even when it is time to mate.
Perverse, too.
It also does it during the day, without sounding shagged out at all. It has an almost daemonic endurance, and may keep it up for another thirty or forty hours. Don't know. It's supernaturally cheerful. As if possessed.
Again: I don't known if it is actually a mocking bird, whether it gorged on pyracantha berries, or in fact whether any of this is related to the mocking bird sexual cycle. For all I know, it's an angry thrush, pissed at one of the local tenants, and determined to exact a toll on the offending human.
What and who ever the case, it is a regular cheeky little b@$tard.
"Warble warble warble, twitter, wee-oo, wee-oo, ookie!"
It's happily making noise as I write.
Has been vocal all night.
Last week too.
DO YOU DREAM OF ELECTRONIC BEEPING?
I can sleep through the noise now -- heck, I could sleep through an artillery barrage at this point, having tolerated any amount of absurd disturbances while living in North Beach and points further tropical -- but I wonder how the newer arrivals in this neighborhood are taking it. Do dot com yuppies actually come from places where nature calls? Or were they carefully nurtured in sterile environments that lacked an animalistic element?
Judging by they're own behaviours, probably the latter.
They animalize so very badly themselves.
Drunk by nine, comatose by one.
Oblivious 24 seven.
Twitter.
I like the conceptualization, whichever way it swings. On one wing, a randy featherball establishing his territory and attracting a suitable mate, so that rambunctious procreation may take place over successive nights and a new generation of vocal heroes and heroines shall arise, OR a furious small bird thinking "give me some of that pizza, drunken twenty-something e-human, or I will find out where you live and keep you up all night by hanging around outside your bedroom window and insulting you while it is dark and you are helpless".
The bird is a champion, however the facts.
I'm leaving some pizza out tonight.
As a greasy encouragement.
Rewarding wildness.
'Cheese-pah'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I have no clue what the bird is, but as it remains invisible, I shall probably never know. The range of vocalizations can be quite enormous, and there have been nights that it seemed, judging by the rapidity, shrillness, and variety of its calls, to be quite staggeringly insane.
Perhaps it is a mocking bird.
Perhaps it is stoned on pyracantha berries.
Both of these two perhapses are quite speculative.
Several years ago the noisy little bugger kept up its racket from around ten in the evening till five thirty or six in the morning, several working days in succession. It is very likely that nobody on our block got a good night's sleep that week.
"Chirp chirp chirp, tweeky tweeky tweeky, eeeeeeeeeeeee! "
Mocking birds live several years, even up to two decades in captivity. If this is the same mockingbird as then, we have a sadist nearby who must relish interrupting the repose of two or three hundred people. Which is likely, yes, because the night-time noises can often be quite staggering, but caging a mockingbird to torment the neighborhood for one or two weeks during breeding season is far too creative for most late night brutalists.
Even when it is time to mate.
Perverse, too.
It also does it during the day, without sounding shagged out at all. It has an almost daemonic endurance, and may keep it up for another thirty or forty hours. Don't know. It's supernaturally cheerful. As if possessed.
Again: I don't known if it is actually a mocking bird, whether it gorged on pyracantha berries, or in fact whether any of this is related to the mocking bird sexual cycle. For all I know, it's an angry thrush, pissed at one of the local tenants, and determined to exact a toll on the offending human.
What and who ever the case, it is a regular cheeky little b@$tard.
"Warble warble warble, twitter, wee-oo, wee-oo, ookie!"
It's happily making noise as I write.
Has been vocal all night.
Last week too.
DO YOU DREAM OF ELECTRONIC BEEPING?
I can sleep through the noise now -- heck, I could sleep through an artillery barrage at this point, having tolerated any amount of absurd disturbances while living in North Beach and points further tropical -- but I wonder how the newer arrivals in this neighborhood are taking it. Do dot com yuppies actually come from places where nature calls? Or were they carefully nurtured in sterile environments that lacked an animalistic element?
Judging by they're own behaviours, probably the latter.
They animalize so very badly themselves.
Drunk by nine, comatose by one.
Oblivious 24 seven.
Twitter.
I like the conceptualization, whichever way it swings. On one wing, a randy featherball establishing his territory and attracting a suitable mate, so that rambunctious procreation may take place over successive nights and a new generation of vocal heroes and heroines shall arise, OR a furious small bird thinking "give me some of that pizza, drunken twenty-something e-human, or I will find out where you live and keep you up all night by hanging around outside your bedroom window and insulting you while it is dark and you are helpless".
The bird is a champion, however the facts.
I'm leaving some pizza out tonight.
As a greasy encouragement.
Rewarding wildness.
'Cheese-pah'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 16, 2014
LITTLE BLACK FEET, LITTLE BLACK FEET!
Don't ask me why I was reading about ferrets. There may be a link to one of my favourite books -- The Wind in the Willows -- but I'm sure it's merely subconscious, not on the front of any lobe.
Ferrets. Weasels. Stoats. And mink.
Polecats, martens, et autres.
One of which is the negripedal mustelid.
Or, as you may know it, the black-footed ferret.
A small wriggly carnivore which decimates prairie dog colonies, with an appetite both ferocious and life-affirming. If wholesale slaughter of prairie dogs can be considered life-affirming, which I maintain it indeed can.
Very much.
Although perhaps less so for prairie dogs.
Form my favourite unprinted knowledge source, Wikipedia:
黑足鼬（學名：Mustela nigripes），是一種原產於北美洲的小型食肉性哺乳動物和唯一原產於北美地區的雪貂，亦是俄國草原臭鼬的近親。鼬科。同科物種有：黃鼬（黃鼠狼）、水貂、臭貂、貂屬和獾亞科。牠與被馴化的白鼬或矇眼貂外型非常相似，常被別人混淆。
黑足鼬是北美著名的瀕危物種。
1937年，加拿大野生黑足鼬滅絕。 1967年在美國被列為瀕危物種。
2008年美國網站《生活科學》評出黑足鼬為全球十大最瀕危的稀有動物物種之一。
[Translation: "The Black-footed Ferret (scientific name: Mustela nigripes), is a small carnivorous mammal and the only one native to North America, originating in North America; itis also a close relative of the Russian steppe skunk. Mustelidae. Included among related species: the weasel ("yellow stoat")), water weasel, stinky mustelid, marten and badger, all of which are a subfamily. Domesticated ferret or mink look very similar to the casual observer, and it is often confused with other types. The Black-footed ferret is notable endangered species in North America. By 1937, the wild black-footed ferret was considered extinct in Canada. In 1967 it was listed as endangered species in the United States. In 2008, the American website "Life Science" named the negriped mustelid one of the rarest animal species on world's top ten most endangered list."]
Pictures of the beast show an intelligent likable face, with inquisitive eyes. Not something that would inspire terror (unless you are a prairie dog), and the creature has the characteristic slinky body of all its kind.
WEASEL WAR DANCE
[Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Jumping_black_footed_ferret.jpg.]
Not kidding. It really is called a "weasel war dance".
From Wikipedia again: "The weasel war dance is a colloquial term for a behavior of excited ferrets and weasels. In wild animals, it is speculated that this dance is used to confuse or disorient prey. In domestic animals, the war dance usually follows play or the successful capture of a toy or a stolen object and is commonly held to mean that the ferret is thoroughly enjoying itself. It consists of a frenzied series of sideways and backwards hops, often accompanied by an arched back, and a frizzy tail. Ferrets are notoriously clumsy in their surroundings during their dance and will often bump into or fall over objects and furniture. Most often, the act includes a clucking vocalization, commonly known as "dooking". It normally indicates happiness. Although the weasel war dance may make a ferret appear frightened or angry, they are often just excited and are usually harmless to humans. The stoat (also known as the Ermine or the Short-tailed weasel) often employs a "war dance" to transfix and attack rabbits."
