Imagine that there's a small grey beast that loves the mud in your back yard, if you live near a mangrove swamp. Now imagine that it influences your nightmares and scares the neighbors. And it's very cute.
Sounds rather cool, eh?
THE MUDSKIPPER
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWZyHViNbBA. ]
It's edible. As even a cursory search on the interweb attests.
ABSTRACT: Public Perception of Mudskipper Consumption in Some Fishing Communities of Rivers State, Nigeria
QUOTE: "Consumption of mudskipper was more popular among the old people than the younger ones".
At this point, you should be real hungry.
I know that I am, no mistake.
Fish for breakfast.
Naturally, that begs the question how one cooks it. The answer is much like catfish, with bold flavours and after rinsing well because it is sometimes overly sandy.
Chinese-style sure sounds like a winner.
Yes, definitely Chinese.
Nomenclature:
One name is 背眼蝦虎魚('pei ngaan haa fu yü'; "back-eyed goby"), but far more common is 彈塗魚 ('daan tau yü'; "bullet mud fish").
It is also called 跳跳魚 ('tiu tiu yü'; "jump-jump fish").
Cooking ideas:
香姜蔥生彈塗魚 ('geung chong daan saang tau yü'): fragrant ginger and scallion mudskipper.
糖醋彈塗魚片 ('tong chou daan tau yü pin'): sweet and sour sliced mudskipper.
咖喱彈塗魚塊 ('gaa lei daan tau yü faai'): curried mudskipper chunks.
辣味大蒜燒彈塗魚 ('laat mei daai suen siu daan tau yü'): spicy garlic braised mudskipper.
鹹菜燒彈塗魚 ('haahm choi siu daan tau yü'): salted vegetable stewed mudskipper.
This is all purely speculative, of course, because I have never seen mudskipper in Chinatown fishmarkets, nor heard them.
The racket would be unbelievable I imagine.
It's a very great pity.
And normally I do not eat breakfast.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 13, 2015
Sunday, July 12, 2015
AVOID THE CROWD
It should have been a lovely evening, the perfect and relaxed way to end a day well-spent. Instead, one of the local 'business' owners brought in a friend whom I rather wish he had left in a garbage can somewhere.
I am enough of a cheapskate that I deeply resent abandoning my drink (Scotch and water), and still human enough that the utterly delighted expressions on the faces of the few patrons in the place and the co-owner, have burned an indelible impression on my mind.
No one likes being laughed at.
I had barely filled a pipe when ---- came in with a friend, who plonked himself down at the table and started haranguing me about space aliens building Easter Island. ---- was too busy with his cell-phone to intervene, and consequently his manic-depressive associate had free reign.
I never did get that pipe lit. After ten minutes of circular hogwash from ----'s arrogant brother I had had enough and got up, emptied my pipe, put my barely touched drink on the bar, and paid my bill.
Tipped, too, which given the sheer putrid loathsomeness of the experience was rather overly generous, especially as apparently everyone else there was in on the joke, and keenly amused. Smirking bastards.
That's money, tobacco, and time I'll never see again.
And a mood I rather wouldn't have had.
Nobody likes being laughed at.
Or wasting money.
On the other hand, the roast duck I had eaten in Chinatown earlier was utterly delicious, and there is no chance in hell any of the customers of the cigar bar will ever go there.
Places where one is appreciated (and not laughed at) are worth treasuring. They're doing well, and do not need the patronage of cigar smokers.
Their food is excellent, and they make people feel welcome.
That makes a world of difference.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am enough of a cheapskate that I deeply resent abandoning my drink (Scotch and water), and still human enough that the utterly delighted expressions on the faces of the few patrons in the place and the co-owner, have burned an indelible impression on my mind.
No one likes being laughed at.
I had barely filled a pipe when ---- came in with a friend, who plonked himself down at the table and started haranguing me about space aliens building Easter Island. ---- was too busy with his cell-phone to intervene, and consequently his manic-depressive associate had free reign.
I never did get that pipe lit. After ten minutes of circular hogwash from ----'s arrogant brother I had had enough and got up, emptied my pipe, put my barely touched drink on the bar, and paid my bill.
Tipped, too, which given the sheer putrid loathsomeness of the experience was rather overly generous, especially as apparently everyone else there was in on the joke, and keenly amused. Smirking bastards.
That's money, tobacco, and time I'll never see again.
And a mood I rather wouldn't have had.
Nobody likes being laughed at.
Or wasting money.
On the other hand, the roast duck I had eaten in Chinatown earlier was utterly delicious, and there is no chance in hell any of the customers of the cigar bar will ever go there.
Places where one is appreciated (and not laughed at) are worth treasuring. They're doing well, and do not need the patronage of cigar smokers.
Their food is excellent, and they make people feel welcome.
That makes a world of difference.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOUNG MEAT RACK CITY
It strikes me that most people have loopy ideas about feminine looks, including women. One expects this from teevee addicts, as well as sports fiends -- everybody is described as "beautiful", and football fans are boob-obsesses at best -- but recently I heard some described as 'lovely' who was dull in the eyes but extraordinary in certain other departments.
Naturally it was a man with a beer who said that.
Wisely, I choose to agree with him.
Why object to an opinion.
Freedom of thought.
"Yes, that is quite the aristocratic ovine profile.
That gaze of endless opacity is intriguing."
The beer drinker took this as validation, and thus encouraged, felt bold enough to strike up a conversation. Given that he made more eye-contact with her frontage, he likely never noticed how utterly vacuous she was.
A great pity, because they were perfect intellectual equals.
I left before anything happened. Not my kind of place.
Beer is the drink of stupid people.
So are mojitos.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Naturally it was a man with a beer who said that.
Wisely, I choose to agree with him.
Why object to an opinion.
Freedom of thought.
"Yes, that is quite the aristocratic ovine profile.
That gaze of endless opacity is intriguing."
The beer drinker took this as validation, and thus encouraged, felt bold enough to strike up a conversation. Given that he made more eye-contact with her frontage, he likely never noticed how utterly vacuous she was.
A great pity, because they were perfect intellectual equals.
I left before anything happened. Not my kind of place.
Beer is the drink of stupid people.
So are mojitos.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 11, 2015
ELIZABETH TAYLOR AND HAIRY CARNIVORES
Recently two readers remarked that the Hello Kitty essay written on Tuesday was disturbing, and seemed far too much like a dating site profile. The third reader present during discussions didn't say anything, perhaps because he's a habitual user of medical marijuana, and may have had a hard time focusing.
One of them had several times suggested that a Hello Kitty backpack was sufficient reason for parents to keep their children far away from me. He's got a filthy mind, and does not realize that I know far more dogs than children.
I am not enthralled by the repulsive offspring of other people.
Most Americans give birth to spoiled brats.
Odious priggish troglodytes.
Let me quote from Elizabeth Taylor in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof by Tennessee Williams:
"One of those no-neck monsters hit me with some ice cream. Their fat little heads sit on their fat little bodies without a bit of connection... You can't wring their necks if they got no necks to wring. Isn't that right, honey?... Think of it, they've got five monsters and number six comin' up."
Feel free to think of me as either Elizabeth Taylor, or Tennessee Williams.
I gladly identify with those two excellent human beings.
They had everyone else's children pegged.
I like dogs and cats, though.
Anyhow, they opined that there was too much of my own self-regard in the Hello Kitty post, and not enough about the original target of my ire, OR ms. Kitty.
"Please DON'T tell us how you really feel!"
I pointed out that there was no e-mail address or contact data there, so while that sneering article may have seemed to have an element of dating site bait, it was instead meant ironically.
Before I could clarify my statements regarding the gentleman so aptly described as a "pompous bald-headed dog-freak in Marin County who thinks he's so funny", one of the people present launched into a sparkly monologue about a seven-hundred pound hominid whose teethmarks have been discovered in Washington somewhere in the mountains, and there was speculation about a Canadian who may have gotten lost.
Alternatively, a foodie.
While this was going on, the gentleman who said nothing earlier giggled a bit to himself, and stared at the ceiling.
You know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that Elizabeth Taylor was NOT the perfect woman. Yes, brilliant, but almost a stereotype.
All sexy curves and crazy eyes.
The perfect woman has peaceful eyes, and isn't insanely curvy.
Only one Tayloresque similarity: stunning lips.
NOT carnivorous breasts.
[This blogger does indeed like breasts, but there is such a thing as too much cleavage.]
There are also several good reasons to believe that the perfect woman is completely not into Hello Kitty. And in fact distinctly loathes the saccharine feline tramp.
Because, after all, Hello Kitty shmatte or chatchkies totally sabotage the impression one wishes to make of independent-mindedness, good sense and good taste, intelligence, and femininity.
Too damned childish.
Not "cute".
Which is of course why I can get away with it. No one in their right mind would mistake me for a woman. Possibly crazy and a disturber of the peace, yes, as well as a borderline reprobate, a wild animal, or an eccentric old coot. Definitely not Elizabeth Taylor.
Elizabeth Taylor didn't have a goatee.
Nor did she smoke a pipe.
I am not cute.
