TEENSY SILK BRIEFS

The title of this post bears no relation to the content.
Which is quite unfortunate, as the contents of such things, ideally, are nice college students.
Though sometimes frat boys, who are not nice.
Neither of those quantities are present.
I wouldn't know what to do with the second in any case.
Call an exterminator?


CUPPING WARMTH

Rainy weekend day, Nob Hill. Check letter box before unlocking front door. Up the stairs to an empty apartment, and into the kitchen. The paint is yellowing, it has been years since it was recoated. But it is clean here, and warm. While running water for a hot cup of cocoa, note that the branches outside are stroking the window. The tall trees are gently bending in the wind.

When the hot cocoa is ready, pour it, and sit on the table slowly sipping.
Say, what's in this back pack anyway? Wow, lots of stuff, I had no idea this was all in there.
And even one of these!
Oh goody. Let's put that to good use.

*****

Afterwards, pad softly to the living room and peek at the scatter-lit darkening street outside through the curtains. Still wet, still so very very wet.
Nice and quiet, private, secret even, with no lamps on.
So silent in here, comfortable, dreamy.
It's been a good afternoon.
Early evening now.
More cocoa?
Mmm.




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FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

There's a provocative article over at Dovbear’s place, about the anonymous Stern girl (hereafter referred to as TASG) who wrote a letter that was published in a school newspaper about having had first-time sex and afterwards regretting it.

[FYI, Stern College is the female division of Yeshiva University. The student in question
identifies herself as a 20-year-old modern Orthodox Jewish woman.]

No, I haven't read the letter, and I have no intention of doing so.
For two reasons: 1). I doubt that it says anything new, and 2). I doubt that it says anything interesting.

People have premarital sex all the time, and the first time anyone has sex is frequently not as they imagined it, nor as wonderful as it was expected to be.
And a number of people will, inevitably, consider it all a ghastly mistake, if not a grim comedy of errors.

The lucky few may however consider it a wonderfully funny episode, and pursue matters further.


Dovbear penned an open letter to TASG, but also to all others with similar situations.


QUOTE:

Dear TASG:

So you had some sex, and it wasn't very good. That's often how it goes at first. As with everything, practice helps. Apart from the disappointment you are feeling about the act itself, I understand that you're upset with yourself. That's also normal.

In fact, it might make you feel better to hear that everything about you, and your experience, are completely normal. Stern girls - even the "good" ones - have premarital sex. Some of them are curious and choose to experiment with a friend or some other suitable candidate; others are in long-term relationships with men they expect to marry and prefer not to postpone the inevitable. Afterwards, even the best-adjusted people doubt themselves. Some fear they may have offered to much, too quickly; others worry about God; still others do as you seem to have done, and wonder Is this the kind of person I am?
[CUT]
One semi-drunken act in a hotel room doesn't define you."
END QUOTE.

[Read his entire post, including the full version of his letter, here: Open letter to TASG.]


He's right. And it's a good letter.
But I wouldn't be the opinionated middle-aged man that I am if I didn't think that more could be said.
Particularly for people contemplating that first time.


"One semi-drunken act doesn't define you"


In hindsight many people have some regrets about their first sexual experience, and especially women seem so afflicted. Often that's because the reaction of their partner was not what they expected, nor did the experience match the enormous hoopla, and tension at the time affected their enjoyment.
Hence, of course, the reference to a semi-drunken act; alcohol is frequently employed to screw up courage.

That right there is usually the wrong move.

The first sexual experience should be a sober decision.

Think it over ahead of time, and bring a tooth-brush and a good book to read afterwards. The first is to make sure your breath smells clean, the latter is so that you can happily cuddle in each other's warmth once the sticky bits are over.
Your partner should be similarly equipped.
Whatever you do, do NOT ask "was it good for you?"
Such a question, after the act, is rather less useful than being communicative before or during.
The datum that you like your ears nibbled is useful information.
Likewise the fact that you don't know what to do with your feet.

Whether you are male or female, your partner in this event should be a nice person with whom you will still want to associate afterwards.
Obviously, if marriage is not part of the program and your cultural or religious background looks askance at sex outside of wedlock, complete discretion from both parties is required.
This actually also holds if you are married, to each other or third parties.

PLEASE SHUT UP!

We do not need to hear about the lovely mole on HER left buttock, the appalling weirdness of HIS nether regions, how odd everything felt, or about the amazing fact that BOTH of you have a third nipple.

Do not text your best friend. Unless you NEED emotional support.
Do not capture the moment on camera. Unless you are celebrities.
Do not tell everyone you know who the other person was. PERIOD.

[This goes for both parties, of whichever gender. Keep it to yourself.]


Sex in any case should never be an alcohol-fuelled spur of the moment occurrence.
Whether it is happily spontaneous and good-natured fun is up to you.
But stimulants and intoxicants are best avoided.

