MENTAL THUMBS

Several years ago I had a coworker down the peninsula who would leave work related voicemails on people's answering machines all weekend. Which, of course, we learned to ignore. Odd thoughts would come upon her in the middle of the night. Procedure-related thoughts. Fax machine placement thoughts. She couldn't write work emails from home, and the cell-phone had not been invented yet. Seeing as my paging device was the number I had let work know about, which displayed the number from which a call came, I learned to simply delete without listening. We all thought she was heading off the deep end. She ended up working for a law office and I hear she was very happy there.

Which shows that law offices are unhealthy work environments.

Last night at around two thirty in the morning I almost became her. There are several devices at work that are controlled by remotes. Press the right buttons and everything is fine with the world. Don't press them and things are wrong, out of whack, off somehow, and subtly disturbing in a way that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

I remembered that I had put one of those clickers temporarily somewhere where that clicker doesn't go and no one will find it unless I mention it. So I suppose I should call them -- I'm off today with no intention of going in -- but doing so in the mide of the night, or even leaving a voicemail at any time regarding the crucially, earthshakingly important on-off button device, would mark me as berserk and possibly losing my marbles.

Which might actually be the case, but I don't want them to know that.

Besides, one thing I've noticed is that after two or three days at work, because of the nature of the job and the vast amounts of tea which I've drunk to stay hydrated, my body chemistry is somewhat off kilter and I think differently. It takes at least a morning -- several hours -- of sitting around in my jammies and twiddling mental thumbs, for my head to be stable again.


Being a sane balanced individual is dependent on chemistry, environment, and perspective. To put it differently, a starving person in a burning dumpster filled with recently discarded pastries in a shopping area which is rapidly flooding because of a levee-breach may not make the most rational decisions ever. Neither will the raccoons and the grizzly bear that are in there with her. None of them did before, that's how they all ended up in there.
Stuffing themselves with black forest cake.

Someone ought to design a new type of dumpster which can float and is steerable.
The world is crying out for that.


I am temporarily charmed by the image of the Sacramento River Delta studded by a fleet of styrofoam dumpsters crewed by wildlife and stoned party blondes fleeing burning shopping malls. It's sort of Gilligan's Island Meets Mad Max.
All gorging on cake.

The most important individual is a sugar-crazed grizzly bear.
That's almost a metaphor for life.



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WHEN THE BUS LEAVES ...

On major problem with Marin County and its denizens is that they do not understand how bus schedules work. Which means that the closer it comes to the bus leaving, the more brusque I shall be with people who are blithely unaware of operating hours.

After the doors close it's my time. And there is nothing, NOTHING in any way appealing about missing the bus and being stuck in the purulent cyst on the filthy backside of a loathsome dieased mutant which is Marin County for an extra hour.

You may expect my attitude at such a moment to be venomous and toxic.
It is not unreasonable to expect a sudden bout of rabies.


What you faced in the country club locker room, or while you were servicing some Karen, is as nothing compared to what may happen to you if you don't leave at the proper time. And make no mistake; the colonel won't back you now, you disgusting bourgeois spoiled brat.
By the way, there might be a rattlesnake in the passenger seat.
Snakes find expensive cars very comfortable.

Once my work is over for the day, I do not wish to spend on moment more in Marin.

I despise the place.



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AN IMAGINARY TEA ROOM

It would appear that I am out of touch with my contemporaries. Hugely. People have been mentioning pools, and how lovely they are during this hot weather, how they like to disport themselves nearly naked in the cool cool water. Whereas all I can think of when it's eighty degrees outside is an airconditioned indoor enviroment with beverages, tasty snacks, and semi-twilight, cool, dark. Quiet. Milk tea of any range of temperatures: hot. Or cold.
A tall iced drink next to an ashtray perhaps, sweating into a doily.

A dish of ice cream. Or a bowl of pudding.
Some lovely glazed biscuits.


Is it tea time yet?


The problem with pools is the strong chemicals to keep them from reeking of body exudates from the teenagers and athletic types. And whatever that crap is that so many people smear in their armpits with gay abandon and spatulas, or spray thickly on their coiffures.
Plus spilled drinks, and mildew from the last time they wore that swimsuit.

Whereas linen clothes, rattan furniture, drawn blinds, effective airconditioning .....
You can smoke a pipe or read a mystery novel while there.
Oh hey, cucumber sandwiches!

No cigars. It is axiomatic that cigars are more appropriate for the environs of stagnant over-used swimming pools and Vegas gaming salons where Midwestern housewives blow their retirement funds on the nickel slots.

