DYSFUNCTIONALS AND HYPERSOCIALS

There is more tension and neurosis than usual at Christmas time. For one thing, football is heating up, and people are overloading on sugar (so schedule a diabetes check for January, after the last of the Bûche De Noël is consumed, and all the cheap chocolates). For another, there is all the excess social life and cheer. Which means that by the time the holiday finally happens you are tense and frazzled. And far less capable of accepting the intense paranoid conspiracist crap that comes out of some people's mouths, now at an increased rate, a veritable flood, because they too are tense and frazzled.

"Pretty soon all payments will be electronic, all of the banks will fail, which is what the government wants. Everyone will be issued cards with chips, that's how the government plans to control you. If you disobey your allotment will be cancelled."

"The government planned cigarette addiction, so that the medical industry could make money. It's all about money. They gave away cartons of the stuff during the war, so that doctors and oil companies could get rich. You need to drive to store for smokes, you're wired and hooked, there are more accidents! It's all a plot."

"Art school is a scam. They teach you how to make realistic pictures to cover up everything that's really happening, they don't want you to see that!"

"Religion and Baby Jesus were brought to earth by aliens thirty seven thousand years ago. They also gave us radios, but we lost them."

Last night's dinner over at a friend's place involved three seasonally stressed individuals who deal with the public every day, seven avid readers, two cigar smokers, one pipe smoker, one angry ex-smoker, a person with conspiracy paranoia, and an art-curator.
Slightly over half a dozen people.
There was overlap.

As such things do, the conversation ended up being about food.

Durian was mentioned. For a truly unforgettable holiday, introduce your MidWestern kinfolk to durian. Years ago I would organize a durian event every year, not because I like durian, but because I enjoyed the bafflement and discomfit of people who had never before been exposed to a fruit with a psychotic attitude.

Conversations these past two weeks have been intense.

"Colonel, my men have been hiding under your noses for years."

"It's very lonely and cold up in the mountains, gringo."

"The corrupt police chief owns the town."

So yes, I'm glad the holiday season is ending. Had a good dinner (babka, broad rice stick noodles with barbecued pork, mixed vegetables, chocolate), it's been a peaceful day, quiet outside. I decided not to go over to Chinatown because too many places will be closed, the ones that are open will be filled with Toishanese enjoying a day off hogging all the tables and tourists dawdling over several varieties of fried noodles, fried rice, fried spring rolls, and sweet 'n sour dishes. I am not nearly social enough for all that.

Not at present. Nor normally, generally speaking.



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THE TIME OF TOO MUCHNESS

While I was making a drawing on the computer and contemplating dinner (my apartment mate, a Cantonese American woman, having informed me upon getting home that there was food! in the kitchen), the doorbell rang. My landlady (a Cantonese American woman) was there with a cold box of meats and a large bag of various goodies for us for Christmas.

So, thanks to the first-mentioned person, I feasted on roast chicken and duck for dinner. There is still a tonne of it left over. And the right-side vegetable bin is now filled with four footed farm animals of various types. Thanks to the second-mentioned.

There is NO room in the freezer. Fortunately we've got the refrigerator set very low.
So things should keep a while.


Remarkably, I am not at all morbidly obese.
Despite Cantonese American women.

THE DRAWING ON THE COMPUTER

It is not at all surprising that the nutritionist/dietician with whom my doctor arranged an appointment for me four years ago was a Cantonese American woman. It seems appropriate. There may be a synchronicity between Cantonese American women and food.

My apartment mate evidently believes that I am thin. Thinnish. To quote: "L. (our landlady) probably thinks you are scrawny and need fattening up". Which, if you ask me, is absurd. Both of these women clearly weigh less than me, and even taking into account that typically Cantonese American women are smaller than Dutch American men -- even if one or two of us are normal size rather than the current crop of corn-fed glandular freaks -- if any one needs to be "fattened up", it is both of them. Seriously.


Did I mention that they clearly weigh less than me?


There is babka. And also butter.
Both of them like butter.



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YOU ARE BORING, PENDEJO!

Nearly six years ago I managed to offend a whole bunch of folks who thought themselves wonderful people and talented singers. I haven't any idea how that happened -- most of them were shitty singers with huge egos, and if that wasn't bad enough, some of them were Filippinos -- because normally I am all sweetness and light, the mellowest of men.
Even at a karaoke bar. But keep in mind that I don't sing, and dislike Karaoke.

