SOME OF US ARE CRIPPLED

This blogger has always been a fan of the absurd and the painfully inappropriate. Twice in the past week my apartment mate took over the kitchen to cook scrumptious foods for the man in her life, that being the fellow I have dubbed "Wheelie Boy", because the poor bloke rolls around life in a wheelchair.

No, sorry, I am not particularly sympathetic to his plight. We all have problems in life, and each person has a cross to bear.
Life sucks a bit at times.
Tough.


Some of us haven't been touched by any other human being in ages.
Which is a quandary, because random body contact is almost always a pain in the ass, as well as very disturbing. One needs to know the other person well, and both people have to be gender-appropriate for each other AND emotionally close, for any fanny patting at all.

Which is neither here nor there.


In any case, Wheelie Boy.
And his lovely wheelchair.


Here's a song that would make NO sense to him.
It is very inappropriate for a man in his situation.


SUNSHINE ON LEITH -- FIVE HUNDRED MILES


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZ4Ib-7fJqY.]


When she is in there cooking for him I cannot use my own damned kitchen. This happens too often for my taste, although the chile relleno earlier in the week, and the bitter melon with chicken over rice (涼瓜雞球飯) which I ate more recently, were both delicious. Despite eating by myself it was fun, because seeing other people enjoying their food while unconsciously displaying their social peculiarities is always a show.
And yes, there was hot sauce in both places.

From my point of view, it is a pity that Charlie and Craig Reid never mention milk-tea, pastries, or bitter melon, in this song. On the other hand it is obvious that it applies entirely and only to someone who can walk. Specifically, a healthy person who has both the energy and the ability to traverse five hundred miles or more on foot.

I really like that aspect.



I'm not really that fond of eating alone. Or drinking milk tea alone. Or enjoying little pastries alone. But being able to walk around afterwards smoking my pipe and wandering over to the alley next to the volley ball court, or down to the park to commune with the parrots, is nice.



I am not apologizing to anybody who feels that this essay required a trigger warning. At times life sucks a bit. That's just the way it is.

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VOLUNTEER AFFILIATES OF FOX NEWS AND THE KLAN

A restaurant owner in Sedro-Wooley, which is a fubmuck little hitshole in Skagit, Washington State, managed to piss off the local sheriff.
Who promptly took to social media to air his ire.

Now, normally I do not have opinions about what happens in any of the syphilis-ridden trailerparks out in the hinterlands with all the meth labs and slope-brows, and likewise I just assume that local cops are perhaps not the most brilliant bulbs in the box. What with being posted to the boonies among the illiterates, discarded furniture, and insect pests.

The police in San Francisco are by a very wide margin the best of the lot, like several other major urban police departments -- Dallas, for instance -- and largely upstanding moral men and women doing a nearly impossible job remarkably well. Especially given the psychos, entitled weirdoes, and sh*tdisturbers, that flock to America's metropoles to get away from their mommies while still living the trust-fund dream.

But the rest of the U.S is tiger country.

It's a jungle out there.

Outback.


Sedro-Woolley, Skagit, Washington.
Lucky Teriyaki Chinese restaurant.

"Crisp outside, moist inside, full of flavors..."


In consequence of Sheriff Will Reichardt taking to social media, the following comments appeared on Breitbart:

"WHEN the time comes where Mr. Lemma Ding-Dong dials 911 in need of law enforcement, KARMA would have it that ALL HE GETS is a busy signal."

"I wouldn't eat there.... as a matter of fact I wont eat at any Asian restaurant now."

"They can view all Police as bad, I can view all Asian restaurant owners as bad."

"Japanese restaurants are normally good. Chinese restaurants serve dog."

"I would say it time to "...BURN this BITCH down!!""

"Chinese Buffets...arf! arf!.....meow?"


Of course, a very large number of the Breitbartian rednecks also brought up the gay wedding cake thing. Which has no bearing on it, but everything is connected in their world.

Elsewhere on the interwebs things also heated up a bit.
Fox News, which is America's least reliable news source, and always up for a bit of sensationalist pandering to our yellow-bellied unwashed provincials, happily let everyone know about it too.
After what the terrorist did in France the other day, this was precisely the cheering up they needed, and darnitall, they could feel good about themselves by waging arm-chair war!


From YELP:

Some dickhead in Nashville, TN:
"This place is as good as it gets! Greasy, weeks-old food served to you by a staff of questionable legal status whom not only despise cops, but most white people in general!
I would recommend the Salt-frightened pork, the rainbow-slicked beef, or my favorite: the combo of gang-raped chicken and box of sticky.
Sit in one of the corner booths and listen to the criminals discuss the first time they took off a man's head. You can even join in the discussions and confess anything you want: no law enforcement will be around to hear or to bother you.
Can't recommend the place highly enough."