They spent all afternoon steeping in the turbid waters, dropping their cigarette ashes into the swirling foam, while little kiddies screamed and hollered. Now they quietly feed the insatiable hunger of one-arm bandits. Who brings their kids to Vegas? And why? Do they plan to sell them into slavery at the meat packing plant? Find them a position in the circus?


Good lord, why is this dog paddling around in the swimming pool?


Pipes, A tin of tobaco, cups of tea, and a good book.
Plus airconditioning and electric fans.
That's the ticket.



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THE TEMPTING BUFFET

One of the great things, truly great, is the amount of naked skin during a heat wave. Naked white female skin. Shoulders, backs, stomachs, arms and legs. A tempting moist feast for the mosquitoes that breed in little stands of water in shaded areas. Such as around pumps, drip and catch containers, water traps underneath air sucking machinery, and cooling units.
West nile fever, zika, encephalitis, dog heartworm, and even (rarely) malaria.

Because you just know the little buzzy beasties can smell you.
And your vast expanse of soft naked flesh.
Moist in the heat.

On Friday I cleared out one possible breeding pool. Not because I was in danger -- not living in Marin County surrounded by boobies I am relatively safe -- but because such things in addition to mosquitoes lead to rot, mildew, chironomids, and conenose bugs.

As well as moss, mold, and fungal infections in odd places.
Parts of the body you don't scratch enough.
Scratching aerates.


Oh, and jungle rot. Quite common in San Rafael and Novato.

Dessicants, drainage, and DDT. Good for controlling typhus and malaria.

Still haven't found a way of dealing with the natives, but as long as their hot tubs are fully functioning, and their wine cellars stocked up, they appear to be quiescent.
Besides, many of them appear to be medicated.


A large Swiss Army knife and disinfecting foot powder go a long way to assuring comfort when in Marin. No need to pack the machete. Yet. But keep it in mind.

The hot season ends when the rains come.
October, sometimes November.



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THE ROAD THROUGH

There was an alarm sounding very far off. Must be something happening at the police post. 'Naarp, naarp, naarp'. And a five or six second pause. Then, 'naarp, naarp, naarp' again. It went on for ten minutes, while Mr. Kie distracted us with more cheung fan. Mmm, shrimp! Great with sweet chili sauce! Unspoken: don't take that road, there is always something there. Well, yes. But if we want to get to the city we'll have to, and keep our fingers crossed. As we got back into the pickup I wondered why I had to sit under the tarp in the open cargo bed, and I gradually woke up.

Some yuppie's car is getting broken into further up the hill. And with too much covering me, including the down comforter, it feels tropical. There is light outside.


I remembered the silkiness of the cheung fan at that new place in Chinatown. Steamed pork sheet noodle with cilantro (豬肉腸粉, 同芫茜). It had been creamy in the mouth with a drizzle of soy sauce and dribbles of hot sauce. Rather a pity they don't do HK milk tea.

Still, I will be going there again. I'm tempted to do so next week.

I'll have to find somewhere else for the beverage.

It's on Stockton Street, where Little Paris used to be. Which closed slightly over a month ago. Quite the end of an era. We're now down to four Viet places. We have also lost a few of the chachanteng, and one of the remaining ones is still using paper plates and cups and plastic cutlery, which they started doing during the pandemic. But there are now more opportunities for lovely steamed dumplings, and there is also a place for Hong Kong beef brisket noodle soup (牛腩麵湯 'ngau naam min tong').

Things change. I suppose its time to revisit Sai's and see how they're doing in their new location. It's slightly closer to C'town, two blocks from where they used to be. They probably have bún thịt nướng chả giò (燒豬肉春捲米粉 'siu chyu yiuk chun kuen mai fan'; barbecued pork and spring rolls vermicelli). Which I haven't had in a while. Great for a lazy afternoon with a glass of chilled coffee.

By the way, beef noodle soup in any of its forms is not strictly speaking proper food as Northerners understand it. Southerners, brigands, former soldiers, ethnics, and rebels.
Le goût des gens scandaleux.



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THINKING ABOUT THE LITTLE BALLS

In the two weeks since July Fourth there have been odd booming sounds in the middle of the night, as the local midthirties something fratboy teenagers give in to their explosive instincts and set alight their carefully hoarded fireworks. Which they held onto for nearly two whole weeks. When they were still living in the frozen wastelands of Minnesota and New Hampshire, they managed to keep a snowball in the freezer for nearly a month.

What will they do when the typhoons hit? Put aside a bucket of water?


It's a good thing there are never any floods on Nob Hill. I don't think I could handle fratboys or alligators swimming down the street and popping out of storm drains.

