INDIA: MORE THAN JUST DYSFUNCTIONAL

As usual I cruised into the BBC website to catch up on what's going on in the world. Which can be both irritating, and anger-inspiring. Especially as regards India, which in the past few years has proven itself a rather vile place. Yes, yes, I know that they gave us dhotis, yoga, and English late-night cuisine, than which there is nothing finer, as well as Sanskrit and devadasis, both of which truly blessings, and who can forget all those lovely photos of American politicians in front of the Taj Mahal? But it honestly seems like every headline about India involves Hindus brutally killing people, or robbery, rape, and murder.

As just one instance:
How a child rape became a religious flashpoint for India.


Do not bother reading it. You don't want to get sick.

It's just a lovely example of whatever it is that gets Indians in the news, and really, not all of them are like that. Certainly not that buff headwaiter at the local curry house, who tried to get everyone's pants off.

Here's another:
Why India's rape crisis shows no signs of abating

Quote: "The northern state of Haryana, which records the highest number of gang rapes in India, has the worst sex ratio in the country." End quote.

Should I mention "Eve teasing"? No, I guess not. It might prevent you from going to an ashram there to find yourself, all spiritual and sh&t.


By the way, don't eat a burger while doing that.
It might get you killed.

See:
The Meaning of India's 'Beef Lynchings'

Hindus killing Muslims about their diet rather forcefully illustrates that 'religion of peace' is a misnomer. If it indeed was ever said.

If, from that article in the Atlantic, you get the impression that violence is inherent in the dominant religion, and an intrinsic part of their culture, you might not be wrong.

Quote: "Lynching is an old crime here, often committed against those of so-called lower castes and marginalized tribes, in order to reinforce brutal social hierarchies." End quote.

That's called 'Hindutva in action'.

You can blame Narendra Modi and his party for encouraging it.


On the other hand, Dowry Deaths are not part of Hinduism per se, but a beloved pan-sectarian part of the cultural landscape.
Something all Indians can share.




Dinner tonight might be a grilled hamburger.
With some delicious mango achar.
I feel like beef.

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CULTURAL BAKLAVA

A friend, in a conversation about cultural appropriation, offered a musical piece as an example of the benevolence of that practice. No, it wasn't something from Madam Butterfly or Elvis Presley. He's too intelligent and sensible for that kind of glib density, and in fact there are a great many euphonious examples all up and down the scale.
What he chose was, however, bound to trigger some sensitive souls.
Who would be immeasurably offended by it.
And can get stuffed.


"An Israeli oud player of Syrian Jewish origin, performing a classical Turkish composition written by an Armenian."


The following video is not worth watching (because the pictures don't move) but it makes for extremely enjoyable listening.
Which I invite you to do.


VICTOR AND ARIEL PLAY 'TATYOS EFFENDI'


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1msnGcPhxng&feature=youtu.be.]


Myself, I don't get my panties in a twist about cultural appropriation.
All metropolitan societies do it. It's like pizza.

I once ate pizza in a Palestinian-owned grillroom in Amsterdam, prepared by a blond guy with dreadlocks. Thank heavens they had sambal, because Dutch pizza is NOT like we do in New York, Chicago, or North Beach.

It needed help.


By the way: Toilet paper was invented by the Chinese.
I bet you are glad that we learned about it.
Such a splendid cultural artifact.



AFTERWORD

I have sambal or its equivalent with almost everything I eat, in case you were wondering. Sambal is mothers milk to a Dutchman, though invented by Indonesians, who took the idea from Ceylonese cooking, using an ingredient first cultivated by Mexicans.

By Takeaway - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=35381626

[SOURCE: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chili_pepper.]
Bird's eye, Madame Jeanette, & Cayenne

Hot chilies. Fortune's gift to Holland.
Like ketchup, for Americans.


Blond dreads are an abomination.
The world does not need that.




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BLACK PEOPLE, STOP DOING THAT!

During the past week alone there have been several incidents, filmed and loaded up to Facebook, that show white people in an unfavourable light in their interactions with black people. And it seems to me that many black people ("darknesses") always fail to understand the basic dynamic.
Which is that we white people are sensitive souls.
Who inherited fundamental rights.
To everything.


A HEARTFELT PLEA

Dear black people,

Stop sleeping. When you sleep, especially on a pile of books in a common room at Yale University, it disquiets us. We feel that it's inappropriate.
And an invasion of our space. Instead, be warily on guard.