On social media there were some reactions when I finally called it quits.

Yesterday evening I enjoyed rereading their eloquence.


Herewith a selection:

You are so self-centered and frankly, cranky, rude and a narcissist. Check yourself. You don't get the world without giving out a penny. And calling ppl by their physical attributes... Kettle black. You are not the looker and your attitude doesn't make up for it. No one misses your bullshit. On a side note, you should check your prescription for your glasses because you are not seeing anything but blurred lines.
*
The reason we never said hi to you is because your such a fucking bore.
*
You are an arrogant boring fake. Nobody believes that riduiculous accent.
*
Fuck off and die fast, you stupid smelly small dicked British dickwad.
*
Your such a fucking asshole nobody wants you there, so good riddance. Please stay away. Pleas. Stay. The. Fuck. Away.
*
You really don't like anyone, and no one really likes you. Surprise.
*
We found out that you are an asshat. That's why. We never liked you. Your breath smells bad, you have lousy taste in clothes, your eyes are squinty and mean. Have you considered plastic surgery? You need it, you are uglier than a dog. Also, therapy for that speech defect, and a colestomy bag.


There were many more. The best bit was this:

I'm glad you're gone. Your presence was a bit of a downer, and everybody seems much happier now. We had so much fun tonight, it would have given a grumpy old fucker a heartattack. Or an ulcer. You should've been there.


Yes, most of them were a decade or more younger than me. Some of them a lot more.
Why do you ask?

In the last few years that I went there, it was so that I could smoke a pipe in the evening under their awning, without getting rained on. I would buy a drink, leave it on the bar, and go outside to enjoy the peace and quiet away from the crowd. I have since then mapped out a number of awnings and empty storefronts, and figured out how to use an umbrella.

The place in question closed down permanently a couple of years ago.
Filippinos don't frequent this neighborhood any more.
It's much quieter and calmer now.


I kept in touch with most of the bartenders since that time. Who were nice people, as well as saintly and patient. They were smart and had senses of humour. Sadly, two of them passed away in the intervening period.



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IT GLOWS IN THE DARK

It should get better. That is to say, it will be light earlier each day, now that the solstice has passed, and eventually this blogger will not be stumbling about in the dark outside, gingerly pawing my way forward after having lit my pipe so that I don't fall face forward into the dogpoo all over the streets of San Francisco.
Where everybody who doesn't have kids has a hound.
Sometimes even if they do have children.

Please do NOT let your brat defecate with your pet.
And neither should do so on my block.

At least not until April or so. When dawn will happen shortly after six in the morning, and old codgers and their briars can clearly see where the heck they are going.

Sadly, we don't have night vision.

In this neighborhood, I don't worry about violent drug users, discarded needles and crazy street people when it's dark. I worry about kids and dogpoo. We're very bourgeois here.

I'm more likely to stumble over a defecating toddler than a sleeping bum. There's a faint suggestion of luminosity, or a radioactive quality, to most pavement drowsers.
Whereas the young of almost every species are well-camouflaged.

You can't see them in the tall grass, can you?
Be careful where you step.



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PROVE THAT YOU'RE NOT A ROBOT!

WORST funeral expense spam robo call ever! No, 'Hanna', I did NOT ask you to call me back, I do not intend to die, and my age is none of your damned business. It hung up on me.

Now, I personally have nothing against robots. Some of my best friends are machines.


In other news, fromage and spiritous substances have been acquired, so my Christmas shopping is done for the year. All that's left is three days of observing the mating frenzy.

It should be interesting. I'm always engaged by primates and their primitive passions. Supercilious, superior, and sneering. I am damned well intolerable at this time.
If I didn't smell so darn good, I might be unbearable.


On the other hand, I forewent lunch. First bite to eat was pastry after four o'clock (tea time!) over in Chinatown. While chatting with two friends and watching the staff bustling. Then a pipe smoked while wandering around the neighborhood afterwards. One shop has shut down permanently (they only opened four years ago), and in a different location a new store has recently opened up, with high expectations, all the good feelings, and very obviously scant "let's think this thing through for a moment" having been done.


Three more days, folks, and then bills and returns.
Enjoy the sharkfeed.



