The other day I asked an acquaintance a sports-related question. He responded by giving me an algorithm. Sports, clearly, brings out the inner-autist. No, I have no clue how he expected his answer to compute.
Please do not mention any ball-games to me.
I shall consider that micro-aggression.
And also a form of discrimination.
I am not into homo-erotic past-times.
Or fetishisms based on sweat.
It is all scrotal.
Balls.
==========================================================================
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Monday, October 10, 2016
Sunday, October 09, 2016
THE CANTONESE BURDEN
On the way to Marin this morning some Mainland tourists were hogging up the seats. Six couples (twelve bipeds) who did not wish to sit with each other, OR at the window seats. Or allow anyone to sit next to them. When they got off at the bridge, over twenty people from further back in the bus moved forward. There. They're gone. Them and their horrible sounding language. A person of Cantonese appearance hissed "sze dalu-ren" at their departing fatty backs, and harmony settled over the bus.
[Sze dalu-ren: 死大陸人 "dead (damned) mainland person". Which in proper Cantonese pronunciation would have been 'sei taai lok yan', but then the overfed fuerhtaipiaogun (富二代表群 'fu yi-doi piu-kwan') would not possibly have understood. Many mainlanders from places away from the coast do not understand anything other than Mandarin, being in that regard very much like our fellows from the flyovers with the English that Jesus spoke.]
For about ten minutes I got to listen to Hong Kong Auntie vociferate on her cellphone about those folks. I should have taken notes, but I was too obsessed with crawling into my skull and getting the serious head-time that the Mandarin-speakers had prevented.
When she got off in Marin City she was still disgruntled.
Those seats further back are very uncomfortable.
And smell like pot smokers.
Unlike native speakers of Cantonese, I actually like Mandarin types. They are so delightfully innocent and un-knowing of many things. It's like dealing with people who have lost their owners manual.
I say this in the friendliest way possible.
But in all honesty, all their vacation photos are probably going to be so boring. EVERYBODY has the bridge, the pyramid, the crooked street. Instead, they should go to East Oakland, and see how the locals live. Perhaps score a drive-by or a transaction in the background of their pictures. "This is me in front of a massive police presence", or "look at all the friendly natives". You know, something unique and educational.
Think of the stories they can tell when they get home.
And it will contribute bucket-loads to cross-cultural understanding.
While simultaneously not pissing-off the Cantonese.
Or, for that matter, anybody else.
Seeing as A) there is a Cantonese person in my apartment, B) I head down into Chinatown a lot, and C) I can speak Cantonese to a limited degree, you can understand that 'the-not-pissing-off-of-Cantonese persons' ranks very high on my priority list. The Cantonese are, in some regards, my canaries in the coal mine. If any Cantonese people in my immediate vicinity are steaming mad, it may affect me or rub off.
Possibly there are very good reasons for off-pissedness, or they are full of boundless generosity about sharing it. Vociferously. At length.
Sending Mandarin-speakers to East Oakland is benign self-interest.
I too want them to have a memorable experience.
Somewhere else.
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[Sze dalu-ren: 死大陸人 "dead (damned) mainland person". Which in proper Cantonese pronunciation would have been 'sei taai lok yan', but then the overfed fuerhtaipiaogun (富二代表群 'fu yi-doi piu-kwan') would not possibly have understood. Many mainlanders from places away from the coast do not understand anything other than Mandarin, being in that regard very much like our fellows from the flyovers with the English that Jesus spoke.]
For about ten minutes I got to listen to Hong Kong Auntie vociferate on her cellphone about those folks. I should have taken notes, but I was too obsessed with crawling into my skull and getting the serious head-time that the Mandarin-speakers had prevented.
When she got off in Marin City she was still disgruntled.
Those seats further back are very uncomfortable.
And smell like pot smokers.
Unlike native speakers of Cantonese, I actually like Mandarin types. They are so delightfully innocent and un-knowing of many things. It's like dealing with people who have lost their owners manual.
I say this in the friendliest way possible.
But in all honesty, all their vacation photos are probably going to be so boring. EVERYBODY has the bridge, the pyramid, the crooked street. Instead, they should go to East Oakland, and see how the locals live. Perhaps score a drive-by or a transaction in the background of their pictures. "This is me in front of a massive police presence", or "look at all the friendly natives". You know, something unique and educational.
Think of the stories they can tell when they get home.
And it will contribute bucket-loads to cross-cultural understanding.
While simultaneously not pissing-off the Cantonese.
Or, for that matter, anybody else.
Seeing as A) there is a Cantonese person in my apartment, B) I head down into Chinatown a lot, and C) I can speak Cantonese to a limited degree, you can understand that 'the-not-pissing-off-of-Cantonese persons' ranks very high on my priority list. The Cantonese are, in some regards, my canaries in the coal mine. If any Cantonese people in my immediate vicinity are steaming mad, it may affect me or rub off.
Possibly there are very good reasons for off-pissedness, or they are full of boundless generosity about sharing it. Vociferously. At length.
Sending Mandarin-speakers to East Oakland is benign self-interest.
I too want them to have a memorable experience.
Somewhere else.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PLEASE DO NOT GRAB!
You know I like to research weird bits, right? Apropos of Donald Trump, last night I looked up 'cloaca'. Which is the general purpose orifice that snakes, lizards, and amphibians have. As well as numerous other non-mammalian creatures, and a very limited number of mammals.
As a general word of advice, do NOT grab at a snake's cloaca. Especially a feisty live rattler. No, this isn't something based on experience, but sound common sense.
Related thereto, I found out that the New World possum has a bifurcated penis that would fit perfectly into Donald Trump's nose. Or probably did.
Makes you wonder why he was sniffing during the debate a few weeks ago. Or what. What did he sniff?
Donald Trump is the chosen representative of the Republican Party.
Their champion, frontrunner, and standard bearer.
Solid Christian values.
On a slightly related note, I am so very very glad that my apartment mate pays little attention to the news, and no attention whatsoever to social media. She is very Aspy, and of Cantonese extraction though local born. Both of those details are relevant, because the only possible upside to her being aware what Donald Trump said about women, if she ever finds out about it, would be that my Cantonese vocabulary would improve by virtue of hearing a long, passionate, angry, and extremely repetitive Asperger-y rant, partly in English, partly in Toishan dialect. Which would be two to three hours of my life I would never get back.
[Full disclosure: I likewise am Aspy, albeit manageably mildly. The blog, which is in its eleventh year, is testimony to that. Food, pipe tobacco, Hong Kong milk tea, and the occasional obsession.]
Her boyfriend should get that rant.
Not me. I'm innocent.
One cannot call Donald Trump a skunk, because skunks are intelligent social animals, and very cute. But American possums are remarkably ugly critters, which look like deathshead rodents. The flesh is oily and greasy, and when prepared for eating the beast has to be washed thoroughly after skinning and gutting. Ginger and parsley are useful additions to the pot, as are various tubers. I would also add a chili or two, as well as cumin, black pepper,and nutmeg. First sauté some chopped onion, celery, and tomato, then add everything else. Cook till falling off the bone tender.
It will still taste overwhelmingly like possum, though.
The possum has a bifurcated penis.
And stubby fingers.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
As a general word of advice, do NOT grab at a snake's cloaca. Especially a feisty live rattler. No, this isn't something based on experience, but sound common sense.
Related thereto, I found out that the New World possum has a bifurcated penis that would fit perfectly into Donald Trump's nose. Or probably did.
Makes you wonder why he was sniffing during the debate a few weeks ago. Or what. What did he sniff?
Donald Trump is the chosen representative of the Republican Party.
Their champion, frontrunner, and standard bearer.
Solid Christian values.
On a slightly related note, I am so very very glad that my apartment mate pays little attention to the news, and no attention whatsoever to social media. She is very Aspy, and of Cantonese extraction though local born. Both of those details are relevant, because the only possible upside to her being aware what Donald Trump said about women, if she ever finds out about it, would be that my Cantonese vocabulary would improve by virtue of hearing a long, passionate, angry, and extremely repetitive Asperger-y rant, partly in English, partly in Toishan dialect. Which would be two to three hours of my life I would never get back.
[Full disclosure: I likewise am Aspy, albeit manageably mildly. The blog, which is in its eleventh year, is testimony to that. Food, pipe tobacco, Hong Kong milk tea, and the occasional obsession.]
