BRAIN EATERS

Part of it is chemistry, part of it is "substances". In particular the active ingredients in coffee and chocolate. Kids, don't follow my example! I don't want you snarfing all the chocolate.
Porn. Do porn instead. And leave the chocolate to me.

Especially if you are white, middle class, and under thirty.
You represent everything wrong with America.
You don't deserve chocolate.


White, middle class, and under thirty.


You support all the wrong causes, and love psychopaths and dictators in the third world. You join protests for the fluffy homicidals. You wear clothing and designer items showing your undying devotion to the insanity of parts of the world where you could never live.

You are Idi Amin Dada and Colonel Qaddafi.
You are Harvard's mutant swine.
You are Jacob Zuma.

You are the sneering hatefilled graffiti on walls and monuments in Dublin, London, and Glasgow. Garbage eating, drivel spouting, slogan chanting, and generally intolerant, unbearable, holier than thou. Many of you are strident and remarkably stupid.


Some of you are also tourists, whether from Europe or some bourgeois hellhole in the rest of the country. You are ambulatory clutter. And the food you customarily eat is horrid.


You are dense and loathsome.



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WE ARE SENSITIVE MEN

The meeting of the local pipe club was sparsely attended this time. Less than a dozen men. The South African wasn't there, the intellectual of solid dutch Calvinist heritage neither, the elfish man who is famous for the time that a woman less than half his age spontaneously jumped on his lap and stuck her tongue in his ear also not, nor the fellow who needs a mansierre or less thin clothing. The high-domed chap from the middle-of-the-country remained unfortunately absent too.

This, naturally, meant that my access to the duck liver pâté was unhindered.
No fear of a ravenous mob bogarting the snacky stuff.
It was very good.


This was the first time that one of the members drank mead. Despite my encouraging him to get drunk like a viking, he remained very well behaved. Which was extremely disappointing.


Various salume and charcooters, cheeses, and open bottles. Plus tins of tobacco.
So I dare say I wasn't the only one who had a good time.
It was a flavoursome afternoon.

The latest limited edition pipe tobacco from C & D is finally in. Sight unseen and nose quite unsniffed I acquired four tins of it before anyone else, and I'm not through purchasing it yet. The previous version had a profound fragrance of Limburger cheese due to the maturity of the blending components, yielding a divine smoke. Which I'm counting on this time around.
Oddly none of the other gentlemen leaped upon the supply.

Neil smoked Three Nuns in an old Peterson full bent for most of the afternoon, occasionally watching the game that was playing on the teevee in the back room. And probably didn't hear me when I remarked that televised sports always remind me of a few lines of English poetry: "Balls to your partner, Arse against the wall; If you cannot get intercoursed* on Saturday Night, You cannot get intercoursed* at all". I find it inspiring.

[The long version of that sung poem goes on for several hundred verses, which every one in Britain probably knows. It's quite epic. British people take great comfort in the ellucidation of satisfactory resolutions to every day social quandaries.]

The English are a poetic people. Probably makes up for their cuisine being so appalling.


And, in reference thereto, don't forget that Bobby Burns Night is coming up on the twenty-fifth of January. Sheep guts, boiled turnips, peat, firewater, doggerel, and accordions.
No, none of us have any intention of observing it. In any way.
Especially not gustatorily.




I take pains to point out that I like Cornell & Diehl's Anthology very much. The last time it was available I stockpiled over two dozen tins. And I shall probably end up with the same number this time around. This version is a selection of fine contemporary reds.

TOBACCO INDEX


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LANDSCAPE WITH VOLCANO

It rained soggily till long after I got home. My apartment mate had already retired to her bed at that time, I myself stayed up in the teevee room browsing through the news. Surprisingly it wasn't that cold. Not precisely shirt sleeve weather, but considering the icy temperatures in places like Kansas City or Poughkeepsie (where the majority of non-San Franciscans apparently live), it may as well have been the tropics.

It is quite likely that the weather influenced my dreams. Casual violence in an area of the former Dutch East Indies, ending in the discovery of corpses when the rains washed out the mudbanks along the river, now transformed into a torrent. As it usually does toward the end of the rainy season. The paddies have been plowed, they are now vast lakes of turbulent water marching up the slopes. Discarded and very deceased criminal elements slide downhill, and get wedged among the Edward Goreyesque boulders.

