SEEKING COVER

One image I did not particularly relish this morning was a chin's eye manga view of the cleavage and then downwards of a busty person wearing panties. The perspective was disturbing, and I'm not an aficionado of udders. It was, of course, on Facebook. Aside from the perverse salaciousness of the image, two other things ired me. One (1): It's rather frigid today, dammit, where, WHERE is this person wearing tight scanty undies?! Is she poncing around a well-insulated apartment? A living room with cats and a heater going? The warm kitchen with coffee perkling away and almost ready to pour? Two (2): No face is shown.
So how can I possibly judge her character and personality?

Details are important. So is comfort.
And, as I said, it's cold today.

While outside earlier I did see a young lady wearing short shorts striding up the street, but she was well-insulated despite her glowing bare thighs, and blonde too, so presumably descended from short curvaceous Viking stock disporting themselves in the arctic snow with nary a care. Normal people are not like that. At this time of year, especially in the Midwest, normal people seek to burrow under the covers with a pipe, and cup of coffee or tea on the side table, and one presumes that folks who work in Amazon warehouses, UPS distribution centers, or Piggly Wiggly Supermarkets, have installed beds at their work stations.
If not, why not? Is management being sticky again?
Time for the guillotine!

At present, I am on my second hot beverage. I cannot smoke inside, because my apartment mate has taken a mental health day, so there is minor frustration. She's a nonsmoker, and abjures the smell of burning leaves, so I must head out at some point with a pipe in search of another hot beverage, lunch, and groceries, and either an awning or the warm apartment of a young woman as yet totally imaginary who does not mind the gentle aromas of fine pipe tobacco while, fully and warmly dressed, she's at her desk working on her thesis.

Maybe her cat is fascinated by the middle-aged fossil and his pipe lying under a throw-rug on the couch with a book. Or dozing happily in the crook between his thigh and lower leg.

The glass ashtray on the side table reflects the light from the desklamp.
It remains cold outside. Feels like Norway.



NOTE: The imaginary studious young woman should have interesting books in her living quarters. Possibly clinical psychology or organic chemistry, but definitely also something light and sprightly like crime dramas or murder mysteries. As well as a capacious tea pot. A glass ashtray is not essential, and those are hard to find, spur of the moment. A cat would be nice, but isn't quite necessary either, though nice. What's important is that she have tolerance, a warm spot so to speak, for middle-aged fossils and their pipe smoking.

If anything develops, I can find an ashtray.
One that fits in with the decor.



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OH PARANOID BABY!

Words of comfort uttered at the turkey vulture, who is convinced that the others are being mean to him, and perhaps they want to 'get him'. An innocent little fellow, despite being berserk. Also, he's convinced that there are snipers out there beyond the perimeter.
Dawn, when it comes, brings a welcome return to reality.

Anti-aircraft guns are visible in the far distance.


We've also told him that the reason his feet itch is not because of jungle rot brought about by woolen socks and heavy combat boots. He doesn't have socks or combat boots. No, we will not rub his feetsies, we've heard what turkey vultures do on them.

This isn't 'Nam, little buddy, and you are too young to have been there.
Nor is it Eastern Java, with Dutchmen and Malays in the bush.
Hiding in the shrubbery with sharpened bamboo.
What have you been dreaming?

Dawn in the Bay Area is now at seven A.M. more or less. It is colder than usual outside and there are indications that it rained a bit during the night. We're heading into the colder part of the year. Soon I'll have to wear two sweaters and two pairs of socks when I step outside to smoke my pipe. I didn't used to be such a koukleum. My cardiologist says it's because I'm getting older, but instead I would prefer to blame Republicans and MAGA trolls.
They are truly what's wrong with this world. In a nutshell.

Expect a strongly-worded letter to the editor!
Once my fingers warm up enough.



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THE WELL-CONDUCTED MEETING

There was a little tub of duck liver pâté which was absolutely delicious! Thank you, Neil, for a splendid lunch. And I must say that I was surprised at the turn-out, considering that it was so cold, football is a passion among many people including the mostly sane, and it was so near to the holidays that fevered consumerist passions society-wide are at a high-water mark.

As was to be expected, I ate most of the pâté.
Unlike the other fellows I had already been there a for while.
And I had finished smoking my pipe. Whereas they had all just driven in and had filled their briars upon arrival. Yes, I did give them a fair shot at the pâté -- a half hour head start -- but many of them were, for some reason, hesitant about purplish bird goo, so shortly after three when I descended upon the snacks like the rapacious Assyrian conqueror upon a helpless Mesopotomian outlying city state, I had free reign.
Going ape I may have slightly went.