Stop eating. Especially at late night franchises. There is a proper time and place to do that. We don't do that at such times around you, do we?
We wouldn't dare. And please do not laugh boisterously.

Do not attempt to use buffet coupons at a pizza place. The idea of black people enjoying a scrumptious meal and becoming regular customers is discordant. You have other times and places!

Do not barbecue outdoors on a Sunday. Especially not by the lake. That body of water is there for everyone's enjoyment, and both charcoal and chickens trigger us more than we can bear.


Above all, show some respect. We gave you pot. And chicken.



*      *      *      *      *

In other news, I apologize profoundly for being in several photos taken by tourists in Chinatown. And I am sorry that their relatives will now think that Chinatown is filled with middle-aged white men smoking pipes. Instead of colourful natives wearing flowered gowns and doing ethnic things.
That, too, is completely disquieting, and discordant.

I'm probably going to do it again, though.
Lunchtime is fast approaching.
I need some Kung Pao.


Don't call the cops.




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SUNLIGHT THERE

One of the most charming things happened yesterday afternoon in Spofford Alley, which, as you probably know, is being remodeled as part of a very praiseworthy Chinatown beautification project for the benefit of tourists, none of whom were there to see it.
Had they been there, they might not have understood.
Because it was human and normal.
Not exotic.

A little girl ran past calling out "grandpa, grandpa, grandpa!"

Maybe three years old, hardly older.

At the end of the alley an old Chinese man looked very pleased to see her.
He very likely did not speak English, but he understood what she said. Grandpa. Their intense mutual affection was clear.

When her mother caught up with them, the conversation was in Cantonese. Together they proceeded on, the mom with the infant brother in her arms, the grandpa and the little girl holding hands.

Happy people.



That's better than any amount of Chinatown beautification.




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PRIZED AMONG THE ANGLO AMERICANS ...

After a comment on a friend's Facebook page I found an item which intrigued me. As well as a word which I did not know till now: callipee.
Not, as you might think, an exotic princess living among the hairy savages of Northern Europe, or a musical instrument, but the cartilage, fat, and nutritious meat of sea turtles, which is used for soup.

"The flesh of turtles, calipash or calipee, was and still is considered a delicacy in a number of cultures. Turtle soup has been a prized dish in Anglo-American cuisine, and still remains so in some parts of Asia.
Gopher tortoise stew was popular with some groups in Florida."

Source: Wikipedia; Turtles; As food, traditional medicine, and cosmetics

Calipee is defined as the fatty yellowish material in the lower part of a turtle's carapace (the plastron), and does not sound very appetizing.


On the other hand gopher tortoise stew sounds delicious. It contains all the usual ingredients for adding flavour: salt meats or bacon (or any spicy pork sausage), chopped onion, celery, bell pepper, tomatoes. Plus land turtle flesh, and cubed potatoes. Pepper. And brown roux.
Proceed as you would imagine.
Hot sauce optional.

The gopher tortoise is native to the Southeastern United States. It is also known as 'Hoover Chicken', after our beloved thirty first president.



TORTOISE JELLY
龜苓膏 ('gwai ling gou')

Chinese people will, especially during the warm months, consume a dessert made from tortoise plastron and medicinal herbs, although due to the cost of the carapace most versions commonly available contain no tortoise at all. Guilinggao is considered beneficial for the complexion if consumed regularly. Also said to be good for circulation and the kidneys.

Source: Wikipedia; Guilinggao

Two of the most interesting ingredients in some formulations stand out, namely China root (tu fu ling) and ganoderm fungus (ling qi).

Tu fu ling (土伏苓 'tou fuk ling'); smilax glabra, China root. Traditionally used to treat the effects of venereal diseases. Non-toxic, neutral.
Blood-stabilizing. Contra-indicated during pregnancy. [*]
Ling zhi (靈芝 'ling ji'); miraculous mushroom. Whole bunch of reputed benefits, but note especially that it boosts the immune response and may stave off senility. [*]


FYI: Another worthwhile herb in the Chinese pharmacoepia is Huang Qi, Astragalus membranicus (黄芪 'wong kei'). Allegedly it stimulates the immune system and is beneficial to the heart and circulation.
Contra-indicated for pregnant women.


PS.: The green sea turtle is named 'soepschildpad' in Dutch.
The literal meaning is "soup shield toad".
Delightfully blunt.


This entire essay is contra-indicated for Vegans.
Please go away.



