Courtesy of a bunch of British Johnnies, this blogger wishes to present an informative film for the benefit of Creationists, Duck Dynasty Fans, and Michele Bachman.
It may change their rancid little minds.
Stranger things have happened.
To mushy pea brains.
Speaking of which, I have never understood the appeal of Duck Dynasty. Other than perhaps the thrill of sitting back and being aghast at the antics of an entire clan of inbred Jed living in a swamp, who cannot see any other purpose in life than stalking the wily aquatic bird and wooing it with sex calls. Perhaps that attracts some people in America's urban zones, where residents yearn for a simpler life when all there was consisted of hunting, shooting, dysentery, and calling upon your big imaginary sky-friend to smite people of other religions and dermatic pigmentations, much like many creationists and Michele Bachman still do today, but surely they could've simply watched the Assault Weapons Channel or Fox News instead?
I can grasp why yokels like it, though.
Cavepaintings come to life.
Interliptual!
THE FRIGHTENING TRUTH!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InPHe6xJ8EY.]
Just sit back with a big bowl of fried chicken and RandyMan Beef Jerkey (™), and feast your eyes on an entertaining and educational overview of the Triassic. Which happened aeons before the imaginary sky-friend even existed.
Yes, you may thank me. Profusely is fine. I am always keen to provide mind-expanding educamatainerments.
"global warming -- It’s all voodoo, nonsense, hokum ... "
------An utter moron [MPR, Capitol View, 2008.]
Michele Bachman, good lord. I am sure that most of the great state of Minnesota is still bewailing the brick-fer-brains voters in the Sixth District who sent that dingo to congress.
Dinosaurs, tell you what.
Ya sure.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Tuesday, August 09, 2016
RAIDING THE GEEK KIBBLE FOR BREAKFAST
My apartment mate is a geek. That is the only possible conclusion. Whereas I am perfectly normal. This is what I deduce after looking at the space in between our two computers on the table in the teevee room.
Here is what I found:
One bag of cookies (geek kibble, hers).
Half a bag of bbq chips closed with a binder clip (ours).
One box of chocolate covered marshmallows (geek kibble, hers).
Two small Japanese saucers; antique (mine).
A pottery item with a wrinkle-skin glaze (mine).
A pottery item with a pale blue powder glaze (mine).
A pottery item with a subtly spotty iron oxide glaze (mine).
A pottery item with a glaze showing fascinating variances (mine).
A translucent rubber egg-ball with a "yolk" inside (mine).
And a can of 'Man-Power' anti-bacterial deodorant, by Old Spice, that dates to the late sixties, which she came upon when cleaning out her mom's apartment a few years ago and promptly decided had either curiosity value or a practical application (hers).
[The deodorant was not the only thing she found, because old-country Cantonese women hold on to stuff way past any rational use-by date, and never throw anything away.
My apartment mate decided the selection of noodles and the five gallon can of soy sauce (cheaper that way!) were past their prime, and threw those out. But the medicated liniment with the smiling dark person on the label, the herbal digestive pills from a company in Foochow, and the Man-Power, among one or two other things, came home with her.]
Actually, almost everything in the teevee toom is mine. Books, ceramics, antiquities, and a large amount of pipe tobacco. But for a middle-aged white dude, that is almost certainly normal. Within the realm of normality.
Part of a broad and flexible definition of normalcy.
The quintessence of normalitude.
Middle-aged white dudes read, collect things, and smoke pipes.
There's a lacquered cock for pinang on a bookshelf, and a bird-shaped copper box for betel requisites on top of the television set, towering over a wooden sado-nurse xmas tree-ball we've never actually hung. That may not be quite normal. Betel is a habit that has fallen substantially by the wayside in the modern world. Once universally used as part of the South East Asian social setting, shared among princes and commoners, and even permitted to the clergy, the betel chewing habit is now seldom found in an urban environment except among one's very old female relatives from the hinterland.
Who expectorate crimson into handheld spittoons.
And smile with pitch black teeth.
I haven't a clue what normal women in their forties -- my apartment mate is of that age -- might stuff into a teevee room or collect. Many of them don't smoke pipes, I realize, nor have wayang puppets in the corner. Or go for pottery with interesting glazes. Many, probably most of them, no longer read much, unlike my apartment mate.
When I come home from Marin she's often in her room with a book.
Surrounded by stuffed animals with quirky personalities.
Reading - that's what geek females do.
It's kind of charming.
I am living with an eccentric.
PS: Marshmallows are nasty. Even with chocolate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Here is what I found:
One bag of cookies (geek kibble, hers).
Half a bag of bbq chips closed with a binder clip (ours).
One box of chocolate covered marshmallows (geek kibble, hers).
Two small Japanese saucers; antique (mine).
A pottery item with a wrinkle-skin glaze (mine).
A pottery item with a pale blue powder glaze (mine).
A pottery item with a subtly spotty iron oxide glaze (mine).
A pottery item with a glaze showing fascinating variances (mine).
A translucent rubber egg-ball with a "yolk" inside (mine).
And a can of 'Man-Power' anti-bacterial deodorant, by Old Spice, that dates to the late sixties, which she came upon when cleaning out her mom's apartment a few years ago and promptly decided had either curiosity value or a practical application (hers).
[The deodorant was not the only thing she found, because old-country Cantonese women hold on to stuff way past any rational use-by date, and never throw anything away.
My apartment mate decided the selection of noodles and the five gallon can of soy sauce (cheaper that way!) were past their prime, and threw those out. But the medicated liniment with the smiling dark person on the label, the herbal digestive pills from a company in Foochow, and the Man-Power, among one or two other things, came home with her.]
Actually, almost everything in the teevee toom is mine. Books, ceramics, antiquities, and a large amount of pipe tobacco. But for a middle-aged white dude, that is almost certainly normal. Within the realm of normality.
Part of a broad and flexible definition of normalcy.
The quintessence of normalitude.
Middle-aged white dudes read, collect things, and smoke pipes.
There's a lacquered cock for pinang on a bookshelf, and a bird-shaped copper box for betel requisites on top of the television set, towering over a wooden sado-nurse xmas tree-ball we've never actually hung. That may not be quite normal. Betel is a habit that has fallen substantially by the wayside in the modern world. Once universally used as part of the South East Asian social setting, shared among princes and commoners, and even permitted to the clergy, the betel chewing habit is now seldom found in an urban environment except among one's very old female relatives from the hinterland.
Who expectorate crimson into handheld spittoons.
And smile with pitch black teeth.
I haven't a clue what normal women in their forties -- my apartment mate is of that age -- might stuff into a teevee room or collect. Many of them don't smoke pipes, I realize, nor have wayang puppets in the corner. Or go for pottery with interesting glazes. Many, probably most of them, no longer read much, unlike my apartment mate.
When I come home from Marin she's often in her room with a book.
Surrounded by stuffed animals with quirky personalities.
Reading - that's what geek females do.
It's kind of charming.
I am living with an eccentric.
PS: Marshmallows are nasty. Even with chocolate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A WORLD UNTO THEMSELVES
Over the past week, well over six dozen people read one post on this blog, and then read further in the hopes of discovering more details.
A key part of the search criteria that drew them here in the first place was the word "cut". As in 'French cut', or 'high cut'.
Indeed, there is a post about the difference between French cut and High cut. It was written during a brief phase when I coddled the sartorially-minded.
I suspect that if I were to describe 'boxers' (loose male underwear that resembles soccer shorts) versus 'tidy whities' (a masculine constrictive garment that cuts off circulation to a part of the anatomy), far fewer people would come here on such a search.
One has to wonder at people who don't use youtube or google image search. Heck, even Wikipedia provides volumes of useful information about nether garments.
[By the way: I just learned that using image search for 'longjohns' is not safe for work. Better go to Wikipedia for an informative and neutral overview of that garment. But an image search for 'French cut' will automatically show you Salman Khan.