Her boyfriend should get that rant.
Not me. I'm innocent.
One cannot call Donald Trump a skunk, because skunks are intelligent social animals, and very cute. But American possums are remarkably ugly critters, which look like deathshead rodents. The flesh is oily and greasy, and when prepared for eating the beast has to be washed thoroughly after skinning and gutting. Ginger and parsley are useful additions to the pot, as are various tubers. I would also add a chili or two, as well as cumin, black pepper,and nutmeg. First sauté some chopped onion, celery, and tomato, then add everything else. Cook till falling off the bone tender.
It will still taste overwhelmingly like possum, though.
The possum has a bifurcated penis.
And stubby fingers.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 08, 2016
A COLLECTION OF THE ELDERLY
After I few moments I realized what set me apart form the elderly men sitting in the bakery. Two things. First one being that I was not having coffee, but was drinking a yuen-yeung. Secondly, my hair was not white. Salt and peppery, sure, but theirs was all white. In other words, I am just the blooming epitome of bouncing ruddy good youth.
They are all severely senior. White haired.
Creak ... creak ... creak ...
Of course, I was also the only one suffering from the heat. Having spent my childhood in the frigid boggy north, I cannot deal with this climate.
I would far rather be naked, but the problem is that one cannot be naked in public -- out of considerations of good taste, chafing, and one's fellow citizens' thin connection to equanimity and peace of mind -- and being naked in private is, more or less, a statement, if one has an apartment mate. One should always be selective about one's nudity.
Unless one is utterly alone.
Then not.
Given a choice of shared nudity or solitary nudity, I would rather have the shared nudity, but only if I could choose the other willing person.
Otherwise, I should be alone. You, I''m sure, think so too.
In this heat, it would have to be passive and reclining nudity, perhaps with languorous fans and lots of liquids, while gazing up at the ceiling and listening to yowling yuppie baseball fans on Polk Street.
Active nudity in all probability occurs during the off-season.
One more reason to hate organized sports.
Not that I needed it.
I do not ever need to be naked in that bakery. Chinatown does not want one of their favourite sit-down places to go nudist. And it would affect the taste of the pastries.
Plus, if I were to spill my hot beverage, it could get embarrassing.
AFTER THOUGHT
What should one do when one is companionably naked with another person during hot weather? One tries not to stare (or at least not get caught doing so), and one offers to make some tea. Does the other person want cold tea? There are ice cubes. Lemon, unless one prepared for this in advance, is sadly missing, but there is a choice of teas. Sorry, no, I do not have pumpkin spice or lime-tangerine zingy dingy; there's green, three different oolongs, pu erh, and two black teas.
Nothing sticky.
Let us assume that the nudity was a spontaneous decision, a bright spur of the moment inspiration, between two consenting adults. Not three. Not four. More than two would be uncomfortable and embarrassing. One shall also assume that they are not strangers, and have positive regards for each other. This despite the fact that it is too hot for any physical contact, skin to skin. Merely being naked seems like a mighty good idea. Blinds drawn, for that deceptive cooling effect that the shade provides, and perhaps a moist cloth to lay across the brow. Brows. Two brows.
If there is any television to be watched, it shall be mutually decided upon (meaning most likely NOT the weather channel), and there will be drinks. Probably ice tea. It is important to remain properly hydrated. Though the blinds are down, the windows are open. It provides a cross-draft.
And lets the smoke escape.
Can't go outside to smoke; I'm not decent.
I know, near the kitchen window.
With a bathrobe.
It's too warm to do anything. We should read and doze. Or take a shower. Either together or separate, whatever seems best.
Dinner? Maybe later. Once it has cooled down.
Meanwhile, I'll make some more tea.
Am I over-thinking this?
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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They are all severely senior. White haired.
Creak ... creak ... creak ...
Of course, I was also the only one suffering from the heat. Having spent my childhood in the frigid boggy north, I cannot deal with this climate.
I would far rather be naked, but the problem is that one cannot be naked in public -- out of considerations of good taste, chafing, and one's fellow citizens' thin connection to equanimity and peace of mind -- and being naked in private is, more or less, a statement, if one has an apartment mate. One should always be selective about one's nudity.
Unless one is utterly alone.
Then not.
Given a choice of shared nudity or solitary nudity, I would rather have the shared nudity, but only if I could choose the other willing person.
Otherwise, I should be alone. You, I''m sure, think so too.
In this heat, it would have to be passive and reclining nudity, perhaps with languorous fans and lots of liquids, while gazing up at the ceiling and listening to yowling yuppie baseball fans on Polk Street.
Active nudity in all probability occurs during the off-season.
One more reason to hate organized sports.
Not that I needed it.
I do not ever need to be naked in that bakery. Chinatown does not want one of their favourite sit-down places to go nudist. And it would affect the taste of the pastries.
Plus, if I were to spill my hot beverage, it could get embarrassing.
AFTER THOUGHT
What should one do when one is companionably naked with another person during hot weather? One tries not to stare (or at least not get caught doing so), and one offers to make some tea. Does the other person want cold tea? There are ice cubes. Lemon, unless one prepared for this in advance, is sadly missing, but there is a choice of teas. Sorry, no, I do not have pumpkin spice or lime-tangerine zingy dingy; there's green, three different oolongs, pu erh, and two black teas.
Nothing sticky.
Let us assume that the nudity was a spontaneous decision, a bright spur of the moment inspiration, between two consenting adults. Not three. Not four. More than two would be uncomfortable and embarrassing. One shall also assume that they are not strangers, and have positive regards for each other. This despite the fact that it is too hot for any physical contact, skin to skin. Merely being naked seems like a mighty good idea. Blinds drawn, for that deceptive cooling effect that the shade provides, and perhaps a moist cloth to lay across the brow. Brows. Two brows.
If there is any television to be watched, it shall be mutually decided upon (meaning most likely NOT the weather channel), and there will be drinks. Probably ice tea. It is important to remain properly hydrated. Though the blinds are down, the windows are open. It provides a cross-draft.
And lets the smoke escape.
Can't go outside to smoke; I'm not decent.
I know, near the kitchen window.
With a bathrobe.
It's too warm to do anything. We should read and doze. Or take a shower. Either together or separate, whatever seems best.
Dinner? Maybe later. Once it has cooled down.
Meanwhile, I'll make some more tea.
Am I over-thinking this?
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 07, 2016
FRAGRANCE AND SOFT MURMURING
What San Francisco needs is an Indonesian restaurant that gears itself toward one key demographic: middle-aged Dutchmen. So, none of that fake Indonesian food which is popular among the late night crowd in the Netherlands, or the bland somewhat Chinese-taste stuff cooked by ex-Jakartans that is available locally, but something relatively authentic and relatively spicy. With enough of a selection that intelligent choices can be made for a rijsttafel.
Decor, too. Walls mostly a warm ochre-cream, with Raw Sienna and a dark mahogany-umber detailing. Bamboo slat or matchstick blinds. Fine porcelain, good cutlery, the occasional fern or potted plant, and absolutely none of that painted or carved wood kitsch that every Asian restaurant seems to have all over. Decent non-glaring lighting, neither forensics laboratory bright nor old-troll dark and moody.
The one key dish it MUST have is a damned fine soto ayam. Which is rich chicken soup yellowed with turmeric, with fresh chicken meat, slices of fried potato INSTEAD of lontong, cilantro, Chinese parsley, and fried shallots plus krupuk or emping as garnish.
The broth should be flavoured with fried shallots, coriander, and ginger.
Plus kemiri nuts, lemon grass, galangal, and dried shrimp.
Noodles optional, for a version of Mie Soto.
Nasi goreng (fried rice) or bami goreng (fried noodles) are also kind of essential, but they really aren't that necessary. Excellent saté, preferable both chicken and lamb, plus petjil, and two or three home-made sambal.
Rice, cucumber chunks, chilled squiggle drinks.
Good strong coffee, either iced or hot.
Korma, kalio, gulai, rawon.
And NO music!
The last Indonesian restaurant at which I ate had karaoke videos. Really, popular music is mostly pig-bollocks in every culture, and sappy emotional ballads in Indonesian are probably the ultimate nightmare.
Either that or meaningful gamelan music.