The concept of a wild non-Canadian hominid hiding out in the Cascades up in eastern Washington is rather intriguing. The teethmarks were on deer carcasses -- hence the chance that it was a foodie -- and from the spacing of the incisor tracks the scientist who was cited deduced the seven hundred pound dimension.
I doubt that it's Bigfoot. I'm betting a missing computer programmer or an Information Technology professional who recently moved out of his mother's house.
A no-neck monster, all grown-up.
Huge, but harmless.
Years ago, designer Edith Head said about Elizabeth Taylor:
"Elizabeth Taylor is the most beautiful woman I've ever fit. She is not as easy to dress as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, because she is a short woman, only five foot two. She's also extremely curvaceous and has short legs. But, you see, those are the kinds of minor imperfections that make for classic beauty. A woman’s individual beauty is created by little mars in the state of perfect beauty. Elizabeth's fascination lies in those little discrepancies. She has aged gracefully, despite what her detractors have said. She is beautiful when she is plump and she is lovely when she trims down. A faulty figure can be changed by foundations and the proper use of dark and light colors. But no makeup can create a face like Elizabeth's. She is exquisite."
I still can't get over that bosom, though.
Aggressive and threatening.
Dangerous.
An insurmountable problem.
I still think it's Canadian.
A long-dugged troll.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One of them had several times suggested that a Hello Kitty backpack was sufficient reason for parents to keep their children far away from me. He's got a filthy mind, and does not realize that I know far more dogs than children.
I am not enthralled by the repulsive offspring of other people.
Most Americans give birth to spoiled brats.
Odious priggish troglodytes.
Let me quote from Elizabeth Taylor in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof by Tennessee Williams:
"One of those no-neck monsters hit me with some ice cream. Their fat little heads sit on their fat little bodies without a bit of connection... You can't wring their necks if they got no necks to wring. Isn't that right, honey?... Think of it, they've got five monsters and number six comin' up."
Feel free to think of me as either Elizabeth Taylor, or Tennessee Williams.
I gladly identify with those two excellent human beings.
They had everyone else's children pegged.
I like dogs and cats, though.
Anyhow, they opined that there was too much of my own self-regard in the Hello Kitty post, and not enough about the original target of my ire, OR ms. Kitty.
"Please DON'T tell us how you really feel!"
I pointed out that there was no e-mail address or contact data there, so while that sneering article may have seemed to have an element of dating site bait, it was instead meant ironically.
Before I could clarify my statements regarding the gentleman so aptly described as a "pompous bald-headed dog-freak in Marin County who thinks he's so funny", one of the people present launched into a sparkly monologue about a seven-hundred pound hominid whose teethmarks have been discovered in Washington somewhere in the mountains, and there was speculation about a Canadian who may have gotten lost.
Alternatively, a foodie.
While this was going on, the gentleman who said nothing earlier giggled a bit to himself, and stared at the ceiling.
You know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that Elizabeth Taylor was NOT the perfect woman. Yes, brilliant, but almost a stereotype.
All sexy curves and crazy eyes.
The perfect woman has peaceful eyes, and isn't insanely curvy.
Only one Tayloresque similarity: stunning lips.
NOT carnivorous breasts.
[This blogger does indeed like breasts, but there is such a thing as too much cleavage.]
There are also several good reasons to believe that the perfect woman is completely not into Hello Kitty. And in fact distinctly loathes the saccharine feline tramp.
Because, after all, Hello Kitty shmatte or chatchkies totally sabotage the impression one wishes to make of independent-mindedness, good sense and good taste, intelligence, and femininity.
Too damned childish.
Not "cute".
Which is of course why I can get away with it. No one in their right mind would mistake me for a woman. Possibly crazy and a disturber of the peace, yes, as well as a borderline reprobate, a wild animal, or an eccentric old coot. Definitely not Elizabeth Taylor.
Elizabeth Taylor didn't have a goatee.
Nor did she smoke a pipe.
I am not cute.
The concept of a wild non-Canadian hominid hiding out in the Cascades up in eastern Washington is rather intriguing. The teethmarks were on deer carcasses -- hence the chance that it was a foodie -- and from the spacing of the incisor tracks the scientist who was cited deduced the seven hundred pound dimension.
I doubt that it's Bigfoot. I'm betting a missing computer programmer or an Information Technology professional who recently moved out of his mother's house.
A no-neck monster, all grown-up.
Huge, but harmless.
Years ago, designer Edith Head said about Elizabeth Taylor:
"Elizabeth Taylor is the most beautiful woman I've ever fit. She is not as easy to dress as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, because she is a short woman, only five foot two. She's also extremely curvaceous and has short legs. But, you see, those are the kinds of minor imperfections that make for classic beauty. A woman’s individual beauty is created by little mars in the state of perfect beauty. Elizabeth's fascination lies in those little discrepancies. She has aged gracefully, despite what her detractors have said. She is beautiful when she is plump and she is lovely when she trims down. A faulty figure can be changed by foundations and the proper use of dark and light colors. But no makeup can create a face like Elizabeth's. She is exquisite."
I still can't get over that bosom, though.
Aggressive and threatening.
Dangerous.
An insurmountable problem.
I still think it's Canadian.
A long-dugged troll.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 10, 2015
A CALM GREENISH HANDFUL
Yesterday evening several of us gathered, as we regularly do, to eat salami and drink wine in good company. There's always salami. Usually wine is also present, though not in a volume sufficient to squiffify the crowd.
The meeting this time was dominated by toads.
The Golden Gate Pipe Club likes toads.
We discussed toads. In detail.
I feel like I have a personal stake in toad-love. Toads are intelligent and personable. Toads are absolutely the best amphibians, far above newts or salamanders, better than frogs by a wide margin. Frogs are skittish and neurotic. When a toad trusts you, you are clearly a calm, rational, and thoughtful person. Worth knowing, and not given to any sudden movements.
Oh yes, pipes were smoked, and tobaccos were compared. Tins were passed around to sample. And there was cheese.
But we talked about toads.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The meeting this time was dominated by toads.
The Golden Gate Pipe Club likes toads.
We discussed toads. In detail.
I feel like I have a personal stake in toad-love. Toads are intelligent and personable. Toads are absolutely the best amphibians, far above newts or salamanders, better than frogs by a wide margin. Frogs are skittish and neurotic. When a toad trusts you, you are clearly a calm, rational, and thoughtful person. Worth knowing, and not given to any sudden movements.
Oh yes, pipes were smoked, and tobaccos were compared. Tins were passed around to sample. And there was cheese.
But we talked about toads.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 09, 2015
BOBBY JINDAL IS WHITE
Given the support that the governor of Louisiana has gotten from talking heads, and a large number of alleged human beings in the Deep South, there is only ONE possible conclusion: he's white.
Just like Donald Trump.
Which means that if both of those gentlemen stay in the race, they can be the most-loved ticket in Dixie.
This blogger admits a secret fondness for the secessionist states. How can one not like places where everyone shops at a "Piggly Wiggly", lives in a trailer park, and habitually kills their braincells with corn liquor?
It's like a kinder gentler version of never-never land.
Well, except for Texas.
Discuss.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Just like Donald Trump.
Which means that if both of those gentlemen stay in the race, they can be the most-loved ticket in Dixie.
This blogger admits a secret fondness for the secessionist states. How can one not like places where everyone shops at a "Piggly Wiggly", lives in a trailer park, and habitually kills their braincells with corn liquor?
It's like a kinder gentler version of never-never land.
Well, except for Texas.
Discuss.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 08, 2015
LIKE A HOLE IN THE HEAD
At the risk of offending some of my more civilized readers, OR the vast apathetic herds of internetists, this blogger will admit to finding some violence not only justifiable but entirely commendable.
Such as Sikhs going full wombat against oppression.
Or simple taking out a total scumbag.
Things take off at 2:05.
WHACK THE ZAMINDAR!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCBhB1ZNgm8.]
Okay, everything after the smirking gentleman gets shot may be a little disturbing to sensitive souls. But consider that in a traditional (feudalistic) agrarian economy, venal money lenders frequently also are the local grain merchants, and often become the biggest landlords. Who then ruthlessly use their wealth and power to get the Hindu authorities and powerful political operators in the Congress Party to collaborate with them in grand schemes to rob and disenfranchise the less well-connected.
Often with able assistance by members of the police.
[There's something extremely Dixie about that.]
I've worked with Sikhs. They are very tolerant people, who usually will put up with huge amounts of offense and effrontery rather than become violent. Because of that, Hindus and Muslims may assume that they are stupid and can be taken advantage of.
But at some point they take back control of the discourse.
I'm not sure that the folks in Delhi grasp this.
Achha, sab Delhi me ...-... hai.
POST SCRIPTUM
In the past I've also worked with Gujus and Uttar Pradeshis. In direct consequence I am far less accepting of Hindus than I should be.
The Sikhs I rather admire and like.
Banias, not so much.
Maaf, eh.
Nope, not going to mention 1984.
That's not my brief.
Dammit, charpai puri tabaha-hai!
Sare khuni de ...
Ch ... !
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Such as Sikhs going full wombat against oppression.
Or simple taking out a total scumbag.
Things take off at 2:05.
WHACK THE ZAMINDAR!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCBhB1ZNgm8.]
