Pakistan, as a concept and country, has reached the limits of what anal-probing can teach us.
Quote:
Pakistan says it has asked Facebook to help investigate "blasphemous content" posted on the social network by Pakistanis.
Facebook has agreed to send a team to Pakistan to address reservations about content on the social media site, according to the interior ministry.
Blasphemy is a highly sensitive and incendiary issue in Pakistan.
End quote.
[SOURCE: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-39300270 .]
All of you need to chill out.
Look, in a world where Texans still exist, and that inbred anathematic hellhole known as 'Utah' has not yet been erased from the planet, heresy just isn't a big thing, and blasphemy is distinctly a minor issue.
L. Ron Hubbard? Jerry Falwell? Ben Klassen?
His Eminence Metropolitan Seraphim Mentzelopoulos?
The Great Dharma Wheel Way?
Nation of Yahweh?
Vesmírní lidé sil světla?
Get over it.
Blasphemy is a highly sensitive and incendiary issue in Pakistan, unlike pederasty, honour killing, and feudalism.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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Sunday, March 19, 2017
Saturday, March 18, 2017
YOUR TOBACCO STINKS AND YOUR BREATH SMELLS LIKE TUNA FISH
No occasion shall go unpunished. The Saint Patrick's Day display: green ("candela") cigars, green pipes, and a selection of Peterson tobaccos, most of which are drecky aromatics, because canny merchants like the Irish know that Yanks and Euries have the taste palette of Parisian whores.
To whom no offense is meant.
Oh, plus Erinmore Flake. Of which I have over a year's supply, mostly the stuff from when it was still made in Ireland, rather than the Orlik product.
[Personal stash. It was an inspiration. Nobody else is getting any.]
I believe Orlik also make the Peterson tobaccos, but somewhere along the line Kohlhase & Kopp were involved. Further research on that issue eventually is required.
GREEN CIGARS?
Because nothing says driving the snakes out better than a double claro or candela wrapper. Favoured by nasty old men with their pants belted at nipple height, and breath that smells of tuna salad sandwiches.
Which reminds a lot of people of Florida.
A very Irish place.
In fact, a candela cheroot is the perfect cap to an evening that featured tuna salad sandwiches. I cannot think of anything better.
Maybe a pint of American beer.
Green pipes are not my style. There's something far too flamboyant about the deep vert émeraude / smaragdgrün woodstain. Plus it fades over time, leaving the pipe a muddy moss colour.
The tobaccos were Irish Oak (a VaPer), Gold Blend (hickory, vanilla, and cinnamon), De Luxe Mixture (walnut and honey), Special Reserve 2014 (refined fruit aromas), 1865 (full-bodied Latakia mixture), Signature Flake (top quality flue-cured leaf), and Founder's Choice. That last consists of Virginias, Burley, and allegedly some Oriental leaf, plus black Cavendish, assertively flavoured with rum, mango, and vanilla. One of the finest aromatics ever made. Of which I have had several bowls.
RUM, MANGO AND VANILLA!
Well, it's more than smokable, sort of. Something Mary down south might like, though her husband Kaz and her cats would look askance. And the cube cut is old-fashioned and interesting. No, I shan't buy it, ever. But I will probably finish the open sample tin over the next few months on days when Hector is working. The last time I smoked aromatics in his presence he called me an unbelievable degenerate and looked nauseated and aghast for the rest of the day. It was a cherry black cavendish, for your information, and I quite enjoyed his reaction more than the smoke. Peterson's Founder's Choice may ghost the pipes in which it is smoked, so I cannot take them with me to the Occidental until several bowls of Balkan Supreme (Arango) or Stokkebye's English Oriental Supreme have been chased through them (mr. Post would kick me the heck out; he hates aromatic shite), but the frisson and the irritation factor are worth it. Abundantly so, in buckets.
Because I am a petty man, and I enjoy sickening Hector.
And this is the perfect tobacco for that.
Had another bowl today.
Delicious.
[Any beginning tobacconist can stock the house-blend bar very respectably by having Arango's Balkan Supreme and Stokkebye's English Oriental Supreme, plus BCA (vanilla flavoured black cavendish), 1Q (far better than a drugstore aromatic and reliable, but meant for people with no imagination and boring old farts), PS Peaches & Cream (fruity-tooty, but slightly more restrained than some of the over-sauced trollops out there), Sutliff's Rum and Maple (old codger tobacco), McClelland 2010 (straight Virginias, reds and brights, broken flake), McClelland 2015 (similar to the previous, with Perique included), and PS Luxury Bullseye (one of the best bulk coin flakes available, solid and decent, a must-stock item). Plus plain ribbon Burley. That's two full English, three top quality Virginias for traditionalists, and four aros for the pervert squad. Two thirds of all pipe smokers are perverts, probably more. Don't forget to creatively re-name the tobaccos: Captain Blucher's Coin, The Sargent's Moustache, Old Scottish Bog, Midnight Madmen, Hobbit Shred, and similar "unique" appellations.]
I really should have opened up a tin of Irish Oak instead for sampling, but that would have been too selfish; one cannot always opportunistically offer the tobaccos one likes, sometimes there has to be something for the unwashed savages.
PETERSON'S IRISH OAK
Tangy and sweet, with a spicy note. Stronger than it seems at first puff, and it benefits from being set aside unopened for a year or two. It is reminiscent of Dunbar, Dorchester, Elizabethan, and tobaccos in that genre, but with more Perique. Kohlhase & Kopp, allegedly. Orlik, probably.
Irish Oak is perhaps one of the finest and most decent pipe tobaccos produced under the Peterson name. It must have been a mistake, or maybe originally developed by McConnell, which would explain a lot.
It seems most un-Irish. Mary apparently likes it also.
Maybe she's drifting away from the aros.
About damned time.
THE GRAPE ESCAPE
One tobacco I really must mention, now that we are speaking about froot loop mixtures, is the grape concoction which was in the development stages about a year ago. There were two versions, both of which I smoked several times. No discernible tobacco flavour whatsoever, hardly a bite, remarkably smooth, and an overwhelming pong of grape soda.
One pipe still ghosted, one not affected at all.
It's a pipe blend for little children.
Kindergarten puffs.
The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that tuna sandwiches need to replace corned beef and cabbage. Fish is good for the brain, cabbage turns it to mush.
If you have to stay indoors with your uncles Padriag and Seamus, because of the beastly weather and the cold frigid rain all the time, you really want them smelling like ruddy perverts. Rum, mango, and vanilla.
It counters the stench of boiled cabbage.
Happy hangover, sickos.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To whom no offense is meant.
Oh, plus Erinmore Flake. Of which I have over a year's supply, mostly the stuff from when it was still made in Ireland, rather than the Orlik product.
[Personal stash. It was an inspiration. Nobody else is getting any.]
I believe Orlik also make the Peterson tobaccos, but somewhere along the line Kohlhase & Kopp were involved. Further research on that issue eventually is required.
GREEN CIGARS?
Because nothing says driving the snakes out better than a double claro or candela wrapper. Favoured by nasty old men with their pants belted at nipple height, and breath that smells of tuna salad sandwiches.
Which reminds a lot of people of Florida.
A very Irish place.
In fact, a candela cheroot is the perfect cap to an evening that featured tuna salad sandwiches. I cannot think of anything better.
Maybe a pint of American beer.
