According to popular belief in the eastern Meditarranean, Loukoumiya is good for your testicles or your sex-drive. I'm not sure which, and I'm not going to ask.
The natives of Greece, Cyprus, and Turkey all claim it as their own. Possibly they do so because of sex. That is something about which people are often possessive.
Lukum was introduced to the west in the 19th century under the name Turkish Delight. The actual name for the sweet is rahat lukum. Lukum means morsel, rahat means peace or contentment, so the translation is a 'morsel of contentment'.
The Turkish name may actually derive from Arabic: راحة الحلقم rahat al-hulkum: contentment of the gullet.
Please note that the name does not refer to sex in either language.
[Applets & Cotlets, by Liberty Orchards, is an offshoot of this type of sweet.]
RAHAT LUKUM
2 cups sugar.
4 tablespoons cornstarch.
1 cup water.
1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar.
2 tablespoon rosewater (available at Middle Eastern stores).
1/2 cup chopped pistachios, walnuts, or almonds.
Confectioner's sugar for dusting.
Mix sugar, cornstarch and cream of tartar with the water and boil for five minutes, stirring the while. Remove from heat and add rosewater and chopped nuts. Apply a little cooking oil to a rectangular pyrex dish (or use non-stick cooking spray) and pour in mixture to a depth of an inch. When cool, cut into rectangles and roll each piece in powdered sugar.
Store at room temperature in airtight container.
Fruit juice may be used in lieu of plain water - strained orange juice or clear apple juice is excellent, and a lemon may be squeezed in for tanginess. Food colouring as deemed appropriate can be added, and some people roll it in coconut shreds or crushed nuts.
Note that it can also be made with orange essence, or even orange blossom water (moit ez zaher), in lieu of the rosewater (moit el ward). Rosewater is traditional, but not essential.
I doubt that the rosewater is the secret ingredient that makes it tonifying to the masculine gelatinous parts, but feel free to examine the issue if you wish and brief the rest of us on what you conclude - we are fascinated by your gelatinous parts.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
BORAT: CULTURAL LEARNINGS OF AMERICA FOR MAKE BENEFIT GLORIOUS NATION OF KAZAKHSTAN
For those who might be unaware, Borat is a character played by Sacha Baron Cohen. The movie was meant to be comedic - if you didn't get that, I am sorry. Maybe you do not belong to the target audience? Or possibly you belong in an Arab country; excepting Lebanon, it was banned everwhere in the Arab world.
BORAT
The man is a comic genius and a loose cannon. Especially worth noting were the scenes expressing oddness or disruption of logic - the fierce bear scaring the kids running alongside the ice-cream truck, the wistful statement that they should've stayed in New York, because at least there are no Jews there.
Also hugely enjoyable is the utter vulgarity of the nude wrestling match in the convention hotel, and the consternation of the pretentious Southern dinner party guests at Borat's behaviour - especially when the hooker arrives.
Imagine Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road' combined with William Burroughs distorted reality.
The movie itself doesn't say much about America and Americans. Stereotypes, yes, but extreme examples. It should be noted that Sasha Cohen always deals with such extremes, and is far less vicious in jabbing the soft-underbelly of his subjects than many comedians, who leave little whole or unbleeding of their victims.
The movie can also be seen as a retelling of a mediaeval quest epic. Our hero leaves his poor native village on a long journey into the unknown, accompanied by a faithful troll. Together they have many adventures in strange lands, acquire an animal companion, battle dangers. They split up, our hero pursues the princess, and when all is lost, he and his faithful troll companion meet up again. He finally realizes what he's really been looking for, and goes back to the hinterland settlement to woo the ugly peasant girl with a heart of gold, with whom he returns in triumph to his native village.
The only loose end is the question everyone asks: how do you cook a bear?
Like many movies, it is also an exorcism. It shows that which is feared in a way that denatures it, and by doing so, it renders the monster harmless, the dark unthreatening. The ending which ties up loose ends and reinterprets the plot motiefs functions as a settling of uncertainties, and returns the daemons loosened in the retelling to a stable and completely circumscribed state of stasis.
BORAT
The man is a comic genius and a loose cannon. Especially worth noting were the scenes expressing oddness or disruption of logic - the fierce bear scaring the kids running alongside the ice-cream truck, the wistful statement that they should've stayed in New York, because at least there are no Jews there.
Also hugely enjoyable is the utter vulgarity of the nude wrestling match in the convention hotel, and the consternation of the pretentious Southern dinner party guests at Borat's behaviour - especially when the hooker arrives.
Imagine Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road' combined with William Burroughs distorted reality.
The movie itself doesn't say much about America and Americans. Stereotypes, yes, but extreme examples. It should be noted that Sasha Cohen always deals with such extremes, and is far less vicious in jabbing the soft-underbelly of his subjects than many comedians, who leave little whole or unbleeding of their victims.
The movie can also be seen as a retelling of a mediaeval quest epic. Our hero leaves his poor native village on a long journey into the unknown, accompanied by a faithful troll. Together they have many adventures in strange lands, acquire an animal companion, battle dangers. They split up, our hero pursues the princess, and when all is lost, he and his faithful troll companion meet up again. He finally realizes what he's really been looking for, and goes back to the hinterland settlement to woo the ugly peasant girl with a heart of gold, with whom he returns in triumph to his native village.
The only loose end is the question everyone asks: how do you cook a bear?
Like many movies, it is also an exorcism. It shows that which is feared in a way that denatures it, and by doing so, it renders the monster harmless, the dark unthreatening. The ending which ties up loose ends and reinterprets the plot motiefs functions as a settling of uncertainties, and returns the daemons loosened in the retelling to a stable and completely circumscribed state of stasis.
ENKELE GEDACHTEN OVER AMERIKA EN DE REST VAN DE WERELD
Men heeft wel eens gezegd dat Amerikanen niet bepaald veel talent hebben wat diplomatie betreft. Onze relatie met de Europeanen bewijst dat wel - met elk jaar dat voorbij gaat zijn de Europeanen minder te spreken over ons dan voorheen.
De transatlantieke bondgenootschap bestaat nog maar nauwelijks, Europa is ons in vele opzichten liever kwijt dan rijk. En het is duidelijk dat de Europeanen hun eigen affaires beter regelen kunnen zonder door ons lastig gevallen te worden.
Ook wij hebben niet zo veel meer aan de Europeesche connectie.
Joegoslavië
Balkan een en twee zouden, zonder inmenging van de VS, nog grotere slachtpartijen zijn geweest dan ze al waren. Niet dat dat goed zou zijn geweest, maar die inmenging heeft ons echt geen lof gebracht - nu nog worden wij daarvoor verboemand door velen die liever geen confrontatie met de Serben hadden gehad en zich door onze betweterij gekrenkt wisten.
[Ware wij instede afzijdig geweest, dan zou de hele wereld hebben geweten wat een stel hypokriete nietsnutten de Europeanen zijn. Eerlijk gezegd zou dat mij goed uitkomen.]
Stel nu dat er ergens weer een oorlog plaatsvind - Is het niet hoogtijd dat Europa er wat aan doet? Daargelaten dat ze normalitair daar net doen alsof er niets aand de hand is en er geen str*nt aan hun fikkes kleeft.
Irak & Iran
Wat Irak betreft, dat was een geweldig stomme zet van ons. Niet alleen omdat die oorlog geen valide basis had, maar meer omdat het zo'n pracht opportuniteit was voor onze "bondgenoten" ons voor aap te zetten. Die opportuniteit heeft de Bush regering hun stomblind geschonken, de Duitsers en Fransen gingen met die opportuniteit vrolijk aan de haal, en genieten er nog van na.
Sindsdien kunnen we om enige medewerking wel fluiten, vooral wat het midden-oosten betreft. Geen mens in Europa die zich aantrekt wat de VS over Irak of Iran zegt, of het zou slechts om te spotten wezen.
We moeten maar dulden dat de Fransen en Duitsers, kalm en doordacht, op subtiele en intelligente wijze, door geduldige diplomatische onderhandelingen met hun ambstgenoten in Iran, het op den duur toch niet presteren de Iraniers ervan te overtuigen dat die kernwapen ontwikkeling stop gezet moet worden. Het word beslist een mislukking, maar wel een zeer beschaafde mislukking. Een monument van jamitsneemaar.
Als we straks Iran plat moeten bombarderen krijgen we waarschijnlijk weer van de Europeanen te horen dat we te ongeduldig en te ongenuanceerd zijn, werkelijk, onderhandelingen waren bijna geslaagd, heus waar, maar wat wil je, die Amerikaansche cowboy mentaliteit.......
Scheel
Laat Amerika zich maar niet in andermans oorlogen mengen, en zich niet met andermans natuurrampen bemoeien. Als ergens de boel in puin is, triest, maar wie kan het eigenlijk schelen? Wat mij betreft klaart de wereld maar hun eigen perkara.
Ik begrijp wel dat zo'n opvatting asociaal is, kinderachtig, onrealistisch, onhumanistisch, en typisch Amerikaans. Doet me weinig.
En ik weet wel dat het onze eigen schuld is dat de rest van de wereld de pest aan ons heeft. Maar ge raad het wel..... ook dat kan mij allang niet meer schelen.
Kijk, de internationale populariteits contest hebben we al verloren. Venezuala, Rusland, Iran, en Cuba zijn ons op dat gebied ver en blijvend vooruit. Het heeft dus geen punt om nog te competeren.
De transatlantieke bondgenootschap bestaat nog maar nauwelijks, Europa is ons in vele opzichten liever kwijt dan rijk. En het is duidelijk dat de Europeanen hun eigen affaires beter regelen kunnen zonder door ons lastig gevallen te worden.
Ook wij hebben niet zo veel meer aan de Europeesche connectie.
Joegoslavië
Balkan een en twee zouden, zonder inmenging van de VS, nog grotere slachtpartijen zijn geweest dan ze al waren. Niet dat dat goed zou zijn geweest, maar die inmenging heeft ons echt geen lof gebracht - nu nog worden wij daarvoor verboemand door velen die liever geen confrontatie met de Serben hadden gehad en zich door onze betweterij gekrenkt wisten.
[Ware wij instede afzijdig geweest, dan zou de hele wereld hebben geweten wat een stel hypokriete nietsnutten de Europeanen zijn. Eerlijk gezegd zou dat mij goed uitkomen.]
Stel nu dat er ergens weer een oorlog plaatsvind - Is het niet hoogtijd dat Europa er wat aan doet? Daargelaten dat ze normalitair daar net doen alsof er niets aand de hand is en er geen str*nt aan hun fikkes kleeft.
Irak & Iran
Wat Irak betreft, dat was een geweldig stomme zet van ons. Niet alleen omdat die oorlog geen valide basis had, maar meer omdat het zo'n pracht opportuniteit was voor onze "bondgenoten" ons voor aap te zetten. Die opportuniteit heeft de Bush regering hun stomblind geschonken, de Duitsers en Fransen gingen met die opportuniteit vrolijk aan de haal, en genieten er nog van na.
Sindsdien kunnen we om enige medewerking wel fluiten, vooral wat het midden-oosten betreft. Geen mens in Europa die zich aantrekt wat de VS over Irak of Iran zegt, of het zou slechts om te spotten wezen.
We moeten maar dulden dat de Fransen en Duitsers, kalm en doordacht, op subtiele en intelligente wijze, door geduldige diplomatische onderhandelingen met hun ambstgenoten in Iran, het op den duur toch niet presteren de Iraniers ervan te overtuigen dat die kernwapen ontwikkeling stop gezet moet worden. Het word beslist een mislukking, maar wel een zeer beschaafde mislukking. Een monument van jamitsneemaar.
Als we straks Iran plat moeten bombarderen krijgen we waarschijnlijk weer van de Europeanen te horen dat we te ongeduldig en te ongenuanceerd zijn, werkelijk, onderhandelingen waren bijna geslaagd, heus waar, maar wat wil je, die Amerikaansche cowboy mentaliteit.......
Scheel
Laat Amerika zich maar niet in andermans oorlogen mengen, en zich niet met andermans natuurrampen bemoeien. Als ergens de boel in puin is, triest, maar wie kan het eigenlijk schelen? Wat mij betreft klaart de wereld maar hun eigen perkara.
Ik begrijp wel dat zo'n opvatting asociaal is, kinderachtig, onrealistisch, onhumanistisch, en typisch Amerikaans. Doet me weinig.
En ik weet wel dat het onze eigen schuld is dat de rest van de wereld de pest aan ons heeft. Maar ge raad het wel..... ook dat kan mij allang niet meer schelen.
Kijk, de internationale populariteits contest hebben we al verloren. Venezuala, Rusland, Iran, en Cuba zijn ons op dat gebied ver en blijvend vooruit. Het heeft dus geen punt om nog te competeren.
Monday, August 04, 2008
MCCLELLAND BLACKWOODS FLAKE
If you liked aged pressed Virginias like Rattray's Old Gowrie or Marlin Flake, you may also like McClelland's Blackwoods Flake. But it needs to be smoked on it's own merit, or not at all.
