I DON'T THINK PISSED REALLY COVERS IT

The following is reposted because I wholeheartedly agree with it. And I'm certain that everybody who is approaching retirement age does too. Unless they're republicans living in gated communities driving expensive cars, many of whom are financially secure because of a lifetime of questionable practises, or technoyuppies, corporate pimps, and dumb-ass chuckleheads in the red areas.

[REPOST BEGINS]

Alan Simpson, the Senator from Wyoming calls senior citizens the Greediest Generation as he compared "Social Security " to a Milk Cow with 310 million teats. Here's a response in a letter from PATTY MYERS in Montana ... I think she is a little ticked off! She also tells it like it is!

"Hey Alan, let's get a few things straight!!!

1. As a career politician, you have been on the public dole (tit) for FIFTY YEARS.

2. I have been paying Social Security taxes for 48 YEARS (since I was 15 years old. I am now 63).

3. My Social Security payments, and those of millions of other Americans, were safely tucked away in an interest bearing account for decades until you political pukes decided to raid the account and give OUR money to a bunch of zero losers in return for votes, thus bankrupting the system and turning Social Security into a Ponzi scheme that would make Bernie Madoff proud.

4. Recently, just like Lucy & Charlie Brown, you and "your ilk" pulled the proverbial football away from millions of American seniors nearing retirement and moved the goalposts for full retirement from age 65 to age, 67. NOW, you and your "shill commission" are proposing to move the goalposts YET AGAIN.

5. I, and millions of other Americans, have been paying into Medicare from Day One, and now "you morons" propose to change the rules of the game. Why? Because "you idiots" mismanaged other parts of the economy to such an extent that you need to steal our money from Medicare to pay the bills. 6. I, and millions of other Americans, have been paying income taxes our entire lives, and now you propose to increase our taxes yet again. Why? Because you "incompetent bxxxxds" spent our money so profligately that you just kept on spending even after you ran out of money. Now, you come to the American taxpayers and say you need more to pay off YOUR debt.

To add insult to injury, you label us "greedy" for calling "bxxxxxxt" to your incompetence.


Well, Captain Bxxxxxxit, I have a few questions for YOU:

1. How much money have you earned from the American taxpayers during your pathetic 50-year political career?

2. At what age did you retire from your pathetic political career, and how much are you receiving in annual retirement benefits from the American taxpayers?

3. How much do you pay for YOUR government provided health insurance?

4. What cuts in YOUR retirement and healthcare benefits are you proposing in your disgusting deficit reduction proposal, or as usual, have you exempted yourself and your political cronies?

It is you, Captain Bxxxxxxt, and your political co-conspirators called Congress who are the "greedy" ones. It is you and your fellow nutcase thieves who have bankrupted America and stolen the American dream from millions of loyal, patriotic taxpayers. And for what? Votes and your job and retirement security at our expense, you lunk-headed, leech.

That's right, sir. You and yours have bankrupted America for the sole purpose of advancing your pathetic, political careers. You know it, we know it, and you know that we know it.

And you can take that to the bank, you miserable son of a bxxxxx.

P.S. And stop calling Social Security benefits "entitlements". WHAT AN INSULT!!!!
I have been paying in to the SS system for 45 years “It's my money”-give it back to me the way the system was designed and stop patting yourself on the back like you are being generous by doling out these monthly checks .


[REPOST ENDS]

As an afterthought, I should mention that it's relatively easy to find out where your political representatives live, as well as how to make incendiary devices, and thanks to the ARA guns are widely available too. And older people, such as the American citizens getting screwed by elected representatives bankrupting the system, have comparitively less to loose.

Just remember, add a gelling agent to the gasoline to make it stick and perform better, and phosphorus to make it burn through to the bone.




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CONSIDERING LUNCH: IT SMELLS

Sometimes it's hard to remember that unlike our own balmy weather here, much of the rest of the country is a wintry hellscape straight out of ragnarok. Positively Breughelian. Today it will be sixty degrees or thereabouts in San Francisco. In fly-over territories it will be so cold that they'll kill the family bison and crawl inside for warmth. People will slaughter municipal snowplows for combustible whale oil. Little kiddiewinkies will cluster around their overweight mothers and suck out all of her body heat. Family pets will eat deceased grandpa because they are starving, starving, starving .....

I've never been to Milwaukee, but that's how I fondly imagine it.

It's so cold that Ted Cruz has flown to Cancún.

Where it's mid eighties.