It helps to read fairly extensively about sex well before it actually happens.
What does his body do, what does that involve, what reactions will take place in his brain, what erogenous zones does she have, what sensations are pleasurable for her, and so on. The male orgasm and the female orgasm are not at all the same, and feelings before and after sex will differ also.
And while pregnancy can be avoided by careful awareness of her fertile phase (on average, somewhere between thirteen to sixteen days from the start of menstruation), condoms are advisable for a whole variety of reasons. Find out about such matters beforehand.
Just as with medical care and legal issues, the informed consumer is an empowered consumer. A realistic idea about what to expect is better than panic, fumbling, and bafflement.


Don't rush, ignore pressure (peer or otherwise), and choose the moment.


I recommend a long lazy weekend afternoon involving chocolate.
Don't forget the toothbrush and the book.
Go out to eat afterwards.



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THE SEASON OF QUIET EVENINGS

Years ago I would occasionally accompany a fellow high school student home. Not that it was, strictly speaking, essential to do so. Valkenswaard in that day and age was not at all crime-ridden, and we both knew the neighborhood in which we lived very well.

Suzanne, whom I’ve mentioned once or twice before, was a vivacious dark-haired girl, very intelligent, and charming in the way that women with justifiable self-assurance can often be.
No, there was nothing going on between us, though I have at times since then wished there had been.
She was just an exceptionally nice person, and the sister of a good friend.

Gentlemen make sure that young ladies get home safely.
It is the right thing to do.

And it also ensures that one can chat with her a little while longer. Surely you weren’t planning to walk in silence?
Being gallant means enjoyable company – what splendid icing on the cake!

I always waited before firing up my pipe till afterwards, because many nice young ladies have sensitive noses vis à vis the reek of tobacco.
I assumed it might have been disagreeable to her if I smoked, and it was better not to push the issue.


AUTUMN FRAGRANCE

Every two or three weeks I would escort her on her way home. Not so often in late spring, or summer, as daylight lasts till late in the evening, and there would be lots of people around. But by the end of October it gets dark early, and inclement weather more often than not will empty the streets.
Walk close together, and hold the umbrella over her.
Sometimes both of us held the umbrella.
Small warm hands.

Once during early December in the last year that I was at the Hertog Jan College, we strolled along the Dommelsche Weg, past where it curves at Kerk Straat. Four blocks. We chatted happily till we got to her doorway.
She turned to me and asked "you smoke, don't you?"
"yes."
"I don't."
"I know that"
"But I don't mind it, really. You could have smoked."
"Well, I can always light up later."
"Yes, but it would have been nice to smell burning leaves in autumn."


I always have the urge to set fire to things in Autumn.
Recently I have been smoking nice flakes, all flue-cured tobacco.
And remembering the chill in the air in Valkenswaard at this time of year.
There is a hint of tannins from the fallen leaves. Wet pine nearby, and thinner vegetal odours from further away.
Plus the enchanting fragrance of a woman's hair.



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FELINE GRACE

The cat did NOT want me to move, she made that clear. Dogs communicate by sniffing rear-ends, cats use their claws. The cat was far too comfortable to even consider shifting. After she fell asleep I could have carefully and surreptitiously left the couch, but I did not want to disturb the warm vibrating furball in the crook of my arm.
A gracious animal, she often brought me mice. Not wanting to hurt her feelings I always showed keen and enthusiastic appreciation, quite unlike the other humans in the house.

It's the thought that counts, after all, and as felines go, she was a remarkably generous creature.
Very giving. A loving personality.


Earlier that day I had spent a while visiting an old friend at the retirement home. She also had a cat, although that particular feline did not like me so much. Cats are very territorial, and sweet little old ladies are always THEIR territory. One does not argue with a creature that expresses itself with claws. Consequently, throughout our long conversation, I was aware of baleful eyes glaring at me from the top of the cabinet. A large black daemon with a ferocious attitude is hard to ignore.
I wondered whether the next time I should bring a sardine for the beast.
Bribing it might work.

Once home, our cat welcomed me back. I desperately wanted to load up my pipe, but the cat demanded my attention. Without quite realizing how it happened, I ended up on the couch stroking her.
A very manipulative individual, that cat.

For the next two hours I remained on the couch, staring at my pipe and tobacco on the table, while the cat contentedly dozed. So much to do, so little time.
Why am I allowing this furball to keep me here?
But she's such a commanding presence!
Even if fast asleep.
Purr.

That evening, at dinner, the cat jumped on my lap with a nearly dead mouse.
I didn't say anything to the others as I didn't want to appall them.
As she smacked the rodent I petted her with my free hand.
Desperate to keep anyone else from noticing.
Head down, sweetheart, keep still.
Please, no crunching!

Afterwards I buried the deceased mouse under the red currant bushes. There was already an extensive cemetery there. Hundreds of little gifts for humans.
Courtesy of a very nice cat.