One other thing: most "ethnic" menus abound in clumsy spelling errors. Gentlemen, this does NOT add to the charm of your place, but rather severely detracts from it.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Decor, too. Walls mostly a warm ochre-cream, with Raw Sienna and a dark mahogany-umber detailing. Bamboo slat or matchstick blinds. Fine porcelain, good cutlery, the occasional fern or potted plant, and absolutely none of that painted or carved wood kitsch that every Asian restaurant seems to have all over. Decent non-glaring lighting, neither forensics laboratory bright nor old-troll dark and moody.
The one key dish it MUST have is a damned fine soto ayam. Which is rich chicken soup yellowed with turmeric, with fresh chicken meat, slices of fried potato INSTEAD of lontong, cilantro, Chinese parsley, and fried shallots plus krupuk or emping as garnish.
The broth should be flavoured with fried shallots, coriander, and ginger.
Plus kemiri nuts, lemon grass, galangal, and dried shrimp.
Noodles optional, for a version of Mie Soto.
Nasi goreng (fried rice) or bami goreng (fried noodles) are also kind of essential, but they really aren't that necessary. Excellent saté, preferable both chicken and lamb, plus petjil, and two or three home-made sambal.
Rice, cucumber chunks, chilled squiggle drinks.
Good strong coffee, either iced or hot.
Korma, kalio, gulai, rawon.
And NO music!
The last Indonesian restaurant at which I ate had karaoke videos. Really, popular music is mostly pig-bollocks in every culture, and sappy emotional ballads in Indonesian are probably the ultimate nightmare.
Either that or meaningful gamelan music.
One other thing: most "ethnic" menus abound in clumsy spelling errors. Gentlemen, this does NOT add to the charm of your place, but rather severely detracts from it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 06, 2016
EVERYTHING OF ORGANIC ORIGIN
As many of my readers know, I used to work part-time in an Indian restaurant. Many Hindu Indians do not eat beef. Some do not eat meat at all. This a religion-based abstainment. Likewise, Jews do not eat pork or shellfish, and truly obeservant Jews will not eat food prepared in a non-kosher environment (like my kitchen, for instance), because kashrus extends to utensils and containers. Muslims are a little more flexible, in that avoiding pork is their main buggaboo, and the other details are of decidedly lesser importance.
I more than tolerate religious exemptions and associated dietary eccentricity, even thought I hold to no such limitations myself.
Even Buddhists and Jains. Wild, but okay.
Self-anointed vegans and glutenphobes, however, can go fly a kite.
I am only marginally better with the anti-gmo and organic crowd.
They too are a bunch of pretentious and special dickwads.
Fortunately the places where I eat do not cater to those people.
"What's that?"
"Pork egg-noodle."
"And that?"
"Bacon and cheese gluten."
"That?"
"It's shrimp, bloody beef, mushrooms, and blue cheese, lovingly garnished with peanuts, onions, chili peppers, and strips of fried egg.
Bacon is optional, honey-mustard glaze is not."
Veal, pâté de foie gras, and smoked horsemeat.
What I wanted tonight was either pizza or roast duck. But what I had was bacon, finger sausages, egg, and toasted sourdough bread. I did not feel like complicated cooking. The kitchen smells rich and very porkesque at present, and I think I will follow dinner with some delicious frozen dairy dessert. Oh yum.
The only thing missing was hotsauce.
Sometimes the sheer rich goodness of the ingredients and that old-timey flavour need to stand on their own to be appreciated.
I already had hotsauce earlier today.
On a dolphin-salad sandwich.
Oh sorry, it was tuna.
Yes. Tuna ...
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I more than tolerate religious exemptions and associated dietary eccentricity, even thought I hold to no such limitations myself.
Even Buddhists and Jains. Wild, but okay.
Self-anointed vegans and glutenphobes, however, can go fly a kite.
I am only marginally better with the anti-gmo and organic crowd.
They too are a bunch of pretentious and special dickwads.
Fortunately the places where I eat do not cater to those people.
"What's that?"
"Pork egg-noodle."
"And that?"
"Bacon and cheese gluten."
"That?"
"It's shrimp, bloody beef, mushrooms, and blue cheese, lovingly garnished with peanuts, onions, chili peppers, and strips of fried egg.
Bacon is optional, honey-mustard glaze is not."
Veal, pâté de foie gras, and smoked horsemeat.
What I wanted tonight was either pizza or roast duck. But what I had was bacon, finger sausages, egg, and toasted sourdough bread. I did not feel like complicated cooking. The kitchen smells rich and very porkesque at present, and I think I will follow dinner with some delicious frozen dairy dessert. Oh yum.
The only thing missing was hotsauce.
Sometimes the sheer rich goodness of the ingredients and that old-timey flavour need to stand on their own to be appreciated.
I already had hotsauce earlier today.
On a dolphin-salad sandwich.
Oh sorry, it was tuna.
Yes. Tuna ...
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WITH THE TACIT APPROVAL OF KING BHUMIBOL ...
With the tacit approval of King Bhumibol..... Students diving into the Chaophraya River were shot at by navy vessels while others who surrendered, lying down on the ground, were picked up and beaten, many to death. Some were hung from trees and beaten, others were set afire while female students were raped, alive and dead, by police and Red Gaurs. The massacre continued for several hours, and was only halted at noon by a rainstorm.
.......
On the afternoon of 6 October after the massacre, the major factions of the military which formed the general staff agreed in principle to overthrow Seni, a plot that King Bhumibol was well aware of and approved, which in turn ensured the success of the coup-makers.
From Wikipedia: Thammasat University massacre.
Note: The Red Gaurs (Thai: กระทิงแดง Krathing Daeng) were an extreme right-wing paramilitary organization active in Thailand during the 1970s. The Red Gaurs played a key role in the 6 October 1976 massacre of students and activists at Thammasat University.
Source: Red Gaurs
Seni: Prime minister Seni Pramoj, three-time prime minister, leader of the Democrat Party, great-grandson of King Rama II. Educated in the law. Ambassador to the U.S. during the Second World War. After the Thammasat massacre he resigned from politics.
He died in 1997.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
.......
On the afternoon of 6 October after the massacre, the major factions of the military which formed the general staff agreed in principle to overthrow Seni, a plot that King Bhumibol was well aware of and approved, which in turn ensured the success of the coup-makers.
From Wikipedia: Thammasat University massacre.
Note: The Red Gaurs (Thai: กระทิงแดง Krathing Daeng) were an extreme right-wing paramilitary organization active in Thailand during the 1970s. The Red Gaurs played a key role in the 6 October 1976 massacre of students and activists at Thammasat University.
Source: Red Gaurs
Seni: Prime minister Seni Pramoj, three-time prime minister, leader of the Democrat Party, great-grandson of King Rama II. Educated in the law. Ambassador to the U.S. during the Second World War. After the Thammasat massacre he resigned from politics.
He died in 1997.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 05, 2016
SITTING ON A CHAIR
When taking the bus down to Chinatown one notices elderly Chinese ladies who, when a seat becomes vacant, may gingerly perch on the very edge of the warm vacated seat, or hover nervously within inches of actually making contact with it's surface. It makes one consider butt cooties, and the real possibility of gaseous karmic slime. From previous occupants.
Of which there have been many untold thousands.
All sitting down upon it with their bottoms.
Anonymous nether regions.
Surely after all that it's diseased? At least while still warm. Once it has cooled down, the icy posterior of the elderly auntie will ensure no rebirth of the miasmatic effluvia and creepity-crawlies, one hopes, but one cannot possibly descend upon that hot pulsating plastic surface!
It's suggestive, and nasty!
Hover, hover, hover ..... !
Tension!
Rather than delving any further into the operational paradigm of an aged Asian auntie paranoid about catching something by means of a seating device, let me allow two fine Englishmen to explain it.
Here's Peter Cooke and Dudley Moore discussing procreation.
IT WAS NECESSARY ...
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9_kTOgjT3E.]
[If the video disappears because trademark owners force youtube to remove it, look for Peter Cook & Dudley Moore, and 'Dirty Uncle Bertie'. Seeing the video is part of your essential cultural background.]
I can remember my own father explaining what he thought was needful to know about sex to my brother and myself. He knew that we were well aware of the mechanics involved, because a few years before while at the breakfast table he had witnessed me explaining the function of the sperm once it has entered the female uterus, and how only one of spermatozoon will survive the competition for the egg.