Imagine America's favourite Texan luxuriously smearing sunscreen over his pallid flesh, getting the unguent deep into the pores and creases around the scales lest he develop spiderweb-like sunburns. Become all crackly.

My second cup of coffee is infecting my brain. There are Chinese-speaking working men in the garden next door scraping and chipping away at old paint. Distantly a police siren rises and fades. And now that my apartment has left for work -- she has a normal schedule unlike myself -- with her bedroom door shut and windows open I can smoke my pipe indoors.

Yesterday someone brought up classic pipe tobaccos such as were common in the early fifties, such as John Middleton's Sugar Barrel, a Burley forward blend with some Virginias and a "subtle" molasses topping, or Rum & Maple, plus things like Carter Hall, which is now made in the Dominican Republic of all places, even Lorrilard's Briggs Mixture, a simple slightly topped mostly Burley mixture.

That was the day when American men at least pretended to be civilized: sportscoats and clean shirts, polished shoes, sometimes ties. A pipe, a new station wagon visible in their driveway through the picture window, and neatly combed hair.

They smoked a pipe to drown out the smell of their perky aproned wives in the kitchen cooking up a wholesome meal of tuna pineapple casserole with canned stringbeans.
Or similar nutritious good housekeeping dishes, modern dining at its best.

Neither his nor my mother were good cooks.
I mention this in passing.

Nowadays such strategems are not needed, as vegan cuisine usually contains nothing olfactorily offensive. Nothing at all. No garlic, no shrimp paste, certainly no gluten.


I still smoke a pipe because I'm a dinosaur.



Fine Virginia with a touch of Perique whiffs of carotenoids, plus benzene, arsenic, phenylacetic acid ethylester, alcohols, aldehydes, esters, and terpenoids.
Faintly fruity. A discreet fragrance. Old school stealth tobacco.
Some manufacturers add subtle tweaks.



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AFTER A LONG DAY OF LISTENING TO UNPLEASANT OLD MEN

Sometimes I stumble upon a rabbit hole. It's like I'm galloping along on the high plains of the American outback when my steed pits his foot, left or right front, in a declivity and wobbles to regain his balance lest he be shot for breaking his leg. A whinied"oh crap" escapes his lips.

I came across a word that I just had to look up. The shape sent me on several wild goose chases, seeing as it wasn't under moon (月), flesh (肉), or boat (舟), which had all been suggested by the painted form as possible dictionary sections. Twenty strokes total.

Turns out it was under the horse radical (馬).

騰 To gallop, to prance. To soar, to rush with energy as horses do. To clear out or vacate, to absquatulate with all due speed. Indicative of repeated or repetitive actions.


Moon is four strokes, flesh is six. Normally the radical on the left indicates the section, but given that the meaning is horse-related, that is a more logical basket for the character

.In the seal-script version of 騰 ('tang') shown above, the boat is recognizably the leftmost component.

What, you might ask, was it that led me on that journey? Scoping out the calligraphy of 鄧石如 ('tang sek yu'), a scholar from two centuries ago famous for his mastery of the ancient scripts and his elegant and commanding renditions thereof.

His works bring infinite pleasure.



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IS NOTHING SACRED?

Yesterday evening I got booted and blocked from one of the pipesmoking groups for making a snarky comment. The administrator that booted and blocked me is, I believe, considerably younger than me. And may have been at his last straw.

Seeing as it was my first contribution in years, you can imagine how hurt I am by his decisive action. On a scale of one to ten, zero. I'm not a hip guy.


The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven.
Does that mean it's louder? Is it any louder?
Well, it's one louder, isn't it? It's not ten. Where can you go from there? Where? Put it up to eleven. One louder. The scale goes to eleven.


Zero.

There is only one pipesmoking group where I'm an active participant.

All in all, I'm not a very groupish person.

And rather a jerk.



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LIKE THE EXAMPLE OF GANDHI

The way things are going in this country it looks increasingly likely that people will be using Molotovs, bricks, and baseball bats, for peaceful demonstrations by early summer. Comrade Krasnov may find that his goons are not the captains America they think they are. But I shall NOT be protesting. In fact, I shall endeavor to be far distant from events. For several reasons.
I am first and foremost a man of peace, a veritable Mahatma Gandhi, and I already know how to manufacture salt at the seashore. Also, the circulation in my legs is that bloody poor that I couldn't possibly run around the downtown screaming. Lastly, I really don't care if the flyovers can't buy eggs, can't sell their excess corn, can't get necessary treatment or social services, don't get vaccinations or real science based medical advice, and are filled with unemployed people who are Trump lifers but lost their federal jobs anyway.