I very much like pâté.

I am a great fan of many versions of deceased duck.
That oily rich flesh and scrumptious liver.
It's a life-style choice.

From my point of view, the gathering of the pipe club was a splendid success. Nick had a lovely Virginia flake from Peretti (Ampersand), of which I sampled a bowlful after the purple goo. Earlier, before lunch, I had sliced up enough G. L. Pease Géométrie for two smokes, and another tobacco I've "sampled" the heck out of in the past several weeks is C & D's smallbatch Steamworks. The tin is nearly empty. Both of these would be excellent replacements for Stonehenge, which has been discontinued.


Joel and Bernard discussed the Boer Wars off to the side, on which due to his own family involvement the latter is an expert. I listened in, bowing to his superior knowledge, while as a fellow Dutchman I naturally take immense pleasure in the valiant resistance of my distant kin to braggadocious imperial over-reach. To be honest, other than their language and tea-time, there is not very much about Great Britain in the age of conquest that appeals to me. And let's face it, cricket is the most boring sport on the planet. The most exciting thing about the game are the cucumber sandwiches in the pavilion while the other side is at bat.

By the way: Blaming the Brits for the messed-up state of so much of the world is ridiculous. They were plenty messed to begin with, since independence they've simply continued where they left off, and it was their complete cock-ups before the Brits took over that gave the English an opening to impose a semblance of order on many of those places.

Although I do agree that internecine warfare and regular massacres are "cultural traditions", and we Western Nations have no business interfering when the howling savages kill each other. As long as we don't start doing it ourselves, because that would be "cultural appropriation", which is bad! So go ahead, fellas, express yourselves.

We need to put an electrified razor-wire fence straight through the Mediterranean, the Dardanelles, and the Straight of Hormuz. Maybe the English had the right idea.

That said, Dublin, London, Glasgow, and Manchester, are all diseased hell-holes filled with soccer hooligans and politically obtuse savages, and there's nothing to be done about that. Sad. Maybe mustard gas. Literacy didn't work.



Final note: I have suggested that, seeing as they resisted the proposal I made a year ago to do a run as a naked pipe-smoking contingent at Bay To Breakers (a zany annual SF event), an "uncostumed" effort, as it were, they all participate in either Saint Paddy's Day OR Santa Con as a team. A pipe smoking intoxicantry! But they may have had too much Bourbon, Scotch, and Port, to hear me. I was the only one drinking tea.
It being the right time of day for that.



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THE GAYEST OF TIMES

While drinking the last cup of coffee of the day it suddenly struck me that none of my friends has ever been grateful for the gift of apple cider vinegar over the holidays, or claimed that when they were stuck in that snow-drift on the way to Tahoe it saved their life. And sadly, we have none in the house that I can offer to guests. Obviously, this has to change. We live in California, and some people here swill that stuff like there is no tomorrow. While avoiding gluten (for religious reasons?), and saving the wales.
I don't know those people, but they exist.

I don't have any pot-smokering friends either.
Clearly, I am not social enough.

The food and drink at this time of year are clear evidence, however, that marijuana is one of the building blocks of our civilization, and the musical choices of the festive season point directly at alcohol and illegal substances. Little Drummer Boy? Ten Lords A Leaping?
These are either the musings of drunks and stoners.
Or the stuff of nightmares.

The holidays are not kind to people who prefer sobriety.


One of the regulars among the syphilitic old bastards infesting the back room at work was absent today because his wife, a Christian (he's Jewish, so he's already suffering) dragged him off to see the Nut Cracker. Normally he'd be cheering on the team, and losing his sh*t in front of the teevee with the rest of the diseased fossils, so I can only imagine his agony.
Holiday entertainments, for the most part, are torture.
It's like re-enacting The Donner Party.
Seasonally appropriate.

The next time I see him I'll have ask if he had a pocket flask, and does his wife know? And does she also know he's Jewish? Was he drunk when he proposed? Or just desperate? And horny? It was a cold winter night, perhaps, she was warm, he was lacquered, and the gay young people rutting on Lombard Street during Santa Con that year gave him ideas?

Did you two actually know each other already?
The Nut Cracker, Jeff. The Nut Cracker!
You poor suffering bastard.



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STUPID DRUNKEN SANTA

Today was Santa Con in San Francisco. An event during which yuppie maga scum dress like elves and get riotously stinko drunk in public. I assume that they're magaites, because real San Franciscans are all sober sensible people, who, if they drink, do so with restraint, and only after nightfall. In between singing hymns a cappella at meetings of the glee club.