Si Tengtrem tells me that corpses often turn up.
It's because of the nearby city.
Twenty kilometers.
Easy.

The same truck that brought me probably also brought them. Maybe even one or more on the same trip. Which is a charming thought that I would rather put out of my mind.
He assures me that the local people NEVER create corpses.
Then asks if I want more kari hayam. Coconutty!
So good with sambel belatjan!
Almost never.


The chickens in that village were good to eat. They prided themselves on the best chickens. It was what they fed them. Add soybeans and corn. If you fed chickens properly, they would be healthy and tender. Modern, progress! And you could charge more for them.
It was worth it. Dahar naon deui nya? What else you want to eat?


On second thought, my snacking last night may have also influenced my dreams. Fruitcake, and cheese with chilipaste on toast. Feeding a Dutchman properly make his feathers glossy.



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HEALTHY EATING, A GUIDE

Among the things we received this holiday was a Dresdner Früchten Küche, which is a frukt cux from Dresden, for all of you English monolinguals. Of which I had a thickish slice very recently. Afterwards I told my aparment mate: If I start farting in the middle of the night, remember me fondly. Her response: "How will that be any different from normal?"

It's actually very good. Very fruity. I may look up the recipe, and make a variation with a salted egg yolk for the moon festival this coming end of summer. Crust based on a Dutch pastry. Tell everyone it's our clan's traditional moon cake. Fruits and less nuts.
The addition of a salted egg yolk would be super.

If anyone starts farting in the middle of the night, don't look at me.
I'm sure someone will remember them.
Fondly.



When I get home from work I'm not particulary hungry, and tend to snack more than dine. And because we ran out of chocolate, I opened the Dresden fruit cake.

One of the other things I ate was kulit salmon berisi telur masin. Quite excellent.

Maple pecan crumble? A combination of healthy and nutty fun.

For some reasone it's near the computer.

Mmmmm. No.



I feel that as a Dutchman of sober and reasonable habits, I should perhaps go into the kitchen and find some cheese. My apartment mate keep us supplied with that.
Cheese, crackers, and gobs of sambal. Yes.

It's a sane and sensible snack.
As we Dutch are known for.
Sambal is a vegetable.
It's good for you!



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TOO MUCH LIGHT, OR TOO LITTLE

It's clean and warm, the new decor is restful to the eyes. It will probably catch on with the women. Pastries, milk tea, and a quiet street outside. I filled my pipe and left, lighting up on the sidewalk. After wandering down to my bank I headed over to Jackson Street. The new alternative dumpling place seems to be doing well, there were two or three occupied tables at the Shanghai restaurant, and the portico of the theatre was brightly lit despite not being open. I saw a number of Shanghainese old-timey gangster flicks there, shot in Hong Kong. Two golden ages.

Further down the street a white man out of his mind was staggering around with his pants down to his knees, buttocks showing, striking poses. I watched him warily. One should always keep an eye on crazy white people.

Fortunately he didn't venture into any of the restaurants. The last thing they need is a white person even crazier than their normal clientele.

And dirtier.

The pipe smoked very well. A fine Virginia blend in an old briar. Perfect for half an hour on a frigid evening when no one should be staggering around with their ass cheeks visible.

Finished the bowl outside the old Bella Union Theatre (華都戲院). Which appears to be Self Help For The Elderly now, many of whom are already quite capable of keeping their pants up, so they're ahead of the game. We approve. All of us.

Self control, sanity, and muscle control. A lot to be said for that.

Raoul Sinropas did a lot to change the general atmosphere from Shanghaiesque to surreal. Fortunately he and his uncontrolled trousers had floated out of sight by then, and there were no further visual offenses.

The bus was crowded. Of course.
But pleasant mooded.



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WORST CHILDREN'S STORY EVER

It has a happy ending. Except for the main character. Everybody else has a lovely meal with juicy savoury bits, scallions, ginger, chilipaste ... And, of course, sauces! Reduced pan juices enriched with a splash of sherry, a drizzle of soy sauce, a little sugar added to the pan. Plus rice, and fried buns Northern style, and a nice bowl of hot soup: cress, stock, ginger.