Also, by that time bird flu will probably be circulating among the general populace.
Plus I just don't trust my fellow humans worth spit. I've seen what they're like.

[There is also HKU5-CoV-2, but that's scheduled for Autumn.]

I shall probably be in a quiet area smoking my pipe, contemplating the writtings of Heidegger and Witgenstein, and considering having a nice cup of HK milk tea later.
Heidegger and Witgenstein were foreigners.
You know, those people.

Far be it from me to discourage other folks, however. If they think that burning everything down is the right thing to do under the circumstances, well good for them! Their perspectives are different, they aren't veritable Mahatma Ghandis, and they should get in touch with their feelings. Incendiary devices can be either artistic expression, or free speech.

Om mane padme om. Peace, love, and butterflies.

Community bonfires may be just what we need. And there's so very much that is combustibe. Why, I can think of any number of targets, and find the use of gelling agents and phosphorus in gasoline a fascinating subject. They ought to teach classes about that in school! Along with punji sticks and bear traps. I applaud the creativity and inventivity of my fellow Americans (for peaceful purposes). Again, I mention butterflies. And wildflowers!

Americans are a scientifically curious lot. When faced with, purely hypothetically of course, the question "can down this shitcan burn?" they will naturally exclaim "let's find out!"
While swilling a Coors.

In Spring, young men's fancies turn to intellectual pursuits.


Warmth, love, and kindness, will prevail.


I am strongly in favour of freedoms, love, and butterflies!

Please remember that as previously mentioned I am a peaceful man.
Indeed, a veritable friggin' Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.
Just bucketloads better smelling than he was.
Dirty old man in a bedsheet.




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INSPIRING IMAGES

Back at the beginning of the covid pandemic I started using the 'paint' programme on my computer to maintain my sanity. It helped me deal with the situation, and, because it took time to draw using a mouse, it preoccupied my mind for a while. The epidemic has diminished, but the world has, it seems, gotten more fraught.

And it's fun. So I still draw.

Illustrations, more or less, of what is on the surface of my mind. Comforting images, especially of food or butterflies, that flit about and promise solutions.

Basically a coping how-to.


A list of priorities, memoranda, filing system entries, a shopping list.
The scribbled pad notes of a psychiatrist analysing himself.
Psychiatrist? More like spy-chiatrist. Bad word play.
But there are also meaningful pictures.
Things that are necessary.

Having been trained as a draughtsman, I find construction schematics inspiring.
Civic architecture is very much in that category.
Peace monuments.



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HAVING MET THE ENEMY

Today is, as everybody knows, International Pipe Smoking Day. Which for some of us ranks right up there with July Fourth and Bastille Day (equivalent of Saint Patrick's Day for drunks, frat boys, and rapists) and deserves our observance and estimation. And as you might expect I am smoking a pipe right now. Not because I pay any attention at all to it -- being on the spectrum I hate crowds and despise group gropes -- nor cynically as a snide and ironic comment, or even sneeringly -- but because it is sunny and my apartment mate is at work.
Plus I have the windows open, and it's what I do.

International Pipe Smoking Day on February 20th was started in 2008 by Smokers Forums. It's meant to bring pipe smokers together.

What's this together bit? I'm alone in here. Accompanied only by my stuffed critters in lieu of a cat, and the ghosts of Clark Gable, William Faulkner, and Sir Bertrand Russell.
Oh, and Georges Simenon. But there is no together.
Pipesmoking is solitary.

The pipe shown above is a Comoy squat bulldog exactly like the one Clark Gable is often pictured with, currently filled with a mellow aged Virginia with slight Perique added, that smells very old-fashioned and like the nineteen fifties. Clark Gable and William Faulkner smoked Latakia blends, which during the first years that I owned this piece I did too.
But for the last decade plus I've been on a flue-cured kick.
It coincides with my HK milk tea kick.


Unlike cigars, pipes are seldom a penis symbol representing uncertainty about our manhood or a defiant assertion of feminity, such as the blustery fascists cheering on the current regime wield. Well, I suppose if you have doubts about how manly others perceive you, you might cheer wrecking education, kicking millions off medicare, and threatening other countries, in addition to letting Vladimir Putin fist you, but pipesmokers seldom think about their gender and mostly don't have issues about it as it isn't their be all and end all.

And did I already mention the solitariness?