Successful capture of a toy or stolen object = happiness.
I can imagine myself doing precisely such a thing. It would probably knock over the bowl of noodle soup, spilling hot broth all over the table and dripping down the bedsheet I flung over as a cloth, and frighten the bejazus out of any visiting mice, but man, it would express happiness.
Then, like a typical white person, I would clumsily grasp my chopsticks and attempt to assault what remained of the food.
Mmmmm, juicy porky bits and shredded pickled turnips!
Oh wait. That's a mouse that fainted. Gone all limp.
He's a guest. Shouldn't eat the little fellow.
Oh heck. Chomp.
Are there any more?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Ferrets. Weasels. Stoats. And mink.
Polecats, martens, et autres.
One of which is the negripedal mustelid.
Or, as you may know it, the black-footed ferret.
A small wriggly carnivore which decimates prairie dog colonies, with an appetite both ferocious and life-affirming. If wholesale slaughter of prairie dogs can be considered life-affirming, which I maintain it indeed can.
Very much.
Although perhaps less so for prairie dogs.
Form my favourite unprinted knowledge source, Wikipedia:
黑足鼬（學名：Mustela nigripes），是一種原產於北美洲的小型食肉性哺乳動物和唯一原產於北美地區的雪貂，亦是俄國草原臭鼬的近親。鼬科。同科物種有：黃鼬（黃鼠狼）、水貂、臭貂、貂屬和獾亞科。牠與被馴化的白鼬或矇眼貂外型非常相似，常被別人混淆。
黑足鼬是北美著名的瀕危物種。
1937年，加拿大野生黑足鼬滅絕。 1967年在美國被列為瀕危物種。
2008年美國網站《生活科學》評出黑足鼬為全球十大最瀕危的稀有動物物種之一。
[Translation: "The Black-footed Ferret (scientific name: Mustela nigripes), is a small carnivorous mammal and the only one native to North America, originating in North America; itis also a close relative of the Russian steppe skunk. Mustelidae. Included among related species: the weasel ("yellow stoat")), water weasel, stinky mustelid, marten and badger, all of which are a subfamily. Domesticated ferret or mink look very similar to the casual observer, and it is often confused with other types. The Black-footed ferret is notable endangered species in North America. By 1937, the wild black-footed ferret was considered extinct in Canada. In 1967 it was listed as endangered species in the United States. In 2008, the American website "Life Science" named the negriped mustelid one of the rarest animal species on world's top ten most endangered list."]
Pictures of the beast show an intelligent likable face, with inquisitive eyes. Not something that would inspire terror (unless you are a prairie dog), and the creature has the characteristic slinky body of all its kind.
WEASEL WAR DANCE
[Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Jumping_black_footed_ferret.jpg.]
Not kidding. It really is called a "weasel war dance".
From Wikipedia again: "The weasel war dance is a colloquial term for a behavior of excited ferrets and weasels. In wild animals, it is speculated that this dance is used to confuse or disorient prey. In domestic animals, the war dance usually follows play or the successful capture of a toy or a stolen object and is commonly held to mean that the ferret is thoroughly enjoying itself. It consists of a frenzied series of sideways and backwards hops, often accompanied by an arched back, and a frizzy tail. Ferrets are notoriously clumsy in their surroundings during their dance and will often bump into or fall over objects and furniture. Most often, the act includes a clucking vocalization, commonly known as "dooking". It normally indicates happiness. Although the weasel war dance may make a ferret appear frightened or angry, they are often just excited and are usually harmless to humans. The stoat (also known as the Ermine or the Short-tailed weasel) often employs a "war dance" to transfix and attack rabbits."
Successful capture of a toy or stolen object = happiness.
I can imagine myself doing precisely such a thing. It would probably knock over the bowl of noodle soup, spilling hot broth all over the table and dripping down the bedsheet I flung over as a cloth, and frighten the bejazus out of any visiting mice, but man, it would express happiness.
Then, like a typical white person, I would clumsily grasp my chopsticks and attempt to assault what remained of the food.
Mmmmm, juicy porky bits and shredded pickled turnips!
Oh wait. That's a mouse that fainted. Gone all limp.
He's a guest. Shouldn't eat the little fellow.
Oh heck. Chomp.
Are there any more?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CANTONESA, PURA Y DURA
Two young ladies on the bus. Which caused this blogger to forcefully repress his inner Humbert Humbert. No, they did NOT look like the slutty juvenile temptress that Vladimir Vladimirovich so tastefully described.
Too sweet and innocent.
As well as ladylike.
And refined.
Roundish faces, nice cheeks, elegant moth-antenna eyebrows, full lips and angry eyes. Features and physical characteristics that would make a dead man blush.
I shall not mention what I think their age might have been. Cantonese people always look far younger than they really are. One Cantonese gentleman I know is my age but looks many years more youthful.
So for all I know these two young ladies may already be college graduates. It's a talent.
Nor shall I describe them in any great detail. Any accurate explicatum would pull the perverts in. And there are already far too many such.
[Somewhere between twenty and forty would be my guess. Use your fermentive mind, and don't go nasty on the imaginary details. Though if you do, please imagine a savage slap upside your face.]
Neither one wore any scrap of Hello Kitty.
Not consciously alluring.
But, if they were employed at a cigar bar or tobacco shop, they'd make any damned cheroot seem smokeable. Precisely like my classmates years ago who successfully persuaded me as a young lad that the bolknak (which is the quintessence of a figurado vitola) would be an altogether excellent smoke. Or a tuitknak from Hajenius, Oud Kampen (La Reina), De Heeren van Ruysdael, or Justus van Maurik. Exquisite choices.
So elegant! So magnificently femmy wemmy!
Or, for men, masculinny-winnie.
Macho-wacho.
[Bolknak: a fat Dutch torpedo, pointy at both ends, with a gradual taper at the mouth end, a blunter taper at the tip. Tuitknak: a smaller more elegant version of the bolknak. Nearest equivalents are variations on the Perfecto, and it must be mentioned that Oliva makes an excellent version, although the La Libertad short perfecto is not to be sneezed at.]
If these two were selling smokes, the store would be empty of product in mere hours.
We're on fire now, dudes!
Delicious. Divine.
Delightful.
Sometimes I wish I were fifteen years younger.
Yes, ma'am, I will buy that cigar.
Can you light it for me?
Please note: I was going to edit out the creepazoid factor, but on second thought it had to stay. This blog veers close to the cusp of disturbing at times, which may be why some people read it.
It's sort of a hallmark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Too sweet and innocent.
As well as ladylike.
And refined.
Roundish faces, nice cheeks, elegant moth-antenna eyebrows, full lips and angry eyes. Features and physical characteristics that would make a dead man blush.
I shall not mention what I think their age might have been. Cantonese people always look far younger than they really are. One Cantonese gentleman I know is my age but looks many years more youthful.
So for all I know these two young ladies may already be college graduates. It's a talent.
Nor shall I describe them in any great detail. Any accurate explicatum would pull the perverts in. And there are already far too many such.
[Somewhere between twenty and forty would be my guess. Use your fermentive mind, and don't go nasty on the imaginary details. Though if you do, please imagine a savage slap upside your face.]