Some Flemish plum sauce would be nice too.
Tangy, sharp, sweet, intense.

All of this prompted by a sign that promised a fat little sheep. The original language made fairly clear that the meat was meant for the hotpot or grill, contextually, but in English I was momentarily entranced by the idea of a charming sheepling gamboling through a fresh verdant field on a lovely spring day, not a care in the world.

It's sliced thin and would fry up in a pan nicely.

Just imagine an old Manchu courtyard in Peking, nineteen thirties, with four or five men shielded from the bitter cold in poofy long coats, two or three layers, perhaps with thick blankets draped around their shoulders, standing around a hot grill under the eaves away from the wind, at twilight. Thin slices of meat, alternating fat and lean, streaky, perfuming the winter air. A small side table carries a tray of condiments. There's row of wheat buns along the edge of the grill, and, of course, a large metal teapot keeping warm there too.

It sounds absolutely lovely, doesn't it?


A plate of split scallion lengths for adding to the buns into which one stuffs the hot meat is necessary. Warmed old rice wine would be nice. The war seems so very far away. The thin fellow with the glasses remarks that it reminds him of an essay by a Sung Dynasty official written before the tatar invasions which drove everyone south. Prescient, in a way.
Fore-shadowing what will happen in a few short years.

The soft melody from an erhu sounds faintly from one or two courtyards over. Perhaps Old Liang is in his belvedere wiling away the time. We should have invited him too. Quick, send Second Ding over to tell him to come, there is food! And we have extra blankets! Bring the instrument! Grace us with your presence! And your erudite wit.



It was well below fifty degrees when I first went out this morning. Quite beastly. Grilled meat for breakfast would probably have been lovely, and I should be napping right now covered with thick comforters. Instead of reading the news in the teevee room on my computer. The sunlight streaming in deceptively promises more warmth than it delivers at this time of year.

In the Northern Capitol it is somewhat below freezing right now and everybody is asleep.
By comparison we're practically tropical. Sybaritic.
And we have green grassy fields!



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READY FOR ANOTHER CUP

It's probably a darned good thing that Hong Kong Milk Tea hasn't caught on yet in the United States. We don't need anymore crazy white dudes than there already are. Just imagine what would happen if some of the old geezers in my neighborhood were hepped to the gills early in the morning while walking their poochies. "That's MY pooh zone, I saw it first! I'll kill you and your dammed pitbull if Fluffie can't dump there! Bitch!"

Yeah, no. Caffeine can make you irritable.

Pitbull and poodle owners fighting over dog toilets is something we don't need in this city. It's bad enough with tourists slicing open drunks over who gets to rifle the pockets of people who overdosed in the public lavatories. Robbing a drug addict's corpse is a fundamental part of everyone's San Francisco experience, along with vegan food and cross-dressing.

As you can tell, I'm already completely caffeinated.
Had a hot cuppa before I left the building.
Preparatory to smoking my pipe.

And I fervently hope I'm the only one here. Hong Kong milk tea, properly made, is far more stimulation than many of these yuppies and transplantees ever had in college. Just imagine how berserk they and the senile old farts in the old folks luxury apartments at the top of the hill would be if they started every day that way, and continued it like that.

Dogs would be pooped, and there would be joggers everywhere!

Oh wait, there are.


Hong Kong milk tea, in it's native environment, is a full-bodied brew that keeps office workers at their desks from seven in the morning till ten at night, wired to the eye-brows. Years ago, when I worked in a building on Bush street, there were ten coffee places within two blocks, including one on the groundfloor of that building. The Operations Department came in all twittering, and didn't shut up till the end of the day. It was like working in a chicken coop.
No one needs to hear about Buffy the Vampire Slayer for eight solid hours!

Quiet, you wired zotsbrain dingos!

I think today I'll have an early teatime at a bakery to which I almost never go. It got revamped recently, but strangely does not appear to have a loyal clientele yet. My usual Thursday place seems to have developed a Toishanese problem, in consequence of which I can seldom find a convenient table. Old people yacking in Seiyap dialect are not ultra conducive to good HK milk tea or my peace of mind. This place looks quite promising. Inviting, even.

