STRANGE CONVERSATIONS

Overheard Scandinavians speaking several times recently while in Chinatown. And, as a Dutch speaker, I think I can authoritatively state "全部嗰啲北方人都係講嘢好笑嘅怪人。" Because yes they are, and some of their foods are beyond odd. Whereas, of course, Dutchmen are perfectly normal. More so than most other normal people.
On a scale of normal, we go up to eleven.

On the other hand, having facilitated a conversation between an aged local-born gentleman who is deaf as a post and two foreigners who were fluent in English recently while I was having milk tea at a Chinatown bakery, perhaps it's my own fault for thinking that those Northerners are all weirdoes who talk funny.

Really, we Dutch speakers should sometimes mind our own business.
Sticking our big noses into things that don't concern us.
That pretty much guarantees trouble.

On the other hand, the beverage and the snackiepoo were very good.
So I'll probably end up making the same mistake again.
Being incorrigible is its own punishment.

On a slightly different note, from my apartment mate's bedroom late last night I could hear the sound of quarrelling and gentle remonstrance. The turkey vulture was insisting that he should be given collops of fatty inner thigh, as was his right as a carrion eater, whereas both Ms. Bruin and my apartment mate were pointing out that this was not a great likelihood at all (we can't have random people bleeding out down on Polk Street because choice body parts were harvested), and the she-sheep kept asking rhetorically whether he got fed recently.
And why was he so pudgy if he was "starving, starving, STARVING"?

Which didn't help, but it's a good question. No one who is well-fed should have fatty inner thighs. That counts double for Midwesterners. Good lord does it ever. In spades.

Those people would do well to trot up and down our hills when they visit, to remove those fatty inner thighs. Cutting out the Ranch Dressing and cottage cheese would help too.
Oh, and lose the silly Scandinavian speech defects.
It sounds like you are regurgitating.
Ya shure.


As a Dutch speaker I regularly cough up hairballs.



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DODGING THE BOOLAS

Having looked forward to a fried fish sandwich (香酥魚柳包 'heung sou yü lau baau') since this morning, you can imagine my distress upon discovering that they're on vacation for two weeks. There was weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. Much like I imagine those two rats doing every time a pedestrian scared them back into hiding before they could scoot over to the tasty refuse pile. It wasn't the old Cantonese aunties that discommoded them, rather, passing groups of tourists.

Those two rats have my deepest sympathy.
You can't have a romantic dinner without garbage. Everyone knows that.


So instead of the chachanteng, I went around the corner and had roast bird over rice. Other than three persons of probably Yucatecan derivation, the place was filled with Cantonese, and had a club-like atmosphere. Very old school Hong Kongish. The fowl was fine, the chilipaste could have been better.

The discommoded rats came later, after teatime. I had done all of my shopping by then, dodging groups of tourists nearly every step of the way. Mostly Euries on Stockton Street, the Americans being on Grant Avenue and not wishing to waddle uphill. Now, far be it from me to engage in fatshaming. It throws the proportions of head to torso off entirely, and means you might have a heartattack by the time you're forty, as well as rotten feet and a bad back.
But your doctor probably already told you that, and it's none of my business.

And honestly, there is no reason why you shouldn't have fried food for breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, and dinner. It's part of your culture. I understand that.
And I sympathize. Like totally. Please feel empowered.

In my own neighborhood, before catching the bus, I count Waymos, familiar faces, toddlers, dogs, and street people. Across the hill in Chinatown I count overweight non-Chinese. It's purely neurotic obsessive behaviour. You know, I've never seen an elephant in the waiting room at my doctor's office there, but at the cardiologists in the non-Chinese part of San Francisco that isn't uncommon.

Hark, what''s that trumpeting sound from across Golden Gate Park?
Oops, never mind. Don't want to fatshame anyone.
The ground shakes as they pass.
Dang!


Oh do be carfeful, you'll crush a hobbit!