And definetely not just after my first cup of coffee when I'm walking around the neighborhood dodging chihuahuas and those dogs that look like space aliens. French bulls. Speaking of which, why do you never see crossbreed offspring of those two repulsive types?
Do they perhaps find each other as nasty as we find them?

There are little smears all over the pavement.

It's a pity there are no floods.
Or Typhoons.

The past two weeks have been rather windy in the afternoons, which makes smoking a pipe outdoors challenging. There have been times when I've caught myself muttering how I hate this weather before correcting myself; at least it's not like Stockton or Modesto, where the temperature will be over a hundred by mid-day, and southern belles will wilt in the heat moaning pitifully in a tragic voice "whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do?"

In SF it's probably going to be sixty five or sixty six degrees today.

No need for ice cubes in the bowl of oatmeal.

Tapioca pudding popsicles.



Codicilary note: Oatmeal is not something I eat, that's purely for constipated Scotsmen and similar sufferers. Large tapioca balls, such as in boba drinks, are nearly indigestible; you'll need that oatmeal. Sometimes I put tiny tapioca balls in a cold beverage though.



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WHERE DUTCHMEN LIVE

Today was a day for overdoing it. Chinese food, Chinese snack, plate of Mexican nummies. That last courtesy of my landlady who brought up a huge amount of food, what with being a Cantonese American and consequently worried that there might be starvation, the counter and opposite of which is excess. My apartment mate does exactly the same thing.
It's ... a deeply rooted cultural characteristic.

Which, in a way, explains why I took a pound of daun sawi hidjau, a jar of tausi djiang, and a bak tsang over to the Indonesian Chinese lady in the downstairs front apartment. If she doesn't cook all the daun sawi no biggie, and I'm sure she will enjoy the bak tsang.
Who doesn't like bak tsang?

The Chinese food was lunch at a chachanteng, the snack was tea time at a bakery.


And all of this prompts the question what is necessary for civilized Dutch American life in the United States. Totally ignoring the settlements in the Midwest, because those were simple people, religious conservatives, and the near-Nazi element which couldn't hack it in post-war society, warmly welcomed by like-minded bigots and donkey-holes already here.

Basically, you need ketjap manis (or at least soy sauce), chilipaste, shrimp paste, fish sauce, ground coriander, turmeric, nutmeg or mace, dried shrimp, good mustard, real cheese, rice, rice noodles and wheat noodles, and fresh honest bread. Plus a variety of vegetables, and a decent butcher shop. Galangal and lemon grass would be nice. But aren't essential.

Much of all that can be found in any East Asian neighborhood ("Chinatown"), and the rest requires a sophisticated cosmopolitan community.

None of which exist in the Midwest.


Recipes for Dutch junkfood (frikandel and kroket) can be found on the internet, and if there is an East Asian neigborhood there are undoubtedly restaurants where something approximating Dutch Indonesian dishes may be had.


Flavour increases the further you go from Iowa.


Conversely, if you love ranch dressing, and cottage cheese, then the Midwest is your promised land, and you should stay there.



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ABSOLUTELY A THING OF BEAUTY

In discussion with the bookseller yesterday evening, I mentioned that I owned over a dozen Comoy Blue Ribands. The last time those were produced there were only a handful released world-wide, and they were considered rare. Company promo literature stated that less than one in a thousand blocks of briar was suitable for a Blue Riband pipe. Three of them came from my father (I had lusted after them since my teens, he gave them to me in his last year, they never leave the house, because I don't trust people and the outside world that much). Some of them I got via Drucquers, some via Marty Pulvers when he still ran his shop.
One of them is mine only temporarily, and has never been smoked.

I have promised it either to my girlfriend if I end up with a sensible woman who smokes a pipe and likes decent tobacco especially when she's made herself comfortable with a good book and a cup of tea, or to my firstborn when he or she graduates with honours from University. They'll be the first to smoke it, and break it in.

PLEASE NOTE THAT BOTH OF THOSE PEOPLE ARE ENTIRELY IMAGINARY AT THIS POINT; I HAVE NOT BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP FOR SEVERAL YEARS, AND HAVE DECIDED THAT AS A NON-TATTOOED SNOOTY DISLIKER OF LORD OF THE RINGS AND A CRUSTY DUTCH AMERICAN BESIDES THE CHANCES JUST AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH TO VENTURE ONTO THIN ICE.

And there are no children.

Furthermore, Dutch American women with a thing for Cantonese and Indonesian foods and languages, OR Cantonese American women with a thing for the Dutch are more than a little bit rare. The majority of Dutch American women have either religious relatives or outright Nazis in the family woodpile in any case, and too many Cantonese American women either have a shoe or handbag fetish, or a very Anglo attitude. And women of all backgrounds have dietary insanities like no gluten no meat no spices no icecream or cake no properly cooked food and no food fun unless it's in the approved of manner plus apple cider vinegar turmeric strange fruits from spiritual people in the Amazon and miracle honey. These conflict, you will understand, with my weird dietary habits, and make eating together virtually impossible.