The tin aroma is strongly sour, as of acetic acid. In part this is due to the manufacturers' habit of using what I believe to be malt vinegar as a mold retardant, in part due to a strong fermentation. The streaky flakes need to be aired before use, and it helps if one dries them to the point of crumble, rehumidifying the tin with a drop or two of whiskey if necessary.
[UPDATE OCTOBER 27, 2015: McClelland does not use vinegar in any way -- won't mention which competitor furthered that rumour -- however the aging conditions are such that that exact odour gets created. Warmth, moisture, minor pressure, and the naturally occurring microflora & fauna of Kansas City combine. I have duplicated it in San Francisco.]
It tastes better than it initially smells, though, and has a good sweetness.
This is a very pleasant Virginia, especially compared to the tongue-burn memories of some of the cheap flakes that once were so common. While not particularly strong in taste, there are hints and suggestions in the smoke that are very nice, and there is a spiciness that comes into its own about halfway into the bowl. Like all flakes it must be smoked very slowly; not doing so will leave the tongue feeling raw and swollen.
The reason it does not give a very strong taste despite the evident care and judgment expended upon the production is that it not only contains dark Virginia, which because of stoving has a narrow flavour spectrum, but it has been pressed and aged further after blending, thus mellowing out the flavours - and given that it is composed of only two tobaccos (red and black Virginias), what one gets is a splendid example of its type, but not any extraordinary complexity.
The room note reminds people of something cake-like, or sometimes a plum-pudding. A few others might smell incense.
I have some tins of this tobacco set aside - not for daily smoking, but as a pleasant change of pace from the tarty blondes with which I normally flirt when I wish a break from Orientals. It has charm as a last smoke at night, when a certain person is deep in the arms of Morpheus, and the building is dark and quiet. Perfect during rainstorms.
Fully rubbed this is also a good blending base when compounding an old-fashioned Scotch Balkan; one can overload the Turkish, more so than with pale ribbons. There is a passage in Boswell's account of a trip to the highlands with Doctor Johnson, in which the energetic sexuality of Celts is mentioned with a mixture of admiration and distaste. That, precisely, is the appeal of aged flake in Scotch blends.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The tin aroma is strongly sour, as of acetic acid. In part this is due to the manufacturers' habit of using what I believe to be malt vinegar as a mold retardant, in part due to a strong fermentation. The streaky flakes need to be aired before use, and it helps if one dries them to the point of crumble, rehumidifying the tin with a drop or two of whiskey if necessary.
[UPDATE OCTOBER 27, 2015: McClelland does not use vinegar in any way -- won't mention which competitor furthered that rumour -- however the aging conditions are such that that exact odour gets created. Warmth, moisture, minor pressure, and the naturally occurring microflora & fauna of Kansas City combine. I have duplicated it in San Francisco.]
It tastes better than it initially smells, though, and has a good sweetness.
This is a very pleasant Virginia, especially compared to the tongue-burn memories of some of the cheap flakes that once were so common. While not particularly strong in taste, there are hints and suggestions in the smoke that are very nice, and there is a spiciness that comes into its own about halfway into the bowl. Like all flakes it must be smoked very slowly; not doing so will leave the tongue feeling raw and swollen.
The reason it does not give a very strong taste despite the evident care and judgment expended upon the production is that it not only contains dark Virginia, which because of stoving has a narrow flavour spectrum, but it has been pressed and aged further after blending, thus mellowing out the flavours - and given that it is composed of only two tobaccos (red and black Virginias), what one gets is a splendid example of its type, but not any extraordinary complexity.
The room note reminds people of something cake-like, or sometimes a plum-pudding. A few others might smell incense.
I have some tins of this tobacco set aside - not for daily smoking, but as a pleasant change of pace from the tarty blondes with which I normally flirt when I wish a break from Orientals. It has charm as a last smoke at night, when a certain person is deep in the arms of Morpheus, and the building is dark and quiet. Perfect during rainstorms.
Fully rubbed this is also a good blending base when compounding an old-fashioned Scotch Balkan; one can overload the Turkish, more so than with pale ribbons. There is a passage in Boswell's account of a trip to the highlands with Doctor Johnson, in which the energetic sexuality of Celts is mentioned with a mixture of admiration and distaste. That, precisely, is the appeal of aged flake in Scotch blends.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SINGING: A REPULSIVE ART
Life with Savage Kitten is not an unalloyed blessing. Sometimes...... Sometimes......
Savage Kitten, in addition to her many fine traits, has a disturbing facet: her sheer love of tastelessness. In consequence of which I have seen more bad movies than I care to count.
There are a few horrid movies I have now seen several times. There is one that just bores me (Leave Her To Heaven, 1945), and one that nearly makes me gag.
It is bad squared, bad in triplicate, and bad in barf-o-vision.
MISERABLE CRAP
Back in 1995 she bought her first copy of the movie, and watched it nearly every day for an entire year. I would come home and find her in the teevee room, guiltily shutting off the television, with an entranced look in the corner of her eye - she had watched several of her favourite scenes, and gotten her daily fix of bad. Or I would wake up early on a weekend, and hear the soundtrack of the gagger from the other room. By the end of the first month, she had all of the songs in the movie memorized. The songs were all bad.
At the end of that year she finally realized that she had a problem, and gave the tape away. Baruch Hashem. It was a really bad movie. Appalling. A repulsive fever-inducing toxic dump of a movie. Very very bad.
She has borrowed it occasionally from the library in the years since, which is very unpleasant. It is worse than Land of the Pharaohs (1955), worse than Titanic (took us nearly two weeks to watch), and far, far worse than Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962).
VALLEY OF THE DOLLS
Worst musical movie of all time. The plot is turgid and unbelievable, the acting is talentless pedestrian hamming, and the characters are boring and two-dimensional. But it is the songs that really tip this one over into the realm of disaster.
Example:
I'll Plant My Own Tree
I’ll plant my own tree and I’ll make it grow.
My tree will not be just one in a row.
My tree will offer shade,
when strangers go by.
If you’re a stranger, brother, well so am I.
Come tomorrow all that I see is my tree,
oh, Lord, what a sight.
Let someone stop me and I will put up a fight.
It’s my yard so I’ll try hard
to welcome friends I have yet to know.
Oh, I’ll plant my own tree,
my own tree,
and I’ll make it grow!
Man, I don't know where to begin. What the heck does this mean?
Is this worse than anything in Annie? Yes, yes it is, this is far worse. The only thing wrong with Annie was the disgusting little kiddies, but one could fondly fantasize about a plague at the orphanarium or food-poisoning in the gruel. Or fun with hatchets. Go ahead, dream a nasty fate for most of the people in the movie.
Not so with Valley of the Dolls. The characters have lives of such dreary dullness that imagining any further torture has no point. They are not worth thinking about, their adventures do not stimulate any sympathy, and whatever happens to them is predictable, uninteresting, and dispiriting. Their souls cry out for misery, and they get what they deserve.
And yet they sing.
With this tree song, we have something both depressing and moronically optimistic at the same time. It is meant to be artistic, meaningful, brassy, defiant.
Yesterday evening, while I was in the kitchen making fatty meatballs with mushrooms and cucumber over noodles, I could hear Savage Kitten happily singing this song. It is one of her favourites. It makes her happy because it is so spectacularly vapid, meaningless, and bad.
She crooned it three more times while I was cooking.
She has all the songs from that movie memorized. My life is hell.
Savage Kitten, in addition to her many fine traits, has a disturbing facet: her sheer love of tastelessness. In consequence of which I have seen more bad movies than I care to count.
There are a few horrid movies I have now seen several times. There is one that just bores me (Leave Her To Heaven, 1945), and one that nearly makes me gag.
It is bad squared, bad in triplicate, and bad in barf-o-vision.
MISERABLE CRAP
Back in 1995 she bought her first copy of the movie, and watched it nearly every day for an entire year. I would come home and find her in the teevee room, guiltily shutting off the television, with an entranced look in the corner of her eye - she had watched several of her favourite scenes, and gotten her daily fix of bad. Or I would wake up early on a weekend, and hear the soundtrack of the gagger from the other room. By the end of the first month, she had all of the songs in the movie memorized. The songs were all bad.
At the end of that year she finally realized that she had a problem, and gave the tape away. Baruch Hashem. It was a really bad movie. Appalling. A repulsive fever-inducing toxic dump of a movie. Very very bad.
She has borrowed it occasionally from the library in the years since, which is very unpleasant. It is worse than Land of the Pharaohs (1955), worse than Titanic (took us nearly two weeks to watch), and far, far worse than Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962).
VALLEY OF THE DOLLS
Worst musical movie of all time. The plot is turgid and unbelievable, the acting is talentless pedestrian hamming, and the characters are boring and two-dimensional. But it is the songs that really tip this one over into the realm of disaster.
Example:
I'll Plant My Own Tree
I’ll plant my own tree and I’ll make it grow.
My tree will not be just one in a row.
My tree will offer shade,
when strangers go by.
If you’re a stranger, brother, well so am I.
Come tomorrow all that I see is my tree,
oh, Lord, what a sight.
Let someone stop me and I will put up a fight.
It’s my yard so I’ll try hard
to welcome friends I have yet to know.
Oh, I’ll plant my own tree,
my own tree,
and I’ll make it grow!
Man, I don't know where to begin. What the heck does this mean?
Is this worse than anything in Annie? Yes, yes it is, this is far worse. The only thing wrong with Annie was the disgusting little kiddies, but one could fondly fantasize about a plague at the orphanarium or food-poisoning in the gruel. Or fun with hatchets. Go ahead, dream a nasty fate for most of the people in the movie.
Not so with Valley of the Dolls. The characters have lives of such dreary dullness that imagining any further torture has no point. They are not worth thinking about, their adventures do not stimulate any sympathy, and whatever happens to them is predictable, uninteresting, and dispiriting. Their souls cry out for misery, and they get what they deserve.
And yet they sing.
With this tree song, we have something both depressing and moronically optimistic at the same time. It is meant to be artistic, meaningful, brassy, defiant.
Yesterday evening, while I was in the kitchen making fatty meatballs with mushrooms and cucumber over noodles, I could hear Savage Kitten happily singing this song. It is one of her favourites. It makes her happy because it is so spectacularly vapid, meaningless, and bad.
She crooned it three more times while I was cooking.
She has all the songs from that movie memorized. My life is hell.
Friday, August 01, 2008
OBAMA, HAMAS, AND A ZOO
News articles, broadcast pundits, and opinion pieces being circulated on the internet, state categorically that Hamas endorses presidential candidate Barrak Hussein Obama.
Who cares?
It is irrelevant to both the United States and to Israel, and should have no bearing on the opinions or votes of Israel supporters, Jews, or Zionists.
What Islamic whackjobs think about American politicians is not germane.
Furthermore, the views about American politics by foreigners, even well-informed foreigners, often betray an astounding ignorance of the process and unfamiliarity with the players. Hamas approving of Obama is similar to the Euroleft urging Americans to vote for the loser of the last election. We don't care what they believe, we are uninterested in their input, we remain unmoved by any of their squiggly little opinions. Did they say something? Sorry, we weren't listening.
Unfortunately, what many Americans think about the candidates and the election is scarcely any better - and often flabbergastingly loopy.
I have in the past several months received innumerable e-mails informing me that Obama is a secret Muslim, a graduate of a fundamentalist madrassa, a communist, a black nationalist, a radical anti-Israel Arabo-phile who supports terrorists, a member of the illuminati, a Free-mason, and a satisfied purchaser of Viagra and Cyalis. Apparently he is also the father of Brittany's love-child and a star in bestiality porn. This in addition to news articles linking him to Hamas, the Catholic Church, and a Jewish Cabal. But I digress.
The only people outside of Berkeley likely to change their vote because of Hamas are toothless and drooling savages in parts of West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee - except, of course, that they cannot spell either Obama OR Hamas, and think the first is Japanese, the second German (both electric toasters). They weren't gonna vote for 'that man' anyway; they're fairly sure he's black (it's hard to tell when the only working teevee in the holler is black and white and out of focus), and they cannot read his name on the ballot because they didn't memorize the alphabet past the letters kkk.
There are very few Americans who follow Hamas' positive recommendations when voting - their votes are batel be shishim in any case. Likewise, very few Americans form their negative opinions of the candidates based on foreign endorsements - they too are batel be shishim. If a block of voters made up their mind based on editorials in Pravda, these also would be batel be shishim. And anybody who votes the way his priest or rabbi dictates should definitely be batel be shishim.
The opinions of a bunch of gibbering nutballs in charge of a formerly fish-daemon worshipping hellhole called Gaza makes no difference. The only opinion of theirs that has weight is whether the price of firing off qassams is justified.
As a final note, there are only two candidates: McCain and a democrat.