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WARM STALE AIR!

Today's plans involve abluting, letting the apartment air out (because a Flor Dominicana Chapter One that lasted over two hours was smoked, mmm, it's tasty), lunch or snackypus in Chinatown, and, perhaps, buying a new outer garment. Preferably one suitable for a middle-aged man, all gravitas and hipwithitness, with plenty of pockets.

Bus pass and snuff in front right, upper.
Recent lottery tickets in front left, upper.
Tobacco pouch & pipes; front right, lower.
Extra matches, a pipe nail; front left, lower.


The current garment looks severely disreputable.

It may surprise you to know that I myself (occupant of garment) am not severely disreputable. I do not smell bad, eat too much, or dress funny.
I work for a living, and am not in debt up to my eyeballs.

I live by myself in an apartment with over three dozen stuffed animals and a small intelligent Cantonese woman in the other room, who likewise doesn't smell bad, eat too much, or dress funny.
She's an old friend, more or less from college, who also lives by herself.
In San Francisco, most people who live by themselves have someone else sharing their apartment.
Not all of whom tolerate many stuffed animals.
But she does. Which is a good thing.
Some of them are hers.


Shan't bore you with how this ideal living situation came about, suffice to say it's not romantic, we seldom eat together, and both she and her stuffed animals heartily disapprove of my tobacco. Which means that even on my days off, which do not coincide with hers, I am often somewhere outside pissing people off by puffing.

Which I enjoy.

Unfortunately the disreputable looking current garment with all those nice pockets smells a bit. Plus it's torn in a few places, and no longer reflects the gravitas and hipwithitness to which I aspire.

In San Francisco at present, this could be a problem. One does not wish people to look askance, or call the cops because there is a bum lurking outside the healthclub, smoking and looking crazy.

Besides, the garment probably scares the opposite gender.
One does not wish to scare the opposite gender.
One rather likes them.



POST SCRIPT

None of the stuffed animals smoke, in case you were wondering. Though sometimes upon my return home I may find one of them poncing around with one of my pipes declaiming "hey look at me I am the famous English philosopher Bertrand Russel now bow down and kiss my toes", or something like that. They have rich full lives.

None of them will touch the disreputable garment.




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WOMEN WHO WEIGH MORE THAN THEY SHOULD

The best line today comes from someone who takes issue with dipshits: "there, at the top of my news feed on the other account, is some dipshit who seems to have decided just now that the absolute worst issue facing our society at present is the existence of women who weigh more than he thinks they should." End quote.

I fondly imagine that that dipshit is worried about the added strain on our infrastructure and rapid exhaustion of resources caused by women who weigh more than they should.
Maybe hospital emergency rooms are too small? The decaying transit system will now finally collapse? We'll run out of ketchup?

Stretchy fabric overload?


Honestly, if there is a problem here, it's that many women weigh more than they themselves think they should.

Women, stop doing that.
You're fine.


I'm not entirely supportive of women who might in fact weigh more than they should, but this isn't something that till now was on the forefront of my mind (or even a subject I thought about), nor do I claim any expertise in that field. Heck, as a man it's none of my beeswax. Statistically, the men who care most about it are probably advertising executives and asshats.

Don't associate with advertising executives and asshats.
You and everyone else will soon be much happier.




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AT LONG LAST, CLEANLINESS!

At times I conceive myself under siege by savages. Such as when the place is filled with Marin County cigar smokers, most of whom are extreme rightwing dicks. So, when one of them to prove some berserk point about Trump asked me which president was the most beloved, I naturally said 'Obama'. Frenzied howling ensued, that did not die down by closing.

I like pissing off the dingoes.

Which is why none of them need to know my phone number or e-mail, and not a single one of them clutters my Facebook page with their presence.
My colleagues are not nearly so blessed, or so wise.


During the last presidential election the cigar smokers kept themselves entertained by sending each other pornographic images with faces crudely pasted in, as well as memes that originated with Fox or Truth Wars.
It was jejune and raw.

The most interesting thing they discussed today was a plan to install a bidet in the barn that one of them owns. Do not ask why, as I have no clue what the purpose might be there.
I think perhaps they like the idea of a stream of warm water.
And an opportunity to finally wash themselves.
Which is totally commendable.

I applaud it.


Be clean, little maggoty filth denizens, be clean.