There are cigar bars and "gentlemen's clubs" for those other people. The only times we go there is when it's much too cold outside. We'll endure the shouting, braggadocio, over the top sexism and sportsfandom (a teevee is always tuned to the game), and sheer stupid vulgarity. Patient tolerance. They're idiots, and we've seen the animal channel. The carnivores will now rip apart the buffalo. The lions opportunistically chase hyenas away from their kill. Fire ants consume the howling beast. Anistopheles mosquitoes cunningly disguise themselves as blonde republicans to infect their willing victims. Yes yes. Fascinating. Heck!

Several of the cigar smokers with whom I regrettably come in contact are outright Nazis. Three of those Gentlemen are Jewish.

Among the pipe smokers are several academics and individuals with fascinating interests.
A few are writers or scientists.



People who vape are precisely the kind that you want to keep away from your kid sister.
They might go for adderall or lines of cocaine later.
Or become antivaxxers.




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A HEARTFELT NEED

Everytime I think of garlic butter baked sole (蒜茸焗龍脷飯 'suen yong guk long lei faan') a friend comes to mind. Not that he likes it -- he may, I just don't know -- but he was posted to Hong Kong for a few years and probably ate his lunch near the office in a chachanteng. It's likely one of the healthiest things on the menu there. Man does not live by baked porchop on a bed of tomato sauce spaghetti with a thick layer of gooey melted cheese on top alone.

Even though that will send you back up twenty stories of bamboo scaffolding and get you returned to your desk for another eight hours.

It's part of the Hong Kong weltanschaaung's gestalt: work hard, eat hard, loose a fortune at Happy Valley, then die three months after you've retired at age eighty.
Your viagra merchant will be heartbroken.

Mind you, I like melted cheese too, but I would prefer to combine it with bacon. On top of a hamburger patty. Perhaps on top of the baked rice with tomato sauce, with sambal on the side, and washed down with that big cup of heart-attack strength milk tea.

Which to the best of my knowledge a chachanteng doesn't do.
Even though they really should. In an ideal world.

The reason why that baked sole is healthy is because of the vegetable next to it for colour.

It's an important detail. Baked fish just looks rather bland by itself. One could achieve the same effect by spashing a chili paste garlic butter and wine reduction sauce around it -- also healthy -- but Hong People are still at the early stage of developing an affection for heat, so would shy away from something like that. Whereas some of us Dutch speakers are further progressed, final stage of chili fondness, darn well terminal.

The people at my favourite chachantengs know at this point that I will need Sriracha or that jar of sambal, and bring it without my even asking. At one place the lady is still somewhat appalled, but I think she accepts it as an eccentric Caucasian peculiarity. Smokes a pipe, speaks Cantonese, dumps hot goo on otherwise perfectly edible food.
But he doesn't talk about Jesus, so he's probably okay.
Might be insane. But so far not.



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ADD BACON AND SALT FISH, NOT CHEESE

If you salt simply cooked broccoli it tastes sweet. It also goes very well with salt fish (鹹魚 'haam yü'), to the same effect. Or bacon. I think I'll suggest that to the owners, because us old codgers benefit from increasing our vegetable intake. And we are their main demographic at lunch time. Their set lunches (choice of one of the three sets on the white board) appeal to a predominantly antique or elderly Cantonese clientele. Though in the section where I sat there were a young business couple, a younger woman whom I've seen there before who can't speak Chinese, and a young mother with her small child and a female friend.
Besides myself. And the elderly couple representing the main demographic.
Actually I don't identify as an 'old codger'.
Sprightly young codger.

So not mostly elderly Cantonese today.

After doing my shopping and errands following a post-lunch pipe I ended up at a bakery around tea time, where all three of the old American Chinese gentlemen were at the back table. It turns out that they are somewhat Trumpish. Which is disappointing. Given that Trump is not on their side no matter how many onions they tie to their belt.
Or used to, back in the day.

Of course I should mention that they are considerable older than myself. And by comparison, I am but a sprout. Which was proven when I was outside later lighting up, when a young lady gave me the most radiant happy smile from less than three feet away.

Unfortunately she may not have even been four years old, and less than half my height. So she may have mistook me for Father Christmas's younger brother or something.
Evenso. She was radiant, happy, and quite adorable.

There's hope for the old fart yet.



While shopping I bought some fruits for my downstairs neighbor the old Indonesian Chinese lady who lives in the front street-side apartment. Snowpear (雪梨 'suet lei') and tangerine (橘子 'gwat ji'). She probably needs broccoli (西蘭菜 'sei laan choi') and bacon or salt fish.
But she's weird about food. Almost white in that regard.
And you know how those people are.