Neither one wore any scrap of Hello Kitty.
Not consciously alluring.
But, if they were employed at a cigar bar or tobacco shop, they'd make any damned cheroot seem smokeable. Precisely like my classmates years ago who successfully persuaded me as a young lad that the bolknak (which is the quintessence of a figurado vitola) would be an altogether excellent smoke. Or a tuitknak from Hajenius, Oud Kampen (La Reina), De Heeren van Ruysdael, or Justus van Maurik. Exquisite choices.
So elegant! So magnificently femmy wemmy!
Or, for men, masculinny-winnie.
Macho-wacho.
[Bolknak: a fat Dutch torpedo, pointy at both ends, with a gradual taper at the mouth end, a blunter taper at the tip. Tuitknak: a smaller more elegant version of the bolknak. Nearest equivalents are variations on the Perfecto, and it must be mentioned that Oliva makes an excellent version, although the La Libertad short perfecto is not to be sneezed at.]
If these two were selling smokes, the store would be empty of product in mere hours.
We're on fire now, dudes!
Delicious. Divine.
Delightful.
Sometimes I wish I were fifteen years younger.
Yes, ma'am, I will buy that cigar.
Can you light it for me?
Please note: I was going to edit out the creepazoid factor, but on second thought it had to stay. This blog veers close to the cusp of disturbing at times, which may be why some people read it.
It's sort of a hallmark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 15, 2014
WHERE SMOKING IS PERMITTED
Due entirely to my enjoyment of the company of certain people, my Saturday evening routine is set in stone. No change is possible, except within certain parameters. Basically, return to the city and eat dinner in Chinatown, at one of several restaurants where the wait-staff consists entirely of pleasant women who speak Cantonese better than any other language, and would never consider me romantic material no matter what the circumstance. There's no threat there, just a measure of mutual respect.
Most of them are not so young (timorous eighteen somethings) as to realistically still be looking; either they're married already, or heading into a singular and unique maturity.
A few of them qualify as "aunty" (阿姨 'ah yi').
Excellent food, no theatre majors, artists, or snoots.
After that, over to an environment where most of the patrons are either middle aged, or men, or both. Where smoking is permitted.
A CIGAR CLUB
There are a few individuals there whose company is always enjoyable. Yes, I've frequently had pleasant conversations with other folks there, but many people cannot get beyond the voice, the range of facts at my finger tips, the vocabulary, and the sheer oddness of my frames of reference.
Not boasting.
I grew up listening to Oscar Brand singing totally unprintable songs, many of which I had memorized completely by the time I was eight years old, and I devoured my parents humongous library. Reading was an obsessive behavior, and I enjoy the company of people for whom it is the same. Those whose nose is ever in a book.
That, by definition, excludes a large majority.
Add to that the fact that I know next to nothing about sports -- any sport, period -- and you have a portrait of someone who challenges the paradigm.
There are about half a dozen intelligent and likable Saturday night regulars at the place where smoking is permitted. They are fascinating and complex, even though several of them know distressingly much about sports, and can at times be easily distracted by a well-placed ball or foot on the telly. They are more perfectly socialized than I am, apparently, and somehow got infected.
I tend to be a bit lonely during baseball and football season, when everyone is distracted. And my eyes kind of glaze over.
I would bring a book, but that might elicit negative comments.
Reading seems so "anti-social".
Even "unfriendly".
Heaven forfend, don't want to be accused of anything like that, ever. In the middle-ages they burned such people at the stake.
I can already smell the smoldering faggots!
Oh wait..., those are cigars.
Perhaps taking someone there who didn't know diddly about sports, had no interest in spandex men and their balls besides, and devoured books, might be a good idea. We could discreetly, politely, and privately, poo poo the glazed eyes, while reviewing recent reading matter and food adventures for each other's pleasure.
It would by edifying.
At the right moment, we could pull out our ...... books.
When no one notices.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A few of them qualify as "aunty" (阿姨 'ah yi').
Excellent food, no theatre majors, artists, or snoots.
After that, over to an environment where most of the patrons are either middle aged, or men, or both. Where smoking is permitted.
A CIGAR CLUB
There are a few individuals there whose company is always enjoyable. Yes, I've frequently had pleasant conversations with other folks there, but many people cannot get beyond the voice, the range of facts at my finger tips, the vocabulary, and the sheer oddness of my frames of reference.
Not boasting.
I grew up listening to Oscar Brand singing totally unprintable songs, many of which I had memorized completely by the time I was eight years old, and I devoured my parents humongous library. Reading was an obsessive behavior, and I enjoy the company of people for whom it is the same. Those whose nose is ever in a book.
That, by definition, excludes a large majority.
Add to that the fact that I know next to nothing about sports -- any sport, period -- and you have a portrait of someone who challenges the paradigm.
There are about half a dozen intelligent and likable Saturday night regulars at the place where smoking is permitted. They are fascinating and complex, even though several of them know distressingly much about sports, and can at times be easily distracted by a well-placed ball or foot on the telly. They are more perfectly socialized than I am, apparently, and somehow got infected.
I tend to be a bit lonely during baseball and football season, when everyone is distracted. And my eyes kind of glaze over.
I would bring a book, but that might elicit negative comments.
Reading seems so "anti-social".
Even "unfriendly".
Heaven forfend, don't want to be accused of anything like that, ever. In the middle-ages they burned such people at the stake.
I can already smell the smoldering faggots!
Oh wait..., those are cigars.
Perhaps taking someone there who didn't know diddly about sports, had no interest in spandex men and their balls besides, and devoured books, might be a good idea. We could discreetly, politely, and privately, poo poo the glazed eyes, while reviewing recent reading matter and food adventures for each other's pleasure.
It would by edifying.
At the right moment, we could pull out our ...... books.
When no one notices.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 14, 2014
BRUTAL REVIEW
Today is a day for wonton. I just don't know where. Someplace bustling and noisy, and probably just before noon. Due to my ex having a fine old time with her squeezy boo, this blogger has been a bit down in the dumps lately, so it's time for happy food.
At a time of day when no one is smooching over their meal, or making sickening little cooing sounds at someone else.
I don't need to observe hormones in action.
Or hear her phone conversations.
Ick poo. In big buckets.
[I still see her on a regular basis, because we still share the same apartment. In San Francisco, you just don't give up on someone you trust around your sh&t, period. The alternative is much higher rent, and a crackhead schizophrenic psychopath -- or a computer programmer -- as your new apartment mate. Please don't tell me that it's "unhealthy"; I live in San Francisco, I should know from unhealthy?]
No, I do not wish to rekindle the relationship. What's over is over, and she's involved with someone else now. It's been the better part of four years, and our lives and personalities have changed too much.
Still. Twenty one years. I feel more than a little cheated.
There are fewer social options than there were.
Especially for someone of my age.
Which is a young 54.
Yes, I also realize that I can't stand most modern women. I've read too many profiles on OK Cupid, and concluded that none of them are my type. Whatever that is.
You, dear reader, probably think you know what my type is. Certainly a few of you have left comments indicating as much. Please stop thinking that. You could not be more wrong.
My type is probably crazy.
She'd have to be.
Other than briefly listing my usual bugaboos, I shan't mention what's wrong with modern women.
Bugaboos:
Tattoos, handbags, cellular devices.
Drugs. Booze. Superficiality.
Nearly illiterate.
Vacuous.
Most of them are twits, and a complete waste of time.
With minor edits, the same goes for males.
Europeans. Asians. Americans.
Almost everyone.