Green pipes are not my style. There's something far too flamboyant about the deep vert émeraude / smaragdgrün woodstain. Plus it fades over time, leaving the pipe a muddy moss colour.
The tobaccos were Irish Oak (a VaPer), Gold Blend (hickory, vanilla, and cinnamon), De Luxe Mixture (walnut and honey), Special Reserve 2014 (refined fruit aromas), 1865 (full-bodied Latakia mixture), Signature Flake (top quality flue-cured leaf), and Founder's Choice. That last consists of Virginias, Burley, and allegedly some Oriental leaf, plus black Cavendish, assertively flavoured with rum, mango, and vanilla. One of the finest aromatics ever made. Of which I have had several bowls.
RUM, MANGO AND VANILLA!
Well, it's more than smokable, sort of. Something Mary down south might like, though her husband Kaz and her cats would look askance. And the cube cut is old-fashioned and interesting. No, I shan't buy it, ever. But I will probably finish the open sample tin over the next few months on days when Hector is working. The last time I smoked aromatics in his presence he called me an unbelievable degenerate and looked nauseated and aghast for the rest of the day. It was a cherry black cavendish, for your information, and I quite enjoyed his reaction more than the smoke. Peterson's Founder's Choice may ghost the pipes in which it is smoked, so I cannot take them with me to the Occidental until several bowls of Balkan Supreme (Arango) or Stokkebye's English Oriental Supreme have been chased through them (mr. Post would kick me the heck out; he hates aromatic shite), but the frisson and the irritation factor are worth it. Abundantly so, in buckets.
Because I am a petty man, and I enjoy sickening Hector.
And this is the perfect tobacco for that.
Had another bowl today.
Delicious.
[Any beginning tobacconist can stock the house-blend bar very respectably by having Arango's Balkan Supreme and Stokkebye's English Oriental Supreme, plus BCA (vanilla flavoured black cavendish), 1Q (far better than a drugstore aromatic and reliable, but meant for people with no imagination and boring old farts), PS Peaches & Cream (fruity-tooty, but slightly more restrained than some of the over-sauced trollops out there), Sutliff's Rum and Maple (old codger tobacco), McClelland 2010 (straight Virginias, reds and brights, broken flake), McClelland 2015 (similar to the previous, with Perique included), and PS Luxury Bullseye (one of the best bulk coin flakes available, solid and decent, a must-stock item). Plus plain ribbon Burley. That's two full English, three top quality Virginias for traditionalists, and four aros for the pervert squad. Two thirds of all pipe smokers are perverts, probably more. Don't forget to creatively re-name the tobaccos: Captain Blucher's Coin, The Sargent's Moustache, Old Scottish Bog, Midnight Madmen, Hobbit Shred, and similar "unique" appellations.]
I really should have opened up a tin of Irish Oak instead for sampling, but that would have been too selfish; one cannot always opportunistically offer the tobaccos one likes, sometimes there has to be something for the unwashed savages.
PETERSON'S IRISH OAK
Tangy and sweet, with a spicy note. Stronger than it seems at first puff, and it benefits from being set aside unopened for a year or two. It is reminiscent of Dunbar, Dorchester, Elizabethan, and tobaccos in that genre, but with more Perique. Kohlhase & Kopp, allegedly. Orlik, probably.
Irish Oak is perhaps one of the finest and most decent pipe tobaccos produced under the Peterson name. It must have been a mistake, or maybe originally developed by McConnell, which would explain a lot.
It seems most un-Irish. Mary apparently likes it also.
Maybe she's drifting away from the aros.
About damned time.
THE GRAPE ESCAPE
One tobacco I really must mention, now that we are speaking about froot loop mixtures, is the grape concoction which was in the development stages about a year ago. There were two versions, both of which I smoked several times. No discernible tobacco flavour whatsoever, hardly a bite, remarkably smooth, and an overwhelming pong of grape soda.
One pipe still ghosted, one not affected at all.
It's a pipe blend for little children.
Kindergarten puffs.
The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that tuna sandwiches need to replace corned beef and cabbage. Fish is good for the brain, cabbage turns it to mush.
If you have to stay indoors with your uncles Padriag and Seamus, because of the beastly weather and the cold frigid rain all the time, you really want them smelling like ruddy perverts. Rum, mango, and vanilla.
It counters the stench of boiled cabbage.
Happy hangover, sickos.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 17, 2017
THE UNHAPPINESS OF A RACCOON
An unnamed Russian zoo and and advertising agency are at loggerheads over a raccoon and a brassiere. The raccoon is traumatized, and feels so used. The brassiere just has an abiding emptiness.
QUOTE:
The petting zoo sometimes rents animals to filmmakers. Spokesman Viktor Kiryukhin told the BBC the raccoon - Thomas - returned from the studio traumatised. "We noticed he was attracted to women's breasts." Video firm Art-Msk called the zoo's lawsuit "absurd". They also said the raccoon stole a model's bra on set.
[ --- ]
Mr Bogatov has threatened to counter-sue the zoo, and to claim compensation for the damaged bra.
END QUOTE.
[SOURCE: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-39290208.]
There are times when one envies raccoons. One imagines that he felt the fabric of the garment in question, how it was still warm, fragrant, and soft, so soft. He wanted it! It was just lying there, and he saw his chance!
He took it and scampered off!
Oh happy creature!
But alas, he was soon robbed of his prize, and returned to a place where there were no bras. Nor the things that fill them.
Sadness, despair, trauma.
This blogger, as a matter of justice, feels that every petting zoo should have at least one pair of breasts.
I am a raccoon.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
QUOTE:
The petting zoo sometimes rents animals to filmmakers. Spokesman Viktor Kiryukhin told the BBC the raccoon - Thomas - returned from the studio traumatised. "We noticed he was attracted to women's breasts." Video firm Art-Msk called the zoo's lawsuit "absurd". They also said the raccoon stole a model's bra on set.
[ --- ]
Mr Bogatov has threatened to counter-sue the zoo, and to claim compensation for the damaged bra.
END QUOTE.
[SOURCE: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-39290208.]
There are times when one envies raccoons. One imagines that he felt the fabric of the garment in question, how it was still warm, fragrant, and soft, so soft. He wanted it! It was just lying there, and he saw his chance!
He took it and scampered off!
Oh happy creature!
But alas, he was soon robbed of his prize, and returned to a place where there were no bras. Nor the things that fill them.
Sadness, despair, trauma.
This blogger, as a matter of justice, feels that every petting zoo should have at least one pair of breasts.
I am a raccoon.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 16, 2017
THE SEARCH FOR INTELLIGENT LIFE ENDED A WHILE BACK
In September of 2012, after the so-manieth time that paranoid anti-Obama crap had been forwarded to a political mailing list, I de-subscribed. Life is too short to see red every time the loonies send vicious partisan agit-prop or spew venomously insane far-right rhetoric. I also e-mail blocked several people, and de-subscribed from three other mailing lists.
[If Obama is going to take away your weapons, enact Sharia Law, and destroy Israel, he'd better look snappy about it. It's a bit late now, so those tasks will necessarily fall to Trump ("the Messiah"), Pence ("the Silent Weasel"), Spicer ("the Sphincter"), and Kellyanne Conway ("the Mouth of Sauron"), plus Jared and Ivanaka Kushner ("Complicit #1" and "Complicit #2").
I'm sure they're up to the task; they've already made a good start on the Death Panels.]
I got tired of the many folks who could scarcely keep their rabid gunnuttery and ignorance in check. Or their psychoses and xenophobia.