Some dickhead in Port St Lucie, FL:
"The food is something out of the movie Meatballs "Some kind of meat" - I do hope that the health department is the only visitor to this establishment, other than the locksmith that will come to change the locks for the bank.


Some dickhead in Levelland, TX:
I order a bowl of teriyaki and this is what they brought me - a bowl of feces. Now this dirtbag of a cheap crap food restaurant should be closed for good!"


Some dickhead Cedar Park, TX:
"I ask that all military, I am a Viet Nam Veteran.... Boycott this place and close it down. They do not deserve a business license nor any or our American $$$."


Some dickhead in Seattle, WA:
"I went there and the owner touched my wife's breasts and kicked me in the balls. He then punched my baby. Also he has gay Hitler porn."


Some dickhead in New Orleans, LA:
"Immediately upon entering my sense of smell was assaulted by a foul odor, as if Bigfoot himself had wiped his nether regions to provide their signature teriyaki sauce. What they were attempting to pass as chicken I am sure was roadkill crow, certainly ran over by the very officers banned from this establishment. The decor upon their walls was a mixture of what I am certain is nazi memorabilia and pro-ISIS propaganda. My feet stuck to the floor on what could only be the tears shed by the slave labor I am almost certain they employ. So, in short, I won't be returning to this establishment."


Some dickhead in Cheyenne, WY:
"I also noticed the feral cat population is suspiciously low in this area compared to surrounding areas. Coincidence? Maybe not."


Some dickhead in Cypress, TX:
"You'll have a better dining experience with the family of raccoons in the dumpster behind China Wok a few streets over."


Some dickhead in Saint Charles, MO:
"What a dump trash pit whore house if you ask police not to patronize your place. Shit food shit owner shit management."


Some dickhead in Burbank, CA:
"Will never eat here. I heard that they are devil worshippers and sold their soles to the Clintons."


Some dickhead in Sun City, AZ:
"Could it be that the owner is afraid he'll be caught harvest cats out back for his grill...?"


Some dickhead in San Antonio, TX:
"You like poodle with side fry rice? You will like eat here."


Some dickhead in Oakland Park, FL:
"The cat wasn't cooked enough."


Some dickhead in Phelan, CA:
"Sum Ting Wong with this restaurant here...I found a rat in my fried rice! The owners were racist and spat in my face! Disgusting! Avoid at all costs, or your stomach will be saying Bang Ding Owwwwww afterwards."


Some dickhead in Palo Alto, CA:
"I was in there last week and I saw a cookbook on a shelf entitled "1001 Ways To Wok Your Dog"."


Some dickhead in Brevard, NC:
"Horrible food, Filthy tableware, The meat reminded me of dogmeat I was served in China. I vomited out what I ate 25 minutes later. I intend on filing a lawsuit."



And, from a monumental douche in San Diego, CA:
"If you have any bit of an American bone in your body, the blood of a patriot running through your veins, and the wind of the flapping wings of a bald eagle flowing through your hair, you don't want eat at this communist run establishment. Trust me, this place sucks ISIS goat balls, and if you're like me, we don't suck no motherf@!$in balls. I'm a true American, only song I got on my iPod is the Star Spangled Banner and the greatest artist of all time in my book is Francis Scott Key. When I buy a pack of crayons I only buy a 3 pack because the only colors I need are Red, White, and Blue. Lucky Teriyaki, you sure let your luck run out by asking all Law Enforcement to not eat at your establishment. You should look into changing the name of that little grease trap you call a restaurant to F$cked Teriyaki. 'Merica!"


Did any one of those petulant bitches ever even hear of Sedro-Woolley before the voice of the law in Skagit squawked his righteous outrage? There was both more and less to the story than the version they were presented. Yet, true nativists and bigots, they courageously piled on the opprobrium from afar, determined to defend their fellow from the evil foreigner.


Maybe the assorted dickheads and douchebags responsible for those Yelp reviews do not realize that their location is also mentioned? After all, they're in parts of the world where the natives are stupid, hairy, and savage, don't bathe often enough, and tend to grope their sisters.


Gay Hitler porn? I am strangely intrigued.


Might appeal to bullies.


Lynch mobs.



ADDENDUM AS OF 9:47 PM, JULY 17

Racist female in Los Angeles, CA July 17, 2016:
"I won't say that it was Salmonella poisoning because while we were there, we thought we heard a dog yelping in the kitchen before hearing it whimper and then go silent."

Okay. In addition to re-hashing a bigoted stereotypic slur, she claims she and her friends got sick at a restaurant that she has beyond a shadow of a doubt never visited. I hope she and her friends do indeed get a food-borne illness soon, preferably a painful parasite, and die from it, writhing in agony. Either that or an incurable disease with the same result.
She probably feels proud of herself.

Like many other lying s.o.b.s.



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INTERFACIAL POETRY

This blogger realizes that he is a short man. Well, average. Because her breast were at eye level I did not realize at first that her face glowed with a self-satisfied dullness, vacuity, and ugliness of spirit, though what came out of her mouth for several minutes grated the ears and hurt the soul.