In California it does not matter who the democrat will be - the state will go with the democrats. In large parts of the country, it does not matter who the republican is. It also makes little difference after the election. Whoever wins will need the continuing goodwill of their own party, the co-operation of the hacks in congress, and a modicum of non-enmity from both the other side and the talking heads, and will have to operate within the constraints of the American political system in any case.
====================================
LAST THOUGHTS
If, entirely hypothetically, an actual radical Muslim candidate did miraculously win the presidency and tried to turn this country into a caliphate (please stop laughing, I did say it was hypothetical), that Muslim would soon discover that the president has no power without co-operation from the federal bureaucracy, both chambers, the judiciary, the backroom bigwigs of both parties, and most significantly, lobbies, interest groups, and think-tanks.
Take for example the ongoing shtoos about acknowledging that Jerusalem is Israel's capitol - the State Department have successfully blocked any move of the embassy to Jerusalem for decades, even though everyone agrees that yes, Jerusalem is the capitol. Bush vowed to move the embassy to Jerusalem. It ain't gonna happen. Congress demands it. It ain't gonna happen. The reality is that Jerusalem is the capitol, but the realism is that the State Department enforces the smoke-screen that it isn't.
Presidential insanity ("we are now the caliphate of Usastan, and will henceforth speak only Swedish") would get a team of white coats into the oval office with tranquilizers and a tailored straightjacket so fast it would seem miraculous.
Obama could be from Mars. Who cares? No one will be forced to eat Martian ragweed or psychedelic Venusian purple alfalfa if he gets elected - those interest groups and lobbies just don't have any clout on planet earth. Certainly not in Washington. If Obama were to go too much against the interests of the government bureaucracies, CIA, the military, the oil-industry, and whatever other big players are out there in government-land, he would be at best side-tracked by scandals and political shenanigans, at worst sent to take a slow ride in an open vehicle past a book depository.
Cynthia McKinney is also running for president - she's a serious whacko, and electing her really would be opening the door to hell, but she stands so little chance that we need not worry. The real loonies (McKinney, Nader, Hagel, Paul) could never be nominated by one of the two major parties. The system tends to expose all the warts on a candidate's rump well before November, especially as there are people digging for all possible liabilities.
It's like a day at the track. If they're running three-legged wrecks, you're not at a real horse race. If they're running an outerspace alien, it's probably only a local council election. And if you really think Obama is a secret Muslim / Marxist / Martian, you are probably nuts. Or Texan.
Who cares?
It is irrelevant to both the United States and to Israel, and should have no bearing on the opinions or votes of Israel supporters, Jews, or Zionists.
What Islamic whackjobs think about American politicians is not germane.
Furthermore, the views about American politics by foreigners, even well-informed foreigners, often betray an astounding ignorance of the process and unfamiliarity with the players. Hamas approving of Obama is similar to the Euroleft urging Americans to vote for the loser of the last election. We don't care what they believe, we are uninterested in their input, we remain unmoved by any of their squiggly little opinions. Did they say something? Sorry, we weren't listening.
Unfortunately, what many Americans think about the candidates and the election is scarcely any better - and often flabbergastingly loopy.
I have in the past several months received innumerable e-mails informing me that Obama is a secret Muslim, a graduate of a fundamentalist madrassa, a communist, a black nationalist, a radical anti-Israel Arabo-phile who supports terrorists, a member of the illuminati, a Free-mason, and a satisfied purchaser of Viagra and Cyalis. Apparently he is also the father of Brittany's love-child and a star in bestiality porn. This in addition to news articles linking him to Hamas, the Catholic Church, and a Jewish Cabal. But I digress.
The only people outside of Berkeley likely to change their vote because of Hamas are toothless and drooling savages in parts of West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee - except, of course, that they cannot spell either Obama OR Hamas, and think the first is Japanese, the second German (both electric toasters). They weren't gonna vote for 'that man' anyway; they're fairly sure he's black (it's hard to tell when the only working teevee in the holler is black and white and out of focus), and they cannot read his name on the ballot because they didn't memorize the alphabet past the letters kkk.
There are very few Americans who follow Hamas' positive recommendations when voting - their votes are batel be shishim in any case. Likewise, very few Americans form their negative opinions of the candidates based on foreign endorsements - they too are batel be shishim. If a block of voters made up their mind based on editorials in Pravda, these also would be batel be shishim. And anybody who votes the way his priest or rabbi dictates should definitely be batel be shishim.
The opinions of a bunch of gibbering nutballs in charge of a formerly fish-daemon worshipping hellhole called Gaza makes no difference. The only opinion of theirs that has weight is whether the price of firing off qassams is justified.
As a final note, there are only two candidates: McCain and a democrat.
In California it does not matter who the democrat will be - the state will go with the democrats. In large parts of the country, it does not matter who the republican is. It also makes little difference after the election. Whoever wins will need the continuing goodwill of their own party, the co-operation of the hacks in congress, and a modicum of non-enmity from both the other side and the talking heads, and will have to operate within the constraints of the American political system in any case.
====================================
LAST THOUGHTS
If, entirely hypothetically, an actual radical Muslim candidate did miraculously win the presidency and tried to turn this country into a caliphate (please stop laughing, I did say it was hypothetical), that Muslim would soon discover that the president has no power without co-operation from the federal bureaucracy, both chambers, the judiciary, the backroom bigwigs of both parties, and most significantly, lobbies, interest groups, and think-tanks.
Take for example the ongoing shtoos about acknowledging that Jerusalem is Israel's capitol - the State Department have successfully blocked any move of the embassy to Jerusalem for decades, even though everyone agrees that yes, Jerusalem is the capitol. Bush vowed to move the embassy to Jerusalem. It ain't gonna happen. Congress demands it. It ain't gonna happen. The reality is that Jerusalem is the capitol, but the realism is that the State Department enforces the smoke-screen that it isn't.
Presidential insanity ("we are now the caliphate of Usastan, and will henceforth speak only Swedish") would get a team of white coats into the oval office with tranquilizers and a tailored straightjacket so fast it would seem miraculous.
Obama could be from Mars. Who cares? No one will be forced to eat Martian ragweed or psychedelic Venusian purple alfalfa if he gets elected - those interest groups and lobbies just don't have any clout on planet earth. Certainly not in Washington. If Obama were to go too much against the interests of the government bureaucracies, CIA, the military, the oil-industry, and whatever other big players are out there in government-land, he would be at best side-tracked by scandals and political shenanigans, at worst sent to take a slow ride in an open vehicle past a book depository.
Cynthia McKinney is also running for president - she's a serious whacko, and electing her really would be opening the door to hell, but she stands so little chance that we need not worry. The real loonies (McKinney, Nader, Hagel, Paul) could never be nominated by one of the two major parties. The system tends to expose all the warts on a candidate's rump well before November, especially as there are people digging for all possible liabilities.
It's like a day at the track. If they're running three-legged wrecks, you're not at a real horse race. If they're running an outerspace alien, it's probably only a local council election. And if you really think Obama is a secret Muslim / Marxist / Martian, you are probably nuts. Or Texan.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
SPRINGY ROUND BOTTOMS
In everybody's circle of friends and acquaintances there are few who habitually show up late. Whether it's for a simcha, supper, or an important appointment.
Sometimes, showing up late is a metaphor - they're actually on time, but the train hasn't left the station, the boat is still at the dock, and the elevator is stuck a few floors down from the top.
I have received the following plaintive e-mail from one such person:
Dear xxxxx,
This message is to inform you that you have received a personal invitation from your friend, (mxxxsxxx) to join them at GayGuysChat.com
Please take time to visit them using the following link: GayGuysChat.com
Regards,
GayGuysChat Support
Oh boy. I'm tempted. The sheer amount of havoc I could wreak is staggering. Problem is, I'm not gay. As the sender knows.
He just hasn't quite figured out how to mail an invite from gayguyschat to a limited subsection of his address book yet.
Perhaps I should sweetly inquire whether he needs a few pointers on how to use a computer.
But I probably won't - this is not the first time I have received his kindly gayguyschat invite - he has been sending gayguyschat invites repeatedly to all several hundred people in his address book since January, I think, when the first blistering fire-storms burst out from outraged recipients, some of whom had not heard from him in years.
"You don't call, you don't write, I never hear from you, and this is the first thing I get since I sent you a present on your birthday? Your father and I are very upset!!!"
Or:
"You never congratulated your niece on her graduation, you didn't even send a get-well card after the horrible accident, you ignored your own brother when he was dying of cancah, but this(!) you can send?!?*&*?"
I wonder what gay guys chat about. Straight people? Sex?
Football players?
Football players well-rounded bottoms in tight shiny uniform pants?
I must admit that straight people and sex do indeed interest me - heck, fascinate me no end at times - but football players and their shiny uniformed bottoms are not high on my list of things I really must investigate.
If a football player, even one with a very nice springy round bottom in a tight uniform, were to pass by, I would not break stride.
His very nice springy round bottom (uniformed or otherwise) would remain unpatted, unpinched, unobserved. I would not wax lyrical about its springy roundness afterwards, would write no paeans to its tightly uniformed glory, poetize no lyrics to its pattable and pinchable beauty.
There is only one kind of nice springy round bottom that interests me. It is not discussed at gayguyschat, of that I am certain. Despite the uniform.
Sometimes, showing up late is a metaphor - they're actually on time, but the train hasn't left the station, the boat is still at the dock, and the elevator is stuck a few floors down from the top.
I have received the following plaintive e-mail from one such person:
Dear xxxxx,
This message is to inform you that you have received a personal invitation from your friend, (mxxxsxxx) to join them at GayGuysChat.com
Please take time to visit them using the following link: GayGuysChat.com
Regards,
GayGuysChat Support
Oh boy. I'm tempted. The sheer amount of havoc I could wreak is staggering. Problem is, I'm not gay. As the sender knows.
He just hasn't quite figured out how to mail an invite from gayguyschat to a limited subsection of his address book yet.
Perhaps I should sweetly inquire whether he needs a few pointers on how to use a computer.
But I probably won't - this is not the first time I have received his kindly gayguyschat invite - he has been sending gayguyschat invites repeatedly to all several hundred people in his address book since January, I think, when the first blistering fire-storms burst out from outraged recipients, some of whom had not heard from him in years.
"You don't call, you don't write, I never hear from you, and this is the first thing I get since I sent you a present on your birthday? Your father and I are very upset!!!"
Or:
"You never congratulated your niece on her graduation, you didn't even send a get-well card after the horrible accident, you ignored your own brother when he was dying of cancah, but this(!) you can send?!?*&*?"
I wonder what gay guys chat about. Straight people? Sex?
Football players?
Football players well-rounded bottoms in tight shiny uniform pants?
I must admit that straight people and sex do indeed interest me - heck, fascinate me no end at times - but football players and their shiny uniformed bottoms are not high on my list of things I really must investigate.
If a football player, even one with a very nice springy round bottom in a tight uniform, were to pass by, I would not break stride.
His very nice springy round bottom (uniformed or otherwise) would remain unpatted, unpinched, unobserved. I would not wax lyrical about its springy roundness afterwards, would write no paeans to its tightly uniformed glory, poetize no lyrics to its pattable and pinchable beauty.
There is only one kind of nice springy round bottom that interests me. It is not discussed at gayguyschat, of that I am certain. Despite the uniform.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
MY DALLIANCE WITH A TROLLOP
Relevant and purely imaginary quote: "Good heavens, Cletus, it smells like a Turkish cat-house here". There are three things that mark a misspent pipe-smoking youth. One of which is Erinmore Flake.
OVER-RIPENED FRUIT
In the spring on 1974, when I was still fourteen years old, our cat discovered my pipes and tobacco where I had hidden them, under a cabinet in the downstairs drawing room. That evening my mother lectured me on the evils of smoking - it took her all of three cigarettes puffed in slow succession to deliver the lecture - and then my father spoke sternly to me. The gist of his discourse was I had to keep my pipes clean (always use pipe-cleaners), and good pipe tobacco needed no additional fragrances; perfumed tobaccos that smelled like a Turkish cathouse were garbage, and should be avoided like a dose of clap.
This is Pshat.
Since then I have not smoked Erinmore Flake.
All pipe smokers of a certain age have experimented with it - it is hard to avoid buying this product at least once, as the friendly and colourful tin with its garish red blazoon on a yellow field beckons one from across a counter, lures one with its cheery appearance, shakes an appealing visual leg at the easily distracted young rake. And like an adventure with a drug-addled whore, one very quickly regrets the decision. From close up, the perfume is strictly drugstore bargain, the make-up thick and smeared, the hotel-room mildewed and depressing.
[All of which is Moshol, please understand.]
For me that 'regret' came one day in March of that year, when I smoked two full bowls of Erinmore Flake one after the other. And threw up violently as a result. I was sick as a dog. Utter misery.
In all fairness I should mention that this may have been caused by not using pipe-cleaners, and inadvertently swallowing some of the gurgle in the shank. This was before my father's words of advice. Pipe-cleaners, in this allegory, are either condoms OR a course of penicillin - either way, this is the Remez.