Who is totally safe for work.]
People who roam the internet looking for texts about underwear are special.
They are probably fascinating conversationalists.
You should invite them to your next party.
To flabberghast your relatives.
You probably already do precisely that, don't you?
I really must wonder why you want to invite them to your parties.
I never get invited to parties, and there are several folks who have had birthdays or marital engagements in the past few months. What are you thinking? And why should I even encourage you to do so?
There is no reason underwear freaks should have all the fun.
I'm guessing it's because I am not special. Pipe-smoking opinionated middle-aged Dutchmen are probably a dime a dozen, and totally unremarkable. You probably know several.
Weirdoes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A key part of the search criteria that drew them here in the first place was the word "cut". As in 'French cut', or 'high cut'.
Indeed, there is a post about the difference between French cut and High cut. It was written during a brief phase when I coddled the sartorially-minded.
I suspect that if I were to describe 'boxers' (loose male underwear that resembles soccer shorts) versus 'tidy whities' (a masculine constrictive garment that cuts off circulation to a part of the anatomy), far fewer people would come here on such a search.
One has to wonder at people who don't use youtube or google image search. Heck, even Wikipedia provides volumes of useful information about nether garments.
[By the way: I just learned that using image search for 'longjohns' is not safe for work. Better go to Wikipedia for an informative and neutral overview of that garment. But an image search for 'French cut' will automatically show you Salman Khan.
Who is totally safe for work.]
People who roam the internet looking for texts about underwear are special.
They are probably fascinating conversationalists.
You should invite them to your next party.
To flabberghast your relatives.
You probably already do precisely that, don't you?
I really must wonder why you want to invite them to your parties.
I never get invited to parties, and there are several folks who have had birthdays or marital engagements in the past few months. What are you thinking? And why should I even encourage you to do so?
There is no reason underwear freaks should have all the fun.
I'm guessing it's because I am not special. Pipe-smoking opinionated middle-aged Dutchmen are probably a dime a dozen, and totally unremarkable. You probably know several.
Weirdoes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 08, 2016
CRUNCHITY CRUNCHITY!
Are you keenly aware of your stomach? Do you hear that savage growling, as if in pain, or perhaps a wild beast pursuing red meat on the fleeing hoof? Is the pink plink plink of mucus tissues in the pit of your soul flapping together emptily keeping you from enjoying a favourite teevee show? Interfering with the satisfaction of existence?
Do you have angst?
Then this sounds like it's just what you need: Semi-sweet chocolate chips (sugar, chocolate liquor, cocoa butter, milk fat, soy lecithin [an emulsifier], vanilla, natural flavor), unbleached flour (wheat flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamine mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid, malted barley flour), butter, cane sugar, eggs, baking soda, salt, and vanilla extract.
Crispy and delicious!
I just found them there, on the other side of the computer, while I was enjoying a fragrant hot cup of milk tea. So I ate some. A few. Several.
In order to stay awake, I may need some more milk tea.
And a small cigarillo in the kitchen.
While waiting.
The middle-aged man takes pleasure in simple things. Not itching, hot beverages, a sufficiency of tobacco, no zombies nearby, a computer, and always being able to find my reading specs.
Plus, when lucky, cookies.
Naughty bits would be nice too, along with a million dollars and world peace. But it is what it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Do you have angst?
Then this sounds like it's just what you need: Semi-sweet chocolate chips (sugar, chocolate liquor, cocoa butter, milk fat, soy lecithin [an emulsifier], vanilla, natural flavor), unbleached flour (wheat flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamine mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid, malted barley flour), butter, cane sugar, eggs, baking soda, salt, and vanilla extract.
Crispy and delicious!
I just found them there, on the other side of the computer, while I was enjoying a fragrant hot cup of milk tea. So I ate some. A few. Several.
In order to stay awake, I may need some more milk tea.
And a small cigarillo in the kitchen.
While waiting.
The middle-aged man takes pleasure in simple things. Not itching, hot beverages, a sufficiency of tobacco, no zombies nearby, a computer, and always being able to find my reading specs.
Plus, when lucky, cookies.
Naughty bits would be nice too, along with a million dollars and world peace. But it is what it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HE DON'T EAT NO MEAT?!?
One of the regulars wishes me to understand that he is a deeply spiritual person. Which is why he is taking his date to a holistic restaurant. Even though I'm dying to know what in blazes a holistic restaurant is, I did not ask. Largely because I wanted the conversation to end as soon as possible. I just didn't feel comfortable.
I have no wish to delve into another person's deep spirituality, and fervently hope he doesn't leave a pile of it lying around. Where it may scare little children, or dry into a hard little cake on the carpet.
We just had that carpet installed.
Ten years ago.
Marin County is a very special place.
My idea of a restaurant to take a date is an eatery that has meat or seafood, and hot sauce. I could never date a vegetarian, vegan, gluten-psycho, or food-phobe. Years ago, when I was in Berkeley I made the mistake of taking a Vegetarian out to dinner. The first and only date.
That made me loathe what white people do to tofu ever since.
It may well have scarred me for the rest of my life.
Tofu is great with fatty pork, by the way.
Or grilled shrimp.
"That's okay, that's okay! I make lamb."
-----Aunt Voula, in MBFGW
I know I really shouldn't make fun of majority food-preferences in this country, but it really is irresistible. The subject is endlessly fascinating, and most Americans are downright bizarre. Raw vegetables with nothing, or overcooked to the mush stage, plus burnt fat, and boiled starch. And a very limited protein spectrum: hot dogs, burgers, steaks, deepfried grease-encrusted chicken, chops, overcooked salmon, and tuna. Or, for the ultra-enlightened segment: beans, fake cheese, lentils, kale, fake bacon, tofurky, and chicken-flavoured vegetarian ham.
That last if they're lucky.
There's a burrito chain that caters primarily to that crowd. It's a bit more expensive than regular food, has far less flavour, and seems to make folks deathly ill every other month. But on the plus side, it's very hip. And has many branches located near a Starbucks.
Or a Jamba Juice location.
It's hip.
FOOD IS DÉCLASSÉ
The easiest way for immigrants in California to be accepted is to acquire food insanity. Particularly vegetarianism and gluten-psychosis, or, conversely, an affection for gourmet vegan muck that costs a hundred dollars a plate. It's proves that you are spiritual. Deeply.
By the way: dinner last night was stirfried yauchoi with shrimp-paste, saté sauce, chilies, and eggs scrambled in. It looked like hell on a plate, but was super delicious. By my standards that's vegetarian, and about as spiritual as I can get.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I have no wish to delve into another person's deep spirituality, and fervently hope he doesn't leave a pile of it lying around. Where it may scare little children, or dry into a hard little cake on the carpet.
We just had that carpet installed.
Ten years ago.
Marin County is a very special place.
My idea of a restaurant to take a date is an eatery that has meat or seafood, and hot sauce. I could never date a vegetarian, vegan, gluten-psycho, or food-phobe. Years ago, when I was in Berkeley I made the mistake of taking a Vegetarian out to dinner. The first and only date.
That made me loathe what white people do to tofu ever since.
It may well have scarred me for the rest of my life.
Tofu is great with fatty pork, by the way.
Or grilled shrimp.
"That's okay, that's okay! I make lamb."
-----Aunt Voula, in MBFGW
I know I really shouldn't make fun of majority food-preferences in this country, but it really is irresistible. The subject is endlessly fascinating, and most Americans are downright bizarre. Raw vegetables with nothing, or overcooked to the mush stage, plus burnt fat, and boiled starch. And a very limited protein spectrum: hot dogs, burgers, steaks, deepfried grease-encrusted chicken, chops, overcooked salmon, and tuna. Or, for the ultra-enlightened segment: beans, fake cheese, lentils, kale, fake bacon, tofurky, and chicken-flavoured vegetarian ham.
That last if they're lucky.