She left us in 1976.
Perhaps she found a loving tom and followed him home.
And lived to a ripe old age, surrounded by kittens and lots of dead mice.


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WHAT THAT RUMP TATTOO SAYS

Much of life in the modern world can be seen in the context of establishing one's individuality.
This often dominates the early adult discourse.
Being recognized as a distinct and unique individual is probably a driving force underlying many of the actions of teenagers and twenty-somethings.

Admirable.

And sometimes, moronic.

Consider, for instance, the tramp stamp. That being the colloquial term for a tattoo placed on the lower back right above the gluteal region of a female.
Unless it is visible, it is entirely pointless. And for it to be exhibited to an appreciative random audience, the clothing has to be amenable to a full view of the area in question. Which, in almost any imaginable environment except a sleazy pick-up joint, will be inappropriate.

Individuality is best manifested through character, personality, and the consideration of others.
A tramp stamp (or any other tattoo) does not achieve that.

Rather, a tramp stamp draws the eyes downwards, and at a minimum tells the viewer: "this woman is either someone's property, or has a very poor estimation of her own bottom".
If it is unusually large or bulbous, the colourful decoration does NOT detract OR distract from that, but unfavourably emphasizes it.
If the posterior is small and charming, the personal trademark completely ruins any positive effect.
And if the permanent marking is her name, it suggests that she has scant confidence in the short-term memory of her romantic partners.


GO AHEAD AND SLOBBER, BOYS!

There is, in fact, no flattering interpretation possible for a tramp stamp.
Showing it off by bad clothing choices compounds the flaw.

Perhaps it is meant to convey "I am unique, and a proudly sexual being".
If so, it fails also in that regard.
Instead it suggest a pathetic need for attention of an erotic nature that cannot be attained by a sparkling personality, intelligence, talent, knowledge, wit, insight, or any other positive virtue.

A tramp stamp is, in all ways, a permanent admission of low self-regard.


I can well imagine that there are girls out there who are pleased with the aesthetic qualities of their back and buttocks. Far be it from me to deny that those things can be utterly enchanting.
Like a huge proportion of humanity, tasty pulchritude appeals enormously to this blogger.
Nay, it occupies a fair amount of my attention.
Aesthetic appreciation is me!

However, if it is indeed a lovely portion of your anatomy, I would above all encourage you to reveal it to me in private. Showing it off to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, lessens my interest, and that of any other decent man.
Sharing it with the world means a lack of discrimination.


Should you fear that you might never have a chance at my enthusiasm or a critical review, please do not worry; I am keenly curious, and it is actually quite easy to get my attention.


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ALL ABOUT WOMEN AND BEER

Going to put off seeing the new Muppet Movie for a while, despite burning curiosity about the further adventures of my favourite frog fuelled by the two opposing reviews posted under last week’s mention of the movie.

[Both e-kvetcher and Midianite Manna commented. He was incredibly disappointed, she loved the movie. I respect both of their opinions.]

Reason being that I don't often go to movies by myself.
Which, unfortunately, means that I don't go to movies much at all.
And this movie, which caters to an audience which takes childlike pleasure in the shenanigans of a bunch of short maladjusted fuzzy raging individualists - nay, an audience that probably includes a large number of actual children taking that pleasure - is not a movie that you go to alone.
Not if you're a mature man. It looks weird.
Single male in the back of a theatre during a children's movie?
Call the cops! Clobber him with a handbag!
He's probably a football coach.

Which, precisely, is why I need a young lady to go with me.

Protection.


THE DATE

One of my friends has quite the opposite problem. He actually HAS a young lady.
I've never met her, but I fear she might be wasted on my friend.
His idea of dinner and a movie is a slaughter-fest with Schwarzenegger, followed by piles of grilled meat at a grease-pit in the Mission District. Spicy loins and ribs!
He lamented the other day that his young lady did not like barbecue.
And did I have any ideas for changing her mind?

Dude, you're asking me? I don't know nuthin' about young ladies!
I'm single! They're a purely hypothetical concept!

Nevertheless he persevered. He respected my experience, my insight, and my wisdom regarding these matters.
And most especially he esteemed my profound knowledge of food.

[Translation: he thought that a man whose one long-term involvement had evaporated was probably the worst person to ask for relationship advice (true), but he knew that food was one of the subjects on which I just cannot shut up (alas also true).]

Did I know any way to make spicy blackened beef tolerable to his woman?
Because, you see, it went so well with beer.


"What does SHE want to eat?"


"Actually, she never has an appetite after we've been to the movies. But I guess sushi."


You know, I can understand her problem. After watching a blood, guts, and gore film, I too don't have much of an appetite, but the idea of greasy burnt bovine is particularly unappealing at such times.
Also, if the young lady doesn't like barbecue to begin with, it is extremely self-centered to keep pushing it.
Same probably goes for that splatter-fest at the Roxie.