A few days afterwards I repeated the experience. Two bowls. Followed by nauseated heaving.
I never did finish that tin.
[An infuriating waste of money - did I ever mention that I am a cheap-skate? It's a Dutch characteristic I have never shaken, and have no intention of giving up. Throwing away money on a tin one will not finish is a souring experience.]
Erinmore Flake, with its fruity reek and foul habits, was the veritable tart among the tobaccos, the whore of Babylon, the shameless Catholic Church among the sober Protestants. I loathed it. For years those attractive yellow tins mocked me, from dark corners of tobacconists, or neatly stacked shelves, on two continents. Where-ever I saw an Erinmore tin, it seemed to wink and say "how about it, big boy, I've had my shots".
I resented the implied familiarity - I did NOT want to be seen in its company under any circumstances.
So, seeing as I have been in an experimenting mood these past few months, and having heard that Erinmore Flake will soon no longer be available on these shores, I naturally bought a tin.
ERINMORE FLAKE
Made in the EU under the authority of Murray Sons & Co LTD, Belfast
[Originally by Murray Sons & Company Limited]
Short slices of Virginia flake, cased with pineapple, and possibly also licorice and prune extract.
It is not nearly as funky as I remember it, because it is no longer the same. Erinmore Flake was one of the trademarks moved by British American Tobacco to Orlik in 2005. It may have been changed somewhat after the transfer, but it is as likely that Murrays toned it down after the eighties. It actually smells fairly pleasant now. If smoked slowly, the pewy stink burns off after the first few puffs, and a pleasant Virginia taste comes through which is rather enjoyable. It burns down cleanly to a fine white ash.
[If NOT smoked ultra-slow, it leaves your mouth feeling like you've got a case of oral clap. Be forewarned.]
--- --- --- --- ---
WHY YOU SWEET THING, ARE YOU ALL ALONE TONIGHT?
I would not recommend Erinmore Flake, will not publicly admit to liking it, and shall not smoke it at the Occidental for fear of being labeled a disgusting pervert, but it certainly isn't bad. I'm over half-way through the tin, and will definitely finish it. It has all the illicit appeal of a dewy teenager alone in the house and tiddly on her dad's bourbon. Yummy.
Erinmore Flake is slightly reminiscent of Dunhill Light Flake - probably because they have for a long time been produced by the same factory; the tins presently available come from Orlik Tobacco Company
( http://www.orlik.com/sw3035.asp ).
Before Orlik started making the Dunhill Flake, it likewise was manufactured in Belfast - Dunhill have not had an actual plant since 1981, when Rothmans International consolidated production of all their pipe-tobaccos at Murrays.
[It being remembered that Carreras International bought Murrays in 1953, and acquired Dunhill in 1967, then were themselves purchased by Rothmans in 1972. Production of Dunhill pipe-tobacco was moved to Belfast in 1980 and 1981. Rothmans merged with British American Tobacco in 1998, B.A.T. shut down the Belfast location and farmed out manufacture of pipe-tobaccos to Orlik in late 2004. By 2005 Belfast started disappearing from the shelves, to be replaced by Danish product. In February of 2007, B.A.T. sold all brands save Dunhill and one other (something unmentionable) to Orlik. Orlik is now the largest producer of pipe-tobacco in the world.]
I suspect that the recipe in the seventies had an inclusion of air-dried leaf (Burley or Maryland), which allowed it to suck up more of that Hello Kitty teenage hooker aroma. Straight Virginia (flue-cured) just doesn't soak up the cheap cologne very well. The product looks the same, but is a fish of a different kettle.
This, of course, is the Drash of the shiur.
A further indication that this is not the same product as the Erinmore Flake sold in the seventies lies in the complete absence of any involuntarily recalled memories. It does not stimulate flights of remembrance, I do not automatically go back in my mind's nose to the park near the Kleine Ven in Valkenswaard where I upchucked the first time, nor to the bench in the small courtyard along the Eindhovensche Weg where I was sick the second time. I do not feel the warm breeze outside the apartment buildings in the newer neighborhoods, nor see the streetlights through the branches of the trees.
I have to deliberately work at bringing those scenes back to mind, the tobacco does not do it.
This is the Sod.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
OVER-RIPENED FRUIT
In the spring on 1974, when I was still fourteen years old, our cat discovered my pipes and tobacco where I had hidden them, under a cabinet in the downstairs drawing room. That evening my mother lectured me on the evils of smoking - it took her all of three cigarettes puffed in slow succession to deliver the lecture - and then my father spoke sternly to me. The gist of his discourse was I had to keep my pipes clean (always use pipe-cleaners), and good pipe tobacco needed no additional fragrances; perfumed tobaccos that smelled like a Turkish cathouse were garbage, and should be avoided like a dose of clap.
This is Pshat.
Since then I have not smoked Erinmore Flake.
All pipe smokers of a certain age have experimented with it - it is hard to avoid buying this product at least once, as the friendly and colourful tin with its garish red blazoon on a yellow field beckons one from across a counter, lures one with its cheery appearance, shakes an appealing visual leg at the easily distracted young rake. And like an adventure with a drug-addled whore, one very quickly regrets the decision. From close up, the perfume is strictly drugstore bargain, the make-up thick and smeared, the hotel-room mildewed and depressing.
[All of which is Moshol, please understand.]
For me that 'regret' came one day in March of that year, when I smoked two full bowls of Erinmore Flake one after the other. And threw up violently as a result. I was sick as a dog. Utter misery.
In all fairness I should mention that this may have been caused by not using pipe-cleaners, and inadvertently swallowing some of the gurgle in the shank. This was before my father's words of advice. Pipe-cleaners, in this allegory, are either condoms OR a course of penicillin - either way, this is the Remez.
A few days afterwards I repeated the experience. Two bowls. Followed by nauseated heaving.
I never did finish that tin.
[An infuriating waste of money - did I ever mention that I am a cheap-skate? It's a Dutch characteristic I have never shaken, and have no intention of giving up. Throwing away money on a tin one will not finish is a souring experience.]
Erinmore Flake, with its fruity reek and foul habits, was the veritable tart among the tobaccos, the whore of Babylon, the shameless Catholic Church among the sober Protestants. I loathed it. For years those attractive yellow tins mocked me, from dark corners of tobacconists, or neatly stacked shelves, on two continents. Where-ever I saw an Erinmore tin, it seemed to wink and say "how about it, big boy, I've had my shots".
I resented the implied familiarity - I did NOT want to be seen in its company under any circumstances.
So, seeing as I have been in an experimenting mood these past few months, and having heard that Erinmore Flake will soon no longer be available on these shores, I naturally bought a tin.
ERINMORE FLAKE
Made in the EU under the authority of Murray Sons & Co LTD, Belfast
[Originally by Murray Sons & Company Limited]
Short slices of Virginia flake, cased with pineapple, and possibly also licorice and prune extract.
It is not nearly as funky as I remember it, because it is no longer the same. Erinmore Flake was one of the trademarks moved by British American Tobacco to Orlik in 2005. It may have been changed somewhat after the transfer, but it is as likely that Murrays toned it down after the eighties. It actually smells fairly pleasant now. If smoked slowly, the pewy stink burns off after the first few puffs, and a pleasant Virginia taste comes through which is rather enjoyable. It burns down cleanly to a fine white ash.
[If NOT smoked ultra-slow, it leaves your mouth feeling like you've got a case of oral clap. Be forewarned.]
--- --- --- --- ---
WHY YOU SWEET THING, ARE YOU ALL ALONE TONIGHT?
I would not recommend Erinmore Flake, will not publicly admit to liking it, and shall not smoke it at the Occidental for fear of being labeled a disgusting pervert, but it certainly isn't bad. I'm over half-way through the tin, and will definitely finish it. It has all the illicit appeal of a dewy teenager alone in the house and tiddly on her dad's bourbon. Yummy.
Erinmore Flake is slightly reminiscent of Dunhill Light Flake - probably because they have for a long time been produced by the same factory; the tins presently available come from Orlik Tobacco Company
( http://www.orlik.com/sw3035.asp ).
Before Orlik started making the Dunhill Flake, it likewise was manufactured in Belfast - Dunhill have not had an actual plant since 1981, when Rothmans International consolidated production of all their pipe-tobaccos at Murrays.
[It being remembered that Carreras International bought Murrays in 1953, and acquired Dunhill in 1967, then were themselves purchased by Rothmans in 1972. Production of Dunhill pipe-tobacco was moved to Belfast in 1980 and 1981. Rothmans merged with British American Tobacco in 1998, B.A.T. shut down the Belfast location and farmed out manufacture of pipe-tobaccos to Orlik in late 2004. By 2005 Belfast started disappearing from the shelves, to be replaced by Danish product. In February of 2007, B.A.T. sold all brands save Dunhill and one other (something unmentionable) to Orlik. Orlik is now the largest producer of pipe-tobacco in the world.]
I suspect that the recipe in the seventies had an inclusion of air-dried leaf (Burley or Maryland), which allowed it to suck up more of that Hello Kitty teenage hooker aroma. Straight Virginia (flue-cured) just doesn't soak up the cheap cologne very well. The product looks the same, but is a fish of a different kettle.
This, of course, is the Drash of the shiur.
A further indication that this is not the same product as the Erinmore Flake sold in the seventies lies in the complete absence of any involuntarily recalled memories. It does not stimulate flights of remembrance, I do not automatically go back in my mind's nose to the park near the Kleine Ven in Valkenswaard where I upchucked the first time, nor to the bench in the small courtyard along the Eindhovensche Weg where I was sick the second time. I do not feel the warm breeze outside the apartment buildings in the newer neighborhoods, nor see the streetlights through the branches of the trees.
I have to deliberately work at bringing those scenes back to mind, the tobacco does not do it.
This is the Sod.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
YES, IT REALLY IS ALL ABOUT THE MONEY!
Back in the mid-nineties I worked at an Indian restaurant as a cashier / bookkeeper / belligerent guardian of the cash box. I was at that time the only nearly-waspy person there.
Customarily, at the end of the evening, the tips would be counted and pooled. Having already been burned on that thankless task, the owner gladly left it to the headwaiter. Who knew what each person had done that evening, and whom he could most rely on to get work done in the future and therefore needed to keep happy.
That the headwaiter was the one chosen to divide the tips was deeply and bitterly resented by the Frightful Tamil She-wolf who also worked at the restaurant. She was in an enduring state of fury that everyone trusted him, and thus obviously was not giving her the respect that she deserved. Not him!
[Many of us found her impossible to work with - I shall not veer into lashon hara, but merely describe her as lordy my heavens what a bitch.]
KURUKSETRA REVISITED
One evening the only people left in the restaurant were Mr. Singh (headwaiter), J-sahib (owner), Frightful Tamil She-wolf, and myself. The busboys had been paid off, the kitchen staff were gone, Gopu-ji had come out of the basement and taken his leave.
I was the cashier, so my share of the tip was purely symbolic. J-sahib, as owner, got no tips. The headwaiter and the Frightful Tamil She-wolf hated each other's guts with a passion.
...............
Did I ever mention that there is nothing quite so dangerous as a bored Indian?
Perhaps I should explain that first. A busy Indian is a happy Indian, or leastways a distracted Indian, and will proceed about the business at hand with keen interest and a cheerful attitude. A bored Indian, on the other hand, is deeply disturbed unless something entertaining can be found. Anything.
If need be, the bored Indian will create a disturbance.
Or pick a fight.
Or start a sectarian riot.
It had not been a busy evening. Mr. Singh and the Frightful Tamil She-Wolf had had little to keep them occupied. The final part of the tip would be divided between Mr. Singh and the Frightful Tamil She-wolf.
...............
Mr. Singh proved his maturity and diplomatic nature by dividing the amount equitably, an equal dollar count for both of them. The coins were converted to paper, and that too was divided. All together about a hundred dollars each.
That left twenty five cents. 25¢
Mr. Singh at that point threw maturity, diplomatic nature, and all caution to the wind by taking that twenty five cents for himself - he was the headwaiter, and he had rank. 25¢
IT'S MINE!
At this the fight was on. The Frightful Tamil She-wolf would not yield a twenty-five cent advantage, and Mr. Singh proved himself a Punjabi to the max by. NOT. GIVING. AN. INCH!
For the next two hours they yelled at each other across the table, and at me everytime I opened my mouth. And of course I shouted back - I had long ago learned that the only way one held one's own in an Indian "discussion" was brazenly and at the top of one's lungs. 25¢
J-sahib just sat there with a stunned look on his face as World War Three raged around him. 25¢
ANCIENT INDIAN WISDOM
At an opportune moment J-sahib optimistically ventured that there was a famous parable the point of which would surely put it all in perspective and resolve the dispute.
"There was a gentleman who wished to be called 'swami'", he began (okay, he's the boss, let's listen to him). "He wished to be called 'swami', but no one in his village wanted to do so. So he went to his guru, and asked what on earth to do" (good lord, what is the dear man going on about?).