Okay, everything after the smirking gentleman gets shot may be a little disturbing to sensitive souls. But consider that in a traditional (feudalistic) agrarian economy, venal money lenders frequently also are the local grain merchants, and often become the biggest landlords. Who then ruthlessly use their wealth and power to get the Hindu authorities and powerful political operators in the Congress Party to collaborate with them in grand schemes to rob and disenfranchise the less well-connected.
Often with able assistance by members of the police.
[There's something extremely Dixie about that.]
I've worked with Sikhs. They are very tolerant people, who usually will put up with huge amounts of offense and effrontery rather than become violent. Because of that, Hindus and Muslims may assume that they are stupid and can be taken advantage of.
But at some point they take back control of the discourse.
I'm not sure that the folks in Delhi grasp this.
Achha, sab Delhi me ...-... hai.
POST SCRIPTUM
In the past I've also worked with Gujus and Uttar Pradeshis. In direct consequence I am far less accepting of Hindus than I should be.
The Sikhs I rather admire and like.
Banias, not so much.
Maaf, eh.
Nope, not going to mention 1984.
That's not my brief.
Dammit, charpai puri tabaha-hai!
Sare khuni de ...
Ch ... !
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GIVING TRUMP A STUMP
Donald Trump, who is in competition for biggest blowhard with himself, and represents a very large number of illiterates in this country, makes for good reading. Especially if you like reading insane blithering.
I live in San Francisco, so naturally I do.
Like reading insane blithering.
Consequently, I present the Trumphole in his own words.
Unknowingly a guest-poster here.
Free publicity!
SERMON BY THE TRUMP-O-THINGY!
In the text below, Ronald MacHairpiece clarifies what he believes about rapists heading north. No, none of it was edited; neither by me or by his staff of overworked advisors. It is his own stream-of-consciousness, entirely undiluted.
He's one traumatized little rug-wearer.
Oh poor baby.
Begin cite:
I don’t see how there is any room for misunderstanding or misinterpretation of the statement I made on June 16th during my Presidential announcement speech. Here is what I said, and yet this statement is deliberately distorted by the media:
“When Mexico (meaning the Mexican Government) sends its people, they’re not sending their best. They’re not sending you (pointing to the audience). They’re not sending you (pointing again). They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems to us. They’re bringing drugs.They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people! But I speak to border guards and they tell us what we’re getting. And it only makes common sense. They’re sending us not the right people. It’s coming from more than Mexico. It’s coming from all over South and Latin America, and it’s coming probably from the Middle East.
But we don’t know. Because we have no protection and we have no competence, we don’t know what’s happening.
And it’s got to stop and it’s got to stop fast. What can be simpler or more accurately stated?
The Mexican Government is forcing their most unwanted people into the United States. They are, in many cases, criminals, drug dealers, rapists, etc. This was evident just this week when, as an example, a young woman in San Francisco was viciously killed by a 5 time deported Mexican with a long criminal record, who was forced back into the United States because they didn’t want him in Mexico.
This is merely one of thousands of similar incidents throughout the United States. In other words, the worst elements in Mexico are being pushed into the United States by the Mexican government. The largest suppliers of heroin, cocaine and other illicit drugs are Mexican cartels that arrange to have Mexican immigrants trying to cross the borders and smuggle in the drugs. The Border Patrol knows this.
Likewise, tremendous infectious disease is pouring across the border. The United States has become a dumping ground for Mexico and, in fact, for many other parts of the world. On the other hand, many fabulous people come in from Mexico and our country is better for it. But these people are here legally, and are severely hurt by those coming in illegally. I am proud to say that I know many hard working Mexicans—many of them are working for and with me…and, just like our country, my organization is better for it.
The Mexican Government wants an open border as long as it’s a ONE WAY open border into the United States. Not only are they killing us at the border, but they are killing us on trade … and the country of Mexico is making billions of dollars in doing so.
I have great respect for Mexico and love their people and their peoples’ great spirit. The problem is, however, that their leaders are far smarter, more cunning, and better negotiators than ours. To the citizens of the United States, who I will represent far better than anyone else as President, the Mexican government is not our friend…and why should they be when the relationship is totally one sided in their favor on both illegal immigration and trade. I have pointed this out during my speeches and it is something Mexico doesn’t want me to say.
In actuality, it was only after my significant rise in the polls that Univision, previously my friend, went ballistic. I believe that my examples of bad trade deals for the United States was of even more concern to the Mexican government than my talk of border security.
I have lost a lot during this Presidential run defending the people of the United States. I have always heard that it is very hard for a successful person to run for President. Macy’s, NBC, Serta and NASCAR have all taken the weak and very sad position of being politically correct even though they are wrong in terms of what is good for our country.
Univision, because 70% of their business comes from Mexico, in my opinion, is being dictated to by the Mexican Government. The last thing Mexico wants is Donald Trump as President in that I will make great trade deals for the United States and will have an impenetrable border. Only legally approved people will come through easily.
Interestingly, Univision has just announced they are attempting to go public despite very poor and even negative earnings, which is not a good situation for a successful IPO or high stock price—not to mention that I am currently suing them for breach of contract. Remember, Univision is the one who began this charade in the first place, and they are owned by one of Hillary Clinton’s biggest backers. After the speech was made, there were numerous compliments and indeed, many rave reviews; there was very little criticism. It wasn’t until a week after my announcement that people started to totally distort these very easy to understand words. If there was something stated incorrectly, it would have been brought up immediately and with great enthusiasm.
The issues I have addressed, and continue to address, are vital steps to "Make America Great Again!" Additionally, I would be the best jobs President that God ever created.
Let’s get to work!
[END CITE.]
From the above, you could deduce that Trumpelstilskin and his great inbred fanclub are psychotic. Or just dumb. But, as a resident of San Francisco, I know both psychotic and dumb, so I'll wager that he's off his meds.
As well as batshit paranoid.
The fanclub too.
You know, this promises to be an interesting election. The Republicans cannot help it; clown after clown is popping out of the Volkswagen, and what with the stupid statements, feet-biting, revelations of slope-browed attitudes, Bible-thumping and rebel-flag waving, as well as gibberant foaming whenever POTUS or SCOTUS does something, all the toxic stuffing inside the rag doll is coming out.
The Trump demographic defines them.
It's the essence of the G.O.P.
Nuts and disease.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I live in San Francisco, so naturally I do.
Like reading insane blithering.
Consequently, I present the Trumphole in his own words.
Unknowingly a guest-poster here.
Free publicity!
SERMON BY THE TRUMP-O-THINGY!
In the text below, Ronald MacHairpiece clarifies what he believes about rapists heading north. No, none of it was edited; neither by me or by his staff of overworked advisors. It is his own stream-of-consciousness, entirely undiluted.
He's one traumatized little rug-wearer.
Oh poor baby.
Begin cite:
I don’t see how there is any room for misunderstanding or misinterpretation of the statement I made on June 16th during my Presidential announcement speech. Here is what I said, and yet this statement is deliberately distorted by the media:
“When Mexico (meaning the Mexican Government) sends its people, they’re not sending their best. They’re not sending you (pointing to the audience). They’re not sending you (pointing again). They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems to us. They’re bringing drugs.They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people! But I speak to border guards and they tell us what we’re getting. And it only makes common sense. They’re sending us not the right people. It’s coming from more than Mexico. It’s coming from all over South and Latin America, and it’s coming probably from the Middle East.
But we don’t know. Because we have no protection and we have no competence, we don’t know what’s happening.
And it’s got to stop and it’s got to stop fast. What can be simpler or more accurately stated?
The Mexican Government is forcing their most unwanted people into the United States. They are, in many cases, criminals, drug dealers, rapists, etc. This was evident just this week when, as an example, a young woman in San Francisco was viciously killed by a 5 time deported Mexican with a long criminal record, who was forced back into the United States because they didn’t want him in Mexico.
This is merely one of thousands of similar incidents throughout the United States. In other words, the worst elements in Mexico are being pushed into the United States by the Mexican government. The largest suppliers of heroin, cocaine and other illicit drugs are Mexican cartels that arrange to have Mexican immigrants trying to cross the borders and smuggle in the drugs. The Border Patrol knows this.
Likewise, tremendous infectious disease is pouring across the border. The United States has become a dumping ground for Mexico and, in fact, for many other parts of the world. On the other hand, many fabulous people come in from Mexico and our country is better for it. But these people are here legally, and are severely hurt by those coming in illegally. I am proud to say that I know many hard working Mexicans—many of them are working for and with me…and, just like our country, my organization is better for it.
The Mexican Government wants an open border as long as it’s a ONE WAY open border into the United States. Not only are they killing us at the border, but they are killing us on trade … and the country of Mexico is making billions of dollars in doing so.
I have great respect for Mexico and love their people and their peoples’ great spirit. The problem is, however, that their leaders are far smarter, more cunning, and better negotiators than ours. To the citizens of the United States, who I will represent far better than anyone else as President, the Mexican government is not our friend…and why should they be when the relationship is totally one sided in their favor on both illegal immigration and trade. I have pointed this out during my speeches and it is something Mexico doesn’t want me to say.