It's actually rather disturbing that he likes violent movies so, but many men do. It's a macho inferiority complex, coupled with a lack of cultural depth.
That, probably, also explains all those Sunday afternoons with greasy grub in front of the boob-tube, watching the Pittsburgh Wombats batter the Los Angeles Butterflies, or whatever those teams are called.
Hooting, beer, lots of hot sauce, and animalistic grunting.

Any time he yells "rip their heads off", whether at a war movie or while watching the game, probably does not inspire romantic inclinations.
Just guessing.

Wouldn't be surprised if his young lady dumps him within the year, once she's taken a good hard look at his typical faux-matcheau hobbies and past-times.

Go team!

Hoot, hoot, and grunt.

What he really must do is endeavor to find out what kind of movies and books she likes, what food she prefers, and what she would REALLY like to do.
It ain't a date unless she has a nice time.
Without stress, frustration, or strain.

That she mentioned sushi is a good start. There are a number of very nice sushi places which she would probably like, as well as many other eateries where a couple might have a civilized bite in a good atmosphere. And maybe, just maybe, the combination of movie and dinner is a bit much to pack into one evening. Save the movie for a matinée on a weekend, and just take her to a good restaurant, after which, instead of going to a club and getting hammered, the two of them should just walk and talk.

No problem doing it all, but not all of it at once. Showing a woman a good time does NOT mean jampacking all possible thrilling adventures into one evening.
And it should NOT include an unsuitable movie and he-man dining.

Show appreciation for what she gives, relish her company, share generously.



So all I told him was that he should listen to her. Really listen.

Because I doubt he would listen to me. Seeing as I have no food advice.

Avoid beer.


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THE ABORTED FRUITCAKE

The other day I saw a gentleman smoking a pipe which was a truly classic variant on a traditional shape.
A lovely piece of wood, well-turned, of balanced proportion.
And judging by the stamping on the stem, an exceptionally old piece.
That script hasn’t been used by that company in close to a hundred years.

What I smelled, however, better suited some white-slavers divan.

Pee yew!

Gentlemen, there is no valid reason to smoke shredded Hello Kitty.

By doing that, you make any number of teenage Japanese girls desperately unhappy – there is now one less Hello Kitty in this world, oh woe! – and you make any number of people with good taste unhappy too.
It is a grievous sin to do so.

The effect on rabid non-smokers is immaterial. Who cares about them anyway.

But I’m sure you would like to keep the teenage Japanese Hello Kitty girlies happy – they squeal so prettily – and you absolutely need to keep us people of good taste happy too – we are much inclined towards violence when we smell smoldering harlot kittens.
Plus you need us to ‘get your back’ for you, when the rabid non-smokers roam the streets snapping and yowling, and in all ways resembling the coming of the zombie apocalypse.
We’ll clobber them for you. Provided you dump that funky fruitcake abortion that some ethically challenged poor excuse for a tobacconist fobbed off on you.

Please smoke a good tobacco.
Your health depends on it.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SQUEAK!

Temporarily postponing the rat post till it's fine-tuned. Can't think well at present, my mind is a bit pre-occupied. But soon, I promise.
Think in terms of cheese and sugar cubes.


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RUSHING INTO HEAT AND MOISTURE

Sometimes you wonder at your own conviction. Why was NOT doing something important? You should have done it anyway! And how come achieving certain goals really gives you a deep warm feeling of satisfaction?

Explanations often don't make sense.
We do things that represent our imagination, and consequently they are not always logical. What we desire is not the same as what others want. And freedom of choice comes into play.
Our actions define us.

Hindsight makes us consider what we could have done.


TAIL OF THE NIGHT

I rushed, having wasted too much time at a restaurant on the Looiers Gracht.
It isn't that far to Centraal Station on the Prins Hendrik Kade - a quick trot up the Run Straat and the Huiden Straat, and moments later you're on the Singel.
From there on, no sweat. It's cool, baby.
Except that when it's the middle of a heat wave you cannot help it.
Sweating, that is.
It wasn't cool.
Moisture trickled down my face and torso when I entered the carriage in the nick of time.
Last train from Amsterdam that evening.

It was also too hot inside. A breeze blew through the compartments from windows open at the top, soothing, but still warm.
Once you're used to the heat you just go with it; I was moist when I disembarked after midnight in Eindhoven, but at that point it didn't bother me. After all, who the heck is going to object? Chances are that they are just as deliciously wet.
There was no one else in the bus to Valkenswaard except the driver. And there was no hurry anymore either.
Alone, just the two of us, we rolled through the Brabant countryside, windows wide open. It was incredibly thick on the bus -- If I could have gotten away with it, I would've stripped completely, but the driver might have resented that liberty.
Envious types, bus drivers.

