WAIT TILL IT CRACKS

When I stepped out for a bit this morning it was still dark on the street. Down at the corner someone was apathetically making crazy person noises, closer-by the old gentleman who owns the Morris Mini always parked opposite and his wife were packing stuff into the car and driving off. Mrs. Siu was walking the dachshund. We said good morning. Other than that, it was quiet.

Somewhat hazy. Not particularly cold.

Alarm. Bathroom. Pills. Coffee. Smoke.

Set rituals. The world could end tomorrow, but those things would have to happen first. Delay the apocalypse till I'm fully awake, please, or I shall be very grouchy and may say something short about it.

For some reason I was thinking about a café on the Market Square in Valkenswaard, and remembering the smells. Strong coffee. Dark shag tobacco. Rain outside and autumn leaves. The air here is seldom laden with tannic odours, it's not so oaken or peatish, nor as moist. Dawn takes less time here.

Still two more weeks till the solstice and the drunken orgies of Santacon. Then the nights will start getting shorter again.

When it's light earlier there are more dog walkers at this hour, and the street people are less quiescent. I prefer it the way it is now. I am not social enough for large numbers of people, and tend to walk further uphill where they are few then.

Sometimes it rains. The street seen from the portico downstairs can be beautiful then.

Whisps of smoke curl upwards. Virginia, Perique.

Time for more coffee.



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A FLOOD OF GOOD KARMA!

Today I found myself respectfully disagreeing with another person over whether an absolute scumbucket of a human being, morally and ethically bankrupt, not a single redeeming facet, deserved to be gunned down on a New York street at 6:45 AM while on his way to a meeting of investor schmucks.

His opinion was that "nobody deserves to be killed".

I'm just questioning the time. Getting whacked is probably a horrible way to start the day.
I would prefer to start the day with coffee, as in fact I do, and the hit man did.
Life is so much brighter after that first cup of coffee.

Fortunately most of the country agrees with me. Someone on the internet published a list of two dozen other medical insurance company CEOs who should not be whacked before that first cup of coffee, with faces and salaries. Admittedly there are many more people about after coffee, but even so mistakes would be hard. Photos!

An overlap of direct action, freedom of personal expression, and the market place restoring balance; it's how capitalism is supposed to work.

I am sorry, I cannot disapprove of, or feel any regret about, the glee that most of the country has expressed over this incident. Nobody deserves to be killed. Okay, but some people are better off dead. And that can helpfully be arranged.



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DEALING WITH VERMIN

If you are not able to find truth beauty and justice in the CEO of a health insurance company (which deliberately and formulaically rejected coverage for over thirty percent of the cases) being gunned down on a New York Street, you have lost your humanity. As he had his.

Also, the correct response to any Indian call centre drooge trying to sell you on some medical insurance or medicare part B scam is "我冇興趣，你都係個白痴。It is polite, it is to the point, and it tells them effectively that their telephoning you is irritating, their lives are meaningless and empty, and if someone drops cyanide into their cup of masala chai, oh well and la la la.

Or rat poison (滅鼠劑 'mit syü jai').

Think of it as a Christmas present.

I am resolved to be a radiant beacon of light and good cheer till after January 1st., at least, quite like I have been up till now, only much more so.


Delay, deny, defend, and depose.
It's the Christian thing to do.

ACADEMIC PAINTING EXCERCISE: SKY AT DAWN

Massive doses of 4-hydroxycoumarin, 4-thiochromenone and 1,3-indandione anticoagulants cause damage to blood vessels (capillaries), causing internal bleeding. Effects are gradual, developing over several days. Finally the exhausted rodent or whoever collapses due to haemorrhagic shock and severe anaemia.

For a faster effect, zinc phosphide (2%) in fried garlicky snacks.



I am grateful to the department of defense and the public service sector for this knowledge.

Keep the faith and pass the basket of pakoras.




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ABOUT THAT TSUNAMI

There was an earthquake in far northern California this morning, while I was twiddling my toes. Then, shortly after that, I received a tsunami warning on my cell-phone. Which seeing as I never take my cell-phone anywhere would have left me utterly ignorant of the danger, had I already gone uphill to do my laundry.

Uphill.

My apartment is two miles from the Bay, and over two hundred feet above sea level. If any water even laps my toes, the rest of you are probably done for.