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THE PICK-UP TRUCK UNIVERSE

Please do not mention "climate change". That's a liberal term invented by the Chinese to force Americans into buying German cars. Fact. And the good people of Florida having recognized that sneaky attack on Christian values banned the term, along with everything else that smacks of non-Christian values, like homosexual, gender, truth, civil rights, scientific, peanut allergy, and representative democracy.

But the term alligator is still good, though.
Nothing is better than alligator.
It's American!


An alligator snapping at the heels of a Yankee or Mexican is the most Florida-loving anti-woke image there is. Tastes just like Key Lime Pie and grits!


Given the high degree of bonkers in the news these days, I dread coming back home later and catching up on my doomscrolling. What strange Magat fantasies will I discover? What sugar-coating of insane rightwing ranting by all the Republican stalwarts, apologists, and Alaskan dingbat Lisa Ann Murkowski?

Back in my day, son, we had only one dingbat from Alaska.
Both Republican Veep material AND trailer trash.
A very multi-talented Christian woman.
She could see Russia!

Now there's a flood of dingbats from nearly every state in the union. Too much competition. They all have to out-dingbat each other just to stay in the news.

So far, Alabama, Arizona, Florida, Mississippi, and Texas are heading the pack as most dingbat-friendly states.

Each one of them is unique. And very American.

Huzzah.



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UNDISCOMBOBULATED, MORE OR LESS

Earlier today my apartment mate, who had taken a day off, had suggested that we go out to lunch together at a nearby restaurant we both like. She brought this up before ten in the morning, which nicely illustrates that people of Cantonese ancestry are conditioned to think about food at hours when normal folks (Dutch Americans) would not even conceive of that.
I normally don't start feeling peckish until after twelve. When I get up at around six A.M. food is not part of the programme. Pills, strong coffee, and then walk around the neighborhood puffing my pipe. Solid sustenance doesn't cross my mind for several hours.

Years ago there was a newspaper, and there were no pills.

At around twelve o'clock she asked if we could do lunch some other time. She had decided that she simply wanted to spend all day padding around in her jammies hugging her stuffed critters and watching British mystery episodes instead. Okay by me. I'll revert to my usual Tuesday routine. Late lunch at the place where the boss-lady seems to have given up on telling me that I shouldn't smoke, because she realizes that I won't quit, and all the uncles smoke too. So it's battling the rapids struggling upstream on that. And there are bears on both banks. I always load up a pipe for outside afterwards when I'm there.

At around tea-time I swung into the place and dined on shrimp and vegetable fried rice-stick noodles (遠菜鮮蝦炒河 'yuen choi sin haa caau ho') with a cup of hot milk tea.
Lit up as soon as I left, after dawdling over tea. Wonderful.

Several hours later I was back in the neighborhood with a different pipe. And surprised to see the same cluster of older aunties passing down the street, on the opposite side, as had been eating together earlier. They were much more lively. I suspect that they may have celebrated their reunion with perhaps a thimble-full of spirits, discreetly tossed back. Or two.

About ten minutes after I finished my pipe the bookseller arrived. As we walked to the burger joint he mentioned a group of young skate-boarders on the bus who had prettily thanked the driver when they got off to rocket downhill. It had been cute.

The karaoke bar looked civilized when we passed, but an hour later it sounded ghastly. Doleful Cantopop. Hard pass. Life is too short for painful moaning.

The bail-out bar proved more hospitable. No singing.
Irish whiskey, and a cup of tea.
Much better.



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WHATEVER SHALL WE DO?

It is good to occasionally get out of your comfort zone. Which, this week, I will do in spades. My apartment mate is staying home today, and wondered if I would like to go out to lunch at a nearby restaurant. Well, normally on Tuesday I go out for late lunch by myself to a place I've been going for years. I am attached to that routine. It's a lynchpin. This upsets the applecart as well as the very foundations of my universe.

But I am not a drip or stick in the mud. Sure. I'll go. This time I'm paying, because she did so last time. Again, I am capable of adventure and thinking outside the box.

I like the box. It's comfy.