In actuality, it was only after my significant rise in the polls that Univision, previously my friend, went ballistic. I believe that my examples of bad trade deals for the United States was of even more concern to the Mexican government than my talk of border security.
I have lost a lot during this Presidential run defending the people of the United States. I have always heard that it is very hard for a successful person to run for President. Macy’s, NBC, Serta and NASCAR have all taken the weak and very sad position of being politically correct even though they are wrong in terms of what is good for our country.
Univision, because 70% of their business comes from Mexico, in my opinion, is being dictated to by the Mexican Government. The last thing Mexico wants is Donald Trump as President in that I will make great trade deals for the United States and will have an impenetrable border. Only legally approved people will come through easily.
Interestingly, Univision has just announced they are attempting to go public despite very poor and even negative earnings, which is not a good situation for a successful IPO or high stock price—not to mention that I am currently suing them for breach of contract. Remember, Univision is the one who began this charade in the first place, and they are owned by one of Hillary Clinton’s biggest backers. After the speech was made, there were numerous compliments and indeed, many rave reviews; there was very little criticism. It wasn’t until a week after my announcement that people started to totally distort these very easy to understand words. If there was something stated incorrectly, it would have been brought up immediately and with great enthusiasm.
The issues I have addressed, and continue to address, are vital steps to "Make America Great Again!" Additionally, I would be the best jobs President that God ever created.
Let’s get to work!
[END CITE.]
From the above, you could deduce that Trumpelstilskin and his great inbred fanclub are psychotic. Or just dumb. But, as a resident of San Francisco, I know both psychotic and dumb, so I'll wager that he's off his meds.
As well as batshit paranoid.
The fanclub too.
You know, this promises to be an interesting election. The Republicans cannot help it; clown after clown is popping out of the Volkswagen, and what with the stupid statements, feet-biting, revelations of slope-browed attitudes, Bible-thumping and rebel-flag waving, as well as gibberant foaming whenever POTUS or SCOTUS does something, all the toxic stuffing inside the rag doll is coming out.
The Trump demographic defines them.
It's the essence of the G.O.P.
Nuts and disease.
==========================================================================
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Tuesday, July 07, 2015
IT'S AN IRONIC GESTALT, YOU SHINY-PATED DINGO!
A reader accuses me of being Hello Kitty obsessed. Which is a foul lie. Rather than obsessed, I am happily ambivalent about the cretinous little feline, and use her iconography to score points and irritate some people. Like, for instance, the pompous bald-headed dog-freak in Marin County who thinks he's so funny.
Simple minds are easily swayed.
Partly, this is because I use a snazzy Hello Kitty backpack to carry all my smoking requisites (briar pipes, tobacco blends, tampers, matches, cleaners) whenever I make the arduous trek to the wild lands north of the Golden Gate Bridge, partly because of the ease with which I can illustrate the paradigm of ickiness.
Here are all the Hello Kitty images I have done.
Does that say obsessive?
I think not!
If anything, it positively screams rational balance, and a sensitive middle-aged Dutch American soul that appreciates pipes, cigars, art, literature, and furthermore, a gentleman who is a good listener and remarkably trim, given that the overwhelming majority of people in my age-group veer towards overweightness and have made some incredibly bad choices in their lives (like moving to Marin, for instance).
I have sparkling eyes (behind reading specs), a neat goatee and moustache combination, and warm gentle hands.
Quite the opposite of an IT physique!
Good lord, I've read Proust!
I totally radiate sanity!
Animals like me. They can smell the goodness within.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
Simple minds are easily swayed.
Partly, this is because I use a snazzy Hello Kitty backpack to carry all my smoking requisites (briar pipes, tobacco blends, tampers, matches, cleaners) whenever I make the arduous trek to the wild lands north of the Golden Gate Bridge, partly because of the ease with which I can illustrate the paradigm of ickiness.
Here are all the Hello Kitty images I have done.
Does that say obsessive?
I think not!
If anything, it positively screams rational balance, and a sensitive middle-aged Dutch American soul that appreciates pipes, cigars, art, literature, and furthermore, a gentleman who is a good listener and remarkably trim, given that the overwhelming majority of people in my age-group veer towards overweightness and have made some incredibly bad choices in their lives (like moving to Marin, for instance).
I have sparkling eyes (behind reading specs), a neat goatee and moustache combination, and warm gentle hands.
Quite the opposite of an IT physique!
Good lord, I've read Proust!
I totally radiate sanity!
Animals like me. They can smell the goodness within.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 06, 2015
LEE BRIGHT, STATE SENATOR OF SOMEWHERE STUPID
One of the most amusing things you will see today is South Carolina State Senator Mr. Lee Bright befoul the erstwhile sterling (!) reputation of his constituency by ranting like he's on crack.
Heaven forfend the thought that one of America's elected representatives would be on drugs.
It was probably just liquor for breakfast. I understand they do that in some parts of the world.
CAN I GET A LITTLE ORDURE?
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUtQ8gz2BCQ. From C Span.]
The debate was supposed to be about removing the banner of treason from its position in front of the SC State House. It got derailed.
The honourable Republican and Southern Baptist gentleman from South Carolina supports Ted Cruz for president. It would not be amiss to believe that they are, in modern parlance, 'besties'.
Please feel free to puke.
All over Carolina.
Thank you.
"A man is known by the company he keeps, and also by the company from which he is kept out."
---Grover Cleveland
More than ever I am convinced that the South is a failed state of mind.
Now hand me that bottle of Bourbon.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Heaven forfend the thought that one of America's elected representatives would be on drugs.
It was probably just liquor for breakfast. I understand they do that in some parts of the world.
CAN I GET A LITTLE ORDURE?
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUtQ8gz2BCQ. From C Span.]
The debate was supposed to be about removing the banner of treason from its position in front of the SC State House. It got derailed.
The honourable Republican and Southern Baptist gentleman from South Carolina supports Ted Cruz for president. It would not be amiss to believe that they are, in modern parlance, 'besties'.
Please feel free to puke.
All over Carolina.
Thank you.
"A man is known by the company he keeps, and also by the company from which he is kept out."
---Grover Cleveland
More than ever I am convinced that the South is a failed state of mind.
Now hand me that bottle of Bourbon.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SET SOMETHING ON FIRE!
The sad thing about the work I do is that it puts me face to face with middle-aged cigar smokers more than any other demographic. No, there is no need to detail the job exactly, suffice to say that it involves a quite considerable amount of psychological counselling, for which I was never trained, as most Marinites of that indelicate age tend to be self-obsessed and convinced of their entitlement.
They jangle as they walk.
Loose screws.
Younger Marinites are often sweetly fresh-faced and innocent.
Though with the seeds of utter batshittery within.
The curse of their time and place.
Pre-programming.
Almost nowhere else in the world are people so utterly and overwhelmingly white of mind.
Marijuana is good, gluten is bad, and preventive medicine is an ideological minefield. Poor little fevered weenies.
Special is the new orange.
Nice young women, as is well-known, seldom indulge in cigars. It is too expensive an indulgence for someone just setting out on her career and contemplating eventual marriage to a masculine Marinite of suitable background and unsurprising tastes.
Personally, I have always been tickled by the fantasy of a young woman of post-college age indulging in a pipe, and developing an educated palate for Latakia blends. Imagine the echo-waft of resinous perfume whenever she is near, the slightest hint of wickedness!
Cigars are not suitable for bright young women; fine briars are.
Pipe-smoking is a restrained and cultivated habit.
Cigars are as easy as crack-cocaine.
No brains required.
Of course, the less said about cigarettes and vape-devices, the better. Those are mere addictions, and there are sleazoid venues all over where those can be found and gangs of wastrels loiter.
A presentable woman will not venture in.
Sinning should be a splendid secret pleasure, never a public vice.
I always feel mighty spiritual when I'm smoking.
Everyone can, it's really not hard.
I have Latakia blends.
And matches.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They jangle as they walk.
Loose screws.
Younger Marinites are often sweetly fresh-faced and innocent.
Though with the seeds of utter batshittery within.
The curse of their time and place.
Pre-programming.
Almost nowhere else in the world are people so utterly and overwhelmingly white of mind.
Marijuana is good, gluten is bad, and preventive medicine is an ideological minefield. Poor little fevered weenies.
Special is the new orange.
Nice young women, as is well-known, seldom indulge in cigars. It is too expensive an indulgence for someone just setting out on her career and contemplating eventual marriage to a masculine Marinite of suitable background and unsurprising tastes.
Personally, I have always been tickled by the fantasy of a young woman of post-college age indulging in a pipe, and developing an educated palate for Latakia blends. Imagine the echo-waft of resinous perfume whenever she is near, the slightest hint of wickedness!
Cigars are not suitable for bright young women; fine briars are.
Pipe-smoking is a restrained and cultivated habit.
Cigars are as easy as crack-cocaine.
No brains required.
Of course, the less said about cigarettes and vape-devices, the better. Those are mere addictions, and there are sleazoid venues all over where those can be found and gangs of wastrels loiter.
A presentable woman will not venture in.
Sinning should be a splendid secret pleasure, never a public vice.
I always feel mighty spiritual when I'm smoking.