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BANANAS FOR SCALE TOO!

If you voted for Trump, you are a worse traitor than Lindsey Graham. Unfortunately, because of where I work, I must come into contact with people like that regularly.

"US President Donald Trump's administration is attempting to rehire officials with the US Department of Agriculture (USDA) who worked on the government response to bird flu before being fired over the weekend, US media report."
Source: https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cjev24184vjo -- Trump administration trying to rehire USDA bird flu officials it fired

"Ukrainian authorities expressed dissatisfaction over not being part of Tuesday's talks in Riyadh. But Trump dismissed these concerns, telling reporters that Ukraine had had three years to end the war, before appearing to blame Kyiv for starting the conflict. "You should have never started it," he said."
Source: https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c9814k2jlxko -- Fact-checking Trump claims about war in Ukraine

By the way: none of his appointees are qualified for the job, several of them are outright fascists and nazis, and too many of them have skeletons rattling in their closets like alcoholism, drug addiction, and criminal histories.

But you're "owning the libs", right?

Does it feel good?

Just remember, there's no such thing as climate change, DEI prevents simple honest people from getting hired, vaccines are all a conspiracy and contain nanochips, and all those big city folks are too arrogant and people just don't want to work anymore dammit what is this world coming to? AND they're taking your jobs!


In the election four months ago you shot yourself in the feet, both of them, and then took a victory lap screaming "America! America!" You should feel good about that.
This is the greatest country on earth!
You are all champions!



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IT'S A COLLAGE

Apparently, doing my laundry AND having lunch at my usual Wednesday place will take gumption. Or so I have been told, by a gentleman who will be a prisoner in his own home tomorrow. Not, as you might think, because this is San Francisco and dominatrix perversions are involved -- we're well known for stuff like that -- but because he is expecting an artwork which UPS has informed him will get there before seven in the evening.

It has been years since he has had lunch. Reason being that his work schedule does not permit doing so at a sensible hour, which I'm not quite sure is what. I believe he has a pint instead, two or three hours before his shift ends. Having sustained himself during the hours before with scone and a hyper-caffeinated beverage.

For me, lunch is always after three in the afternoon if I can help it. On days off sometimes after four. Because my Wednesday lunch place is closed by then, I will head there before two, and we'll call it breakfast.

Today's lunch (breakfast) was at five thirty. After teatime.
Minced beef rice (牛肉免治飯 'ngau yiuk min ji faan').
Very Hong Kong. With a cup of strong milk tea.
Fortification for the howling beast.
Followed by a smoke.

A few hours later I was back in Chinatown waiting for my friend (the no-lunch fellow) to get off shift and start his weekend with our customary pub visits. And again I was smoking a pipe. It wasn't particularly cold out, so the number of unbalanced individuals floating by was greater than the last time. Among which I'll include a shopkeeper who unlocked his store so that he and a friend could have a few drinks without the wives knowing, surrounded by the staring eyes of Hello Kitty all around them. Which, I think, would drive me insane.


We could hear country western squawks coming from the karaoke joint, so we ended up at the back-up bar, where three Toishanese gentlemen to our right were engaged in animated conversation, and half a dozen young fellows behind us were having Irish carbombs.
You know, I still can't understand Toishanese.
It's a failing, I know.


When we headed to the bus stop, a crazed white chick strode past, loudly complaining about something in her head and someone else being in the hospital. She was underdressed from the waist down, and not feeling it. Which is very San Francisco.


For some reason I remembered Amou Haji.


It had been a good evening.



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THAT'S OKAY, WE SPEAK ENGLISH

When I woke up shortly after one to answer the call of nature I was in a cheerful mood, and ended up having a quarrel with an old friend in Israel over the nature of America and what I really feel about the red states. Which is more or less black and unprintable. He has a more sunny rightwing hippie point of view -- with which I disagree, of course -- influenced largely by events in his part of the world. A form of blinkered worldview which is thoroughly understandable, even if meshune to the point of stark raving bonkers.
He too is a liberal. Liberalish. There are limitations.
And he still likes the Grateful Dead.
Which with I cannot agree.
They suck.