That Comoy Blue Riband will never be smoked. Along with a few other lovely pipes set aside. San Francisco is a jungle. The rest of the country is a wasteland.

[Women I know socially here are all lesbians, or religiously observant, or transgender. Or coworkers. Or my ex. Or in stable relationships so off limits entirely, and possibly all of the above. So decidedly 'no'. Yeah, um.]


Anyhow, I shall be heading out soon to have lunch by myself. Something not healthy, and the nutritionist at the hospital would absolutely disapprove. There will be chilisauce on top of that. Then I'll light up a pipe (probably a Dunhill shellbriar filled with a Virginia blend), an action of which my previous regular care physician and almost all the ladies I know would disapprove, and go food shopping. Rice noodles, throat lozenges, a new hotsauce or sambal, cookies, and fresh vegetables. Might have a cup of milktea and a snackipoo afterwards, as a preamble to smoking another pipe (see aforementioned disapproval).


Is there such a thing as Hello Kitty Hotsauce?


When I get home I'll spend the rest of the evening reading Wikipedia, on-line dictionaries, recipes, and odd bits of history, while my apartment mate watches Father Brown (a British mystery series) or zit-popping videos. Tea may be involved. Also, in her case, a bag of cheesy chips. I do not want to hear about what's going on at her office.
But I'll be patient and listen. She works with dingos.



Might wander around the neighborhood with a pipe later before going to bed.



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AUNTIE, IT'S TIME FOR FRANK SINATRA!

It was a little brisk outside; clouds overhead and a coldish wind. That probably is what is keeping the streets free of drunken mid-twenties white people. Along with their fascination concerning the reprehensibles love-fest in Milwaukee. Which reminds me of someone I used to know years ago, who frequently brought impressionable tourists back to his apartment in the evening under religious pretexts and would do unspeakable things with them.
A very Christian degenerate. As many Christians are.


Probably a good thing, as Milwaukee does not have much to tempt people.
And the drug-scene quite likely leaves a lot to be desired.
Lots of Xanax, Prozac, and horse tranquilizer.
Also steroid-induced psychosis.

Plus the food is bloody awful, because it's Milwaukee for crapsakes, middle of damned well nowhere; no hotsauce, ketchup and insta-coffee are in the ethnic food section (next to real cheese), and they have to fly in lutefisk from Minnesota.
The State Vegetable is corn.

And you thought it was Billy Graham, didn't you?

They have beer. They need it.

We did not go to the usual beer place this evening, as it was crowded. The karaoke joint was far less so, although two white women were getting drunk and singing, loudly and bad, but after a few frightful numbers they left, and a young Chinese American handed a slip to the woman behind the counter, and sang better and at a more aceptable volume. It's ALWAYS time for Frank Sinatra, by the way. Always! Especially if the alternative is The Eagles.

The two songs that out-of-towners always do at the karaoke bar are "I left my heart in San Francisco" (which sucks) and "Welcome to the Hotel California" (which sucks and blows).

Earlier I had smoked my pipe while wandering down to the usual intersection. A red Virginia mixture with some nicely aged leaf and a touch of Perique. It was a very pleasant and quiet half hour. There had been no singing then. Just the occasional stumbling wreckage.


What this city needs, obviously, is a lot more Xanax and Prozac.
Not so much horse-tranquilizer.



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HEATED RHETORIC

The Repubican convention is barely into its second day and I'm already sick of the blovation and pandering. The whole performance reminds me of nothing so much as a wife swapping fornication frenzy at a cult compound or in a biker bar restroom. Meanwhile, the democrats are falling over themselves apologizing for occasionally using intemperate language.
Apparently they "demonized" the bloated fascist. Boo hoo.


Get over yourselves, boys. And he has two ears.

A Waspy-Wasp-Wasp Republican whose daddy bought him the AR 15 nicked him.


Besides, it's not like the Repubs are strangers to violent rhetoric. Or even actual violence.


"Some liberal somewhere is gonna say that sounds awful. Too bad. Get mad at me if you want to. Some folks need killing."
------North Carolina Lieutenant Governor Mark Robinson


"Hang Mike Pence!"
------MAGA mob


"But we broke into the Capitol. We got inside. We did our part. We were looking for Nancy to shoot her in the frickin’ brain."
------MAGA stalwart Dawn Bancroft


"If I don't get elected, it's going to be a bloodbath for the whole -- that's going to be the least of it. It’s going to be a bloodbath for the country."
------Donald Trump


"It is too bad that your mother is an ugly communist whore. If she doesn’t quit or resign before the end of the year, we will kill her.
But first, we will kill you!"
------Anonymous


The list of Republicans calling for hanging Obama and putting elected officials in front of firing squads is nearly endless. If anyone can be accused of inciting violence, it is the Republicans, Fox News, and Christians.