"His guru told him that he would ask the little boys of the village to call the man swami, but he must jump up and down and scream and throw stones when they did so. The man begged for clarification, the guru said never mind just do it" (J-sahib was getting animated, the three of us so far had not seen the relevance and listened expectantly).
"The next day, some boys of the village called the man 'swami', and he threw a very splendid fit. Every day this happened, which drew the attention of others, and soon everybody in the village would call the man 'swami', because of his lovely fits. It was all very beautiful, you see. After several months, the man went back to his guru. 'Guru-ji', he said, 'they now verily do indeed call me swami - but alas it does not make me happy, as I have to scream and shout and express all manner of bad languages. What to do, what to do?' 'Stop your fitting and throwing stones', said the guru. And he did. But the village kept calling him 'swami' for ever after, and so he became happy".
J-sahib leaned back with a satisfied look on his face, certain that we understood - that story clarified everything.
We were stunned - what the divvil did any of it have to do with anything - and promptly resumed screaming, which lasted another hour and a half more. 25¢
That twenty five cents represented principle and decency and everything fine and good and sweet in the world, and we weren't going to give it up. 25¢
J-sahib just sat there, baffled and slightly hurt that we had not seen the transcendent wisdom of the little story and were incapable of grasping some eternal verity or other.
I cannot even remember who, in the end, got the quarter, despite the three and a half hours of 'effort'. I think I did... perhaps as a thank you for being the "fair witness".
Purely symbolic. Worth every penny.
Customarily, at the end of the evening, the tips would be counted and pooled. Having already been burned on that thankless task, the owner gladly left it to the headwaiter. Who knew what each person had done that evening, and whom he could most rely on to get work done in the future and therefore needed to keep happy.
That the headwaiter was the one chosen to divide the tips was deeply and bitterly resented by the Frightful Tamil She-wolf who also worked at the restaurant. She was in an enduring state of fury that everyone trusted him, and thus obviously was not giving her the respect that she deserved. Not him!
[Many of us found her impossible to work with - I shall not veer into lashon hara, but merely describe her as lordy my heavens what a bitch.]
KURUKSETRA REVISITED
One evening the only people left in the restaurant were Mr. Singh (headwaiter), J-sahib (owner), Frightful Tamil She-wolf, and myself. The busboys had been paid off, the kitchen staff were gone, Gopu-ji had come out of the basement and taken his leave.
I was the cashier, so my share of the tip was purely symbolic. J-sahib, as owner, got no tips. The headwaiter and the Frightful Tamil She-wolf hated each other's guts with a passion.
...............
Did I ever mention that there is nothing quite so dangerous as a bored Indian?
Perhaps I should explain that first. A busy Indian is a happy Indian, or leastways a distracted Indian, and will proceed about the business at hand with keen interest and a cheerful attitude. A bored Indian, on the other hand, is deeply disturbed unless something entertaining can be found. Anything.
If need be, the bored Indian will create a disturbance.
Or pick a fight.
Or start a sectarian riot.
It had not been a busy evening. Mr. Singh and the Frightful Tamil She-Wolf had had little to keep them occupied. The final part of the tip would be divided between Mr. Singh and the Frightful Tamil She-wolf.
...............
Mr. Singh proved his maturity and diplomatic nature by dividing the amount equitably, an equal dollar count for both of them. The coins were converted to paper, and that too was divided. All together about a hundred dollars each.
That left twenty five cents. 25¢
Mr. Singh at that point threw maturity, diplomatic nature, and all caution to the wind by taking that twenty five cents for himself - he was the headwaiter, and he had rank. 25¢
IT'S MINE!
At this the fight was on. The Frightful Tamil She-wolf would not yield a twenty-five cent advantage, and Mr. Singh proved himself a Punjabi to the max by. NOT. GIVING. AN. INCH!
For the next two hours they yelled at each other across the table, and at me everytime I opened my mouth. And of course I shouted back - I had long ago learned that the only way one held one's own in an Indian "discussion" was brazenly and at the top of one's lungs. 25¢
J-sahib just sat there with a stunned look on his face as World War Three raged around him. 25¢
ANCIENT INDIAN WISDOM
At an opportune moment J-sahib optimistically ventured that there was a famous parable the point of which would surely put it all in perspective and resolve the dispute.
"There was a gentleman who wished to be called 'swami'", he began (okay, he's the boss, let's listen to him). "He wished to be called 'swami', but no one in his village wanted to do so. So he went to his guru, and asked what on earth to do" (good lord, what is the dear man going on about?).
"His guru told him that he would ask the little boys of the village to call the man swami, but he must jump up and down and scream and throw stones when they did so. The man begged for clarification, the guru said never mind just do it" (J-sahib was getting animated, the three of us so far had not seen the relevance and listened expectantly).
"The next day, some boys of the village called the man 'swami', and he threw a very splendid fit. Every day this happened, which drew the attention of others, and soon everybody in the village would call the man 'swami', because of his lovely fits. It was all very beautiful, you see. After several months, the man went back to his guru. 'Guru-ji', he said, 'they now verily do indeed call me swami - but alas it does not make me happy, as I have to scream and shout and express all manner of bad languages. What to do, what to do?' 'Stop your fitting and throwing stones', said the guru. And he did. But the village kept calling him 'swami' for ever after, and so he became happy".
J-sahib leaned back with a satisfied look on his face, certain that we understood - that story clarified everything.
We were stunned - what the divvil did any of it have to do with anything - and promptly resumed screaming, which lasted another hour and a half more. 25¢
That twenty five cents represented principle and decency and everything fine and good and sweet in the world, and we weren't going to give it up. 25¢
J-sahib just sat there, baffled and slightly hurt that we had not seen the transcendent wisdom of the little story and were incapable of grasping some eternal verity or other.
I cannot even remember who, in the end, got the quarter, despite the three and a half hours of 'effort'. I think I did... perhaps as a thank you for being the "fair witness".
Purely symbolic. Worth every penny.
Monday, July 28, 2008
I'M ON THE RAG AND I'VE GOT A KNIFE!
Actually, I wanted to put a different name on this post. The title above could be seen as deliberately provocative (it is, but I'm denying that), and someone without a sense of humour might take it as offensive and sexist (recommendation: get a life).
What I actually wanted to place in bold letters above this post was:
BAREFOOT JESUS MEDICATED FOOT POWDER ™ ©
The reason for the Barefoot Jesus Medicated Foot Powder caption would have been the comments that I received on some previous posts from a gentleman named Lev.
EXHIBIT NUMBER ONE:
"Where, pray, is the footlong posting about medicated pedal powder? We demand a disquisition!"
EXHIBIT NUMBER TWO:
"I shall not even try to babel-fish what you wrote. It's all double Dutch, isn't it?"
EXHIBIT NUMBER THREE:
"Uom might be a correct spelling in Indonchina, for one of the ethnic languages especially. Ober mir given in gonzen nisht a hoot vos di tribals es pronuntsen voln, un vil konsekvently es vi 'wong' shriebn."
[The only thing that connects these disparate comments is that they are by the same author.]
I like meshune comments. They liven things up. Especially when there is an element of sheer gibberancy. Admittedly the quotes above were brutally ripped from their contexts, but they were invested with crystal-clear unbalance to begin with, trust me. Lev saw the train leave the station and ran with it. He is able to take an incidental theme and slam it so sideways that it takes over the field. The ball is fertilized, the penguin is on fire, and the wombat is in the house, so to speak. Wow.
How sad that I cannot lecture at length about medicated footpowder. Even though I obsess about the perfect footpowder - does not clump, feels silken and feathery, has a right balance of cornstarch, silica, calcium, and desiccants, in addition to disinfectants, mold retardants, aloe, and a topical painkiller - I have not much thought about the subject. My only "research" is trying out a bottle whenever I discover a new brand.
[There are several half-empty footpowder containers under my bed which will probably never be used again - the product clumped, or smeared and felt moist, or caked up. Inferior foot powders, not up to snuff. I have extremely high foot powder standards. So far Desenex powder seems the best.]
Powdered feet are happy feet.
Think of it as the confectioner's sugar on a bund cake.
When strangers ask me why my shoes have white dust on the tops, I tell them that I work in the post office.
[The explanation 'Desenex leak' is too 'high-concept' for most people.]
Other than that, I have nothing to say about foot powder.
Sorry, Lev, I cannot help you. Good luck finding a brand of medicated footpowder that meets your needs.
[That deals with exhibit number one. Exhibits two and three were put there merely to illustrate the charming yet contradictory chaos behind Lev's commenting.]
EXPLAINING THE TITLE
The caption which drew your attention in the first place really has to do with the other people at the charity where Savage Kitten volunteers on Sundays. It's a soup kitchen, and some of the folks who help prepare food are not entirely compos mentes or gifted conversationalists. Others are too Christian.
Savage Kitten is not nearly as tolerant of the peccadilloes of her fellow humans as you might have thought - my quirks she accepts because of either fierce lust for my hot middle-aged body or my sheer hug-worthy lovability, and she'll put up with the personalities of lobsters and crawdaddies because they are utterly delicious. Other than that, scant patience. She is not a very sociable person.
That may be why they have her trim the beef at a work station by herself.
One of her Sunday co-workers, however, was fooled by her appearance ('looks like a shy Cantonese girl with no life and a sweet personality'), and being an absolute bulb kept trying to strike up a conversation, several Sundays in row. Previously she had distracted him by handing him trays and telling them where to put them, or asking him to dispose of a pan full of bloody gristle and meat juices......
Yesterday, her patience hit empty and swung into negative. When he came over to talk, she simply snapped "I'm on the rag and I've got a knife!".
He avoided her for the remainder of the shift.
I'm horribly jealous. It's a great line, but no one would believe me if I used it.
Besides which, it wouldn't be quite as effective, as I am not that fierce.
She came back from the soup kitchen wreathed in smiles. Best volunteer Sunday ever.
What I actually wanted to place in bold letters above this post was:
BAREFOOT JESUS MEDICATED FOOT POWDER ™ ©
The reason for the Barefoot Jesus Medicated Foot Powder caption would have been the comments that I received on some previous posts from a gentleman named Lev.
EXHIBIT NUMBER ONE:
"Where, pray, is the footlong posting about medicated pedal powder? We demand a disquisition!"
EXHIBIT NUMBER TWO:
"I shall not even try to babel-fish what you wrote. It's all double Dutch, isn't it?"
EXHIBIT NUMBER THREE:
"Uom might be a correct spelling in Indonchina, for one of the ethnic languages especially. Ober mir given in gonzen nisht a hoot vos di tribals es pronuntsen voln, un vil konsekvently es vi 'wong' shriebn."
[The only thing that connects these disparate comments is that they are by the same author.]
I like meshune comments. They liven things up. Especially when there is an element of sheer gibberancy. Admittedly the quotes above were brutally ripped from their contexts, but they were invested with crystal-clear unbalance to begin with, trust me. Lev saw the train leave the station and ran with it. He is able to take an incidental theme and slam it so sideways that it takes over the field. The ball is fertilized, the penguin is on fire, and the wombat is in the house, so to speak. Wow.
How sad that I cannot lecture at length about medicated footpowder. Even though I obsess about the perfect footpowder - does not clump, feels silken and feathery, has a right balance of cornstarch, silica, calcium, and desiccants, in addition to disinfectants, mold retardants, aloe, and a topical painkiller - I have not much thought about the subject. My only "research" is trying out a bottle whenever I discover a new brand.
[There are several half-empty footpowder containers under my bed which will probably never be used again - the product clumped, or smeared and felt moist, or caked up. Inferior foot powders, not up to snuff. I have extremely high foot powder standards. So far Desenex powder seems the best.]
Powdered feet are happy feet.
Think of it as the confectioner's sugar on a bund cake.
When strangers ask me why my shoes have white dust on the tops, I tell them that I work in the post office.
[The explanation 'Desenex leak' is too 'high-concept' for most people.]
Other than that, I have nothing to say about foot powder.
Sorry, Lev, I cannot help you. Good luck finding a brand of medicated footpowder that meets your needs.
[That deals with exhibit number one. Exhibits two and three were put there merely to illustrate the charming yet contradictory chaos behind Lev's commenting.]
EXPLAINING THE TITLE
The caption which drew your attention in the first place really has to do with the other people at the charity where Savage Kitten volunteers on Sundays. It's a soup kitchen, and some of the folks who help prepare food are not entirely compos mentes or gifted conversationalists. Others are too Christian.
Savage Kitten is not nearly as tolerant of the peccadilloes of her fellow humans as you might have thought - my quirks she accepts because of either fierce lust for my hot middle-aged body or my sheer hug-worthy lovability, and she'll put up with the personalities of lobsters and crawdaddies because they are utterly delicious. Other than that, scant patience. She is not a very sociable person.
That may be why they have her trim the beef at a work station by herself.