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PROCESSES OF ELIMINATION

Today, at approximately eleven o'clock, I realized that certain things aren't always straightforward, and might be helpfully discussed in a blogpost. Very well then. There are three ways by which the average human gets rid of certain build-ups: expectoration, micturation, defecation. Well, there is also a fourth thing, but it only hits one of the genders, and takes a few days of the month, and most men find it a problematic subject -- not me, as I am perfectly at ease talking in great detail about the menses, but I myself have no personal experience of it, just book knowledge (wikipedia) -- so all you need to know is that it involves lots of fried chicken.
We'll leave it at that.

In reverse order: Defecation, Micturation, Expectoration.


DEFECATION

This involves a small room where you might be private. Most rational men retreat there in the morning with reading material and a cigar.
Lately I've been smoking Nicaraguans.


MICTURATION

The first time you urinate after getting dressed may be confusing, because the front flap of your boxers is in a different place than it was yesterday and your fingers can't find it. Be patient. And stay calm.
This morning at work I panicked a little, because there were things to do beforehand, and consequently I felt pressured. But I persevered.
And was, ultimately, successful.
Shortly after eleven.


EXPECTORATION

It's sort of disgusting.
Let's not talk about it.


One of my associates, a respected member of the judiciary, is getting old.
A few weeks ago I remarked on the length of time he spent in the men's room -- we had despaired of seeing him again that day -- and he mentioned by way of explanation that some things 'change' with age. Probably not the capacity of the urethra, per se, but one suspects that the prostate may be enlarged. Old men's dribbling, in all likelihood.


And that, boys, is why you should take care to not leak on the toilet seat in the men's room.
Aim with care, and show some consideration. Because some day you may have to compose yourself thereupon.




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A LIKABLE PLACE

When I swaggered into the coffee shop, I recognized over half of the people there. Several are regulars of the place -- nodding acquaintances; no names have been given -- and three of them I know from elsewhere. They engage in not strictly for public consumption enterprise, but are all right.
While seated nearby, I heard the word 'gun' mentioned.
No, I'm not asking any questions.

Sometimes the sheer number of people I know in the neighborhood surprises me. Only two or three of them cross my radar when I'm not in Chinatown, and I'm not at all sure they would recognize me outside of a familiar environment.


Middle-aged white dude with a pipe. Against a backdrop of commercial signs and music posters in Chinese. Shop signs, graffiti, advertising.


Outside of Chinatown I'm just a crotchety old goat.
With a body odour of tobacco.




In a world, in a time, in a land, in a land before time, one man, when your world is no longer your own, when everything you know is wrong, in an outpost, on the edge of space, a girl, two girls, now more than ever, a robot renegade cop, you're fired, you're actually fired, I'm fired!
No, I like it in here.




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YOUR EXCITATORY POST SYNAPTIC POTENTIAL

One of these years I may go there. It's something I've always thought of doing, but never budgeted or made time for, and in all honesty the idea of being surrounded by a mob of hairy smokers having a frenzied dance-off, as one imagines it to be, is not that high on my list of priorities. Still, several people whom I know are at the Chicago Pipe Show this weekend.
Some of them are women. Probably not hairy.
But I don't know.

No, I shall not dwell on their hair.
I'm sure its quite lovely.
And not excessive.

We'll probably hear all about it at the next meeting of the pipe club. Until, of course, the conversations dither off into left field and all over the place. As is to be expected when a dozen unique individuals of a certain level of boyishness congregate with stimulants and snacky substances.

I've told Mary to look out for Mike, who will likely also be there. 'Look out' as in keep your eye peeled for him, not be warily on guard. There's an age difference of five decades between them. He smokes mostly dark sooty stuff, she still has an affection for candy leaves.


Years ago I attended MacWorld several times. Not entirely voluntarily, as the company that employed me had a presence there. That persuaded me that being in a large gathering of excited people with whom I have very little in common other than one key thing is not something I need.
It will not make my life complete, nor cap a career.

Even if they are smoking pipes.
And fine tobacco.


QUOTE:
"Death rates for current pipe smokers were little if at all higher than non-smokers, even with men smoking 10 or more pipefuls per day and with men who had smoked pipes for more than 30 years."

[SOURCE: Surgeon Generals Report, 1964. Page 112.]


One interesting recent finding is that nicotine improves motor skills and memory, increases cognitive abilities, and protects against dementia. Nicotine is similar to acetylcholine, and some research has shown that nicotine helps ward off Parkinsons and Alzheimers.
Suggest it to your potsmoking buddies.
It may help them.

