THAT CARS AND JUNKFOOD ATTITUDE

According to the news, somebody of whom I never heard did something that was rather depraved, and Facebook wishes me to be outraged, or join a chorus of condemnation. Or, at the very least, hit "like", or post an emoji.
The problem is that I really don't care.
I am not vested in him.

For years I have remained blessedly unaware who any of these blithering celebrities are. Their privately public lives are not what the internet is for, as far as I am concerned. If they were to die in a plane crash, it would be merely a blip. An uninteresting squiblette.

Nor am I interested in their products or fabulous diets.

I know that 'Prince' made great flapjacks.

Perhaps that recipe I want.


For a long time I thought that 'twerking' was something politicians did.
Now that I've seen a few videos, I rather wish it were so.
I might vote for the twerkiest candidate.


Possibly the last celebrity whose life affected me was John Belushi.
Such an untimely demise! Such an actor! What did he eat?
Who was his style-guru?

More than anyone else, he changed the way we look at cheeseburgers.
As well as cool cars. The Ford Pinto Station Wagon.
Wheels that every young man should have.


"106 miles to Chicago -- a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark...      And we're wearing sunglasses."


Life changing.




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BATHROOM FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY

They had run out of the rice porridge with fish slices by the time I got there shortly after twelve, and the choice was between preserved egg lean pork congee, or peanuts and plank fish congee. While I do like the latter, any dried fish product would probably not be a good idea before a medical appointment during which blood pressure was sure to be checked. The fried bread stick is, naturally, a must. They were packed, so I scooted in opposite an old fellow happily devouring a Chinese tamale (glutinous rice, pork chunks, lok tau, packed in a bamboo leaf cone and steamed for hours till dense and rich). The evidence of other snacks still sat before him.
Two young fellows speaking the northern tongue were at a table behind me, a pretty little girl eating rice noodle sheet roll with her auntie and grandmama were behind him.

I've learned that I must avoid their coffee. It isn't a strong suit. Many country district Cantonese are somewhat casual about the bitter brew.

Steamed rice noodle sheets, congee, various other dim sums, and the lunch special -- three sides, soup and rice -- are what you go there for. Or steamed buns (both Cantonese, with filling, and Northern, plain steamed bread for sopping), plus a bag of frozen freshly made wontons for heating at home. It's basically a lunch counter where the dominant languages are city Cantonese and country-side Toishanese. Little bits of Mandarin and English.


QUICK FOOD NOTES
魚片粥 ('yü pin juk'): rice porridge with fish slices.
皮蛋瘦肉粥 ('pei dan sau yiuk juk'): preserved egg and lean pork congee.
柴魚花生粥 ('chai-yü faa-sang juk'): dried fish and fried peanuts rice congee.
油條 ('yau tiu'): fried bread stick.
粽 ('jung'): Chinese tamale.
腸粉 ('cheung fan'): rice noodle sheet rolls (steamed and toothsome).
海米腸粉 ('hoi mei cheung fan'): dry shrimp rice sheet noodle.
香茜腸粉 ('heung sai cheung fan'): cilantro steamed rice-sheet noodle.
鮮蝦腸粉 ('sin haa cheung fan'): fresh shrimps rice-sheet noodle.
咖啡 ('ga fei'): coffee.
三餸一湯 'saam song yat tong': three sides, soup, and rice.
飽 ('baau'): steamed buns with filling.
饅頭 ('maan tou'): plain steamed bread.
鮮蝦雲吞 ('san sin wan tan'): freshly made wonton.


Often, in warmer weather, the place attracts little swarms of tourists, who after long vocal deliberation among themselves, will purchase one carbonated beverage, and one meatball. For some reason no one ever looks at the wall above, where a listing of what they have is clear, legible, and easy to understand, in two written languages.

Fortunately there were no outsiders crowding in, because it was humming, and there would have been no time at all to answer questions from a committee of the baffled yet apathetic.

If, from the foregoing, and the fact that I do not mention the name of the place or where it is, you get the impression that I am less than enthusiastic about Caucasians visiting, then who am I to contradict you?
It's strictly our kind of place.