According to the emergency warning, ALL of San Francisco was at risk. Every square inch red. So, just in case, I started looking for my flip flops. Might need 'em. It's a good thing I wasn't planning to go surfing today anyhow. Could have been risky. In point of fact I never surf, not being an Australian. Also, I actually didn't bother looking for my flip-flops, and generally ignored the warning. As I said, well above sea level and safely inland.

I was considerably more disconcerted by the fact that it was overcast and gloomy outside.
A cloud in my ointment, so to speak. And oh, the humanity!

Trust me, I have a brilliant plan to escape the tsunami that wiped out the dinosaurs, when that time comes. A spaceship filled with cans of Spam, plus jars of sambal, and extra tins of pipe tobacco, as well as a crate of Kentucky bourbon. Hidden in that abandoned missile silo over on Pacific Avenue. Me and my loyal raccoon crew will be quite safe. They can't mutiny, as I am the only one with opposable thumbs, and both a map and a compass.


Tsunami Warning
Source: National Tsunami Warning Center


Seriously, guys. Consult a topographic map of the city. Much of it is so far above sea level that even with climate change nothing will happen. Nearly every junkfood franchise and metered parking space here is well above the water. We will flourish.

You also told me about wild fire danger a few weeks ago.
Erm. What? Again, consult your darn map.
No you can't have mine.

I'll sic my raccoons on you.



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MOIST AND DELICIOUS

One of the things I did yesterday was order a cake. Because I am a responsible man who pays attention to his apartment mate's upcoming birthday, knowing full well that her parents every single damned year did that "this is for your birthday AND Christmas" thing, and did it in a piddling cheapskate fashion because she was a girl. Unlike her brothers, who were all boys.

Cake and lobster. We'll share the cake. She gets all the lobster.

I haven't a clue what her boyfriend would do for her birthday, but seeing as he was totally Aspy he likely didn't do very much. He was probably very sweet, when he was sweet, but I got the impression over the years that he had blinkers on. And I shouldn't say anything bad about Aspies, seeing as he, she, I, and several people I know are on the spectrum, but still.

Perhaps, over the last decade or so, I've gotten a little bit better.
I think back at my teenage years and go "oh Jayzus!"

It's not for more than a week.

But I am, nevertheless, ahead of the game on this. The holiday season, as everyone knows, runs from Saint Nicholas Day on December sixth, through her birthday, Christmas, and Chinese New Year. Ignoring Chanukkah (we've already got socks thank you), Santacon (Saturday December 21 this year) because we're not raving alcoholic yuppies, New Years Eve (ditto), and Valentine's Day (because it's icky and sappy). Saint Nicholas Day (Dec. 6) is in there because I'm Dutch and heavily vested in stuffing bad little kiddies into a sack and selling them off to the Moors as well as feasting on chocolates and marzipan.
But we'll probably ignore it this year. I haven't said anything.


The Dutch celebration of Saint Nicholas Eve and Saint Nicholas Day is more or less related to, and the equivalent of, Krampus Nacht. But horribly twisted because of the eighty years war against Spain, who tried to exterminate us. There are issues. And the Spanish are still evil. We won, by the way, and damn' near bankrupted the bastards.

We get rewarded with chocolate and marzipan.
Neener neener neener.

The cake is sort of icing on the cake.
A happy coincidence, if you will.
So, belated icing.



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HOW VERY CHRISTIAN OF ME

Apparently saying what I really think about the killing of a health insurance CEO goes against community standards on Facebook. I am extremely sorry that you cannot read my almost lyric eloquence there. Frankly, whacking a chief dick of a horrid company is no skin off my beans, and there ought to be far more of that. Oh, and my piles bleed for his friends and kin.Truly. Thoughts and prayers, bitches.

No, I didn't go onto their social media pages to say hurtful things. That would have been pointlessly cruel, and far too limited an audience in any case.

And there probably should be more direct actions.

Like Kash Patel, I have a list.

Most of us do.

Oh and by the way, Facebook, you probably know exactly where to stick your community standards. Fold them up until they're sharp edges, shove 'em hard, and pound sand after.

No sympathy whatsoever. He was a moral cripple, and we're all better off with him cold.
Let us know when you've buried him, so that we can spit on his grave.