After Aalst we picked up speed. There is nothing except dark road through the forest for several miles, and we roared down the narrow corridor. There were blazes of light at intervals as other vehicles passed us, but other than that, hot black night and exhilaration.
Soaked from our own sweat, we made smacky noises as we rushed along, with each bounce from the uneven road lifting us from our sopping seats.
Imagine the sound of a happy frog here, plunging into a pond.

Splish!

When we arrived in Valkenswaard the bars and restaurants in the centre of town were closed. Late at night the market square has a desolate charm. Our church tower glowed in the streetlights, but the steeple disappeared upwards, invisible beyond the dense canopy of trees.
The darkness above seemed soft, no stars visible.
Moist air keeps in much of the heat.

Sleep wasn't possible. Brick walls absorb heat during the day, radiate it in inwards at night.
Even lying on my bed entirely naked, it felt like being covered with velvet warmth.
I merely dozed in the time between the hourly ringing of the church bells.
Could've remained in Amsterdam instead of heading home that night.
A quiet hotel room, shower, sheets crisp against the skin.
The train in the morning would have been cooler.
Why hadn't I stayed in the delicious city?
It would've been a new experience.
Alluring, tempting exciting.
A slow golden evening.

Wet and very nice.


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SOMETHING IN MY EYE

Actions have consequences.

A few years ago I was snappish with a woman I see a few times every week, because she did not fully grasp what I was saying due to limited English.
And by reacting in the manner that I did, I presumed too much.
Better than any verbal response could have, the look in her eyes said that I had been unkind.

Since then whenever I deal with her I make sure to be both clear and courteous. There are no words to take back, as it was a question of attitude rather than utterance. But she did not deserve the sharpness.
I have tried to make up for that by attending to my manners.
Still, I wish it hadn’t happened.

During the family’s last vacation in Switzerland I said something rough to my older brother. Under the circumstances, it was not wrong to do so. But it wasn’t right either.
And especially with my brother such things had effect.

Once when he was playing the piano in the ballroom, the owner of the hotel grumpily told him it made his head throb. My brother played very well, and learned any melody strictly by hearing it once. That’s a unique talent.
The look on his face when informed that his music was painful showed that he was hurt and baffled.
I knew that the grumpy proprietor had a monumental hangover. My brother didn’t.
He never played the piano again.
Ever.

Such occurrences were like doors in his mind slamming shut. The same thing happened when he realized that I drew as well as he did, albeit with less observational honesty. He stopped drawing or painting, and henceforth feigned not to even understand either illustration or perspective.
This was both obsessive self-disrespect and incredible discipline from a remarkably sharp mind.
When mr. A--, a teacher at the local high school, took delight in ripping my brother to shreds over a period of several weeks, Tobias reacted by developing a thorough distaste for the subject that mr. A—taught, in which theretofore he had been brilliant, and failing every class in that field ever after.
Throughout his life such things caused him to limit himself.
I think that in the last years before his death so many pathways had been cut-off that he was incredibly lonesome.

Tobias is with me every day. And I wish that I had been kinder to him when both of us were boys.

Always try to make a good impression.
Actions have consequences.


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VERY FINE DINING

Yesterday evening I ate at a restaurant in Chinatown that I really wish I had known about earlier.
It's my kind of eatery, in pretty much every particular. Small, cozy, bustling, with a good English-language menu and an extensive and eclectic selection of dishes in Chinese.

No, I shall not tell you the name of the place, because I really do wish to keep it all to myself.


好满意

When I entered it was already busy, with a mixed crowd - different ages and backgrounds, Caucasian and Chinese.
I shall not say that it was the very best leung-gwa pan kau fan (涼瓜斑球飯) that I've ever had. It may very well have been so, and it is in fact quite possible that it was.
But that isn't the point.

It was one of the most enjoyable meals I've ever had.

Partly because of the ambience and energy of the place. Nice people making sure that the diners have tasty food and are happy - as definitely everyone seemed to be.
But mostly because of the waitress, that being a bright eyed young lady, capable and efficient, with lovely hands and a quick mind.
At the table with European visitors she courteously guided their choices, with kindly patience for their unfamiliarity with proper dining. No guile, no pressure, no frustration - the whole process was smooth and equitable.
At another table, her give and take with the Cantonese women sitting there showed ready wit, even mischievousness.
Throughout the quick back and forth from kitchen to tables, she was full of energy and good humour.

She's very appealing, and she has a lively smile.
An exceptional woman.
So you should understand why the food, though indeed excellent, did not have my full attention last night.


I'm planning to go there for a late lunch this Sunday


Nice people. Tasty food.


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WHEN DREAMING

SUMMER

The courtyard is perfumed by roses, they always flower at this time.
Stray petals have fallen to the ground, a blossom beckons.
This place enchants when everything is right. And now is very much the right time.