One of her Sunday co-workers, however, was fooled by her appearance ('looks like a shy Cantonese girl with no life and a sweet personality'), and being an absolute bulb kept trying to strike up a conversation, several Sundays in row. Previously she had distracted him by handing him trays and telling them where to put them, or asking him to dispose of a pan full of bloody gristle and meat juices......
Yesterday, her patience hit empty and swung into negative. When he came over to talk, she simply snapped "I'm on the rag and I've got a knife!".
He avoided her for the remainder of the shift.
I'm horribly jealous. It's a great line, but no one would believe me if I used it.
Besides which, it wouldn't be quite as effective, as I am not that fierce.
She came back from the soup kitchen wreathed in smiles. Best volunteer Sunday ever.
Friday, July 25, 2008
THEY MUST NOT READ MY BLOG
On a daily basis I receive a fairly large amount of spam e-mail. On the basis of which I can understand what the spambrains think of me. Or at least what they fondly imagine that I am.
PROFILE
I am a short middle-aged bald person with a tiny penis and mediocre breasts, who is passionately interested in Britney Spears naked and the sex-lives of female celebritities. I need more fake watches, university degrees, and designer handbags. Plus excercise equipement, diet pills, and a tummy tuck.
And I want money desperately - hence the lottery e-mails from Europe and bank-account queries from Africa. As well as the circulars telling me to buy this stock now now now before Wall Street discovers it.
Lonely girls in Russia wish to share their vacation photos (I think that's what those are) with me, and I must learn one foreign language right now while I sleep - probably so that I can communicate with my insta-girlfriend in ANY city in the continental United States.
Quite the portrait, eh?
JEEBUS
Oh, and apparently I am a Christian. This according to Amazon, who cannot figure out that someone who buys Toratot (well, chumeshim), commentaries, and biographies of rabbis, as well as much stuff about the Talmud, may, probably, with a certain degree of likelihood, not be passionately committed to the best Christian fiction of 2008.
Echt. And b'emmes.
I am in gonzen not interested in reading about the first tentative married steps of a shy young virgin with Jesus in her heart. The uplift, the end of days, and the mark of the beast are not major themes I look for in romance fiction. Feeling sadness for those who are left behind in massive car-crashes on the freeway, after the heavens rain fire and blood, is not an emotion that figures heavily in my appreciation of paperback novels.
In fact, unlike you I could probably go for weeks without needing the words Christ, sin, Eden, rapture, salvation, Revelations, and The Damned. Normally they do not figure prominently in my vocabulary.
The only prolonged conversation I've had in recent years about Jesus was when I explained to a coworker that Torah study with a friend did not, would not, and never had, involved her dear lord in any way imaginable. Jesus and Torah study do not go hand in hand. They are in fact more or less mutually exclusive. This surprised her, and she barely spoke to me for at least the next two years. I believe she still wonders when I'll burst into flames.
It is a darned good thing that the coworker in question does not read my blog. She might take to wearing garlic and silver if she did.
READ THIS NOW
If many people had read my blog, it would have saved them much time and effort.
Hundreds of people in west-Africa might have realized that all the heartfelt missives they sent me over the years have fallen on deaf eyes. I am not their target audience.
The lonely Russian girls would know that I am only interested if they are petite, have dark hair, and blush prettily.
Amazon would cease telling me about wholesome Protestant novellas.
Various people in major European cities would know that I do not gamble, and have not played any games of chance outside of California.
The sellers of herbal supplements, breast enhancers, and three inch augmentifiers would appreciate that I am an enormous hairy manly man built like a rampaging stallion, and the Christians would grasp the utter nonsense of their ideology.
If you have sent me any of the spam mentioned above, please stop.
I do not need it.
I am only interested in panties, wombats, blushing schoolgirls, and elderly rabbis. Whether you want to sell these to me, or merely show me zesty pictures, is up to you.
PROFILE
I am a short middle-aged bald person with a tiny penis and mediocre breasts, who is passionately interested in Britney Spears naked and the sex-lives of female celebritities. I need more fake watches, university degrees, and designer handbags. Plus excercise equipement, diet pills, and a tummy tuck.
And I want money desperately - hence the lottery e-mails from Europe and bank-account queries from Africa. As well as the circulars telling me to buy this stock now now now before Wall Street discovers it.
Lonely girls in Russia wish to share their vacation photos (I think that's what those are) with me, and I must learn one foreign language right now while I sleep - probably so that I can communicate with my insta-girlfriend in ANY city in the continental United States.
Quite the portrait, eh?
JEEBUS
Oh, and apparently I am a Christian. This according to Amazon, who cannot figure out that someone who buys Toratot (well, chumeshim), commentaries, and biographies of rabbis, as well as much stuff about the Talmud, may, probably, with a certain degree of likelihood, not be passionately committed to the best Christian fiction of 2008.
Echt. And b'emmes.
I am in gonzen not interested in reading about the first tentative married steps of a shy young virgin with Jesus in her heart. The uplift, the end of days, and the mark of the beast are not major themes I look for in romance fiction. Feeling sadness for those who are left behind in massive car-crashes on the freeway, after the heavens rain fire and blood, is not an emotion that figures heavily in my appreciation of paperback novels.
In fact, unlike you I could probably go for weeks without needing the words Christ, sin, Eden, rapture, salvation, Revelations, and The Damned. Normally they do not figure prominently in my vocabulary.
The only prolonged conversation I've had in recent years about Jesus was when I explained to a coworker that Torah study with a friend did not, would not, and never had, involved her dear lord in any way imaginable. Jesus and Torah study do not go hand in hand. They are in fact more or less mutually exclusive. This surprised her, and she barely spoke to me for at least the next two years. I believe she still wonders when I'll burst into flames.
It is a darned good thing that the coworker in question does not read my blog. She might take to wearing garlic and silver if she did.
READ THIS NOW
If many people had read my blog, it would have saved them much time and effort.
Hundreds of people in west-Africa might have realized that all the heartfelt missives they sent me over the years have fallen on deaf eyes. I am not their target audience.
The lonely Russian girls would know that I am only interested if they are petite, have dark hair, and blush prettily.
Amazon would cease telling me about wholesome Protestant novellas.
Various people in major European cities would know that I do not gamble, and have not played any games of chance outside of California.
The sellers of herbal supplements, breast enhancers, and three inch augmentifiers would appreciate that I am an enormous hairy manly man built like a rampaging stallion, and the Christians would grasp the utter nonsense of their ideology.
If you have sent me any of the spam mentioned above, please stop.
I do not need it.
I am only interested in panties, wombats, blushing schoolgirls, and elderly rabbis. Whether you want to sell these to me, or merely show me zesty pictures, is up to you.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
NOW MORE WOMBAT THAN EVER
I note, in passing, that several of my readers have left comments evincing an unhealthy interest in wombats (Vombatus ursinus, Lasiorhinos latifrons, -krefftii, et spp.). This blog, for the past week, has seemed an outpost of Wombats-R-Us.
THE WOMBAT
The wombat, for those who are not familiar with the beast, is a quadruped that lives in forested montane areas of Australia and Tasmania. It has rodent-like front teeth and powerful claws for digging up roots. It is crepuscular and nocturnal.
A wombat digests its food slowly. It has a posterior covered with cartilage. It does not have a meaningful tail.
Wombats are dangerous, and have been known to attack humans.
All of this courtesy of Wikipedia. For more on wombats:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wombat
There is a blog called Wombat Bacon here:http://wombatbacon.blogspot.com/
WOMBAT CUISINE
Wombats are unpleasant animals. A search for "wombat curry" yielded no recipes. Apparently the darned thing is nearly inedible. But when braised they can be "quite good" in a white wine sauce. To avoid the brute drying out, lard him with bacon when roasting. A haunch of wombat will probably benefit from prolonged simmering in soy sauce, rice wine, garlic, ginger, and star-anise.
Any form of cooked wombat is probably excellent with Australian lager. But not with anything else. Neither is the Australian lager.
Wombats are not kosher.
FINAL NOTE ABOUT WOMBATS
A gentleman in a suburb of Sydney created a nativity scene entirely out of stuffed wombats on his front lawn. His neighbors complained and the council order it removed. This serves as a warning against home taxidermy - Jesus, Mary, and Josef were rotten and attracted vermin. Which says something either about Christianity or about Australia in the middle of the warm season. I do not care to know what.
THE WOMBAT
The wombat, for those who are not familiar with the beast, is a quadruped that lives in forested montane areas of Australia and Tasmania. It has rodent-like front teeth and powerful claws for digging up roots. It is crepuscular and nocturnal.
A wombat digests its food slowly. It has a posterior covered with cartilage. It does not have a meaningful tail.
Wombats are dangerous, and have been known to attack humans.
All of this courtesy of Wikipedia. For more on wombats:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wombat
There is a blog called Wombat Bacon here:http://wombatbacon.blogspot.com/
WOMBAT CUISINE
Wombats are unpleasant animals. A search for "wombat curry" yielded no recipes. Apparently the darned thing is nearly inedible. But when braised they can be "quite good" in a white wine sauce. To avoid the brute drying out, lard him with bacon when roasting. A haunch of wombat will probably benefit from prolonged simmering in soy sauce, rice wine, garlic, ginger, and star-anise.
Any form of cooked wombat is probably excellent with Australian lager. But not with anything else. Neither is the Australian lager.
Wombats are not kosher.
FINAL NOTE ABOUT WOMBATS
A gentleman in a suburb of Sydney created a nativity scene entirely out of stuffed wombats on his front lawn. His neighbors complained and the council order it removed. This serves as a warning against home taxidermy - Jesus, Mary, and Josef were rotten and attracted vermin. Which says something either about Christianity or about Australia in the middle of the warm season. I do not care to know what.
FURTHER NOTES REGARDING THE KEY LARGO SMOKING MIXTURE BY G. L. PEASE: CONSTITUENT TOBACCOS AND CONTEXT
This post is about pipe tobacco.
Specifically, it is further comment on Greg Pease's latest blend (KEY LARGO), which the label notes describe as:
"Deep, earthy and creamy. A distinguished broken flake of red Virginia tobaccos, small leaf orientals, and a measure of Cyprus Latakia, spiced with velvety cigar wrapper leaf. Key Largo develops throughout the bowl, offering a satisfying and sturdy smoking experience, with beautifully balanced, richly textured layers of cocoa, dark roasted coffee, leather, and a lively, lingering finish."
[I have reviewed KEY LARGO in the previous post (immediately underneath), and also elsewhere.]
The small Oriental leaves mentioned are almost certainly Smyrna (Izmir), the velvety cigar wrapper leaf is probably (?) what in Dutch we would call 'zandblad' (sand-leaf): the bottom-most leaves, large and somewhat velvety to the touch, which are pale yellow when cured.
Latakia tobacco, named after the Syrian port of اللاذقية (Al-Ladhiqiyah, Laodikeia), was a medium oriental leaf, mostly Shek El Bint, which was cured over smoke. Nowadays it comes from Cyprus, as the Syrians have little forest left. The curing fires are made of different woods, the leaf grown in Cyprus is very similar to Smyrna. It is good, though not nearly as delightfully pongy and tarry as the old stuff.
[Sometimes a limited amount of Syrian leaf reaches the market. But it is not the same. They fume it far less now, because of the aforementioned paucity of forest.]
A DISTANT RELATIVE: BALKAN SOBRANIE No. 10
A long time ago, if you wanted a pipe-tobacco with cigar leaf as one of the components of the blend, you would probably have bought Balkan Sobranie Number 10 Virginia (round yellow-lidded tin, dark brown image and lettering), which had cigar leaf in it - allegedly Cuban, though that seems somewhat unlikely, as we sold it at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley. That would not have been possible had it contained Cuban tobacco.
[Balkan Sobranie made a Balkan Mixture (white tin, black lettering), a heavy Latakia mixture (black tin, gold lettering - Mixture No. 759), a cigar leaf Virginia mixture (described above), and a flake, which I utterly cannot remember at all. They also made cigarettes - the Imperial Russians, which were papyrossi with excellent Black Sea tobacco at the end of extra long tubes, Yenidje non-filters that came ten to a tin (in the same league as the Khedive Cigarettes from Germany, both very good - the difference was the resinous quality of Yenidje versus the sweetness and spice of either Samsoun or Smyrna), and Black Russians - blended filter ciggies with black paper, which appealed particularly to people with pretension. But Balkan Sobranie were best known for their pipe-tobacco. The Redstone family owned the company for three generations before finally bowing out. ]
I do not remember much about the No. 10, and will sometime have to open the last tin that I have left. It has probably changed enormously in a quarter of a century (due to the aging process: fermentation, mellowing, and melding of flavours) - the blend has been unavailable since the early eighties. Greg's new blend does not strike me as similar. He has a more delicate hand with the cigar leaf than I recall the Balkan Sobranie No. 10 evincing, and the No. 10 did not have any Oriental (Turkish) tobacco or Latakia.
[I have not tried the McClelland cigar leaf blend, nor any of the very few similar mixtures other manufacturers have produced. Usually they are compounded with cigar smokers in mind rather than pipe smokers. And that cannot be a good idea. ]
Greg Pease's Key Largo is very good indeed, and has an excellent nose.