She was a tall woman, with high heels.

And breasts.


No, I did not interface with the mammaries. Nor, actually, with the woman herself. I am extraordinarily fond of the opposite gender, but faced with certain obstacles my social urges take a hindseat.
I do not interface well with dingos.


Conversations yesterday covered the following, in no particular order:

Fermenting cigar tobacco, Monty Python, Nice, a gentleman with a rich inner life (imaginary wife, fifteen year-old daughter, and career as a jet-fighter pilot / brain surgeon / podiatrist / ex-marine), Cuba, meat balls, The Wellhausen Hypothesis, Anglo-Saxon verse, Tuna, what is chip-dip good for, vanilla, Donald Trump, somebody's son (Wesley), Houses of Ill Repute (great name for a band, btw), blinking lights, Port wine, poor students and the cheapest pipe tobacco, rabbinic beards, credit cards that wives do not know about, Ecuadorian wrapper (Connecticut seed broadleaf, grown in mist-shrouded valleys), iambic pentameter, caesuras ("cesuur" in Dutch, zijnde een rust na een lange versregel, meestens aangegeven door een puntkomma achteraan), usages of the semicolon, metal alloys like paktong (白銅) and nickel silver, cheese, hummus, boogers, ashtrays, trousers, computers, and type faces.

Remarkably, breasts were not discussed at all.

This may have been an oversight.


I feel reasonably certain that I could have imparted subtlety and intellectual vigour to a conversation about breasts, but unfortunately the subject did not come up even once, and other than registering that a particular person was endowed with them, I did not think about breasts at all yesterday.

In the grand scheme of things, breasts are relatively minor.

They have their place and most men approve of them.

But past the teenage years they fade.

They're nice, though.

Breasts.



UNNECESSARY AFTERWORD

Cigar leaf for the pipe needs to be steamed ("cooked") to mellow it out. It is best to use well-aged tobacco, with a large admixture of wrapper, as long filler may be too heavy even after processing. The first light will be slightly rough, verging on sharpness, but it will soon settle into an earthy resinous smoke with an undertone of sweetness. The tobacco should render down to a pale grey ash of medium grit, and whatever you smoke in that pipe next will initially have a faint cheroot-like ghosting.
It can be very rewarding.


Breasts come in a variety of hues and dimensions, largely within a fairly narrow set of parameters and specifications. Their ambient temperature renders them warm to the touch.

The nicer the personality, the more favourably they may be received.

I should like to discuss them at some point.




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SPONGMONKEY BREAKFAST!

To my great distress I have discovered that there are NO locations of Quiznos nearby. Sometimes a man just wants a submarine sandwich, that's toasted, and bafflingly NOT endorsed by Jon Lovitz.
Of course, he also doesn't endorse Chipotle, but that's not a sub, and there are serious questions that must be answered before dining at that particular chain. Like whether or not my health insurance covers it.
And how many artistic piercings the college graduate putting together my pretentious tortilla loaf actually has.
And do the punctures itch?
Nature goth.


There used to be three Quiznos in the Financial District.

Good food. It was crunchy and delicious.

Now there are none at all.

Dang.


THEY'VE GOT A PEPPER BAR!

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZuPTZWhz46M.]


IT'S VERY FANTASTICO!

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AvHsHVyumoE.]


BIG JOY IS IN OUR HEARTS!

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QxL2JLP9aw.]


Seriously, Jon Lovitz, please dump that bunch of losers with their "eat fresh and have a teenage bum" nonsense, and come on over to the other side.
Don't even think of endorsing that yuppie burrito joint either.


You and Jessica need to eat toasty!


Unfortunately the Mexican place around the corner isn't open at this hour.
I could also go for a carnitas burrito with extra cheese and big golloping globs of salsa de chiles de árbol secos tostados all over it.
And oozing down the side.


A glazed donut just doesn't cut it.
Even with melted cheese.
Wasp breakfast.




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DUTCH TROUBLES

Two news items from the Dutch press are, somehow, tied together. Or perhaps thematically linked. It's probably just a personal mental blip, but taken together they seem to perfectly evoke the gentler pace of life in the old country, and the charm of small towns in the provinces.

The first one reports that an elderly gentleman was arrested for urinating on a number of e-readers for sale in a shop in Enschede for no apparent reason. He did not explain his actions when taken into custody.
My guess is that it was performance art.

The second mentions that a neighborhood in Leerdam is inconvenienced by a large colony of rooks (Corvus frugilegus).


"A sharp dark sound"


The birds are nesting in great colonies up in the trees, and have marked passing pedestrians underneath with large white splotches. Cars parked along the side of the roads are "redecorated" too. As the birds are protected in the Netherlands, the municipality advises human residents to just grin and bear it, or if possible, walk in wide arcs without breaking traffic laws applicable to pedestrians, please stay on the sidewalk.
Perhaps you need an umbrella?
Park carefully.