The moment has come to rekindle my love-affair with food. And to re-occupy my mind with all the books I have never finished because someone wanted to talk.
There's time enough for that now.
This is the age for anthroping very much mis.
At which, unsurprisingly, this bachelor totally excels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I don't need to observe hormones in action.
Or hear her phone conversations.
Ick poo. In big buckets.
[I still see her on a regular basis, because we still share the same apartment. In San Francisco, you just don't give up on someone you trust around your sh&t, period. The alternative is much higher rent, and a crackhead schizophrenic psychopath -- or a computer programmer -- as your new apartment mate. Please don't tell me that it's "unhealthy"; I live in San Francisco, I should know from unhealthy?]
No, I do not wish to rekindle the relationship. What's over is over, and she's involved with someone else now. It's been the better part of four years, and our lives and personalities have changed too much.
Still. Twenty one years. I feel more than a little cheated.
There are fewer social options than there were.
Especially for someone of my age.
Which is a young 54.
Yes, I also realize that I can't stand most modern women. I've read too many profiles on OK Cupid, and concluded that none of them are my type. Whatever that is.
You, dear reader, probably think you know what my type is. Certainly a few of you have left comments indicating as much. Please stop thinking that. You could not be more wrong.
My type is probably crazy.
She'd have to be.
Other than briefly listing my usual bugaboos, I shan't mention what's wrong with modern women.
Bugaboos:
Tattoos, handbags, cellular devices.
Drugs. Booze. Superficiality.
Nearly illiterate.
Vacuous.
Most of them are twits, and a complete waste of time.
With minor edits, the same goes for males.
Europeans. Asians. Americans.
Almost everyone.
The moment has come to rekindle my love-affair with food. And to re-occupy my mind with all the books I have never finished because someone wanted to talk.
There's time enough for that now.
This is the age for anthroping very much mis.
At which, unsurprisingly, this bachelor totally excels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 13, 2014
WHAT TO DO ON A WEEKDAY
Lunch in the company of others used to be a normal occurrence.
When I still worked at the computer factory in Menlo park, a few of us would regularly head into Palo Alto for something tasty. The delis in the industrial zone ranged from miserable to bloody awful, and civilized people should not have had to eat there. Once I started working in San Francisco, the lunch hour was taken up with reading the internet news, and heading off to the wall for a smoke. Social, yes. But not really with my coworkers. Most of whom had unimaginative tastes and lived in the suburbs; Whitebreadistan.
I have a fantasy of eating lunch with another person during my off-days. Problem is that it's been such a while since I had lunch in company that I might forget to chew. A man with his mouth agape is not a pretty sight. Best, perhaps, to do that at dusk, so the back of the tongue is not quite so visible. And it would have to be with someone who looks good in half-light. Perhaps in a darkened apartment, curtains drawn or blinds closed.
FADE INTO DAYDREAM
Daylight is for surprises. Especially morning, before the coffee has hit the central cortex. When there are still crows flitting about the brain. Hold on tight, it's a bumpy ride.
It always is. Waking up.
Again.
If you know where you are, it must have been a very nice evening. Or maybe you came over with hot coffee at nine A.M. Yours with plenty of milk, mine nearly black. You fell asleep; I marveled.
Your skin, so warm.
The book slid from your grasp as your eyes closed. You looked utterly peaceful, I did not want to wake you up. Perhaps I shoved a big green fuzzy frog into your arms, or brought the last monkey to enter the apartment over to keep you company.
His dark fur is exceptionally soft.
Silky against the cheeks.
He's a nice fellow.
In the silence I turned off the light. Went to the bathroom to wash and get dressed. You still dozed when I returned, when the sun hit the back of the building. The shards of sun that came in through the blinds illuminated your face.
I tweaked the blinds, so that it was bright enough to read.
You didn't stir till lunchtime. Early afternoon.
Your coffee was quite cold by then.
And you wanted a cigar.
Yeah, okay, the final detail is a bit odd. Fantasizing about a young lady who likes cheroots. Yet there are a number of such women, and most of them are quite feminine. It would be even more unrealistic to imagine a girl with a thing for pipe-tobacco and fine briar.
I am, above all, a realist. My dreams do not deviate from the possible.
No matter how improbable or unobtainable that "possible" is.
One problem with the scenario above is that I do not eat breakfast, and often don't have lunch till after two o'clock. Most women are ravenous beasts by then, and normal people experience low blood sugar events without a noon-time meal.
Eating in company is good; if you're hungry.
But not too hungry. Not starving.
That's why I have cookies.
The other somewhat unrealistic elements are that I'm already quite awake by nine o'clock, have had two cups of coffee by then, and am already splashing around in the bath. So I'd come to the front door dripping wet. That, too, is a startling sight, and I'm not sure anyone is ready for that.
I specified "at nine A.M." because my apartment mate will have left for work. And instead of bringing over coffee, how about a having cup of tea instead? I'll put the kettle on, then head back into the bathroom to finish shaving, after which we'll read our books together.
If you want a cigar, that's perfectly all right.
More tea before lunch.
Or dozing.
The final bit of irreality is that in a few hours I shall be in Marin.
Which is where I am every Wednesday and Thursday.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
When I still worked at the computer factory in Menlo park, a few of us would regularly head into Palo Alto for something tasty. The delis in the industrial zone ranged from miserable to bloody awful, and civilized people should not have had to eat there. Once I started working in San Francisco, the lunch hour was taken up with reading the internet news, and heading off to the wall for a smoke. Social, yes. But not really with my coworkers. Most of whom had unimaginative tastes and lived in the suburbs; Whitebreadistan.
I have a fantasy of eating lunch with another person during my off-days. Problem is that it's been such a while since I had lunch in company that I might forget to chew. A man with his mouth agape is not a pretty sight. Best, perhaps, to do that at dusk, so the back of the tongue is not quite so visible. And it would have to be with someone who looks good in half-light. Perhaps in a darkened apartment, curtains drawn or blinds closed.
FADE INTO DAYDREAM
Daylight is for surprises. Especially morning, before the coffee has hit the central cortex. When there are still crows flitting about the brain. Hold on tight, it's a bumpy ride.
It always is. Waking up.
Again.
If you know where you are, it must have been a very nice evening. Or maybe you came over with hot coffee at nine A.M. Yours with plenty of milk, mine nearly black. You fell asleep; I marveled.
Your skin, so warm.
The book slid from your grasp as your eyes closed. You looked utterly peaceful, I did not want to wake you up. Perhaps I shoved a big green fuzzy frog into your arms, or brought the last monkey to enter the apartment over to keep you company.
His dark fur is exceptionally soft.
Silky against the cheeks.
He's a nice fellow.
In the silence I turned off the light. Went to the bathroom to wash and get dressed. You still dozed when I returned, when the sun hit the back of the building. The shards of sun that came in through the blinds illuminated your face.
I tweaked the blinds, so that it was bright enough to read.
You didn't stir till lunchtime. Early afternoon.
Your coffee was quite cold by then.
And you wanted a cigar.
Yeah, okay, the final detail is a bit odd. Fantasizing about a young lady who likes cheroots. Yet there are a number of such women, and most of them are quite feminine. It would be even more unrealistic to imagine a girl with a thing for pipe-tobacco and fine briar.
I am, above all, a realist. My dreams do not deviate from the possible.
No matter how improbable or unobtainable that "possible" is.
One problem with the scenario above is that I do not eat breakfast, and often don't have lunch till after two o'clock. Most women are ravenous beasts by then, and normal people experience low blood sugar events without a noon-time meal.