They were odious, they are irrelevant.
Since then, I have progressively pruned all the rightwingers and loonies out of my contact folder and Facebook account, stopped communicating with people who read Caroline Glick (well, most of them), disassociated myself even more from certain people and certain groups, and no longer pay attention to what remains of our movement in the Bay Area.
Little left but nuts and Christians.
[If you care at all about the future of Zionism, you will reject Trump and Wilders.]
Oh, and I've written off Berkeley.
It's a surreal hell hole.
Fuck them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[If Obama is going to take away your weapons, enact Sharia Law, and destroy Israel, he'd better look snappy about it. It's a bit late now, so those tasks will necessarily fall to Trump ("the Messiah"), Pence ("the Silent Weasel"), Spicer ("the Sphincter"), and Kellyanne Conway ("the Mouth of Sauron"), plus Jared and Ivanaka Kushner ("Complicit #1" and "Complicit #2").
I'm sure they're up to the task; they've already made a good start on the Death Panels.]
I got tired of the many folks who could scarcely keep their rabid gunnuttery and ignorance in check. Or their psychoses and xenophobia.
They were odious, they are irrelevant.
Since then, I have progressively pruned all the rightwingers and loonies out of my contact folder and Facebook account, stopped communicating with people who read Caroline Glick (well, most of them), disassociated myself even more from certain people and certain groups, and no longer pay attention to what remains of our movement in the Bay Area.
Little left but nuts and Christians.
[If you care at all about the future of Zionism, you will reject Trump and Wilders.]
Oh, and I've written off Berkeley.
It's a surreal hell hole.
Fuck them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WOMEN AND PIPE SMOKING
Some dingus found this page by searching for "pipe smoking sex ladies". Which is a somewhat unusual request. The post he found (naturally assuming it is a 'he') had absolutely nothing to do with sex.
This blogger encourages women to smoke pipes.
The pipe should be reasonably good briar, of fairly normal dimensions and a conservative design. The tobaccos that I recommend are standard English ("Balkan") with a fair amount of Latakia, OR Virginia mixtures, with or without Perique. No aromatics.
Most of what estimable brands such as Rattrays or Dunhill produce are excellent choices for women. Greg Pease's tobaccos are also splendid, but as he is more of a niche, tins might be harder to come by. The same stores that stock Pease also carry Samuel Gawith products, several of which are also very nice.
Aromatics, most of which are horrid fruity concoctions smoked by tattooed degenerates, crotchety old farts who never learned better, and childish people of undeveloped tastes, are far better entirely avoided.
Room note in an age when you cannot smoke around other people is no longer relevant, except insofar as a pipe which has not been cleaned in a while may pong a bit.
You will probably wish to be a bit discreet about enjoying a pipe, though, because most people are conditioned to freak the hell out when women do certain things. Which can be annoying after a while.
All of this also goes for juveniles who "borrow" their dad's or an uncle's old pipes, with the further cautionary note that good clean unfruited-up tobacco smoked calmly and evenly is far less likely to bugger up the old man's pipes and lead to discovery. Also be advised that you cannot buy tobacco online if you are not yet twenty one years of age, and in many states you cannot even walk into a tobacconist yet.
You can do all of your research on line, though.
Here are some links to get you started:
The Briar Files
Cornell & Diehl
DUTCH PIPE SMOKER (in English)
Firecured - all things Tobacco
GLPease
PFEIFE-TABAK (in German)
Pipeculture (in German)
Pulvers' Briar (Sherlock's Haven)
Reborn Pipes
Tobacco Reviews dot com
Of these, Dutch Pipe Smoker and Pfeife Tabak are great reads, Tobacco Reviews is the go-to site to find out more about blends and whether you might want to try something new (or not), and Pulvers' Briar is always worth visiting for a look at quality briar and as source for second handers.
Marty Pulvers is a grand old man of the pipe business, informative and knowledgeable, and the most honest merchant you will ever know.
If you are still legally a juvenile, you should probably have an adult relative be your intermediary for all transactions.
Perhaps your aunt.
I am not her.
DON'T SMOKE AROMATICS!
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This blogger encourages women to smoke pipes.
The pipe should be reasonably good briar, of fairly normal dimensions and a conservative design. The tobaccos that I recommend are standard English ("Balkan") with a fair amount of Latakia, OR Virginia mixtures, with or without Perique. No aromatics.
Most of what estimable brands such as Rattrays or Dunhill produce are excellent choices for women. Greg Pease's tobaccos are also splendid, but as he is more of a niche, tins might be harder to come by. The same stores that stock Pease also carry Samuel Gawith products, several of which are also very nice.
Aromatics, most of which are horrid fruity concoctions smoked by tattooed degenerates, crotchety old farts who never learned better, and childish people of undeveloped tastes, are far better entirely avoided.
Room note in an age when you cannot smoke around other people is no longer relevant, except insofar as a pipe which has not been cleaned in a while may pong a bit.
You will probably wish to be a bit discreet about enjoying a pipe, though, because most people are conditioned to freak the hell out when women do certain things. Which can be annoying after a while.
All of this also goes for juveniles who "borrow" their dad's or an uncle's old pipes, with the further cautionary note that good clean unfruited-up tobacco smoked calmly and evenly is far less likely to bugger up the old man's pipes and lead to discovery. Also be advised that you cannot buy tobacco online if you are not yet twenty one years of age, and in many states you cannot even walk into a tobacconist yet.
You can do all of your research on line, though.
Here are some links to get you started:
The Briar Files
Cornell & Diehl
DUTCH PIPE SMOKER (in English)
Firecured - all things Tobacco
GLPease
PFEIFE-TABAK (in German)
Pipeculture (in German)
Pulvers' Briar (Sherlock's Haven)
Reborn Pipes
Tobacco Reviews dot com
Of these, Dutch Pipe Smoker and Pfeife Tabak are great reads, Tobacco Reviews is the go-to site to find out more about blends and whether you might want to try something new (or not), and Pulvers' Briar is always worth visiting for a look at quality briar and as source for second handers.
Marty Pulvers is a grand old man of the pipe business, informative and knowledgeable, and the most honest merchant you will ever know.
If you are still legally a juvenile, you should probably have an adult relative be your intermediary for all transactions.
Perhaps your aunt.
I am not her.
DON'T SMOKE AROMATICS!
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
KARAOKE: OFFENSE AGAINST NATURE, OR A LAPSE OF TASTE?
Last night's scheduled misadventure was marked by art, song, and haircuts. Not necessarily all in the same place. But nonetheless two of those three were thematically linked, as the dominant motif was 'crap'.
The same insane courage required to belt out your emotions at a karaoke joint and give your friends something to regret knowing you for is what is necessary to line your perfectly horrid paintings up along the walls of an alleyway in hopes that a drunken tourist will buy one, and by so doing subsidize your next can of Olde English 800.
But only karaoke is invasive.
The bookseller and I do not sing karaoke at all.
But we are keen connoisseurs of the form.
I cannot say that our weekly wine, beer, and whiskey evening leads to any great insights. But it does allow us to remember Monty Python bits and other Brit comedic sparkles, and keeps the mind young and spongy.
The more whiskey has been consumed, the greater the likelihood of the other patrons in the bar sounding Scottish. Most of them being Chinese who are far more fluent in something other than English.
Precisely like the Scots, in other words.