Obama ain't coming for your guns. Operation Jade Helm isn't taking over Texas and appointing a dictatorship over the freedom-loving barbecue snarfing lone star state.
Your mom can still use the ladies room. There are no death panels.
Nor FEMA camps and black helicopters.


And controlling what people say or read? That's a Republican thing.
Mostly dingbats in Florida, Louisiana, and Georgia.
Bunch of wankers.



By the way, grits should be outlawed. They sap your manhood.
Grits lead to syphilis, trailer parks, and crime.
It's a well-established fact.
Statistics!




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FAMILIAR HEATH

One of the places to which I go in Chinatown is looking more like a bordello anteroom than ever before. The taste expressed, such as it is, makes bad-taste auntie with the blue and pink leopard spot leggings seem like a rank amateur. Oo-wee! But I like the owner. He's a good man, his milk tea is excellent, and he makes interesting snackies. So far be it from me to speak ill of his venture. Instead, I will continue to patronize his fine establishment while keeping my eyes deliberately out of focus for most of my stay there.

It's an excellent preamble to smoking a W.Ø.Larsen.
For some reason tourists are scared to enter.
Might be because of the décor.
Très Européen!


Please imagine a country hostelry precisely where the cuisine changes from electric green mushy peas to deep-fried Snickers bar. Greasy fish and sheep gut compote on both sides of that border for several miles. Eventually civilization fades out and unintelligible heathen gibberish takes over. No, not Yorkshire. It's worse. Much much worse.

Some mighty fine pipe tobacco comes from there.
As well as potted ptarmigan.

Now also, apparently, 粵式早茶 ('yuet sik jou chaa'; Cantonese style morning tea). As was advertised by a poster showing scrumptious dim sum items. I have not thought of that place as a possible early morning destination. As of tea time yesterday, I now shall do so.

Dim sum is the perfect fortification a man needs for facing the savage hordes.
That being both tourists and techo-yuppies in San Francisco.
As well as Fox News fanboys.



Water flows downhill from the mountains, eastward, gathering detritus and pollution as it goes. By the time it hits Milwaukee it is a densely putrid mass of sewage, both loud and tumultuous in addition to toxic. There are loathsome orcs and ogres swimming in it.
Perfect for Milwaukee. A veritable sludge bucket of a place.
Most segregated city in the country.
Unclean.




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FRUITFUL MEETING

A number of years ago I mentioned that the total absence of a love life of any sort weighed on me. Before that I had had a love life -- which lasted for several very happy years -- and not having anyone to eat dinner with or NOT accompany to the symphony was a bleakness. Friends suggested alleviations and solutions. Most of which if analysed would have meant changes equal to or greater than a sex-change and joining a cult.

Yesterday was the meeting of the local pipe club. Many of the members of which are of my age, roughly, with similar bad habits and tastes. Some of whom are actually in relationships. Two of them are married. No, we did not ask them what their secret was. One of them we couldn't because he and his wife were off somewhere doing something. I'm sure he had told her weeks (even months or years) before of the regularly scheduled meetings, which occur once a month and last for less than three hours. Which we all look forward to, because it is both good and refreshing to share time with people like oneself.
The other married member brought the eaties.

There was alcohol there. A few bottles.
Single malt Scotch. Rare Bourbon.

As you would expect, I drank plenty of tea. Which is the extent of my indulgence in cheering beverages nowadays. Goes with both Virginia blends and Balkan mixtures. Perhaps not so much with aromatics (only one participant) or Burley concoctions (best with bathtub gin and clear distilates from your cousin Bubba presently in the federal penitentiary we're praying for an early release on good behaviour because he leads the weekly Bible class).

On my days off I usually head into Chinatown for a cup of hot Hong Kong Milk Tea and something to eat. It's an escape from the wider world, and therapeutic.
Also stress-free. Quite enjoyable.

People in Chinatown don't object to my smoking a pipe on the public street, because they either have a dear relative who still smokes or they are that relative, and they mind their own business, or they are tourists from parts of the world where people smell very much worse and do perfectly awful things habitually so a whisp of burning leaves doesn't register.

Plus it's well policed there. Unlike the rest of the city.
Or Berkeley and Oakland.