Food-curious San Franciscans, fine. Southerners, Mid-Westerners, East-Coasters, Germans, Dutch, Italians, French, and many others warmly tolerated, but ultimately a waste of time who are in the way.



At some point, maybe this week, maybe next, I'll head into Chinatown for steamed chicken over rice (蒸滑雞飯 'jing gwat kai faan'), or steamed pork patty and rice (蒸肉餅飯 'jing yiuk beng faan'). There's a place near Pacific Avenue where they do a whole range of claypots, and most of the clientele are neighborhood people.

Home town cooking from a place that isn't my home town.
I'm a Dutch American from California.



The medical appointment went well, in case you were wondering. My blood pressure is back to normal, and the next follow-up visit to the cardiologist will be in the middle of April. Once again after lunch.

I'm thinking plank fish and peanuts congee then.





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REFUGEES FROM A RENAISSANCE FAIR

One of the posts here which gets visits every day makes me despair for humanity. The fact that it is so often read indicates that many people are deficient. Stop the planet, the crocodile aliens have landed.

HOBBIT'S WEED

What is wrong with you people?!? Do you all wish to be denizens of Middle Earth? Speak in thees and thous? Fancy yourselves with hairy splayed feet? Have fairies and elves as friends?

Perhaps you all wish to smoke fruitloops, out of photogenic long pipes, while dancing and playing the harp by starlight.

Real people smoke good tobacco that does not need pimping with the cheap vulgar smell of a bath house.


Aromatics gum up your pipe, imbue your clothes with rancid odours, and prove you defective. You probably also use patchouli, and your carpets stink.


The orcs will get you.
Perverts.

TOBACCO INDEX


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CURRENT CONDITIONS: COSY AND QUIET

When I was a child we had pets, who liked our presence, but did not demand our attention, as they would come in from the courtyard through the open sliding doors and make themselves comfortable in the sun room or the back living room, only rarely seeking out a lap. Creaky furniture, clinking cups, drainpipe trickles, odd bumps, and murmering. My memories of being a teenager involve smells, minor sounds, cats, and a dog.

Not always our smells, sounds, or animals.

One of the local cafes had deep awnings, and creaky rattan furniture. There was a dog there who would come up, sniff, accept head scritchies, and then retire to the interior. Good place for a smoke while looking out over the market square, at the end of which the church would be hazy in the rain.
Another nearby cafe had an enclosed front patio, with comfy terrace chairs, a great view of the church, a poodle, and old gentlemen enjoying cigars.
Whisps of Latakia from my pipe would be barely noticeable.
It would mingle nicely with the undertone of coffee.
And soften the old man reeks.

Our neighbors on one side had experimented with a pet dog, but eventually gave it away because their children were uncontrollable antisocial monsters. They settled for a backyard quite devoid of animals and trees, so that their youngest mutant freak could not harm himself, and we largely ignored them. The folks on the other side kept chickens and ducks. Which are fascinating, I suppose, but not very good family members.

I remember the animals and smells of Valkenswaard with slightly greater fondness than the local people or (or climate). Some of the smells I was myself responsible for -- see aforementioned whisps of Latakia -- and the natives had, often, a straightforward peasant approach to animals.
Those chickens and ducks were meant for future food.
Roast duck, by the way, is delicious.



The animals in my life nowadays live with other people. Most of them are calm, reasonably social, and seem to have their own minds. We impact on their lives, but they seem largely able to maintain their mental equilibrium despite our peculiarities. The cats in Chinatown like attention, but don't demand it. And there are raccoons here too. And crows.

The whisps of Latakia are still within reach.

The only rattan furniture I know of is the battered chair where I usually sit while drinking my morning coffee. I smoke there on my days off.
The other rattan chair is "buried".
Stuff on it.

I have no pets.


This place currently smells of fresh dark brew and aged English leaves.
The sun is shining, but it is frigid outside. It might rain.