We'll make it a pilgrimage.



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UNDRESSED FOR THE WEATHER

Kalman, in a part of the country where the weather is sweaty and hot most of the year, mentions that he and his family are finally enjoying the outdoors again. That was accompanied by a picture of them all wearing thick coats.
There was no banana for scale.

You'll have to imagine it.

We've been having some splendid weather here. Balmy-ish.
Quite unlike some parts of Europe and the States.
Please don't come, we're not dressed.
Actually, we never are.

Imagine me swanning about in a bathrobe over a leopard-print Speedo in my sun-drenched apartment, la la la, while lazily scratching myself and wondering which briar pipe to fill with tobacco next, while drinking a hot mango hazelnut frappucino and saving the wales, and you'll be not far from the truth. As I said, not dressed for the tourist trade.
A sore sight for the eyes. You are not ready for this.

Again, not dressed.

THE BEAUTIFUL TROPICS: SVALBARD

Normally at this time of year I'm battling the elements and cursing the rain, well overcoated and wielding my umbrella in such a way that the wind gusts neither rip it out of my grasp nor invert and strip it. But it's calm outside at present, the temperature will be around sixty most of the day, and this is quite do-able.



The weather has been a little off-kilter this year, evidence of creeping climate change, which doesn't exist according to the culture commissars in Florida and Texas. Neither does cancer-causing pollution, and I note that ALL the highest cancer rates are in the red zone, which of course is just a woke plot to sap the vital juices of red-blooded Americans in the heartland. Kentucky, Florida, Louisiana, and Texas -- all healthy living made manifest!

Another good reason not to visit us. We live in a bubble of reality.
In addition to cuisine, culture, and widespread literacy.
It would dangerously shock your belief system.

Remember, fluffy bathrobe and a leopard print Speedo.
Both constricting and revealing.
Degenerate!


Mmm!



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THE LOCAL WILDLIFE

While waiting for the bus this afternoon I saw a murder. That is to say, nearly two dozen crows, collectively termed a murder. Which is both pleasing, because I like the self-confident critters, and remarkable, as it indicates that this is a warmly hospitable city for the other intelligent species in this part of the world. Our cheery corvid fellow citizens.

There is less reason to be distrustful of crows than humans.
Crows don't act skeevy, do drugs, or get drunk.
They are exemplary.

Besides that they don't sing karaoke, so there is a lot to recommend them.
The bar this evening was not bearable because of karaoke.
Too many unwell modulated white people.


Also, I saw a coyote in Portsmouth Square. Which is in the middle of Chinatown, one block from the Trans America Piramid, less than two blocks from three top-notch restaurants, not even a block away from the best Northern style dumplings in the city, and less than three blocks away from the hospital where my doctor works. An actual coyote.
Looking reasonably well fed, as well as shy and guilty.
The local wildlife is thriving.

When I told my apartment mate about that, she was shocked. "I hope it doesn't harm the people who are there!" She needn't worry. Coyotes tend to be mostly nocturnal in urban areas, and elderly Chinese cardplayers may be small, but they're still far too large for something roughly the size of a fox to tackle, and they aren't edible.

Plus some of those old ladies there are hardcore cardsharks, and would cheat the poor animal out of every nickel he had. Mercilessly.


On the way back from our jaunt this evening I neurotically obsessed over the cloth shopping bag of the woman sitting diagonally opposite the bookseller and myself. Which advertised an enterprise I know very well: Nanhai Corporation (南海集團參茸行有限公司 'naam hoi jaap tuen saam yung hong yau haan gung si'). They're located at 919 Grant Avenue (都板街) between Washington Street (華盛頓街) and Jackson Street (昃臣街). Scarcely one block away from where I had seen the coyote (郊狼 'gaau long', canis latrans) earlier.
Nanhai has an excellent selection of teas from the mainland.
Well worth keeping in mind when visiting.

I recommend Hairy Crab King (毛蟹王茶 'mou haai wong chaa'), which is a mild Oolong-style tea from Anxi (安溪 'on kai') in Fujian (福建), with a lovely fragrance.