The other day when I walked by it was 空寥寥。

If I like it, I'll go there after my eye doctor's appointment two weeks hence. I need somewhere to go for a cuppa afterward now that I've taken a temporary scunner to the chachanteng where I went last time. The waitress there clearly had not had all her caffeine, and preferentially favoured the table of old biddies speaking home-town language.

我唔識講臺山話，godverdomme.
講廣東話，好唔好！


So that's two chachantengs I'm avoiding.



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BUS. RAIN. DRIED FISH.

Lunch and shopping in C'town, followed by teatime at a bakery where Russell, Stephen, and Robert also were. As well as several familiar faces spanning the linguistic spectrum from Mandarin and Cantonese through Toisanwa, Burmese, English, and Spanish. The three named gentlemen speak English and Cantonese, and are a bit older than myself.
And they grew up here.

Most of the afternoon I didn't need English except to cuss. When employing unprintable language, it is always best if, even doing so under one's breath, one does not employ a tongue that others understand. Dutch, Tagalog, and Hindustani are all excellent in that regard. Cantonese when at work in Marin.

Dutch is not so good in Chinatown; the visiting Germans might understand it.
Or the Hakkas who came here from Suriname to study.

For some reason we ended up talking about salt fish (鹹魚 'haam yü'). Not the UNdelicacy so beloved by Hong Kongers and C'town folks that's great with ground pork or simple stirfried veggies, nor the key ingredient essential for Hang Zhou's famous steamed fatty duck (鹹魚白切鴨 'haam yü paak chit ngaap'), but the old ladies who block the bus doors by clustering right there with their wheeled shopping bags, and fail to understand that they and their crap are a nuisance and in the way. Especially when the bus is full and people want to get home. During rush hour most nights.

They're about four foot tall, tough as nails, don't speak English, and stubbornly unyielding. You want to get on it, they want to stand there. Have you considered walking instead?

It's pointless trying courtesy and gentle persuasion with someone older than Moses who doesn't understand what you are saying in whatever language, and if she actually grasps that you are speaking Cantonese will exclaim how unusually smart you are, why, it's remakable that a kwailo learned how to talk, and will obdurately still refuse to budge. Not. An. Inch.
I've considered lifting them up bodily and plonking them in a vacant seat.
If I do it fast enough, she won't have a chance to squawk.
She'd probably hit me with her shopping bag.
Wheels, and metal frame.
Sharp corners.


By the way: 鹹魚白菜 (haam yu paak choi') is a host's euphemism for a humble meal, really not worth serving to you, I ashamed of this poor stuff at my table. It's just salt fish and plain bokchoi, merely 垃圾嘢 really. Sorry!


Russell is quite irritated at those 鹹魚婆 on the bus. Whereas I regard them as considerably less objectionable than the Yuppies and Karens, and when I've reached that painfully brittle stage of ancient decrepitude, I too will not budge. My feet are cold, the weather is nasty, this isn't the world I expected, and all of you young people are deficient in multiple ways!
And now that I'm on the damned bus, I'm not moving, dammit.

Consider my immovabilty a form of silent protest.
An angry screech, as it were.



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EXPEDITION TO THE ICE BOX

The route is through the alley where Russell lives and then past Allan Gin's barber shop, followed by the store where they have State Express Filters, around the corner, and past Great Communication, Great East, and Thing Bank (freely translating from Chinese, you understand). Except that on cold nights that seems a greater distance than it should.
Much quieter too, with fewer people about. It's bitter and empty out there.

Which does not stop all the white people. Whom one can hear for a block before they go by. Although remarkably, the loud cheery party at one of the intersections consisted of four of the gentlemen from the Toisanese late lunch klatch at one of the chachantengs.
The most Irish-looking of them belting out a cheerful song in Mandarin.

[Some Cantonese gentlemen can look very Irish. It's a roguish quality, and twinkling eyes. Think Chow Yunfat.]

When I got off the bus at darling's (寵兒) I loaded up my pipe, and as I was lighting it, Younger Brother Yee passed and said 'hello', waving his own pipe, and explaining that cigarettes were just far too dear nowadays. He's someone I've known for years, but back then he smoked fags. Which, nowadays, are an expensive luxury in California.