It's a nice local restaurant, Chinese, where we like the food. When we're there, four variant interpretations of "American Chinese" are in play. My apartment mate, whose parents native tongue is Toisanwa. The proprietess, ditto, more capable of that language, like my apartment mate locally born and with English as a primary language, but much more able to understand standard Cantonese. Relatives in the kitchen, still thinking in Cantonese, although there is no written Chinese on the menu. And myself. Not Chinese at all. But I'm used to reading menus in Chinese and feel slightly discombobulated at having to mentally translate the dishes into Cantonese so that I know what they are.

Standard Cantonese fare, some American Chinese favourites, good regular food. Not likely to excite the food mavens and aficionados of exotic cuisine. Although I suppose in Iowa or Nevada, it would be highly foreign. They cook well. Our food.

They're enjoyably old-school. Not HK. Not the place where without a reservation you won't get in, no tapioca ball drinks, no milk tea, no ramen. It's not the place where you go for a business meal with an investor in your cell-phone app or start-up software company.
Nor likely to impress your favourite influencer.


Usual Tuesday lunch might be Wednesday or next week.
Or I might shift Wednesday to Thursday.
Everything moved one day.
New horizons.



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MAGIC FREAK SHOW

Let's see what we've got: weather disasters, wrong-headed vaccine advice, missing Epstein files, immigration department goons roughing up citizens before, during, and after arresting them, our president hosting psychopaths, his cabinet consisting largely of obsequious psychopaths, and his adoring fanclub acting for all the world like psychopaths .....
Mass layoffs and shortstaffing in governmental branches on which we rely.
Looming crises in all of our social services.
Economic shambles.

It's going to be a long hot summer.

Meanwhile, the Feds have sent an armed column into MacArthur Park in Los Angeles, once famous for the sweet green icing flowing down. A few minutes before that, children were playing there.

And that idiot Karenoline Leavitt has thrown yet another tantrum.
She's getting very good at that. It's quite a talent.
Maybe she can get a job doing it.

Perhaps by Labor Day most Americans will have finally realized that outside of California it's a third world country. But instead of rioting, they'll be on talk shows promoting quickly written self-help books. "How to survive the coming plagues with the power of prayer!" and "Stockpile guns and natural healing herbs for fun and profit!"
"Apple cider vinegar and Jesus".

And the press will be filled with news of good Christians showing the way with amazing tales of courage and survival skills learned during their time in the nation's military. They pushed a helpless wheelchair bound grandma out of harms way with miracle manuka honey! And they single-handedly stopped a swarm of killer bees from decimating a kindergarten! Why, they even prayed away a rabid coke-snorting grizzly bear at a revival meeting! Wow!
Apple pie and the American flag saved my life! It can yours too!


The talking heads will all agree that if only all those black and brown and yellow people would stop being pissy transgenders and turn to Christ, this would be a golden age.

Praise the prez and pass the teargas.



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OKAY CLETUS, GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

A dream involving smoked ham, garlic and herb roast chicken sliced thick, and a creamy cheese, on chiabatta bread, two half sandwiches. And a blonde person on the brancard behind me. Being whisked to the emergency room. She had asked to have the sandwich cut in half so it would be much easier to manage while she drove, and when she bit into a whole peppercorn, a brick wall suddenly swerved into her lane. Just before she passed out she had called the design scheme inside the ambulance perfectly "horrid". I had never thought about it in those terms, dear. Clean (sterile) and functional.

Snob.

The juices from the sandwich had throughly drenched her front. She smelled wonderful. Unfortunately the highway officer who responded to the accident had seized the other half of the sandwich as evidence. I would have to see his report to find out where she got it.

Yes, lunch yesterday was unpleasant. A toasted breakfast muffin, unwrapped and bunged into the microwave at three o'clock. The local convenience store seems to be on its last legs as far as meals are concerned, because all the illegals who do the stuff that Marinites won't pay enough for white people to do seem to be staying home or out of the public eye. Soon they'll have to hire poor white trash from places like Alabama or Tennessee, and the language problem will become acute. Or the food will. Insta-grits and red-eye.