As a civilized and godly man, like so many san Franciscans, I have never celebrated Santa Con, New Years Eve, Saint Patrick's Day, or Cinco De Mayo and any of the other events during which Berkeley Frat Boys drink themselves into pukesome oblivion.


Years ago, when I had gone to a local bar to hear the singing of Old Lang Syne when it was time to sing that, Dildo Bob demanded that I wade through the riotous crowd of intoxicated swine to fetch him some of the free champagne, even though I myself abjured it.
He was quite unpleasant when I refused.

He's dead now, I believe, and it was probably the cheap champagne.
Sometimes there's a reason why stuff is free.
It's crap, is what.

When I left this morning I alerted my apartment mate to the looming likelyhood of drunken misbehaviour by random Oaklanders flocking to the city to trash it. Berkeleyites! Drunken Berkelyites! Intemperance and dissipation! Exhibitionism and slutty elves!
She's a woman I've known for years, who does not imbibe.
A nice sober Cantonese American.
Quiet. Calm.


Now, if there was a mass celebration of superlatively fresh seafoods, lobster for instance, she'd be so there. Use those sharp elbows to get to the front of the line, leaving a pile of squirming corpses in her wake. Mine, bitches, I'm now first in line!
While muttering about stupid greedy kwailo.


The best thing about Santa Con is that it's always during the time of year when people are most likely to end up with pneumonia from silly behaviour outdoors. Years from now I shall happily tell the little kiddiewinkies about the time over a thousand shallow consumerite twenty-somethings croaked after misbehaving. Oh the happy time!


I disapprove of all of this.
You people are vile.



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ARMED WITH... A HERRING!

Last night I went down to Union Square to see the lighting. It was peaceful, cold, and rather boring. The Whatsits didn't show up while I was there, I did not ask if there had been any by earlier. Enjoyed a quiet pipeful on the periphery. There were over a dozen police cars parked in various spots nearby, at least three bomb-sniffing canines, and several men and women in uniform spread out wandering throug the crowd.

Sad that it's come to this.


No one asked me if I wanted to strap some tefillin.
Which is considerably less zesty than it sounds.

When I got home, I hid the stuffed creature acquired for my apartment mate's birthday in my closet. Every year I give her an animal, every year she tells me that I should stop, there are too many, her room is overpopulated, and every year I deliberately forget that she ever said that. This year, she's getting someone with character.
And a winning smile.

You'll note that the shamash is placed a little higher than the others, slightly shorter too, because it's used to light them all. There is no rule that it has to be in the centre.
It's kind of like Monty Python's shrubbery.
A two layer effect.



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MIDWESTERNERS, SOUTHERNERS, TEXANS

Kindly note to all those allegedly real people who always comment underneath mentions of precious restaurants shutting their doors for ever in San Francisco with sneering remarks about liberals getting what they voted for, please keep in mind that those are restaurants that I cannot afford to patronize, with high fallutin' food I wouldn't touch, and I frankly don't give a damn, and neither do any of the other working class stiffs in this city. So piss off and keep your damned red state comments in Alabama or Florida, where I'm sure you have an appreciative audience for your stupid remarks.

Also, I'm tired of flash-in-the-pan "restaurateurs" blaming bike lanes, parklets and no parking, and tenderloin conditions for why their precious boutique diner with artistic interpretations of classics failed and had to close.

Have you considered that most people don't like you or your food?

Or paying fifty dollars for the privilege?

Good riddance.


Furthermore, most tourists and downtown office workers are a pain in the sphincter.
All you pantiewads, go back to Denver, Poughkeepsie, or Alabama.
Oaklanders and Berkeleyites too. Especially.



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IT INVOLVED SOMETHING FATTY

Okay, another weird dream fuelled by high blood pressure pills, coffee in the evening, and unwise snack decisions. This time involving architecture, with plenty of nooks for "artistically" placed lighting, yielding a sharp triangular light and shade effect. I woke up later than usual, with my cold-weather bathrobe missing, which I found in the teevee room with a turkey vulture enfolded, happily gloating over my wallet. Which he had stolen.
Along with the robe.

Opportunistic little dude.

It would appear that to get back at me for not bringing him freshly harvested old geezer body parts from my last walk smoking a pipe the night before, he's going to order them on-line. Except that he needs better leverage for the computer and my credit card.
And thumbs. He also needs thumbs.


It strikes me that much of modern architecture leads to bugs.
Just look at New York. It's filled with insects.
As well as sharp triangles.

Q.E.D.