There are no backyard chickens or ducks in this city. San Franciscans do not understand tobacco, and one cannot indulge indoors anymore. Rattan chairs are regrettably rather rare. The coffee, often, is dreck from 'Bucks, strong milk tea Hong Kong style OR like the English do, is not part of the programme at most cafes and restaurants.

Warmer weather will make smoking outdoors much more enjoyable.
The rainy season here is cold and unpleasant.

I am not bellyaching.
Just observing.

Mijmeringen.




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BANK, LUNCH, DOCTOR

Now here's a bit of a conflict: today is International Pipe Smoking Day, AND the day of my follow-up appointment with my cardiologist. Which means that I should finish my last smoke two or three hours before seeing him. Though I am sure that he's used to the smell of tobacco clinging to some of his patients, old fossils who keep mentioning that Deng Xiao-ping huffed three packs a day into his nineties (and if he did it, so should they).

Pipe-smoking and cigarettes are not equivalents.

Yesterday I smoked three bowls.


Today I'll be heading into C'town around noon for a visit to my bank, and a spot of lunch. After a post-meal pipe, I shall head over to Market Street to catch the bus to the hospital where I had the stent put in, which should be enough time for the scent to dissipate.

Always show up early for medical appointments.



The other day a coworker left a cigarette of a type she had not had before for me to smoke at the end of the day. She said it was really good, I should try it. An hour and a half later, I did. She was right. Made me understand all over again why teenagers acquire bad habits. No, shan't mention what it was, because I do not want to give any children reading here ideas.

Kid, go straight to pipes. And preferably good quality tobacco, not that aromatic shite that everyone says reminds them of grandpapa. A solid flake, or a Balkan blend (Latakia, Turkish, and flue-cured leaf).

Stay away from drugs and Vaping devices.
The road to hell is paved with them.



There's something about my medications that makes mere half bowls much more enjoyable than full loads now. That's probably a good thing.
Nearly the same number of smokes, but less tobacco.
There is an effect on taste.




INTERESTING NOTE AFTERWARD

Some studies show that caffeine may reduce the cardioprotective effect of statins(*). Though on the other hand, caffeine especially in combination with Atorvastatin seems to induce aptosis of tumors or inhibit their growth (*).
Prostate cancer cells were specifically mentioned.
Further reading is required.




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UNREASONABLE PREDICTABILITY

It is surprising how much my spam folder and the news headlines mirror each other, though with spam it is usually transparently a comment that serves to alert a bot that no one is guarding the gates. Several phrases over the years have been repeated, along with the very same peculiar spelling errors, as well as praise for the editor/manager of this page, and an enthusiastic promise to circulate it to a community, a few members of which are newly involved in scheming.

Other blog owners will recognize what I am talking about.

Many of the phrases show that whatever language they originated in, it sure wasn't English. One expression of botic wonderment, if posted here, would probably get this page put on a list of dubious sites.
I ran that example through several googlian language translations till at last it made sense, which revealed it as being praise for my skill at maintaining unreasonable knowledge about unpredictable expectations.

Yessirree, what you will find here is unreasonable knowledge. As well as unpredictable expectations. About any number of things. Briar, pipes, pipe tobacco, Hong Kong milk tea, what I ate for lunch, ceramics, the weather, my recent medical history, and animals real or imagined.



And in that vein, I am wondering why the old gentleman behind me on the bus yesterday so strongly reeked of turmeric. Perhaps it was his bath soap, as turmeric is supposed to be good for the skin. But he's had that dermis for longer than I have been alive, so he should probably leave well enough alone. Trust me, old man, your hide sack works.
The curry within does not spill out.
As far as we can tell.

The other frequently noticeable odours on the Marin buses are marijuana, along with cheap designer soaps and unguents. Both of which epitomize unreasonable expectations, and are predictable.

I flatter myself that my occasional manly pong of pipe tobacco counteracts that nicely, in that it should be unpredictable for most people, as well as perfectly and reasonably civilized.


I never smell of pot.



This blog writes mostly about penguins, unreasonable and unpredictable penguins, which only your cousin knows so much about that you think he must be one of the authors.