There's a burrito chain that caters primarily to that crowd. It's a bit more expensive than regular food, has far less flavour, and seems to make folks deathly ill every other month. But on the plus side, it's very hip. And has many branches located near a Starbucks.
Or a Jamba Juice location.
It's hip.
FOOD IS DÉCLASSÉ
The easiest way for immigrants in California to be accepted is to acquire food insanity. Particularly vegetarianism and gluten-psychosis, or, conversely, an affection for gourmet vegan muck that costs a hundred dollars a plate. It's proves that you are spiritual. Deeply.
By the way: dinner last night was stirfried yauchoi with shrimp-paste, saté sauce, chilies, and eggs scrambled in. It looked like hell on a plate, but was super delicious. By my standards that's vegetarian, and about as spiritual as I can get.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, August 07, 2016
MORRISEY LIKES ANIMALS
According to a sanctimonious twat who is devious, truculent and unreliable, as well as an offensive missionary for Vegetarianism, the Chinese are not in the same category as himself.
Per Steven Patrick Morrissey, "You can't help but feel that the Chinese are a subspecies."
Funny, that's what I often think about strident dickheads like Morrisey.
Nah, not going to comment on his music. There's just too much garbage in the audio world, one cannot listen to all of it.
Here is a passage about this paragon from Wikipedia:
[End quote.]
He sounds like a real piece.
To counter all the negative karma that Morrisey spews, this blogger intends to eat pork every single day this week, as well as bacon several times for the rest of the month.
I look forward to many omnomnomish repasts.
Animals are among my favourite foods.
Yummy with garlic and ginger.
Or scallion & dow see.
I might even have some KFC. Sometimes that hits all the spots. If there's one thing that food chains do well, it's fried chicken.
If they added bacon, it would be stellar.
POST SCRIPTUM
Here are two very nice pork recipes: mui choi kau yiuk & suen choi paak yiuk
Here is an essay about steamed pork: laat chiu jing yiuk beng.
Snow cabbage and pork soup: suet choi yiuk si tong.
A yummy all-time Fukienese favourite: hong bak.
Crispy skin roast pork: cheui pei siu yiuk.
Delicious meatballs! lions heads.
Bon appétit!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Per Steven Patrick Morrissey, "You can't help but feel that the Chinese are a subspecies."
Funny, that's what I often think about strident dickheads like Morrisey.
Nah, not going to comment on his music. There's just too much garbage in the audio world, one cannot listen to all of it.
Here is a passage about this paragon from Wikipedia:
"Morrissey is an advocate for animal rights and a supporter of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). In recognition of his support, PETA honoured him with the Linda McCartney Memorial Award at their 25th Anniversary Gala on 10 September 2005. In 2012, he appeared in a PETA ad campaign, encouraging people to have their dogs and cats neutered to help reduce the number of homeless pets.
In January 2006, Morrissey attracted criticism when he stated that he accepts the motives behind the militant tactics of the Animal Rights Militia, saying "I understand why fur-farmers and so-called laboratory scientists are repaid with violence—it is because they deal in violence themselves and it's the only language they understand".
Morrissey has criticised people in the UK who are involved in the promotion of eating meat, specifically Jamie Oliver and Clarissa Dickson Wright – the latter already targeted by some animal rights activists for her stance on fox hunting. In response, Dickson Wright stated, "Morrissey is encouraging people to commit acts of violence and I am constantly aware that something might very well happen to me." The Conservative MP David Davis criticised Morrissey's comments, saying that "any incitement to violence is obviously wrong in a civilised society and should be investigated by the police". ] On 27 March 2006, Morrissey released a statement that he would not include any concert dates in Canada on his world tour that year—and that he supported a boycott of all Canadian goods—in protest against the country's annual seal hunt, which he described as a "barbaric and cruel slaughter".
In 2009 he briefly abandoned the main stage at the Coachella Festival, which was situated next to the food concession area. Upon his return he said, "The smell of burning animals is making me sick. I just couldn't bear it."
At a concert in Warsaw, Poland on Sunday, 24 July 2011, Morrissey caused more controversy when stating "We all live in a murderous world, as the events in Norway have shown, with 97 [sic] dead. Though that is nothing compared to what happens in McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Shit every day", in reference to the recent attacks of Anders Breivik in Norway on 22 July, which resulted in the killing of 69 people who were attending a Youth Labour Party camp on Utøya Island, and eight people working in and around a government building which was bombed. His statement has been seen as crude and insensitive. Morrissey later elaborated on his statement, saying, "If you quite rightly feel horrified at the Norway killings, then it surely naturally follows that you feel horror at the murder of ANY innocent being. You cannot ignore animal suffering simply because animals 'are not us.'"
[End quote.]
He sounds like a real piece.
To counter all the negative karma that Morrisey spews, this blogger intends to eat pork every single day this week, as well as bacon several times for the rest of the month.
I look forward to many omnomnomish repasts.
Animals are among my favourite foods.
Yummy with garlic and ginger.
Or scallion & dow see.
I might even have some KFC. Sometimes that hits all the spots. If there's one thing that food chains do well, it's fried chicken.
If they added bacon, it would be stellar.
POST SCRIPTUM
Here are two very nice pork recipes: mui choi kau yiuk & suen choi paak yiuk
Here is an essay about steamed pork: laat chiu jing yiuk beng.
Snow cabbage and pork soup: suet choi yiuk si tong.
A yummy all-time Fukienese favourite: hong bak.
Crispy skin roast pork: cheui pei siu yiuk.
Delicious meatballs! lions heads.
Bon appétit!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TROPIC FEVER
This blogger is quite uninterested in the Olympics. There is only ONE single sport of Olympian stature worth paying any attention whatsoever to, and it will not be featured in Rio De Janeiro.
Speed skating.
Time to play that lovely video of Jillert Anema twitting the United States again.
RIPP IT BABY!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EzQIc_mFvms.]
Okay, I will admit to a minor interest in the outcomes. Specifically, how many zika and syphilis cases each nations fans rack up, as well as the crime stats, and accidental and deliberate deaths.
Plus drug and alcohol overdoses.
But that's it. All of it.
Nothing else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Speed skating.
Time to play that lovely video of Jillert Anema twitting the United States again.
RIPP IT BABY!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EzQIc_mFvms.]
Okay, I will admit to a minor interest in the outcomes. Specifically, how many zika and syphilis cases each nations fans rack up, as well as the crime stats, and accidental and deliberate deaths.
Plus drug and alcohol overdoses.
But that's it. All of it.
Nothing else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 06, 2016
FACEBOOK SHOOTS ITSELF IN THE FOOT: WE LOVE GMOS AND VACCINES
It should come as no surprise to you that social media can be hijacked by shrill and ignorant mobs. Or that large companies will gladly pander to the loudest and dumbest market segment.
Which, more or less, explains Facebook deciding last week to take down a page that took the anti-science hysterics to task, as well as the snake-oil salesmen who profit from the gullibility of the ignorant.
WE LOVE GMOS AND VACCINES
[https://www.facebook.com/welovegv/?fref=nf]
In a nutshell, WLGAV got trollswatted. Facebook, guided by ignorance and arrogance combined, paid heed.
And erased everything.
Fortunately the rationalistic roars of outrage by members of the scientific and medical communities eventually forced Facebook to reconsider and the page is now back up.
For an overview of the response let's head over to The Genetic Literacy Project, which is not likely to be taken down by Facebook hypocrisy.
Science communicators condemn Facebook’s censorship of pro-science “We Love GMOs and Vaccines”
Quote:
"The Facebook page for We Love GMOs and Vaccines, which covers the most notorious anti-science movements, suffered yet another activist swarm attack in which anti-vaxxers and campaigners against GM technology coordinated a large number of complaints in order get Facebook to shut the page down."
End quote.