What also leads to infestations is automatic calls from Alice, a recorded voice, at the Accident Claims Department, who does not listen to me swearing (it was in Dutch, so it was quite odd that it was so ineffective), and helpfully connects me with a specialist, Brian, who does not have a clue. No, I was not involved in an accident -- unless you mean that Burrito from the place for white people staffed by white people, which was uninspired (mediocre carnitas, dammit) several months ago -- and kindly take me off your call list.

Brian is from India. That burrito was over in Marin.
And that was sometime this summer.
No claim filed.

It strikes me that being able to demand insurance compensation for a white people burrito would be immensely useful. As well as a blessing that would put a popular chain responsible for food poisoning scandals every year since they went nation-wide out of business. The place in Marin is not part of that chain, but the good place was closed on Sunday.
And I was quite desperate.

Sometimes a man just needs a burrito. Precisely like a cityfied turkey vulture needs freshly dripping fatty bits from elderly men who have lived beyond their useful years, and might be drunkenly sleeping off their cocktails enjoyed while trying to chat up some nice young thing in a Polk Street dive (it took too long and went nowhere, hence more than a dozen margaritas) in a random doorway halfway up a steep hill. They were tired, the lights were spinning, and good heavens that cold concrete looks comfy!

See, this is why I don't drink. Delusions of studliness.
I've seen what it does to older men. Which is horrible.


I despair over white people burritos as well as senescent roués.
Good heavens, what is wrong with you people?
You are all sinners.



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LET'S DO THAT AGAIN!

Shortly after leaving the drugstore I was looking at some pale blue glazed antique ceramics of restrained and tasteful design. Quite lovely, and I yearn to acquire them, except, you know, my budget. When I left the shop I said farewell to the shopkeeper and told him I would be back. He probably realizes that I merely wish to admire them again.

It was sprinkling lightly at that point.

At Broadway and Stockton it was raining a bit more seriously. Less than a block.
By Pacific and Stockton, the rain was making a definite statement.
By the time I got to Jackson, a downpour.

This was at teatime. The weather reports today had blithely written that there would be light sprinkling till about one a clock, and naught thereafter.

I feel lied to, and disapprove of this deceit.
A cloudburst. Tropical downpour.
Buckets.

You know people are shopping for their dinner fixings at that time, right?
Please do not do that again. It's very inconsiderate!
Expect a strongly worded letter!

Hot milk tea and a pastry at a bakery in the company of two out of four. Russ and 'Arizona' are travelling in South East Asia. Hong Kong and Singapore.
We shan't see them till next year.


Very surprisingly, the pipe I smoked afterwards was absolutely divine. I shall have to remember that this blend (my own concoction) performs best in a group 3.
Not so much in a group 4.

The streets were quiet, the other bakery where I never go because the person who works there was too brusque for my liking had no customers at all, and the boba tea places were empty too. Hardly any tourists down on Grant. At Sacramento Street, three buses passed by without stopping, full of people. There was only one other person besides myself waiting, and he wasn't upset. During commute hours filled buses are frequent, they might not pick up any more passengers at some stops. When the fourth bus opened its doors, we did not get on. Remarkably there were half a dozen more folks at the stop when it left, and I believe they may have gotten off because of vituperation and discord on the vehicle.

So I got home later than I should. And I was soggy.
But I was happy as a clam.



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IT'S ALWAYS TIME FOR TEA, SOMETIMES

For dinner I went to a restaurant to have dumplings. While eating I observed two attractive women who work there. One of whom is quite petite, one of whom looked very huggable. Both were shorter than myself, which in that type of environment is not at all uncommon. No, I shan't ask either out, that would be quite forward and rather ungentlemanly, as they should expect safety and security at work. And I go there for dumplings. Breaking that wall would mean that they would be uncomfortable around me, and I would not be able to go there again. Besides, middle aged men should not presume to be hot stuff.

They're very nice dumplings. I like dumplings.
Plus HK milk tea. And hot sauce.
My meal was splendid.


It was as good a preparation for a very restrained pub-crawl later on as any. Every week the bookseller and myself visit a few places for drinkies, during which there will be no excessive behaviour, as we're there for conversation. And since I started taking medications, I do not consume alcohol in any case. Might combine badly with the other chemicals.

Hot tea instead.

At the karaoke place, conversation had to briefly pause for appreciation of Freddie Mercury praising fat-bottomed girls; a splendid song expressing a philosophy that I do not share.
Not, mind you that there's anything remotely wrong with fat-bottomed girls. Some very perfect people are fat-bottomed girls. Indeed. Let's hear it for fat-bottomed girls.