Shortly after the bookseller and I entered the burger joint it filled up with businessmen in lovely Sears Roebuck suits, advertising the fashion tastes of elsewhere in the country. When quite a while later we passed a boîte on our way to the bus stop, they were inside the place all talking at once. I guess the convention they are attending is an astounding success.

We had been at a different bar, where except for a boisterous man who sang one Frank Sinatra song, it had been pleasantly quiet, due probably to the aforementioned frigid temperatures. Even so, I didn't quite finish my tea. Boistery tends to offput me.


This is the beginning of my wintry discontent. I shall probably belly-ache about the weather for the next six weeks. This is what forcing people to smoke outdoors does.
It's a sad state of affairs, and I wish to keenly protest.
Modern society is to blame.



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COLD THERE

There was a gentle rain falling at the time when I wished to do my laundry. Inconvenient, yes, but withall rather like English summer weather. Which before global warming was colder, greyer, wetter. Devonshire was beautiful in the grimness. Teatime, semidark because of the clouds, pipe with a Latakia mixture, sherry, and a fire in the grate. Absolutely heavenly.
Corduroy and tweeds. Boots.

Oh well, shan't do laundry today. One more day of stinkaroo.

Need to pick up my refills at the pharmacy around noon, then do some minor shopping. Also, get away from my apartment mate, who is staying home sick today and watching videos on youtube at the other end of the table, making remarks like "why does that old fart sound like a snake-oil salesman?" and "oh shit, it was already out in their time?" and similar pungent comments that indicate that it's a rich melange of good and garbage. Mental nutrition.
When I watch videos, it's mostly cooking and calligraphy.

When walking up a gentle slope near our lodgings in Exeter, it was remarkable how small the world seemed. The grey overcoast sky cut the world short at the top of the hill, there was no horizon, a limited amount of depth and space. Woodbines cigarettes bought from a local store, stuff falling out of a lowered sky. Summer vacation in England.
January in San Francisco.

The richly flavoured fried meat bun I saw in a video recently is not available here. I'll hunt up that episode again, and take notes. It looks like it bears experimentation.
It looked scrumptious and hearty.



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DIFFERING ENERGY LEVELS

Yesterday was dreamy. Meaning that I spent a lot of time elsewhere in my head. Which is restorative after dealing with irritating old gits (men only a year or two older than myself at best) during my working days. The one great thing about work is that it's a smoke-filled environment, with a strong set of fans so I don't have to smell their stinky cheroots too badly while I'm at the other end of the building enjoying my pipe during the day.
I've been smoking an old-fashioned Virginia most of the time.
Which I did yesterday also.

Goes great with a cup of tea.
And daydreaming.

Ended up having a very late breakfast -- lunch -- dinner at a chachanteng around tea-time, so more of an early dinner. One thing I've noticed is that most Chinese waitresses are not so sweet when I'm starving, almost as if they can psychically sense the tension, ravenous hunger, and low blood sugar. It's very strange.

Having entered the place with a decision about what to eat already made -- fish flavour eggplant rice (魚香茄子飯 'yü heung ke ji faan') it felt like an inordinate amount of time before they took my order, especially on a busy evening when a single white diner occupying a table must be fed fast to free the space up again. But that may have just been my imagination.

But I enjoyed my meal, while listening to two mainland academics in town for a conference at the next table. Not that I can really understand Mandarin, but one of them is from Shanghai, northern district. With only a trace of that accent when speaking. No, I didn't talk to them. What would I say? And why interrupt the sibilant choppy flow?

Just imagine me as a small owl who is keenly, judgementally, observing the wild creatures in my native environment, but not likely to swoop and rip. Fiercely territorial, but confident that they don't present a threat.


Unlike the two skeevy white eccentrics also there. One all the way opposite, the other a later arrival wearing a hippie top hat in the far left corner. Both eating by themselves and reading. Sometimes there are just too many of us Caucasians in a place, it changes the dynamic.
Much like, as you would imagine, at work most of the time.
There was a disturbing whiteness in the air.
Next time, go earlier.