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A CLEAR MESSAGE FROM YEMEN

Quote: "We will not stand idly by if the Americans are tempted to escalate further and commit foolishness by targeting our country or waging war against it," Abdel-Malek al-Houthi said."
And:
"As long as the Americans want to enter into a direct war with us, they should know that we are not those who fear them, and that they are facing an entire people," al-Houthi said.
He warned the Americans against sending soldiers to Yemen, saying they would "face something harsher than what they faced in Afghanistan and what they suffered in Vietnam."
Source: Reuters - Houthi leader threatens to attack US warships

So, obviously, if we undertake punitive measures against Yemen, we should not send in the marines, but bomb the crap out of the country. No half measures. I would suggest enough explosives to affect their landscape, with nothing left but gently rolling dunes and fine powder-like debris.

The usual people will protest in our streets and universities, and we should prepare for that. Water cannons, truncheons, stun grenades, and teargas.
Plus National Guard troops in Oakland.


The first thing we need to do, the very first thing, is to cut all access routes into the country, leaving no way in or out.

PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, SANA'A

Yemen would make a lovely parking lot. So would Berkeley and Cambridge.
Please remember that. It's good to be alive.

Merry Christmas.



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LOW VITUPERATIVE EBB

It rained quite heavily this morning, which made getting to work more interesting than normal. Usually I zone out on the trip over, occasionally opening my eyes to scope out people getting on -- the cute young miss in downtown Sausalito, the lady with the white brimmed hat further down opposite the 7-eleven, or the goobus Persian hausfrau at Gate Five Road -- or to keep a wary eye on the crazies, which are slightly more numerous in inclement weather, because nobody likes being out of their minds in a downpour.

Today, having caught the earlier bus, I was able to view the hills west of the Golden Gate shading seawards in gloom and semi-twilight. Quite beautiful.

It was still raining when I got off and splish-splashed toward the holding pen for senescent righwing dipwads where I work. Got stuff done with furniture and a hot cup of tea well before any coworkers appeared, had a pipe filled with red Virginias going by ten fifteen.

It stopped coming down sometime after twelve, but it never brightened. A good day to be inside. The old crocks were quieter than they normally are, probably because the loudest irritant was absent. He may have melted in the rain. Or he's scared of the chemicals in the precipitation eating away at his bald spots, possibly leading to a mangy appearance and horrid itch. That is to say, a worse itch than usual.

So it was a good day.



By the way: According to my apartment mate, who has been reading up on things, everything that's good for you makes you fart. I found this out when I got home.





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TROLL INVADING SLEEP

It rained in the evening. Which would not have been a problem except that I was out in the weather smoking my pipe while waiting for the bookseller to get down to Chinatown by bus. Fortunately there are awnings and doorways. To a certain extent, I think of myself as the troll lurking in the shadows, ready to demand passage money, or haunt little childrens' dreams daemonically. Come here, small person, I have fine Virginia tobacco!

Whereupon, in his or her nightmare, the little tyke runs off screaming into the hills.
Never to be seen again. They know that tobacco is evil.
And obviously I am a bad man.
Troll.

They're not permanently lost. We can still hear them screaming.
But that tobacco even exists has scarred them for life.

The alleyways were brighter and quieter because of the rain. Outside a substantially empty building on Jackson, a sleeper turned over in his slumber, shielded from the wet by the deep overhang, further down the open late grocery which has State Express ciggies had already shuttered, and the parklets were empty, even outside open restaurants.

Apparently North Beach, just beyond Chinatown, is ground zero for fatty inner thighs. Few of which were evident, because of the inclement climactic conditions. A pity, because America is all about fatty inner thighs, which explains both the Midwest and Deep South, as well as why there are so many gyms and twenty four hour fitness clubs in the coastal cities.

Minor blessing: not a single person singing karaoke at the final stop of the night.

It wasn't raining when we left, and the people on the bus were few.
None of them were obnoxious or insufferable.
Nor riotously drunk.

There were no Santas or frat-boys.



NOTE: The pipe tobacco was a fine aged product from Cornell and Diehl, a blend of red Virginias, which smells remarkably like Limburger cheese in the tin, albeit a wee bit more refined. It's something I can heartily recommend to juvenile delinquents, young ladies being daring and scandalous, or mature people with praedilections hiding in doorways.
Carolina Red Flake, small batch, 2022 vintage. Excellent.