The fowl also keep people awake long past bedtime by vocalizing. What one of the residents describes as a "sharp dark sound".


Not at all mentioned, unfortunately, is what your best course of action might be if approached by an elderly gentleman who wishes to pee on your e-reader in Enschede. You are probably on your own there. Sorry.
Just let him do his thing, and report it to the police.



Here, as a lagniappe, is a video of a rook playing with a kindly Englishman who gave it a home and comfy pillows.


OH WHAT A CLEVER BIRD!


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x99gJsVhBaE.]


That rook seems much more flexible in some ways than the old gentleman who wets upon the electronic devices. More old school, too.


Note the 'kaa' sound that the bird produces.

Rooks are very social.




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IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER

A conversation with a friend and fellow pipe smoker the other day lead me to realize that we had certain tastes and sensitivities in common. Not so much a match, as an overlap of interests in a Venn diagram.

It strikes me that it might be a good idea to list my various interests and fondnesses, to see if anything can be deduced therefrom, and whether any conclusions and thoughts spring to mind as a result.

As it comes to mind ...


INDIAN FOOD
Good lord yes. Bring on the nimboo achar, phul ghobi masala, and flaky kulcha. Predates my involvement with an Indian restaurant, survived frequent exposure to Punjabis and Gujus, and still continues.
Sarson da saag aur makki di roti.
Sabse achcha!

CHINESE FOOD
Steamed pork patty, stirfried stalky mustard greens, and something very fishy. Perhaps dried fish, perhaps shrimp paste, or a steamed fresh fish.
Or sauteed clams and mussels.

CHINESE SEAL SCRIPT
I am rather proud of my ability to read the ancient forms and analyze their derivation. For a while I carved signature seals, but I haven't done so in a long while.

CHINESE CALLIGRAPHY
Not horrible at it, but not any good either. I suppose I should practise a lot more. My writing hand is pretty decent, and I write better than most.

BADGERS, BATS, RATS, AND WEASELS
PLUS CROWS & PARROTS
Animals that act intelligent or soulful always deserve attention. For some reason dogs and cats tend to think the same about me.
Which I find suspect.

MILK TEA, KUNG FU TEA, AND JUST TEA
Yes, I have a collection of I-Hsing teapots, including a couple of precious antiques. On a daily basis I am high as a kite by noon.
White tea, semi-ferments, and darker bohea.

PIPES AND PIPE TOBACCO
There is a deep-seated appeal in certain fragrances, and just sniffing the bowl of a pipe that has been cleanly used can bring up moods. It's an aesthetic thing involving the eye, the hand, and the nose. Ancient briar, well-aged tobacco, and a layer of reverie laid over the moment.

There is something sexual about the fecund smell of fermenting leaf.

POTTERY AND PORCELAIN
In the quiet of the night you can hear the celadon make pingy sounds, sometimes even years after it came out of the kiln. But there are also wonderful blues, and creamy green glazes, as well as Japanesy effects with Sung dynasty antecedents. No, not so much into oxblood.
But oil-spot and hare's fur can be wonderful.

BOOKS AND LITERATURE
Having a personal library gives one a sense of certainty and security. Some English literature, some Dutch literature, some poetry in various languages, plus many reference works, dictionaries, and art picture books.
And naturally a slightly excessive amount of Manga.
Some of which is nicely silly.

DRAFTING EQUIPMENT
There is a particular smell to the metal alloys once used in precision equipment, as well as a pleasure in handling. Sometimes it's very nice just to open up the cases and look at the arrayed drop bow pens, proportional dividers, scales, and compasses. Sniff.

SPICES AND INCENSE
Okay, peculiar. That's about all that can be said.
Snow pear wood, cedar, and aquilaria.
Mace, Ceylon cinnamon, cloves.
Saffron, cardamon.

SAYING NASTY THINGS ABOUT REPUBLICANS
Quite an addictive thing. Can't think of any other group that so richly deserves the tongue lash. They are odious.


Well then. I cannot quite see how all of this ties in together. Part of it clearly has to do with my reading in history, part of it certainly comes from thinking with my hands. I am somewhat more into visual stimuli than whatever passes for music, as well obsessed by surfaces and shapes.
The object lust is probably a natural development.

How things look and smell and feel induces shifts in mood.
There is a quietness there, and an emotional balance.
Hold a something in the hand for a while.
Feel it's musicality.


I cannot describe the intensity of a finger-tip touch.




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HOW DO YOU ROAST IT?

He held me responsible. Apparently my people had impoverished the world by doing it. And I was an evil representative of "some kind of mutant viking redneck". For much of that short and far too brief conversation I didn't admit to a thing, and asserted my innocence.