Thank you, Mr. Mercury. That was lovely.


As you can probably guess, I was wide awake by the time I got home, and stone-cold sober. The day had started with strong coffee, twice, then successive cups of tea, continuing through the dumplings. A shot of coffee before leaving again for crawling pubs.

Wired to the tits. So to speak.
Wonderful.



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THE HILLSTATION

It was surprisingly foggy when I stepped out this morning. My cup of coffee sat uneasy in my stomach; finishing the evening last night with a double bagger of tea and chocolates may not have been the brilliant idea I had then thought it was. But I needed something to rectify my mouth, as I had smoked a bowl of Brown No. 4 from the light-filled age before new management took over Samuel Gawith.

It had been surprisingly good. And of course all of that, combined with Amlodipine Besylate, pulled a number on my subconscious while I slept. One moves to the higher elevations during the rainy season to avoid the malaria, typhoid, cholera, tourists, and general pestilence down in the low lands.

Yes, you'll have to put up with the wives and children of officials, all speaking bad Malay and swilling fruity alcoholic drinks, but that is a small price to pay; those Besuki cheroots taste delightful in the cool mornings, and the dipterocarps look lovely at this hour.

It's time for another cup of coffee and a bath.

Of course, now that my apartment mate has left for the day, her bedroom door is firmly closed, there are open windows, I'm freezing my spongy parts, and I have lit up another pipe. Something from a colourful tin, described as an archtype. Virginias and Oriental leaf, in a pressed brick. Very gratifying. Tea later, then people watching, perhaps curry for lunch.


Resolve to stay mostly away from social media. I need to get things done, and I do not need the irritation of goodwill organizations using the recent photos of starving limbless orphans in a nasty part of the world to blackmail money out of me. I'm sure they will do well, like bandits. It's the giving season, and the yuppies and graduates of anti-Semitic higher education will be overly generous, though most of their donations will go to overhead, office rent, lawsuits, and funding the propaganda war. And cocktails: fruity alcoholic drinks

That's probably close to ninety percent.

My my, this pipe tastes good.

Hobbit-like.



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CLEANSING WITH INCENSE

Yesterday I did not interact with many people because I am not social. The most I did was argue with the turkey vulture who wants me to go out there and harvest fatty inner thighs off old geezers, and dreams of feasting on little girl hamsters who look just like delicious meatballs. Or bon bons. Oh, and whenever my apartment mate was vocalizing over stuff she was watching (extractions, black heads, sebaceous cysts, and ear wax) on youtube, I'd tell her "thank you for NOT sharing". Youtube has been a godsend to her. And she gets odd obsessions.

For over two hours yesterday evening, gentle Vietnamese murmerings issued forth from her computer. Most of the pimple popping professionals are Viet ladies. I do not know how that field ended up being dominated by those people. And I do not want to know. Their dinner table conversation is probably bizarre beyond measure.


Mụn nhọt, mụn trứng cá, mụn đầu đen, u nang bã nhờn, mụn đùn...


Today I really must be more human.

Honestly, I prefer non-reactively listening to people chatter while not actually paying attention to their statements far more than engaging in conversation with them, something which at work is virtually impossible.

Lo, tis the harvest season in our region, all the fields have had their allotments of water, there is ripeness, we shall co-operatively sickle and scythe our way down the hillsides, avoiding pythons and rat snakes. Once it is done, we will feast, and burn effigies of evil spirits.
We have reason to believe that this is pleasing to the ancestors.

Just beyond the civilized zone and human settlements, in the swamps and ravines where diseases and evil thrives (Oakland), there are headhunters and devil worshippers preparing to shoplift at Walgreens while we are in the paddies. We'll return at eventide and find the local Bevmo gutted and burnt, all the precious rice wine taken. Alack. Woe, indeed.


I can't complain. That's what the internet is for. Invade a comment string under an assumed name and make some total stranger's life more surreal. I like to at random blame Trump for my maiden aunt's gout there. Offending sincere Christians and their fellow travellers.
Or spout new age crap. Chakras, auras, healing energy.
Apple cider vinegar, sage, and turmeric.
Fake moon landing.


Om, shanti shanti om.



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A TROPICAL LAZINESS

The most precious blade I own is rather small, made for a very specific purpose, and of an elegant plainness. It isn't the chef's knife I purchased years ago from a friend in college much younger than myself, nor either of the two Javanese krises standing in the bookshelf near my chair in the teevee room. It was given to me by a dear friend who said he no longer used it.
Fits easily into the hand, semi-horsehoof pommel.