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MA PO TOFU

Because when it was previously posted here it was associated with the name of a notorious piece of human garbage, and that post got several views undoubtedly because of the food, it needs to be posted again without the connection to that man's name. He has nothing to do with it, and he's probably a nasty vegan to boot, so there is no need to bring him up.

MA PO TOFU (麻婆豆腐)

One block firm tofu (14 oz).
1/4 lb ground meat (preferably pork).
2 TBS hot chili paste.
2 TBS Szechuan hot bean paste (辣豆瓣醬; 'laat dau baan jeung').
2 TBS regular oil.
1 TBS chili oil.
½ TBS Szechuan peppercorns (花椒、山椒; 'faa-chiu', 'san-chiu'). roasted and finely ground.
½ Tsp fermented black beans (豆豉; 'dau-si') soaked and mashed.
2 scallions, cut to 2 inch lengths.
2 gloves garlic, chopped.
½ TBS soy sauce.
Quarter cup stock and a jigger of sherry.
Pinch of sugar, pinch of cornstarch - blended in a little hot water.


Cut tofu into chunks, blanch in gently boiling water, drain. Sauté the ground meat, garlic, and spicy bean paste in the two oils till the meat is no longer pink. Add the chili paste, dau si, and soy sauce, stir around to mix everything, then add the tofu, stock, and sherry. Cook, gently stirring (to prevent the tofu breaking up) for a few minutes, then add the fa-chiu, scallions, and the pinches of sugar and cornstarch which have been blended in a little hot water.
Stir a little longer and serve.

Berkeleyites and other vegans would leave out the meat. Or maybe substitute tempeh or tofurky. As the grafiti in Chinatown says: "no sugar, no salt, no msg, no meat = no flavor".

Goes great with gluten. Pehaps crusty French bread, for the sauce.
Or a nice mound of white rice. Never brown rice.
NOTHING goes with brown rice.



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HERRING AND MILK TEA

It strikes me that many people, younger ones especially, cannot wait for the holiday season to end, so that they can get back to the regular hurley burley of slaving at their salt mines without the danger of aunt Gertrude or uncle Roger insisting on hugging them at the family celebration. "Come here you little rascal and give auntie a kiss. My how big you've grown!" Whereupon, for the umptieth year in a row, they resignedly inform the old thing that they've already graduated high school and are the CEO of their own footwear company, and have been since the Bush presidency.

Grow some brain cells, you old bat! Uncle Roger, of course, is the elderly gay relative, who insists on kissing the female cousins, so that he can maintain the pretense of being normal. He doesn't want to shock anyone with his homosexuality. Kiss kiss.

Actually, we've known for years.

See, there was that time that he and uncle Stephen, who isn't actually a blood relative at all, were ... that one year ...

And that, boys and girls, is why you should go slow on the egg nog.
Often, there is too much nog, not enough egg and cream.
Someone doctored the supermarket carton.

Seeing as my nearest kin on my mothers' side are down in Santa Barbara, and my father's relatives live in Calgary and Princeton, I do not have to worry about holiday get-togethers, and need not watch my behaviour as I celebrate by myself. Instead, on Christmas day, I shall wonder which places in Chinatown are open so that I can have some milk tea and a snack, because with my apartment mate also off work, I shall not be able to ensconce myself in front of the computer with a pipeful, and act like a rotten vegetable while reading about other people's drunken behaviour and weird conspiracy theories.

If I had stayed in the Netherlands instead of returning to California, I would be wondering about herring instead of milk tea. Nothing says Christmas better in Holland than stepping out for some herring at one of the stands in central Amsterdam. None of which, sadly, are open that day. Because the Dutch are a religious AND indolent lot. It's that mediterranean side to their personality -- that's why they spend six to eight weeks every summer at the Costa Del Sol or in Morocco rubbing themselves with olive oil and acting like uncle Roger or aunt Gertrude -- and everything closes the heck down on Christmas.

I'll probably have fried noodles or something.
While thinking fondly about herring.
Which we don't have here.



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EAT, DRINK, AND BE PISSY

It really shouldn't surprise me, and I would be better off ignoring it entirely. But it irritated me, and spoiled my lunch, And I really should have learned by now not to enter an overcrowded chachanteng, because things happen then. Nor will I share this with my apartment mate. Even though it's her people and their unvarnished mouths.

Sometimes the Cantonese are densely crude.