Instead of crates of Corona, they'll have to stock Possum's Hoppy.
A fine Southern Ale. Cans. Cheaper by the dozen.
Free toy in each crate.

A vision of pale pallid backs sweating in the noonday sun, in the cottonfields which will replace the salt flats at the edge of the bay, fills my mind's eye. All the leaf blowers and chainsaws left by the Mexicans at full blast. The Salesforce Tower (affectionately know as 'the buttplug building' by the locals) is distantly visible, looming over the city. It can be seen from much of Southern Marin. It's why people there seldom go to San Francisco. They fear the place. Besides the needles, crazy people, and foreigners. A buttplug everywhere!
Those darn liberals have completely ruined San Francisco!

Dammit, I can't stop thinking about that sandwich.

My apartment mate bought pizza twice during the long weekend, plenty for both of us each time. The first one was a New York worthy thin crust slighty greasy exemplar, of which there is still one slice left for breakfast, the second was something that caught her eye while she was shopping at Trader Joe's. Which is all gone now. I had some of that for dinner on Saturday. I'm pizza'ed out.

Instead of the canciones, corridos, and brassy banda sounds which dominate after the hour for leafblowing ends, we'll start hearing passionately wailing airs about pick-up trucks, kids in the yard, and Jesus. Poor suffering Jesus. Moonshine. Gluten-free Jesus. Whiskey. Jesus in the plate of grits. Jesus going down the dirt road at ninety miles per hour low on gas. With a Jesus license plate, oh Jesus.


I don't think the Punjabis running convenience stores are ready for that.
I know I'm not.



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AM I A SAINT YET?

Surprisingly, the detestables in the backroom were relatively well-behaved today. I ascribe that to the retired member of the judicial branch being absent. Along with the book he often pretends to read. There was none of his whiny petulant kvetching, and no bad tempered excoriation of everyone to the left of Benito Mussolini.

He supports everything that Trump has done.
Wholeheartedly, one hundred percent.

Seeing as he's Jewish, I really should ask him how he feels about the Shylock comment, or "the only kind of people I want counting my money are short guys that wear yarmulkes every day". But I bet he'd say that I'm taking all that out of context, as we liberals often do.


It's such a darn shame that we liberals are so nitpicky about minor things, rather than fully supporting a truly great man, a real patriot, who is making America great again.
Despite our horrible ingratitude.

Some of those boys in the back are just genuinely stupid.
Some of them are Jewish. Some of them are laywers.
And some of them, bless their hearts, are evil.
They're capable of multi-tasking.

Both psychopaths, AND dumb-asses!

On a different note, the two Mexico supporters during today's soccer match are both traitors, you know that, right? If they're so keen on those people, they should move there. It's just so wrong of them!

I do not count on white men in Marin County to have half a brain.



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SPIRIT AND SPARK

It was a dream in which I was sampling Asian desserts at the booth during a sake festival. Now, I should clarify that I am not particularly fond of either sake or Asian desserts. Black sesame soup, red bean pudding? Mmm, no. But there was a woman there who had spirit and spark. And I was trying to convince her that snow pears are wonderful.

There is snow pear on the counter in the kitchen.
Which I think I will eat tomorrow. It is time.
Snow pears are indeed wonderful.

日本酒
清酒

Also, a sake made by a Dutch company (our flag was on the bottle) won five prizes at the festival. Which is berserk. We don't make sake. And this was in fact made by Dutch Americans in San Francisco. Not the Netherlands.
Sold in square bottles. Like genever.

All I can say is the woman enjoying the Asian desserts was quite engaging. Mmm.
How odd that she was on the fence about snow pears.
It takes all kinds.

There's also something off kilter about naming the product Deshima (出島) in honour of a trade ghetto. Snarky, almost. In addition to not making sake, we Dutch are not known for snark either. But as I said, it was a dream. Anything is possible in dreams.


For three nights in a row I've slept badly. Thursday night and Friday night it was fireworks, car alarms, and howling dogs. Last night I woke up to go pee (No, it was NOT because of sake) and couldn't easily get back to sleep. An ache in the lower extremities.