FRAGRANT FULL-BODIED TOBACCO

Most of the pipe smokers I know are insanely vibrant. And the same holds true for the cigar smokers, although in their case we're talking about two thirds right-wing dingbats, which may be due to congenital idiocy and parental syphilis. More research is required.
And perhaps anal probing.
Tzarich iyun.


Because my apartment mate is presently much bothered by nasal distress (allergies), she has made me promise to smoke only outside the apartment. Which is somewhat problematic, as it is buggery cold in SF, especially after night fall. But on my days off, when it doesn't warm up till late morning, as soon as she leaves I redefine "outside" as between a closed door and an open window. My right leg does not benefit from "outside" outside.
There is also torpor to consider.
I am a reptile.


RECENT CIGARS


Over the past few months I have huffed various stogies, some of which were memorable. And some not.

A selection highlighted at random, based on discarded cigar bands in a bathrobe pocket:

VILLIGER 1888
Not bad.

LEAF, by OSCAR - CONNECTICUT
Exceptional. Even burning, with a medium full flavour. Not too spicy, creamy finish. Good reason to spend an hour and a half in the bathroom.

NICA RUSTICA
Good. Not exceptional, but a fine smoke. Needed occasional touch-up with a flame. There have been several of these, various vitolas.
Fun smokes.

ROMEO Y JULIETA - RESERVA REAL
It was too tightly rolled. But after using a grilling skewer, it was enjoyable. The last three inches were smoked outside a local gym.
A friend smokes these all the time.

LA FLOR DOMINICANA RESERVA ESPECIAL
This is a damned good smoke.

LA PALINA
A good smoke.

LA AROMA DE CUBA - MI AMOR
Exceptional. These are a good value.

ARTURO FUENTE
I really wish I could remember what the shape and blend were.
It was very good, but I usually prefer Nicaraguans.

MY FATHER - SPECIAL EDITION
Very good. And a  solid smoke.
I always enjoy My Fathers.
It's a fine company.

POR LARRAÑAGA
Ya man. Excellent.

GURKHA - HAVANA BLEND
Meh. All right, I suppose.

LA AURORA ECUADOR
Holy smokes! Very very nice.

LA AURORA CAMEROON
An old-fashioned and extremely enjoyable experience.

A. FLORES SERIE PRIVADA
Nice. Worth buying.

NAT SHERMAN
A good cigar, even burning, with a broad satisfying spectrum of flavour, but I do not remember anything else about it.
There have been other Nat Shermans in the last six months. Not a truly exceptional brand, but they're are all rather good smokes.

PADRON 1926
That was a truly wonderful morning.

OLIVA SERIE 'V'
The perfect perfecto.
Delightful.

AVO SYNCRO
Decent. Decent. Decent.

CAMACHO COROJO
Certifiably a cigar.

CAMACHO CONNECTICUT
Okay.

ROOM 101
Fun smoke.

GURKHA - ESTATE SELECTION
Not memorable.

ALEC BRADLEY NICA PURO ROSADO
A very fine cigar indeed.

DIAMOND CROWN MAXIMUS
A exceptionally lovely cigar.


On the whole, most of these were robustos, my favourite shape, with a few toros, some smaller vitolas, and one lonsdale. The latter is a waste of time.
There were very few maduro wrappers, which was rather a pity.
The La Gloria Cubana Wavell Maduro is a favourite.
I've mentioned it elsewhere.

Most of the day I smoke a pipe.



As an afterthought, Mary's hair is fine. And I'm sure her husband enjoys smelling the traces of Perique and flue-cured leaf, even the occasional cherries jubilee. Cult Blood Red Moon. Fruit Extra Vaganza.
She's recently acquired an awesome blowfish.
I think that's what that's called.
Some pipe.

TOBACCO INDEX


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KANYE WEST IS A DOUCHEBAG

We've reached the age of douchebag. The president is a douchebag, as is his lying spokesbag Sanders, chief foot-in-mouther Giuliani, rape-apologist and fervent Trumpite Dershowitz, and, of course Kanye West.
If you are a Republic or Christian, you have probably decided to leave this page right about now. Good. Bye bye.

At seven in the morning I should not even have to think about the clusterbag of dicks listed above. But various news sources think I should.
Very well then, douchebags.


From Wikipedia: A douche is a device used to introduce a stream of water into the body for medical or hygienic reasons, or the stream of water itself. Douche usually refers to vaginal irrigation, the rinsing of the vagina, but it can also refer to the rinsing of any body cavity. A douche bag is a piece of equipment for douching -- a bag for holding the fluid used in douching.