I had made the mistake of mentioning that some of my ancestors came over during the seventeenth century, when Dutch fleets controlled the seas and blew all those Johnny Bulls Come Lately out of the water.
As well as the Spanish and the Portuguese.

Consequently, he averred that I was co-guilty of crimes against humanity.

Which, naturally, because I did not personally still derive benefit from our great successes and rapacity, I was disinclined to take any responsibility for, and refused to feel guilty about.


Before deciding that the conversation had some merits after all, and I might as well go with it.


"Okay, we did it. And it was just great! Totally effing stupendous. Yuge! We aren't ashamed in the slightest. We invaded Morrisey and hunted them all down. Slaughtered their entire tribe, exterminated them all. You will never see them roaming the veld in vast herds, kind of loud, majestic, and impressive, because we killed them. We cooked the bejayzus outta them.
They absolutely no longer exist because of us.
We were hungry, and we ate the Dildo."


Morrisey is east of Madagascar.

The Wallow Bird, or "dod-aersch", was very good to eat.
Unfortunately, I cannot find any recipes on the internet.


You try living on salt pork and ship's biscuit for months on end sometime.


My chance-met conversational partner was a college graduate.




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SOMETHING PUNGENT THIS WAY COMES

Several years ago I mentioned a gentleman whom I did not know at all. Specifically, a Boer, who was looking for Boxer, Assegai, or Jock.
Which are tobaccos sold in South Africa.

Today I met that man.

He also likes the nice pungent perfume of Latakia.


And it turns out that his tastes are guided by memory. The aroma of tobacco is, you understand, a powerful mental sparker. Many people will appreciatively sniff the fragrance of a pipe or cigar, and in blissed-out reverie remark that it reminds them of an uncle, or a school teacher, an elderly relative, perhaps an antique older gentleman of their family's acquaintance, some impossibly old fart, an ancient arthritic and drooling wreck, or a dessicated corpse from the last century kept in a basement nook of the family manse.

Best case scenario: a charming classmate from highschool or college, or that handsome dude pensively drinking double espressos while reading all the way through James Joyce's Ulysses in the back corner of the Caffe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, three blocks from Sather Gate, amid the fog from Gauloises and Gitanes.

That was me, by the way.
You should have spoken.
And yes, I finished it.

Urgh.

I was less successful with À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu, by Proust.
A friend read it several years ago, and asserted that it was a work of great literature. Another friend averred that this was an accurate statement, and waxed lyrical and fulsome in praise.

I'm still working on the last volume. The entire set is in the pit under the teevee, behind stacked plates and bowls by artisan potters.
One of these days I'll steel myself.

I am no longer quite sure how I feel about Madeleines.

There are times when I remember Berkeley fondly.




In case you were wondering, the South African gentleman was originally mentioned in this post: Afrikaner Smoke Clouds, back in July of 2009. This evening he is no doubt enjoying some Dunhill Nightcap, which is an Oriental mixture with an extraordinary complement of Latakia.
It bears no resemblance to Boxer, Assegai, and Jock.
From what I can gather, mostly flue-cured leaf.
Strong, earthy, and a bit wild.

Different memories.




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LOOKING ONE'S BUST

This blogger is pleased to report that I do not have hairy man-boobs.
This necessitated an unbuttoning and quick peek to be certain of that, as
I had forgotten where all of my frontal hair was. Obviously I seldom take a good look at myself.

Well, other than to see if my hair is brushed and my beard looks neat.

Which is automatic, and happens daily.


As long as the rest of me is clean, I am not too concerned with what it looks like, as it will be covered up for several hours.
No one will see it, nor complain.

* * * * *

Therefore, you will understand that if I were to actually be nude at any point, happy bystanders and passers-by would exclaim "damn, that's one sexy man-beast, 'zounds!" And drool appreciatively.

The perfect zombie love stud.

It's a lifestyle.



Haircut, beard, glasses, and clothes.
No hairy man-boobs is a bonus.
So is the pipe smell.
Yowza.




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EXPRESSING YOUR UNIQUE INDIVIDUALITY

Many American women spend far too much effort thinking about their appearance. There were three female persons who waltzed in with their signifothers today, whose ill-considered efforts and faulty thinking sabotaged their every intent.

I'm sorry, when you are so painfully thin that you look like a stick-insect, boob augmentation and Satan's mascara seem a little out of place.

Same general message goes for the woman who had her lips filled out, and whose boob jobs were too heavy for a human bra.


Ladies, you would have looked perfectly fine if you had done nothing and let yourself go.

Instead, you are the stuff of nightmares.


Normal breasts, normal lips, normal eyes, and normal weight; these are your friends. Not enemies. Perhaps your mind and your obsessive self-image work is an enemy -- some of us certainly think so, and you might want to open your ears to what we dare not say aloud here -- and money spent on therapy instead might work better for you.
Anyhow, go with the natural look.


Everyone benefits from a natural look.