Eating in company is good; if you're hungry.
But not too hungry. Not starving.
That's why I have cookies.
The other somewhat unrealistic elements are that I'm already quite awake by nine o'clock, have had two cups of coffee by then, and am already splashing around in the bath. So I'd come to the front door dripping wet. That, too, is a startling sight, and I'm not sure anyone is ready for that.
I specified "at nine A.M." because my apartment mate will have left for work. And instead of bringing over coffee, how about a having cup of tea instead? I'll put the kettle on, then head back into the bathroom to finish shaving, after which we'll read our books together.
If you want a cigar, that's perfectly all right.
More tea before lunch.
Or dozing.
The final bit of irreality is that in a few hours I shall be in Marin.
Which is where I am every Wednesday and Thursday.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
NORTH BEACH AS IT USED TO BE
After one of the smut emporia on Broadway closed its doors two years ago, the new tenants kept the name, but just removed the words "xx-rated magazines & novelties", and substituted "cheese and bologna".
Yes, they weren't busting out the same tired old technicolor full frontal nekidity mags -- printed filth has had its day, now the internet provides a higher quality sleaze-experience, complete with sound track -- but they tried to run a late-night Italo-Palestinian delicatessen.
With scant change of décor.
From T and A to sandwich meats; that's quite a change.
Possibly those are a substitute for titillation.
Me, I've always been a salami man.
I can remember years ago when a Russian immigrant who worked there would stand behind the strap-ons counter, in front of the famous "wall of dildos", and hold forth on philosophy.
From Hume through Locke to Heidegger and Sartre.
Exciting intellectual stuff. Magnetic.
It's why we were there.
He was a fascinating man. I wish I could remember his name.
Alas, all I can remember are the dildos.
I had an omelette with sliced stuff in it recently. Perhaps that's why the philosophy lessons came to mind.
I never went in after they started selling cheese and bologna.
Nothing can replace big rubber devices.
Not even food.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, they weren't busting out the same tired old technicolor full frontal nekidity mags -- printed filth has had its day, now the internet provides a higher quality sleaze-experience, complete with sound track -- but they tried to run a late-night Italo-Palestinian delicatessen.
With scant change of décor.
From T and A to sandwich meats; that's quite a change.
Possibly those are a substitute for titillation.
Me, I've always been a salami man.
I can remember years ago when a Russian immigrant who worked there would stand behind the strap-ons counter, in front of the famous "wall of dildos", and hold forth on philosophy.
From Hume through Locke to Heidegger and Sartre.
Exciting intellectual stuff. Magnetic.
It's why we were there.
He was a fascinating man. I wish I could remember his name.
Alas, all I can remember are the dildos.
I had an omelette with sliced stuff in it recently. Perhaps that's why the philosophy lessons came to mind.
I never went in after they started selling cheese and bologna.
Nothing can replace big rubber devices.
Not even food.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHILE THINKING ABOUT CRUSTACEANS
This blogger cannot wait until some misguided youngster, of either gender, asks me for advice regarding the birds and bees.
Because, of course, I know so much more than either of their parents. Who procreated using virtual reality and mousetraps.
It will happen. This is certain.
Poor little fools.
"Uncle Vander Pervert", little Lucinda might say, "what is dating like?"
And I will answer "it's like waging Total War, the video game."
If she asks me about sex, the answer will be the same.
Might as well frighten her away from ever experimenting. Till she's in her thirties, at least. Sex detracts enormously from the college years.
This blogger has not engaged in any of that for quite a while (aeons, at least), and by golly I feel more vibrant and lucid than ever before. Why, I'm positively brilliant at this point, what with not having the distraction of other people's secondary sexual characteristics in my face all the time.
Such as breasts. Which are, always, at more than arm's length.
It's hard, but I've trained myself to never think of nudity. And unlike in my misguided and lamentable past, I never eat naked, except when having crab. Which is so messy as to require a state of undress.
Come to think of it, haven't had crab in a while either.
Something is missing in my life.
Possibly crab.
The closest I come to either Total War (the video game) or dating the appropriate gender is laughing hysterically whenever anyone asks me whether I'm married. Or even seeing someone.
"No", I'll say, "I am quite happy".
Now please stop asking.
Kindly piss off.
See, being single means that all options are on the table. Not a single possibility is closed, everything is in play. Having absolutely no one in your life with whom to share crab means that there are a wealth of choices. There are buttons to push, too numerous to count.
The answer is total positivity. An optimistic attitude.
At some point, possibly, there may be crab.
Perhaps with black bean sauce.
Or melted butter.
Maybe I need to buy a tarpaulin.
Just in case of crustaceans.
Best to be prepared.
Boy scout.
Crab.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Because, of course, I know so much more than either of their parents. Who procreated using virtual reality and mousetraps.
It will happen. This is certain.
Poor little fools.
"Uncle Vander Pervert", little Lucinda might say, "what is dating like?"
And I will answer "it's like waging Total War, the video game."
If she asks me about sex, the answer will be the same.
Might as well frighten her away from ever experimenting. Till she's in her thirties, at least. Sex detracts enormously from the college years.
This blogger has not engaged in any of that for quite a while (aeons, at least), and by golly I feel more vibrant and lucid than ever before. Why, I'm positively brilliant at this point, what with not having the distraction of other people's secondary sexual characteristics in my face all the time.
Such as breasts. Which are, always, at more than arm's length.
It's hard, but I've trained myself to never think of nudity. And unlike in my misguided and lamentable past, I never eat naked, except when having crab. Which is so messy as to require a state of undress.
Come to think of it, haven't had crab in a while either.
Something is missing in my life.
Possibly crab.
The closest I come to either Total War (the video game) or dating the appropriate gender is laughing hysterically whenever anyone asks me whether I'm married. Or even seeing someone.
"No", I'll say, "I am quite happy".
Now please stop asking.
Kindly piss off.
See, being single means that all options are on the table. Not a single possibility is closed, everything is in play. Having absolutely no one in your life with whom to share crab means that there are a wealth of choices. There are buttons to push, too numerous to count.
The answer is total positivity. An optimistic attitude.
At some point, possibly, there may be crab.
Perhaps with black bean sauce.
Or melted butter.
Maybe I need to buy a tarpaulin.
Just in case of crustaceans.
Best to be prepared.
Boy scout.
Crab.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
WHEN THE URGE FOR COOKIES STRIKES
After our relationship changed to just friends in 2010, Savage Kitten took up with someone else, whom I never have to meet though she still lives in the apartment we share (her room, my room, and the common space), and with whom the only contact necessary is hollering out "yo, your dumbass boyfriend is on the phone" when he calls to speak with her.
Please understand that "yo, your dumbass boyfriend etcetera" is just a metaphoric translation of what I actually say. She'd probably be a little irritated if I actually used that phrase.
We live uphill, and upstairs. He's in a wheel chair.
Even if she wanted him over, he can't visit.
So she goes over to his place.
The other reason I don't actually refer to him as the dumbass boyfriend in her presence is that it would probably prompt her to tell me, as just a possible example "your dumbass girlfriend just used up all the hot water", if, hypothetically speaking, I actually found another woman with whom to share any aspect of my life, or someone crazy-curious enough to investigate just how messy my quarters really are. The phrase "yo, your dumbass Snookie Pie ate ALL the cookies" has a certain ring to it, I'll admit, but it isn't one I want Savage Kitten to utter.
It's unlikely, but I want to be prepared.