Этот блог-сайт пишет в основном о пингвинах, неразумные и непредсказуемые пингвины, что только ваш двоюродный брат так много знает о том, что вы думаете, что он один из авторов.





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CUTE LITTLE NURSIES

My apartment mate's ex-boyfriend, 'Wheelie Boy', is both neurotic, and notoriously hypochondriac. As well as not entirely sensible about the correct approach to health. So, when he called late one night recently with a medical emergency that required help getting to the hospital, I was a bit sceptical.
But there is nothing imaginary about a kidney stone.
And passing one is intensely painful.

He was miserable. But calm.


Kidney stones are a little more common in men than women.

Per Wikipedia: "High dietary intake of animal protein, sodium, sugars including honey, refined sugars, fructose and high fructose corn syrup, oxalate, grapefruit juice, and apple juice may increase the risk of kidney stone formation".
End cite.


About oxalate, Wikipedia says: "Plants that contain significant concentrations of oxalate include, in decreasing order, star fruit (carambola), black pepper, parsley, poppy seed, amaranth, spinach, chard, beets, cocoa, chocolate, most nuts, most berries, ( ... ) and beans. Leaves of the tea plant (Camellia sinensis) contain among the greatest measured concentrations of oxalic acid relative to other plants. However, the beverage derived by infusion in hot water typically contains only low to moderate amounts of oxalic acid due to the small mass of leaves used for brewing.

And: "In the body, oxalic acid combines with divalent metallic cations such as calcium (Ca2+) and iron(II) (Fe2+) to form crystals of the corresponding oxalates which are then excreted in urine as minute crystals. These oxalates can form larger kidney stones that can obstruct the kidney tubules. An estimated 80% of kidney stones are formed from calcium oxalate."
End cite.

He did the right thing in calling her. In San Francisco, ambulances and other emergency service will wipe out your rent money, and taxis are notoriously unwilling to take people with ambulatory issues (my nickname for him, 'Wheelie Boy', is because he is in a wheelchair).

She thanked me for waking her up.
And I am glad I did.



My own recent experiences with hospitals and medical care, as well as all the scrub-wearers whom I know, indicate that while in agony he will have been exposed to some very nice people, who are intelligent and capable. And of an equitable temperament. In between waves of pain he might have had quite enjoyable conversations. But I don't know.
When I went to the clinic on January second, the nurse who took my vital signs struck me as calm, capable, and to the point. Which are always great conversational characteristics, no matter the context. Umm, no, I didn't pay attention to her physical attributes -- and should point out that one hospital worker I know looks like a sailor, except when (or perhaps especially when) he's wearing pale lavender scrubs and huffing cigars -- but I would certainly recognize her in civilian garb.


The one thing about which people in the medical profession are obdurate is that smoking is bad. Even if they themselves indulge.

Wheelie Boy does not smoke. So that will not have been an issue.


Again, kidney stones can be extremely painful.

Which may have inhibited chit-chat.

"Do you come here often?"



I have been exposed to the medical profession significantly more in the past month and a half than 'Wheelie Boy', but overall it has been an enjoyable experience. Except, of course, for the need that drove me to it.



By the way, one of the regulars at work left behind a collection of essays about ear, nose, and throat emergencies. I have temporarily borrowed the book, because it is fascinating and filled with lovable phrases.
Example: "The nose is richly vascularized." Which means that your schnozz is full of it, and you may bleed like a stuck pig if punched.
Which you've known since grammar school.


From the piece on peripheral vertigo: "A clinician should have a low threshold for a formal echo-cardiogram and cardiology follow-up." Because inexplicable dizziness may be a sign of underlying conditions.


A tattooed cigar-smoking sailor wearing lavender scrubs.

Yep.