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NOT KNOWING WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT

Yesterday I found out what 'bohereen' means. It's an Irish word referring to a country lane with sleeping drunks or possibly ogres somewhere off from the side, abandoned tractors, possibly an illegal distillary, and an old-fashioned smithy where they still make chainmail and elvish swords. Heather, peat moss, cottages with no running water, and assorted peasants who smoke Erinmore Flake or Peterson's Aran Mixture (vanilla, peach blossoms, and old overcoat; dee-lightful).

It will not surprise you when I admit that I've never been to Ireland.
From what I understand is rains an awful lot . Every day.

Plumbing and central heating are rare.

But there is hot sauce. A wide range of them. As well as sambal.
So I expect that they now also have Dutch tourists.
About whom the less said, the better.

If you're lucky, there is a branch of an academic bookstore at the end of this lane, where they haven't heard that the age of literacy is over, and the era of flesh-based civilization is in its last two decades, the machines will be better at it all than we were. Though they appreciate what we will have left behind. If you're not, there is an Irish supermarket (Dunness or Tesco), with their version of chimichangas with a side of beans or potatoes in one hundred different choices in the ready-to-eat section. To the left of beers (seventy percent of the available space). And James Joyce in the cheap paperback racks near check-out.

The Irish are the most hot-tempered and Mediterranean-like of all the Celts, which I learned from reading Roddy Doyle and James Patrick Donleavy, whose distinguished bearded face glowers out at me from a nearby bookshelf. James Joyce didn't know that, so instead he described them as mostly drunk with mildew in their oxters. Also correct.
But a Mediterranean temperament sounds more positive.

Their music can be good. But it usually isn't.

Their alcohol is excellent.


They don't particularly like foreigners. The English and Americans are prime examples of that. The jury is still out on where the Canadians are in their estimation.
And the Dutch are as yet a blank slate.


Pneumonia and hurling (all types) are the national pastimes.



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THE EXPLICABILITY OF IT ALL

For some reason whenever I eat steamed dumplings with hot sauce I often think of Mandarin movies from the twenties and thirties. Set in Peking, winter, thick padded coats, steam and smoke, chopsticks deftly lifting morsels, men with slouchy hats and cigarette holders. Which was a time and place which I never actually experienced, being born well past the war. As well as the movie Peking Opera Blues (刀馬旦 'dou maa daan'), described by Quentin Tarantino as "one of the greatest films ever made". Which it is, and he's right.

I saw the movie at the Pagoda Palace on Washington Square Park.
Maybe it was winter then, I can't remember.

It's just that well, you know, winter and thick padded coats naturally mean dumplings and the sounds of furry Peking Mandarin, that's just how it is. Plus looking fiercely businesslike with a cigarette holder clenched in my jaws, or held elegantly, looking either suave or conspiratorial. Sadly, the old-style non filters that would be appropriate (something Turkish and resinous, or evil and French, or English-style Virginias) cannot be found anymore.

This younger generation, I don't know what's wrong with it; they refuse to engage in horrid habits but sup on wheatgrass and tofu, sneering Puritanically at us older people, with their tattoos, piercings, and meaningful ethnic garbs!

ILLUSTRATION NOT RELEVANT TO THE ESSAY; MALARIAL ZONE FOREST

Whenever I eat Northern style dumplings (北式嘅水餃) I am by myself. My ex (a wonderful woman with whom I am still good friends) never got into them, being more inclined toward Cantonese snackipoos, and none of my friends are that way inclined. And besides, since the computer company years ago I have mostly dined alone. Having had dumplings at the place with thicker skin and chili crunch sauce recently I went to the restaurant where they have Sriracha hot sauce, know my favourite table in the afternoon (the morning staff, if I show up for breakfast, are unaware of it), and seem to like my patronage.

A cup of regular tea, and a cup of milk tea. Sriracha hot sauce in lieu of sambal, and people watching. One Mandarin couple having soup and noodles while staring at their cell-phones, one very large tourist couple -- two soups and two big plates of fried starch (炒飯， 炸麵), nowondersomeAmericansarehugenocommentthatwouldbemeanandIamnotthatwaybutstill, one couple of which the elegant young lady half seemed to have an attitude and need a lot of attention (so probably a snooty Hong Kong twat or a Mainlander), and one older Canto couple who were perfectly happy.

At the chili crunch sauce place I speak Mandarin, whereas at the Sriracha place it's Cantonese. I like both places. Good food. Nice atmosphere.
Brightness, chopsticks, and a condiment.
People watching.