A dozen pipe smokers attended. And a good time was had. I should have offered the designated drivers a cuppa from my stash, I realize now belatedly.

At one point I explained an unusual product to two others, who committed to trying it some time. The Beast, comprised of 51% Perique (an anaerobically fermented tobacco)that has been soaked rum for a week, augmented by red Virginia Cavendish and black, with a smidge of fire-cured leaf. Supposedly a tweaked version of what Aleister Crowly enjoyed. Seeing as he was a certifiable freak who dabbled in black magic and occult practices, and probably liked ripping the wings off baby daemons, it's a peculiarity. Not likely to be anyone's desert island blend, though it is .... amusing. Normally Perique is only used condimentally, no more than ten percent max, best as three to six percent of a blend. I've smoked a few bowls of it. From an opened sample tin, because I'm not going to purchase any.
I enjoyed it, and it didn't ghost my pipe.

Note: a few years ago I smoked a pipeful of something that was twenty percent Perique, not rum-soaked, which though quite pleasant left my mouth feeling both raw and processed. And two talented blenders have assured me that ten percent max is bullpucky. But they're both eccentric, so let us disregard that.

At one point there were three of us standing around yesterday with Dunhill shellbriars in our mouths; two Balkans, one VaPer. Two fat straight billiards, one bent.

Ecumenical. Or Catholic. Depends on your definition.


The smoker of the aromatic mixture is conservative, as you would expect. Ex-army.


The three tea drinkers are all intelligent and liberal.

Air force and the navy were also there.
As well academia and industry.
No women, sadly.


The Beast, by Cornell & Diehl, is the kind of pipe tobacco you smoke when performing an exorcism. It will remind the daemon of losing its wings. And give it night sweats, much like what Nigel Farage has when he remembers being deservedly assaulted with a milk shake.
Fruity Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.
You should buy a tin.



AFTERWORD: That there were no women in attendance dismays me. This must change. We're all socially polished and on the whole excellent conversationalists.
And we smell good. Plus there is tea, and whisky.
Also cheese and pâté.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SNACK EATEN IN DARKNESS

Imagine that you are staying with an auntie and an uncle in the New Territories. It's well over eighty degrees and long past midnight, it will be hovering around ninety degrees Fahrenheit during the day time. The concrete pavement of the back courtyard feels hot and sticky to the touch of your bare feet (which is why you are wearing flip flops), you just finished watching seven episodes of a forty part series, each episode guaranteed to have at least one death, accident, or domestic disaster, half a dozen crying jags, and a scene involving massive amounts of food shared by four generations, taking place over a thirty year period.
And you saw Little Epidendrum devour nearly a whole duck.

Remarkably, Little Epidendrum is the elderly auntie with whom you are staying, but also the sixteen year old ingénue in the series. Could be the auntie a few decades ago. She's related to your co-worked Stinky Fang, which explains how you ended up here. You shared strong opinions about the chachanteng on the ground floor of the Ting Wah Mei Tower fifteen stories below the office with him. Both of you liked their strong milk tea and the Teochow Fried Rice Noodles (潮州炒米粉, mixed veggies and shrimp stirfried with sliced shallot and long thin rice noodles, no soy sauce but a jigger of stock added to the pan, best eaten with sambal).

For some reason this image is conflated with a long column of ants raiding the refuse bin at the far end of the courtyard. There must be something good in there. Perhaps the remains of the duck? Shouldn't they have saved that for broth?

In any case, it all makes you peckish. Yes, it really doesn't help that you've been drinking weak tea to stay hydrated all evening.

You are hydrated, wired to the tits, and hungry.

Very well. Choi pou faan (菜泡飯). Small vegetables parched, a heap of cooked rice added to the pan with water or stock and everything mixed a bit over heat, then served and eaten as a rice soup, with some 榨菜，醬蘿蔔， or 辣筍茸 (various pickled vegetables) on the side. Quick, easy, lazy. Very 江南的 (south of the river-ish), but not so far south. Reminiscent of Shanghai, maybe Wenzhou. Where you have never been, but some of your favourite gangster movie stars hail from there, and their stories were often set there.

Let's see, where is yesterday's copy of the Commercial Times? Oh yes, near the mah jong table. You played mah jong for over seven hours, that being obviously the main reason you had been invited. Like all the previous times. Auntie Epidendrum, her husband, and Stinky Fang needed another player.

You didn't loose too badly. Stinky had lost a lot, and had retired to the side room to sleep and was probably having horrible dreams because of the heat, his monetary disaster, and the fact that he had eaten several bags of fried crispy snacks while losing so much in the heat. So all in all this trip was well worth it. Entertaining and "restfull". And there was still some fatty pork you could add to your meal.