On an entirely different tack, it is amazing what the combination of reading about Cantonese fatty pork chunks with salted snow vegetable last night, a strong cup of coffee before bed, my bloodpressure medicines, and the weather can have on one's dreams. Early tropical dawn, a petite rounded person with a doctorate in chemistry asleep next to me in silk jammies, and a multi-coloured moth dancing over her head.

I must clarify that I have never had a rounded person with a doctorate in chemistry sleeping next to me. Though now I wish I had. It was a lovely dream. I was asleep, though wide awake. She looked so peaceful and content.

Also, I've noticed that over the course of twenty four hours, the pills affect my sense of temperature. Yesterday morning was apparently bitterly cold for many people, but I felt perfectly comfortable in my shirtsleeves. By teatime when it had become considerably warmer I needed my sweater. This morning while outside it didn't feel chilly at all.

MORNING IN AN UPLAND FOREST, JAVA

The Parahyangan (Preanger, Priangan) region of Java, bordered on the west by Bantam, on the east by Pekolongan and Banyumas, is where coffee reached an apex during the colonial period, the heartland of Sunda, a part of the old kingdom of Padjadjaran, and where the gods dwell. Mountainous volcanic terrain with numerous coffee, tea, and cinchona plantations, and a warm semi-temperate climate. At the higher elevations it can get quite cold.

In Bandung, around Djalan Klenteng (formerly* Chineesche Kerkweg, meaning "Chinese church road"), there are a number of Chinese eateries and bakeries (where surprisingly you can find European pastries and breads), and I hear that in recent years locals have become more open about Chineseness and visible uses of their written language than in the past. Bandung was always a favourite city of the Dutch, by the way, probably because of the cooler weather and relative freedom from Malaria, quite a bit better than Djakarta, where because it was built on a swamp, disease thrived.

[Colonial era street names have largely been replaced, for example: the Carel Fabritiuslaan is now Djalan Hadji Wasid, Chineesche Voorstraat has become Djalan Petjinan Lama, Van Diemenstraat became Djalan Kembang Sapatu, and the Engelbert van Bevervoordeweg was renamed Djalan Wastukentjana, which undoubtedly is a lot easier to pronounce.]

To the west, further uphill from Bandung, and closer to Bogor, is the Puntjak pass, where there are far more tea plantations. In Puntjak one can even find Dutch cuisine, which is quite baffling, because everything tastes better with sambal anyway, and so many Dutch dishes would benefit from fishpaste plus lengkuas and sereh, as well as peanut sauce, which was probably invented in Sunda.

Which reminds me that I need to buy another bottle of Lee Kum Kee Peanut Sauce.
I've run out, and at present feel too indolent to make my own.
Plus if I did, I'd end up with far too much.



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AND STAY AWAY

In complete contrast with Friday and Saturday evening, when I arrived back in my own neighborhood after slaving in the salt mines of Marin while being whipped by Orcs and savage Hobbits, there were no screaming crazies or loud drunks during my first walk with a pipe this morning. It was peaceful. The weather may have something to do with that.
They're probably all at the beach enjoying the balmy weather (53°F, by golly).


Even the intoxicated and insane element needs to work on its suntan.
Perhaps especially the intoxicated and insane element
Which I wholeheartedly encourage them to do.

Fifty three degrees! Go for it!

There had been some discussion yesterday about the street situation in San Francisco since APEC ended. Was it, someone asked, still good, or had it returned to normal?

Well, my neighborhood is okay. But from Geary Street all the way to Market is rebel-held territory. Parts of Market Street are both open-air theatre and the psycho ward. Which is substantially the same as it has been for a decade. So there has been little change since long before Fox News and the MAGA crowd discovered that they could slag San Francisco for fun and profit, as a lovely way to distract their audience from the problems in the red states, fine upstanding people that they are.

There are far fewer nutballs on the sidewalk where I live than before the pandemic. And other than the out-of-state cow who pretended to gag upon seeing me smoke whe she got out of her vehicle a few weeks ago, no one has objected to me and my pipe within twenty five feet of operable doors, windows, air vents, or shared floors, walls, ceilings, walls, airwells, and common areas in a long time.

BTW: Those were Oregon plates. Must have been an APEC protest visitor.

There's also less trash on the street here.
No tourists or druggies.


Must be because we worship Satan. No good Christians here. Please don't visit.



Update as of 9:10 AM:
It's gone down to fifty degrees! Retreat from the beach. Retreat, retreat!
The end times are upon us!



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I'M SORRY JI, SOMETIMES YOU'RE AN IDIOT!