I am aware of being somewhat anomalous at either place, because the younger generation mostly can't read the Chinese menu, and many Americans don't speak Cantonese or Mandarin.

The anomalocity is somewhat older movie style.
A gangstah-kwailo sensitivity.


I should start wearing my slouchy hats again.




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A PRETENTIOUSLY ACADEMIC TITLE

A popular "pro-Palestinian" meme on the internet sneers at what Israelis eat, in ways that the National Socialists, Russian commisars, Latin American progressives, and racialists in Ivy League environments support and stand behind. It is childish and uncomplex. And, naturally, wholeheartedly approved of in places like Berkeley, besides the usual festering hellholes like Dublin, Glasgow, London, and London. Dutch and German leftwingers, being usually devoid of subtlety, nuance, and any deep understanding of anything at all, are also circulating variants of it. Totally oblivious to their own countries having originally very little in the way of decent food (and the less said about British "cuisine", the better).

The British are so monumentally unaware of decent cooking as well as their own culture that many of them now claim that they invented curry, hot sauce, and Chinese food, as well as frozen peas on everything and Heinz tinned beans. As well as chocolate.

Well, they did come up with the deep-fried Snickers bar.
Possibly at the same time as Spam fritters.
So that is, actually, a cuisine.

The Germans invented the curry wurst, the Dutch are infamous for obsessively deep frying everything and anything at all since WWII, Scandinavia does flygande Jakob, köttbullar i kari, and banana pineapple pizza (a popular variation on the Canadian national dish). In fact, the popular foods in most of the countries inhabited by raving anti-Semites (and Berkeley) are deep-fried starchy stuff, imitation French, Italian, and American, or a variation on pizza.

Which may or may not have been invented by two Slovakian immigrants to New York around the time of the Black Death. Jury's still out on that one.

In any case, all cuisine comes originally from Africa, the great mother continent, and is an imperialist construct intended to exploit third worlders, minorities, and women.

NO MESSAGE SENT: REINTERPRETING SILENCES AS A SITE OF POLITICAL CONTESTATION
An analysis of memetic expression in social media.
Authors: BMM and SPM

On a different track, thanks to someone I formerly knew as Mid.Man. (an abbreviation of convenience), who has spent far too long in the university environment, I am now aware of another meme, which builds scholarly paper titles based on your name(s) and birthdates. Of which the above is my personal one. And I should mention that I am a black lesbian vegan and see everything through the lens of that reality. If you dispute any of this you are an old white male and confuse white privilege with hard work and your own talents.

BTW: I welcome peer review.
You know who you are.
Banana for scale.



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THE BEASTS WITHIN

Before I left work I saw a brief bit of the ballgame on the teevee we turn on to keep the poisonous old snapping turtles in the backroom from soiling their diapers and scaring random strangers passing by. The Niners were playing in the snow, so the home team had an unfair advantage, seeing as half of the high school in that part of the world is decended from polar bears committing unholy acts with seals, and consequently used to hellish cold.

At least, that would explain the sheer insanity of working up a sweat wearing football togs in freezing weather. So would rabies, perversion, or masochism, I suppose, but I like my explanation better.

You can probably tell that I am not a fan of American football.

Running around clad only in padded underwear in the middle of a snowstorm is a good way to catch a cold. Low temperatures like that make every bump, tumble, or tackle hurt more, and slow down your reactions and thinking abilities. So by the end of the game the zombies left standing are probably closer to Frankenstein's monster than to anyone else in that film. Goodnatured, stupid, and slow.

One of my highschool phys. ed. teachers had us running crosscountry through terrain that looked like this picture. What he was thinking having brainiacs at an academic instution doing so escapes me. It is not at all surprising that he had all four tires of his car slashed and glue shoved into the doorlocks. If he had joined us instead of following our progress in his jalopy from the nearest road through the bog, he might not have survived. Oops. So sad, so sad.

It is largely because of psychopaths like him that I missed my chance to become a star athlete. It just didn't seem enjoyable at the time. Or in any way sensible.
And team sports always became mayhematic, so ...


I did learn that survival and not drowning at water polo meant drawing blood.
This is why alligators are not known for being team players.
And why you should watch out for sharks.
They're just misunderstood.