Whereupon cells start dividing, the endometrium thickens.
Nine months of dietary peculiarity.
Jack in the box!
I was eight or nine at the time, and it was in that period that I got into trouble at school for drawing the urinary system and explaining the role of the kidneys and bladder to my schoolyard companions. Complete with Latin words. The headmaster explained to me the next day that they did not need to know Latin words, it upset their parents.
Leave Latin to religion.
Obviously my brother and I did not need to have the details explained. And he remembered how my brother kept trying to change the subject, and scarcely touched his breakfast that morning.
Tobias stopped eating breakfast shortly after that.
So it was the socio-cultural context of sex that he touched upon, as a conversational gambit, that after a few sentences would end with my brother either running from the room looking green, or angrily stating that he did not want to hear another word!
"If you masturbate, hair grows on your palms!"
Once the desired effect was achieved, my father would usually change the subject to politics or something. Entertainment at the expense of the older son's composure should be enjoyed sparingly.
The younger son (me) had already discovered the pornography emporium a few doors down from a tobacconist in Eindhoven (where I purchased snuff - Singleton's Menthol, primarily) as well as Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (there are some lovely scenes in Ada), and had read Voltaire's Candide and The Memoires of Fanny Hill all the way through in order to discover more about the breasts (and meaty thighs) on the covers of those books.
I was disappointed by Voltaire; hardly anything there.
Fanny Hill was repetitious and unimaginative.
Reading is profoundly sexual.
[I should also mention the big multi-volume engineering and scientific encyclopaedia in the loft, which I went through lovingly. Such delightful words! The best. They were multisyllabic and exciting. I've often wondered what became of that once I left for school back in the States. I miss it.]
In his discussions of sex with his two sons, my father concentrated on rhetorical effect and painting word-pictures, rather than imparting mere dry facts. The social environment of an academic highschool filled with smart-alecks was exposure enough to the mechanical data, and sports, obviously, did not alleviate the frustrating side.
Sex could become an engaging situation or event.
We'd eventually discover that.
He was certain.
I frequently sit down nowadays, even on the bus.
Please don't think anything of it.
AFTER THOUGHT
The reason why this comes up now is because I really wish that he had explained more about the process of dating. A very nice young woman with whom I was in conversation down at Embarcadero 4 ended up hugging me several times this evening, before disappearing in an Uber, and while the possibility that she was extremely glad to meet a rational human being of liberal bent in San Francisco (she's from New York) is distinctly possible, there might of been more to it than that.
While on the bus back home (sitting!) it struck me that either I have the kavorka (see Seinfeld episode in which Kramer loses his cool), OR my grumpy self might even be just so darn cute and lovable.
I have actually never thought of myself as 'cute'.
Perhaps it was just my stylish briar pipe.
And alluring tobacco aroma.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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Of which there have been many untold thousands.
All sitting down upon it with their bottoms.
Anonymous nether regions.
Surely after all that it's diseased? At least while still warm. Once it has cooled down, the icy posterior of the elderly auntie will ensure no rebirth of the miasmatic effluvia and creepity-crawlies, one hopes, but one cannot possibly descend upon that hot pulsating plastic surface!
It's suggestive, and nasty!
Hover, hover, hover ..... !
Tension!
Rather than delving any further into the operational paradigm of an aged Asian auntie paranoid about catching something by means of a seating device, let me allow two fine Englishmen to explain it.
Here's Peter Cooke and Dudley Moore discussing procreation.
IT WAS NECESSARY ...
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9_kTOgjT3E.]
[If the video disappears because trademark owners force youtube to remove it, look for Peter Cook & Dudley Moore, and 'Dirty Uncle Bertie'. Seeing the video is part of your essential cultural background.]
I can remember my own father explaining what he thought was needful to know about sex to my brother and myself. He knew that we were well aware of the mechanics involved, because a few years before while at the breakfast table he had witnessed me explaining the function of the sperm once it has entered the female uterus, and how only one of spermatozoon will survive the competition for the egg.
Whereupon cells start dividing, the endometrium thickens.
Nine months of dietary peculiarity.
Jack in the box!
I was eight or nine at the time, and it was in that period that I got into trouble at school for drawing the urinary system and explaining the role of the kidneys and bladder to my schoolyard companions. Complete with Latin words. The headmaster explained to me the next day that they did not need to know Latin words, it upset their parents.
Leave Latin to religion.
Obviously my brother and I did not need to have the details explained. And he remembered how my brother kept trying to change the subject, and scarcely touched his breakfast that morning.
Tobias stopped eating breakfast shortly after that.
So it was the socio-cultural context of sex that he touched upon, as a conversational gambit, that after a few sentences would end with my brother either running from the room looking green, or angrily stating that he did not want to hear another word!
"If you masturbate, hair grows on your palms!"
Once the desired effect was achieved, my father would usually change the subject to politics or something. Entertainment at the expense of the older son's composure should be enjoyed sparingly.
The younger son (me) had already discovered the pornography emporium a few doors down from a tobacconist in Eindhoven (where I purchased snuff - Singleton's Menthol, primarily) as well as Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (there are some lovely scenes in Ada), and had read Voltaire's Candide and The Memoires of Fanny Hill all the way through in order to discover more about the breasts (and meaty thighs) on the covers of those books.
I was disappointed by Voltaire; hardly anything there.
Fanny Hill was repetitious and unimaginative.
Reading is profoundly sexual.
[I should also mention the big multi-volume engineering and scientific encyclopaedia in the loft, which I went through lovingly. Such delightful words! The best. They were multisyllabic and exciting. I've often wondered what became of that once I left for school back in the States. I miss it.]
In his discussions of sex with his two sons, my father concentrated on rhetorical effect and painting word-pictures, rather than imparting mere dry facts. The social environment of an academic highschool filled with smart-alecks was exposure enough to the mechanical data, and sports, obviously, did not alleviate the frustrating side.
Sex could become an engaging situation or event.
We'd eventually discover that.
He was certain.
I frequently sit down nowadays, even on the bus.
Please don't think anything of it.
AFTER THOUGHT
The reason why this comes up now is because I really wish that he had explained more about the process of dating. A very nice young woman with whom I was in conversation down at Embarcadero 4 ended up hugging me several times this evening, before disappearing in an Uber, and while the possibility that she was extremely glad to meet a rational human being of liberal bent in San Francisco (she's from New York) is distinctly possible, there might of been more to it than that.
While on the bus back home (sitting!) it struck me that either I have the kavorka (see Seinfeld episode in which Kramer loses his cool), OR my grumpy self might even be just so darn cute and lovable.
I have actually never thought of myself as 'cute'.
Perhaps it was just my stylish briar pipe.
And alluring tobacco aroma.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DUCKS, FOG, AND ACCIDENT FLARES
In several more weeks we'll be taking down the spooky decorations and putting up cut-out pilgrims. After that, red-coated fat man and Baby Jesus. The pumpkins stay. Pumpkins are suitable for every occasion.
And non-denominational.
This blogger, being a sour old coot, unattached and no kin, truly hates the holiday season. Only exception being Halloween, when we disembowel clowns, and Valentine's Day, when we pay restaurant workers scads of money for feeding our gluten-intolerant dates gmo-enriched foods and causing psychosomatic stomach cramps.
Then we drink wine.
We don't?
Oh crap.
I've always rather disliked turkey, because it's badly done and over-rated. Why can't we have duck instead? I like roast duck.
Years ago I said that "roast turkey is NO substitute for sex, unless you're really old, or really young."
I believe there's always a football game on during the afternoon. That, perfectly, proves my point. Most adult men in this country prefer to watch spandex arse and pigskins in the company of their fellows to a nice quiet bit of nooky with their significant other. Americans always overthink sex, but there is NO thinking necessary for televised sports.
I do not like the holidays.
There's nothing to do.
No clowns.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
And non-denominational.
This blogger, being a sour old coot, unattached and no kin, truly hates the holiday season. Only exception being Halloween, when we disembowel clowns, and Valentine's Day, when we pay restaurant workers scads of money for feeding our gluten-intolerant dates gmo-enriched foods and causing psychosomatic stomach cramps.
Then we drink wine.
We don't?
Oh crap.
I've always rather disliked turkey, because it's badly done and over-rated. Why can't we have duck instead? I like roast duck.