There are times when I am mighty grateful for the opacity of social media. There are two subcontinental gentlemen who show up where I work fairly frequently, who would be startled and upset if they found out what I really think. They've swallowed all the usual bull puckey that you would expect, and consequently are very liberal, which I like, but I vehemently disagree with a few of their fondly held ideas. And I wouldn't want them sad.

There are three issues in particular: 1) The Middle East is NOT the hotbed of peace, love, and postcolonial liberation and happy, happy social progress that they fondly believe it is.
2) England is not always wrong all the time, although the vast mass of English are off-kilter in a few cases, like, for example, the Middle East, where they are quite mistaken, stupid, pig-ass ignorant, and anti-Semitic to an extreme not seen since Clement Attlee. 3) Cricket is the most boring game in the universe, second only to American football, which is an excruciating sport beloved by braindead screaming yutzes and beer-swilling meatheads. The only exciting parts of cricket are the cucumber sandwiches and the Pimm's cup (gin, Pimm's liqueur, soda water, squeeze of lemon, lengthwise spear of cucumber, sprig of mint, and fruit pieces as garnish; served chilled). Which explains why the British are drunk all the time; they are forced to watch cricket, which they consistently loose to Pakistanis, Indians, Ceylonese, and the entire Carribean.

Both men are intelligent, interesting, and quite likeable. although one of them IS a Punjabi, and therefore given to a density that is very irritating. The other one is an engineer and entrepreneur. Both men smoke cigars, which I should not hold against them.

As I said, I am glad that they are not superskilled at social media. I'm also glad that we do not have masala chai at work, because two Indians is about all I could cope with at a time, and sometimes I just need some peace and quiet.

One thing I like is that they are quite fluent in English, and do not have thick accents. Some accents can get on one's nerves. Most Europeans, for instance. Almost anybody named Patel. Know-it-all Dutchmen. Iggerunt lower-clas Brits, and almost anyone Scottish.
The Dip Saath. Hippie dudes on pot, man. The Valley. Donald Trump.


I can well imagine my Parsee coworker from the office in SF telling one of them "oh do please shut up, baifkoof" at various times. Then having another cup of tea. There are no teapots at work now. Most people there don't drink it. Sad.



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CANTONESE AMERICAN WOMAN FOOD THING

Important disclaimer or whatever: Because I am Dutch American, neurotic, and somewhere on the spectrum (Aspergers syndrome is quite common among the Dutch I believe, probably because if you are Dutch you are more closely related to yourself than most other Northern Europeans, and that leads to "things"), I tend to recognize patterns that might not actually be there. Which means that what I'm going to describe next must be taken with a grain of salt.
I may be full of cotton wool in this thinking.

Cantonese American women have an obsessive food thing going on.

My apartment mate, a Cantonese American woman, obsessively keeps the refrigerator over-stocked. Our landlady, a Cantonese American woman, recently gifted us with a giant box of specialty foods from her favourite delicatessen in New York. Three friends are married to Cantonese American women, and from what I keep hearing, all three of them are swimming in food. In the case of one of them, his wife walks poorly because like a typically stubborn Cantonese American woman she disobeyed doctor's orders after hip surgery and it healed stiff and unwieldy, but he and I believe that there is a great chance of improvement if a good Chinese seafood restaurant opens up a block or two further from their residence than she presently likes to walk, but close enough that driving there and looking for parking would be ridiculous. The temptation of fresh lobster, or grouper steamed with a splash of scallion and ginger in boiling oil poured over to sizzle, would probably do the trick.

It would be therapeutic (for both of them) in any case.

My apartment mate's ex boy friend is a lean man. I am a lean man. My landlady's husband (also white) was a lean man. My three friends are all lean white men. All five of the Cantonese American women are trim, no excess plumpitty whatsoever.

This is at the forefront of my mind right now because for many months I've been telling my apartment mate to slow down on the food-buying, the freezer is far too full, and we'll run out of space in the fridge if we don't watch out.

Please do not buy anymore food!

She's concerned that I'm not eating enough, and being a stubborn Cantonese American woman, she's completely disregarded my sage words regarding food storage space. When our landlady gifted us the box recently, I struggled to get it all into the fridge, and firmly told my apartment mate: "please, don't buy any more food for at least the next two weeks, we don't have any room in the fridge!" So the very next day, which was yesterday, upon returning home she said to me "I hope you're hungry, there is food in the kitchen." And of course there was far too much. Today, upon returning home, I noted that she's gone ahead and bought more food.

And there's another huge tin of Belgian cookies in the teevee room now.