Additionally, douching is associated with a number of health problems ( ... ) and thus is not recommended.
[End cite.]


Yeah, that describes them.


A clyster fudge of bulb syringes.


It's a day off. And it started well. All improvement from here.
Sweetness, light, and warm water.



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THEY ARE ALL SO FULL OF IT

Always ask: "why do you sound constipated?" Sound sincerely concerned when you say it. It throws them for a loop. Then suggest that they should sleep more, because there are circles under their eyes and they look quite worn out. As conversational stratagems neither gambit can be beat. Cock your head while looking them in the eye when they respond.


"I didn't recognize you, you sound so constipated!"


It beats the usual hi how are you how's your kid are your parents all right gout car weather who did you vote for in 2016 discussion.
Far less potentially embarrassing too.

By the middle of the afternoon, as my blood sugar ebs, I often have an urge to say strange things and crack inappropriate witticisms. It is better to just sabotage the discussion right from the beginning.

Bowels! You passionately care about their digestive health. Be like King George the Third's physicians in that regard.


Your social life will be much more interesting if you follow my advice.




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DOING IT DELIBERATELY

At the corner of a busy San Francisco intersection, near my apartment, is an exercise studio which caters to the youngish urban professional class who wish to stay fit and healthy, for whatever reason. Near there is a childcare centre where busy Chinese parents drop off their toddlers.

I like observing the little kiddies waiting with their parents before it opens. Bright-eyed little moppets, colourfully dressed -- pink, red, purple, violet and electric mauve -- and often brimming with happy energy as they meet their friends each morning. I always watch from across the street, and a healthy distance away, because at that hour there is a cigar in my mouth, and one should not needlessly expose the very small to tobacco smoke.

I am positioned just right to trigger the noodges in the health club.
From twenty feet away, my stench drifts to their door.
Open, because of steamy perspiration.

It's a bonus.


This blogger is not fond of modern yuppies.
In my day, yuppies were better.
More agreeable.



I shall be heading to work in a few hours.
The bus stop is near that exercise studio.
A pale Toro, with Nicaraguan long filler.
And a wrapper leaf from Connecticut.




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CULTURAL APPROPRIATION? THE QIPAO THAT KEZIAH WORE TO THE PROM ...

A teenager in Utah wore a qipao to her high school prom, and managed by doing so to piss-off a bunch of easily triggered weasels, who I am guessing are predominantly Chinese Americans born here. Small-minded, frustrated, defensive. Typical middle-class Americans, with chips on their shoulders.
She looked stunning. And that, too, probably pissed them off.
They got their knickers in a bunch.

Keziah Daum at the prom.

From her twitter feed.

JEREMY LAM WILL RUN AROUND NAKED

Knickers, like almost all underwear worn in Europe and the United States, should not be worn by angry ethnics. We invented that, as well as getting them in a bunch. Or twisting them. All ours.

We also invented blue jeans, business wear, wedding dresses, tee-shirts, lingerie, yoga pants, and leopard prints. We apologize for that last item, it was meant for typical northern European blonde slags with leathery tans and white circles around the eyes (very much like female versions of Donald Trump), but I see that Hong Kong women have taken over that look.

It's probably deeply significant and cultural.


From Twitter:

My culture is NOT your goddamn prom dress.
[Jeremy Lam @jere_bare]


We can assume that Jeremy does not wear culturally dissonant clothing, and runs around naked, because peasant blue is hard to find in America.
He probably orders a soy milk latte at Starbucks.
Oyster sauce on everything.
No pizza.

Dear Jeremy: get bent. Seriously.
The rest of you pissants too.



In other news, my late lunch today was 油菜肉絲炒瀨麵 at a chachanteng in Chinatown. With thick sploops of Sriracha hot sauce, and a steaming cup of Hong Kong milk tea.
Yeah man, total cultural appropriation!
It was awesomely delicious.




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ZANY ASIAN TRICKS

The elderly gentleman from the Sunset District did not speak one word of Shanghainese, despite an ancestral element from that city, of which he was very proud. But he asserted that he was Cantonese ('Gwontung yan'), and throughout our conversation utilized Yuetwaa, Mandarin, and English, with near-equal degrees of unintelligibility. Not that he wasn't fluent, but it was loud there, and he had partaken of both alcohol and tokes from the giant glass pipe being passed around in memory of someone we had known.
Several of the people there were no longer capable of making sense.
Our departed friend had been a monumental fan of weed.