Beyond the ancient apple tree the tall grass strokes the legs. One can lie face down and sniff the herbal tang, feeling a fresh softness all over. Surrounded by the dense shrubbery it is utterly private.
Quiet, quiet, still.
Lose oneself in the moment, close the eyes and feel the surrounding garden.

Twitch awake and happily recognize both time and place. Such a nice dream!
Roll over, watch the moths circle dizzyingly around the street light.
They are enchanted by the glow, whirling ever nearer.

Is that a field mouse over there?
Small and furry. Black eyes.
Twitch. Scoot. Gone.

A breeze ruffles the stalks of grass, it feels like feathers against the face.
A distant thrumming heralds summer rain.
Lie here in the warm darkness, and let these droplets cool the night.
It is too soon to leave.


AUTUMN

It sounds so happy in here, and the noise of other people makes everything more delicious.
Revived by the food and tea, you pay, politely thank the owner of the café, and leave.
Impatiently mount the bike - one thrust, and roll smoothly forward.
Very good to be alive.

In early autumn it is cooler at twilight, a breeze is velvet upon the face and the first fallen leaves swirl along the path.
Entering the courtyard you notice how still it is, a different world. The noise of the street is far away, now faded to a murmur.
No one else is home, they will not be back for hours. The house is all yours.

Through the silent building, upstairs to the room filled with books.
Pause a while, lazy, private, and happy, till the streetlights come on and sharpen the shadows in the darkened chamber.
Day has ended. But the day is still young.
One of the cats nudges up, purring.


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THE BEST DECEMBER WEEKENDS

There's a lot you can do on Saturday or Sunday afternoons. At this time of year you could go out shopping - it's a traditional thing to do at this season - or you could visit relatives and socialize.
But maybe you do not feel like being around a whole host of people.
And some of them, you are convinced, are nuts.

Time for something new. Just for you.

Find a quiet place to read.

Everyone else may lose their minds, there is no need for you to do so.
Go someplace where no one will disturb you, crack open that new volume, and settle in.
If you plan it right, you'll have several hours before you need to see anyone else, and there will be a nice hot cup of tea and a comfy throw rug in your secret refuge.
As you languorously stretch your legs, you flip the page and discover an entirely new world.
Your brow furrows, and fully distracted you relish this moment.


Elsewhere in the city the host of holiday shoppers descends, rabid-dog like, on a twenty percent off sale, mercilessly ripping some poor sales girl limb from limb, splattering her innocent blood against the plate glass and holiday ornaments. Charming trinkets fly through the air like so many missiles, shattering against craniums, seriously wounding random victims in the crowd - they are quickly stripped of all clothing and born aloft, insensate, trembling, limp. Trophies! A fevered mob breaks every bottle in the perfume department, becoming drunk and impassioned from the heady fragrances.
It's a scene of utter chaos, any moment now the riot squad will come bursting in, guns and pepperspray blazing and big night-sticks at ready, before they too are drawn into the frenzy, squealing "oh hey, the missus would LOVE that" as they pull out their credit cards, pressing up against an ecstatic cashier.
They are butch and giddy in their macho outfits.
Sweating, moaning, utterly aglow.

And over all this, a repetitive metallic screeching of carols.


But it is very different where you are. Your brow furrows as the precious fantasy presented in the crisp white pages enchants you, and your lips part slightly - your breathing quickens in anticipation.
Oh, this is just perfect! What a splendid afternoon this is going to be!

Later, after four or five enthralling chapters, you deliciously stretch.
Now, where's that cup of tea?
And some nice buttery short-bread! Cake!
The warmth and peacefulness you experience are delightful.
Doing this was so much better than being out in the cold, surrounded by insane and unlikable people.
If only it could always be like this.

Next weekend, more reading!

You have had a MUCH better afternoon than anyone you know.
And you're not going to share it with them.
Hah! It's all yours!


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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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AN AUDIENCE OF THE SELECT

Herewith a sampling of recent comments under posts, which may prove edifying.
As, indeed, they were to me.


1.
Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "UNDERPANTS GNOME":

Sombody is spending WAAAAY too much time thinking about unmentionables!

Naughty beast!

[According to recent research, on average men think of sex nineteen times per day, and their job or food about seventeen times. So any time spent thinking about something else, such as for instance French cut briefs, is a healthy change. There is also a textural appeal there - my finger tips wish that instead of merely thinking of such things I would actually do something about it, but it will certainly be quite a while before I wear any French cut briefs, so they'll simply have to seek solace in fingering my fine tobacco.
Do not think of me in French cut briefs. It's unhealthy.]
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2.
Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "KOSHER CHICKEN QUANDARY":

What eggs concerns, that is why you a shabbos goy to the house must let come. So that the shabbosegg (beshoggeg or not) is not levattulo.
But, while he is there, beware of wicked omelettes.