Everyone can, it's really not hard.
I have Latakia blends.
And matches.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 05, 2015
HELLO KITTY WISHES YOU WEREN'T AN IDIOT!
It turns out the Bay Area may have celebrated the Fourth of July a little excessively, as today nearly everyone had communication issues. Which, if you express yourself as well as I am wont to do, is a problem. Folks, get the cotton candy out of your skull, and re-insert the brain.
Have some coffee. Take a pill.
"We want to go to the Golden Gate Bridge, and Google says to take the Number Seventy here. Should we get on this bus?"
He was pointing at a Muni Bus that goes down Van Ness, and does NOT go anywhere near the bridge.
"No, wait for the Seventy."
Of course they got on the wrong bus anyway.
Instant gratification perhaps.
It was there.
They were obediently waiting for the Seventy at the next stop, and looked shocked when it cruised right on past without stopping.
Because, of course, Golden Gate Transit only picks-up passengers from a limited number of bus-stops, by no means all of them.
It's not a city bus.
The right stops are marked by a Golden Gate Transit sign.
And clearly state the bus-numbers that stop there.
It probably took them till lunch-time to get to the bridge.
More than half of today's conversations involved people who had trouble following a line of thought. Any thought. No matter how straightforward.
Hello Kitty is weeping because of the number of dingbats.
Please stop disappointing Ms. Kitty.
I told several people the joke about the logician whose wife had given birth, who when asked "is it a boy or a girl?" answered "yes".
If this had been a quest to find intelligent life in the universe, the results would have been worse than inconclusive.
No wonder Hello Kitty is upset.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Have some coffee. Take a pill.
"We want to go to the Golden Gate Bridge, and Google says to take the Number Seventy here. Should we get on this bus?"
He was pointing at a Muni Bus that goes down Van Ness, and does NOT go anywhere near the bridge.
"No, wait for the Seventy."
Of course they got on the wrong bus anyway.
Instant gratification perhaps.
It was there.
They were obediently waiting for the Seventy at the next stop, and looked shocked when it cruised right on past without stopping.
Because, of course, Golden Gate Transit only picks-up passengers from a limited number of bus-stops, by no means all of them.
It's not a city bus.
The right stops are marked by a Golden Gate Transit sign.
And clearly state the bus-numbers that stop there.
It probably took them till lunch-time to get to the bridge.
More than half of today's conversations involved people who had trouble following a line of thought. Any thought. No matter how straightforward.
Hello Kitty is weeping because of the number of dingbats.
Please stop disappointing Ms. Kitty.
I told several people the joke about the logician whose wife had given birth, who when asked "is it a boy or a girl?" answered "yes".
If this had been a quest to find intelligent life in the universe, the results would have been worse than inconclusive.
No wonder Hello Kitty is upset.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DUTCH AMERICAN ACHIEVEMENT
Upon re-viewing the best song in the world on youtube, this blogger realized that he's been wrong all these years. Disturbing, but true.
Like so many of you I always looked upon my self as the be-all and end-all of ALL worthwhile knowledge.
But I was wrong.
There are not three, but FOUR stupendous Dutch contributions to American civilization.
Donuts, corncob pipes, and scalping. Plus COOKIES!
Stellar and utterly earthshaking.
Lets play that song.
C IS FOR COOKIE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ye8mB6VsUHw.]
I find this to be truly inspirational.
And it is melodic.
Yeah yeah, I know that the Dutch actually invented a whole lot more, but in terms of life in these United States, donuts, corncob pipes, determinedly ripping off the tops of other people's heads, and cookies are the most important by far. We Dutch Americans can be proud.
Donuts, corncob pipes, scalping, and cookies.
The fundaments of modernity.
BTW: pizza, as you undoubtedly realize, is just a seriously misguided cookie. Which is why you should never drink beer while eating pizza. Bizarrely, there's already dairy in it, so milk is also right out. In this blogger's superior opinion, the best drink with pizza is either strong tea or dessert wine.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Like so many of you I always looked upon my self as the be-all and end-all of ALL worthwhile knowledge.
But I was wrong.
There are not three, but FOUR stupendous Dutch contributions to American civilization.
Donuts, corncob pipes, and scalping. Plus COOKIES!
Stellar and utterly earthshaking.
Lets play that song.
C IS FOR COOKIE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ye8mB6VsUHw.]
I find this to be truly inspirational.
And it is melodic.
Yeah yeah, I know that the Dutch actually invented a whole lot more, but in terms of life in these United States, donuts, corncob pipes, determinedly ripping off the tops of other people's heads, and cookies are the most important by far. We Dutch Americans can be proud.
Donuts, corncob pipes, scalping, and cookies.
The fundaments of modernity.
BTW: pizza, as you undoubtedly realize, is just a seriously misguided cookie. Which is why you should never drink beer while eating pizza. Bizarrely, there's already dairy in it, so milk is also right out. In this blogger's superior opinion, the best drink with pizza is either strong tea or dessert wine.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 04, 2015
VIEWING THE FOURTH
She left early this morning, having spent her day off yesterday cooking for a social event. When I got in last night (having worked all day), she graciously let me use the kitchen for my small supper of grilled meat and dressed bitter melon with rice stick noodles, then resumed her culinary activities. Bustling, and borderline frenetic.
I wisely headed to the cigar bar for the rest of the evening.
Didn't want to add to her crankiness.
Or get in the way.
I had a cup of strong coffee before I left, and in consequence was wired to the eyebrows when I arrived. Yes, I had a good evening.
[Social event: something holidayish. Grilled meat: treif. Bitter melon: Momocordica charantia, which is one of my favourite vegetables. Many people do not like it, many more haven't tried it. It is crisp, cooks easily, and has a startling taste. Discard the seeds and pith surrounding them before proceeding. Rice stick noodles: actually, 沙河粉 ('saa ho fan') to be precise, not the thin rice vermicelli most people are used to. They cook easily, and I love the texture; soft, slick, slithery, mmm.]
EXILES, ALL
This morning she clanged around in the kitchen, and piled tonnes of food into her car parked outside in the driveway of the apartment building, then wished me and the stuffed animals a good Fourth, and drove off.
My apartment mate's social life is slightly depressing to me. She is a shy woman, and is more noticeably Asperger than me -- heck, she HATES being surrounded by people -- yet, being Chinese, and having kin in the city, she also has the linkages and relational fabric that embed her within groups far better than I can manage.
Socially, I am far more adept as an observer than a participant, albeit slightly resentful of the ability others have to participate. No, I don't want to be the life of the party, but I wouldn't mind a slice of cake once in a while. Parties make me uneasy.
It strikes me that while we were a couple, she interacted with others somewhat as my social lubricant. She resented being dragged to events that involved my crowd, or being introduced to strangers whom I knew, but in a large way that gave me a format for interaction that I haven't had since.
Both of us functioned as insulation, other half, intermediary cog, and each other's interpreter.
She's moved on, and I don't do much of that anymore.
I can't do it by myself.
HOW TO CELEBRATE
So, what did I do on a day marked by backyard barbecues, block parties, keg events, and mass giddiness about our national birth?
Nothing special. I read a book in the quiet apartment, smoked my pipe, walked around a bit outside drinking-in the relative peace of the streets in my neighborhood, went over to Chinatown for a pastry and a hot cup of milk-tea, and enjoyed an early dinner at a restaurant while there, after yet another pipe-full.
Nothing is more American than Chinese food, or tobacco.
No, I probably shan't watch the fireworks later on. All the best vantage points for viewing will be filled with other human beings, there is nobody with whom to go, no one to drag me there, and I'm not a particularly social being, as herds make me feel discommoded. And I would probably feel intensely alone, as well as aware of my oddness.
Especially without the insulation of another person.
Someone for whom one must be gallant.
And accommodating.
Company.
I don't like holidays, now less than before. They always involve too many people, and lacking a co-conspirator with whom to converse, group events always make me feel exposed and self-conscious. It would be nice to have someone, but I am not forward or social enough to make easy contact.
That's probably why I like hanging out in Chinatown, or visiting nearly empty bars occasionally. One can observe, and listen to other people, without being forced into interaction. There is no sense of invasiveness, and the discomfort of feeling "on the spot" is entirely absent.
I very much enjoy having people around me.
But elsewhere focussed.
And not many.
It is impossible to be private at parties; the very fact that one is there demonstrates a contrary premise.
FIRE WORKS
Nob Hill is likely quiet at this hour, especially on the sides facing south and west. I've got a few keen briars in my pocket, and a pouch of matured Virginia tobacco. Soon there shall be booming from the north-east, as well as bursts of fire, faintly visible in the fog. A walk up and over the hill by myself will be just the ticket, as long as I get to the cigar bar before the crowd starts streaming back into the heart of the city. Maybe there will be people there I know, in a mellow mood from their celebrations, but by no means intoxicated to the point of blithering.
A pipe or two, and a glass of whisky will end the day nicely.
I'll probably take a cable car back afterwards.
Very few other passengers.
It should be nice.
AFTER THOUGHT: A SPLENDID RACKET!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6ZZwf_D4BU.]
Happy Fourth of July.