Quote:
"While operatives like natural product quack salesman Joseph Mercola or Gary Ruskin, head of the US Right to Know–the organic industry financed site that seeks to malign the credibility of mainstream scientists–may feel their standing, book sales and sponsorship agreements are threatened by people who disagree with them and their narrow-minded worldview, willingly shutting down contrarian sites and social media pages is far from democratic. Do we really want to live in a world where we are all forced to listen to their views, and only them?"
End quote.
It is disgusting and shameful that Facebook caved in to the con-artists and fanatics, without even considering that they thus might be responsible for the spread of dangerous nonsense.
Fortunately they eventually realized their error.
People should feel free to experiment with lemon-ginger-cayenne drinks, garlic suppositories for whichever nether orifice, Himalayan salt, crystal healing, aromatherapy, re-birthing, and other equally berserk new-age crap, but when they try to pass it off as therapeutic, or having any validity, it is only right that someone call them on their bullshit.
A person's stupidity should only endanger one person.
Not their fellow man.
By the way: Organic food is largely a huge waste of money, and absolutely no healthier than the normal produce you buy in the supermarket.
Homeopathy is a load of codswallop.
And vaccination saves lives.
Marijuana tampons?
Good lord!
Emergency Rooms across the country are a testament to the failures of alternative medicine and dietary idiocy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which, more or less, explains Facebook deciding last week to take down a page that took the anti-science hysterics to task, as well as the snake-oil salesmen who profit from the gullibility of the ignorant.
WE LOVE GMOS AND VACCINES
[https://www.facebook.com/welovegv/?fref=nf]
In a nutshell, WLGAV got trollswatted. Facebook, guided by ignorance and arrogance combined, paid heed.
And erased everything.
Fortunately the rationalistic roars of outrage by members of the scientific and medical communities eventually forced Facebook to reconsider and the page is now back up.
For an overview of the response let's head over to The Genetic Literacy Project, which is not likely to be taken down by Facebook hypocrisy.
Science communicators condemn Facebook’s censorship of pro-science “We Love GMOs and Vaccines”
Quote:
"The Facebook page for We Love GMOs and Vaccines, which covers the most notorious anti-science movements, suffered yet another activist swarm attack in which anti-vaxxers and campaigners against GM technology coordinated a large number of complaints in order get Facebook to shut the page down."
End quote.
Quote:
"While operatives like natural product quack salesman Joseph Mercola or Gary Ruskin, head of the US Right to Know–the organic industry financed site that seeks to malign the credibility of mainstream scientists–may feel their standing, book sales and sponsorship agreements are threatened by people who disagree with them and their narrow-minded worldview, willingly shutting down contrarian sites and social media pages is far from democratic. Do we really want to live in a world where we are all forced to listen to their views, and only them?"
End quote.
It is disgusting and shameful that Facebook caved in to the con-artists and fanatics, without even considering that they thus might be responsible for the spread of dangerous nonsense.
Fortunately they eventually realized their error.
People should feel free to experiment with lemon-ginger-cayenne drinks, garlic suppositories for whichever nether orifice, Himalayan salt, crystal healing, aromatherapy, re-birthing, and other equally berserk new-age crap, but when they try to pass it off as therapeutic, or having any validity, it is only right that someone call them on their bullshit.
A person's stupidity should only endanger one person.
Not their fellow man.
By the way: Organic food is largely a huge waste of money, and absolutely no healthier than the normal produce you buy in the supermarket.
Homeopathy is a load of codswallop.
And vaccination saves lives.
Marijuana tampons?
Good lord!
Emergency Rooms across the country are a testament to the failures of alternative medicine and dietary idiocy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BLESS THE LITTLE FURRY FELLOW-CITIZENS!
You may not like the article, but I find it fascinating. What with being simultaneously a curious sort with a minor scientific bent, AND eternally charmed by little furry creatures. And, related thereto, I should mention that I have liked a Facebook page for fans of pet rats.
Personally, I do not own or host any rodents.
But they are very charming animals.
And can be affectionate.
[Years ago at a party in North Beach, I interacted with the three pets of the household, that being an iguana, a cat, and a free-roaming rat. At one point the rat discovered that my right arm and my shoulders were a bridge to the bag of cheetos in my left hand, and then spent half an hour ferrying the contents of that bag to a hiding place in its unlocked cage. Which was a lovely example of co-existence, and probably prevented me from getting early-onset diabetes.
A delightful little fellow.]
Not only do I follow a rat page, there are also cats, kittens, weasels, and pipesmokers, whose antics I look forward to on Facebook.
Anyhow, here's an article about rats in Vancouver:
The Case For Leaving City Rats Alone -- Nautilus
Cite:
"As much as rats thrive in disrupted environments, Byers says, they’ve managed to create very stable colonies within them. Rats live in tight-knit family groups that are confined to single city blocks, and which rarely interact. The Rat Project hypothesized that when a rat is ousted from its family by pest control, its family might flee its single-block territory, spreading diseases that are usually effectively quarantined to that family. In other words, the current pest control approach of killing one rat per concerned homeowner call could be backfiring, and spreading disease rather than preventing it."
[ --- ]
"A significant finding from the project’s original phase, Byers tells me, is that not every rat in V6A carried the same disease. Rat families are generally confined to a single city block, and while one block might be wholly infected with a given bacteria, adjacent blocks were often completely disease free. “Disease risk doesn’t really relate to the number of rats you’re exposed to as much as it does which family you interact with,” says Robbin Lindsay, a researcher at Canada’s National Microbiology Lab who assisted the Vancouver Rat Project screen for disease."
[ --- ]
"Byers moves hastily to a trap on Block 8. No rat here, but this one did catch a skunk."
End cite.
The article is a good read.
The bookseller and I miss the tree outside the Ping Yuen West housing project which once contained a rat. We do not know why that tree was removed -- the rodent was probably not the reason -- but the rat population is probably thriving in that area since San Francisco's current garbage policy was put into effect. Rats have no problems getting into locked garbage cans; trash, recyclables, and compost.
On the other hand, I haven't seen raccoons there in a while.
It's probably all the unfair competition.
Which is not natural.
In the past, San Francisco was a warmly supportive environment for rats, cats, raccoons, possums, and skunks, plus the occasional coyote. Since the recent tech boom began, programmers have taken over.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Personally, I do not own or host any rodents.
But they are very charming animals.
And can be affectionate.
[Years ago at a party in North Beach, I interacted with the three pets of the household, that being an iguana, a cat, and a free-roaming rat. At one point the rat discovered that my right arm and my shoulders were a bridge to the bag of cheetos in my left hand, and then spent half an hour ferrying the contents of that bag to a hiding place in its unlocked cage. Which was a lovely example of co-existence, and probably prevented me from getting early-onset diabetes.
A delightful little fellow.]
Not only do I follow a rat page, there are also cats, kittens, weasels, and pipesmokers, whose antics I look forward to on Facebook.
Anyhow, here's an article about rats in Vancouver:
The Case For Leaving City Rats Alone -- Nautilus
Cite:
"As much as rats thrive in disrupted environments, Byers says, they’ve managed to create very stable colonies within them. Rats live in tight-knit family groups that are confined to single city blocks, and which rarely interact. The Rat Project hypothesized that when a rat is ousted from its family by pest control, its family might flee its single-block territory, spreading diseases that are usually effectively quarantined to that family. In other words, the current pest control approach of killing one rat per concerned homeowner call could be backfiring, and spreading disease rather than preventing it."
[ --- ]
"A significant finding from the project’s original phase, Byers tells me, is that not every rat in V6A carried the same disease. Rat families are generally confined to a single city block, and while one block might be wholly infected with a given bacteria, adjacent blocks were often completely disease free. “Disease risk doesn’t really relate to the number of rats you’re exposed to as much as it does which family you interact with,” says Robbin Lindsay, a researcher at Canada’s National Microbiology Lab who assisted the Vancouver Rat Project screen for disease."