One can drink 'Scotch'. It's also a tape. But one can never be 'Scotch'.
Scot, Scottish, or a Scots-man. Woman. Person.
An artistic woman beyond reproductive age was snogging in the alley with a man who looked like a yeti. We are cheered by the fact that no offspring will ensue, her loins will not erupt with Rosemary's Babies.
You too should be glad.
Earlier, during a brief break for a smoke outside the bar she had asked me if I was a scientist. A vulcanologist perhaps? A student of life?
I am not any of that; I am an iguana.
And I do not write poetry.
Please don't talk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The same insane courage required to belt out your emotions at a karaoke joint and give your friends something to regret knowing you for is what is necessary to line your perfectly horrid paintings up along the walls of an alleyway in hopes that a drunken tourist will buy one, and by so doing subsidize your next can of Olde English 800.
But only karaoke is invasive.
The bookseller and I do not sing karaoke at all.
But we are keen connoisseurs of the form.
I cannot say that our weekly wine, beer, and whiskey evening leads to any great insights. But it does allow us to remember Monty Python bits and other Brit comedic sparkles, and keeps the mind young and spongy.
The more whiskey has been consumed, the greater the likelihood of the other patrons in the bar sounding Scottish. Most of them being Chinese who are far more fluent in something other than English.
Precisely like the Scots, in other words.
One can drink 'Scotch'. It's also a tape. But one can never be 'Scotch'.
Scot, Scottish, or a Scots-man. Woman. Person.
An artistic woman beyond reproductive age was snogging in the alley with a man who looked like a yeti. We are cheered by the fact that no offspring will ensue, her loins will not erupt with Rosemary's Babies.
You too should be glad.
Earlier, during a brief break for a smoke outside the bar she had asked me if I was a scientist. A vulcanologist perhaps? A student of life?
I am not any of that; I am an iguana.
And I do not write poetry.
Please don't talk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TURKISH DOGS
This blogger is more than a little amused by the recent frothing at the mouth behaviour of the Turks. The other day, chief bashibazouk Erdogan screamed that he would impose sanctions! And ban Dutch diplomats! And take the Dutch to court!
Dammit, we Dutch had pissed all over his party!
Boy was he upset!
Of course his behaviour was very far from rational, and proved that he is a seriously disturbed individual, in charge of a seriously disturbed country. Whose only contributions to civilization have possibly been the doner kebap, organized crime, and sex trafficking.
Three days ago I posted that Erdogan's stupid dogs needed to go back to Turkey. Which, given that they are clearly not inclined to adapt to their host countries, continue to hold on to their Turkish citizenship, and smell bad, would easily be the best of all possible solutions.
I was a bit angry at the pestilential Turks when I wrote that, and I still am.
Erdogan is a schmuck leading schmucks in a schmucky country.
May his tiny petzel rot painfully and fall off.
On Saturday, angry Turks rioted in Rotterdam, throwing bricks and bottles at the police. Who responded placidly by blasting them with water cannons, clobbering them with truncheons, and letting German shepherds bite them.
On Sunday, angry Turks rioted in Amsterdam, which the Amsterdam police also dealt with calmly, by doing exactly what the Rotterdam police had done a day before. Water cannons, truncheons, dogs.
On Monday, Vice Premier Lodewijk Asscher spoke severely to the leaders of various Turkish social and political organizations. After the meeting they whined and defended the violence and misbehaviour of their communities, and told reporters that Dutch Politicians were all thugs and hypocrites;
they would co-operate, sort of, and only grudgingly.
Also on Monday, angry citizens in Turkey burned a French flag because they thought it was the Dutch flag, and they were too stupid to know the difference. Later they manhandled a Norwegian whom they mistook for a Dutchman, and they were too stupid to know the difference.
Turks are, quite understandably, not much liked in the civilized world.
Here are the comments that readers placed underneath my recent essay:
At 1:16 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Ze zouden die vuile rothonden terug moeten sturen naar de steppen.
In elk geval ver buiten de beschaafde werel.
At 1:21 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Als die schooiers de boel in de fik willen steken moeten ze dat maar mooi in Ankara gaan doen. Eenrichting op Turkse overhjeids kosten.
At 1:55 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Truks are not civilized. Expel the lot of them.
At 1:55 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Turks are not civilized. Expel the lot of them.
At 2:57 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Fuck the Turks!
At 1:39 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Holland is one of the top ten economies; Turkey is a third world country at best. That's why all those Turks migrated to Northern Europe.
Holland is a decent player in Nato affairs, and one of Nato's primary members; Turkey is a Nato member ONLY because of the Soviet threat .... oh wait, the Soviet Union no longer exists!
At 3:56 PM, Anonymous Een Nederlander said…
Volgens De Telegraaf:
"AMSTERDAM - UPDATE - De Turken slaan terug! Maandagavond maakte de vicepremier bekend dat regeringsoverleg met Nederland op hoog niveau zal worden opgeschort, dat diplomatieke vluchten naar Ankara zullen worden tegengehouden, dat de ambassadeur niet mag terugkeren en dat het Turkse parlement gevraagd wordt om een vriendschapsverdrag met Nederland op te zeggen.
De maatregelen zullen pas ongedaan gemaakt worden als Nederland terugkomt op zijn ’fouten’ die volgens hem onwettig zijn, inhumaan en tegen het internationaal recht. "
Mooi zo. Hoeven we niet meer met dat rabalje te spreken. Ze kunnen oprotten.
At 10:32 PM, Anonymous Ook 'n Nederlander said…
Een ranzig volkje, die Turken.
That last comment is a beaut. "A rancid little people, those Turks". Perhaps in the hinterlands of Anatolia they should stop fathering children among their close kin, and concentrate entirely on their farm animals. It would improve their genetic stock, and eventually there might be humans among them.
Of course, that would make the doner kebap iffy.
Which it always was, anyway.
Me? I don't have a racist bone in my body.
I love the Turks.
==========================================================================
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Boy was he upset!
Of course his behaviour was very far from rational, and proved that he is a seriously disturbed individual, in charge of a seriously disturbed country. Whose only contributions to civilization have possibly been the doner kebap, organized crime, and sex trafficking.
Three days ago I posted that Erdogan's stupid dogs needed to go back to Turkey. Which, given that they are clearly not inclined to adapt to their host countries, continue to hold on to their Turkish citizenship, and smell bad, would easily be the best of all possible solutions.
I was a bit angry at the pestilential Turks when I wrote that, and I still am.
Erdogan is a schmuck leading schmucks in a schmucky country.
May his tiny petzel rot painfully and fall off.
On Saturday, angry Turks rioted in Rotterdam, throwing bricks and bottles at the police. Who responded placidly by blasting them with water cannons, clobbering them with truncheons, and letting German shepherds bite them.
On Sunday, angry Turks rioted in Amsterdam, which the Amsterdam police also dealt with calmly, by doing exactly what the Rotterdam police had done a day before. Water cannons, truncheons, dogs.
On Monday, Vice Premier Lodewijk Asscher spoke severely to the leaders of various Turkish social and political organizations. After the meeting they whined and defended the violence and misbehaviour of their communities, and told reporters that Dutch Politicians were all thugs and hypocrites;
they would co-operate, sort of, and only grudgingly.
Also on Monday, angry citizens in Turkey burned a French flag because they thought it was the Dutch flag, and they were too stupid to know the difference. Later they manhandled a Norwegian whom they mistook for a Dutchman, and they were too stupid to know the difference.