I could grow quite fond of this.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: The comment string on the previous posting about Key Largo got hijacked by wombats. Such things happen occasionally. It is a hazard of this blog.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Specifically, it is further comment on Greg Pease's latest blend (KEY LARGO), which the label notes describe as:
"Deep, earthy and creamy. A distinguished broken flake of red Virginia tobaccos, small leaf orientals, and a measure of Cyprus Latakia, spiced with velvety cigar wrapper leaf. Key Largo develops throughout the bowl, offering a satisfying and sturdy smoking experience, with beautifully balanced, richly textured layers of cocoa, dark roasted coffee, leather, and a lively, lingering finish."
[I have reviewed KEY LARGO in the previous post (immediately underneath), and also elsewhere.]
The small Oriental leaves mentioned are almost certainly Smyrna (Izmir), the velvety cigar wrapper leaf is probably (?) what in Dutch we would call 'zandblad' (sand-leaf): the bottom-most leaves, large and somewhat velvety to the touch, which are pale yellow when cured.
Latakia tobacco, named after the Syrian port of اللاذقية (Al-Ladhiqiyah, Laodikeia), was a medium oriental leaf, mostly Shek El Bint, which was cured over smoke. Nowadays it comes from Cyprus, as the Syrians have little forest left. The curing fires are made of different woods, the leaf grown in Cyprus is very similar to Smyrna. It is good, though not nearly as delightfully pongy and tarry as the old stuff.
[Sometimes a limited amount of Syrian leaf reaches the market. But it is not the same. They fume it far less now, because of the aforementioned paucity of forest.]
A DISTANT RELATIVE: BALKAN SOBRANIE No. 10
A long time ago, if you wanted a pipe-tobacco with cigar leaf as one of the components of the blend, you would probably have bought Balkan Sobranie Number 10 Virginia (round yellow-lidded tin, dark brown image and lettering), which had cigar leaf in it - allegedly Cuban, though that seems somewhat unlikely, as we sold it at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley. That would not have been possible had it contained Cuban tobacco.
[Balkan Sobranie made a Balkan Mixture (white tin, black lettering), a heavy Latakia mixture (black tin, gold lettering - Mixture No. 759), a cigar leaf Virginia mixture (described above), and a flake, which I utterly cannot remember at all. They also made cigarettes - the Imperial Russians, which were papyrossi with excellent Black Sea tobacco at the end of extra long tubes, Yenidje non-filters that came ten to a tin (in the same league as the Khedive Cigarettes from Germany, both very good - the difference was the resinous quality of Yenidje versus the sweetness and spice of either Samsoun or Smyrna), and Black Russians - blended filter ciggies with black paper, which appealed particularly to people with pretension. But Balkan Sobranie were best known for their pipe-tobacco. The Redstone family owned the company for three generations before finally bowing out. ]
I do not remember much about the No. 10, and will sometime have to open the last tin that I have left. It has probably changed enormously in a quarter of a century (due to the aging process: fermentation, mellowing, and melding of flavours) - the blend has been unavailable since the early eighties. Greg's new blend does not strike me as similar. He has a more delicate hand with the cigar leaf than I recall the Balkan Sobranie No. 10 evincing, and the No. 10 did not have any Oriental (Turkish) tobacco or Latakia.
[I have not tried the McClelland cigar leaf blend, nor any of the very few similar mixtures other manufacturers have produced. Usually they are compounded with cigar smokers in mind rather than pipe smokers. And that cannot be a good idea. ]
Greg Pease's Key Largo is very good indeed, and has an excellent nose.
I could grow quite fond of this.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: The comment string on the previous posting about Key Largo got hijacked by wombats. Such things happen occasionally. It is a hazard of this blog.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
KEY LARGO BY G. L. PEASE - A GOOD PIPE BLEND THAT IS HARD TO DESCRIBE
Usually I am underimpressed by blends that attempt to combine several different categories, and label-blurb that tells me what to think.
This new blend by Greg Pease, however, is a pleasant surprise. Flakes with jagged edges in a spectrum of medium brown hues, with a fragrance that is both earthy and spicy. Not too humid, crumbles easily into the bowl.
It smokes very well, and is clearly related to the English style of tobacco. Neither the Turkish nor the Latakia trumpet their arrival, but they are definitely there. The cigar leaf is a somewhat subdued presence that does not dominate but stays at the corner of awareness. This is a good smoke. It is not strong, but not a weakling either. There is a remarkable lack of bite, even at the end of the bowl.
It did not particularly remind me of the old Balkan Sobranie number ten, which also had cigar leaf. For some reason John Cotton came to mind. This type of tobacco has not often been available, having more frequently been lamentably absent. There are smokers who will soon cherish this above all other blends.
I have purchased all tins at the tobacco store - it'll be a while before anybody else gets some.
--------------------------------------------
Highly recommended, if you can get any before I buy more. That might be harder than you think, as I visit the shop every day. Good luck.
Note that this review is cross-posted at the usual place.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This new blend by Greg Pease, however, is a pleasant surprise. Flakes with jagged edges in a spectrum of medium brown hues, with a fragrance that is both earthy and spicy. Not too humid, crumbles easily into the bowl.
It smokes very well, and is clearly related to the English style of tobacco. Neither the Turkish nor the Latakia trumpet their arrival, but they are definitely there. The cigar leaf is a somewhat subdued presence that does not dominate but stays at the corner of awareness. This is a good smoke. It is not strong, but not a weakling either. There is a remarkable lack of bite, even at the end of the bowl.
It did not particularly remind me of the old Balkan Sobranie number ten, which also had cigar leaf. For some reason John Cotton came to mind. This type of tobacco has not often been available, having more frequently been lamentably absent. There are smokers who will soon cherish this above all other blends.
I have purchased all tins at the tobacco store - it'll be a while before anybody else gets some.
--------------------------------------------
Highly recommended, if you can get any before I buy more. That might be harder than you think, as I visit the shop every day. Good luck.
Note that this review is cross-posted at the usual place.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CATHOLIC WOMBAT UNDERWEAR
Apparently fetishes interest my readers. I may be just projecting, of course, but judging by the wealth of comments I have received ever since I started writing about underwear, schoolgirls, and wombats, there is a vast untapped market out there of people who like discussing such obsessions ..... if not actually practicing them in the privacy of their own darkened sweat-reek dungeons.
Fetishes are very Catholic, as one my anonymous commenters pointed out.
Reader Spiros then elaborated, saying: " a blog which features repeated references to curries, Talmud, Malayo-Polynesian languages, Manga, medieval Dutch poetry, pipe tobacco, and transvestites, not to mention wombats (CUIDADO LOS UOMBATS!), could be fairly characterized as being catholic ".
Beware of wombats.
Graham writes: " I am amazed at H.B.'s abilities & challenge him to do the fetish stuff for..... Beatrix der Nederlanden."
The Beatrix referred to is Beatrix Wilhelmina Armgard of Orange Nassau, Queen of the Netherlands and princess of Lippe-Biesterfeld. She has been the reigning monarch since her mother princess Juliana abdicated in 1980.
[As a matter of interest to Margavriel, the queen is also the countess of Katzenelnbogen. This datum as a lagniappe.]
I like a challenge, but there is perhaps too much to work with here.
Should I speak of her helmet-like coiffure, reminiscent of nineteen-sixties stewardesses and the dignified hair-helmets of yore? Should I mention that it reminds me of the mushroom people in a remarkably sexual children's book from years ago? I remember her gliding over the green dunes of the Eindhovensche golf course one drizzly day, following her husband and his friends Riemsdijk and van Lanschot, as they listlessly whacked their balls. Her hair shielded her from the worst effects of the rain, and was still shiny and hard when the eighteen holes were done.
Or could I, Clinton-like, obsess over her firm jaw, the lively eyes, her preference for certain dresses, a possible secret liking for big strong cigars?
Or might I instead imagine a big bold lesbian who collects photos of Beatrix, and enjoys sliding the thin thin edges of those pictures over her breasts, drawing blood from many microscopic paper cuts, panting and sweating as her heaving bosom reddens, reddens, reddens........ She sinks down upon her sheets of royalist orange, meltingly deliquescent, her fingers clenching and unclenching, as she imagines those stern loving eyes, that regal jaw (the Lippe-Biesterfeld gene!), the languidly waving right hand before an adoring yet wholly imaginary throng.....
Oh to wander the long frigid halls of the Loo Palace, or the cool marble floors in quiet corners of the Binnenhof, pantingly impatient for the object of her crush to return from delivering the opening address to parliament, and come to her, tired from performing her royal duty, majestic and graceful......
Good heavens, I just don't know where to begin. I am at a loss here, Graham, please help me out. I invite you to describe how Beatrix makes you feel, and what you yourself find most appealing about the current Dutch monarch.
Just don't use the term 'wombat'. There has been far too much mention of wombat here in recent days, and the thrill of large antipodean marmots is wearing thin.
Fetishes are very Catholic, as one my anonymous commenters pointed out.
Reader Spiros then elaborated, saying: " a blog which features repeated references to curries, Talmud, Malayo-Polynesian languages, Manga, medieval Dutch poetry, pipe tobacco, and transvestites, not to mention wombats (CUIDADO LOS UOMBATS!), could be fairly characterized as being catholic ".
Beware of wombats.
Graham writes: " I am amazed at H.B.'s abilities & challenge him to do the fetish stuff for..... Beatrix der Nederlanden."
The Beatrix referred to is Beatrix Wilhelmina Armgard of Orange Nassau, Queen of the Netherlands and princess of Lippe-Biesterfeld. She has been the reigning monarch since her mother princess Juliana abdicated in 1980.
[As a matter of interest to Margavriel, the queen is also the countess of Katzenelnbogen. This datum as a lagniappe.]
I like a challenge, but there is perhaps too much to work with here.
Should I speak of her helmet-like coiffure, reminiscent of nineteen-sixties stewardesses and the dignified hair-helmets of yore? Should I mention that it reminds me of the mushroom people in a remarkably sexual children's book from years ago? I remember her gliding over the green dunes of the Eindhovensche golf course one drizzly day, following her husband and his friends Riemsdijk and van Lanschot, as they listlessly whacked their balls. Her hair shielded her from the worst effects of the rain, and was still shiny and hard when the eighteen holes were done.
Or could I, Clinton-like, obsess over her firm jaw, the lively eyes, her preference for certain dresses, a possible secret liking for big strong cigars?
Or might I instead imagine a big bold lesbian who collects photos of Beatrix, and enjoys sliding the thin thin edges of those pictures over her breasts, drawing blood from many microscopic paper cuts, panting and sweating as her heaving bosom reddens, reddens, reddens........ She sinks down upon her sheets of royalist orange, meltingly deliquescent, her fingers clenching and unclenching, as she imagines those stern loving eyes, that regal jaw (the Lippe-Biesterfeld gene!), the languidly waving right hand before an adoring yet wholly imaginary throng.....
Oh to wander the long frigid halls of the Loo Palace, or the cool marble floors in quiet corners of the Binnenhof, pantingly impatient for the object of her crush to return from delivering the opening address to parliament, and come to her, tired from performing her royal duty, majestic and graceful......
Good heavens, I just don't know where to begin. I am at a loss here, Graham, please help me out. I invite you to describe how Beatrix makes you feel, and what you yourself find most appealing about the current Dutch monarch.
Just don't use the term 'wombat'. There has been far too much mention of wombat here in recent days, and the thrill of large antipodean marmots is wearing thin.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
DUTCH HERO ARRESTED!
The following is a letter sent to friends in the Netherlands, regarding the arrest of Radovan Karadzic. It is entirely "oyf Niederlandish" - this blogger is expressing his deepest sympathy to them over the eventual light that will be cast on the Dutch role at Srebenica. And also mentions, in passing reference, the active participation of their nation during WWII (no, they were not quiescent during the occupation - given their support for the German cause, it may be incorrect to keep calling it an "occupation"), and the glorious history of the Netherlandish involvement in South East Asia.
Beste luitjes,
De arrestatie van de held van Srebenica kan onmogelijk goed uitkomen voor Nederland, daar hij wellicht transparantie zal schenken over de rol van Nederlandsche jongens in dat evenementje. En hoewel het merendeel der Nederlanders beslist het uitroeien van Islamieten en andere untermenschen goedkeuren (vandaar dat het zo lang geduurd heeft voordat men zelfs afwijkend over Srebenica sprak, of 'slands rol in WWII onder de loep nam, laat staan de glorieuze historie van Neerlands Oosten), is de rest van de wereld niet zo te spreken over zulke ellendige 'Ollandigheden.
Ik leef met u mee. U gaat moeilijke tijden tegemoet. Zelfs uw eigen verrotte pers zal eindelijk eens iets negatiefs over Nederland moeten schrijven. Ten diepste triest.
Met diepe sympathie,
------B.O.T.H.