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THEY, THEM, IT, AND THOSE!

It's the End Times! Obviously! There is NO other logical explanation! It marks our downward spiral as a nation, and proof positive that the Democrats are leading us straight to perdition.

Quote:
"New Jersey had seven TGI Fridays closures, followed by Massachusetts with six closures and New York with five closures. Other states with closures included Colorado, Connecticut, Florida, Maryland, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, Texas and Virginia."
[Source: SFG - Popular Chain Closing Underperforming Locations]

This, as much as anything, demonstrates how socialist politicians are destroying our economy and stiffing the working stiff. Their policies are ruining once prosperous communities all across the land.

One (!) closure in California.
Where the hell is Fresno?

Obviously Newsom and Breed's policies are disastrous for California. You get what you voted for. Wokism. Socialist policies are turning San Francisco and the entire state into a steaming dungheap with fentanyl addicts defecating everywhere surrounded by boarded-up downtown businesses and people fleeing the state for Texas and Alabama. Oh, it's horrible! There are empty business districts, wind-blown garbage, with reefers, rioting hippies, as well as free sex-changes for jailed criminals and illegals everywhere!

Where the hell is Fresno?

Soon gas will be unaffordable, Ted Cruz will flee to Cancun, and our Chinese commie taksmasters will force everyone to fly rainbow flags and drink Bud Light!


'THEY' are draining our vital juices!
Personal pronouns! Oh woe!
Potato skins!


We are doomed! Doomed!


Call out the National Guard. Unleash the internet MAGA warriors on social media.
Those darn liberals are ruining everything for gob-fearing Americans.

Where the hell is Fresno?



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ROSE COLOURED SUNGLASSES

In my early twenties I was bright and went to college. Only a little later I was making money hand over fist and dropped out, shortly after which the market for that particular set of skills nosedived because of computers, and being a stubborn sort I waited to see if it would come back. It didn't. And college became too expensive. So I never actually finished a degree.

But at heart I am still a college man. Gaily skipping around the quad with a jaunty briar pipe sticking out of my face, dunking underclassmen in the fountain, and having a glass of sherry before late dinner with the chums.

Actually, there were very few chums. Even then most university students were not habitués of the second hand bookstores, and even fewer would positively gloat over a book of myth and folktales with translations on the facing page in a tribal Malayo-Polynesian language. The closest they'd come to that is reading Tolkien. Whom I dislike.

I had gotten well into The Lord Of The Rings, when I realized it was a great heap of bollocks, and stopped.

Yes, I know he's an immortal ruddy genius and we all must worship the roseate clouds he walked upon. Also that he was a pipesmoker with a taste for Virginia flakes (except for his occasional forays into perversion, ie Erinmore Flake). Capstan in particular.
Presumably he also liked a spot of tea, like I do.

A prodigious writer of poofle.

And probably a longwinded conversationalist. The faculty club bore.



Smoked three pipefulls of fine flake during the afternoon while listening to the boys in the back cheering on the game, wailing with despair while the Forty Niners lost, and arguing over sex changes. I suggested at an opportune moment that Jeff would be much more loveable as a pudgy old lady than he presently is as a sour old goat with prostate problems, and one of the boys agreed that he IS huggable. So I think it's a thing now. Jeff should thank me.
His social life is bound to improve. Soon.
There's promise!


Sick hobbits.



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SWEET MELLOW MAN AND MEANSPIRITED ANCIENT PASTRY

Last night I stepped out into the freezing cold for a last smoke. Moments after I lit my pipe, with fingers rapidly turning blue and hands trembling from the arctic blast, I became aware of a blonde woman in her forties glaring at me. Specifically, at my pipe. Now, let me clarify: public street. Extreme cold. Long after dark. No children nearby, nor, for that matter, any mobs of sensitive gluten phobic lactose intolerant vegetarians. Plenty of space. Just this other person safely far enough away that it was extremely unlikely that delicate tendrils of smoke would offend her.

I heard her mutter: "Jesus, tobacco!"

Why you dessicated frump, would you be better pleased if it were marijuana? What if I told you that this puts me on a plane with spiritual native Americans? It's meditative!
Sense my saintly aura!