Turks are, quite understandably, not much liked in the civilized world.
Here are the comments that readers placed underneath my recent essay:
At 1:16 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Ze zouden die vuile rothonden terug moeten sturen naar de steppen.
In elk geval ver buiten de beschaafde werel.
At 1:21 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Als die schooiers de boel in de fik willen steken moeten ze dat maar mooi in Ankara gaan doen. Eenrichting op Turkse overhjeids kosten.
At 1:55 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Truks are not civilized. Expel the lot of them.
At 1:55 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Turks are not civilized. Expel the lot of them.
At 2:57 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Fuck the Turks!
At 1:39 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…
Holland is one of the top ten economies; Turkey is a third world country at best. That's why all those Turks migrated to Northern Europe.
Holland is a decent player in Nato affairs, and one of Nato's primary members; Turkey is a Nato member ONLY because of the Soviet threat .... oh wait, the Soviet Union no longer exists!
At 3:56 PM, Anonymous Een Nederlander said…
Volgens De Telegraaf:
"AMSTERDAM - UPDATE - De Turken slaan terug! Maandagavond maakte de vicepremier bekend dat regeringsoverleg met Nederland op hoog niveau zal worden opgeschort, dat diplomatieke vluchten naar Ankara zullen worden tegengehouden, dat de ambassadeur niet mag terugkeren en dat het Turkse parlement gevraagd wordt om een vriendschapsverdrag met Nederland op te zeggen.
De maatregelen zullen pas ongedaan gemaakt worden als Nederland terugkomt op zijn ’fouten’ die volgens hem onwettig zijn, inhumaan en tegen het internationaal recht. "
Mooi zo. Hoeven we niet meer met dat rabalje te spreken. Ze kunnen oprotten.
At 10:32 PM, Anonymous Ook 'n Nederlander said…
Een ranzig volkje, die Turken.
That last comment is a beaut. "A rancid little people, those Turks". Perhaps in the hinterlands of Anatolia they should stop fathering children among their close kin, and concentrate entirely on their farm animals. It would improve their genetic stock, and eventually there might be humans among them.
Of course, that would make the doner kebap iffy.
Which it always was, anyway.
Me? I don't have a racist bone in my body.
I love the Turks.
==========================================================================
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Tuesday, March 14, 2017
YOUR WELL-DESERVED FRIGID DEMISE
At the risk of possibly offending all my friends and relatives on the East Coast, I must humbly inform you that I am right now wearing pajama pants and an A shirt (shades of Stanley Kowalski) in an unheated apartment.
The windows are open, it looks like it will be a gorgeous day.
A high of around seventy degrees.
Oh my gosh, was that an earthquake?
Just kidding.
Dammit, I just saw a fruit fly!
Just kidding.
There's no more pot!
Just kidding.
A flood!
...
Later today I may just take my surf board down to the beach; we're probably gonna have a barbecue and dance in the sand. Margaritas! Guitars!
Just kidding.
Seriously, though, I love reading about extreme weather back east. It tells me that even with everything wrong in this world, and Washington being taken over by subhumans and trolls, there are still bright spots, where the sun is shining, and soft balmy breezes soothe the brow.
Butterflies, wildflowers, and gay maidens.
We're not snowed in, suckers.
California.
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The windows are open, it looks like it will be a gorgeous day.
A high of around seventy degrees.
Oh my gosh, was that an earthquake?
Just kidding.
Dammit, I just saw a fruit fly!
Just kidding.
There's no more pot!
Just kidding.
A flood!
...
Later today I may just take my surf board down to the beach; we're probably gonna have a barbecue and dance in the sand. Margaritas! Guitars!
Just kidding.
Seriously, though, I love reading about extreme weather back east. It tells me that even with everything wrong in this world, and Washington being taken over by subhumans and trolls, there are still bright spots, where the sun is shining, and soft balmy breezes soothe the brow.
Butterflies, wildflowers, and gay maidens.
We're not snowed in, suckers.
California.
==========================================================================
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WAKING UP TO THUNK!
When we first moved into this place, my apartment mate happily discovered that there was a hook on the airwell wall right under the bathroom window. She decided that that is where the toilet brush went. Obviously. Because she is practical minded and logical. Those things need to be airdried, and who wants it inside anyway?
She may have "fondly" muttered the phrase "stupid white people" at the time. Because white people carefully keep the toilet brush guarded and enclosed, instead of breathing free as the good lord intended.
In its own tiny little bucket prison.
Over the years several have gone missing in action.
She speculates that our landlord, who lives directly under us, harvests them after they have fallen to the bottom of the airwell two stories below, and is maintaining a museum of toilet brushes. Perhaps dressed in little costumes.
"Oh happy day, another prize exemplar!"
Either that, or scientists centuries from now will discover a graveyard of these things and wonder at the creature whose remnants they are.
I heard another one fall this morning.
Her hand slipped.
Thunk.
I've had much excitement, and must rest.
It is time to take a long nap.
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She may have "fondly" muttered the phrase "stupid white people" at the time. Because white people carefully keep the toilet brush guarded and enclosed, instead of breathing free as the good lord intended.
In its own tiny little bucket prison.
Over the years several have gone missing in action.
She speculates that our landlord, who lives directly under us, harvests them after they have fallen to the bottom of the airwell two stories below, and is maintaining a museum of toilet brushes. Perhaps dressed in little costumes.
"Oh happy day, another prize exemplar!"
Either that, or scientists centuries from now will discover a graveyard of these things and wonder at the creature whose remnants they are.
I heard another one fall this morning.
Her hand slipped.
Thunk.
I've had much excitement, and must rest.
It is time to take a long nap.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TWITTER IS UP BUT NO ONE IS HOME
It is not often that I run across an adult who is older than me but considerably more childish. We think that he took drugs during the flower power era and it did something to his mind. He never grew up.
He drives, his wife is a responsible person, and he has nearly grown kids. And he wears sunglasses. No human alive knows what lives behind the bug-like shades. Unspeakable horror. Twinkling black holes.
The last thing that Peter Pan saw before he died.
He is special, a rare and unique person.
Like so many folks in Marin.
"The Illuminati are NOT Santa Claus!"
Like all white men of a certain age, I also have experimented with illicit substances. But I vastly prefer something more gradual in effect, fairly controllable, infinitely cheaper, and much more "snap-outable".
I am a cheapskate Dutchman, and a control-freak.
The effect of pot on the mind is loathsome.
Everyone I know who smokes marijuana because it is "therapeutic" is a boring dingo with shit for brains. That stuff ought to be outlawed.
In any case, my stupider younger years are long past, and I have acquired some gravitas. That may be hard to grasp for some people.
But I am slowly slipping into adulthood.
The person of whom I speak may never get there. He's still the same teenager he was when he dodged the draft. With somewhat more absurd ideas than he had then, and older habits. He smokes cigars, which have a calming effect, but horse valium is what is really needed.
Along with the man who lectures me about his imaginary wife and daughter (and life as a podiatrist, doctor of divinity, nuclear physicist, and jet fighter pilot), I am guaranteed that a few necessary conversational interactions in Marin while at work are long, pointless, and somewhat draining.
I don't dislike either man, but they need lives.
Rich full lives, that don't involve me.
Rather than a series of interminable chitterchats with self-absorbed twats, what I should rather have is a fierce argument with a bright young female determined to get me to bed so that she can jump my creaky middle-aged bones, despite my frantic and ultimately failing panicked protestations, with no cigars anywhere nearby, nor the insufferable goobers who huff them.