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I apologize to my English-speaking readers for not providing a translation.
I do not mean to insult you.
Beste luitjes,
De arrestatie van de held van Srebenica kan onmogelijk goed uitkomen voor Nederland, daar hij wellicht transparantie zal schenken over de rol van Nederlandsche jongens in dat evenementje. En hoewel het merendeel der Nederlanders beslist het uitroeien van Islamieten en andere untermenschen goedkeuren (vandaar dat het zo lang geduurd heeft voordat men zelfs afwijkend over Srebenica sprak, of 'slands rol in WWII onder de loep nam, laat staan de glorieuze historie van Neerlands Oosten), is de rest van de wereld niet zo te spreken over zulke ellendige 'Ollandigheden.
Ik leef met u mee. U gaat moeilijke tijden tegemoet. Zelfs uw eigen verrotte pers zal eindelijk eens iets negatiefs over Nederland moeten schrijven. Ten diepste triest.
Met diepe sympathie,
------B.O.T.H.
====================================
I apologize to my English-speaking readers for not providing a translation.
I do not mean to insult you.
Monday, July 21, 2008
EVERYTHING IS A FETISH
Over dinner on Saturday, one of the people at the table hazarded that I could turn anything into a fetish. Or at least a lurid description. She has read my blog, and judges it not entirely suitable for small children and sensitive yeshiva bocherim. Which, given what I've been writing about for the past several months, is actually fairly correct.
A person whom I shall call the Cherry-Vodka Zionist then stated that every time he's cruised in, the blog seemed devoted to panties and pipe-tobacco.
So, for both of them, and for you, a fetishizing of a spectrum. I hope that you can find yourself in at least one thing here, and I want you to tell me all about it. Please go ahead - wax lyrical.
I quiver with antici.... pation.
OLD LADY
Her crepe-like skin was soft, and felt like washed silk; her eyes sparkled with a love of life. Insistently, her delicate-boned hands stroked the satin coverlet with a gentleness that belied their strength...... closer, closer.......
FAT MIDDLE-AGED PERSIAN HOMOSEXUAL
The roll of tanned stomach suggestively flowed over his taut waistband like a smooth golden pillow, tempting the fingers with an expanse of shiny black hair, like grass upon a hill-side. He shifted slowly and gracefully on the divan, and his eyes within their heavy lids sparkled with good-natured malice.
PENGUIN
Roger admired the elegant profile of the bird, the downy stomach feathers, and the intelligent eyes of his newly acquired love-beast, and he yearned to stroke the narrow shoulders, pet the inviting curve of the lower abdomen.....
ANTIQUE CHERRY-WOOD CABINET
An expanse of cool and velvet wood, smoothed by the fond touch of generations, with a rich patina that called to mind the warm summer evenings long ago, when Adelbrecht would move silently through the darkened house, and rub his naked body over the heirloom furniture......
STAINED TABLE CLOTH
Afterwards, when the guests had all gone, Mohammed lowered his nose to the damask, and inhaled deeply of the wine-stains that suggestively blotched and spattered the fine fabric. A hint of rose, a berry-like sweetness, the warm nose-feel of tannins. His hands felt under the edge of the cloth, and, as if with a mind of their own, lifted it higher and higher. His eyes closed, and he imagined the cool bases of the now empty goblets pressed upon his own skin. Quivering, he slid to the floor, his knees having entirely failed him at this point.
CELADON PLATE
In the evening Baruch would retire to the crepusculed sun room, to sit in darkness and run his finger tips over the rims of his porcelain collection, listening to the delicate pinging of glazes crackling further, as if the clay still remembered it's cooling from the kiln. The faintest glimmer of light reflected from a celadon treasure, a ghost-like glistening at the edge of vison. Ah, the moon-dust Ming plate! He truly loved the almost mentholated physicality that he felt whenever his breath misted over the semi-translucent surface. As he felt a trembling begin he gently put the beloved antique back down, scared that his quivering would sully the pale powder-velvet longuan iron oxide, or perhaps cause it to shatter into ten-thousand tempting fragments.
I shall stop here. It is for your well-being, as I fear that you cannot control yourself much longer. These descriptions probably excited you, and it is possible that you need a cold shower now. A nice long cold shower, the crystal clear water running in smooth hard rivulets over your skin, which tightens, perceptibly, as you let the comforting coolness seep into your bones and send thrills down your spine. The stroking streams of water flow between the pale digits of your hands and feet, seeming almost flesh themselves from the journey across your arms and legs, you can feel the droplets pearled upon your shoulders, the moistness in the back of the knees, the intense wetness of that cold, cold embrace.........
A person whom I shall call the Cherry-Vodka Zionist then stated that every time he's cruised in, the blog seemed devoted to panties and pipe-tobacco.
So, for both of them, and for you, a fetishizing of a spectrum. I hope that you can find yourself in at least one thing here, and I want you to tell me all about it. Please go ahead - wax lyrical.
I quiver with antici.... pation.
OLD LADY
Her crepe-like skin was soft, and felt like washed silk; her eyes sparkled with a love of life. Insistently, her delicate-boned hands stroked the satin coverlet with a gentleness that belied their strength...... closer, closer.......
FAT MIDDLE-AGED PERSIAN HOMOSEXUAL
The roll of tanned stomach suggestively flowed over his taut waistband like a smooth golden pillow, tempting the fingers with an expanse of shiny black hair, like grass upon a hill-side. He shifted slowly and gracefully on the divan, and his eyes within their heavy lids sparkled with good-natured malice.
PENGUIN
Roger admired the elegant profile of the bird, the downy stomach feathers, and the intelligent eyes of his newly acquired love-beast, and he yearned to stroke the narrow shoulders, pet the inviting curve of the lower abdomen.....
ANTIQUE CHERRY-WOOD CABINET
An expanse of cool and velvet wood, smoothed by the fond touch of generations, with a rich patina that called to mind the warm summer evenings long ago, when Adelbrecht would move silently through the darkened house, and rub his naked body over the heirloom furniture......
STAINED TABLE CLOTH
Afterwards, when the guests had all gone, Mohammed lowered his nose to the damask, and inhaled deeply of the wine-stains that suggestively blotched and spattered the fine fabric. A hint of rose, a berry-like sweetness, the warm nose-feel of tannins. His hands felt under the edge of the cloth, and, as if with a mind of their own, lifted it higher and higher. His eyes closed, and he imagined the cool bases of the now empty goblets pressed upon his own skin. Quivering, he slid to the floor, his knees having entirely failed him at this point.
CELADON PLATE
In the evening Baruch would retire to the crepusculed sun room, to sit in darkness and run his finger tips over the rims of his porcelain collection, listening to the delicate pinging of glazes crackling further, as if the clay still remembered it's cooling from the kiln. The faintest glimmer of light reflected from a celadon treasure, a ghost-like glistening at the edge of vison. Ah, the moon-dust Ming plate! He truly loved the almost mentholated physicality that he felt whenever his breath misted over the semi-translucent surface. As he felt a trembling begin he gently put the beloved antique back down, scared that his quivering would sully the pale powder-velvet longuan iron oxide, or perhaps cause it to shatter into ten-thousand tempting fragments.
I shall stop here. It is for your well-being, as I fear that you cannot control yourself much longer. These descriptions probably excited you, and it is possible that you need a cold shower now. A nice long cold shower, the crystal clear water running in smooth hard rivulets over your skin, which tightens, perceptibly, as you let the comforting coolness seep into your bones and send thrills down your spine. The stroking streams of water flow between the pale digits of your hands and feet, seeming almost flesh themselves from the journey across your arms and legs, you can feel the droplets pearled upon your shoulders, the moistness in the back of the knees, the intense wetness of that cold, cold embrace.........
Friday, July 18, 2008
WANDERING HANDS
There's a good reason why you should not wake up your eyshes chayil in the middle of the night. It has to do with the fundamental difference between the sexes. Sometimes men and women can not be more dissimilar.
For example, if asked "how was your day?", a man will usually answer monosyllabically. 'Fine. It was fine. Yep. Fine. Grunt. Fine'.
A woman is likely to wax polysyllabic for at least half an hour, possibly even longer. How much time you got?
One can't hardly get more non-monosyllabic than that - you might as well grab a cup of tea (with a cookie), make yourself comfortable, and sit back. You're gonna hear all about it. Oh man. You asked, and now she's off like a racehorse.
Men and women communicate differently (if at all).
What the man above said with a simple non-emotional grunt was 'I've put work behind me, I'm sitting with a book on my lap and a pipe in my mouth, I'm cool, baby'.
What the woman, in the totally and completely HYPOTHETICAL example above, conveyed with her long disquisition was 'please grunt encouragingly at the appropriate moments while I get the entire day, in excruciating detail, out of my system - I'm not asking for advice, I'm not asking for input, I'm not looking for any perspective whatsoever, I just like the attentive way you grunt, thank you'.
It's as simple as that. Charming. Feel free to substitute beer for tea, if you like beer. Everything else should remain the same. Grunt.
Grunt.
Lying in bed last night I couldn't get to sleep. At about one o'clock my hands wandered......., wandered......., wandered....... smooth flesh, contrasting nicely with cotton. Silky. Roundnesses, and curves. Warm to the touch......., touch......., touch.......
For the next two hours I got to hear all about her work. Turns out there's some old woman at Savage Kitten's office who has mannerisms that are between Joan Crawford and Baby Jane. Intensely irritating. Like working with Special Ed. Or an angry muppet. This woman does not eat lunch at a convenient time. And does much more. In tormenting detail. Great bothersomeness, a stress factor, personality issues, frowny faces, the break room, and the mail-area. Desks. Chattersome Philippinas.
Please don't ask me any questions about what she said, though, because I wasn't really paying any attention. Grunt.
Grunt.
My grunts were sympathetic, and I hope just what the doctor ordered. I grunt well. My grunts spoke of a deep empathy, a keen sensitivity, a delicacy of comprehension, and an intelligent subtlety. My grunts were refreshingly angst-free. There was much to grunt for, and I grunted with feeling.
Consequently, I am operating on a sleep-deficit. I only had four hours of rest. Woke up quite unrelaxed, with weird dream-fragments floating through my brain. Maori tattoos, letters of recommendation, visas stamped in passports. Winter. Something about being naked in a hotel near a river, without any money.
All in all, a fractured night.
My hands had a fine time however - the fingertips remember.
For example, if asked "how was your day?", a man will usually answer monosyllabically. 'Fine. It was fine. Yep. Fine. Grunt. Fine'.
A woman is likely to wax polysyllabic for at least half an hour, possibly even longer. How much time you got?
One can't hardly get more non-monosyllabic than that - you might as well grab a cup of tea (with a cookie), make yourself comfortable, and sit back. You're gonna hear all about it. Oh man. You asked, and now she's off like a racehorse.
Men and women communicate differently (if at all).
What the man above said with a simple non-emotional grunt was 'I've put work behind me, I'm sitting with a book on my lap and a pipe in my mouth, I'm cool, baby'.
What the woman, in the totally and completely HYPOTHETICAL example above, conveyed with her long disquisition was 'please grunt encouragingly at the appropriate moments while I get the entire day, in excruciating detail, out of my system - I'm not asking for advice, I'm not asking for input, I'm not looking for any perspective whatsoever, I just like the attentive way you grunt, thank you'.
It's as simple as that. Charming. Feel free to substitute beer for tea, if you like beer. Everything else should remain the same. Grunt.
Grunt.
Lying in bed last night I couldn't get to sleep. At about one o'clock my hands wandered......., wandered......., wandered....... smooth flesh, contrasting nicely with cotton. Silky. Roundnesses, and curves. Warm to the touch......., touch......., touch.......
For the next two hours I got to hear all about her work. Turns out there's some old woman at Savage Kitten's office who has mannerisms that are between Joan Crawford and Baby Jane. Intensely irritating. Like working with Special Ed. Or an angry muppet. This woman does not eat lunch at a convenient time. And does much more. In tormenting detail. Great bothersomeness, a stress factor, personality issues, frowny faces, the break room, and the mail-area. Desks. Chattersome Philippinas.
Please don't ask me any questions about what she said, though, because I wasn't really paying any attention. Grunt.
Grunt.
My grunts were sympathetic, and I hope just what the doctor ordered. I grunt well. My grunts spoke of a deep empathy, a keen sensitivity, a delicacy of comprehension, and an intelligent subtlety. My grunts were refreshingly angst-free. There was much to grunt for, and I grunted with feeling.
Consequently, I am operating on a sleep-deficit. I only had four hours of rest. Woke up quite unrelaxed, with weird dream-fragments floating through my brain. Maori tattoos, letters of recommendation, visas stamped in passports. Winter. Something about being naked in a hotel near a river, without any money.
All in all, a fractured night.
My hands had a fine time however - the fingertips remember.
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HELLO, ALICE!
It was a long day. Part of which was dealing with a fellow pipesmoker who wished to see a selection of briars, starting off with over a doze...