Years ago I said that "roast turkey is NO substitute for sex, unless you're really old, or really young."
I believe there's always a football game on during the afternoon. That, perfectly, proves my point. Most adult men in this country prefer to watch spandex arse and pigskins in the company of their fellows to a nice quiet bit of nooky with their significant other. Americans always overthink sex, but there is NO thinking necessary for televised sports.
I do not like the holidays.
There's nothing to do.
No clowns.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE COLOURFUL SHELL
There are more insane people in Chinatown than usual. To clarify, more NON-CHINESE loonies. And whenever I see too many such, I suspect that Ed Lee and the Real-Estate Moguls who run this city are once again letting the neighborhood go to hell as a way to drive the unappealing element out.
Chinatown is colourful, draws tourists, and helps the hospitality industry thrive.
Problem is, it's filled with "those people".
The undeserving Chinese.
San Francisco business interests do not like people who make less than fifty thousand a year, depress the real-estate market by living in poor neighborhoods, and don't spend money on high-end stuff.
There are more for rent signs and shop vacancies.
Ed Lee and his pals must be so happy.
Soon, nothing but yuppies.
It's progress.
==========================================================================
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Chinatown is colourful, draws tourists, and helps the hospitality industry thrive.
Problem is, it's filled with "those people".
The undeserving Chinese.
San Francisco business interests do not like people who make less than fifty thousand a year, depress the real-estate market by living in poor neighborhoods, and don't spend money on high-end stuff.
There are more for rent signs and shop vacancies.
Ed Lee and his pals must be so happy.
Soon, nothing but yuppies.
It's progress.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 04, 2016
PHILIPPINE PRESIDENT DUTERTE DYING OF END-STAGE SYPHILIS
Really, what else is one supposed to think when the President of a rinky-tink tin pot country tells the leader of the United States to "go to hell"?
The Philippines is probably the worst parasite we have.
And Duterte is certifiably insane.
Funny, but insane.
If Duterte wishes to establish better relations with, let us say, a big country near him that keeps grabbing chunks of the ocean (guess who) or the Moscow Mad Man, he should go right ahead.
Yes, I realize that Duterte is a crude piece of dreck, and playing primarily to an ignorant audience, but putang ina, his berserk utterances do not play well here in San Francisco. Perhaps in Daly City -- a suburban hellhole if ever there was one -- and in a few other miserable locales, but not in the one place which sometimes pays favourable attention to the Philippines.
Because trust me, nobody else does.
Sneering, at best.
By the way, Duterte, how many of your own citizens have you killed today? And how bad has the human rights situation become? Are you really aiming to be Emperor Bokassa and Idi Amin rolled into one? It may take a while, what with them being the gold-standard of twirling crazy psychopath leadership, but I'm sure you'll get there eventually.
You are talented. Not in a good way, but very talented.
Of course by then nobody will invest in your country.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
The Philippines is probably the worst parasite we have.
And Duterte is certifiably insane.
Funny, but insane.
If Duterte wishes to establish better relations with, let us say, a big country near him that keeps grabbing chunks of the ocean (guess who) or the Moscow Mad Man, he should go right ahead.
Yes, I realize that Duterte is a crude piece of dreck, and playing primarily to an ignorant audience, but putang ina, his berserk utterances do not play well here in San Francisco. Perhaps in Daly City -- a suburban hellhole if ever there was one -- and in a few other miserable locales, but not in the one place which sometimes pays favourable attention to the Philippines.
Because trust me, nobody else does.
Sneering, at best.
By the way, Duterte, how many of your own citizens have you killed today? And how bad has the human rights situation become? Are you really aiming to be Emperor Bokassa and Idi Amin rolled into one? It may take a while, what with them being the gold-standard of twirling crazy psychopath leadership, but I'm sure you'll get there eventually.
You are talented. Not in a good way, but very talented.
Of course by then nobody will invest in your country.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOUR COMPOST HEAP ES MUY MACHO
A female pipesmoker who lives at the other end of the country writes favourably about a Halloween-themed tobacco. Now, I should at the outset mention TWO things.
1) Aromatics are DISGUSTING!
2) She's an extremely likable person.
This, naturally, skews my judgment. And, given that I will not try the tobacco in question under any circumstance (reportedly it smells like kandy korn, with hints of chocolate, kramble apples, and shit), it is best that I quietly and tolerantly smile and say nothing. Probably.
About three years ago the manager of a nearby tobacco emporium thought it was a good idea to sell a pumpkin pie flavoured aromatic for the last four months of the year. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Salem Witch Burning, and Christmas.
Two years ago, because of the nine-plus pounds of it that were left (bulk tobacco comes in five pound bags, do the math), it was "rebranded".
There are still nine-plus pounds of it left.
Half a year ago five pounds of Lane Dark Red appeared on their doorstep. Bing cherry black cavendish.
I believe a dozen bowls of that product were smoked.
Same with the Concord Grape.
If you want to celebrate the season with an aromatic (other than Samuel Gawith's 1792 Flake), please smoke Mixture 79. It is ghastly, yes, as are all aromatics, and it will leave your pipes smelling like a urinal in a seedy bar frequented by bikers and deviants, but it is hallowed by Tradition.
It was first introduced in the early thirties (1933, I read somewhere), well before most of the other sickly boiled babies that now infest tobacconists shelves, and many people fondly remember their grandfather or some other crusty old pervert smoking it during their youth. Smells like the talcum that an old lady would put in her underwear. Granny panties.
Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby both smoked it.
So it's an all-American abortion.
Yes, it will burn your tongue and ghost (ruin) your pipe. But that's what aromatics are supposed to do. And someone will come up to you drooling to inform you that it smells sexy oh my god you total macho stud muffin come to me now so it's totally worth doing.
Aros are 80% of the market.
Effing deviants.
Latakia. Now that smells properly autumnal.
Smoky, leathery, booky, tweedy.
Set fire to something.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
1) Aromatics are DISGUSTING!
2) She's an extremely likable person.
This, naturally, skews my judgment. And, given that I will not try the tobacco in question under any circumstance (reportedly it smells like kandy korn, with hints of chocolate, kramble apples, and shit), it is best that I quietly and tolerantly smile and say nothing. Probably.
About three years ago the manager of a nearby tobacco emporium thought it was a good idea to sell a pumpkin pie flavoured aromatic for the last four months of the year. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Salem Witch Burning, and Christmas.
Two years ago, because of the nine-plus pounds of it that were left (bulk tobacco comes in five pound bags, do the math), it was "rebranded".
There are still nine-plus pounds of it left.
Half a year ago five pounds of Lane Dark Red appeared on their doorstep. Bing cherry black cavendish.
I believe a dozen bowls of that product were smoked.
Same with the Concord Grape.
If you want to celebrate the season with an aromatic (other than Samuel Gawith's 1792 Flake), please smoke Mixture 79. It is ghastly, yes, as are all aromatics, and it will leave your pipes smelling like a urinal in a seedy bar frequented by bikers and deviants, but it is hallowed by Tradition.
It was first introduced in the early thirties (1933, I read somewhere), well before most of the other sickly boiled babies that now infest tobacconists shelves, and many people fondly remember their grandfather or some other crusty old pervert smoking it during their youth. Smells like the talcum that an old lady would put in her underwear. Granny panties.
Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby both smoked it.
So it's an all-American abortion.
Yes, it will burn your tongue and ghost (ruin) your pipe. But that's what aromatics are supposed to do. And someone will come up to you drooling to inform you that it smells sexy oh my god you total macho stud muffin come to me now so it's totally worth doing.
Aros are 80% of the market.
Effing deviants.
Latakia. Now that smells properly autumnal.
Smoky, leathery, booky, tweedy.
Set fire to something.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IS IT A BING OR A BAO?
The question arises because of the name. Most Chinese baked goods are a bing, a bao, or exceptionally, not so. The 'pei daan sou' (皮蛋酥) is not so. A bing (餅) is round and flattish, like a biscuit, flat filled cake or tart, or a cookie. A bao (包 and also 飽) is a roll or a bun, sometimes stuffed, savoury or sweet, and usually steamed.
These are objects. If it is not either of these, what is it?
Cake? Cake (糕 'gou') is a substance. Usually "egg cake" ('蛋糕 'daan gou'). Sometimes it is steamed rather than baked.