If she felt inspired to bring up weltschmerz, existenzangst, identitätskrisen, gicht, and zweifelhaft at any point in that process, I would be delighted to discuss such matters. Utterly. And how charming that would be.
Over coffee and a light lunch, before, during, or after.
This is not likely to happen anytime soon.
Which is unfortunate.
Sad.
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He drives, his wife is a responsible person, and he has nearly grown kids. And he wears sunglasses. No human alive knows what lives behind the bug-like shades. Unspeakable horror. Twinkling black holes.
The last thing that Peter Pan saw before he died.
He is special, a rare and unique person.
Like so many folks in Marin.
"The Illuminati are NOT Santa Claus!"
Like all white men of a certain age, I also have experimented with illicit substances. But I vastly prefer something more gradual in effect, fairly controllable, infinitely cheaper, and much more "snap-outable".
I am a cheapskate Dutchman, and a control-freak.
The effect of pot on the mind is loathsome.
Everyone I know who smokes marijuana because it is "therapeutic" is a boring dingo with shit for brains. That stuff ought to be outlawed.
In any case, my stupider younger years are long past, and I have acquired some gravitas. That may be hard to grasp for some people.
But I am slowly slipping into adulthood.
The person of whom I speak may never get there. He's still the same teenager he was when he dodged the draft. With somewhat more absurd ideas than he had then, and older habits. He smokes cigars, which have a calming effect, but horse valium is what is really needed.
Along with the man who lectures me about his imaginary wife and daughter (and life as a podiatrist, doctor of divinity, nuclear physicist, and jet fighter pilot), I am guaranteed that a few necessary conversational interactions in Marin while at work are long, pointless, and somewhat draining.
I don't dislike either man, but they need lives.
Rich full lives, that don't involve me.
Rather than a series of interminable chitterchats with self-absorbed twats, what I should rather have is a fierce argument with a bright young female determined to get me to bed so that she can jump my creaky middle-aged bones, despite my frantic and ultimately failing panicked protestations, with no cigars anywhere nearby, nor the insufferable goobers who huff them.
If she felt inspired to bring up weltschmerz, existenzangst, identitätskrisen, gicht, and zweifelhaft at any point in that process, I would be delighted to discuss such matters. Utterly. And how charming that would be.
Over coffee and a light lunch, before, during, or after.
This is not likely to happen anytime soon.
Which is unfortunate.
Sad.
==========================================================================
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SOFT AND SPONGY
Some people have Jesus on their mind, and wish to infect others.
Clearly, Jesus is a brain-eating zombie.
I am not vested in Jesus.
To quote from a post two years ago:
I do not wish to speak of Jesus. Not now, not then, not ever. Kindly bugger Jesus and the plow he rode in on. Jesus does not interest me. Neither does Lord Krishna, the enlightened Buddha, Thor, Ctulhu, or whatsisbucket who took the Morons out of the civilized world and into the distant howling wastelands near the Great Salt Lake.
Stuff Jesus and all of them.
Thank you.
End quote.
If Jesus loves you, it's because of the juices.
Blasted fair-tale believing freaks.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Clearly, Jesus is a brain-eating zombie.
I am not vested in Jesus.
To quote from a post two years ago:
I do not wish to speak of Jesus. Not now, not then, not ever. Kindly bugger Jesus and the plow he rode in on. Jesus does not interest me. Neither does Lord Krishna, the enlightened Buddha, Thor, Ctulhu, or whatsisbucket who took the Morons out of the civilized world and into the distant howling wastelands near the Great Salt Lake.
Stuff Jesus and all of them.
Thank you.
End quote.
If Jesus loves you, it's because of the juices.
Blasted fair-tale believing freaks.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 13, 2017
ONLY GOOD THINGS TO REPORT
Just thought I should point out that the microwave is pointed directly at my apartment mate's doorway. If, as Trump's other brain Kellyanne Conway maintains, our microwaves are spying on us and sending messages to the CIA, all they'll get is the information that she wears pajamas with little sheep on them, and that the teddy bear is very fierce.
Unless the microwave secretly moves around in the night and spies on me.
My apartment mate's sheep jammies are cute but not actionable.
I'm a messy sleeper. Toss and turn.
Lots of books on the bed.
Oh, the horror.
Actually, about the only thing the microwave can report is that we both lead exceptionally virtuous lives, occasionally punctuated with hot beverages.
She has a boyfriend in a wheel chair who never comes around. And surely all they do is hold hands and pray when they are at his place.
I, as is well known, have no snookie-wookie going on whatsoever, what with being a dessicated old prune who collects postage stamps.
Repeat: exceptionally virtuous lives.
The microwave must be bored.
Which is very sad.
There is no large bucket of piping hot fresh fried chicken here, but instead a withered old rooster's gnarly foot.
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Unless the microwave secretly moves around in the night and spies on me.
My apartment mate's sheep jammies are cute but not actionable.
I'm a messy sleeper. Toss and turn.
Lots of books on the bed.
Oh, the horror.
Actually, about the only thing the microwave can report is that we both lead exceptionally virtuous lives, occasionally punctuated with hot beverages.
She has a boyfriend in a wheel chair who never comes around. And surely all they do is hold hands and pray when they are at his place.
I, as is well known, have no snookie-wookie going on whatsoever, what with being a dessicated old prune who collects postage stamps.
Repeat: exceptionally virtuous lives.
The microwave must be bored.
Which is very sad.
There is no large bucket of piping hot fresh fried chicken here, but instead a withered old rooster's gnarly foot.
==========================================================================
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OF COURSE THE CHINESE WOULDN'T NOTICE
There are some things only white people can be privy to. And not even all white people, only a select few. Specifically folks who eat the garnishes without a large pot of tea in front of them.
To explain: I had roast bird and rice at one of the local eateries recently, and as is common in many restaurants that cater to a predominantly Cantonese clientele, the bits of bird had been placed hot on top of a bed of lettuce, so that the heat and hot grease would wilt and flavour the green stuf. Cantonese people are very fond of lettuce as a fresh vegetable that only needs a minor amount of heat to be totally delicious.
Lettuce reduces considerably when cooked.
Most Caucasians don't eat that.
They cannot recognize it.
So it ain't edible.
生菜
As anyone who has ever read Beatrix Potter understands, lettuce contains sesquiterpene lactones which act as a mild narcotic. Which means that you can get drowsy after eating. For some reason cooking strenghtens this, but the bunny rabbits in the tale simply ate too much, and fell asleep.
Wisely, one of them covers his head with a paper bag.
In this city that is always a good idea.
Chinese people are quite unable to sense this effect. Primarily because the waitress will plonk a nice big pot of hot tea in front of them, and by the end of the meal they'll be high as a kite. Totally whacked to the gills. Buzzing.
Whereas white people just get one cup. They're likely to eschew the tea and ask for ice water anyhow, as well as either soda or a beer.
我需要一個好大嘅壺热茶，唔該！
['ngo seui-yiu yat go hou daai-ge wu yit chaa, m-koi']
I look very white. Not bleach and blinding glare white, thank goodness, but it is obvious that the minute amount of "other" genetic stock (East Coast native American) was several generations ago, leaving naught behind but high cheek bones and a certain vibrant foxiness. There are also deep-set grey eyes, which though not a universal Caucasian characteristic by any means, are a completely white thing by most definitions.