[ --- ]
"Byers moves hastily to a trap on Block 8. No rat here, but this one did catch a skunk."
End cite.
The article is a good read.
The bookseller and I miss the tree outside the Ping Yuen West housing project which once contained a rat. We do not know why that tree was removed -- the rodent was probably not the reason -- but the rat population is probably thriving in that area since San Francisco's current garbage policy was put into effect. Rats have no problems getting into locked garbage cans; trash, recyclables, and compost.
On the other hand, I haven't seen raccoons there in a while.
It's probably all the unfair competition.
Which is not natural.
In the past, San Francisco was a warmly supportive environment for rats, cats, raccoons, possums, and skunks, plus the occasional coyote. Since the recent tech boom began, programmers have taken over.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 05, 2016
THE BAY AREA IS JUST MARVELOUS
This blogger has reached his mid-fifties. And is no longer as patient and forgiving as he was during his callow youth. He does not wish well on the entire world, and will never agree that it takes all kinds.
There are very many we can well do without.
I can name names if I have to.
Some new rules:
Do not make me tolerate your ill-mannered brat. No, I do not care that he or she is precious, and must be convinced that something I do is bad and deserving of juvenile chastisement. Trust me, I will smack the little shit into traffic if I have to.
Your dog is a nasty little crap-machine that is occupying my space and pooing on my doorstep. We can change that.
Marijuana is evil, people who smoke it are losers. Especially that shrill vegetarian catfreak in Oakland, as well as the dipwad who spends all weekend at his office downtown to avoid his wife.
If your baby carriage is on the same sidewalk as me, I will give it a wide berth. I will NOT put my pipe out. You can dump your baby, however, and perhaps you should have ditched it with the load of bathwater.
Life is too short to deal with puritans and entitled people.
You should leave.
No one cares about the meaningfulness of your tattoos.
Just shut up.
Now, has everybody got that?
Provided you understand where I am coming from here, we can get along fine. I will not smoke in your house, nor in the coffee shops that you frequent, and you will kindly get off my sidewalk and out of my way. Silently. I do not care about your opinion. You, your idols, and your religio-healthnut spokespersons, are all odious cretins.
This post written in sincere appreciation (is that the right word?) of self-righteous San Francisco harridans of all genders and ages, as well as the most self-absorbed region in the known universe: Marin County.
There's also Berkeley, but there is no intelligent life there.
You are all dingleberries.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There are very many we can well do without.
I can name names if I have to.
Some new rules:
Do not make me tolerate your ill-mannered brat. No, I do not care that he or she is precious, and must be convinced that something I do is bad and deserving of juvenile chastisement. Trust me, I will smack the little shit into traffic if I have to.
Your dog is a nasty little crap-machine that is occupying my space and pooing on my doorstep. We can change that.
Marijuana is evil, people who smoke it are losers. Especially that shrill vegetarian catfreak in Oakland, as well as the dipwad who spends all weekend at his office downtown to avoid his wife.
If your baby carriage is on the same sidewalk as me, I will give it a wide berth. I will NOT put my pipe out. You can dump your baby, however, and perhaps you should have ditched it with the load of bathwater.
Life is too short to deal with puritans and entitled people.
You should leave.
No one cares about the meaningfulness of your tattoos.
Just shut up.
Now, has everybody got that?
Provided you understand where I am coming from here, we can get along fine. I will not smoke in your house, nor in the coffee shops that you frequent, and you will kindly get off my sidewalk and out of my way. Silently. I do not care about your opinion. You, your idols, and your religio-healthnut spokespersons, are all odious cretins.
This post written in sincere appreciation (is that the right word?) of self-righteous San Francisco harridans of all genders and ages, as well as the most self-absorbed region in the known universe: Marin County.
There's also Berkeley, but there is no intelligent life there.
You are all dingleberries.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE VEGEMITE-BRAINED LOON
It is immensely comforting to find out that it isn't just us; there are braying nutballs elsewhere in the world. Australia has, among others, Malcolm Roberts. Who is a Queensland senator from the One Nation Party, more or less the equivalent of the Partij Van De Vrijheid in the Netherlands, which has its own share of boobies, and the current nucleus of the Republican Party, very disably led by Donald "Tangerine-faced Cocksplat" Trump.
Mr. Roberts firmly believes that the United Nations invented climate change as a means towards imposing a one-world government.
Which queer belief assumes overmuch intelligence in that body.
He also believes in a banker conspiracy directing world affairs.
Again, an assumption of vast intelligence.
Here, chosen mostly at random, are points from a document that he authored a while back, which seems to be some kind of declaration of his personal war against sanity.
Cite:
I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul has not seen or been presented with any material facts or evidence that man has not created government, and believe that none exist.
I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul has not seen or been presented with any material facts or evidence that I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul am not a beneficiary of the public trust, or evidence that the Australian Government is not a trustee in the public trust and believe that none exist.
I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul has not seen or been presented with any material facts or evidence that compels me, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul or any other free man to be a member of a society and believe that none exist.
I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul has not seen or been presented with any material facts or evidence that I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul am the birth certificate, and believe that none exist.
End cite.
[SOURCE: Affidavit of Notice of Standing and Further and Better Particulars and Proof of Claim.]
Well isn't that special?
It's positively manifestoish.
But wait! There's more!
Cite:
The UN’s forty-year campaign fabricating climate fraud used strategies and tactics proven 100 years ago. They’re similar to those used by international bankers in their thirty-year campaign from the 1880’s to gain control of the USA’s money supply, finances and economy.
Until his retirement in November 2012 Dr. Ron Paul was a member of America’s House of Representatives. He’s highly regarded by both Democrats and Republicans ...
Internationally regarded American educator John Taylor Gatto’s research reveals that the public education system has been designed to suppress individualism and critical thinking to prepare people for life under central control.
International bankers aim to dumb-down children through state-controlled education. They aim to produce fodder for factories and warring armies. They want fodder that cannot think for itself and is acquiescent.
End cite.
[SOURCE: http://www.climate.conscious.com.au/docs/new/14_Appendix.pdf.]
All of this, and very much else, demonstrates almost conclusively that Vegemite is a dangerous parasitic substance that inexorably takes over the hollow brain chambers of its victims.
Thank goodness we are not afflicted thus.
Poor sodding Australians.
In Queensland.
There is a slim possibility that all of this is Dada Poetry.
But without evidence for that, I'll assume Vegemite.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Mr. Roberts firmly believes that the United Nations invented climate change as a means towards imposing a one-world government.
Which queer belief assumes overmuch intelligence in that body.
He also believes in a banker conspiracy directing world affairs.
Again, an assumption of vast intelligence.
Here, chosen mostly at random, are points from a document that he authored a while back, which seems to be some kind of declaration of his personal war against sanity.
Cite:
I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul has not seen or been presented with any material facts or evidence that man has not created government, and believe that none exist.
I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul has not seen or been presented with any material facts or evidence that I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul am not a beneficiary of the public trust, or evidence that the Australian Government is not a trustee in the public trust and believe that none exist.
I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul has not seen or been presented with any material facts or evidence that compels me, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul or any other free man to be a member of a society and believe that none exist.
I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul has not seen or been presented with any material facts or evidence that I, Malcolm-Ieuan: Roberts., the living soul am the birth certificate, and believe that none exist.
End cite.
[SOURCE: Affidavit of Notice of Standing and Further and Better Particulars and Proof of Claim.]
Well isn't that special?
It's positively manifestoish.
But wait! There's more!
Cite:
The UN’s forty-year campaign fabricating climate fraud used strategies and tactics proven 100 years ago. They’re similar to those used by international bankers in their thirty-year campaign from the 1880’s to gain control of the USA’s money supply, finances and economy.
Until his retirement in November 2012 Dr. Ron Paul was a member of America’s House of Representatives. He’s highly regarded by both Democrats and Republicans ...