Sometimes, tobacco is magic. That last smoke of the day turns me into the nicest gentleman, with kindly warm thoughts toward all. Apparently it turned little miss pancake make-up over there into a sour old pizza crust.

My piles bleed for you, lady. I'm smoking outside, and I'm cold.
You have no reason to be here. I don't see a dog.
Just keep walking. You need not glare.

Please think of tofu.
Om, santi santi.

A pipeful, even out in nasty weather, puts me at peace with the world.
It's a complex interplay of aesthetic stimuli and mood prompts.
Very much like happy hobbits in a Tolkien tale.
Just about giddy with glee.
Squealing.



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EXILED FROM A QUICHE ENVIRONMENT

One of the illustrations from a year ago that popped back up on the horizon reminds me that we had more rain than average last year. So far this season it has only been a minor inconvenience. Last year it was a serious nuisance. I remember coming home in a rainstorm and being clobbered by my umbrella while holding onto my groceries for dear life.

Those occasions when it storm-rained were not comfortable.

Normally I do not mind being exiled outside with my pipe so much, but it's not something that in the middle of winter I enjoy. A pipe tastes much better when the smoker of same is not getting clobbered by the weather.

There's a row of awnings on the block where a favourite bakery / chanteng is located, several of them fronting closed businesses. They've removed the nice comfy awnings opposite the hospital, and renovated the building with a view toward renting out the commercial spaces that have been empty for a while. The jewelry shop whose owners retired provides a nice awning too. And all of these are near cups of hot Hong Kong milk tea and snackies.

That's on that side of the hill. Closer to home, this side of the hill, there's nothing but stern Karen-like disapproval and no shelter.

Severe Protestant white people strongly disapprove of awnings.
Shiftless people like me might take advantage.



See, what this city needs is for university graduates to look outside and say "oh do come in you fascinating man, I love the aroma of that nice Virginia you are burning in that handsome very collegiate looking pipe. I'll go put the kettle on for tea. And I believe that there is still a nice wedge of mushroom quiche left!"

Sadly, what's far more likely is some yuppie harridan in training will Karen-like screech that her precious dog Fluffy is being harmed by my smoking one hundred yards away, she'll call the cops on me. If I catch pneumonia out here, it's just what I deserve!

For some reason I am reminded of a large lumpish female person over in Oakland who was allergic to everything, weepy, and deployed a cannister of pepper spray from her purse on a bunch of harmlessly yelling people. She disapproved of smoking also.

She hated men who looked like math tutors. That's a fact.



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JUST ADD BEANS!

Many internet trolls, meaning good solid Christians and Republicans from places you never want to go in the fly-overs, are outraged that a KFC in San Francisco is closing. Which is all because of the Democrats, you get what you vote for, Newsom and Breed are destroying the state, crime, drug addicts, faeces, bums panhandlers, and rabid darn liberals everywhere! Biden's American! Woke politics! All those illegals and vegetarians!

Outraged. Ired. Stupendously upset, Very angry. Offended and worked up. Righteously peeved, disturbed, anguished, and panties in a bunch. Oh, the humanity!

Similarly, the closure of so many fine restaurants patronized mostly by Caucasians also gives them fits, for all the reasons listed above. As well as the pampered yuppies.
San Francisco isn't what it has been. Where shall they eat? When finally they visit the city to see for themselves how we liberals have ruined it.

Well, there are plenty of places for them in Burlingame, near the airport.
Also, try Vegas on the way over. And get some dinners to-go.

It is because of them, and their waddlesome kinfolk who already visit, ambling four abreast, slowly down crowded sidewalks, to the great inconvenience of real people, that I suggest that what we desperately need in the downtown is a Wafflehouse or a Golden Corral. Someplace where they will feel at home and pick fights or stress out the furniture with their weight, while loading up on the carbs, greasebombs, and cholesterol so necessary for their comfort. Good food! Not the pretentious garbage or fancy foreign muck that most people here eat.
Good, solid, stick-to-your-ribs, no spices, no garlic, no peppers.
Extra lard sent to your table upon request.

To make it healthy, as well as either Southern or Texan, just add beans.

And real iced tea, extra sweet, no darned boba balls.
Like the good lord intended.