Can't blame the two waitresses either. They know I speak Cantonese, and they are in no way responsible for the offensive crap that comes out of their customers' pie-holes.

Specifically, the frequent use, in casual conversation, of the term kwailo.

Not about me, but I was at that time the only kwailo there.

It's a rude term for white people.

Dammit, y'all.


I heard that term nearly a dozen times while there.

It made what should have been a pleasant meal tasteless, and I didn't even finish half of my plate of 榨菜肉絲炒米 ('jaa choi yiuk si chaau mai'; preserved vegetable with meat shreds in stir-fried rice noodles). Which, normally, tastes divine with hot sauce. Couldn't even find the damned meat shreds, and my cup of milk tea was cold when I drank the last of it.

STAY HYDRATED!

Do people need to micturate more when there is rain during the night? It's a serious question. If they do, then perhaps they should drink more before going to bed to maintain proper electrolyte levels. Especially athletes.

[Please note: I have no idea what electrolytes do, and I'm too lazy to look it up. I'm sure Wikipedia has an informative article about that. Whatever. They're important. Various salt-like chemicals.]

This thought struck me at just after five o'clock this morning, when I had gotten up two hours before I intended to, and was in the bathroom attending to the call of nature.

Being a sane and sober man, I rely on caffeinated beverages for my jollies, unlike all the dissipanting savages down on Polk Street hanging out in bars.

This habit affects my interpretation of reality.

As well as my sleep patterns.

Naturally, as you would expect, I'm whacked to the gills right now on my second cup of coffee. It's only at moments such as these that I could possibly match my apartment mate for wide-awakeness and energy, seeing as she is an early person. I am a morning grump.
Kind of reptilian and slow because of the temperature and sluggish circulation.

Except for my bladder. Which is shown above.

Ideally, my perambulation with a smoke after that first cup of coffee would terminate at the apartment of some nice young person who would unlock her door and invite me in, saying "there are some extra books near the easy chair, make yourself comfortable while finishing your pipe, then put on a pot of coffee and prod me awake when it's ready. I'm going back to bed now". Soon there is gentle snoring from the other room.

What's perfect about that fantasy sequence is that it's not very social and takes into acount comfort levels and quietness, then glides gently into stimulation. And there is a throw rug.
For the easy chair. Plus it's indoors. Instead of outside in the weather.

The aroma of my pipe tobacco is "urbane".
That of the coffee is soothing.


Maybe she has a stack of old Scientific Americans or National Geographics.


NOTE: The illustration in this post is not actually my bladder, as you've probably realized, but the Brantas river flowing through Kediri, not far from Malang.



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NO UNPLEASANT AFTERTASTE

Well, the office holiday party is done with, I can revert to being an ogre for the rest of the year. No need to be social. Which is good, because I don't really excel at being a butterfly. Mercifully there were no embarassing incidents, no dancing was required, and no one hugged anyone else saying "I love you man, I love you!"

There was food. It was good. There were cigars. Excellent.
There was also wine, decent stuff, which I avoided.
Drank strong tea all evening.

People like myself do not thrive during the holiday season. I'm blaming Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and Mariah Carey. Back in the good old days, before I was born, it was so easy. Just follow the example of Ronald Reagan in the advertisements and give everyone a carton of Chesterfields.


"I'm sending Chesterfields to all my friends. That's the merriest Christmas any smoker can have - Chesterfield mildness plus no unpleasant aftertaste".

----- Ronald Reagan, 1952.
[Buy the beautiful "Christmas-card" carton.]


Because NOTHING says Christmas better than Ma, Pa, and Junior all sitting around the tree puffing. Yessir, choose Chesterfields for the holidays! If those are unavailabe, settle for Camels. More doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette!
There's a ton of combustibles under that tree.

Still. Chesterfields. Always milder. Better tasting. Cooler smoking. The righ combination of the worlds best tobaccos properly aged. Always Buy Chesterfield. ABC.


Sometimes, especially around this time of year, I think that I am quite lucky not to have a large family and numerous relatives. Other people have to stand outside in the pouring rain freezing their balls off holding onto their roast duck breast sandwiches and ciggies because otherwise their gluten-phobic cousin Gertrude, and the Vegan twins, and the anti-smokers, will all be triggered, while oldest brother Bill goes off on one of his political rants about the commies and uncle Walter talks about Jayzus, all comfy inside. And there they'll be under the streetlights disconsolately puffing away while snarfing down the animal protein all soggy.