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THE LOST DUTCHMAN'S MINE

While normally I am proud to be a Dutch American, I wish to point out that certain Dutch Americans are NOT my relatives, and if they were, I would be the first to curse them and cast them out as abominations. Derrick Van Orden should be avoided by all decent people. Hij vertegenwoordigt het slechste onder de mensheid, het NSB type bij uitstek.
Naturally, he's a Republican.

Sadly, he is not unusual among Dutch Americans. One only has to think of the sumsucking cretins in the previous Trump administration to realize that like flies, manure attracts them. There are reasons so many verkrampte klootzaken left the old country for the United States in the last hundred and fifty years. Besides blinkers and ignorance.

My people date from New Amsterdam. We prefer not to associate with those more recent arrivals. For reasons that should be bloody obvious.

De meesten zijn schorem en uitschot.

Though there are exceptions.

Fortunately some of the worst people in the United States are NOT Dutch Americans. Donald Trump, Joel Osteen, Ron De Santis, Kristi Noem, Kash Patel, Mike Johnson, Tommy Tuberville, Marjorie Taylor Green Stephen Miller. Plus the city of Miami.

And of course everybody who works for Fox News, its affiliates, and subsidiaries.

Got to hear rightwing cultmembers at length today.

There's a special place in hell.



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OKAY, BEULAH!

It turns out that one of the people whom I know on Facebook thinks my previous essay about 'Burnt Weenie Day' is too negative. Why, there are tonnes of good people in this country sincerely celebrating! And my sneering at them is unjustified and uncalled for. So I apologize. With limitations. No apologies to Alabama, Florida, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Texas. Nor to Arizona. Their politicians are unprincipled opportunistic butt lickers with badly hidden retrograde cavemen (or women) tendencies and merit calumny and insult.

Still on the fence about Georgia, however. Yes, there's Marjorie Taylor Green. Unmitigated and repulsive. But one of my favourite fellow pipesmokers lives there (John O.), which speaks in favour of the place. Let the one stand in for the many.
No hellfire and brimstone yet.

Wouldn't want to visit the place, because it's filled with chick-fil-A, grits, vidalia onion soda, brown recluse spiders, fire ants, ticks, termites, and all the usual mosquito-borne illnesses (chikungunya, dengue fever, malaria, West Nile, zika, and yellow fever), plus, apparently, syphilitic inbred idiots living in the swamps.

But I admire John's commitment.
He is by no means insane.

Also NOT on the shit-list: South Carolina. One of my all-time favourite tobacco companies (Cornell & Diehl) is located there, staffed by literate real human beings, with a head-blender (Jeremy Reeves) whose innovation and attention to fine details has maintained nearly unviversal (meaning my own) well-being and mellowness for years.



Specifically INCLUDED in my bad-tempered snarl of castigation is the area just to the south of California Street, between Hyde and Van Ness, whose wretched denizens set off explosive devices shortly after midnight yesterday, continuing with brief interruptions during which one could, deceptively, sink back into slumber, till nearly four in the morning. Heathens!

I sincerely hope they catch food poisoning today.

Undercooked chicken products.



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THE BURNING SEASON

Ever so often a fellow pipesmoker will attempt to friend me on Facebook. Which is flattering. Some of them, however, are Trump supporters. Who do not realize that they are detestable people, poor dears, and hell will freeze over before I give them the time of day. Which goes for all the rightwing hosebags I have to associate with during working hours also, and because of them I hope parts of Marin County burn to cinders this summer.

Well shoot, I hope half the damned country goes up.
For pretty much the exact same reason.

No, we're clearly not all in this together. Every time a natural disaster hits one of the red states I think "good, those dumb sonsofbitches deserved it, hope the barn washes away, mosquito-born ailments hit, they end up desperate for clean water, their damned cows die, and Fema delays whatever help they give till the dipwads are all diseased and bankrupt". Because, you see, I am more or less intolerant of Christians and their bigotries.

Again, we're not all in this together.

Bet the British are happy they're rid of us, which they're probably celebrating today.
And the Canadians are probably damned glad there's border between us.