Let me reiterate that all five of these ladies are trim. So trim that the typical white woman would be green with envy, and a black woman or Chicana would dwarf them. And none of us "middle aged" white men are fat. During the holiday season especially, food is on everyone's minds, and stocked up on, bought in in large quantities, and overstocked. I'm afraid that my apartment mate, my landlady, and other Cantonese American women within the extended circle (because Cantonese American women all know other Cantonese American women, and this part of the city is slim-majority Cantonese American to begin with) will "feed" me out of house and home. There is not an inch of extra space in the refrigerator!

Despite my near-paralyzing fear of what will happen in the next four weeks -- an excess of edibles overwhelming our poor chilled storage capabilities and making it impossible for me to find the jar of chilipaste I might be looking for, where the devil has it gone, there are at least five or six jars of sambal I don't want to eat right now, it's probably hidden behind these jars of whatever -- during my days off work I will purchase some more vegetables as I always do, and throw out the vegetables we did not use which are past their prime. At least three types that keep well. Also potatoes. We have no potatoes.

There is NO lap yiuk. Well, hardly any. This is a worrying oversight.

Plus I need to get some more hot sauce and chili paste (sambal). The one I've been adding to my plate is nice, but not hot enough. And I ran out of the squirtable kind. Also I'm thinking we need some more dried fish, plus one or two more cans of various things. Stuff which I'm sure I can fit on the shelves. Canned dace with dausi. That's it. One can never have too much canned dace with dausi. It keeps forever.

Maybe some more tinned luncheon meat. For a rainy day.

There is just too much damned food. She needs to stop doing this.

And by the way, I am not scrawny! Not even close.

Get your eyes checked.



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THE ROT STARTS IN OAKLAND

If the sound of water triggers your urge to pee, today was not a good day for you. It rained. You probably spent all day in the bathroom. There is one place that feels your pain: Oakland. Which is a giant sewer. Filled, as you can guess, with a great many triggered people.

All problems in the Bay Area have their roots in Oakland.

I say these things in cheerful sneer as a reaction to a remark hurled in my direction recently. According to a young greenhaired woman of indeterminate gender and somewhat puce or sepia race, whom I believe to be from there, I am an old white male.

Indeed, I am older than her. I can see that. And rather definitely Caucasoid. You should see my calves! Mmmm, creamy! Almost glowing. Luminescence.

How exactly is this in any way germane?

That green hair may be out of solidarity with cabbage, or other vegan chow. I had been mentioning the little dumplings at one of my fave restaurants to an acquaintance, chopped bokchoi and pork, very delicious, especially with chili sauce. Little miss Broccoli Floret overheard, and interjected that it was so like an old white male to eat meat.
Because of me there are wars.

Okay. I'm fine with that. Most of those countries are garbage anyhow.

Personally, I believe that all Bay Area Rapid Transit vehicles that go through Oakland should have machine gun turrets. And bus doors there need to be welded shut. Also, lets barricade the freeway on-ramps, and shut down the Trans Bay terminal.
Send in the helicopter gunships.


If you don't like hearing that people eat meat, you don't have to hear it; just wedge a baby carrot in each ear. The orange hue will contrast nicely with the emerald hair.


Actually the entire East Bay sucks.
It's all Assholistan.



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RABBIT, RABBIT; BEAR

He's frustrated. He cannot understand why the girls in this place have such ugly boyfriends. "Goiter, you need to get them to an eye-doctor, stat!" Bucky Beaver has Gigi the little black kitty, Ms. Bruin is seeing the rabbit with the really soft fur, and the she-sheep is in love with the big black spider, Pierpont, who has lovely eyes. Together they do somewhat naughty things when we're not watching. We can hear them giggle.

The turkey vulture believes he, not "that bug", should be the sheep's boy friend. What does a spider have that he doesn't? As the man of this household, I should make it happen.
I should give orders. Put down my foot.
Squash him.

Yeah, no. The status quo is quite fine by me. And the ladies are happy.

I'm somewhat surprised by the bear and the rabbit, though.
Scooter is quite a bit younger than Ms. Bruin, who is a senior roomie.

Shan't make any judgemental comments. Not my place, and not my business.

And the turkey vulture would be wise to follow suit.


Fact is, he's insanely jealous of the other creatures and their relationships, and often acts like a typical adolescent. Late at night we can sometimes hear him raiding the fridge for spaghetti and lasagna.

Like many teenagers he relies on food for the emotional support that so far he has not merited from another animal. And he is, typically, a sexist pig and male chauvenist.

We hope he grows out of it eventually. Matures.
Emulates the rabbit. A gentleman.



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