I'm a little peculiar that way.
There are cookies.
Always.
No, I'm not shocked at her shamelessly carrying on with an unmarried man. She's very discreet, and this is the twenty first century. Cantonese women are no longer obliged to get hitched at a young age, and many of them at some point in their lives have relationships that would startle their ancestors. Very normal relationships too.
Some of which last for years, and in many ways resemble marriage.
Whatever happens is a private matter.
Consequently, I'm not going to speculate in any way at all about my ex-girlfriend and her beau. It wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to do so, and it just isn't my business. She's merely an apartment mate, and entitled to her privacy. Our break was clean, sudden, and preceded her developing an affection for Wheelie Boy.
IT'S DELICIOUS, YAAR!
But I do know where she and he are eating dinner tonight.
The reason being that I just went through the recent internet searches on this computer -- usually she looks at jewelry sites -- and found a restaurant.
She's eating Indian food.
I've enjoyed almost no Indian food in nearly four years. Since, in fact, Savage Kitten ended the relationship. I like Indian food, but it's somewhat tainted by association.
We frequently went to the local Indian restaurants for dinner together.
Since then, a number of spice combinations have become painful.
Contradictorily, Cantonese food does not have that problem.
She hardly ever cooked it and we never ate it elsewhere.
And in any case I made it more often than she did.
Cantonese food is totally safe.
I should go out to dinner tonight myself, to a Cantonese restaurant even, but I do not feel like it. Instead, I'll just go to bed early and read a book.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Please understand that "yo, your dumbass boyfriend etcetera" is just a metaphoric translation of what I actually say. She'd probably be a little irritated if I actually used that phrase.
We live uphill, and upstairs. He's in a wheel chair.
Even if she wanted him over, he can't visit.
So she goes over to his place.
The other reason I don't actually refer to him as the dumbass boyfriend in her presence is that it would probably prompt her to tell me, as just a possible example "your dumbass girlfriend just used up all the hot water", if, hypothetically speaking, I actually found another woman with whom to share any aspect of my life, or someone crazy-curious enough to investigate just how messy my quarters really are. The phrase "yo, your dumbass Snookie Pie ate ALL the cookies" has a certain ring to it, I'll admit, but it isn't one I want Savage Kitten to utter.
It's unlikely, but I want to be prepared.
I'm a little peculiar that way.
There are cookies.
Always.
No, I'm not shocked at her shamelessly carrying on with an unmarried man. She's very discreet, and this is the twenty first century. Cantonese women are no longer obliged to get hitched at a young age, and many of them at some point in their lives have relationships that would startle their ancestors. Very normal relationships too.
Some of which last for years, and in many ways resemble marriage.
Whatever happens is a private matter.
Consequently, I'm not going to speculate in any way at all about my ex-girlfriend and her beau. It wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to do so, and it just isn't my business. She's merely an apartment mate, and entitled to her privacy. Our break was clean, sudden, and preceded her developing an affection for Wheelie Boy.
IT'S DELICIOUS, YAAR!
But I do know where she and he are eating dinner tonight.
The reason being that I just went through the recent internet searches on this computer -- usually she looks at jewelry sites -- and found a restaurant.
She's eating Indian food.
I've enjoyed almost no Indian food in nearly four years. Since, in fact, Savage Kitten ended the relationship. I like Indian food, but it's somewhat tainted by association.
We frequently went to the local Indian restaurants for dinner together.
Since then, a number of spice combinations have become painful.
Contradictorily, Cantonese food does not have that problem.
She hardly ever cooked it and we never ate it elsewhere.
And in any case I made it more often than she did.
Cantonese food is totally safe.
I should go out to dinner tonight myself, to a Cantonese restaurant even, but I do not feel like it. Instead, I'll just go to bed early and read a book.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PROPORTIONAL DIVIDERS
An early dinner recently became an immensely frustrating experience. No, both the food and the service were more than up to standard, the cutlery and glassware were quite clean and shiny, as was the entire restaurant. And the food was unexceptionally excellent. It is by no means due to anything that the restaurant had a handle on that I was frustrated.
Well, maybe one thing that they can be blamed for.
Their waitress. Her clothes.
Particularly.
And at this point I might as well admit that I am at times a giant hamsaplo.
[The term 'hamsaplo' is explicated here: Aunt Mildred.]
The Vietnamese coffee was perfect, and the bitter melon and chicken over rice was entirely up to snuff. They add a little more fermented black bean to the saucing than other places, but the vegetable was pleasingly crunchy and startling in its intensity. It was a splendid foil, in fact, for the hotsauce of which I plooped a liberal measure on my plate.
Food and drink-wise, it was a completely satisfying experience.
There weren't many other customers there at the time.
One member of the staff remembered me.
And was happy to see me again.
She's learning English.
Which is hard.
[Vietnamese coffee: cà phê sữa đá (咖啡奶冰 'ka-fei naai-bing'). Bittermelon and Chicken over Rice: 涼瓜雞球飯 ('leung gwa gai kau fan'). Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwa'), 凉瓜 ('leung gwa'); momocordica charantia. Fermented black beans: 豆豉 ('dau si'); a dry condimental substance remoistend and mashed, it accounts for a dark speckled sauce with a savoury taste in a number of preparations. Hotsauce: Tương Ớt Sriracha (是拉差香甜辣椒醬 'silaja heung-tim laat-chiu jeung'), which is manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司 'wui fung sik-pan gung-si') in the wilds of Southern California (南加州 'naam ga jau'; 野蠻南域 'ye maan naam wik').]
I always like it when Chinese people finally learn English, because my Cantonese is not entirely fluent (understatement) and it just makes it so much easier to communicate when there's a fallback position. English is the default fallback, even if both of us also speak Mandarin.
Cantonese people speaking Mandarin sound nearly as bad as white people (such as myself) using that tongue, and my ability with, lets say, Teochew, Hakka, and Hokkien is virtually non-existent.
Not even mentioning Shanghainese.
[Cantonese: 廣東話 ('gwong jau wa'), 粵語 ('yuet yü'). Mandarin: 官話 ('gwun wa'), 北京話 ('baak keng wa'), 普通話 ('po tong wa'), 國語 ('gwok yü'). Teochew: (潮州話 'chew jau wa'). Hakka: (客家話 'hak gaa wa'). Hokkien: (福建話 'fuk kin wa'), 福州話 ('fuk jau wa'), 廈門話 ('haa mun wa'). Shanghainese: 上海話 ('seung hoi wa').]
Many years ago I was able to converse at a kindergarten level in Hokkien, but every time I opened my mouth, people would look at me funny. Finally someone said "you know, I have an auntie who lives in the hills who still talks like that".
Apparently his auntie was an idiot.
[Idiot: su ku. His auntie is an idiot: "I e lao gu si kung ngaa bo e".]
YAT DEUI LIN-TAU M-KIN JO LAA?
Anyhow, what frustrated me while eating was not the English-learner, who is a very pleasant middle-aged woman and mother of at least two young adults, but the waitress.
Who is considerably younger, and bi-lingual.
I kept wondering where her nipples were.
An attractive young lady, with a lovely smile and lively eyes. Soft-looking hands. Clearly intelligent. And extremely nice though meaty thighs -- they had good proportion, and her legs tapered curvily, and I've always liked what dark semi-opaque panty hose do to the view -- as well as lovely knees (see previously mentioned dark hose).
Circumstantial evidence suggests that she is flat-chested. Or reasonably so. And there's nothing wrong with that, it really works for some people.