But a jelly roll (卷 or 捲; 'guen') is often an "scrolled egg" (卷蛋 'guen daan'), rather than a gou.
Ice cream, by the way, is "snow cake" (雪糕 'suet gou').
This thing is none of the above. It is sou.
Sou (酥) is not an object OR a substance. Sou is a characteristic: flaky or silky. In the case of confectionery, crumbly and friable. The word describes something, so it should not stand alone.
This is my Western mind speaking, wherein words are assigned a distinct category. I expect a noun after the descriptive term, and in English must reject the anarchy free floating phonemes.
Where is the THING, dammit?
The pei daan sou (皮蛋酥 literal meaning: "skin egg flaky") is a preserved egg on a thin cushion of lotus-seed paste (蓮蓉 'lin yung') inside a buttery pastry shell. It is globular or ovoid, but the pastry component is not a bao, and it isn't flat, so it is cannot be a bing. This disturbs me.
This afternoon I will check to see if one of my favourite bakeries produces it. If so, I shall have one or two with my milk-tea. Pei daan sou are sweet, creamy, rich, and quite delicious, albeit very much an old-school item, and thank heavens pretentious eejit culinarists like Jamie Oliver have not discovered this yet.
I do not want stuck-up sticky-bit white foodies fudging-up the things in this world that are worthwhile. High-fallutin' reinventions of jollof rice, paella, salsa, adobo, curry, or dim sum, are abominations.
Do NOT deconstruct my joys!
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
These are objects. If it is not either of these, what is it?
Cake? Cake (糕 'gou') is a substance. Usually "egg cake" ('蛋糕 'daan gou'). Sometimes it is steamed rather than baked.
But a jelly roll (卷 or 捲; 'guen') is often an "scrolled egg" (卷蛋 'guen daan'), rather than a gou.
Ice cream, by the way, is "snow cake" (雪糕 'suet gou').
This thing is none of the above. It is sou.
Sou (酥) is not an object OR a substance. Sou is a characteristic: flaky or silky. In the case of confectionery, crumbly and friable. The word describes something, so it should not stand alone.
This is my Western mind speaking, wherein words are assigned a distinct category. I expect a noun after the descriptive term, and in English must reject the anarchy free floating phonemes.
Where is the THING, dammit?
The pei daan sou (皮蛋酥 literal meaning: "skin egg flaky") is a preserved egg on a thin cushion of lotus-seed paste (蓮蓉 'lin yung') inside a buttery pastry shell. It is globular or ovoid, but the pastry component is not a bao, and it isn't flat, so it is cannot be a bing. This disturbs me.
This afternoon I will check to see if one of my favourite bakeries produces it. If so, I shall have one or two with my milk-tea. Pei daan sou are sweet, creamy, rich, and quite delicious, albeit very much an old-school item, and thank heavens pretentious eejit culinarists like Jamie Oliver have not discovered this yet.
I do not want stuck-up sticky-bit white foodies fudging-up the things in this world that are worthwhile. High-fallutin' reinventions of jollof rice, paella, salsa, adobo, curry, or dim sum, are abominations.
Do NOT deconstruct my joys!
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I HAVE THE BEST FINGERS!
Spent too much time fussing around with a couple of ancient pipes.
Enlarged the drafthole of one, redid the rim-bevel of another.
My fingers feel like hell at present. Probably shouldn't have had two cups of strong coffee after coming home from Marin County. The sensible man would have made an early night of it.
I am not a sensible man.
Tomorrow I shall smoke a blend with Perique in both.
And get zipped on Hong Kong milk-tea.
Pastries at Wing Hing.
At five-ish.
My fingers are manifestly better than Donald Trump's. For one thing, they do good work. For another, they aren't short, stubby, and pudgy-wudgilly obscene. I feel this must be said.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
Enlarged the drafthole of one, redid the rim-bevel of another.
My fingers feel like hell at present. Probably shouldn't have had two cups of strong coffee after coming home from Marin County. The sensible man would have made an early night of it.
I am not a sensible man.
Tomorrow I shall smoke a blend with Perique in both.
And get zipped on Hong Kong milk-tea.
Pastries at Wing Hing.
At five-ish.
My fingers are manifestly better than Donald Trump's. For one thing, they do good work. For another, they aren't short, stubby, and pudgy-wudgilly obscene. I feel this must be said.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 03, 2016
SORT OF SOUL FOOD
Last night I was restrained and civilised. Temperate! What I really wanted to eat was bacon, cheese, and chilies. What I had instead was yauchoi and bacon curry with hot sauce. Six stalks of yauchoi for each strip bacon, because leafy vegetables reduce so.
It was toothsome and spicy delicious.
And filled with yummy goodness.
With considerably more fibre than the crispy bacon, cheese, and chilies orgasm-on-a-plate would have had.
If the will is strong enough, anything can be curried.
Had there been a cell phone handy it would have made lovely food porn, with much the same colour-scheme as the bacon, cheese, and chilies.
Please imagine scrumptious lust-inducing food porn right here.
Decide for yourself what your minds-eye should see.
Please do not forget the hot sauce.
It is crimson!
This is not to be mentally reviewed by juveniles under eighteen years of age, invalids, old-people, heart patients, or delicate souls from the centre of the country, where they are easily shocked.
Vegans, on the other hand ......
Bacon!
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
It was toothsome and spicy delicious.
And filled with yummy goodness.
With considerably more fibre than the crispy bacon, cheese, and chilies orgasm-on-a-plate would have had.
If the will is strong enough, anything can be curried.
Had there been a cell phone handy it would have made lovely food porn, with much the same colour-scheme as the bacon, cheese, and chilies.
Please imagine scrumptious lust-inducing food porn right here.
Decide for yourself what your minds-eye should see.
Please do not forget the hot sauce.
It is crimson!
This is not to be mentally reviewed by juveniles under eighteen years of age, invalids, old-people, heart patients, or delicate souls from the centre of the country, where they are easily shocked.
Vegans, on the other hand ......
Bacon!
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 02, 2016
PLEASE TELL ME MORE ABOUT THE PERFECT FEMALE PERSON
One of the internet searches that brought a reader to my blog today was "ideal woman". And yes, I agree, a woman is ideal.
Unfortunately women do not exist.
You were mis-informed.
Sorry.
But do not cry yourself to sleep in your pillow yet. There is still fine pipe tobacco. And coffee. Tea. And beaucoup livres de littérature fine, et de jolies images! Life is good.
Several times over the past few days I have mentioned to live human beings one of the pipe smokers groups on Facebook, to which I belong. Yes, pipe smokers. We have our own FeeBee pages. Where we set fire to leaves, and talk about doing so. It is a limitless source of selfies of bearded gentlemen, many of whom are tattooed. I do not understand why that is. I naturally associate pipe-smoking with tweeds or similar materials, decent haircuts, trim beards if any, and a somewhat collegiate behaviourial habitus.
Not clothing twixt pimp and military dictator.
And Gandalfian facial hair and pipe.
Or berserk self-inking.
Fortunately there a number of people there who abjure or abstain from aromatics (preferring Latakia or Virginia-Perique blends), select calm and rational pipe shapes that excite no comment from the non-participatory members of society (rather than "goodness, you must have penis issues!"), have hair which looks normal, and dress in socially acceptable fashions.
No tattoos, no handlebar moustaches, no nose rings.
Refreshingly normal intelligent people.
People just like you and me.
Including women.
A small percentage of pipe smokers are women.
As far as I know they're married.
To pipe smokers.
Finding a civilized man who also smokes a pipe, and acts normal, is probably one of the deciding factors in getting hitched.
Sort of a "what the hell why not?" situation.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Unfortunately women do not exist.
You were mis-informed.
Sorry.
But do not cry yourself to sleep in your pillow yet. There is still fine pipe tobacco. And coffee. Tea. And beaucoup livres de littérature fine, et de jolies images! Life is good.
Several times over the past few days I have mentioned to live human beings one of the pipe smokers groups on Facebook, to which I belong. Yes, pipe smokers. We have our own FeeBee pages. Where we set fire to leaves, and talk about doing so. It is a limitless source of selfies of bearded gentlemen, many of whom are tattooed. I do not understand why that is. I naturally associate pipe-smoking with tweeds or similar materials, decent haircuts, trim beards if any, and a somewhat collegiate behaviourial habitus.