This morning when my apartment mate came bounding out of her room filled with vim and vigour I was asleep again. But the insistent spam calls on my cellphone awakened me, and groggily I answered the third or fourth one with a snarl in Cantonese on speaker phone. To which she contributed. The poor little Indian phone centre drooge probably did not realize that the two languages he heard were not the same. My civilized urban Cantonese, as is most likely spoken by the Masonic conspiracy, versus her Toishanese which is the native tongue of hundreds of thousands of stubborn pissy people who defy the frightful peasants in the interior of America to dish up Kung Pao and General Tzo to a closeminded demographic that seemingly hates everything outside of their narrow transplantee Ulster Anglo ken.
Except cheap food with colours, sweetness, and grease.

Afterwards she suggested that I throw in the phrase 'Satanic blood ritual' to up the ante a bit. Which is 撒但嘅血儀式 ('saat taan ge huet yi sik') in Cantonese, and in any case completely opaque to nice little Hindustani thieves and extortionists in the heart of Gujustan.
It was a perky suggestion. Both of us hate perky.

She does not realize that when she is wide awake she is the epitome of perky.

I told her that if it were in English, the only way the spam-dude would understand it would be if it were enunciated clearly, which would alert him to our actually being able to speak English very well. A completely countrproductive result, you will agree.

In the afternoon yesterday I headed out with two pipes and a pouch of aged Virginia to have lunch and smoke. She was home all day, because it was a holiday, which kind of cramped my style. I decided that given the cold it was a perfect chance to go have claypot rice at a place which specializes in that. Where they speak both Cantonese and Toishanwaa.

All the claypot rice dishes are listed on the wall in Chinese, from which I selected one that reflected both the HK claypot rice paradigm perfectly as well as the home-town Cantonese gestalt: 咸魚肉餅煲仔飯 ('haam yü yiuk beng pou jai faan'). Pork patty with a wedge of salt fish on top of the rice. The claypot gives a nicely crackly bottom to the rice, the combined fragrances perfume the puffed-up grains, the enclosed heat perfectly cooks the pork.

Two techo-geeks at other tables were eating claypot rice while reading their cell-phones.
I noticed that the Caucasian girl with the Chinese boyfriend were each having claypot rice, the two Mandarin-speaking young ladies who later came in did too, the grumpy aged peasant couple likewise. The only person not doing so was the elderly American-born fellow near the window, probably because he couldn't read the specials on the wall. Everyone there seemed to enjoy their food, but one thing that struck me was that though quite busy, the restaurant wasn't typically noisy. What in Chinese is referred to as re nao (熱鬧 'yit naau'). If I had gone to a chachanteng as I originally intended, it would have been lively to the point of headpain with the same number of people. The Chinese have a great tolerance for cacaphony.
Enjoying clay pot rice is necessary down time.
Shut up, I'm eating.


Smoking my pipe later was extremely enjoyable. The alleyways a little further downhill were pleasant, although one of them looked like a garbage dump from the trash that the mahjong parlours put there; the only two businesses that pay for refuse service are the flower shop and the hair salon.


The title of this post is the phrase that all Americans hear when attempting to speak Dutch in the Netherlands: "That's okay, we speak English". Because of how English speakers usually massacre other languages. A good friend will hear it a lot over the next several months.
She's moving there. Today. I wish her luck.



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DON'T SAY GRACE

The great thing about the arid zone is that it insulates us from the chuckleheads in the Midwest, and South. Some of whom I actually like, but keep in mind that I assiduously curate my social circles, and had cut "good Christians" (bigots and morons) entirely out years ago. To the best of my knowledge there are no Alabamans, Floridans, Georgians, Ozarkians, or folks from Mississippi and Tennessee among my friends, although there are one or two Carolinians connected with the tobacco trade, some Midwesterners, an ex-Georgian who used to be a reference-librarian, as well as a Texan from Marin-county, who is actually remarkably sane despite being entirely out of touch with reality.

[Also, very few people employed by the Federal Government. Although one person whom I did not see yesterday is, and I'm wondering if he still has a job. None of my relatives, with whom I keep in occasional contact, is federal.]

From the Central Valley eastward, it's nearly two thousand miles to Home Simpson territory. It's about four dollars a gallon for gas. And there are mountains.

Actually, that also insulates them from me. I'd dump Sriracha chilisauce into the grits and chuck the Chicago deep-dish pizza onto the compost heap.

From Kari Lake to the Cumberland Gap it's almost nothing but inbreds, mental defectives, religious types, and illiterates. With a considerable overlap.

In parts of the country, sexually transmitted diseases are often a family affair.
Besides measles, fungal infections, and tuberculosis.

Their fat little heads sit on their fat little bodies without a bit of connection.