Bang it out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I wisely headed to the cigar bar for the rest of the evening.
Didn't want to add to her crankiness.
Or get in the way.
I had a cup of strong coffee before I left, and in consequence was wired to the eyebrows when I arrived. Yes, I had a good evening.
[Social event: something holidayish. Grilled meat: treif. Bitter melon: Momocordica charantia, which is one of my favourite vegetables. Many people do not like it, many more haven't tried it. It is crisp, cooks easily, and has a startling taste. Discard the seeds and pith surrounding them before proceeding. Rice stick noodles: actually, 沙河粉 ('saa ho fan') to be precise, not the thin rice vermicelli most people are used to. They cook easily, and I love the texture; soft, slick, slithery, mmm.]
EXILES, ALL
This morning she clanged around in the kitchen, and piled tonnes of food into her car parked outside in the driveway of the apartment building, then wished me and the stuffed animals a good Fourth, and drove off.
My apartment mate's social life is slightly depressing to me. She is a shy woman, and is more noticeably Asperger than me -- heck, she HATES being surrounded by people -- yet, being Chinese, and having kin in the city, she also has the linkages and relational fabric that embed her within groups far better than I can manage.
Socially, I am far more adept as an observer than a participant, albeit slightly resentful of the ability others have to participate. No, I don't want to be the life of the party, but I wouldn't mind a slice of cake once in a while. Parties make me uneasy.
It strikes me that while we were a couple, she interacted with others somewhat as my social lubricant. She resented being dragged to events that involved my crowd, or being introduced to strangers whom I knew, but in a large way that gave me a format for interaction that I haven't had since.
Both of us functioned as insulation, other half, intermediary cog, and each other's interpreter.
She's moved on, and I don't do much of that anymore.
I can't do it by myself.
HOW TO CELEBRATE
So, what did I do on a day marked by backyard barbecues, block parties, keg events, and mass giddiness about our national birth?
Nothing special. I read a book in the quiet apartment, smoked my pipe, walked around a bit outside drinking-in the relative peace of the streets in my neighborhood, went over to Chinatown for a pastry and a hot cup of milk-tea, and enjoyed an early dinner at a restaurant while there, after yet another pipe-full.
Nothing is more American than Chinese food, or tobacco.
No, I probably shan't watch the fireworks later on. All the best vantage points for viewing will be filled with other human beings, there is nobody with whom to go, no one to drag me there, and I'm not a particularly social being, as herds make me feel discommoded. And I would probably feel intensely alone, as well as aware of my oddness.
Especially without the insulation of another person.
Someone for whom one must be gallant.
And accommodating.
Company.
I don't like holidays, now less than before. They always involve too many people, and lacking a co-conspirator with whom to converse, group events always make me feel exposed and self-conscious. It would be nice to have someone, but I am not forward or social enough to make easy contact.
That's probably why I like hanging out in Chinatown, or visiting nearly empty bars occasionally. One can observe, and listen to other people, without being forced into interaction. There is no sense of invasiveness, and the discomfort of feeling "on the spot" is entirely absent.
I very much enjoy having people around me.
But elsewhere focussed.
And not many.
It is impossible to be private at parties; the very fact that one is there demonstrates a contrary premise.
FIRE WORKS
Nob Hill is likely quiet at this hour, especially on the sides facing south and west. I've got a few keen briars in my pocket, and a pouch of matured Virginia tobacco. Soon there shall be booming from the north-east, as well as bursts of fire, faintly visible in the fog. A walk up and over the hill by myself will be just the ticket, as long as I get to the cigar bar before the crowd starts streaming back into the heart of the city. Maybe there will be people there I know, in a mellow mood from their celebrations, but by no means intoxicated to the point of blithering.
A pipe or two, and a glass of whisky will end the day nicely.
I'll probably take a cable car back afterwards.
Very few other passengers.
It should be nice.
AFTER THOUGHT: A SPLENDID RACKET!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6ZZwf_D4BU.]
Happy Fourth of July.
Bang it out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 03, 2015
THE ETERNITY
Whenever I go to Chinatown for a snackipoo and a beverage, or to buy groceries, I always light up a pipe and eventually wander down to Sue Bierman Park at Clay and Drumm to catch the bus. Partly because I do not like to stand while riding public transit -- sore right leg etcetera, and that location is both the end and the beginning of the line -- but primarily to see if the parrots are there. Yesterday I got there with time to spare, as the second pipe was only half finished.
Full load of tobacco, at least thirty more minutes to go.
So I leaned on the wall at Clay and Davis.
And watched a young lady get stood up.
I am not ashamed to admit that I enjoyed every wonderful moment of it.
She was dressed very neatly, and kept looking at her cellular device.
My pleasure was entirely due to the delightful expressiveness of her face, even from a distance. Every emotion, from hopeful expectation, and wonder at the non-arrival of her beau, through disappointment, failing self-assurance, and doubt at her own worth, to despairing resignation, crossed her countenance, ever more apparent, and radiantly exposed for the keen observer.
She had my complete sympathy. He never came.
And did not bother calling.
Clearly a cad.
I felt like going over and telling her not to worry, she was a nice person, and would find someone better. But I do not like to butt in, and middle-aged men uttering comforting words out of the blue are, in any universe, likely to be labelled weirdos, and make a disturbed impression.
Yes, I sent good thoughts her way.
I doubt it helped.
She finally gave up, and wandered off with a slump to her shoulder, still holding the cup of coffee which she had not touched while waiting.
She looked near tears at that point.
Twenty-five minutes!
She's young, and has an intelligent face. The utter brute who did not arrive had better have a damned good excuse.
Maybe he got hit by a car?
The next time I see her I hope she has flowers.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Full load of tobacco, at least thirty more minutes to go.
So I leaned on the wall at Clay and Davis.
And watched a young lady get stood up.
I am not ashamed to admit that I enjoyed every wonderful moment of it.
She was dressed very neatly, and kept looking at her cellular device.
My pleasure was entirely due to the delightful expressiveness of her face, even from a distance. Every emotion, from hopeful expectation, and wonder at the non-arrival of her beau, through disappointment, failing self-assurance, and doubt at her own worth, to despairing resignation, crossed her countenance, ever more apparent, and radiantly exposed for the keen observer.
She had my complete sympathy. He never came.
And did not bother calling.
Clearly a cad.
I felt like going over and telling her not to worry, she was a nice person, and would find someone better. But I do not like to butt in, and middle-aged men uttering comforting words out of the blue are, in any universe, likely to be labelled weirdos, and make a disturbed impression.
Yes, I sent good thoughts her way.
I doubt it helped.
She finally gave up, and wandered off with a slump to her shoulder, still holding the cup of coffee which she had not touched while waiting.
She looked near tears at that point.
Twenty-five minutes!
She's young, and has an intelligent face. The utter brute who did not arrive had better have a damned good excuse.
Maybe he got hit by a car?
The next time I see her I hope she has flowers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 02, 2015
BUBBA JINDAL: A DUCK DYNASTY KIND OF DUDE
This blogger is looking forward to the upcoming presidential election.
Especially after listening to someone last night voicing strong opinions, to wit: Both Hillary and Jeb are corporate stooges, their corporations being their respective parties and the policies that those parties stand for. The Trump will drop out of the race before he has to disclose his assets, and having a history of bankruptcies, the Trump should not be considered a business success so much as a rather limp-dicked failure. Bernie Sanders doesn't stand a chance, alas, and most of the Republican candidates are rather remarkably stupid.
Well, he's got several good points.
He also mentioned a hairpiece.
Donald Trump's dead rat.
I would vote for the rodent before I would ever vote for the rearendwipe underneath it.
One candidate we didn't discuss was Bobby Jindal. Who is probably the worst clown of the dozen-plus to have rolled out of the Volkswagen.
Christie was mentioned, but not Bobby.
Honestly, what can one say about a man who set about destroying his own state? Who converted to a repulsive religion, and may very well have done so because it was socially and politically expedient? A politician who over a decade-and-a-half has managed to fritter away brain cells and positive regard at lightening speed?
About the best that can be said for him is that he suffers from Stockholm Syndrome and a Napoleon Complex simultaneously.
But we didn't talk about him. Good whisky, wine, and cigars (actually, a pipe in my case) are not improved by bringing up sewage.
The next eighteen months will be entertaining.
APPENDIX
My tobacco: Grep Pease's Sixpence, which is a richly evocative relative of one of his previous offerings, namely the Navigator, albeit bolder and requiring a more contemplative approach. Followed by one of my own concoctions; a span of aged Virginias, mostly on the blonde side, with the merest dab of Perique (a dark oily fermented condimental leaf from Bobby Jindal's own state).
Cigars enjoyed, by the other gentlemen: Camacho Corojo, made with a pungent leaf originally grown in Cuba; two Olivas, one of which had a Connecticut wrapper for which the word "creamy" was invented.
All Robustos, if I remember correctly.
The host of the venue where we met last night enjoyed at least two Padron cigars, which are manufactured in Nicaragua. The Padron line is probably the best thing to result from Castro's wholesale robbery of lands and brands among the tobacco families, as well as the exile that resulted. The cigars that Jose Orlando Padrón and his son Jorge make in Estelí are far, far better than anything from Cuba itself.