Internationally regarded American educator John Taylor Gatto’s research reveals that the public education system has been designed to suppress individualism and critical thinking to prepare people for life under central control.
International bankers aim to dumb-down children through state-controlled education. They aim to produce fodder for factories and warring armies. They want fodder that cannot think for itself and is acquiescent.
End cite.
[SOURCE: http://www.climate.conscious.com.au/docs/new/14_Appendix.pdf.]
All of this, and very much else, demonstrates almost conclusively that Vegemite is a dangerous parasitic substance that inexorably takes over the hollow brain chambers of its victims.
Thank goodness we are not afflicted thus.
Poor sodding Australians.
In Queensland.
There is a slim possibility that all of this is Dada Poetry.
But without evidence for that, I'll assume Vegemite.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, August 04, 2016
SELF-EXPRESSION, POSSIBLY WITH RABIES
Social media has changed since I was a youngster. Back in my day it consisted of notes surreptitiously passed under desks, squiggly hearts with arrows drawn through them, and, very high tech, aerogrammes.
We were barely out of the stone age, and still hardly ever washed under our armpits.
The more aspiring carried around typewriters, and wind-up Victrolas to play sound bytes. Or threw rocks to get your attention.
Nowadays, people expect instant memes and selfies.
"you're unlike other bloggers. You never show pictures of yourself!"
That's what someone wrote.
No pictures.
Well, that's just not true! I post lots of pictures of my self.
Here's a small sampling:
I would offer that the thematic consistency of these images should give you a very good idea of my appearance. Tiny bright eyes. Fuzz. Prominent ears and sharp teeth. Whiskers. White.
Okay then.
Any more questions?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
We were barely out of the stone age, and still hardly ever washed under our armpits.
The more aspiring carried around typewriters, and wind-up Victrolas to play sound bytes. Or threw rocks to get your attention.
Nowadays, people expect instant memes and selfies.
"you're unlike other bloggers. You never show pictures of yourself!"
That's what someone wrote.
No pictures.
Well, that's just not true! I post lots of pictures of my self.
Here's a small sampling:
I would offer that the thematic consistency of these images should give you a very good idea of my appearance. Tiny bright eyes. Fuzz. Prominent ears and sharp teeth. Whiskers. White.
Okay then.
Any more questions?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 03, 2016
NOT THE DEGENERATE YOU IMAGINE
A term of opprobrium carelessly flung in my direction gives me a warm retrospective glow. And it is my hope that the flinger of that sobriquet keeps the heck away from me, and avoids me like the plague.
If our paths ever cross again.
"Rancid old perv"
Well now. Given that the only exchange we've had was me telling you to stuff it, when you objected to the smell of my pipe on an open sidewalk, and that I looked daggers at you in wounded outrage at the time, that observation is remarkable.
Was it my glowering eyes? My trembling outrage? The angry expression on my face? My evident frustration at being faced with a sternly disapproving earthmother in the making?
Or, perhaps, my slow exhalation of a dense cloud of smoke in your general direction while contemplating whether to scream at you and jump up and down making a scene.
You know, sweetheart -- surely I may call you that, I feel that I know you so well -- this is a wide sidewalk, next to six busy lanes of traffic, and just beyond a church with a colony of homeless people in the portico. There's an overflowing garbage can over there, and smears of dog poo on the pavement in addition to refuse. Surely your sense of entitlement, sweetheart, and your ire, would have been better aimed at the rich panoply of reeks in the modern urban environment, and the evident slow crumbling of civilization evinced by that, than at a pipe smoker whom you could have passed silently in a twinkle on your way to your yoga class without a second thought.
I wonder at your first thought.
You may choke on it.
Sweetheart.
Nah, I'm not a rancid old perv. For one thing, I bathe regularly, and for another, I am still fairly young.
There was a time when smoking was largely taken for granted. Yes, most people huffed cigarettes, and quite a few of them got cancer because of it, but far many more simply enjoyed a civilized habit.
We cannot smoke indoors anymore, or in the needle-strewn public parks, and there are nasty signs all over the place telling us to shove off.
Little children are firmly instructed to fear and loathe us.
Which is fine, we don't like your kids anyway.
They're spoiled, and utterly unbearable.
But the pendulum has swung too far.
Kindly go piss up a rope.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
If our paths ever cross again.
"Rancid old perv"
Well now. Given that the only exchange we've had was me telling you to stuff it, when you objected to the smell of my pipe on an open sidewalk, and that I looked daggers at you in wounded outrage at the time, that observation is remarkable.
Was it my glowering eyes? My trembling outrage? The angry expression on my face? My evident frustration at being faced with a sternly disapproving earthmother in the making?
Or, perhaps, my slow exhalation of a dense cloud of smoke in your general direction while contemplating whether to scream at you and jump up and down making a scene.
You know, sweetheart -- surely I may call you that, I feel that I know you so well -- this is a wide sidewalk, next to six busy lanes of traffic, and just beyond a church with a colony of homeless people in the portico. There's an overflowing garbage can over there, and smears of dog poo on the pavement in addition to refuse. Surely your sense of entitlement, sweetheart, and your ire, would have been better aimed at the rich panoply of reeks in the modern urban environment, and the evident slow crumbling of civilization evinced by that, than at a pipe smoker whom you could have passed silently in a twinkle on your way to your yoga class without a second thought.
I wonder at your first thought.
You may choke on it.
Sweetheart.
Nah, I'm not a rancid old perv. For one thing, I bathe regularly, and for another, I am still fairly young.
There was a time when smoking was largely taken for granted. Yes, most people huffed cigarettes, and quite a few of them got cancer because of it, but far many more simply enjoyed a civilized habit.
We cannot smoke indoors anymore, or in the needle-strewn public parks, and there are nasty signs all over the place telling us to shove off.
Little children are firmly instructed to fear and loathe us.
Which is fine, we don't like your kids anyway.
They're spoiled, and utterly unbearable.
But the pendulum has swung too far.
Kindly go piss up a rope.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE FOOD AND DRUG ADMINISTRATION HATES YOU
Back in 2009, congress passed regulation of tobacco to the Food and Drug Administration. Our president signed it into law, because the vote-sucking cretins on the left and the right assured him it was a nifty thing to do. It took until May of this year for the FDA to publish its "deeming regulations", which, unsurprisingly, will put a huge number of people out of business, and virtually outlaw everything that makes tobacco great.
Tobacco is, as you no doubt realize, a hot potato. Almost no politician who seeks endorsements would dare come out and say "I am a smoker, and I rather like tobacco". Doing so means that you can kiss your political career goodbye.
But on the other claw, if you obediently slam tobacco, all the doctors, nurses, and educators, will organizationally shower you with free endorsements, and sing your praises.
In another five days, on August 8th., these new rules go into effect.
Which means that very many pipemakers, tobacco blenders, cigar rollers, farmers, and several other small businesses which cater to a minority, will effectively have to close their doors.
Unlike the marijuana industry, which really does destroy lives.
I am a smoker, and I rather like tobacco.
Courtesy of a reader, here are three worthwhile links.
From Pipes Magazine, an article by Tom Wolfe:
New FDA Regulations: How Do They Impact the Pipe World?
From the same excellent publication, this:
Tobacco in the Land Freedom Built
And, from a newspaper in the heartland of tobacco country:
New FDA tobacco regulations stir help, harm debate
In the words of one of my very good friends: "To all the anti-tobacco asshats out there, and everyone who over the years has demanded that I quit smoking, screw you, the glandered nag you rode in on, and your degenerate relatives. I hope you all die of syphilis!"
That is a truly heartfelt sentiment.
Of which I approve.
Nothing has given me nearly as much pleasure as my pipes and tobacco over the years, or made putting up with all the verkrampte rightwingers and illiterate lefties in the United States so bearable. Yes, I already know that tobacco is a harmful substance; neither the FDA or the poxxy do-gooders need to lecture me on that issue, and I would far rather that all disapproving puritan dilwads stay out of my life, damn them, and out of my face.