[Whoever wrote that is trying too hard to sound like they do not speak English as a first language. Dreaming of wicked omelets is NEVER a waste of time.
Please STOP thinking of motzi beitza levatula.]
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3.
Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "WONTON, WONTON SOUP, WONTON SOUP WITH NOODLES, WON...":

Really, there is nothing better than the wanton made at home.

[I totally agree.]
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4.
Aradeen has left a new comment on your post "BALKAN SOBRANIE - POSTSCRIPT":

I can suggest several hottest adventures to do in Eid. NONE of them involve goats.

[Now that's just plain weird. Have you sought help? And you should know that it is illegal to keep a goat in your apartment in San Francisco. Goats are noble beasts that require the vast expanses of the open veldt, and the rocky mountain ranges. Keeping them cooped up in a studio apartment makes them waste away, pining for their lost freedom.
Oh, wait, I'm thinking of a parrot. Never mind.]
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CONCLUSION

Some of my more interesting readers have rich inner lives. That is not necessarily a bad thing.
Unless it involves eggs or goats in French cut briefs. Stop thinking of such things, please put them out of your head entirely.
The eggs should be curried, and so should the goat - one mild, one spicy.
The French cut briefs are best filled with a college student.
Mild or spicy is not important.
Both are good.


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A MOST INVITING MENU

Sometime in the next few days I shall be dining at a restaurant on Waverly Place.
There are several dishes on the menu that look quite tasty.

Hahm yu yiuk bing pochai fan (鹹魚肉餅煲仔飯), am-tseung pochai fan (鵪春煲仔飯), sang-gwan gaptai jook (生滚及弟粥), siu-ngaap wantan mien (燒鴨雲吞麵), leung-gwa pan kau fan (涼瓜斑球飯).

Respectively: salt fish minced pork cake claypot rice, quail claypot rice, fresh poached pork giblets rice porridge, roast duck wonton noodles, and bittermelon cod rice.

And many more.

[NOTE: salt fish and minced pork patty is a very home-style taste. Quail is usually written 鵪鶉. Sang-gwan (生滚) means that the meat or fish cooks in the heat retained by the porridge. Wantan can be minced pork and prawn OR mostly prawn inside a dough skin dumpling. Bittermelon is delicious! And codfish is commonly 鱈魚 (seut yu), but 'pan' (斑 variegated) shows up in many colloquial fish names. Kau (球 ball, sphere, globular item) refers to the style of cutting the fish into stirfryable pieces.]


The main reason I shall eat there is that while I was strolling down the street smoking my pipe, a delightful bright-eyed young lady came out and handed me a menu.
That by itself is not sufficient reason to eat somewhere. But the menu is very appealing.
And do I need to stress that she was delightful and bright-eyed?


I am looking forward to dinner.


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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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DINNER AND A FROG

I am filled with profound concern for a talking frog. Not, you understand, that I actually know the frog in question.
But I have seen him. Many times. Back during the Muppet Show years, there was an admirable sincerity to him. Whether he was infuriated by his colleagues, upset that something was going amiss (as it so often did), baffled by precisely how something had gone amiss, or interacting on a human to amphib basis with someone else.
Kermit was just so likable.

A lot has changed since those days. Kermit isn’t quite what he once was.
He’s now working for Disney, and the pressure of the corporate world must weigh him down.

What this means is that I am hesitant about going to see the new Muppet movie.
It is very possible that there has been far too much "creative" input by marketers, salesmen, the pets and prodigies of important people, and hacks, for it to quite live up to its promise.
Kermit probably had to fight against committees to get any decent ideas incorporated into the script.
No doubt everyone’s favourite frog longs for the good old days.
I fear being disappointed in my expectations.
Will this movie be worth it?

Kermit has always been a role model.


THE PERFECT DATE MOVIE

If I go see it, I will need someone to provide solace. A fellow mourner, so to speak, in case the movie proves an utter disappointment. I can also be the comforting mature presence.
Or someone to laugh with, when we remember the funny parts.

Camilla and Miss Piggy both have other engagements.
And, you'll understand, they aren't my type.
What with not actually having lips.
It’s a serious problem.

I would love to take a young lady to enjoy this bright green film.
And perhaps a nice restaurant afterwards?
What would Kermit do?

Definitely dinner.
Possibly flies.


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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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THE CRUNCHY PARTS ARE PRETTY DECENT

A while back I donated two bottles of vodka to a good cause.
As it turns out, there is a problem. No, there won't be any infants or problem drinkers present.
Flavoured vodka requires a hechsher.
What I had contributed were one bottle of Rang Tang and one bottle of Bubblegum Vodka.

[warning: The RangTang link leads to another link that may disturb. Do not click on it in class.]

Consumption of both of these fine products at shul has been nixed.
And they have been described as 'odd'.
Odd me'od.