Very well, in fact.
Further circumstantial evidence indicated that whatever brassiere she employed had a certain amount of padding, for both support and comfort.
As well as a safeguard against chafing.
Which is also important.
[Nipple: 奶頭 ('naai tau'), 姩頭 ('nin tau').]
If I had had my proportional dividers and a drafting compass on me (and the triangles and French-curves), I probably could have determined the exact location of the nipples, based on distances and degrees, but it still would have been no more than an educated guess. And in all probability she might have objected to the process. There's even a distinct probability that the considerable charm she normally displayed would be replaced by something approaching screaming fury and indignation.
Women are funny that way.
It remained an intellectual problem, but investigating the matter, which is not any of my business, would have encountered obstructions.
I used to be a draughtsman; some things stay with you.
Very nearly started figuring it out with the mound of steamed rice.
I'll definitely go there again, but the next time I might sit facing the other direction.
No, I shan't ask her out. One should never date the waitresses at restaurants that one likes going to. Or even think of it. Such things must inevitably lead to lessened dining options for oneself, and potentially cause further problems for the young ladies in the excercise.
Besides, I don't know anything about her.
Not enough to go by.
She's nice.
And that will have to remain all that I know.
Dining by myself makes me keenly aware of the fact that I have not had a relationship for several years. There is much that I miss about that.
Conversation, holding hands, a smile, and sparkling eyes.
Many things, in fact.
None of which require proportional dividers.
I guess the excess of hotsauce is to compensate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well, maybe one thing that they can be blamed for.
Their waitress. Her clothes.
Particularly.
And at this point I might as well admit that I am at times a giant hamsaplo.
[The term 'hamsaplo' is explicated here: Aunt Mildred.]
The Vietnamese coffee was perfect, and the bitter melon and chicken over rice was entirely up to snuff. They add a little more fermented black bean to the saucing than other places, but the vegetable was pleasingly crunchy and startling in its intensity. It was a splendid foil, in fact, for the hotsauce of which I plooped a liberal measure on my plate.
Food and drink-wise, it was a completely satisfying experience.
There weren't many other customers there at the time.
One member of the staff remembered me.
And was happy to see me again.
She's learning English.
Which is hard.
[Vietnamese coffee: cà phê sữa đá (咖啡奶冰 'ka-fei naai-bing'). Bittermelon and Chicken over Rice: 涼瓜雞球飯 ('leung gwa gai kau fan'). Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwa'), 凉瓜 ('leung gwa'); momocordica charantia. Fermented black beans: 豆豉 ('dau si'); a dry condimental substance remoistend and mashed, it accounts for a dark speckled sauce with a savoury taste in a number of preparations. Hotsauce: Tương Ớt Sriracha (是拉差香甜辣椒醬 'silaja heung-tim laat-chiu jeung'), which is manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司 'wui fung sik-pan gung-si') in the wilds of Southern California (南加州 'naam ga jau'; 野蠻南域 'ye maan naam wik').]
I always like it when Chinese people finally learn English, because my Cantonese is not entirely fluent (understatement) and it just makes it so much easier to communicate when there's a fallback position. English is the default fallback, even if both of us also speak Mandarin.
Cantonese people speaking Mandarin sound nearly as bad as white people (such as myself) using that tongue, and my ability with, lets say, Teochew, Hakka, and Hokkien is virtually non-existent.
Not even mentioning Shanghainese.
[Cantonese: 廣東話 ('gwong jau wa'), 粵語 ('yuet yü'). Mandarin: 官話 ('gwun wa'), 北京話 ('baak keng wa'), 普通話 ('po tong wa'), 國語 ('gwok yü'). Teochew: (潮州話 'chew jau wa'). Hakka: (客家話 'hak gaa wa'). Hokkien: (福建話 'fuk kin wa'), 福州話 ('fuk jau wa'), 廈門話 ('haa mun wa'). Shanghainese: 上海話 ('seung hoi wa').]
Many years ago I was able to converse at a kindergarten level in Hokkien, but every time I opened my mouth, people would look at me funny. Finally someone said "you know, I have an auntie who lives in the hills who still talks like that".
Apparently his auntie was an idiot.
[Idiot: su ku. His auntie is an idiot: "I e lao gu si kung ngaa bo e".]
YAT DEUI LIN-TAU M-KIN JO LAA?
Anyhow, what frustrated me while eating was not the English-learner, who is a very pleasant middle-aged woman and mother of at least two young adults, but the waitress.
Who is considerably younger, and bi-lingual.
I kept wondering where her nipples were.
An attractive young lady, with a lovely smile and lively eyes. Soft-looking hands. Clearly intelligent. And extremely nice though meaty thighs -- they had good proportion, and her legs tapered curvily, and I've always liked what dark semi-opaque panty hose do to the view -- as well as lovely knees (see previously mentioned dark hose).
Circumstantial evidence suggests that she is flat-chested. Or reasonably so. And there's nothing wrong with that, it really works for some people.
Very well, in fact.
Further circumstantial evidence indicated that whatever brassiere she employed had a certain amount of padding, for both support and comfort.
As well as a safeguard against chafing.
Which is also important.
[Nipple: 奶頭 ('naai tau'), 姩頭 ('nin tau').]
If I had had my proportional dividers and a drafting compass on me (and the triangles and French-curves), I probably could have determined the exact location of the nipples, based on distances and degrees, but it still would have been no more than an educated guess. And in all probability she might have objected to the process. There's even a distinct probability that the considerable charm she normally displayed would be replaced by something approaching screaming fury and indignation.
Women are funny that way.
It remained an intellectual problem, but investigating the matter, which is not any of my business, would have encountered obstructions.
I used to be a draughtsman; some things stay with you.
Very nearly started figuring it out with the mound of steamed rice.
I'll definitely go there again, but the next time I might sit facing the other direction.
No, I shan't ask her out. One should never date the waitresses at restaurants that one likes going to. Or even think of it. Such things must inevitably lead to lessened dining options for oneself, and potentially cause further problems for the young ladies in the excercise.
Besides, I don't know anything about her.
Not enough to go by.
She's nice.
And that will have to remain all that I know.
Dining by myself makes me keenly aware of the fact that I have not had a relationship for several years. There is much that I miss about that.
Conversation, holding hands, a smile, and sparkling eyes.
Many things, in fact.
None of which require proportional dividers.
I guess the excess of hotsauce is to compensate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 10, 2014
HAEMOWHATSIS
A friend mentioned me in a post about garlic and dill, asafoetida, and haemorrhoids. Which duly flatters me. Apparently his breath has recently stunk, and he didn't go to a housewarming party in Jaffa. If you knew him, you would understand the connection.
But feel free to speculate if you don't.
Personally, I've always thought of housewarming parties as a giant pain in the sphincter. There you are, surrounded by the newness of it all, in the company of several people you do not know, trying to make happy in a relatively quiet way so that the landlord will not have a pretext to kick out the new tenant.
"Dammit, your friends wrecked the stairwell, and the smell won't go away. So you will have to. You have until Tuesday."
And on Tuesday, his brutish cousin Grunter comes over to beat up the recalcitrant party thrower, who has not left yet. But, impressed by the damage to the stairwell, Grunter stays for an impromptu festivity.
Which involves booze, illicit substances, and strippers. And a disco ball. At eleven o'clock in the morning, in the stairwell. Which you wrecked during the housewarming party. With your unbelievable smells. If you were quieter, and a much more civilized person, this would NOT have happened; it's all your fault.
It's a horrible responsibility.