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AND THE CAMELS THEY RODE IN ON

Yesterday an old friend expressed surprise when I informed him that a couple whom we both know had unfriended me on Facebook a year and a half ago. He asked what their reason had been. Buggered if I know.
When I asked one of them about it, she made some weasly excuse about a computer upgrade blah blah blah, and I did not inquire any further. Several other "friends" had done the same in that period, without talking to me, and the most I can figure out is that it was because of something shitty I may have written about Trump, Bernie Sanders, foodies, cigar smokers, Filipinos, or Vietnamese.

I've read through the stuff on my blog from then, and still don't have a clue.

I said lots of shitty things in 2017. About a great many people.

Not everyone is forthright enough to say something.


And there are many people with whom I am glad to no longer associate.
It has always been that way. Life is too short to smoke aromatics or eat junk food, and too many people are as bad for your mind as crap is for your guts.
There is a similarity that eventually gives you bile.


I hope they all eventually forget me, lest they recognize me years from now at an inconvenient moment (perhaps when I am talking with someone else), and either have regrets or say something which will baffle me.


Two people walked into where I work yesterday whom I had not seen in years. And I was glad to see both of them. No unfriending had occurred.
It was just fate that we had not been around each other.





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HOT PINK, THOUGH SLIGHTLY ASHEN

The Saidaiji Kendo Club has been feautured in the news. Not because of any great praestations, or their fighting spirit, or because of their valiant efforts in the path of their chosen commonality. But because they were nearly naked and a news reporter caught them. Mayhap a stringer.
Or just a lucky man with a camera.

A lovely picture of glowing pale flesh, outdoors, during the cold season.

[COPYRIGHT: GETTY IMAGES SOURCE: Nearly naked crowd, lucky sticks - BBC]

必勝祈願
西大寺高校
剣道部

That sign carried by the man with black half robe? "Prayer for Victory, Saidaiji High School, Kendo Department.

Three things I should probably clarify here: 1) I do not cruise the internet for pictures of brawny naked men; 2) My highschool (the Hertog Jan College in Valkenswaard) probably had almost nothing in common with Saidaiji High; and 3) None of these people look anything like any of the Kendo practitioners that I am familiar with. Which is only one.

'THE BLUE THUNDER OF FURINKAN HIGH'

Yeah, I am not really very familiar with Kendo. But thanks to reading far too much manga, the personality of Kuno Tatewaki (aka "The Blue Thunder of Furinkan High") is an open book. 

These men are not like him in the slightest.

We probably would have benefitted from the discipline and ideals of Kendo. What we got instead was Field Hockey, in which thirty or so rampant teenage boys are let loose upon each other with wooden sticks in a muddy field, with hopes that the subsequent mayhem will subdue them long enough that the "gymn teacher" can enjoy a cup of coffee and a cigar in the faculty lounge.

Remarkably few hospitalizations ensued.

I remember my high school years with fondness.
But not my actual high school hours.

And there was no nudity.


Of course, I am lucky. As I understand it, most American high schools are brutal environments, where sportive achievement is stressed, dominated by the jocks of the football team and the bitchy blondes of the cheerleading squad, and conformity may be forced upon you. At the very least you'll end up cowed, and resentful of the big galoots in the office building elevator.
Or the macho meatballs in the sales department.

If not that, perhaps drug-addled.



By the way: I really loathe all team-sports.
But quite possibly I would've liked Kendo.




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GLUTEN, VACCINATION, AND KIDS

This blogger lives in a tightly wrapped cocoon. Along with several scraps of insane conversation heard yesterday -- one of which involved old men and their eliminative functions -- were several cogent and informative bits. And as one might expect at this time of year, especially from a place where many of the regulars are no longer spring chickens AND smoke cigars, medical matters were a dominant part of the program.
I myself contributed that there is nothing quite so patient as an old geezer trying to take a leak, pursuant which it should again be said that the key advice to men heading into old age is 1) never pass on an opportunity to urinate, 2) never ignore a tumescence, and 3) never ever trust a fart.
All three of these are valuable advice. And to a certain extent cross-gender in their applicability.

[The football season is over. They've got to have something to talk about.]

The best thing, however, was this:


"Nine out of ten doctors say smoking is good for kids."