Anyhow, I hope everyone enjoys their burnt hotdog and prancing drum majorettes today. Both of those are best washed down with strong tea. Which of course you can't get in most parts of the country, because people chucked the tea leaves into the drink and habitually swill shitty beer there during the day. On holidays they start at breakfast. Which probably explains why people lose their hands on July Fourth and half the country becomes Florida man.



By the way, that bloody stump or bleeding eye-socket from playing with fireworks?
Ivermectin, manuka honey, and apple cider vinegar. That's the ticket.
Just stay out of the emergency room, fellas.
Real people might need it.



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NO LOUDNESS PLEASE

While walking down Pacific Avenue after eating roast pork and tofu with gravy over rice (燒肉豆腐飯 'siu yiuk dau fu faan') at the establishment where I went instead of the claypot rice place where I originally intended to have lunch (which apparently is closed on Thursday) -- it was exceedingly good, and I note that they now also do roast goose (燒鵝 'siu ngo'), of which I am exceedingly fond and I'll have that next time, soon -- it was savagely brought home to me how thoroughly I detest the white American bourgeoisie. Because they're loud.
And uncontrolled. Especially when male and teenage.

No modulation at all, immoderate, and badly behaved. Rowdy.
All thirteen of them. Damn' it all, you unbridled savages.


No wonder the little peckerheads support Trump and spread disease.


I'm surprised that U. C. Berkeley isn't all Asian American.
I suppose they have to let in some of the dingoes.
In lieu of sending them to a borstal.


Other than the mob of young white male highschool flunkazoids, and the horrible cold winds, I very much enjoyed my lunch and the half hour with a pipe afterwards. Traffic in the Financial District was sparse, pedestrians were few.

You know, I can still taste that siu yiuk. Delicious.
The pipe afterwards was the perfect capstone.


I probably need some coffee now.



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AND YOUR LITTLE DOG TOO

It's body chemistry combined with modern medication: early in the day I feel perky and in top form, whereas by evening, even with a strong cup of tea, I'm rather limp. And I think a large part of that is amlodipine besylate, which despite the limpening effect is probably beneficial. The low temperatures shortly after dawn are not so draggy either.

Another difference is that the first pipes of the day taste better. Quite excellent! Even if the entire neighborhood is out there walking their furry poo-factories over the blasted heath of Nob Hill, no matter. I shall glower at them, puff, and wonder if there is a suitable local coffee shop without oatmilk lattes, that has a sheltered terrace, and staff that's too lazy and apathetic to object if I commandeer a corner for a cup and pipeful.

After all, all the vegan new age hippies with their bourgeois anti-smoking fury are inside, and have entered through the other door too bleary to even notice the old crotchet outside perfuming the air with his smoke.

There's one location which would be absolutely perfect. It's a corner spot near the top of the hill, currently a defunct office of some sort, with appropriate bleakness and no trees for the hounds to sniff and pee against. The north side would catch the morning sun, the western window wall would be perfect shaded shelter. Just put a table, a rattan chair, and a windscherm there, plus ashtrays, and pretend it's in Amsterdam.
Yeah, not flat, no canal, and on a hillside.
Imaginary Amsterdam.

Add a small good Indonesian restaurant somewhere nearby, a shop selling antique ceramics, and a second hand bookstore with an extensive selection of foreign language literature and obscure reference books, and the soymilk matchaccino crowd would probably avoid the neighborhood. Which would be an ideal situation!

No more highly individualist tattoos, no more ripped jeans, no more colourful ethnic rags from somewhere south of Buttachengotenanga. No more Karens-in-training, or downtown techno yuppies. No yorkies or chihuahuas!

A man can dream.


Speaking of dreams, just before waking up I was painting a lacy transparent insect wing with irridescent and reflective areas. Species unknown. One of the clean bugs.
A very warm weather image.



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FROM WHENCE ESCAPE

Some of them were right bastards. That being people among whom I spent part of my youth. Duch Christians, like American fundamentalists, can be perfectly horrid people, judgemental and sneering. I was reminded of this by cruising into a couple of webpages that dealt with Valkenswaard and its inhabitants. Fortunately most of them were not like that.