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THE SCROFULA! THE SCROFULA!

What with the weather at this time of year in San Francisco, one cannot enjoy an aperatif on a Parisian café terrace. For one thing, it's beastly cold. For another, smoking is outlawed at bars, cafés, restaurants, and similar venues, inside or out. For a third thing, nothing here is in any way Parisian. Or Amsterdammish. They have terraces in Amsterdam.

Nice sheltered terraces, with space heaters at all corners, so that people can enjoy the fresh air and puff their pipes twelve months of the year without once having to set foot in the empty smoke free interior. It cuts down on cleaning staff too.

Still. I suffer in consequence.

After teatime I did enjoy a pipe while wandering about on my way to buy a lottery ticket. Heaven is a very arctic place. And possibly filled with large white tourists.


When I win the lottery, I shall do something about the tourists.

And also install Parisian terraces everywhere.


In other news, the turkey vulture, Sydney Fylbert, claims he cured my scrofula by peeing on my feet, as his kind are wont to do. The fact that I do not have scrofula merely proves his assertion. Curing scrofula is the least he can do for us peasants.

Were he a white human, he'd praise miracle honey and apple cider vinegar.
He'd probably also be an anti-vaxxer, and a vegan.
While peeing on people's feet.


The last time he was in Paris, someone urinated on his feet.
And he doesn't suffer from scrofula.
Quod erat demonstrandum!


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ALL HAIL THE UNATTRACTIVES!

A question was posed on the internet: "What immediately makes a person unattractive?" Most of the people who answered were women. Younger women. And probably not very pleasant women. A certain level of entitlement was evident.


WHAT IMEDIATELY MAKES A PERSON UNATTRACTIVE?

1. 62% Smoking.
2. 20% Foul language.
3. 5% Penny loafers.
4. 4% They/Them.
5. 4% Ungodliness.
6. 2% Rude to waiters.
7. 1% Liberalism.
8. 1% Jank teeth.
9. 1% Narsosism.


Naturally, I don't quite see myself in this. As a pipesmoker, I remember back when college professors, Latin and mathematics tutors, engineers, and even captains of industry smoked. Usually they smoked a pipe. But there was a time when instead of a pipe -- impractical when you're performing an appendectomy, doing a Caesarian, or lancing a boil -- more doctors smoked Camels than any other cigarette. In a repeated survey doctors all across the country, in all branches of medicine, were asked "what cigarette do you smoke, doctor?" Yes, not surprisingly, more doctors preferred the rich taste of Camels to any other cigarette.

Of course, most doctors no longer smoke Camels. They probably went back to the pipe from their college days, or fell for Havanas, which they can afford now even at the high prices.


Perhaps I should mention that I am a single young boomer and still a bachelor a decade after savage Kitten and I separated, which may influence my harsh judgement of the respondents to that question. I have no penny in this fight, I'm not dating.

[I'm decidedly on the sidelines sneering at you lot.]

I'm on the fence about foul language, but I certainly recognize that there is a time and place for NOT using it. Childcare facilities, hospitals, elevators, around pregnant women, or in restaurants and bars. Wherever you wouldn't smoke either. As just examples.

Penny loafers are okay. Comfy. Job interviews would not be the same without them, and while I never wear them, I do own a pair. I emply the pronouns they and them when it would be gracious to do so, or grammatically appropriate. Liberalism is an estimable characteristic of which I highly approve, suck it up. I am never rude to waiters; they put up with all of you lot, and many of them are saints. Stressed-out underpaid longsuffering saints.

As for 'jank teeth', what?
Narsosism? Eh?

Is it possibly that some of the folks out there can't spell? If so, they should have smoked. Nicotine has been shown to have benefits to memory and retention, which is why so many medical students huff a pack of Camels (or other brands) when pulling an all-nighter before a test. Undoubtedly it would have also benefitted those Karens if they puffed a few in grammar school when the alphabet was introduced, and it would have helped them escape the cheer squad and glee club in high school and actually have a social life with real people.


Read other essays on this blog for more mansplaining, whitesplaining, colonialist attitudes, religious bigotry, cultural appropriation, general pissiness, and profound insights about everything that is wrong with people.

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