I shan't smoke around them, even though I wish them ill.
They need to keep away from me.
Leave me in peace.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tobacco is, as you no doubt realize, a hot potato. Almost no politician who seeks endorsements would dare come out and say "I am a smoker, and I rather like tobacco". Doing so means that you can kiss your political career goodbye.
But on the other claw, if you obediently slam tobacco, all the doctors, nurses, and educators, will organizationally shower you with free endorsements, and sing your praises.
In another five days, on August 8th., these new rules go into effect.
Which means that very many pipemakers, tobacco blenders, cigar rollers, farmers, and several other small businesses which cater to a minority, will effectively have to close their doors.
Unlike the marijuana industry, which really does destroy lives.
I am a smoker, and I rather like tobacco.
Courtesy of a reader, here are three worthwhile links.
From Pipes Magazine, an article by Tom Wolfe:
New FDA Regulations: How Do They Impact the Pipe World?
From the same excellent publication, this:
Tobacco in the Land Freedom Built
And, from a newspaper in the heartland of tobacco country:
New FDA tobacco regulations stir help, harm debate
In the words of one of my very good friends: "To all the anti-tobacco asshats out there, and everyone who over the years has demanded that I quit smoking, screw you, the glandered nag you rode in on, and your degenerate relatives. I hope you all die of syphilis!"
That is a truly heartfelt sentiment.
Of which I approve.
Nothing has given me nearly as much pleasure as my pipes and tobacco over the years, or made putting up with all the verkrampte rightwingers and illiterate lefties in the United States so bearable. Yes, I already know that tobacco is a harmful substance; neither the FDA or the poxxy do-gooders need to lecture me on that issue, and I would far rather that all disapproving puritan dilwads stay out of my life, damn them, and out of my face.
I shan't smoke around them, even though I wish them ill.
They need to keep away from me.
Leave me in peace.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 02, 2016
BECAUSE IT'S NEWS
Just in case you did not realize it, I should mention that despite being a native English-speaker and descended from several generations of Americans, I am also a Dutchman, by virtue of ancestry, immersion, and linguistic accident. The language of Gerbrand Adriaenszoon Bredero and Joost van den Vondel is dear to me, and I am probably more fluent and literate in that tongue than the average Dutchman.
I also think in Dutch at times, as well as one or two other languages besides English.
So I understand "Dutchness". And "Dutchiquity".
And can empathize with "Dutchotics".
The BBC and other news sources mention a Dutchman who took flight to Changsha in Hunan to meet his on-line girlfriend, and spent ten days at the airport waiting for her. He was eventually hospitalized in desperate need of a shave, and possibly a serving of frikadel and fries with a dollop of mayonnaise on the side, OR raw herring (met uitjes).
Cite:
Alexander Pieter Cirk, 41, recently flew from Holland to Hunan province in the hope of meeting his online girlfriend, a Chinese woman known only as Zhang.
...
He refused to leave the airport for the next 10 days, and was eventually taken to hospital suffering physical exhaustion, according to reports by Hunan TV.
End cite.
[SOURCE: Dutch man waits in airport - BBC.]
Dude! You're letting the side down! We Dutch are lousy at the romantic thing!
What to you may have seemed like a lovely spontaneous gesture comes across as creepy and stalker-type to the rest of the world. You know, the "normal" people? We Netherlanders are a phlegmatic and reserved bunch, except for our generous allotment of perverts and degenerates, and such free-style single-mindedness is something we do best when building strandbeesten and painting daffodils in riotous impasto.
You know, calmly private obsessive neuroses.
Flying to Changsha is the equivalent of slicing off your ear to give to someone. The left ear.
Entirely aside from which, internet romance is ridiculous, and something best suited to desperate crazy people.
Love must start with a real-world meeting, and continue from there with visits to coffee shops, eateries, parks, and museums, as well as long walks, or periods of contemplation. It need not be calm, controlled, and predictable; it may in fact be wild and adventurous.
But loony behaviour and anarchy are to be avoided.
Flowers, candy, and joyousness, could and should crop up.
Along with restrained spontaneity.
Never ears.
長沙、楚國。
What he should have done, by the second or third day, when it became apparent that Miss Zhang would not show up, was depart from the airport, found lodgings, and visited the city. There are museums there detailing the rich history and glorious past when the Chu state was one third of China, and reading about the Warring States period (戰國時 'jin gwok si') is boundlessly fascinating.
They have good food there too, and while it likely cannot be as good as Cantonese Cuisine (粤菜 'yuet choi'), a culinarily inclined Dutchman should easily discover new and exciting eating opportunities, all the way from Yuelu (嶽麓 'ngok luk'; "summit foothills") in the East to Liuyang (瀏陽 'lau yeung'; "bright sunlight") at the western extreme.
He could have visited the West Lake Pavilion (西湖樓 'sai wu lau') and dined with five thousand other people. It features both Hunanese food (湘菜 'seung choi') as well as fine Cantonese dining.
The Window Of The World park (長沙世界之窗 'jeung saa sai gaai ji cheung') might also be fun. It's kind of like Madurodam, but built large.
Undoubtedly great photo ops!
Eat, drink, take pictures, read, and buy trinkets.
Absorb some of the local culture.
Talk to people.
Enjoy your stay.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I also think in Dutch at times, as well as one or two other languages besides English.
So I understand "Dutchness". And "Dutchiquity".
And can empathize with "Dutchotics".
The BBC and other news sources mention a Dutchman who took flight to Changsha in Hunan to meet his on-line girlfriend, and spent ten days at the airport waiting for her. He was eventually hospitalized in desperate need of a shave, and possibly a serving of frikadel and fries with a dollop of mayonnaise on the side, OR raw herring (met uitjes).
Cite:
Alexander Pieter Cirk, 41, recently flew from Holland to Hunan province in the hope of meeting his online girlfriend, a Chinese woman known only as Zhang.
...
He refused to leave the airport for the next 10 days, and was eventually taken to hospital suffering physical exhaustion, according to reports by Hunan TV.
End cite.
[SOURCE: Dutch man waits in airport - BBC.]
Dude! You're letting the side down! We Dutch are lousy at the romantic thing!
What to you may have seemed like a lovely spontaneous gesture comes across as creepy and stalker-type to the rest of the world. You know, the "normal" people? We Netherlanders are a phlegmatic and reserved bunch, except for our generous allotment of perverts and degenerates, and such free-style single-mindedness is something we do best when building strandbeesten and painting daffodils in riotous impasto.
You know, calmly private obsessive neuroses.
Flying to Changsha is the equivalent of slicing off your ear to give to someone. The left ear.
Entirely aside from which, internet romance is ridiculous, and something best suited to desperate crazy people.
Love must start with a real-world meeting, and continue from there with visits to coffee shops, eateries, parks, and museums, as well as long walks, or periods of contemplation. It need not be calm, controlled, and predictable; it may in fact be wild and adventurous.
But loony behaviour and anarchy are to be avoided.
Flowers, candy, and joyousness, could and should crop up.
Along with restrained spontaneity.
Never ears.
長沙、楚國。
What he should have done, by the second or third day, when it became apparent that Miss Zhang would not show up, was depart from the airport, found lodgings, and visited the city. There are museums there detailing the rich history and glorious past when the Chu state was one third of China, and reading about the Warring States period (戰國時 'jin gwok si') is boundlessly fascinating.
They have good food there too, and while it likely cannot be as good as Cantonese Cuisine (粤菜 'yuet choi'), a culinarily inclined Dutchman should easily discover new and exciting eating opportunities, all the way from Yuelu (嶽麓 'ngok luk'; "summit foothills") in the East to Liuyang (瀏陽 'lau yeung'; "bright sunlight") at the western extreme.