I remember Valkenswaard with slightly more fondness than distaste.

But I do not keep close contact with any of the people from that part of my life, and actually know only two of them on Facebook. That's not really their fault, as it's been quite a number of years since I returned to the States, and I never was socially talented.

Sunlit summers, rainy days, deep café verandas, long long evenings.
Fried snacks. Indonesian foods. First taste of herring.
Cigars. The aroma of coffee.
Silver grey sky.

One memory which particularly lingers is of long hours in the public library in Eindhoven, the metropolis ten kilometer northwards. An industrial city with a technical university and a dull bourgeois culture. Plus browsing at De Slegte, a multi-storey second hand bookstore.

Then maybe more Indonesian food, fried snacks, or coffee.

The trainstation also recalls fond memories for me. Probably the main reason I still like stations. Some Dutch and English small towns are charming in that regard. Older architecture, between functional, industrial, and civic pride from bygone eras.

Valkenswaard used to have a functioning station, but when we lived there it was already long defunct. That line hadn't run in ages, and within the town itself the tracks had been removed, leaving a broad boulevard cutting through the town to the east of the city centre, past the Willem II cigar factory. Which now no longer exists either.

Every town in the Kempen region is visually dominated by a church. Around which are often the most lively drinking holes in the place, which nowadays are busier than the house of worship. Cultural priorities have shifted quite a bit in the post-war period.
Coffee, fried snacks, and Indonesian food are nearby.
Yeah, I miss those.



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SMELLS LIKE ZEITGEIST

After dealing with postal employees and bureaucrats recently, my apartment mate realizes that she must be a nicer person. Which is remarkable, because she already is a very nice person. But she feels bad for sometimes acting under the assumption that her co-workers are idiots. Um, we all do that, it's natural, and they are.

We used to be a couple, then we broke up, and we still live together. Separate rooms, of course. It's been several years. Trust me, she is a nice person. I am not. Which she hasn't ever noticed, because as previously mentioned, she is a nice person.
My obvious flaws are far less noticeable if you're her.

What that means is that for a long time now I've enjoyed the security of living with someone whom I can trust, and her stuffed animals, even though I'm often an unpleasant old crouch, with stuffed animals some of whom are clearly insane.

She also has similar habits, despite being such a hugely different person. She likes tea, I like tea. She likes listening to jazz, I am largely unmusical. She appreciates classical music, I'm somewhat a barbarian. She likes Chinese food, I add hotsauce to it. She occasionally eats junkfood, whereas I think it's only edible if I add hotsauce. And both of us love Indian food upon occasion (although I will ask for a few fresh chilipeppers to nibble on between bites).

When she gets salt and pepper chicken wings from a nearby Chinese restaurant she asks them to throw plenty of sliced Jalapeños in when frying them, because she knows I'll put them on my plate as the perfect vegetable accompiniment, good for digestion and my emotional well-being.

A COLD PLACE

One point on which I'm slowly coming around to her point of view is the mystical belief in snow weasels. Creatures that slink and wriggle around outside during cold weather clacking their cutleries waiting for someone to stumble into their path that they can whack and feast upon. They come down from Alaska on well-worn trails and are the main reason why California is scarcely populated. Bones litter the route along the Sierras.

I used to scoff at that. How absurd!
Now I'm not so sure.

It's been the coldest June in San Francisco since the middle ages. They brought the cold with them. Climate change. Small wriggly foreign intelligences manipulating the weather.
It's a very rational explanation for why I sometimes shut down and whimper.
Unlike some of those stupid people wearing shorts or halter tops.


Early this morning, when I stepped with my pipe for a smoke, I froze my tuchus off. It's still lying somewhere on Nob Hill (Taylor Street at Jackson), shivering on the sidwalk, moaning that we should burn some Republicans for warmth, and their silly little lap dogs too!
Two disconsolate pink blobs, cold cold cold!