Nicotine benefits short term memory, improves retention and mental focus, and counteracts attention deficit and dementia. All of which would help the hyperactive little brats of the Bay Area. Start the little turds out young.

Cigars perhaps less so than pipes, because pipe smoking will also inculcate an intellectual rigour, as well as discipline that will stand them in good stead later in life. Packing it properly, keeping it lit, and afterwards carefully and correctly cleaning it, are all good training. Chosing ones' pipe tobacco with care, and ensuring that it is at the proper humidity level for optimum performance are levels of detail-orientedness that the little thugs would benefit from. As they say, 'let kids be kids'.

As I am sure all right-thinking adults would agree.

Cigarettes, however, are strictly for thoughtless people.
Cigars: six of one, half a dozen of the other.


[The tenth doctor probably smokes cigarettes. More doctors smoke Camels than any thing else. In fact, in a nation wide survey, doctors all across the country, in all branches of medicine, fondly remember Camels as a smooth and rich tasting pleasure during the early years of med school.]


Kids smoking cigarettes during recess or after class are nervous and tense. But pipesmokers are calm and thoughtful, reserved even, and are quite the opposite of a public nuisance.

And, suffice to say, nothing is as bad as pot for young minds.
It's considerably worse than gluten and vaccination.
If you have to smoke pot, don't exhale.


* * * * *

Nothing, absolutely nothing, is as horrible as seeing clusters of people outside office buildings jamming tomato after tomato into their gaping orifices for the nicotine every hour. Or eggplant. Or cauliflower. And the mess that leaves on the pavement cannot be described.

If they had been taught to smoke as kids, it would be different.


I look forward to a day when schoolchildren all across America will enjoy pipes filled with good tobacco while doing their homework.

It's really all about the children.

Precious little treasures.



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A PAUPER IN NIPPUR

Through the kind facebook posting of a friend I became aware of a short film produced by Cambridge Archeology, that fascinatingly tells a tale. "There was a poor fellow living in the city of Nippur, whose liver ached daily for want of meat and beer. So he sold his one robe in the market one day, and bought a goat. Then he went to the mayor .... "
The mayor treated him like dirt, basically. So he then went to the king, by whose favour he exacted threefold revenge on the mayor. The tale in Akkadian was written cuneiformically.
So it can be read in the present.


The entire short film is here:

THE POOR MAN OF NIPPUR

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pxYoFlnJLoE.]


Akkadian is one of the first Semitic languages recorded. For the linguistically entranced, then, this short film present a wondrous spend of time.



From the Wikipedia entry on Akkad, comes this intriguing fragment about Sargon, a king four millennia ago:

"My mother was a changeling, my father I knew not. The brothers of my father loved the hills. My city is Azurpiranu (the wilderness herb fields), which is situated on the banks of the Euphrates. My changeling mother conceived me, in secret she bore me. She set me in a basket of rushes, with bitumen she sealed my lid. She cast me into the river which rose not over me. The river bore me up and carried me to Akki, the drawer of water. Akki, the drawer of water, took me as his son and reared me. Akki the drawer of water, appointed me as his gardener. While I was gardener Ishtar granted me her love, and for four and (fifty?) ... years I exercised kingship."

In another version, his mother is identified as a high-priestess, and his father is still entirely unknown.


Sargon of Akkad conquered the Sumerian states and was cup-bearer to king Ur-Zababa of Kish. Read more about him here: Šarru-ukīn.




PS.: It is because of Akkadian scriblers that we know what we know about the Hittite language. And that is a remarkable kettle of fish on its own.





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RICE CAKES WITHOUT RICE

You know that I tend to sneer at modern food fads and fetishes, right? So imagine what my reaction is to the phone conversation in my vicinity, that inevitably ended up in the whole wheat pasta section of the universe.


"If you can find rice cakes without the rice, that's okay. And you can finish that box of matza by reason of culture or sh*t."

"It's still rice. Rice cakes are made from rice. It doesn't matter that Chinese won't touch it."