Their food is awful, they talk funny there, and there are pick-up trucks on cinderblocks in the driveway. Except Mississippi, where they can't afford cinderblocks, so they stole milk crates from the local Piggly Wiggly.



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THE GATHERING

Remember, I am not a particularly social person. Which may explain why I am still a pipesmoker, and have remained single since my break-up years ago.
Pipesmoking, as you undoubtedly realize, is not a social activity.
Nor endearing to the fairer sex.
I do not endear.

Today was consequently a little trying. I could easily ignore the rancid old Magaites drooling and gibbering in the back room -- all they need, really, is carrion and a teevee -- but when the gentleman from Shanghai and his adult daughter and son came in we ended up talking for over two hours. A pipesmoker, keenly interested in the environment in which we were. He did not know many pipesmokers in Shanghai, it was mostly a private pursuit. He liked Latakia blends, knew about the Scandinavian Tobacco Group's recent purchase of MacBarens/Sutliff (which means that the spectrum be reduced to a mere fraction (four hundred plus distinctly different products down to about a dozen), was reasonably familiar with the outside world despite not speaking English, somewhat acquainted with zhuan shu (篆書 sealscript) as well the full forms of many characters. A very good thing, as my ability in Mandarin is poor and haphazard; his daughter (a very nice person) was a capable translator when necessary.
He was glad to be there, as I was glad he had discovered the place.

I hope I see him again next year when he visits his daughter again. Shortly after the three of them left, the pipe club members started trickling in. We had not seen each other since two weeks before the inaugeration. We all share much the same opinions about the subsequent actions and appointees. At one point I casually reminded Nick, who is in his eighties, of the time a young lady was so taken by his elfin charm (he's in his eighties, but cute looking with sparkling eyes that reflect his puckish personality) that she hopped onto his lap and stuck her tongue in his ear. Startling, and memorable.

Nick smokes aged Virginias and fine flakes, as do I. Neil, who had provided two nice pâtés, tends to sometimes indulge in those, but usually puffs medium to full Latakia mixtures. We agree on some of the limited edition C&D flakes, as well as Palmetto Balkan, which proves overwhelmingly that Jeremy Reeves is an absolute genius.


Bernard, another gentleman, and I discussed African wildlife. He agrees with me that it's a jolly good thing that honey badgers have neither opposable thumbs nor the ability to form complete sentences. If man had to compete with them, we'd lose.


Altogether about a dozen pipe smokers, several tobaccos, at least two bottles of wine, and good cheese in addition to the pâté.


So it was a succesful pipe club meeting. And the members had a good time.
As did I. But I am not a social person, and am a bit frazzled.
And my right foot is painful and twitching.
Tomorrow will be quieter.


Perhaps a few bland sentences about food. After a few days of being twirling mister charm surrounded by Orcs in the salt flats I probably need that. I really must stress that I am not a very social person. Nor like Gandalf in any way. You might mistakenly assume otherwise.
And I am certainly not a blasted Hobbit.



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THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING!

Imagine a television quiz show featuring intoxicated Australians. Foster's Lager, shrimp on the barbie, and large personal knives as well as crocodiles.

The grand prize: a lifetime supply of Vegemite.
Of course Aussies would be contestants.
And only Aussies, no one else.

Remember, they're drunk.

Rapid fire questions.


What's the capital of Australia?

"Kangaroo!"

What insect flies over the mudflats?

"Kangaroo!"

What green fruit is harvested in orchards?

"Kangaroo!"

Australian Academy Award winner?

"Kangaroo!"

Square root of ...

"Kangaroo!"

American President?

"Kangaroo!"

As it turns out, kangaroo dude is the winner. And gets awarded that lifetime supply of rancid kangaroo paste. The audience erupts in wild cheering. The show becomes a run-away hit.



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THE MISSING DINNER

One of the dishes that I haven't had in around four years is Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice. Which should be cooked chicken with mild coconut curry sauce, and preferably a large piece or two of pan-gilded Linguiça plus potato chunks, on a bed of egg fried rice, bunged under the broiler and served piping hot in the oven-proof dish. It's a balance.
And totally great with Sriracha or sambal oelek.

There may be some melted cheese on top.

It isn't pretentious, but it's good chachanteng chow. Problem is that the few chachantengs in this part of the city do not do it. At least not anything like how it's supposed to be done.

焗葡國雞飯

A chachanteng is the kind of place that local neighborhood folks go to where they can be themselves, get a quick comforting meal, swill Hong Kong milk tea, read the racing page, and not worry about appearances. Flip flops totally can.