HAPPY VODKA FOR KIDDIEWINKIES!

Those of us who do not keep shul-environment kosher may wish to slosh them down on Chanukah or Purim.
No way will I drink either all by myself, though.
Tang hangovers are the worst.
Just ask our astronauts.

I strongly vote for these "San Francisco flavoured" vodkas to be chilled and served at several of our next meetings.
Can't bring them home - my roommate would wonder at my sanity. Actually, I think she would be convinced that my sanity had gone missing, something she has suspected for years.
There's nothing odd about Tang and bubblegum vodkas, by the way.
Don't know where they got that idea.
Tang and bubblegum vodkas are the breakfast of champions.


WHERE IS WALDO'S HEAD TODAY?

In other news, one of my acquaintances is barking mad.
I was at the wall the other day and had to listen to him throughout a bowlful of Germain's Brown Flake.
No, I'm not in the running for sainthood.
I'm just a very tolerant person.

Shan't tell you who it is. If you've met him already, you know.
Suffice to say that it isn't Chicken Man. It isn't the Ostrich. Not the Egg. Nor the Pigeonkiller. Nor his imperious majesty Agent Left Testicle. Not Bad Bob the Albino. Not the Pancake Man, the office-space broker, the tax advisor, the architect, the lawyer, the other lawyer, the investment banker, the two other office space brokers, the gun collector, the eater of egg-salad sandwiches, or the freak.
Not even the man who is someone's long-lost evil twin.

I am an exceedingly patient man; I talk to teenage shop clerks on the phone across the nation.
I gently dictate short messages to them, and sweetly encourage them not to drop their little pencils, because it's so hard to text, snap gum, and scribble a note for their employer all at the same time.
I am cognizant of the enormous stress they're under, and the difficulty they have coping with a big wide universe. It's just so immense!
So I talk to them.
But I do NOT want to talk to their goofy older brother.
He's quite crazy.
I am sane.


The crunchy parts are pretty decent.
Don't eat the feet and beak.


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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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FAT, SUGAR, STARCH, AND SALT - THIS IS WHY YOU'RE HERE!

There are several search criteria that never fail to attract readers to this blog. Most of them, as you have probably figured out by now, are for subjects that dominate every waking moment of the reader who stumbles in, very few actually occupy the thoughts of the writer of this blog at anytime.
No need to detail what those are, as they will not be mentioned in this post.

[If you’re curious, this link will bring up posts on those issues: 'Pervert Taunting'.]


FOOD

Recently I posted recipes for cheung fan and jook, which are two of my favourite Cantonese eats.
What both have in common is rice in some form, and an innocent sensuous quality that speaks of comfort, home, happiness.
It’s hard to explain why they have this to most white people, as the vast majority of Wasps are not excited by smooth mild foods.
They are more thrilled by cheese and bacon covered nachos on a bun.
With barbecue sauce and ranch dressing.

Cheung fan is a lovely pearlescent sheet noodle with savoury inclusions rolled up loosely.
Jook is a smooth rice porridge or soup with chunks of meat or fish added.
Both are light yet filling, nice in the mouth, and easy to digest.

Many favourite “white” foods are the opposite of easy in the mouth - think of pizza and fried chicken, for example - and even harder on the stomach.
That’s why there’s an entire aisle of stomach preparations at the drugstore.
Acid indigestion is a way of life, judging by how fondly the pharmaceutical industry treats it.

“An hour later you’re hungry again!”

Fast-food chains cater specifically to the cheap greasy heavy taste. Attempts to sell healthy fast food are, consequently, both contradictory and self-defeating. The natural response to a bowl of apples on the counter at Archie's Grease-o-Mat is to ask whether they can deep-fry that sucker.
All nice and toasty crunchy brown, please!
Then cover it with processed cheese.
Got some barbecue sauce?

The reason why such things appeal is because they stay with you for hours.
Unlike decent food, which barely makes its present felt.

That yummy breakfast burrito will ruin your lunch, guaranteed. Your acid reflux will taste like stale bacon and rubbery cheese till teatime.
Oh wait - some of you don’t even know when that is.
Sorry - Teatime is four o’clock in the afternoon.
Eight hours after the bacon, cheese and lard-drenched starch began wreaking havoc on your stomach.

But you know something? A nice bowl of jook, or some cheung fan, and you’ll feel a lot happier!

[Posts that list jook are here '粥', cheung fan can be found by clicking here '腸粉'.]


The lack of gastric distress afterwards may fool you into thinking that you're still hungry.

Why, it even feels like you had nothing at all to eat! There's nothing there!

You could carry around some lard and sugar for just such an emergency...

Or one of those zesty fried apples from Archie's Grease-o-Mat.



AFTER WORD

I actually intended to write about Cantonese American girls and pipe tobacco, but I got distracted.
Which is probably just as well.
Don't want to bore anybody.



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