Middle class Caucasians are a lousy source of dietary wisdom. As are the Cantonese, but despite their love for high-cholesterol stuff, flaky pastry, salt fish, and reams and reams of fatty pork, you'll have a lot more fun eating. Middle class Whites eat sawdust, magic no-gluten pizza, and kale chips.


Proper matza have gluten. And go great with salsa. Kale matza, gottenyu, are ab initio an abomination. Something Berkeley eats. I don't go there.



Seeing as my appointment with a pipe-kenner had to be cancelled -- pet cat medical emergencies ALWAYS take precedence -- lunch in Chinatown beckons. I'm thinking jook with juicy meatballs (豬肉丸粥).

Hot Hong Kong Milk Tea.

And two smokes.




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THE WILD LIFE

You should be pleased to know that this blogger spent all of last night in bed with a wild animal. Specifically, a monkey. No, not the one-legged gibbon, but the small purplish gorilla. And two kittens, Totoro, a froad, and several others. The reason being that they live on the left side, with books and bills.

The gorilla has one of the two felines (small black kitty) cuddled with him under a bright red tee-shirt I have draped around them for warmth.
As do many of my tee-shirts, it advertises a cigar brand.

I've often wondered what a hippo is doing in my bed. He looks quite good natured, which hippos in the wild seldom are, and seems to be smiling.



Many people, I would imagine, have a hippo in their bed.



I'll just leave that there as an observation.




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CHINESE NEW YEAR PARADE

This year the parade will be on Saturday February 23, 2019. And quite as per usual, I shan't be paying attention. Because even though it is a big event, it will be too crowded and noisy. And, like Saint Patrick's day, it always brings people of questionable manners to town.

You know, Midwesterners and Suburbanites.

Traffic will snarl.


One of the key features of the parade is the float with the new beauty queen, chosen the previous week. I've always considered beauty pageants somewhat questionable. They never pick the shy genius with glasses sitting in the corner. The one who can take a decent stab at answering all your existential questions. The girl who will look at you with a piercing glance and tell you that you need to grow up, and stop being so self-absorbed.

Yeah, I'm still pissed that the one candidate who looked like she had a brain wasn't chosen the last time I paid attention, four or five years ago.

Still, it's one of the big things, and my friend Duckwhistle's mom was a Chinatown beautyqueen. Gave birth to a brilliant engineer.
With a wicked sense of humour.



Actually, the main reason I am not going to watch the parade is that I am a dreadful cynic, and also usually work on Saturday.


I hear that it's great for children.

And visiting relatives.

Spectacular.




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THIS IS OLIVIA FROM APPLE SUPPORT ...

Call: "This is Olivia from Apple Support, we are calling to notify you that there is a problem with your i-cloud account..." Which is very interesting. Because I do not have an i-cloud account, and this is a landline.
I am in no way an Apple customer.


Hello, Olivia, I love your voice. It is so ... sexy.

Let us for a while ignore the fact that you represent a sleazoid scam outfit that takes advantage of gullible people -- our president has done the same, that's American capitalism in action and I hope you've called everybody in the Bible Belt -- and focus on what you are doing this Friday evening.
Does it involve ropes and chains? And a can opener?
It really should.

By the way, I am fully dressed right now, no scrap of lace in sight, because it is cold and frigid in this apartment, due to the weather outside ("so cold, so cold") and will not enter any code in my search bar. No, sorry, no access to and control of my computer for you. Did I already mention that I love your voice, Olivia? Please tell that odious bhainchoot Rajiv to get off the line, he sounds like a Goonda.

Sabai Delhivaale avaaja-vanga gundo...


My fingers are freezing, Olivia. Can you come over to warm them?

No, I do not have an i-cloud account. But if I did, it would be filled with elephant videos. Lovely recordings, of elephants. So majestic. I promise you that you would not find any credit card data there. Or blackmail material.
Just gentle pachyderms.

How did you get my number, Olivia?
The secret elephant hotline?

Goodbye, dear Olivia.

Call again.