In all honesty, the eventual lifting of the embargo cannot have much effect on the industry. After a brief orgy with Fidel's whores, serious afficionados will realize that Cubanos are overrated, and return to the embrace of the Nicaraguans and Dominicans.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Especially after listening to someone last night voicing strong opinions, to wit: Both Hillary and Jeb are corporate stooges, their corporations being their respective parties and the policies that those parties stand for. The Trump will drop out of the race before he has to disclose his assets, and having a history of bankruptcies, the Trump should not be considered a business success so much as a rather limp-dicked failure. Bernie Sanders doesn't stand a chance, alas, and most of the Republican candidates are rather remarkably stupid.
Well, he's got several good points.
He also mentioned a hairpiece.
Donald Trump's dead rat.
I would vote for the rodent before I would ever vote for the rearendwipe underneath it.
One candidate we didn't discuss was Bobby Jindal. Who is probably the worst clown of the dozen-plus to have rolled out of the Volkswagen.
Christie was mentioned, but not Bobby.
Honestly, what can one say about a man who set about destroying his own state? Who converted to a repulsive religion, and may very well have done so because it was socially and politically expedient? A politician who over a decade-and-a-half has managed to fritter away brain cells and positive regard at lightening speed?
About the best that can be said for him is that he suffers from Stockholm Syndrome and a Napoleon Complex simultaneously.
But we didn't talk about him. Good whisky, wine, and cigars (actually, a pipe in my case) are not improved by bringing up sewage.
The next eighteen months will be entertaining.
APPENDIX
My tobacco: Grep Pease's Sixpence, which is a richly evocative relative of one of his previous offerings, namely the Navigator, albeit bolder and requiring a more contemplative approach. Followed by one of my own concoctions; a span of aged Virginias, mostly on the blonde side, with the merest dab of Perique (a dark oily fermented condimental leaf from Bobby Jindal's own state).
Cigars enjoyed, by the other gentlemen: Camacho Corojo, made with a pungent leaf originally grown in Cuba; two Olivas, one of which had a Connecticut wrapper for which the word "creamy" was invented.
All Robustos, if I remember correctly.
The host of the venue where we met last night enjoyed at least two Padron cigars, which are manufactured in Nicaragua. The Padron line is probably the best thing to result from Castro's wholesale robbery of lands and brands among the tobacco families, as well as the exile that resulted. The cigars that Jose Orlando Padrón and his son Jorge make in Estelí are far, far better than anything from Cuba itself.
In all honesty, the eventual lifting of the embargo cannot have much effect on the industry. After a brief orgy with Fidel's whores, serious afficionados will realize that Cubanos are overrated, and return to the embrace of the Nicaraguans and Dominicans.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 01, 2015
COPING MECHANISMS FOR THE MODERN AGE
This blogger committed laundry today. Yes, I had let it slide a little, seeing as I am not in a committed relationship -- or even a short term hot and nasty relationship -- and work around cigar smokers and convicted white collar criminals. So who actually cares? For four days each week I can be a little funky.
Actually, scratch the convicted white collar criminals; I don't think they've ever even been tried yet. Although one of them must know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried, seeing as Marinites are all-knowing, all-seeing, and altogether the most damned enlightened people on the planet.
Even if they eat tofu and wheatgrass.
Or do yoga.
Very few of them actually have IT dude physiques, so you don't have to picture bloated rolls of clammy white flab squishing on a yoga mat right now. At eighty plus degrees, Iyengar style. Sweat, babies.
They barely creak either, even if they are antiques.
I am an archaeologist; I work with fossils.
Some of which are moist.
What I do want you to picture is an elderly black guy with a little excess weight wearing a saucy little Catholic schoolgirl skirt.
A nice mostly red plaid, short and pleated.
Underneath a tie-dyed tee-shirt.
Perfect laundry clothing.
Naturally I spent most of the time at the laundromat with my eyes closed. In that outfit, he may have been criminally insane -- lord only knows where he dumped the lifeless body of the twenty year old pay-gay street urchin from whom he stole it -- but the manager was there, along with three young ladies doing their own laundry, an elderly Chinese gentleman, and the ghosts of every judgemental prude who ever was and ever will be.
Sick psycho Sinai. Moses must avert his gaze.
There's sh*t burning all around us.
Shiny ebony-hued calfs.
Not golden.
There are good reasons why I normally do my laundry earlier in the day. For one thing, less people at the laundromat, for another, they're mostly Chinese grannies, and very sane.
The non-Chinese in this city are effing weird.
Like the doddering masses of Marin.
Just a lot different.
Anyhow, I meditated for nearly an hour an a half while there, and I now have sparklingly clean threads. Yes sir, Atboth is styling! Either I'll strike up a conversation with someone tomorrow -- seeing as I will smell fresh as a daisy, what with not spending the entire day surrounded by the dark side and their stogies -- or get my hair done, have some rice porridge and a yautiu, and smoke a few pipefulls in the afternoon while listening in on conversations no one expects a white dude to understand.
There are no black men scantily garbed in pleated plaid in Chinatown.
Pleated plaid is present, but worn appropriately.
By people of the right age.
And height.
It is very nice to find normal people in San Francisco.
Exceedingly rare, in most neighborhoods.
Chinatown is full of them.
Of all years.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Actually, scratch the convicted white collar criminals; I don't think they've ever even been tried yet. Although one of them must know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried, seeing as Marinites are all-knowing, all-seeing, and altogether the most damned enlightened people on the planet.
Even if they eat tofu and wheatgrass.
Or do yoga.
Very few of them actually have IT dude physiques, so you don't have to picture bloated rolls of clammy white flab squishing on a yoga mat right now. At eighty plus degrees, Iyengar style. Sweat, babies.
They barely creak either, even if they are antiques.
I am an archaeologist; I work with fossils.
Some of which are moist.
What I do want you to picture is an elderly black guy with a little excess weight wearing a saucy little Catholic schoolgirl skirt.
A nice mostly red plaid, short and pleated.
Underneath a tie-dyed tee-shirt.
Perfect laundry clothing.
Naturally I spent most of the time at the laundromat with my eyes closed. In that outfit, he may have been criminally insane -- lord only knows where he dumped the lifeless body of the twenty year old pay-gay street urchin from whom he stole it -- but the manager was there, along with three young ladies doing their own laundry, an elderly Chinese gentleman, and the ghosts of every judgemental prude who ever was and ever will be.
Sick psycho Sinai. Moses must avert his gaze.
There's sh*t burning all around us.
Shiny ebony-hued calfs.
Not golden.
There are good reasons why I normally do my laundry earlier in the day. For one thing, less people at the laundromat, for another, they're mostly Chinese grannies, and very sane.
The non-Chinese in this city are effing weird.
Like the doddering masses of Marin.
Just a lot different.
Anyhow, I meditated for nearly an hour an a half while there, and I now have sparklingly clean threads. Yes sir, Atboth is styling! Either I'll strike up a conversation with someone tomorrow -- seeing as I will smell fresh as a daisy, what with not spending the entire day surrounded by the dark side and their stogies -- or get my hair done, have some rice porridge and a yautiu, and smoke a few pipefulls in the afternoon while listening in on conversations no one expects a white dude to understand.
There are no black men scantily garbed in pleated plaid in Chinatown.
Pleated plaid is present, but worn appropriately.
By people of the right age.
And height.
It is very nice to find normal people in San Francisco.
Exceedingly rare, in most neighborhoods.
Chinatown is full of them.
Of all years.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A WONDERFUL LADIES' ROOM OF THE MIND
Sometimes a reader leaves jewels in my comments field. Usually this is either e-kvetcher, or the something-or-other amphibian. There are not so many commenters now as there used to be when I was still an angry young man writing about Jewish things or Israel, or sneering poisonously at the Dutch (my own people) or other Europeans (who are beyond the pale).
The Dutch ALWAYS sneer at other Europeans. The reason being that they are close enough to be familiar with our marvelous culture, so close in fact as to be able to observe our splendid example of how it is done, yet out of sheer perversion they refuse to be just like us, albeit necessarily a little bit more humble as would befit them.
I've never been able to figure that one out.
Maybe they're just a little stupid.
Now, as a Dutchman, I am superior entirely to most other Dutchman. Because my folks came over in the 1630s and settled New Amsterdam, in consequence of which I bear none of the stigma and guilt that adheres to the fatherland Dutch, whose horrendous colonial depravities passed my tribe by entirely.
Neener neener neener, bitches.
Anyhow, the reader.
New comments.
Valhala wrote:
"Dear most munificent BotH,
Please, I pray thee, approve my comment for posting, for thou art merciful and gracious.
Be also kind to thy humble commenter, and bestow me with a post as response to my comment, preferably a LONG post.
How can I possibly thank you for such a favor? Thine honor is all in duty."
[End quote]
That was at 5:55 PM, while I was in Marin County babysitting the cigar smokers. It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it. Works best if you enjoy a pipe filled with a blend composed of Latakia (around forty two percent), Turkish (Smyrna, more or less 20%), and aged Virginia leaf (altogether 36%). The balance of this mezcla is a mystery, and none of your business.