Whenever I see nail polish, eye-shadow and pancake foundation, as well as an unnatural hue to the skin, I have the same reaction as I do toward tattoos, piercings, and highly individualistic clothing choices.

Most of us would rather not see your navel stud, the butterfly tattooed on your breast, bunched kidney rolls, or your stylish, stylish thong.
And you need to worry about the people that do.

Neat clean comfortable garb is stunningly sexy. Charming, too.

Skin-tight yoga pants, on the other hand...

Gah.


I'm not asking you to dress like your grandma, but could y'all at least dress like you are going to visit her? And you actually like her?


Now, as for those signifothers of yours, who pranced in with the three of you in tow, those gentlemen have no taste whatsoever.
That should tell you something.




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THE WORLD OF COOL PEOPLE

It could've been a comment about a big spoiled brat, a child-man, an entitled tech-bro immigrant from Flyoverstan, an e-commerce yuppie or the typical Republican hosebag. Perhaps a real-estate shark?
Or Donald Trump, who represents all of that.

I overheard it on the street.


"Maybe he should get over his big fat self and start thinking about other people!"


It could be anybody in this city. This is not the San Francisco of a few years ago. It's filled with richer hipper needier people now, and has become more impersonal.

These folks are all high-maintenance.


FEEDING TIME AT THE ZOO

A list of all the must-know eateries in the city: the Eater 38.
The food is doubtless exquise(!) and to die for.
Nah, ain't gonna visit most of them.
Sadly, I am not hip.



I 'm not comfortable around big fat egomaniacs.




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INEXPLICABLY THIN PEOPLE

The Dutch don't have a cuisine. Their culinary preferences are far too peculiar for that. As a collection of excessively hairy Irishmen prove in the video presented below.

No, I shan't translate what any of the food names are. I found out the hard way, and I want you to do the same. Evenso, roggebrood met suiker en boter (the last thing they ate) was a new one on me too.
I suspect that the item in question was invented by a health nut.
Possibly a visiting American.

Roggebrood is very good for your innards. You need the fibre.
I already get plenty of fibre, so I ain't touching it.
I'll have some of the ontbijtkoek.
Extra butter.

Best thing? Smurf in a blender.


IRISH PEOPLE WITH THINGS FALLING INTO THEIR LAPS

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NGSessPlOPM.]


Not only the Dutch get subjected to this review process. The tasting panel get to fold their hairy Hibernian lips around Mexican food, which might not be quite as popular in their part of the world as it is here.


AS CHEESY AS A BON JOVI CONCERT

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMDlvhDrSRc.]


Both of these videos are courtesy of some batty dingo in Dublin, who lives in his granny's basement and keeps pet rats. He's never had a girlfriend, and worries excessively about his beard.
The rodents aren't domesticated.
These are all facts.

Plus he doesn't bathe often enough.
What with no central heating.
A fear of pneumonia.
It's Ireland.

They've also tried American Irish Saint Patrick's Day food, plus cocktails, barbecue, and thanksgiving chow. Weirded out by the first, seriously loved the second and the third, and were largely repulsed by the goofy slop that goes with the end of November celebration.
Casseroles totally baffled them.

What they should have tried is Dutch late night snacks.
It would have been a real eye-opener.
Possibly explosive.


Old person sweets?
How insulting!


I'll have you know that there are no old persons in the Netherlands!


The anorexics featured above ate a lot of food.




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ABOUT NOT GOOD THINGS

We are not supposed to have five dead cops. Or so many dead black men. This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

Events of the last week are not a good reflection of our society, yet, sadly, they perfectly reflect our society. And, for the immediate time being, these events are indigestible.
Yes, I can find perfectly logical explanations for how the two dead black men happened -- not that ever it should have happened, but it did, and statistically it isn't surprising because of the bias built in to our society as is depressingly evident on regular basis -- but that it did happen just has no good reason, and it should not have been allowed to happen.

That, as a result, someone said to themselves "let's burn this sh*tcan down" is not an entirely illogical response. Yes, five dead cops is no more understandable or justifiable than two dead black men.
But really, there should not have been any.


If I were black, I would be less than convinced that U.S. law enforcement truly had my best interests -- or my health and well being -- at heart.


It seems that not everyone understands that keeping the disenfranchised from becoming "actively disenchanted" requires tact and co-optation.

Two very recent dead black men sure ain't gonna help.

Let's work on that co-optation, shall we?



We have a right to demand better. Much better.
But we also MUST demand better.

We have an obligation.
To seven dead people.



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SOMETHING ABOUT FEATHERS

Yesterday afternoon, right around tea-time, I realized precisely what is missing in my life. Now, you might think that at my age I would have discovered that a long time ago, as most normal and fairly intelligent men do, but forgive me, I am a little dense.

Almost all normal men at my age discover that what they really want is an expensive Italian sportscar, a no-fault divorce, and a not particularly talkative trophy wife.