Also, it's kind of noisy. And there might be eccentrics. Or kids.
It's a guarantee that there is Spam on the premises.

Having worked in restaurants, I have my own ideas about fine places to eat. So it's probably a darn good thing that I'm not dating anyone, because on Valentine's Day (yesterday) I'd take them to a neighborhood place where the food is good albeit somewhat pedestrian, the staff is engaging and businesslike, the tables are clean, the lighting is bright rather than mood or romantic, and there is hot sauce on every table. Not. A. Single. Red. Rose. In. Sight.

At a chachanteng you do not have to jump through hoops to get a reservation for Valentine's Day or any other holiday. They don't take reservations. Show up, inform them however many people you are (幾位？), and get whatever you want on the menu. If you wish to propose to her on bended knee, that's entirely up to you, but everyone else there will look at you funny. And if you show up with a giant bunch of red, red roses, both of you dressed to impress, the other customers may assume that you missed out on a much more pretentious expensive restaurant due to bad planning, or that you are goofy as well as cheap.

A good woman likes her tucker. As well as a cup of milk tea.

There is no champagne. You want bubbles? Boba.


The true romantic and perfect lover thinks that his woman is absolutely adorable slurping a frosty tapioca ball drink. If that's what she want to do. Trust me. Adorable.

As you can tell, I really miss Portuguese chicken rice.



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THE EMPTY TOOLBOX

Being sceptical is intellectually healthy. Provided that there actually is an intellect there. And that it's fully loaded with tools. What's obvious is that most of this country is mind-blowingly stupid. Trump's supporters prove that.

The confirmation of RFK Jr. once again confirms that we share this country with Very. Stupid. People. We already knew that; it's why Trump go elected. Twice. But it's absolutely undeniable. No, they didn't get conned or "played". They are just Very. Stupid. People.

But not just stupid. They're self-centered, greedy, entitled, and full of hatred for everyone.
Basically, the entire country is like Tommy Tuberville's constituancy.
Chuckleheaded, inbred, and vicious.


So it's probably a good thing that we're going to hell in a handbasket.
The American Century is over, there's little to redeem.

The last few weeks I've been listening to Kurt Weill and Bertold Brecht a lot. Stuff that dates from the Germany that disappeared with Hitler, but has remained timeless, and appropriate for any age of mass stupidity.

Assuming, of course, that you understand German.
Many Americans don't even know English.
A series of caveman grunts.
Their version.
Y'all.



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STRIKE THE LITTLE MAN

One of the things that would really make San Francisco a world-class metropolis is catering to the vengeful instincts of the modern urban man. Or woman. Such as old ladies who, for a minimal fee, will curse your enemies or coworkers that you have grievances toward. And it seems to me that in precisely that way a number of elderly women among the local community would be gainfully and usefully employed.

打你個死個頭！

A friend says that he regularly had that done, when he was living in Hong Kong. It made him feel better, and by framing the requests he made in a very focused way he was able to come to the United States over thirty years ago and start a succesful computer repair business. He wishes that the same service was available here, as it's nearly time to retire and he wants a bigger house and a new car.

In Hong Kong you can find these useful civil functionaries near the Canal Road Flyover (堅拿道天橋) right around Hennessy Road, conveniently close to fine lunch opportunities so that you may have a quick meal afterwards. Present them with data (names, age, gender, and more, like for instance a recent photo) plus the right amount of cash (no credit cards, no Apple Pay) and they will strike it fiercely with an old shoe till the paper rips, uttering imprecations and bad luck wishes.

[Hennessy Road (軒尼詩道) runs east to west through Wanchai (灣仔). Right around the Causeway Bay area (銅鑼灣) is where the Canal Road Flyover (堅拿道天橋) crosses Hennessy, easily reachable by public transport. The weeks leading up to the equinox, which is when hibernating insects awaken (驚蟄 'king jat') are the best time of year for this enterprise.]

There is obviously very good reason for that part of Hong Kong being the most expensive commercial rent zone on the planet. Valuable business services!

Imagine combining your break with improving the world. Here in San Francisco, you would probably write down things like the make of the car and the license plate number of the idiot who parked in a handicap zone or the driveway of your building, such as the morons who go to the donut place at all hours or need to have a drink at local bars to make their lives perfect. Or the people plonked in the bus lanes during rush hour.

打小人

Also the two funguses who park their Tesla wankpanzers on Grant Avenue.
And several political figures, including President Musk.
The entire damned Republican Party.



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