No massed relatives to chase me out, so I'm good. Trust me.

If I'm out there with my pipe it's because I'm a rugged outdoorsman!
I like risking pneumonia and hypothermia while smoking!
It's healthy! Toughens you up!
Individualism!

Oh, and my apartment mate doesn't like the smell.

The only problem is all the other people outside indulging in their unhealthy lifestyles.
It's getting crowded out there.



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IT'S A JUNGLE OUT THERE

Yesterday someone insisted that ALL cigars from the Dominican Republic, Nicaragua, and Honduras were deeply connected to the Illuminati. And started asking hard questions about Mexican leaf. Before suggesting that Canada was far too Arab for comfort. I couldn't wait to have them put some distance between me and them. Because, truth be told, I pride myself on my illumined Arab Canadianity.

Salaam aleikum, eh. Keif halak? Bikhair, eh?
Now please imagine a burst of light.
It's so illuminative!

As we get closer to Christmas, more neurotic behaviour will become manifest. By Christmas eve there will have been several live-action replays of scenes from Marat-Sade.

[The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade (Auf Deutsch: Die Verfolgung und Ermordung Jean Paul Marats dargestellt durch die Schauspielgruppe des Hospizes zu Charenton unter Anleitung des Herrn de Sade).]

One wishes the bars to the cage were still up.
Keep some of you people inside.

There are discordant noises in the distance. Probably someone's internal karaoke.

More of the crazies are singing than ever before. Their instability is more evident, and their hair dye is running. I have realized that one of the things I like about Chinatown is the greater predictability of people there. They aren't such screaming and insistent unique individuals with personalities that must be expressed no matter how disturbing that might be to their fellow humans. Fewer meaningful tattoos, idiosyncratic piercings, studs, and scarification. Less unwarranted tribal markings, artsy frip-fraps worn as personal adornment or bohemian headgear, and no non-sequiturial imparting of pride in their German or Swedish ancestry, no tartans, nor bottoms spiritually painted blue. Normal people. Who act normally. As a matter of course. And expect the same from other people speaking Cantonese. As is logical.



All the rest of you are exotic and precious and I do wish you'd shut up.



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OVERPOPULATION

We've added to the mob of small furry insurrectionist and anarchists which have takeng over the apartment. My apartment mate's birthday resulted in a new infiltrant -- adopted by yours truly -- from one of the local holding pens for illegal immigrants. A most personable chap.
Or chappette. Gender identity as yet unknown.
Personally, I think he's a girl.

At the time of this photo she or he had not yet been introduced to most of the others, except for the turkey vulture who had some traumatizing suggestions, and the crab person (the orange creature with large eyes), plus the little rooster.


The crab and the rooster are comforting her, as she was saddened by a cold reception.

My apartment mate's initial reaction was that we have too many small creatures.

She's not a very social woman (understatement like you wouldn't believe), and probably fears that she will be required to make "small" talk. Which she hates.


The crab is also a newbie. Who is absolutely terrified that one of the others will eat him or her. He or she need not worry, as all creatures here are under the protection of Ms. Bruin, who makes sure that we (!) do not devour our friends.

The words "melted butter" will not be uttered.
Nor "black bean sauce".
蒜豉椒醬。



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FLUFFY AND ... LOVEABLE?

Several years ago a fellow blogger, Sara, imagined me as a short grumpy furball with a pipe. Which is surprisingly accurate, if you keep in mind that I am not excessively hairy (so not a furball; I do not shed), I'm not small and globular but lean and wiry, albeit not as tall as a cornfed Iowa monstrosity or inner city honky trying out for the basketball team, and my disposition is quite sunny, why, I am the very paradigm of sweetness and light.

Repeat: Sunny. Sweetness. Light.

Jonathan in Israel, you can stop laughing now. Cynic.


So, if you see a jolly, cheerful, angular man in a resplendent Santa costume which has been freshly dry-cleaned beaming at you while wandering around the orphanage with hugs and candy for all the little kiddiewinkies, even the misbehaving trolls, it might be me.
The problem with most Santas is that they smell funny.
Crimson jammies haven't been cleaned.
In years. Decades even.