Red or black, over and done with, and blonde.
In that precise order.


I am defective. And comfortable being so.


Six years ago Savage Kitten broke up with me because the relationship no longer worked for her. Yes, we are still good friends, and I've never had the urge to drive over her "accidentally". No, I don't own a vehicle with which that might have been done, and there wasn't a bimbo in the wings.
By most standards that makes me less of a man.

Okay.

If I had ever sought the approval of my peers, I would be a non-smoking food-neurotic exercise freak with a four wheel drive.


Es ist mir scheißegal was sie denken.


What I realized yesterday was that what I really want is someone who will happily come over because I have lots of books, and enjoys going out for pastries and milk tea. After which we'll have a walk together.
Someone who will enjoy looking at the parrots with me.
As well as the crows and hummingbirds.



The seagulls not so much. I still haven't figured out why they hang around Sue Bierman Park at the same time as the parrots. The crows are there because they're fascinated by loud squawky green egomaniacs who seem sociable but are clearly quite imperfectly socialized, and the hummingbirds are little pea-brains who just like flowers.


There are also robins, thrushes, and tits.
Plus finches and blackbirds.




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PERMIT ME TO WASP-SPLAIN FOR A MOMENT

Living in the urban heart of the San Francisco Bay Area, one is always a bit flabberghasted at the small-town mindsets and bigotry of the rest of the country. Where, like Donald Trump and his kind, many people assume that "American" means white and Christian.

White and Christian are just a subset of American. We are a very diverse nation, but that diversity exists primarily in the cities, and specifically in a few urban conglomerates. There are of course black people living in the interior, along with Hispanics (essential for agriculture, but often rather invisible) and a smattering of Asians. But the great riotous bubble of a melting pot is far less visible in the heartland, and because it is distant from their lives, odd to the locals.

There are three constructions that mark majority attitudes towards minorities in "White America".

Go back where you came from!

So what do you put first, American or Dingus?

Oh shut up, you're an American; you're as American as I am!


About one year after I had returned to the US from living abroad during my childhood and adolescence, someone screamed at me that I should go back where I came from. That was, and is, unusual, but even today sometimes people treat me like I belong elsewhere based on how I speak English. I've clarified that I was born here and that we've been here for centuries a bit more frequently in the last year, and I feel that I really shouldn't have to do that. And I feel chickenshit that I can and do do that.

Both of my parents were born abroad; their families were American military in Europe after Word War One, who returned to the United States while my parents were still children. Again, this is also something I should not have to explain, but it does account somewhat for why they did not provide a spotless American-accent and cotton wool home environment while I was growing up.


Here's are a few passages from an Article in the Washington Post about a gentleman who has been here longer than me and his encounters with what festers under the pale white faces of his fellow Americans.

Quote:
Fernando Herboso glimpsed the change in sentiment a few months ago. He was showing a Muslim family a house, also in the Maryland suburbs. Their young daughter needed to use the bathroom. The water had been turned off at the house, so Fernando went to ask a neighbor who was outside gardening.

The woman glanced over Fernando’s shoulder, and saw the family, wearing traditional Muslim garb. She wordlessly turned her back to him, went inside her house and locked the door.
End quote.

Quote:
“We don’t want Muslims in our clubhouse. Take off that robe over your head!”
End quote.

Quote:
"The couple, who were used to such attacks, were gracious about the whole thing. They’re still house-hunting in Frederick."
End quote.

Quote:
“I don’t even know what Hispanic means. Are you from Spain, Mexico, Argentina, Guatemala, Cuba? Does it really matter?” a fellow Realtor lashed out at Herboso. “I have to assume that it refers to some culture that you relate with that is different than the American culture. But what do you put first, Hispanic or American?”
End quote.


[SOURCE: A home that looks perfect, until bigotry rears its ugly head . ]


All of this disturbs me. No, I shall not give a long explanation why such attitudes are repulsive. Because I should not have to. And I would feel chickenshit, and somewhat nauseated, if I did.

The comments underneath that article overwhelmingly represent small-mindedness and hate. Many of them vociferously justify casual bigotry, some are from whinging petulant basement dwellers.

The latter class are probably not the majority in this country.

But they scream by far the loudest.



"Hispanics; essential for agriculture, but often rather invisible"

In San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Miami, the Hispanic population represents every trade, income level, and social class. Which is as it should be. In rural America their role is much more circumscribed.
In the suburbs they often have leaf blowers and ear damage.

Without immigrants some people couldn't survive.




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VEGANS AND PIZZA

Now hear this: unless that is real dough, and real cheese, that is NOT a pizza! And no, we do not wish to cater to the spoiled brat slacker contingent with their "I'm so special" fussiness. Real Italian food uses gluten, eggs, and dairy products like there is no tomorrow. Anything without at least one of those ingredients had better be meat.