Most ferocious predators, we now know, would prefer to sit at home in front of the fire, wearing their fluffiest bathrobe and reading romance novels.


By the way: The Forty Niners lost today. Horribly.
They're no good at snowball fights.
Poor shmoes.



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RABBIT RABBIT

Rabbit rabbit. Explanation: the first thing you say on the first day of the month is "rabbit rabbit". It's a tradition, mostly kind of Anglo. Keeps the boogah boogah away or something. It's good luck. No one can actually explain how this came about or why, and like many superstitions and customs it does not make much sense.

One friend posts pictures of his pet rabbits. Another friend shows a drawing of one or more rabbits drinking coffee. Because of that, I got back into the habbit.
On this blog, the rabbit will enjoy a pipe.


Usually the rabbit may be assumed to smoke old style English or Balkan mixtures (Latakia and Turkish on a base of Virginias, with or without other tobaccos like Perique, fire-cured, or burley), or like myself for more than the last decade, a nice flake or Virginia blend. Only rarely burley blends or aromatics; the rabbit is not a ruddy pervert or eccentric.

Coffee beforehand is implied, but as one cannot smoke inside anymore, he probably finished a strong cup before heading out onto the moors with a briar and tobacco. Just assume that he's wide awake, okay? Manipulating matches, especially when one lacks opposable thumbs, requires attention and coordination, as does packing the bowl properly.



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THE SEASON FOR MISBEHAVING

The trolls are circling the mall parking lot, picking off the plump little kids for feasting later. Like many people they like their meat streaky and young. At least, that's what I fondly hope.
I like to humanize the transcendent horror, it makes it more relatable.
And trust me, I would make a great baby sitter.
I'd tell the little kids some stories.


"Ooooh, story!"


Once upon a time there was a beautiful Hungarian countess, who had four servants .....

Guarantee you that they'll behave nicely for weeks afterward. If they start misbehaving again, I can call them up. Once they hear my voice they'll quiet right down.

Anyway, Santacon is coming up in three weeks, which is an annual event in which many twenty-something year old spoiled brats spend the entire day drinking themselves sick in the downtown, climbing palmtrees, puking, and picking fights. I have a strictly intellectual fondness for twenty somethings, but in practice I dislike them.
The reality is so much worse than the idea.

They're a good reason to bring back Balkan feudalism.

Much like the way that Saint Patrick's Day is celebrated by Americans makes one think kindly thoughts about British imperialism. Ooooh, great brutality! Mmmmmmmm!

I cannot envision any joy in spectacles of public drunkenness.
Especially not when it involves hordes of people.



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THE RED BASTARD

As you know, the next four weeks will be insufferable, with tinkly music, horrid televison shows, avalanches of saccharine drivel, alcoholic friends, coworkers, and fellow Romans, and people wearing red fairy outfits. As a grouchy atheist with no relatives to whom I am close, no actual family consisting of a loving wife, two and a quarter children plus dog cat and goldfish, or an orphanage nearby that thinks of me as a kindly uncle who is periodically generous, naturally the entire holiday season means approximately bupkes to me.

Also, I do not own an ugly sweater.

The one thing which Christmas means to me is remembering a coworker one year realizing that chocolate covered bacon in a giftbasket from the salesreps was actually a bad idea.
But only after eating it.

It was quiet in the office between Christmas and New Year, and the gift baskets with crackers, cheese, and strange ideas were in the company kitchen.
I did not know cheese came in a glass jar.
Or cranberry flavour.

For me, the entire slew of christmas flavoured drinks in coffee shops, mediocre baked goods, bad once a year candies, and festive aromatic pipe tobaccos are all a blight.
Yule fragrance bathroom airfreshener spritz?

No wonder so many people seek therapy in January.


Honestly, the only good thing about Christmas, and it is very good, are the selections of excellent cheese that appear, magically, at small quiet parties hosted by fellow cynics.
There is cheese. Maybe some garlic shrimp. Classical music.
No simple-minded carols or crappy brickle candy.
There might also be some pork products.
Nothing says fat man like pâté.
There is no singing.