Years ago, someone I knew threw a housewarming party after he moved into the loft above the bakery. I was not invited, and for several weeks afterwards I resented the implied unfamiliarity. Especially because someone else kept boasting about the fun, the good cheer, the warm embrace of comradeship, and all the other good stuff.
I had heard the noise and seen the flashing lights of the disco ball on my way home that evening, so I knew that a rousing good time had taken place.
I very much wished the baker had not retired and let out his loft.
I've never liked housewarming parties.
Or disco.
[I'm fairly okay with extra potent garlic and dill cream cheese, though. Especially with lots of mashed fresh garlic. Bagel day sounds like a giant opportunity.]
Now, decades later, I realize that disco balls have become cool again, because they're retro. At any moment, bellbottoms, beads, and tie-dye will come back into fashion too. Along with illicit substances, which were very popular then. And patchouli.
I'm rather glad my landlords haven't rented to any of the young google or twitter yuppies filling the city. I don't want the sound of the horny hordes stampeding up and down the stairs at all hours of the night. Or screams, hoots, and excessive gaiety elsewhere in the building.
The quietness is nice, there are no wild parties.
No flashing lights, no loud disco music.
No garlic and dill cream cheese.
Nor even asafoetida.
Haemorrhoids.
None.
On a somewhat related note, I should inform you that I did not experience sex until after I left the Netherlands, and I avoid illicit substances and people who use such things.
I mention these matters because when I returned to the States, most people assumed that I had spent my years over there either madly rutting in a drug-induced haze, or sucking giant spleeve in Amsterdam bordellos.
No such thing; I lived a relatively normal life.
Like most teenagers at that time.
According to Wikipædia:
"Asafoetida, انگدان, آنغوزه or asafetida (Ferula assa-foetida) / æsəˈfɛtɨdə /, is the dried latex (gum oleoresin) exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula, a perennial herb that grows 1 to 1.5 m tall. The species is native to the deserts of Iran, mountains of Afghanistan, and is mainly cultivated in nearby India. As its name suggests, asafoetida has a fetid smell (see etymology below) but in cooked dishes it delivers a smooth flavor reminiscent of leeks. It is also known as asant, food of the gods, giant fennel, jowani badian, stinking gum, Devil's dung, hing, kayam and ting."
And, fascinatingly:
"It was familiar in the early Mediterranean, having come by land across Iran. Though it is generally forgotten now in Europe, it is still widely used in India. It emerged into Europe from a conquering expedition of Alexander the Great, who, after returning from a trip to northeastern Persia, thought they had found a plant almost identical to the famed silphium of Cyrene in North Africa—though less tasty. Dioscorides, in the first century, wrote, "the Cyrenaic kind, even if one just tastes it, at once arouses a humour throughout the body and has a very healthy aroma, so that it is not noticed on the breath, or only a little; but the Median [Iranian] is weaker in power and has a nastier smell." Nevertheless, it could be substituted for silphium in cooking, which was fortunate, because a few decades after Dioscorides's time, the true silphium of Cyrene became extinct, and asafoetida became more popular amongst physicians, as well as cooks."
It's connection to haemorrhoids and housewarming parties in Jaffa must remain one of the mysteries of life. Though I suspect that like drugs and sex in Holland, there is less there than meets the eye.
In all honesty, I wouldn't mind a discreet bit of excessive gaiety.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But feel free to speculate if you don't.
Personally, I've always thought of housewarming parties as a giant pain in the sphincter. There you are, surrounded by the newness of it all, in the company of several people you do not know, trying to make happy in a relatively quiet way so that the landlord will not have a pretext to kick out the new tenant.
"Dammit, your friends wrecked the stairwell, and the smell won't go away. So you will have to. You have until Tuesday."
And on Tuesday, his brutish cousin Grunter comes over to beat up the recalcitrant party thrower, who has not left yet. But, impressed by the damage to the stairwell, Grunter stays for an impromptu festivity.
Which involves booze, illicit substances, and strippers. And a disco ball. At eleven o'clock in the morning, in the stairwell. Which you wrecked during the housewarming party. With your unbelievable smells. If you were quieter, and a much more civilized person, this would NOT have happened; it's all your fault.
It's a horrible responsibility.
Years ago, someone I knew threw a housewarming party after he moved into the loft above the bakery. I was not invited, and for several weeks afterwards I resented the implied unfamiliarity. Especially because someone else kept boasting about the fun, the good cheer, the warm embrace of comradeship, and all the other good stuff.
I had heard the noise and seen the flashing lights of the disco ball on my way home that evening, so I knew that a rousing good time had taken place.
I very much wished the baker had not retired and let out his loft.
I've never liked housewarming parties.
Or disco.
[I'm fairly okay with extra potent garlic and dill cream cheese, though. Especially with lots of mashed fresh garlic. Bagel day sounds like a giant opportunity.]
Now, decades later, I realize that disco balls have become cool again, because they're retro. At any moment, bellbottoms, beads, and tie-dye will come back into fashion too. Along with illicit substances, which were very popular then. And patchouli.
I'm rather glad my landlords haven't rented to any of the young google or twitter yuppies filling the city. I don't want the sound of the horny hordes stampeding up and down the stairs at all hours of the night. Or screams, hoots, and excessive gaiety elsewhere in the building.
The quietness is nice, there are no wild parties.
No flashing lights, no loud disco music.
No garlic and dill cream cheese.
Nor even asafoetida.
Haemorrhoids.
None.
On a somewhat related note, I should inform you that I did not experience sex until after I left the Netherlands, and I avoid illicit substances and people who use such things.
I mention these matters because when I returned to the States, most people assumed that I had spent my years over there either madly rutting in a drug-induced haze, or sucking giant spleeve in Amsterdam bordellos.
No such thing; I lived a relatively normal life.
Like most teenagers at that time.
According to Wikipædia:
"Asafoetida, انگدان, آنغوزه or asafetida (Ferula assa-foetida) / æsəˈfɛtɨdə /, is the dried latex (gum oleoresin) exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula, a perennial herb that grows 1 to 1.5 m tall. The species is native to the deserts of Iran, mountains of Afghanistan, and is mainly cultivated in nearby India. As its name suggests, asafoetida has a fetid smell (see etymology below) but in cooked dishes it delivers a smooth flavor reminiscent of leeks. It is also known as asant, food of the gods, giant fennel, jowani badian, stinking gum, Devil's dung, hing, kayam and ting."
And, fascinatingly:
"It was familiar in the early Mediterranean, having come by land across Iran. Though it is generally forgotten now in Europe, it is still widely used in India. It emerged into Europe from a conquering expedition of Alexander the Great, who, after returning from a trip to northeastern Persia, thought they had found a plant almost identical to the famed silphium of Cyrene in North Africa—though less tasty. Dioscorides, in the first century, wrote, "the Cyrenaic kind, even if one just tastes it, at once arouses a humour throughout the body and has a very healthy aroma, so that it is not noticed on the breath, or only a little; but the Median [Iranian] is weaker in power and has a nastier smell." Nevertheless, it could be substituted for silphium in cooking, which was fortunate, because a few decades after Dioscorides's time, the true silphium of Cyrene became extinct, and asafoetida became more popular amongst physicians, as well as cooks."
It's connection to haemorrhoids and housewarming parties in Jaffa must remain one of the mysteries of life. Though I suspect that like drugs and sex in Holland, there is less there than meets the eye.
In all honesty, I wouldn't mind a discreet bit of excessive gaiety.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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