I abstain totally from the green garbage.

Pot is one of my pet peeves.
Can't stand the stuff.
Or its odour.


Craziness is often reflected in the eyes, and the old Cantonese fellow had two remarkably luminescent orbs, that while identical in goggletude differed in focus and twitch. Both followed you around the room, and if you weren't careful you'd find yourself discussing Shanghainese barbers near a platter of pita and hummus with him, or garlic crabs in Aberdeen. Plus death, and existential dread. The high residential complexes that have taken over in several areas, like Diamond Hill or Apleichau, the shiny new airport at Cheklapkok. And the high speed connection to Shenzen and the Pearl River Delta. Plus the herbal medicines that kungfu fighters prefer.

Having endured several hours at work hearing conspiracy theories and ridiculous assertions from rightwingers -- shan't even mention the antics of the King Monkey, whose insane rantings inspire screaming fits -- it may not have been quite wise of me to go directly to a memorial at a bar for someone skilled in bringing on the batshit at all times.
It was a good celebration of his life, though.
He was a great guy.


REJOICE, IT'S SUMAROKE!

A few hours later I was watching a silver haired Japanese dude teaching a drunken hipster how to sumo wrestle. Stomp one foot. Stomp another. Hurk. Bellow, snort, lumber forward at your opponent, and crash into each other. Neither individual was sober, none of the Chinese gentlemen watching and smoking cigarettes were either, and I found out that Michael had been passing out Marijuana candies before the Bookseller and I arrived. The bookseller was still inside, listening to Country Roads from the karaoke, while I had gone outside to smoke a cigarillo and watch the athletes.
Apparently quite a lot of Marijuana candy had been consumed.
Michael showed me the nearly empty tin.
Yeah, no, I'll pass.

Of the Chinese who were there, Jenny was the only one still sane, which did not surprise me at all, as she is always far calmer and more rational than the clientele. The aged Japanese fellow was obsessive and intense, his younger handlers very distressed and drunk. Except for the Bookseller and myself, the Caucasian customers were blithering too.


At that karaoke bar, Jenny and the dapper middle-aged titty-groping chap sing very well (in Mandarin). Michael, Feichai, and the self-proclaimed "most dangerous man in Chinatown" (a stoner) don't sing (Cantonese, and thank heavens), and white visitors often sing badly (in English).
Neither the Bookseller nor I sing at all. Ever.
Which is probably a good thing.

I think the bookseller secretly likes karaoke.
Country Roads is a splendid song.
Such good taste.




Crashed at three thirty A.M. It had been a very long day. Because the boss is out of town I worked on a day off. I had been up for well over twenty hours, and I had stopped functioning rationally.




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AT TOO LATE AN HOUR

A very fine product. A sarcastic and drunken weirdo. And a talented sci-fi illustrator. In-depth discussion, with cell-phone visuals. Foreground: a busty maiden, not necessarily sufficiently clothed; middle distance: the rocket. Or perhaps a large device. Horizon: desert and mountains under an alien sun. Or moon.


Under the right circumstances, I can imagine our heavily bosomed heroine smoking Marlin Flake, by Charles Rattray (Kohlhase & Kopp, also Orlik), as well as where and when on the distant planet it occurs.


Marlin Flake is a very fine product.
Especially when it's aged.
Seven years.



Whisky and good conversation.


Didn't bring enough tobacco.




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HE LIKES SPICY FOOD

Former German chancillor Gerhard Schroeder obviously likes peppery pickles. He is set to marry his erstwhile translator, the lovely Kim So-yeon, sometime probably this year. She is a quarter of a century younger.
There is an age disparity there.

Korean women tend toward a certain decisiveness. And given what Korean cuisine is like, it seems obvious to me that she must have livened up his diet immensely. Imagine a selection of tasty and colourful fermented vegetable preparations next to the obligatory bratwurst. As well as hot sauce.


It's not that woman are or should be the cooks of the family, but the dominant cuisine wins. Kimchi clobbers kraut. Zesty!


I likewise, if faced with a broiled bratwurst, would wish for pickles.


In recent photos, both the seventy four year old and the not yet fifty year old look considerably younger than they actually are. Hapiness, and pickles!
That must be the secret. Happiness and pickles.

I wish the aged bratwurst well.
Her too.




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