Not clothing twixt pimp and military dictator.
And Gandalfian facial hair and pipe.
Or berserk self-inking.
Fortunately there a number of people there who abjure or abstain from aromatics (preferring Latakia or Virginia-Perique blends), select calm and rational pipe shapes that excite no comment from the non-participatory members of society (rather than "goodness, you must have penis issues!"), have hair which looks normal, and dress in socially acceptable fashions.
No tattoos, no handlebar moustaches, no nose rings.
Refreshingly normal intelligent people.
People just like you and me.
Including women.
A small percentage of pipe smokers are women.
As far as I know they're married.
To pipe smokers.
Finding a civilized man who also smokes a pipe, and acts normal, is probably one of the deciding factors in getting hitched.
Sort of a "what the hell why not?" situation.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A DIFFERENT METABOLISM
So far three women I know have told me, independently of each other, that they like ice cream with their breakfast. Ladies, I am fine with that.
I too like ice cream. But, like alcohol, I seldom touch it till eventide.
I'm not really a breakfast person.
Some friends and acquaintances spend the entire weekend drunk, starting with Bloody Marys and Mimosas in the morning, and not stopping till insensate around midnight or later.
I am so abstemious in comparison as to be damned near a tea-totaler.
On the other hand, I did have two bowls of ice cream last night.
Dark chocolate and strawberry, at around ten o'clock.
Presently there are five tubs in the refrigerator.
My apartment mate bought three.
She's the icecreamolic.
I'm an enabler.
I am an evening person, whereas she, OBVIOUSLY, is a morning person.
Normal people have coffee and cigarillos at the crack of dawn.
Women, on the other hand ...
Women are like birds; they need to eat twice their body-weight in ice-cream everyday just to keep functioning.
She's still asleep in her room.
Dreaming of ice cream.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
I too like ice cream. But, like alcohol, I seldom touch it till eventide.
I'm not really a breakfast person.
Some friends and acquaintances spend the entire weekend drunk, starting with Bloody Marys and Mimosas in the morning, and not stopping till insensate around midnight or later.
I am so abstemious in comparison as to be damned near a tea-totaler.
On the other hand, I did have two bowls of ice cream last night.
Dark chocolate and strawberry, at around ten o'clock.
Presently there are five tubs in the refrigerator.
My apartment mate bought three.
She's the icecreamolic.
I'm an enabler.
I am an evening person, whereas she, OBVIOUSLY, is a morning person.
Normal people have coffee and cigarillos at the crack of dawn.
Women, on the other hand ...
Women are like birds; they need to eat twice their body-weight in ice-cream everyday just to keep functioning.
She's still asleep in her room.
Dreaming of ice cream.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 01, 2016
THREE SHALL BE THE NUMBER ...
What with tobacco aficionados going massively berserk and depleting stock from retailers on the internet, before it all disappears and we're left with diddly except for 1-Q and Captain Black, it seems to me that a short list of the smoking mixtures you need in your nuclear fall-out shelter is in order.
[Clarification for people who have not learned to smoke yet: In 2009 our president and the congress handed the tobacco portfolio to the FDA, which like all parasitical infections happily jumped all over a new victim. They finally published their deeming regulations in May of this year, going into effect in August. Products introduced since 2007 (a grandfather date) have to be compliant by January of 2017, everything else by February of 2018, which is only a year and half away. There is flexibility for sell-through of existing stock.
When the implications finally sunk in, pipe smokers panicked, and started a massive buying spree. Because, as you will understand, very few manufacturers can afford to pay a more-than-quarter-of-a-million dollar filing fee for each product, given that there are sometimes hundreds of blends in their stock, many of which appeal solely to a clientele of devious bearded men in duck blinds out in the upper peninsula. Which means that eighty percent of what is worth smoking will be gone forever in about a year or so.
Do-gooders and healthnuts did this to you.
Never invite the bastards over for tea anymore, and chase their horrid kids off your lawn.]
Yes, I am sure that all right-smoking women and timorous lady pipe virgins have already considered stockpiling Syrian Three Oaks, Wilderness, and Legends, by McClelland. These represent some of the finest Latakia blends available at present, and McClelland is a mighty fine company.
If you're going to be a female pipe smoker, you must take precautions.
A can of pepper spray, a piercing dogwhistle, and Latakia.
Avoid football players and fraternity boys.
Men too. All of this also holds for men.
One difference: handbag collectors.
They won't understand pipes.
A wall of tobacco tins makes good insulation for your library, and a marvelous backdrop for a little teaparty among friends. Just you, two or three agreeable souls, and fine porcelain receptacles filled with Assam, Ceylon, or Lapsang Souchong. Maybe some sherry later.
Please avoid all drinkers of herbal muck like chamomile, zinger, rooibos, and decaffeinated organic pomegranate chai. Remember the previous mention of do-gooders and healthnuts? Yep. Those people.
Anyhow, there are three Pease tobaccos which represent the paradigm.
In no particular order: Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
Bear in mind that though I am always right, this is just an opinion. Just like that bit about Assam, Ceylon, and Lapsang Souchong was an opinion.
Feel free to hold differently. I am concerned about your mental health.
And will not invite you over for tea.
Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
You will note that two out of three are in the English blend category, while Navigator is the only one likely to appeal to a VaPer man (or woman). And instead of Navigator, Union Square would also be an splendid choice, as it is a superlative layering of quality flue-cureds that matures very well indeed. Telegraph Hill (Virginia and Perique, complex and a bit subtle) would also be excellent.
But go for the Latakia stockpile anyway. This is because the people who most need to stockpile are the ones who like Latakia, which the bastards at the FDA will probably ban; sooty smoke-cured tobacco is beyond their comprehension. Latakia is a leaf that they can only loathe, and with all that non-tobacco addition (terpeneols), it is far more offensive than anything else. Trust me. I've been kicked out of places for lighting that stuff up, back when you could still smoke in restaurants and tea parlours.
There are disapproving shmucks everywhere.
Do-gooders and healthnuts.
Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
Many of Greg's blends are excellent smokes, and all of them are winsome and appealing to some segment. I myself have what I call 'The Wall Of Pease', which I started back in 2004 when Marty Pulvers retired. Over half of it is several years old now, and I plan on letting it all mature a bit more before I breach it. One of these years it will look very comforting in a real library or den, in bookshelves alternating with Proust, Camus, Tolstoy, Wittgenstein, Heidegger ..... actually mostly Nabokov, reference books, and manga, because I don't really enjoy weighty literature, it's so pretentious ...
Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
WESTMINSTER
This is a product for the lover of classic English blends. More than forty percent Latakia, and like Cornell & Diehl's Red Odessa, it presents a perfect balance and an old-fashioned sensibility. Smoky, leathery, perfect with a glass of sherry. Long on flavour, this will remind you of all the old London mixtures you grew up with. This is dreamy tobacco.
Tweeds, wet weather, and snarling at the dingoes.
NAVIGATOR
Pressed Virginias with a little fire-cured Kentucky, and the merest hint of rum. Don't worry about the rum, it really doesn't signify. A few years ago I smoked several bowls of this in quick succession while sitting on a ledge in Chinatown enjoying the sun. My heavens. They've now put an iron railing on that ledge because of people like me.
Before a cup of Hong Kong Style milk-tea. And after.
KENSINGTON
Among the early Greg Pease tobaccos I stockpiled. When I opened that first tin it reminded me of my teenage years, when the lads at Parsifal objected to the reek of Latakia blends. Shortly after establishing that pattern my tobaconist ran out of Balkan Sobranie, and for a while I smoked Dunhill 965, Standard Mixture, and Nightcap instead.
Hang Ah Alley late at night. That smell? That's me.
Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
Another reason to buy lots of Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington, is that, like the three previously lauded McClelland products (Syrian Three Oaks, Wilderness, and Legends), they are American-made. The skunk-wads at the FDA have no effect on English (Samuel Gawith and Germain & Son) and Scandinavian (HH and Orlik) manufacture, other than making them illegal in the United States. Many of the fine flakes and Virginia-Perique blends you like will still be available elsewhere, and it's up to you to find clever ways of breaking the law and smuggling them in.
Remember, it is illegal in San Fancisco to smoke within a certain distance of bus stops, public parks, schools, hospitals, and retirement homes. But never-the-less very enjoyable, and we've already lost any hope of changing the minds of do-gooders and healthnuts, so go right ahead.