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DON'T FEED THE WILDLIFE

Four things which I did not bother watching on teevee today: the game, the parade in New York or protestors getting arrested there for being bloody nuisances, or the weather report. Actually, I didn't watch teevee at all. I never watch teevee, except when my apartment mate puts a movie or a series she has acquired on. At which point it's almost like watching PBS. No commercials. Excellent diction. And often one of the characters will have a spot of tea and possibly a crumpet or cucumber sandwich.

Cricket is not my favourite sport, though for a number of years I paid it considerably more attention than any other ball game, for reasons having to do with conversing with a Parsee as well as political discussions that did not involve England, India, Pakistan, Zoroastrians, or Australia. As well as food. Dhansak. Sali boti. Patra ni machi. And anything with eggs on top.
Plus brun maska, kheema pav, khari biscuit, berry pulao.
Parsees, as you know, invented cricket.

Also famous cafes: Britannia Café, Kalyani and Company, Yazdani Restaurant and Bakery.

AN OVERGROWN AREA THAT IS HOME TO FERAL ENGLISHMEN

A friend posted a picture of dessert (pumpkin maple flan) which was the one thing that I wish I had a chance to share, foodwise, this holiday. It looked gorgeous, and he is a great cook. But other than that, I didn't do a single thing you would normally associate with thanksgiving. I did not overeat. I did not catch salmonella from dubious sidedishes. I did not get into a fight while waiting in line down at the local Walmart for an X-box or I-phone.
I did not order pizza after a nap.

Had some Chinese food with my apartment mate, then did laundry.
Then came home and had some chai at the proper hour.



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FRIED THOUGHTS

From somewhere comes the smell of bacon. Which is odd. It's not my apartment mate, she's currently in the bathroom, where there are no burners. I'm sure I would have noticed if she had smuggled-in an electric fry pan and placed it there. And it's not from the airwell. The only other active kitchen there is my landlady downstairs and I don't hear anything. The building next door only fronts bathrooms onto the airwell. There is no baconating restaurant nearby. This is disconcerting, as bacon brings cats and I am not ready to become a cat daddy.

It was not noticeable earlier when I was wandering around the neighborhood smoking a pipe. All that was out there at that hour was a man with an ugly pug, and three Chinese American women putting luggage for one of them in a car.

It's fairly certain it wasn't them. I've been around Chinatown at all hours of the morning, and I've never smelled bacon there.

Frying bacon is mostly not a Chinese American thing.
Despite voracious early morning appetites.

Sometime next week I should probably go down there and have dumplings for breakfast. One of the chachantengs opens real early and does a booming business just after the crack of dawn, and I've seen Chinese people at that hour. They're bearable, unlike the hipsters and yuppies in North Beach who made morning cappucino at coffee places there surreal and confrontational. And without newspapers anymore there's no place to hide.

Oh sure, the SF Chronicle is still being published. But it's not worth reading anymore, and good luck finding a rack. And besides, you cannot smoke at the cafes like you used to.



What this world needs, desperately needs, is somewhere with cappucinos and dumplings, dusty reading material, two or three full sets of encyclopedias, over a dozen cats, and ashtrays with knockers for pipe smokers who are encouraged.



Overheard on the bus recently: "Allergies are bad man, they open you up to infection. Your nose runs, and germs love the wet places. They thrive in it. Don't blow your nose to get rid of the motes and pollen; the only solution is to snork as hard as possible so that it smacks up against your brain and gets defeated by your mind."



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LIKE SACKS OF WET CEMENT!

The woman who runs the place where I went for teatime after shopping has a gentle sweet voice and speaks softly. Which is rare for Chinatown people. So I like listening to her talking about business with a relative from where I'm seated. Filled up the Comoy bent bulldog while I was there, finished my pastry and milk tea, and said thank you goodby upon leaving.
Lit up outside and headed down the block.


Cold, but dry. No rain today.
And it looks like Thanksgiving will be clear too.


Perfect for a helicopter over the parking lot of a shopping mall dropping flightless birds.


You are familiar with that, aren't you? The meme is derived from a television show, and refers to a classic bit of comedy featuring the winner of the Buckeye Newshawk Award last year. And a well-behaved crowd. Oh the humanity!

Next time we do that, little parachutes.
And cushions. Turkeys just love cushions.
With plenty of stuffing in the cushions.

Bread, celery, sage, butter, garlic .....

No onions. Turkeys fart.



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