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IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER GRUMPY FUR BALL

Now more than ever I feel like Portnoy the groundhog in Bloom County. You will recall that the little fellow once had a birthday, seven years old, which is past middle-age for that type of animal. He was in denial about it.
I am not old. Dammit. Yes, I am recovering from a heart procedure which saved my life, but I am still very very liberal!

Coronary stent.

In the past week, people heard about the event, and have reached out.
Which surprised me. And I am very appreciative.

I had stoically said nothing in two years leading up to this. Because, you know, when people ask "how are you doing?" they don't really want to know that you feel like crap, and have felt that way for many months.
I can't complain. I'm full of piss and vinegar.
I'll spare you the details.


For a while near the end I had answered the question by saying I felt like crap. Because I did feel like crap, and I no longer saw any point in being diplomatic. Crap, but bubbling over with piss and vinegar.


"Oh, you'll be fine!"


January second I went to the clinic.
Over the next month, things happened fast.
At the beginning of February an angioplasty was done.

I am now taking Losartan, Atorvastatin, Clopidogrel, and Metoprolol. And avoiding alcohol, because it combines badly with two of those medications.

I cannot think of anything more romantic on Saint Valentine's Day than being alive, seeing brightness at the end of the tunnel, and being just brimming over with piss and vinegar again.


Yes, I still go to bars. Because I like people around me, some of whom occasionally speak. But everybody knows that alcohol is out of the question.
A mixture of Coca-cola and Fanta Orange, plus multiples of ginger ale, ginger ale, ginger ale, ginger ale, and a nice tall glass of weak tea.

I'll be fine. I am full of piss and vinegar.
As well as carbonated beverages.



I gotta pee.



I expect to be almost fully back to my old self by mid-March.




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LOVELY NEW FROG

Cruising through my normal sources of news this morning presented no real surprises: folks in various mostly Muslim countries are killing each other savagely, China has built a new bridge that we can only dream of, Parisians are angry, Indians are ethnically rioting, and the Germans are prosecuting a few loathsome Syrians for war crimes. The United States is corrupt and violent, besides having polluted drinking water and poverty in many places.
Trump still exists. The usual dreary stuff, in other words.

But one article caught my eye, and I think it's fabulous.

A new frog.

GARG'S GHAT HOPPER

CITE: "Sonali Garg, a PhD student at Delhi University, and her supervisor SD Biju found the new species in the Western Ghats, a biodiversity hotspot in southern India.

The species belongs to a new Indian frog group or genus which the scientists have named Mysticellus.

The name is derived from Latin and means mysterious and diminutive."
End cite.
Source: New frog - BBC


Parisians are angry? Parisians are ALWAYS angry. They're a pissy lot. And it is the destiny of the Germans to continually find that their brand new and improved refugees are disappointingly human and flawed, rather than pure saintly nature people. That frog is delightful and truly excited me.
It is a very nice amphibian.

Mysterious and diminutive.




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LET'S NOT GO SHOPPING!

Returning from Walgreens yesterday evening I passed in front of the local sexual aids and devices emporium. Two women were deep in conversation when leaving, one saying thoughtfully to the other "I could never use that", and then a few seconds later "if you need to use that, you shouldn't be doing it". Now that's a conversation that not only do I wish I had heard much more of, so that I could figure out the subject, but that I am also glad I was not participating in.
I can only speculate what their chat was about.
And I'm trying to wipe my mind.


It was probably something ultra-non-genderist, like drill bits and the electronic devices that make them twirl, very disappointing.


Because, seriously, no one talks about that other thing.


At a dinner party or social event, there are four things one should not discuss: money, politics, religion, and sex. Otherwise things get sticky.


I would imagine that if you are leaving a dildo store together, you do discuss all four of those subject with friends, co-workers, and random strangers.
"My heavens", someone might say, "that's lovely coat".
Yes, it reminds me of Stormy Daniels.
It cost a f*&^ing fortune.
Hallelujah.

Really, I have no idea what to discuss with people when coming out of a sex-toy palace. What do I bring up? Perhaps the local sports team?

I have never left such a place in company.
No, it isn't on my bucket list.




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