I only got a cup of tea.
One single cup.
The key sentence I really must remember to say clearly when dining alone in Chinese restaurants, ESPECIALLY if I intend to have roast bird and rice, is 我需要一個好大嘅壺茶，唔該！
Cantonese pronunciation: 'ngo seui-yiu yat go hou daai-ge wu chaa, m-koi'.
I require a very big pot of tea, please.
Gotta get zipped.
I should probably say something similar in a Mandarin environment, but such places are so seldom part of my ambit that I won't bother saying it in any other language than English.
I felt very tired after dinner.
And went to bed early.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To explain: I had roast bird and rice at one of the local eateries recently, and as is common in many restaurants that cater to a predominantly Cantonese clientele, the bits of bird had been placed hot on top of a bed of lettuce, so that the heat and hot grease would wilt and flavour the green stuf. Cantonese people are very fond of lettuce as a fresh vegetable that only needs a minor amount of heat to be totally delicious.
Lettuce reduces considerably when cooked.
Most Caucasians don't eat that.
They cannot recognize it.
So it ain't edible.
生菜
As anyone who has ever read Beatrix Potter understands, lettuce contains sesquiterpene lactones which act as a mild narcotic. Which means that you can get drowsy after eating. For some reason cooking strenghtens this, but the bunny rabbits in the tale simply ate too much, and fell asleep.
Wisely, one of them covers his head with a paper bag.
In this city that is always a good idea.
Chinese people are quite unable to sense this effect. Primarily because the waitress will plonk a nice big pot of hot tea in front of them, and by the end of the meal they'll be high as a kite. Totally whacked to the gills. Buzzing.
Whereas white people just get one cup. They're likely to eschew the tea and ask for ice water anyhow, as well as either soda or a beer.
我需要一個好大嘅壺热茶，唔該！
['ngo seui-yiu yat go hou daai-ge wu yit chaa, m-koi']
I look very white. Not bleach and blinding glare white, thank goodness, but it is obvious that the minute amount of "other" genetic stock (East Coast native American) was several generations ago, leaving naught behind but high cheek bones and a certain vibrant foxiness. There are also deep-set grey eyes, which though not a universal Caucasian characteristic by any means, are a completely white thing by most definitions.
I only got a cup of tea.
One single cup.
The key sentence I really must remember to say clearly when dining alone in Chinese restaurants, ESPECIALLY if I intend to have roast bird and rice, is 我需要一個好大嘅壺茶，唔該！
Cantonese pronunciation: 'ngo seui-yiu yat go hou daai-ge wu chaa, m-koi'.
I require a very big pot of tea, please.
Gotta get zipped.
I should probably say something similar in a Mandarin environment, but such places are so seldom part of my ambit that I won't bother saying it in any other language than English.
I felt very tired after dinner.
And went to bed early.
==========================================================================
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Sunday, March 12, 2017
IS THIS THE KIND OF THING THAT GOES VIRAL AND GETS WEIRD?
Professor Robert E. Kelly in Pusan, South Korea, was skyping with a television interviewer when his daughter came bouncing into the room.
A likable little girl with floppy hair and spectacles.
And then another infant enters.
It's a lovely clip, and you've undoubtedly seen it by now.
No, that's not the clip. It's a still shot from the clip. You've already seen the clip. Probably a few times. It has gone viral, as Professor Kelly feared.
What I would like you to focus on is how neat and organized his home office looks. Neatly stacked books, a map on one wall, and a book case along the other wall. And there is reason to believe that it reflects real life in his situation, because even though he looks impeccable, a professor whose young daughter comes bebopbopping into the room unconcernedly while he's doing something serious is not quite capable of stage-managing the setting. At most he straightened the books, closed the ones that he was reading a few moments prior, and put the cat out.
"Um, kiddo, I've got to do something important now, and I cannot be disturbed for a while, okay?"
That may be a conversation that didn't happen. In retrospect he probably thinks that it should have, and it will next time, but those of us who got an enjoyable little glimpse into the life of a professor in South Korea with a charming family hope that it doesn't.
How on earth does he keep his study so neat?
When I look around my "home office" what immediately hits the eye is the tall stack of papers and books in front of one of my bookcases, a bag of cigars perched on one corner, and a tray with several briar pipes in front of that, plus another stack of reading material, pipe tobacco tins, cigar boxes.
There appears to be a fair amount of dust everywhere.
More books. And even more pipe tobacco.
Some reticulated shadow puppets.
I need more space.
I envy him.
"South Korea's policy choices are..." something. We'll never know. We got distracted by a charming little girl and evidence of an organized mind.
As well as a table that appears a little rickety.
Some books fell, I believe.
[Interviewee: Associate professor of Political Science at Pusan National University Robert E. Kelly. Guests, in order of appearance: Lively elder child Marion (age four), infant James, and discreetly frantic spouse Kim Jung-a.]
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A likable little girl with floppy hair and spectacles.
And then another infant enters.
It's a lovely clip, and you've undoubtedly seen it by now.
No, that's not the clip. It's a still shot from the clip. You've already seen the clip. Probably a few times. It has gone viral, as Professor Kelly feared.
What I would like you to focus on is how neat and organized his home office looks. Neatly stacked books, a map on one wall, and a book case along the other wall. And there is reason to believe that it reflects real life in his situation, because even though he looks impeccable, a professor whose young daughter comes bebopbopping into the room unconcernedly while he's doing something serious is not quite capable of stage-managing the setting. At most he straightened the books, closed the ones that he was reading a few moments prior, and put the cat out.
"Um, kiddo, I've got to do something important now, and I cannot be disturbed for a while, okay?"
That may be a conversation that didn't happen. In retrospect he probably thinks that it should have, and it will next time, but those of us who got an enjoyable little glimpse into the life of a professor in South Korea with a charming family hope that it doesn't.
How on earth does he keep his study so neat?
When I look around my "home office" what immediately hits the eye is the tall stack of papers and books in front of one of my bookcases, a bag of cigars perched on one corner, and a tray with several briar pipes in front of that, plus another stack of reading material, pipe tobacco tins, cigar boxes.
There appears to be a fair amount of dust everywhere.
More books. And even more pipe tobacco.
Some reticulated shadow puppets.
I need more space.
I envy him.
"South Korea's policy choices are..." something. We'll never know. We got distracted by a charming little girl and evidence of an organized mind.
As well as a table that appears a little rickety.
Some books fell, I believe.
[Interviewee: Associate professor of Political Science at Pusan National University Robert E. Kelly. Guests, in order of appearance: Lively elder child Marion (age four), infant James, and discreetly frantic spouse Kim Jung-a.]
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DO PEOPLE STILL WEAR FROCKS?
What a blessing to live in the modern age! Many frustrations of past eras have been erased, and scientists not funded by the American government constantly try to solve vexing problems.
Like curry stains.
Quote:
"A washing machine has been launched for the Indian market, with a special mode to tackle curry stains. Panasonic said the introduction of a 'curry' button followed complaints from customers struggling to fully get the food off their clothes.
... development took two years, testing combinations of water temperature and water flow. The machine has five other cycles aimed at the Indian consumer, including one to remove traces of hair oil."
[SOURCE: India washing machine launched with 'curry' button - BBC.]
Well golly. I too can see the usefulness of this.
Heretofore I ate my curries naked.
I dined alone.