Smoking around Berkeleyites and Vegans is recommended; it freaks the poor bastards out. They'll need medical grade marijuana afterwards.
ALWAYS smoke around anti-vaxxers.
Screw 'em.
AFTERWORD
Other G. L. Pease tobaccos recommended: Abingdon (full Balkan), Cairo (medium Oriental), Caravan (medium-full Balkan), Charing Cross (Balkan, yowza!), Fillmore (partially broken flake), Haddo's Delight (une mixture Américaine), Jackknife Plug, Key Largo (contains cigar leaf), Lagonda (pressed full English), Laurel Heights (Virginia and Latakia), Quiet Nights (pressed full English), Sextant, Triple Play (plug, mmmm!), Union Square (Virginias), and of course the blends recently released that reproduce the Drucquer & Sons oeuvre.
Other McClelland tobaccos recommended: Blackwoods Flake, Blakeny's Best Latakia Flake, Blakeny's Best Tawny Flake, Dark Star, Dominican Glory (contains cigar leaf), Dominican Glory Maduro, Grand Orientals Smyrna, Navy Cavendish, No. 2010 Virginia (bulk), No. 2015 Virginia and Perique (bulk), Oriental Mixture No. 8, Oriental Mixture No. 12, Oriental Mixture No. 14 , St. James Woods, Virginia No. 24, and Virginia Woods (ribbon cut Virginia and some black).
We are going into dark times.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Clarification for people who have not learned to smoke yet: In 2009 our president and the congress handed the tobacco portfolio to the FDA, which like all parasitical infections happily jumped all over a new victim. They finally published their deeming regulations in May of this year, going into effect in August. Products introduced since 2007 (a grandfather date) have to be compliant by January of 2017, everything else by February of 2018, which is only a year and half away. There is flexibility for sell-through of existing stock.
When the implications finally sunk in, pipe smokers panicked, and started a massive buying spree. Because, as you will understand, very few manufacturers can afford to pay a more-than-quarter-of-a-million dollar filing fee for each product, given that there are sometimes hundreds of blends in their stock, many of which appeal solely to a clientele of devious bearded men in duck blinds out in the upper peninsula. Which means that eighty percent of what is worth smoking will be gone forever in about a year or so.
Do-gooders and healthnuts did this to you.
Never invite the bastards over for tea anymore, and chase their horrid kids off your lawn.]
Yes, I am sure that all right-smoking women and timorous lady pipe virgins have already considered stockpiling Syrian Three Oaks, Wilderness, and Legends, by McClelland. These represent some of the finest Latakia blends available at present, and McClelland is a mighty fine company.
If you're going to be a female pipe smoker, you must take precautions.
A can of pepper spray, a piercing dogwhistle, and Latakia.
Avoid football players and fraternity boys.
Men too. All of this also holds for men.
One difference: handbag collectors.
They won't understand pipes.
A wall of tobacco tins makes good insulation for your library, and a marvelous backdrop for a little teaparty among friends. Just you, two or three agreeable souls, and fine porcelain receptacles filled with Assam, Ceylon, or Lapsang Souchong. Maybe some sherry later.
Please avoid all drinkers of herbal muck like chamomile, zinger, rooibos, and decaffeinated organic pomegranate chai. Remember the previous mention of do-gooders and healthnuts? Yep. Those people.
Anyhow, there are three Pease tobaccos which represent the paradigm.
In no particular order: Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
Bear in mind that though I am always right, this is just an opinion. Just like that bit about Assam, Ceylon, and Lapsang Souchong was an opinion.
Feel free to hold differently. I am concerned about your mental health.
And will not invite you over for tea.
Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
You will note that two out of three are in the English blend category, while Navigator is the only one likely to appeal to a VaPer man (or woman). And instead of Navigator, Union Square would also be an splendid choice, as it is a superlative layering of quality flue-cureds that matures very well indeed. Telegraph Hill (Virginia and Perique, complex and a bit subtle) would also be excellent.
But go for the Latakia stockpile anyway. This is because the people who most need to stockpile are the ones who like Latakia, which the bastards at the FDA will probably ban; sooty smoke-cured tobacco is beyond their comprehension. Latakia is a leaf that they can only loathe, and with all that non-tobacco addition (terpeneols), it is far more offensive than anything else. Trust me. I've been kicked out of places for lighting that stuff up, back when you could still smoke in restaurants and tea parlours.
There are disapproving shmucks everywhere.
Do-gooders and healthnuts.
Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
Many of Greg's blends are excellent smokes, and all of them are winsome and appealing to some segment. I myself have what I call 'The Wall Of Pease', which I started back in 2004 when Marty Pulvers retired. Over half of it is several years old now, and I plan on letting it all mature a bit more before I breach it. One of these years it will look very comforting in a real library or den, in bookshelves alternating with Proust, Camus, Tolstoy, Wittgenstein, Heidegger ..... actually mostly Nabokov, reference books, and manga, because I don't really enjoy weighty literature, it's so pretentious ...
Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
WESTMINSTER
This is a product for the lover of classic English blends. More than forty percent Latakia, and like Cornell & Diehl's Red Odessa, it presents a perfect balance and an old-fashioned sensibility. Smoky, leathery, perfect with a glass of sherry. Long on flavour, this will remind you of all the old London mixtures you grew up with. This is dreamy tobacco.
Tweeds, wet weather, and snarling at the dingoes.
NAVIGATOR
Pressed Virginias with a little fire-cured Kentucky, and the merest hint of rum. Don't worry about the rum, it really doesn't signify. A few years ago I smoked several bowls of this in quick succession while sitting on a ledge in Chinatown enjoying the sun. My heavens. They've now put an iron railing on that ledge because of people like me.
Before a cup of Hong Kong Style milk-tea. And after.
KENSINGTON
Among the early Greg Pease tobaccos I stockpiled. When I opened that first tin it reminded me of my teenage years, when the lads at Parsifal objected to the reek of Latakia blends. Shortly after establishing that pattern my tobaconist ran out of Balkan Sobranie, and for a while I smoked Dunhill 965, Standard Mixture, and Nightcap instead.
Hang Ah Alley late at night. That smell? That's me.
Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington.
Another reason to buy lots of Westminster, Navigator, and Kensington, is that, like the three previously lauded McClelland products (Syrian Three Oaks, Wilderness, and Legends), they are American-made. The skunk-wads at the FDA have no effect on English (Samuel Gawith and Germain & Son) and Scandinavian (HH and Orlik) manufacture, other than making them illegal in the United States. Many of the fine flakes and Virginia-Perique blends you like will still be available elsewhere, and it's up to you to find clever ways of breaking the law and smuggling them in.
Remember, it is illegal in San Fancisco to smoke within a certain distance of bus stops, public parks, schools, hospitals, and retirement homes. But never-the-less very enjoyable, and we've already lost any hope of changing the minds of do-gooders and healthnuts, so go right ahead.
Smoking around Berkeleyites and Vegans is recommended; it freaks the poor bastards out. They'll need medical grade marijuana afterwards.
ALWAYS smoke around anti-vaxxers.
Screw 'em.
AFTERWORD
Other G. L. Pease tobaccos recommended: Abingdon (full Balkan), Cairo (medium Oriental), Caravan (medium-full Balkan), Charing Cross (Balkan, yowza!), Fillmore (partially broken flake), Haddo's Delight (une mixture Américaine), Jackknife Plug, Key Largo (contains cigar leaf), Lagonda (pressed full English), Laurel Heights (Virginia and Latakia), Quiet Nights (pressed full English), Sextant, Triple Play (plug, mmmm!), Union Square (Virginias), and of course the blends recently released that reproduce the Drucquer & Sons oeuvre.
Other McClelland tobaccos recommended: Blackwoods Flake, Blakeny's Best Latakia Flake, Blakeny's Best Tawny Flake, Dark Star, Dominican Glory (contains cigar leaf), Dominican Glory Maduro, Grand Orientals Smyrna, Navy Cavendish, No. 2010 Virginia (bulk), No. 2015 Virginia and Perique (bulk), Oriental Mixture No. 8, Oriental Mixture No. 12, Oriental Mixture No. 14 , St. James Woods, Virginia No. 24, and Virginia Woods (ribbon cut Virginia and some black).
We are going into dark times.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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