If you are in Berkeley, San Francisco, or Marin, there maybe some culinary whore who will cater to your sneering entitled self.
Elsewhere, not so much.

Berkeley is filled with your type, in San Francisco there are far fewer, and Marin is somewhere in between.

One place in Sausalito, desperate for dough, offers Vegan Italian.

Obviously they are pimps and have no pride.


This morning on Facebook I joined a discussion about a Vegan who made a half hour(!) video tape of himself sanctimoniously lecturing while devouring "pizza". Two thirds of the way in he discovers that there's cheese in the sauce (which is then confirmed over the phone by the pizzeria), and forcefully flings his cellular device against the wall in fury.
Not only is he pretentious, silly, and boring.....
He's also a class "A" dillwad.

He ends by whining.
Petulant.



This being the time of year when more Americans visit San Francisco, naturally Chinatown is awash with special needs folks, often overweight (morbidly obese), who all ask stupid questions about dough, meat, condiments, and why don't y'all have food I can eat damn you?

Well, real people don't have so many hang-ups is why.
Most Cantonese people really like meat.
As well as crustaceans.
Plus gluten.


A phrase I overheard while I was orgasming over a sumptuous pastry with whipped cream at a lovely place to which I often go sums up the entire entitled food-phobe gestalt.

"This bakery puts gluten, cheese, and peanuts in EVERYTHING!"

Oh you poor traumatized wussums! You forgot entirely about the animal shortening! It makes everything flaky super good!
Maybe they don't want you here?


Look, sweetie, the clientele of this establishment is overwhelmingly Chinese, because most waspy types are scared to try anything out of the norm, and putting even further limitations on what you will consider eating makes you even less a part of their target demographic.
They do very well; they've been in business for over twenty years. Considering that your type does not shop here, unless you want to use the bathroom, because you drank too much sugar-free soda, ice-tea, or expensive bottled water while waddling around the neighborhood and can't figure out that there is a giant free clean place to relieve your precious self in Portsmouth Square, perhaps they're on to something. Look around you: Chinese labels on food and other products.
If you didn't want Chinese stuff, go to Fisherman's Wharf, the Cannery, or Pier Thirty Nine. It is one hundred percent certain that you can find gluten free cheese free nibbly-doodles at a place with an extra-wide re-inforced porcelain bucket for your refined squatties.
They cater specifically to tourists.


Side note: why ARE all you Mittel-Amerikaner so effing fat? Is it all that corn? You don't have to slather grease or caramel on it; try cayenne and lime juice instead. And get some exercise why don't you?

Waddle waddle waddle waddle waddle waddle!

Cartman.


The demographic that makes needy demands is too small to constitute a significant market segment. There are rather few Vegetarian and Vegan restaurants in the urban Bay Area plus one or two macrobiotic holes, and all of them worry about making the rent. For equally goofy diners there are maybe two dozen New York or Chicago pizza places in all of Nor-Cal.

Nit-picky requests do not pay the rent.

Pizza has cheese. And gluten.

Chinese eat animals.

Piss elsewhere.


Special pest.




If I owned a pasticceria / panetteria, there would be a large sign over the doorway that said ""This bakery uses gluten, dairy, eggs, AND LARD, in everything! And we have peanuts."





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AMERICA, PLEASE USE CLOTRIMAZOLE!

Clotrimazole, as most fratboys and football types know, cures or prevents athletes foot fungus. As well as jock-itch. Both of those being painful ulcerative infections that can occur if you sweat after pointless exertion (sports) or live in an unhealthy part of the world (Dixie).

Baby powder is a fine preventative measure, however.

Normal people can simply dust themselves.

Depending on where they are.



However, if we, as a country, start massively using antifungal ointment, maybe Donald Trump will disappear.



Seriously, it's worth trying.

It's what we should've done during Reagan and Bush, but we had little idea then how virulently nasty a rotten crotch could be.

Clotrimazole, dumbasses, clotrimazole!




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BAD DUTCH UNCLE

Sometimes little boys demand attention. Especially when their inferior, a girl-child (the older sister), seems to be getting any. Because paying attention to girls upsets the natural order, and is manifestly wrong!

Why, he will ask, are you paying HER all that mind?!?

Why, because she's a sensitive kind young lady!

And that is entirely as it should be.


"I am a sensitive kind young lady!"


His indignance was palpable. The air crackled with tension after his angry squawk. Possibly because everyone was trying not to giggle, or wondering whether they should have a serious talk with him.
Before years of therapy were needed.

I probably did not help matters (at least I hope not) because in passing by the little family group I leaned over and said avuncularly "there there, of COURSE you are".

It felt like the right thing to do. I am the avunculus you do not want to have.

You can count on me for words of encouragement.

I am very supportive.


Of all the wrong things, especially your offsprings' peculiarities, but, nevertheless, supportive. Of the twisted little beasts.
All the wrong reasons, too.




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