He or she had earlier (10:31 AM) written the following:
"My grandfather's name was Kerchy. I think he was a Jewish. Are you an Israelite? I know all about the Jewish! Bagels and lox are a big mitzvah to eat on Rosh Hoodesh. That makes me feel all farklempt all over!
Momma rarely, and never around the kids, used profanity. But when she did use it, it was always funny. Like -- what happened was -- we were in some crazy place, like Lake Taho. And we went into the ladies' room, and there was an old drunk lady in there, and it's just, like, you know, the sequined straps, one of those dames, and she said: "Oh Judy, you're terrific. The rainbow, you gotta always remember the rainbow." Then she went into one of the stalls; the lady knocked on the door. She said: "Yes?" She said: "Judy, never forget the rainbow. God has helped me through so many crisises and..." Well momma came back. Then she went up to her -- the lady went up to mom, and said: "I'd just like to say hello." And momma looked said and her and said: "hi". Which made me start thinking... Now, she went on and on and on about the rainbow, and about this and that, and dear little girl, and on and on and on. And as we were going out, she had on this incredible feathered boa, which someone had given her as a present, which was way too big for her, because she was tiny: she came up to here [just below the shoulder] on me. And the last thing that this lady said, again, was: "Don't forget the rainbow, Judy." And momma turned, and threw the boa around herself, and said: "How can I forget the rainbow? I've got rainbows up my ass." "
[End quote.]
That is an interesting submit.
Indicative of something.
FEATHERS UP THE WAZZOO!
It may surprise you to know that while I have often been in the ladies room, and not infrequently had occasion to ponce with feather boas (long story), there has never been a time when I visited the ladies room with a feather boa. And having read Valhala's account, I now feel an emptiness.
There is so much I haven't accomplished.
Years ago, when a friend visited Israel, he thought he saw me in the vicinity of Kikar Safra, exiting a store that sold inks and qlaf (קלף). This is NOT the same friend who brought the matter of the rainbow-hued tefillin straps to my attention ("there is no merit to the mitzvah if you accidentally tie yourself up because you can't remember which lash goes where - the Macrameier Rebbe accidentally hanged himself because he was not paying attention, zichrono nebech levracha"), NOR the friend who commented favourably on my Hello Kitty kippah.
In actual fact I have never been anywhere near Kikar Safra. It is easier to visit the ladies room than Kikar Safra, which is walking distance from the church of the holy seapuker.
The shortest route: head south towards HaGan Ha Leumi, turn left at Shlomo Ha Melech, and go right at Ha Sha'ir Ha Khadash.
Then follow one of the religious nuts.
If you are wearing a feathered boa, you will fit right in.
Just tell people it's al pi minhag.
Très catholique.
IF, and I say if, I ever have occasion to read the Shir Ha Shirim Asher LiShlomo from qlaf (קלף), you may rest assured that a rainbow feathered boa will most certainly be part of the picture.
I am resolved to before I die get a rain-boa.
It is emmes geshmak.
Tasty.
AFTERWORD
Why has a resplendent male specimen such as myself visited the ladies' room? No, it wasn't because I was searching for the Legendary Lost Date (probably about five foot two inches tall, black hair, and a lovely kissy face with spectacles), nor because I was in drag, but because I could.
After Savage Kitten and I broke up five years ago, I would hide out at the office downtown on Saturdays and Sundays, where it was quiet and peaceful, and I could plonk away at the computer or imagine that there were little forest creatures scurrying about. Often I was the only one there, and the ladies' room was closest to my desk.
There is no couch in the ladies' room. Nor a grand piano, or any of the other amenities that men fondly imagine. Not all ladies' rooms have those. The handsome turbaned Moorish servant with flavoured soaps and fluffy towels is also absent, and there is no wide screen teevee.
Honestly, why does anyone even go to the ladies' room?
They should visit the men's room instead.
It's not just standing room only.
You can sit.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The Dutch ALWAYS sneer at other Europeans. The reason being that they are close enough to be familiar with our marvelous culture, so close in fact as to be able to observe our splendid example of how it is done, yet out of sheer perversion they refuse to be just like us, albeit necessarily a little bit more humble as would befit them.
I've never been able to figure that one out.
Maybe they're just a little stupid.
Now, as a Dutchman, I am superior entirely to most other Dutchman. Because my folks came over in the 1630s and settled New Amsterdam, in consequence of which I bear none of the stigma and guilt that adheres to the fatherland Dutch, whose horrendous colonial depravities passed my tribe by entirely.
Neener neener neener, bitches.
Anyhow, the reader.
New comments.
Valhala wrote:
"Dear most munificent BotH,
Please, I pray thee, approve my comment for posting, for thou art merciful and gracious.
Be also kind to thy humble commenter, and bestow me with a post as response to my comment, preferably a LONG post.
How can I possibly thank you for such a favor? Thine honor is all in duty."
[End quote]
That was at 5:55 PM, while I was in Marin County babysitting the cigar smokers. It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it. Works best if you enjoy a pipe filled with a blend composed of Latakia (around forty two percent), Turkish (Smyrna, more or less 20%), and aged Virginia leaf (altogether 36%). The balance of this mezcla is a mystery, and none of your business.
He or she had earlier (10:31 AM) written the following:
"My grandfather's name was Kerchy. I think he was a Jewish. Are you an Israelite? I know all about the Jewish! Bagels and lox are a big mitzvah to eat on Rosh Hoodesh. That makes me feel all farklempt all over!
Momma rarely, and never around the kids, used profanity. But when she did use it, it was always funny. Like -- what happened was -- we were in some crazy place, like Lake Taho. And we went into the ladies' room, and there was an old drunk lady in there, and it's just, like, you know, the sequined straps, one of those dames, and she said: "Oh Judy, you're terrific. The rainbow, you gotta always remember the rainbow." Then she went into one of the stalls; the lady knocked on the door. She said: "Yes?" She said: "Judy, never forget the rainbow. God has helped me through so many crisises and..." Well momma came back. Then she went up to her -- the lady went up to mom, and said: "I'd just like to say hello." And momma looked said and her and said: "hi". Which made me start thinking... Now, she went on and on and on about the rainbow, and about this and that, and dear little girl, and on and on and on. And as we were going out, she had on this incredible feathered boa, which someone had given her as a present, which was way too big for her, because she was tiny: she came up to here [just below the shoulder] on me. And the last thing that this lady said, again, was: "Don't forget the rainbow, Judy." And momma turned, and threw the boa around herself, and said: "How can I forget the rainbow? I've got rainbows up my ass." "
[End quote.]
That is an interesting submit.
Indicative of something.
FEATHERS UP THE WAZZOO!
It may surprise you to know that while I have often been in the ladies room, and not infrequently had occasion to ponce with feather boas (long story), there has never been a time when I visited the ladies room with a feather boa. And having read Valhala's account, I now feel an emptiness.
There is so much I haven't accomplished.
Years ago, when a friend visited Israel, he thought he saw me in the vicinity of Kikar Safra, exiting a store that sold inks and qlaf (קלף). This is NOT the same friend who brought the matter of the rainbow-hued tefillin straps to my attention ("there is no merit to the mitzvah if you accidentally tie yourself up because you can't remember which lash goes where - the Macrameier Rebbe accidentally hanged himself because he was not paying attention, zichrono nebech levracha"), NOR the friend who commented favourably on my Hello Kitty kippah.
In actual fact I have never been anywhere near Kikar Safra. It is easier to visit the ladies room than Kikar Safra, which is walking distance from the church of the holy seapuker.
The shortest route: head south towards HaGan Ha Leumi, turn left at Shlomo Ha Melech, and go right at Ha Sha'ir Ha Khadash.
Then follow one of the religious nuts.
If you are wearing a feathered boa, you will fit right in.
Just tell people it's al pi minhag.
Très catholique.
IF, and I say if, I ever have occasion to read the Shir Ha Shirim Asher LiShlomo from qlaf (קלף), you may rest assured that a rainbow feathered boa will most certainly be part of the picture.
I am resolved to before I die get a rain-boa.
It is emmes geshmak.
Tasty.
AFTERWORD
Why has a resplendent male specimen such as myself visited the ladies' room? No, it wasn't because I was searching for the Legendary Lost Date (probably about five foot two inches tall, black hair, and a lovely kissy face with spectacles), nor because I was in drag, but because I could.
After Savage Kitten and I broke up five years ago, I would hide out at the office downtown on Saturdays and Sundays, where it was quiet and peaceful, and I could plonk away at the computer or imagine that there were little forest creatures scurrying about. Often I was the only one there, and the ladies' room was closest to my desk.
There is no couch in the ladies' room. Nor a grand piano, or any of the other amenities that men fondly imagine. Not all ladies' rooms have those. The handsome turbaned Moorish servant with flavoured soaps and fluffy towels is also absent, and there is no wide screen teevee.
Honestly, why does anyone even go to the ladies' room?
They should visit the men's room instead.
It's not just standing room only.
You can sit.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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OWNING THE LIBS
Today will be quite pleasant. Shan't doomscroll much. Reading about the bozos currently in charge of the United States is not good for t...