"High tech is potent, precise, and in the end, unbeatable. The truth is, it reminds a lot of people of the way I pitch horseshoes. Would you believe some of the people? Would you believe our dog? Look, I want to give the high-five symbol to high tech."
-----George Bush, 1989
The gadget costs around $330.oo, which puts it well within reach of most San Francisco curry-eating households. Where previously we might disrobe before tackling that plate of roghan josh, naans, chaval ki pulao, sarson, and achaar, now we need not fear those intense reds and yellows.
Heck, don't even roll up your sleeves.
I am overjoyed.
And I realize that I need to find someone with whom to eat curry. Because there simply is more choice when two people dine together.
Mutual exploring, zestiness, and all that.
Don't worry about your pretty frock.
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Like curry stains.
Quote:
"A washing machine has been launched for the Indian market, with a special mode to tackle curry stains. Panasonic said the introduction of a 'curry' button followed complaints from customers struggling to fully get the food off their clothes.
... development took two years, testing combinations of water temperature and water flow. The machine has five other cycles aimed at the Indian consumer, including one to remove traces of hair oil."
[SOURCE: India washing machine launched with 'curry' button - BBC.]
Well golly. I too can see the usefulness of this.
Heretofore I ate my curries naked.
I dined alone.
"High tech is potent, precise, and in the end, unbeatable. The truth is, it reminds a lot of people of the way I pitch horseshoes. Would you believe some of the people? Would you believe our dog? Look, I want to give the high-five symbol to high tech."
-----George Bush, 1989
The gadget costs around $330.oo, which puts it well within reach of most San Francisco curry-eating households. Where previously we might disrobe before tackling that plate of roghan josh, naans, chaval ki pulao, sarson, and achaar, now we need not fear those intense reds and yellows.
Heck, don't even roll up your sleeves.
I am overjoyed.
And I realize that I need to find someone with whom to eat curry. Because there simply is more choice when two people dine together.
Mutual exploring, zestiness, and all that.
Don't worry about your pretty frock.
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 11, 2017
SIMPLY A BIG LIZARD
Words are often the most important aspect. Consider these two phrases: "the warm silken skin-feel of that sweet young thing", versus "the abundantly textured dermis of the clammy old fossil".
The youthful person of a sex not specified is vibrant and velvety. The elderly individual, of whichever gender, sounds like a ripe old pervert.
This came to mind while watching a movie in which a mere whisp of a girl accompanied a hardened old murderer into the wilds of Corsica. Why were the roles not reversed? A shy and ineffective lad and an antiquated peasant crone? Or even two rugged gay guys? An Axe commercial?
In either case, pimples and moisture versus liver spots and dry rot.
The peculiar thing about that movie was that he knew her shoe size.
As a plot twist, that's just berserk.
A man who knows her foot that well is either married or a stalker.
Or, save us, a foot fetishist.
I do not know enough about feet to fetishize them.
There are gaps in my education.
Why Corsica?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This came to mind while watching a movie in which a mere whisp of a girl accompanied a hardened old murderer into the wilds of Corsica. Why were the roles not reversed? A shy and ineffective lad and an antiquated peasant crone? Or even two rugged gay guys? An Axe commercial?
In either case, pimples and moisture versus liver spots and dry rot.
The peculiar thing about that movie was that he knew her shoe size.
As a plot twist, that's just berserk.
A man who knows her foot that well is either married or a stalker.
Or, save us, a foot fetishist.
I do not know enough about feet to fetishize them.
There are gaps in my education.
Why Corsica?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ERDOGAN TURKS NEED TO BE SENT BACK HOME
In a move that deliberately inflames tensions, Erdogan's bestial supporters are rioting in Rotterdam. By supporting a Turkish political scumsack with destruction and mayhem, those individuals prove that they are not Dutch, not good citizens, not welcome guests, and have no business remaining in the civilized world. They are not assets, but utterly pestilential.
The riot police have repeatedly had to use water cannon.
They should've used live bullets instead.
Teach the Turkish government that orchestrating provocations abroad, and using their émigré criminals and stooges to perpetrate such things, must and will come back to bite them.
Shut their diplomatic missions, expel Turkish officials and imams, and put the Turkish mosques under very firm police supervision, because that is where the problems are allowed to thrive.
This blogger personally has no objection whatsoever to deaths among Erdogan supporters.
In fact, given what Erdogan and his gangster clique represent, it would be best if European countries do their damndest to hamstring the bastards.
I would boycott all things Turkish, but the haramzadas don't produce a damned thing I want.
PS. There's a lovely poem about Erdogan here: SCHMÄH GEDICHT
AFTERTHOUGHT
Binali Yildirim: "De Turkse Nederlanders moeten kalm blijven en zich waardig gedragen ... "
Ja natuurlijk, want anders zouden er dingen kunnen gaan gebeuren die julie niet zo leuk vinden. Incidenten met knuppels en zo.
Hou je dus maar braaf koest, luitjes.
Damned hooligans.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The riot police have repeatedly had to use water cannon.
They should've used live bullets instead.
Teach the Turkish government that orchestrating provocations abroad, and using their émigré criminals and stooges to perpetrate such things, must and will come back to bite them.
Shut their diplomatic missions, expel Turkish officials and imams, and put the Turkish mosques under very firm police supervision, because that is where the problems are allowed to thrive.
This blogger personally has no objection whatsoever to deaths among Erdogan supporters.
In fact, given what Erdogan and his gangster clique represent, it would be best if European countries do their damndest to hamstring the bastards.
I would boycott all things Turkish, but the haramzadas don't produce a damned thing I want.
PS. There's a lovely poem about Erdogan here: SCHMÄH GEDICHT
AFTERTHOUGHT
Binali Yildirim: "De Turkse Nederlanders moeten kalm blijven en zich waardig gedragen ... "
Ja natuurlijk, want anders zouden er dingen kunnen gaan gebeuren die julie niet zo leuk vinden. Incidenten met knuppels en zo.
Hou je dus maar braaf koest, luitjes.
Damned hooligans.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 10, 2017
A BRIEF INTROSPECTIVE MOMENT
In hindsight I am surprised that I am still alive. When I was barely out of my teens I visited war-zones on vacation, which, if you think about it, was not quite a sensible thing to do. But as a typical young man I thought that life was endless; surely I would live forever?
It has been a while since I took such risks.
Probably a good thing.
I was always in awe of my father, who before he was even twenty was flying bombers in the good fight. Three years of that. A few years later he went to sea on tankers, with the earnings of which he paid his passage through college and an aeronautical engineering degree.
People of that generation lived more alive.
As he grew older he became a very civilized person.
Well read, informed, calm, and detail oriented.
There was good reason to admire him.
I am fairly sure that in some respects I do not measure up.
I could have done far better with myself.
But the result is somewhat passable.
I've matured along the way.
I regret very little.
Sambuangan, Basilan, Jolo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It has been a while since I took such risks.
Probably a good thing.
I was always in awe of my father, who before he was even twenty was flying bombers in the good fight. Three years of that. A few years later he went to sea on tankers, with the earnings of which he paid his passage through college and an aeronautical engineering degree.
People of that generation lived more alive.
As he grew older he became a very civilized person.
Well read, informed, calm, and detail oriented.
There was good reason to admire him.
I am fairly sure that in some respects I do not measure up.
I could have done far better with myself.
But the result is somewhat passable.
I've matured along the way.
I regret very little.
Sambuangan, Basilan, Jolo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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