I must restore my soul with a cup of HK milk tea and something hot and crispy: a fried fish burger and French fries: 香酥魚柳包 · 薯條 ('heung sou yü lau baau, sue tiu').
Heading out early for lunch in Chinatown. With a sweater.
Darn those snow weasels.



I'm enjoying Ellipsis Flake these days. Another fine tobacco product from Greg Pease. The tin poofle states: "Against a backdrop of rich Virginia tobaccos, small leaf Izmir, St. James Perique and a trace of heirloom Burley create a dreamscap of flavors that dance across your palate. Its natural sweetness mingles with notes of citrus, ethereal hints of exotic spices and a delicately nutty character engaging your senses, inviting your imagination to explore what lies beyond." It's good stuff. Mild-medium, very enjoyable. I scarcely notice the Burley.
The Turkish leaf probably tones that down a bit.



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THE USUAL PERAMBULANCE

There were two gentlemen sleeping rough on Grant Avenue past the small dry goods shop where I sometimes buy State Express 555 after visiting my doctor, and two fellows who look even worse for wear in the ally of the beer place. While I smoked my pipe in the time before the bookseller arrived a disconnected person asked me if the tobacco shop was further up. Well, there's the cigar store back where you just came from -- it used to be fondly known as the DBS (Dirty Book Store) but they changed hands years ago -- but he didn't want to go there, and proceeded southward. Twenty minutes later he passed by again.
Probably still without smokes.

Yeah um. There are almost no late night liquour stores near Chinese neighborhoods. Not enough raving alcoholics. You really want a Caucasian community for that. Sorry, dude.

Wind. Fog. Cold tourists.

A drunken couple.

Not Chinese.

We actually got into the karaoke joint this evening. It was nearly empty. There wasn't anyone singing John Denver or The Eagles (I hate the Eagles, man), and though Tat Yee did assay a Cantonese air, the volume was not painful. This was after something by Abba had come on.
Abba are the Eury equivalent of The Eagles.

It got a little more crowded after that (two well-brought up middle-aged Chinese women ordered Shirley Temples), and the bookseller and myself headed out.

While at miss Vivien's, I used one of my pipe cleaners on my cigarette holder, and realized that the main advantage of both a pipe and a cigarette holder is that you can see what you are setting fire to. That's probably why short pipes don't work for me (in addition to looking too hobbit-like).

Currently shoving GLP's Ellipsis into my pipes. It's perfect for foggy evenings. I might actually go out again later to enjoy the effect of streetlights in the mist, but probably not. I expect that may be what I will be smoking after my bladder wakes me at the usual hour.
It will still be dark and foggy then.


Picking up some refills and having lunch in Chinatown tomorrow.
Looking forward to it. Lunch, that is.



By the way: one of the sewers underneath Spofford is plugged up, and the pavement is slick after the third mahjong parlour on the right. So step gingerly.



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RABBIT, RABBIT. JULY 1, 2025.

Rabbit rabbit. It is traditional to start the year and the months with something lucky, and rabbit rabbit is lucky. In Florida they say alligator alligator instead, which accounts for all the goofy things that happen there.

Wise men stay out of Florida. That's where the booga booga lives.
As well as alligators that raid your trash can.
And use your doggie door.

One of the dreams last night was about something banned in libraries in Florida. No, not drag-queen story hour, or anything about evolution or vaccines. But trust me, worth it.

And it wasn't food related. Everything in Florida is either greasy or fried.
Including highway frog mash, served on a Cuban roll.
Crispy and green.

No, I've never been to Florida. Why do you ask?

Do I really need to visit a place where the weather is in the nineties, with high humidity and relatives of De Santis, Rubio, and other rightwing Cuban blowhards everywhere?
Besides the narco-trafficantes and inbred Southern sherriffs?
Kind of like Guantanamo with corndogs.


As I understand it, they're still waiting for the twenty fifth and twenty sixth letters of the alphabet to drop. There is great curiosity. They've heard so much about it.
Maybe they'll finally take up reading.


Avoid Florida, at all costs.
Rabbit rabbit.



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