You should have something to eat.
It will help you sleep.



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THE BOY WEREN'T RIGHT

So apparently, I do not have the correct responses to the assassination attempt. Among which, I've been told, are horror and outrage. Indeed, I am outraged. A nearly stationary target, glowing orange, large and with a low centre of gravity, scarcely moving, and brightly illuminated, and the dumb sumbitch couldn't hit it because he had learned shooting from playing Grand Theft Auto. What IS American education coming to? Dang!

HOW could you miss, boy?
Dumb ass!


Apparently that was not the right reaction. And I am supposed to be horrified that some loser decided to take a potshot at someone more odious than either Prince Harry or Elon Musk. Far more odious in fact than both of those gentlemen combined.


I have never felt a greater glow of patriotism.

What could possibly be more American than a crazy young man with an assault rifle? And the AR 15 is the quintessence of all American he-man yanquismo. It's the nation's favourite lightweight mass damage weapon, in the home armories of one out of twenty citizens.

Which his daddy had given him. If that doesn't bring a tear to your eye, I don't know what.

So he failed. Failure like that also is very American. All over America there are young men living in their mom's basement who have failed. Their mother's hide their disappointment at sonny-boy, who can't even seem to find a young lady he can impress -- the piercings and tattoos aren't working in that regard, neither is his chosen avatar (Gandalf) in on-line role playing games -- and while the parish priest likes him (extremely much), that can be said for every monumental failure that graduated from the local non-academic high school.

It's all about mom, the flag, orange Jayzus, and rhubarb pie. Ah mur ee kah!

Not apple pie, Americans do a lousy version of that. But rhubarb pie. Goes well after a giant Boo-Burger from the local Beefiboyz with megafries. Rhubarb is good for the digestion, and works as a laxative. Keeps you healthy.


Another factor is that this was entirely homegrown. No illegal alien or foreign heathen had any part in it, Thomas Crooks was the total acme of Waspy white bread.
That's a victory right there!



BTW: This event gave Nigel Farage painful flashbacks to the time someone attacked him with a strawberry milkshake. It was so traumatic! The pain, the horror, the humanity!
Mr. Farage will be coming to the States to cry on our collective shoulder.
Because we're good Christians and a welcoming people.



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VISITING TALL STICK

The more advanced a creature is, the more it has curiosity and the ability to self-doubt. Corvids versus chickens, for instance. Or normal humans versus Republicans. It is virtually impossible for a Republican to question its place in the universe or be beset by existential angst. Precisely like Marjorie Taylor Greene. Or Dingus McBoebert. Q.E.D.

I am seldom plagued by self-doubt. Despite the fact that I should be the Sheldon Cooper or Leonard Hofstadter of that field. Instead, corvid-like, I gloat over shiny things I've found.


Yesterday was very good in that regards. I arranged an off-day from work to go to the clay and glass festival in Palo Alto, and came back with nice things. Which will improve my life and Jesus-like inspire a glow of well-being and bliss.

Gloat, gloat, gloat, gloat, gloat.

Palo Alto, as probably everyone knows, is in the mosquito-borne diseases zone. West Nile has occured there. People have lemon trees and rattle snakes in their yards. It's a lovely part of the world, filled with academics and engineering smarty-pants.
The last named category are avid tool-users.

Probably accounts for the popularity of tactile art. Touchy-feely things.

Crows and ravens, as is well-known, are extremely fond of aesthetically satisfying ceramics of excellent proportion and with an intellectually interesting glaze. They line their nests with such items, turning a commonplace aggregation of sticks, grasses, and chance found fur tufts, into veritable museums of good taste.

Their treasures neatly arranged on cunningly made shelves.
Nature's little engineers and art collectors.
Remarkable plumage.
Stunning!



Years ago I worked in that part of the world at a computer company, known to some of us as 'Fong, Wong, and Bong, Incorporated'. Because the founder wasn't wearing his reading glasses when he filed the legal papers. Once a year I revisit that area.



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BASIL AND MANUEL

We Dutch fought an eighty years war against Spain (1568 - 1648) which bankrupted them and left us as, briefly, a superpower. Less than twenty years after that we sank the English fleet, which was moored at the Medway. So we have a history with both of those countries. Who will be duking it out for the Eurocup on Sunday, and a pox on both of them.
Shan't watch.

Instead, while the syphilitic old bastards in the backroom are hooting over the game, I shall be smoking a Dunhill or a Charatan pipe and swilling strong tea. A nice flake, I think.
Perhaps from Samuel Gawith (located in Kendal, Cumbria).

This is not the first time that the Eurocup rotted into irrelevance. It has happened several times before. It's almost a tradition.