Plus those beards. Betcha they look like right degenerates under that growth. My beard is neatly trimmed, spare, and upstanding. I'm not some scruffy unkempt slovenly wino in greasy red coloured overalls, so desperate for human contact that I offer lap rides to short people and horned animals, or resort to bribery so that the little buggers will write me letters.


Come to think of it, nix on the freshly cleaned crimson togs. Maybe I'll go naked for the holidays. It will be a refreshing change of pace. You people deserve it.



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GREEN WRECKAGE

For a whole number of reasons having to do with colours and hue gradations, the first rains of the season remind me of the Netherlands in early summer, a warehouse and a temporary airfield in a warmer climate, that early spring when I lived in Piedmont (when my portfolio of illustrations stored in the basement there got waterlogged, and turned slimy), and the slope leading to a freeway underpass in early morning. Greens and greys, medium light. My first Autumn back in the Bay Area after several years overseas was much like that.

Mostly these are memory glows from years ago.
We don't get so much rain anymore.
Or my eyes are tired.

Gravel. Hot coffee. The first pipe of the day. Fecund earthy odours.

Very minor motion at the edge of vision.


Rectangular areas with thick lines, kept free of debris and scattered branches, the smell of solvents, and machine oil, tannins, and salt.

Stewed noodles for breakfast with a squeeze of citrus juice.
More weak cheap tea in thermos jugs for hydration.
A constant buzzing in the distance.



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LITTLE INEDIBLE BITS

The back airwell stairs which lead to to the garbage bins are enclosed, but there are open windows to let in breezes and light. Like many men who have access to such an architectural feature who are smokers, I have placed a little tin on the upper steps to function as an ashtray, when my non-smoking Cantonese American female apartment mate is, exceptionally, at home during my days off.

[Clarification: She's a very nice person, but there is nothing going on between us. We get along culinarily, and we have a bunch of small creatures. Because she is on the spectrum, she speaks, often, by voicing for them. They disapprove of many of my habits. Such as smoking. Bad stinky white man!]

Yesterday -- one of my off days -- she stayed at home. Normally when she leaves for her work in the morning I firmly shut her bedroom door, open a few windows, and head into the teevee room to read and light up. Which of course was out of the question, even though she spent a lot of time in her quarters dozing with several of the small creatures.

So at one point I headed into the back stairwell. And discovered little bits of moth near my empty tin. Wings and antennae. Plus a leg. I think what must have happened is that a nocturnal insect was sleeping there, and a bird happily discovered breakfast.

Not my chosen snack. I don't want anyone to get the wrong ideas.
Yes, ripping apart helpless animal protein is very masculine.
But that wasn't me. Too much fuzz and crunchy.


My apartment mate does not share my affection for certain foods, but she does occasionally use some of the bawang goreng (crispy fried shallot bits) and bottled fish sauce I've stocked. Sometimes a little sambal -- a typical Dutch American male will have a sufficiency of that, you can be sure -- and, very rarely, preserved streaky pork (臘肉 'lap yiuk').
Seldom if ever salt fish (鹹魚 'haahm yü').

I am sure, quite sure, that she wasn't snarfing down moths in the stairwell.
Despite her voracious ("bird like") appetite.



NOTE: the proper larder should have several or all of the following: salt fish (鹹魚 'haahm yü'), dried shrimp (蝦米 'haai mai'), dried scallops (乾貝、江瑤柱 'gon pui', 'gong yiu chyu'), dried oysters (蠔豉 'hou si'). Plus chilipaste or sambal ulek (辣椒醬 'laat chiu jeung'), oyster sauce (蠔油 'hou yau'), soy sauce (醬油 'jeung yau'; 豉油 'si yau'), shrimp paste (鹹蝦醬 'haam haa jeung'), sesame oil (麻油 'maa yau'), and Chinese sausage (臘腸 'laap cheung').

Plus pickled mustard root (榨菜 'jaa choi'), dried pine mushrooms (冬菇 'dong gu'), and salted plum vegetable (梅菜 'mui choi'). And a block of trassi (belatjan kering).

Tins of sardines, anchovies, and fried dace with dausi for a rainy day would not be amiss.


All of this in addition to the marmalade, jam, and Balkan mixtures or fine Virginia flakes.
Plus a bottle of siu hing (紹興) rice wine or decent cooking sherry.
As well as a sufficiency of coffee and tea.




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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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