He could have visited the West Lake Pavilion (西湖樓 'sai wu lau') and dined with five thousand other people. It features both Hunanese food (湘菜 'seung choi') as well as fine Cantonese dining.
The Window Of The World park (長沙世界之窗 'jeung saa sai gaai ji cheung') might also be fun. It's kind of like Madurodam, but built large.
Undoubtedly great photo ops!
Eat, drink, take pictures, read, and buy trinkets.
Absorb some of the local culture.
Talk to people.
Enjoy your stay.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE IDEAL WOMAN, RE-ENVISIONED
Five years ago, in answer to a bachelor friend's query, I described the ideal woman. Perhaps that was not the right time to do that. I was still somewhat a mess after my own split-up half a year previously. Let me be the first to admit that sometimes I am not entirely right. In the head.
And oh heck, me giving anybody advice is just wrong. I'm the man who wants to provide grammar school kids with lessons in rhetoric. Manifestly a BAD idea, because they'll just out-argue us grown-ups, among whose ranks I nominally count myself. That speaks volumes about a lack of judgment.
So I'd like to offer that the ideal woman likes meat, has no tattoos, and doesn't chew with her mouth open.
That last item is very important. I now know in overmuch detail what the fresh-faced young lady at the other table was eating last night, and let me tell you the sight of a quesadilla being slowly masticated detracted enormously from her pinkness.
I don't know nearly so much about the food choices of her friends, as not a single other orifice at the table was in my direct line of sight.
It is possible that she may have been the fifth wheel.
Possibly her date had already been exposed.
And had inexplicably chickened.
"She likes meat, lacks tattoos, closes her mouth."
And dresses properly. During lunch yesterday I got far too good a view of a middle-aged dame's flamboyant tramp stamp. Why on earth would anybody have a smiling fat Buddha inked right above their bum?
Admittedly my meal was in Marin County (at work), so I should have been used to flashes of dubious judgment and weird self-indulgence, they're all creative free spirits there with meaningfulness in their lives, but it was never the less a bit much at that moment.
The ideal woman is nice to be with.
And is not run of the mill.
She is hard to find.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And oh heck, me giving anybody advice is just wrong. I'm the man who wants to provide grammar school kids with lessons in rhetoric. Manifestly a BAD idea, because they'll just out-argue us grown-ups, among whose ranks I nominally count myself. That speaks volumes about a lack of judgment.
So I'd like to offer that the ideal woman likes meat, has no tattoos, and doesn't chew with her mouth open.
That last item is very important. I now know in overmuch detail what the fresh-faced young lady at the other table was eating last night, and let me tell you the sight of a quesadilla being slowly masticated detracted enormously from her pinkness.
I don't know nearly so much about the food choices of her friends, as not a single other orifice at the table was in my direct line of sight.
It is possible that she may have been the fifth wheel.
Possibly her date had already been exposed.
And had inexplicably chickened.
"She likes meat, lacks tattoos, closes her mouth."
And dresses properly. During lunch yesterday I got far too good a view of a middle-aged dame's flamboyant tramp stamp. Why on earth would anybody have a smiling fat Buddha inked right above their bum?
Admittedly my meal was in Marin County (at work), so I should have been used to flashes of dubious judgment and weird self-indulgence, they're all creative free spirits there with meaningfulness in their lives, but it was never the less a bit much at that moment.
The ideal woman is nice to be with.
And is not run of the mill.
She is hard to find.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 01, 2016
WHAT TO EAT WITH SHERRY
My apartment mate is hogging the kitchen cooking up a big batch of something with chicken and mushroom to take over to her boyfriend's place. Which, I guess, means that I will be having a burrito around the corner tonight. With lots of salsa de arbol. You know, I have never understood the American penchant for swilling buckets of beer with every non-Anglo dinner. Indian food? Beer! Pizza? Beer! Hunan? Beer! Jamaican jerk chicken? Beer! Burmese spicy mohinga? Beer! Bratwurst mit shnitzli und blaukraut? Beer! Chip and dip? Beer! Uitsmijter met kaas en ham? Bier!
And anything Mexican? Beer!
Personally, I am not so much into beer.
I think a burrito would be so much better with an amontillado.
Good lord, she's singing in there! I know we have no cooking sherry at present, and she's never done drugs.
Some kind of opera. Italian words.
Sometimes a man needs a burrito.
Carnitas. Salsa de chiles arbol.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And anything Mexican? Beer!
Personally, I am not so much into beer.
I think a burrito would be so much better with an amontillado.
Good lord, she's singing in there! I know we have no cooking sherry at present, and she's never done drugs.
Some kind of opera. Italian words.
Sometimes a man needs a burrito.
Carnitas. Salsa de chiles arbol.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE CURMUDGEON'S FRIEND
The single man learns to take pleasure in little things. Especially when the big things no longer crop up, like passion, wild romance, roses, or just soft little hands grasping one's own big mits tightly while dozing.
Or, for that matter, the things I never did in the first place, like dance the night away at a South of Market club while getting blotto on energy drinks and flavoured vodka.
Yesterday evening I made another batch of my own pipe tobacco blend. This is the fifth variant of the recipe I started working on over a year ago, and the fourth time I've blended a batch since finalizing it.
It smells like one of those old-fashioned honest clean products that people used to smoke, before one section of the pipe smoking world went aromatic crazy, and the rest lost their minds on ever more Byzantine mixes and mine-is-better-than-yours snobbery.
It didn't have a name for a long time.
I think I'll now call it "Sorrow's End", because it makes me happy.
Not as much as sex, or a nice bowl of chocolate pudding, oh heavens yes, but nevertheless, I am quite happy with it. Being on the smoking end, it is hard for me to know the room note, but whenever I've got a good whiff it reminds me of afternoon sunlight, dustmotes dancing, open windows and gently billowing curtains, black and white photographs, and how pencils, ink, and good drawing paper, feel in the hands.
Uncomplicated, and unassuming, but very enjoyable.
It also makes me think of Teddy Bears.
Resolutely independent Teddy Bears.
With stubborn facial expressions.
It goes well with tea.
Virginia, virginia, virginia, air-cured, Turkish.
Touches of Kentucky and Perique.
Yeah, okay, that's probably a little peculiar, and you probably did not need to know that. But all rational people should have stuffed animals that they value in their lives. And the sooner you admit that to yourself, the better you will be.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or, for that matter, the things I never did in the first place, like dance the night away at a South of Market club while getting blotto on energy drinks and flavoured vodka.
Yesterday evening I made another batch of my own pipe tobacco blend. This is the fifth variant of the recipe I started working on over a year ago, and the fourth time I've blended a batch since finalizing it.
It smells like one of those old-fashioned honest clean products that people used to smoke, before one section of the pipe smoking world went aromatic crazy, and the rest lost their minds on ever more Byzantine mixes and mine-is-better-than-yours snobbery.
It didn't have a name for a long time.
I think I'll now call it "Sorrow's End", because it makes me happy.
Not as much as sex, or a nice bowl of chocolate pudding, oh heavens yes, but nevertheless, I am quite happy with it. Being on the smoking end, it is hard for me to know the room note, but whenever I've got a good whiff it reminds me of afternoon sunlight, dustmotes dancing, open windows and gently billowing curtains, black and white photographs, and how pencils, ink, and good drawing paper, feel in the hands.
Uncomplicated, and unassuming, but very enjoyable.
It also makes me think of Teddy Bears.
Resolutely independent Teddy Bears.
With stubborn facial expressions.
It goes well with tea.
Virginia, virginia, virginia, air-cured, Turkish.
Touches of Kentucky and Perique.
Yeah, okay, that's probably a little peculiar, and you probably did not need to know that. But all rational people should have stuffed animals that they value in their lives. And the sooner you admit that to yourself, the better you will be.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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Oh dang, according to the news we're starting another heat event today with an indefinite end. This will please all the sweaty nudists. ...