I hope that the Germans (hosting the whole dreary thing) have the riot squad out; the Brits will get stinko and break things, the Spaniards will be unwashed, brutish, and unintelligible.
Water cannon, truncheons, and perhaps rubber bullets, will be needed.
At least the Spanish will be clean afterwards.
Well-rinsed in any case.

I am NOT a sore loser. In any way.
I am equitable and righteous.

Might rewatch a few episodes of Fawlty Towers this next week to put the English and the Spanish into a more acceptable context. Seeing as sinking or capturing their fleets again might be hard to do in this day and age when we are supposed to cooperate with the bastards and treat them as if they were equals.



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REBELS DOWN FROM THE HILLS

Mice and rats hop when they go through the grass. Which they do, five or six of them at the same time, because there are wildflowers there. Tasty! Yesterday I observed several of the adorable little vermin nibbling the flowers. And I conclude that they are not scaredy or timid, but cautious. As anyone that small should properly be.

You will no doubt be pleased to hear that I do not eat mice. Or rats.
It's not a bad habit into which I inadvertently fell.
Not a fondly held part of my youth.


Yesterday evening after a tea-time snack and a cuppa I wandered past the park with my pipe. First I counted the vargrant and loonies there, then I got sidetracked by the small grownish-grey blobs in the grass. With long tails. Hopping.
More of them than weirdoes.

Of course I didn't go into the park, seeing as smoking is expressly verboten in the municipal greenswards, and what with not being Chinese I can not convincingly argue with a constable that 我唔識講英文，亦都唔知你講乜鬼嘢，老細，你快啲走。So claiming that I didn't speak English would not be believable, especially if I did so in Cantonese. And trying it in Dutch ("ik weet niet waar ge 't over hebt, ouwe kerel, donder dus maar op") even less. Everyone knows that Netherlanders on the whole speak excellent English.

我唔識講英文，亦都唔知你講乜鬼嘢，老細，你快啲走啦: don't understand you, now shog off ('ngo m sik ying man, yik dou m ji nei gong mat kwai ye, lou sai, nei faai di jau laa').

Pipe smoker outside, crazies within, and hoppity hoppity hoppity.

Somewhere in South China, below the passes, is the grave of the first Chinese person to settle in Kwangtung. Of whom nothing is known. Maybe he was fleeing conscription or the tax man, or perhaps he was wanted for lawbreaking. Or she was escaping from an abusive husband and vile in-laws. Possibly whoever it was just wanted to open a mahjong parlour and rake in some dough without upsetting or including the magistrates.

The only thing of which we can be reasonably certain is that that person had a cavalier disregard for restrictive rules and regulations.

No smoking signs everywhere.
Forsooth.



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FISH ON THE SHIMMERING HORIZON

Not being an avid Dungeons and Dragons player, there isn't any reason why I should have known, automatically, how to spell 'polyhedral dice' (singular: polyhedral die). The closest I've ever gotten to such an activity is enjoying that scene in Reno 911 when the geek hacked at someone with a real broadsword in a role playing game. Oh, and the giant bin of engineering kible at one of the computer companies at which I worked. It had both m&m's and Skittles! Mmm, Skittles!

One of the programmers once showed off his handiwork of which he was very proud.

He had repaired his severely worn underwear with duct tape.

Skittles contain cancer causing chemicals.

He did not get out much.

Mmm, Skittles!

No, I shan't mention his name. I still remember all of the people who worked in the lab, both in alphabetical and height order. As well as who always won at the beta version video game we had hacked into. Played after the chief engineer had left for the day and the owner of the company was in charge.

For some reason I cannot remember any of the names of people in the sales and marketing departments there.

RIVER IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

Despite having seen a lot of California (by night, largely shrouded in tule fog, when driving through it several times), and having lived here for approximately and exactly 71.875% of my life, I haven't been out of the urban Bay Area in the wilderness much. So I've never gotten poison ivy, bitten by a rattlesnake, or infected with West Nile Fever or Dengue.
Even when I was living in Valkenswaard I was a city boy.

Which isn't something of which I'm ashamed.

Deliverance Country starts once you cross bridges and drive through tunnels, except for a brief flash of Hunter S. Thompson territory in the great American outback, where there is glitz, vulgarity, and an endless buffet.


If a place does not have a well-stocked Chinese grocery store, a decent tobacconist, and a place with good coffee, it might as well be Australia or Placerville.
There is no point in even going there.
Orcs.



A few of my friends play Dungeons and Dragons. I commend them for their intense escapism and shrieking flight from harsh reality, no doubt inspired by where they live.
They also watch Lord Of The Rings movies. Obsessively.
Hobbits who own polyhedral dice.



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